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Lesley A. Diehl - A Diehl Lesley

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142 pages

English

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Murder again stalks the breweries of the Butternut Valley and with it, something potentially more explosive-hydraulic fracturing or fracking, a gas exploration technique that could destroy the air, water, and serenity of the region and pit neighbor against neighbor; and this time Hear must pursue the killer alone as well as find some way to bring an end to the fracking controversy before it tears apart her once peaceful community.

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Thriller

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Publié par	Lesley A. Diehl
Date de parution	17 février 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781611879599
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Table of Contents
Copyright
Poisoned Pairings
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Also by Lesley A. Diehl in the Hera Knightsbridge series
Author’s Note on Hydraulic Fracturing
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Poisoned Pairings
By Lesley A. Diehl
Copyright 2014 by Lesley A. Diehl
Cover design by Karen Phillips
Lesley A. Diehl, Publisher
Originally published by Mainly Murder Press, 2012
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Poisoned Pairings
By
Lesley A. Diehl
To my dad
I remember coming downstairs late at night to find you reading. Now I do the same, but I don’t have to get up to milk the cows at 5:00 a.m.
Acknowledgments
As always, my understanding of handcrafted beer is dependent upon my microbrewing sources, this time the generous input of Ed Canty, founder of the Florida Brewers Guild. He reviewed chapters as I wrote and read the entire manuscript before I submitted it. I count him as both my brewing guru and my friend.
When I needed a name for a new brew, I ran a contest on my blog. My thanks to John Sullivan, who provided the name “Clear Creek” for Hera’s newest ale.
Also by Lesley A. Diehl in the Hera Knightsbridge series:
A Deadly Draught
Author’s Note on Hydraulic Fracturing
The controversy over fracking continues in New York State. The long-awaited Department of Environment Conservation’s draft Supplemental Impact Statement on hydraulic fracturing allows such drilling in the state except in the New York City watershed area and proposes distances of 2,000 feet from municipal water sources. The statement is up for review and input, although no meetings for public discussion were scheduled in the upstate New York, Marcellus Shale Field area.
Chapter 1
Rafe Oxley, my closest brewing friend, and I sat next to each other in a darkened room in the county office building. My fellow microbrewers in the Butternut Valley and other interested members of the county gathered to watch a video portraying gas exploration using hydraulic fracturing or fracking, a horizontal drilling technique injecting water, sand, and chemicals under pressure to shatter underground shale and release the gas trapped inside.
Some individuals in our valley desperate for the income had already signed gas leases. Others worried the drilling would change the valley forever-destroying roads, polluting the air, poisoning our water.
The image on the screen was that of a drilling rig juxtaposed against the verdant background of virgin forest. To its left, a Caterpillar tore a trench through a nearby meadow leaving a gash which ran straight through grass and wildflowers into the scrubby pines behind the site. The camera panned to a fracking pond where the water and chemicals used to force the gas to the surface collected in a landscaping tarp to prevent leakage back into the ground.
The scene shifted to water tumbling over rocks in a small stream. A voice from off-camera said, “Let’s see if we can light this.”
A hand flicked a butane lighter, and touched the flame to the water. With a whoosh, the stream caught on fire. The unexpected explosion startled me. I jumped and reached for Rafe’s hand.
“Mrs. Attenby down the road had her well explode on Christmas Eve last year,” said the man who had lit the water.
“The state has stopped the drilling, right?” asked the reporter covering the story.
“Right, but now the water around here is undrinkable. The companies are trucking in safe drinking water to the people who signed drilling leases. ‘Course, since there’s no more gas being taken, the people don’t get their monthly checks.”
Rafe and I glanced at one another, knowing what the other was thinking. Water was the lifeblood of micro brewing. We bought our malt, yeast and hops, shipped them in from other places. Some hops came from as far away as New Zealand. But the main ingredient in our beer, water, came from our wells.
Rafe leaned toward me and whispered what all of us must have been thinking.
“Our wells are connected. We saw that this summer. When one dried up, so did the others. If one well is contaminated, all of them will be. We have to stop this madness.”
Rafe and I turned to look at Teddy Buser, the largest brewer in the valley. He was scowling and shaking his head, the only one of the Butternut brewers who thought making money from natural gas seemed like a good thing. Teddy could afford to buy water. But what of the rest of us? Rafe and I scowled back at him.
My cell phone vibrated on my belt. I looked at the identity of the incoming call.
“I’ll be right back,” I said to Rafe. “I’ve got to take this call.”
I hurried outside and flipped open the cell.
“Hera?”
“Dr. Hurley. What’s wrong?”
“Sally asked me to call you to let you know I’m admitting her to the hospital. It’s too early for the baby, but she’s spotting and her blood pressure is low. I want to keep an eye on her for a few days. I know her mother and you are serving as her labor coaches.”
“I’ll be right there.”
“No, you stay put. She needs rest. You can see her tomorrow. Call her mother, would you?”
“Whatever you say, Doc.”
“I’ll talk with you then.” He disconnected.
My best friend, Sally Granger, ran a bakery, tea room and catering service in our village, but of late, her pregnancy had forced her to slow down. Yesterday she seemed more exhausted than usual.
I returned to the meeting. The film was ending as I slid into my seat.
“What did I miss?”
Rafe leaned close to whisper in my ear. “More footage on the destruction around Dimock, Pennsylvania, an area that used to look much like this valley. Their roads are all torn up. Country lanes were not meant to be used by earth moving equipment and trucks hauling drilling rigs.”
David Greenling, the country representative from our part of the valley who was responsible for setting up this meeting, introduced the newspaper reporter who had travelled to Dimock and shot the video we’d just seen. After the reporter confirmed the devastation we’d witnessed, Greenling opened up the floor to questions. A woman whom I’d seen often the past summer selling fruits and vegetables at our local farmers’ market held up her hand.
“These chemicals are toxic. Surely they’re banned by the Clean Water Act.”
“The fracking fluids are exempt. Back in 2005 a loophole was inserted into the Energy Policy Act. It’s called the “Halliburton Loophole,” said the reporter. Some of the audience members nodded, their laughs tinged by bitterness. “Fracking is exempted from regulation and oversight because the Act deemed the chemicals used were proprietary property.”
“Greed. It’s always greed with these big companies,” somebody muttered.
“There’s no evidence these materials end up in our water. Where’s the research?” another bellowed from the back of the room.
Teddy rose to his feet, but before he could comment, the meeting erupted into a frenzied melee of people shouting, shaking their fists, and pushing one another. Rafe drew me to one side, and we watched, horrified, as neighbors called names and threatened physical violence
Teddy was about to tear one of the signs out of a protestor’s grasp, but Rafe intervened.
“We need to get out of here, Teddy, before someone gets hurt. Or the cops come and arrest all of us.”
Ronald Ramford, the son of the brewer killed earlier this summer, grabbed Teddy’s other arm, and he and Rafe walked him through the crowd. I followed, threading my way around two men nose-to-nose in a heated argument, one of them poking his finger in the other’s chest to make a point.
We pushed through the crowd and were near the rear exit when I heard the sirens. Someone had called the authorities, and I knew who would be coming through that door-my lover, Assistant Deputy Sheriff Jake Ryan, whose bed I’d left earlier this evening with his prescient warning now echoing in my ears, “Try not to get into trouble, Hera.”
He and two officers strode into the room. He signaled them to begin separating the combatants. Then his eye travelled around the crowd and came to rest on me. The look he gave me wasn’t filled with the fire of passion there earlier. Now the fire was replaced by icy arctic anger. I shrugged and gave a tiny smile of contrition.
He lifted a bull horn to his lips. “Settle down or you’re all going to be eating sliced cheese sandwiches for breakfast tomorrow in county lock-up.”
“Make me,” yelled someone from the crowd.
“And the same for lunch and dinner. And when we lose your paperwork, we’ll start the cycle again.”
The crowd quieted. Some people even had the decency to look embarrassed at how they were behaving. Others retained their combative stances, but stepped back from their opponents.
Jake sent everyone home, everyone except for me.
“Who called it in?” I walked with Jake to his SUV.
“I heard it on the police band on my way over here, and called for backup.”
“On your way