Free Murder Brewed At Home (Microbrewery Mysteries Book 3) by Belle Knudson

look at who sent it to you. Usually in the header there's a number – usually a set of four numbers of two or three digits each, separated by periods. You call that an IP address. Copy it, and then look it up online. There are a ton of sites that'll help you find the origin of an IP address."
                  "That's it?"
                  "That's it."
                  "That will tell me who sent it?"             
                  "No, that will tell you the location. Beyond that, you’re on your own."
                  "I guess location helps."
                  "Helps what?"
                  "Drink your free pint and stop asking me questions. I have to think."
                  I picked up a bar rag and swabbed non-existent stains off the bar as I thought. I looked at Mitch.
                  "You're a funny guy."
                  "But looks aren’t everything?" he answered.
                  "No," I said, "really. I'm amused by you. What I'm saying is: it goes both ways. I like having you around. You like my beer. You have impossible standards but they are standards and for that I'm grateful. Just know that. I like having you around."
                  He raised his glass with a smirk, sipped, and said nothing.
                 
    #
     
                  The IP address pointed me to the Carl's Cove library. It was a crisp morning when I left the house and walked about a quarter of a mile up the road to where the library was.
                  Let me explain something. You enter Carl's Cove from the north and all traffic slows to twenty-five miles per hour. That's the speed limit. It's not so bad. You get used to it. Besides, you get to enjoy the scenery as you head toward Main Street. But there's always some entitled punk in a Maserati who thinks he's above it all, some kid who's here for the weekend or something, and he's the real reason for the speed limit. The library on the corner of Main and Harper Way is in a state of perpetual renovation from money garnered from the speed trap. I wouldn’t be surprised if the speed limit changed back to forty or even fifty once the place is fully renovated –if it ever is.
                  So I sidestepped a giant hole in the paved walkway that was guarded by two cones with a flimsy piece of yellow tape across them. I had to step onto the lawn to do so. There was dew on the ground and I got grass stains on the upper soles of my Batgirl kicks. But I digress.
                  I was a woman on a mission.
                  The library is housed in a century-old building that looks like a Masonic temple. I think it actually was a Masonic temple at one point. All these ghosts of Masons still haunt the place, probably in the 600 section in the upper west corner, where no one goes. Me, I just had to go to the information desk where the public computer check-in was.
                  Librarians, bless their hearts, are notoriously guarded when it comes to information about patrons, and I hope they always are. I'm actually glad my job was as difficult as it was.
                  But I'm getting ahead of myself.
                  I approached the desk, and there sat the Mother of All Librarians. I actually looked around to see if there were any cameras filming this. For starters, she had her hair up in a tight silver bun. She had on a floral print dress whose material no doubt had once adorned someone's Southern table for Sunday dinner. She was matronly and comforting, soft-voiced, and peered at me over horn-rimmed glasses. For a second there, I was expecting for her to offer me a Werther's Original.
                  All this pleasant exterior gave way the moment I asked to see who it was that checked out the computers on such and such a day. The mask