A Brew Most Foul, page 1
A Brew Most Foul
Book 1 in The Wallshire Cozy Mystery Series
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
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Acknowledgments
Chapter
One
The steam from the hot chocolate curled up like tiny ghosts, vanishing before they reached the ceiling of Little Brick Brew. I wrapped my fingers around the mug, welcoming the warmth but unable to shake off the chill of apprehension that clung to my bones.
Little Brick Brew hummed with the low murmur of afternoon chatter. It was a cozy haven, with its rustic charm and the comforting scent of ground coffee beans permeating the air. But comfort felt like a foreign concept as I sat there, my gaze lost in the swirls of cream slowly dissolving into the dark liquid.
I hadn't seen Wallshire since… I couldn’t remember. Memories of this town were like faded photographs in an old album—there, but distant and untouchable. Mother had packed me off to boarding school, and then college. Now, with a degree in hand and no direction, I found myself back at the starting line.
Mother's last letter sat in my purse, its edges crumpled from how often I had taken it out, only to put it back without reading. This time, I pulled it free with a sense of finality and unfolded it.
Her words were typed in cold black ink on white paper. No greeting, no endearment—just a blunt message: Don't come back here. You're not wanted.
The letters blurred as I fought back the sting in my eyes. It wasn't like I had expected a welcome party or warm hugs, but seeing it in such stark terms... It was as if she'd slapped me through the paper.
My hands trembled slightly as I folded the letter and slipped it back into my purse. A hollow laugh escaped me—a sound more bitter than amused—as I realized that despite her warning, Wallshire was all I had left.
The bell above the door jingled softly as someone entered Little Brick Brew. The ambient noise of conversation continued uninterrupted, yet something shifted in the atmosphere—a sense that things were about to change. And amidst it all, I sat there with my hot chocolate growing cold, a reluctant prodigal daughter bracing for what came next.
The door burst open with a gust that scattered napkins and rattled the mugs on their hooks. A young woman who looked about my age, maybe a year or two older, strode in like a summer storm—unmissable, untamable. Her voice filled the space, a booming laugh chasing the chill from my bones. She clapped her hands together, shaking off the outside world, and beelined for the counter.
Her tan skin told tales of long days beneath the sun, perhaps tending to a garden or something else outdoorsy. She wore her chestnut hair in a messy ponytail that swung with each step she took. When she turned, her bright brown eyes caught the light, glinting with a warmth that reminded me of melted chocolate.
"What'll it be today, Sasha," the blonde barista behind the counter asked. "And remember, it's just after lunch so I don't have much food ready."
Sasha leaned against the counter with an easy grace. Her athletic build hinted at her vigor.
"Annie, darling!" Sasha boomed as she reached the barista. "I'm in dire need of sustenance. Load me up with one of your giant blueberry muffins, a turkey club sandwich—extra mayo—and how about some of those sinfully good cinnamon rolls? Oh, and a large coffee—black as midnight on a moonless night."
Annie heaved a sigh, punching in the order. "Big day ahead?"
"Isn't it always?" Sasha winked and leaned in closer. "I'm still on the hunt for a nightshift worker for the inn. No luck yet, so it looks like it's my job for now." She tapped her fingers on the counter rhythmically. "That means caffeine is my best friend."
I felt my eyes linger on Sasha's lively exchange with Annie—a pang of envy threaded through me for her unbridled joy, her freedom. It was infectious, something I yearned for but couldn't quite grasp in my own life.
Realizing I was staring, I quickly looked away and focused on peeling off the sleeve from my neglected hot chocolate cup. My cheeks warmed at being caught watching Sasha's every move; it was like being back in high school when I'd watch people from my corner in the library, trying to learn how to fit in.
The energy Sasha brought into Little Brick Brew stirred something within me—a flicker of curiosity, perhaps even hope. I shook my head lightly as if to clear away such thoughts. Yet despite my efforts to appear absorbed in my own world, I couldn't help but overhear snippets of Sasha's conversation and feel drawn to her vivacious spirit.
"Hey," Sasha called out, her voice slicing through the hum of the cafe. "Who are you?"
"Sasha," Annie admonished with a slight shake of her head, but Sasha waved her off.
"It's a simple question," Sasha said, sidling over to my table. Her movements held the grace of someone comfortable in their own skin. "I don't think I've seen you here before."
Her tone was friendly, even welcoming. There was no suspicion in her voice, not the way I expected.
I tried to shake my mother's voice from my head: You don't belong in Wallshire.
Sasha plopped down in front of me without waiting for an invitation, her elbows resting on the table and her eyes bright with curiosity. "Are you traveling through? If you need an inn to stay at, you should check out my inn and tavern. It's a few blocks down."
I blushed, not used to pointed attention. "Thanks," I managed to say. "Actually, I'm here to see…" I let my voice trail off. Should I say anything? Did anyone know who I was? Probably not. It wasn't like I was even allowed to visit during the holidays, and during the summer, I stayed with a distant cousin in the city and helped her run an orphanage. I doubted anyone here knew who I was. "Uh, my mother. I'm here to see my mother."
Sasha leaned in, her eyes fixed on me with an intensity that seemed to bore into my very thoughts. "Your mother? She's from here?"
I nodded, wrapping my hands around the now-cool mug and taking a long sip of the hot chocolate to give myself a moment. It had lost its warmth, the rich flavor now just a tepid comfort.
Sasha waited, her gaze unwavering. There was an eagerness there—a hunger for stories, for connection. I wondered how many travelers had sat across from her, sharing their stories over a drink or a meal.
I cleared my throat. "Katarina," I said, her name feeling foreign on my tongue. "Katarina Hart?"
"Katarina Hart?" Sasha echoed. Her voice carried across the cafe and I winced inwardly, glancing around to gauge if any heads had turned our way. In a small town like Wallshire, news and gossip probably spread faster than wildfire.
"She runs the tea place, right?" Sasha's voice dropped to what I assumed was a whisper for her but still carried the robustness of her normal speech. "The one Detective Kessler keeps in business?"
"Detective who?" I shook my head, confusion knitting my brows together. My mother's letters had been cryptic at best, lacking any real substance about her life or the town she lived in. "I'm not sure."
My voice faltered and I could feel Sasha's eyes studying me as if trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
"She doesn't—" I cut myself off abruptly. It wasn't just that she didn't talk about the town; she didn't talk about anything personal at all. The letters were cold, more reminders of distance than bridges across it.
Was it Wallshire she wanted me to stay away from? Or was it herself?
Sasha tilted her head to one side, considering me with newfound curiosity. Her earlier joviality seemed tempered now by the unsaid words hanging between us. The silence stretched out uncomfortably before she finally spoke again.
"Well," Sasha said, breaking the quiet with her buoyant tone once more, though softer this time as if sensing my discomfort. "If you need anything while you're in town—information or just someone to talk to—you know where to find me." She flashed a warm smile that didn't quite reach her eyes before standing up and collecting her large order from Annie at the counter.
I watched her leave with a mixture of relief and confusion swirling within me—a familiar sensation in the sea of unknowns that was my life at present.
I took another moment to collect myself, my thoughts swirling like the remnants of cream in my abandoned hot chocolate. With a sigh, I stood up, gathering the crumpled napkin and the empty cup, discarding them with a sense of finality. My heart felt heavy as I pushed through the restroom door, seeking refuge in its solitude.
The fluorescent lights were harsh, unforgiving. I caught sight of myself in the mirror—blue eyes tired from too many sleepless nights spent wrestling with uncertainty. I ran my fingers through my blonde hair; the strands slipping between them like silk threads of confusion.
I leaned closer to the mirror, searching for any resemblance to my mother. There was the heart-shaped face and sharp jawline that hinted at our connection. But beyond those familiar features, I only saw a stranger staring back at me—a woman caught between who she was and who she was meant to become.
My father was a mystery, a blank page in the story of my life. Did his absence hold the key to why Mother kept me at arm's length? The question hung in the air, unanswered and heavy with implication.
A deep breath filled my lungs, steadying my resolve. There was no use in lingering on what-ifs and maybes; it was time to face what lay ahead. I needed answers, closure—whatever it was that awaited me at her shop.
I pushed open the restroom door and stepped back into the cafe, slipping through the patrons with quiet determination. The bell above the door jingled its farewell as I stepped out into Wallshire's streets.
The brisk air nipped at my cheeks as I left the comforting cocoon of Little Brick Brew. The sounds of Wallshire wrapped around me like a familiar melody—one I hadn't realized I'd memorized until now. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my coat, clutching the fabric from the inside as if it could anchor me to the present.
The cobblestone streets were lined with an array of shops, each one inviting in its own right, with warm lights spilling out onto the walkways. Flower boxes perched on windowsills, even though it was too early in the season for anything to bloom. The town seemed to hold its breath, waiting for spring.
I wandered, letting my feet guide me. Each step was hesitant, but with every cobblestone I crossed, a strange sense of belonging seeped into my bones. Wallshire's charm was subtle but undeniable—the kind that sneaks up on you and before you know it, you're smitten.
I passed by a bookstore with its shelves pressed against the glass like they were trying to get a better look at me. A group of children ran past, their laughter echoing off the walls and pulling a smile from me despite my nerves.
It wasn't just the buildings or the streets that felt welcoming; it was the people. They offered friendly nods and hellos as I passed by, their faces open and curious rather than closed off or suspicious. It was nice to be welcomed by strangers.
As I continued to walk, my trepidation gave way to a burgeoning sense of peace. There was something about Wallshire that felt right—like coming home after a long journey, even though I had never really known this place.
I paused in front of a park bench that overlooked a small pond. The water was still, reflecting the pastel hues of the sky as the sun began its descent. Ducks glided across the surface with effortless grace, leaving ripples in their wake.
I took a seat on the cold bench, my eyes tracing the flight of birds overhead. They moved with purpose and certainty—a stark contrast to the fluttering uncertainty in my chest. Yet despite my inner turmoil, there was an undercurrent of rightness that I couldn't shake.
The town's embrace was gentle and unassuming. It didn't demand anything from me; it simply existed, offering itself up for whatever solace or adventure one might seek within its bounds.
And for reasons beyond my comprehension—reasons I couldn't articulate—I felt like I belonged here amidst these quaint shops and friendly faces. Wallshire felt like home.
I pushed myself off the bench, the metal cool against my palms. I had been avoiding this long enough, circling around the inevitable like a moth wary of the flame. It was time to confront the one thing I had been dreading: talking to my mother.
With every step, my heart seemed to pound louder, echoing against my ribcage with a drummer's insistence. I could almost hear Mother's voice in my head, sharp and clear as if she were walking beside me: Don't come back here. You're not wanted.
But the need for answers overpowered her silent warnings. The gaps in my life demanded to be filled, the voids where memories should have been called out for substance.
Wallshire unfolded before me with an air of timeless serenity that contrasted sharply with the chaos churning inside me. The storefronts blurred into a wash of colors and shapes, none of them registering fully as I made my way toward her shop.
Finally, there it was—the quaint tea shop nestled between a florist and a bakery, its sign swinging gently in the breeze. The delicate font spelled out Steeped in Mysteary in looping cursive, and for a moment, I allowed myself to appreciate its cleverness.
I paused outside the door, watching through the glass as Mother moved within. I couldn't help but stare at her — I hadn't seen her in…years.
I hadn't seen my own mother in years.
Her movements were fluid and graceful—a dance she had performed countless times. She lifted a teapot with an elegance that seemed almost regal.
Taking a deep breath, I reached for the door handle.
This was it.
There was no going back now.
Chapter
Two
The bell above the door tinkled, a delicate sound that seemed to wrap around me as I stepped into Steeped in Mysteary for the first time. The air was thick with the scent of exotic spices and dried herbs, an aromatic tapestry that felt both comforting and overwhelming. I took a deep breath, allowing the fragrances to weave their way through my senses—chamomile, peppermint, bergamot—each distinct yet harmoniously intertwined.
Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, casting a warm glow over the polished wooden countertops and the rows upon rows of tea canisters that lined the walls. The light danced across glass jars filled with dried petals and leaves, their contents vibrant against the rustic backdrop of aged wood shelves. Every surface seemed to hold a new treasure; porcelain teapots painted with delicate florals, brass kettles gleaming softly, and fine china cups arranged with artistic precision.
I trailed my fingers over a row of canisters, each labeled in neat, cursive handwriting. Oolong, Rooibos, Darjeeling—the names read like an incantation, a spell to summon faraway lands and forgotten stories. There was an order to it all, a meticulousness that spoke of care and attention. It wasn't just a store; it was a sanctuary crafted by loving hands.
In the corner, a small seating area invited quiet contemplation. Plush armchairs surrounded a low table where an open book lay beside an empty teacup, its rim stained with the faintest trace of crimson. The scene painted a picture of solitude enjoyed and peace found—it whispered of my mother's presence.
As she disappeared into the backroom without so much as a glance in my direction, I couldn't help but feel adrift amidst this collection of curated calm. Who was she within these walls? What secrets did she pour into these blends?
I turned my attention to a display of handwritten notes pinned beside each blend. They were recommendations from my mother, her insights into which tea suited which mood or moment. There was warmth in her words, a personal touch that seemed to reach out from beyond.
With each step deeper into the shop, I found fragments of her—not just as my mother but as an artisan, a curator of comfort. Each label I read, every scent that lingered on the air brought me closer to understanding her passion for this place she had created.
Yet as much as the store revealed, it kept its counsel too. It held its secrets close, much like my mother always did. And here I was, searching for any hint of who she truly was among the perfectly placed canisters and lovingly penned notes.
I stood there, the embodiment of awkwardness, my gaze flitting from one canister to the next. In the corner, a couple of customers huddled over a thick tome, its pages yellowed with age and filled with the history of tea. Their whispers brushed the air, a private exchange that teased my ears yet remained just beyond comprehension.
A pang of uncertainty knotted in my stomach. Had I made a mistake coming here? The weight of my mother's absence pressed down on me, and the warmth of Steeped in Mysteary suddenly felt foreign. But retreat wasn't an option. I was here, shrouded in the very essence of her life's work, and to turn away now would be to abandon the quest for answers that had brought me here.
With hesitant steps, I approached the counter, its surface gleaming under the caress of afternoon light. The cash register sat silent. A faint scent lingered there—perhaps her favorite lavender blend—and for a moment, it felt as if she was right beside me, her hand resting gently on my shoulder.
