Earl Grey & Murder, page 1
Earl Grey & Murder
The Wallshire Mystery Series
Book Three
H. C. Cardona
Contents
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
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Acknowledgments
Chapter
One
I stood in the middle of the dusty living room, my hands on my hips. The house felt foreign, like it was someone else's life I was stepping into. The sunlight filtered through the grime-coated windows, casting a dim glow over the scattered boxes and furniture shrouded in white sheets.
I picked up a broom and started sweeping; the bristles scraping against the wooden floor. Each stroke seemed to stir up memories I wasn't sure I wanted to confront. My mother had never been one for sentimentality, and now that she was gone, I felt like I was trespassing on her carefully guarded privacy.
The first room I tackled was the kitchen. It still smelled faintly of her cooking—spices and herbs that lingered in the air. I opened a cabinet, finding an array of mismatched plates and cups. Each piece told a story of its own, a story I never got to be part of.
I wiped down the counters and swept the floor. The rhythmic motion of cleaning helped to quiet my mind. In the pantry, I discovered jars of preserves lined up like soldiers on a shelf, their labels written in my mother's neat handwriting. Apricot jam, strawberry preserves, and even a jar of pickled onions—each one a relic of her meticulous nature.
Moving to the living room, I pulled off the dust covers from the furniture. The couch revealed itself to be a faded floral pattern that had seen better days. The coffee table was littered with old magazines and unopened mail from the store. Among them, an envelope addressed to me caught my eye.
I hesitated before opening it, unsure if I was ready for whatever message lay inside. Instead, I set it on the mantle for later. There would be time for that once I'd made this place feel like home.
Next, I tackled the bookshelves lining one wall of the living room. They were crammed with volumes on history, gardening, and mysteries—my mother's passions that she'd never shared with me. As I dusted each shelf, I felt a pang of regret for not knowing her better.
I climbed the creaky stairs, my hand trailing along the banister. The second floor of the house felt heavier, as if the weight of years and memories pressed down on it. I reached the landing and paused, staring at the closed doors of the three bedrooms.
The master bedroom was on the right, its door slightly ajar. I caught a glimpse of the familiar floral bedspread and felt a sharp sting of bitterness. She had space for me all along but chose to keep me at arm's length.
To not contact me.
Nothing.
“No,” I whispered to myself. “Let it go.”
I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and turned away from the master bedroom. The two guest bedrooms waited, doors shut tight like secrets. I opened the first one, stepping into a room that was more storage than anything else. Boxes were piled high, some labeled with faded marker ink: Winter Clothes, Old Photos, Books.
I moved a couple of boxes to clear a path and found an old armchair beneath a dust cover in one corner. I sat down for a moment, gathering my thoughts. This room held no memories for me—just remnants of a life I’d never been fully part of.
Standing up, I opened one of the boxes labeled Books. Inside were paperbacks with yellowed pages and dog-eared corners—mystery novels that must have entertained her during countless lonely nights. I set them aside for donation.
Another box contained old clothes, out-of-date fashions that spoke of different eras in her life. Dresses with lace collars, skirts, and knitted sweaters—items she had probably once cherished but had outgrown or simply forgotten. These went into the donation pile too.
The next box was filled with knick-knacks—souvenirs from trips she’d taken without me, trinkets that meant nothing to anyone but her. A miniature Eiffel Tower, a seashell from some distant beach, and a collection of postcards. I tossed them into a bag for trash.
I moved to the second guest bedroom, already feeling lighter from clearing out the first room. This one was less cluttered but still held its share of boxes. I opened one labeled Photos and hesitated before lifting the lid. Inside were albums filled with pictures—some black and white, others faded color—capturing moments in time that I had never been part of.
I closed the lid without looking further and placed it back on top of the pile. There would be time to sort through those memories—memories that I wasn't part of—later.
For now, I focused on what needed to be done—donate what could be useful to someone else and discard what was merely clutter in my life.
The afternoon wore on as I continued cleaning room by room. In the bedroom, I found her jewelry box tucked away in a drawer. It contained a mix of costume jewelry and a few precious pieces—a pearl necklace that had belonged to my grandmother and a delicate gold locket.
I held the locket in my hand for a moment before putting it back. There was so much about my mother that remained a mystery to me. But as I worked through each corner of the house, piece by piece, I began to feel a connection forming—a silent understanding between us.
Finally, as evening approached, and the house began to look more like something livable rather than an abandoned relic, I took a deep breath and surveyed my progress. This place would never be what it once was when she was alive, but maybe it could become something new—a place where I figured out what, exactly, I wanted in life.
For now, though, there was still work to be done.
It's funny how I would rather be at the tea shop right now. Steeped in Mysteary had become a place where I had carved out a space for myself in Wallshire. When I first inherited the shop, I knew nothing about tea—I didn't even like it. But I embraced it as best as I could, diving into books about tea blending and brewing, experimenting with different combinations of leaves and spices.
Levi Kessler, the town's grizzled detective, had taken it upon himself to ensure that I didn't mess up my mother's legacy. He'd come by the shop regularly, his sharp gray eyes scrutinizing my every move as I crafted each brew.
"Precision matters," he'd say in his clipped tone, watching as I measured out leaves with trembling hands. "You can't afford to get it wrong."
Levi was a man of few words and even fewer smiles, but he had a way of making you feel like every little thing you did was under a microscope. His presence was both reassuring and intimidating—reassuring because he cared enough to watch over me, intimidating because I didn't want to disappoint him.
At that moment, my stomach rumbled loudly, pulling me back to the present. The house still loomed around me with its shadows and memories, but hunger was something tangible that needed addressing. I headed downstairs and plopped onto the couch, stretching my legs out in front of me. The cushions were worn but comfortable, and for a moment, I allowed myself to sink into them.
I could come back to this later—the cleaning, the sorting through boxes. I'd made headway today, and that was what mattered. The house felt less foreign now, less like a museum of someone else's life and more like a place where I could begin to make my own mark.
I let out a sigh and opened my eyes again. There was still so much work to do here at the house—but for now, it could wait. My stomach growled once more in agreement.
I grabbed the envelope from the mantle and stuffed it into my bag. With one last glance around the room, I headed to the door, locking up behind me.
Outside, the sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the front yard. I walked down the uneven path to where my car sat parked by the curb. It was a sleek silver sedan, practically brand new—a gift from Mayor Hemmingway.
An apology of sorts.
I remembered the awkward meeting in his office, his eyes unable to meet mine. Sorry my wife killed your mom because I was having an affair with your mom, and oh yeah, I'm your dad. He didn't actually say that, but it was easy to read between the lines. The car had been his attempt at making amends.
I had tried to return it—insisted, really—but he'd refused. "You need it," he'd said firmly.
And he was right; without a car, getting around Wallshire and managing Steeped in Mysteary would have been nearly impossible in the rain and snow, two things I could look forward to in the upcoming months.
I ran my fingers along the smooth metallic surface before opening the door and sliding into the driver's seat. The interior smelled of new leather, a scent that always felt out of place in my life. The dashboard gleamed with polished wood accents and high-tech controls that still intimidated me a little.
As I turned the key in the ignition, the engine purred to life with a quiet hum. I adjusted my seatbelt and checked the mirrors, taking a moment to gather myself before pulling away from the curb. The streets of Wallshire were familiar now, but each drive felt like another step into uncharted territory—a place where my past collided with my present in ways I couldn't have anticipated.
The car navigated smoothly through the narrow streets, past quaint houses with well-tended gardens and white picket fences. The familiarity of Wallshire's small-town charm felt comforting yet surreal.
I couldn't help but wonder if Reese—I couldn't see him as dad—thought this car could somehow fix everything—erase the years of absence and unanswered questions. But as much as it felt like a peace offering, it was also a constant reminder of truths I hadn't asked for but had no choice but to accept.
I parked in front of Sasha’s Inn and Tavern and sat for a moment longer, gripping the steering wheel as if it could anchor me. The sign swung gently in the evening breeze, its familiar script offering a sense of stability.
I stepped out of the car and was immediately hit by the mouth-watering aroma wafting from the building. The scent of roasted meat, garlic, and herbs mingled in the air, teasing my senses. My stomach rumbled loudly, a reminder that I hadn't eaten since breakfast.
I walked toward the entrance, each step feeling lighter than the last. Sasha’s place had always been a refuge, a haven of comfort food and lively chatter. It was where Wallshire gathered to share stories and laughter, and today, I needed that sense of community more than ever.
As I reached for the door handle, my eyes fell on my purse slung over my shoulder. The envelope poked out slightly, its edges crumpled from being stuffed in there hastily. I sighed, pulling it out and staring at it for a moment before tucking it back inside. Today was Sunday afternoon—the last thing I wanted to think about was work.
Chapter
Two
The door swung open with a creak, and I stepped into the building. The interior was bustling with activity; locals sat at wooden tables, enjoying hearty meals and animated conversations. The walls were adorned with photographs of Wallshire’s history.
Sasha herself was behind the counter, her brown hair pulled back in a messy bun as she chatted with a customer. She looked up as I entered; her face breaking into a wide grin.
“Peyton! Just in time,” she called out, waving me over. “Got a new recipe I’m trying out. You’re going to love it.”
I smiled back and made my way to the counter, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease with each step. Sasha always had a way of making everything seem okay.
“I’m starving,” I admitted as I reached her. “What’s on the menu today?”
“Roast beef with garlic mashed potatoes and green beans,” she said proudly. “And for dessert, apple pie fresh from the oven.”
My stomach growled in response, louder this time. Sasha laughed, reaching for a plate and piling it high with food.
“Here you go,” she said, sliding the plate toward me. “Eat up.”
I took the plate gratefully and found an empty table by the window. The first bite of roast beef melted in my mouth, the rich, savory juices mingling with the creamy garlic mashed potatoes. The green beans added a crisp freshness, balancing the hearty meal perfectly. I closed my eyes for a moment, savoring each flavor.
Sasha moved effortlessly through the crowd, her laughter ringing out as she greeted each patron with a warm smile. She had an easy way with people that I almost envied—her ability to connect, to make everyone feel like they belonged. It was a gift.
“So,” Sasha said a little while later, sliding into the chair across from me. “How’s cleaning out the house going?”
I paused, setting down my fork. “It’s... slow,” I admitted. “There’s just so much to go through. My mother kept everything—every letter, every trinket.”
Sasha nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Must be overwhelming.”
“It is,” I said, picking at my food. “But it’s also kind of... enlightening? I’m finding pieces of her life that I never knew about.”
“Like what?”
“Old photographs mostly,” I said. “Letters from people I’ve never heard of. It’s like she had this whole other life that she never talked about.”
“Sounds like you’re getting to know her,” she said gently.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “Something like that.” I forced a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be out of here soon. I know I've overstayed my welcome.”
“You always have a place here,” she said firmly, her eyes meeting mine. “I’m serious.”
“Thanks,” I murmured, feeling a warmth spread through my chest.
"Now," she said, standing up with a grin. "Let me get you that pie."
Sasha returned with a generous slice of apple pie, crowned with a scoop of vanilla ice cream that was already beginning to melt, sending rivulets of creamy sweetness down the sides. The aroma of warm apples and cinnamon wrapped around me like a comforting hug.
“Here you go,” she said, setting the plate in front of me. “Dig in.”
I picked up my fork and cut into the pie, watching as the flaky crust gave way to the tender apple filling. The first bite was heavenly—the sweetness of the apples perfectly balanced by the hint of cinnamon, while the cold, creamy ice cream added a delightful contrast. Each mouthful was a little piece of bliss, and for a moment, I forgot about everything else.
As I savored the last bite, I leaned back in my chair with a satisfied sigh. Sasha had disappeared back into the kitchen, probably checking on another batch of her latest culinary creation. I stood up and gathered my dishes, carrying them to the back.
The kitchen was a whirlwind of activity, but I knew my way around by now. I found an empty spot at the sink and rolled up my sleeves, plunging my hands into the warm soapy water. Washing dishes had become one of my routines here—a small way to earn my keep and contribute to Sasha’s bustling inn.
The rhythmic motion of scrubbing and rinsing was oddly soothing. It gave me time to think, to process everything that had happened today. Cleaning out a house was physically exhausting, sure, but I didn't expect it to be mentally taxing as well.
When I finished the last dish, I dried my hands on a towel and stacked the plates neatly on the counter. The kitchen had quieted down, most of the patrons having retired for the night. Sasha caught my eye from across the room and gave me a tired but grateful smile.
“Good night, Peyton,” she murmured as she wiped down a table. "Thanks for your help."
“Good night, Sash,” I replied softly, giving her a small wave before heading up to my room up the small staircase.
The room Sasha had given me was cozy and inviting. The walls were painted a soft lavender, and a quilted bedspread covered the antique wooden bed. A small writing desk sat by the window, overlooking Wallshire’s quiet streets. On the dresser stood an old-fashioned oil lamp that cast a warm glow over everything.
I kicked off my shoes and sank onto the bed with a contented sigh. This little room had become my home… the first home I had had in… well… ever. It would be difficult to leave this place.
As I lay there, listening to the distant sounds of laughter and conversation drifting up from below, I felt a sense of peace settle over me. For now, at least, everything felt right in this small corner of my world.
I sighed and sat up, feeling the chill in the air. The weather had taken a turn, and it was getting colder, even in August. I padded over to my suitcase and pulled out my favorite fuzzy pajamas. They were a soft shade of lavender, worn in all the right places from years of use.
After changing into the cozy pajamas, I headed to the small bathroom attached to my room. The old tiles felt cold under my feet as I brushed my teeth, the minty freshness waking me up just a bit more. Rinsing out my mouth, I glanced at my reflection in the mirror—tired eyes, but a hint of contentment.
Back in the bedroom, I noticed my purse sitting on the dresser. The letter I’d found earlier was still tucked inside, its edges peeking out like it was calling to me. Curiosity got the better of me.
