Earl Grey & Murder, page 16
“I know the way,” I said lightly, grabbing my bag.
“You’re not bulletproof,” Stone replied without looking up. “And Wallshire’s quiet, not stupid.”
Levi pushed off the wall with all the enthusiasm of a man heading to dental surgery. “Let’s go, brat.”
“I’m flattered,” I murmured as I followed him out, the echo of our steps filling the empty hallway. “You only call me that when you’re one wrong word away from strangling me.”
He didn’t respond. But his silence carried just enough weight to make it feel like a conversation, anyway.
Outside, the evening air had cooled, and the glow from the old streetlamps painted golden halos on the pavement. My little car sat at the edge of the lot, looking painfully cheerful with its dented bumper and sticker-covered rear window.
“I’m just saying,” I said as we walked, “if you’re going to assign yourself as my handler, I expect snacks next time.”
“I’m not your handler,” he muttered.
I stopped by the driver’s side door, unlocking it with a soft click. “You kind of are.”
He opened the door for me anyway, like it was second nature. Like arguing with me didn’t mean he wouldn’t still hold the umbrella if it rained.
I hesitated, half-turning toward him. “You’re not as grumpy as you pretend to be.”
He met my gaze with that unreadable expression he wore like armor. “You’re not as subtle as you pretend to be.”
We stared at each other, the quiet between us thick with the things we hadn’t said. My fingers curled tighter around my keys.
“Be careful,” he said finally, so low I almost missed it.
I nodded. “You too.”
I slipped into the driver’s seat. He didn’t move.
He just stood there, holding the door like it tethered him to the moment—and to me.
I started the engine.
He shut the door gently, his eyes lingering on mine through the window.
And then I drove away, feeling that stare burn into the back of my mind long after the station lights disappeared behind me.
Chapter
Twenty-Two
By the time I pulled into the parking lot of Sasha’s Inn, my thoughts were still tangled in knots. Fifteen minutes wasn’t nearly enough time to shake off the conversation with Levi—his voice, that stare, the way it felt like he was trying to push me away. Classic. Maddening. Predictable.
But I had work to do. A mystery to obsess over. And if anyone could ground my spiraling thoughts while also enabling them? It was Sasha.
The second I stepped into the dining hall, a familiar wave of warmth wrapped around me. The air smelled like syrup and citrus and something vaguely floral—probably that stubborn bowl of lavender potpourri Sasha swore “kept the inn blessed.” The chairs were stacked half-heartedly against one wall, and the buffet table still held the remnants of dinner service. Somewhere in the corner, 60s jazz floated softly from an old speaker, crooning about love and rain.
I spotted her behind the bar, humming off-key and polishing glasses with the sort of focus reserved for either heartbreak or glitter. Knowing Sasha, it was probably neither.
“Sasha,” I called, my voice tight with a mix of urgency and excitement. My notebook was tucked under one arm, and my brain was already halfway into a conspiracy chart.
She glanced up, immediately clocking my expression. “Peyton Hart,” she said with faux gravity, “you look like someone who’s about to ruin my clean floor with wild theories.”
“Maybe,” I admitted, holding up my notebook like a warning label. “But what if she’s not gone? What if Margot’s just… waiting to be found?”
Sasha sighed the sigh of someone who had cleaned one too many late-night tea spills and knew I wasn’t going to rest until something was solved. She reached for something under the bar and tossed it to me.
A mop.
“Help starts with movement, babe,” she said, already crossing toward the kitchen like this was our normal. “You think better when your hands are busy. And I’m not letting you solve a potential murder while standing on sticky tile.”
I caught the mop mid-air, grinning despite myself. “So this is my training montage?”
“This is your unpaid internship,” she called over her shoulder. “Welcome to fieldwork, Sherlock.”
I rolled my eyes but got to work anyway, dragging the mop across the hardwood as I muttered to myself. “Maybe she planned it. Maybe she wanted someone to find the painting. Maybe Julian was the warning and Henrik’s the real threat. Or Naomi.”
“Or,” Sasha said, reappearing with a towel and a spray bottle, “she joined a tea-based cult and is off the grid with someone named Moonbeam.”
I snorted. “Honestly, it’s not the worst theory we’ve had.”
“Don’t tempt me.” She grinned. “You handle the art world conspiracy. I’ll handle the crumbs.”
And just like that, surrounded by mop water, jazz, and a best friend who knew exactly when to hand me cleaning supplies or a lifeline, the pieces started to shift again.
Not into place.
But into motion.
As I mopped the floor, my thoughts darted from clue to clue like they were performing some caffeinated ballet routine—graceful, chaotic, and on the verge of collapse. Every time the mop swished, I imagined it dragging another theory into the open.
“What if she staged it?” I muttered, pressing the handle harder into a stubborn spot of syrup. “What if Margot isn’t missing… just hidden. By choice.”
Sasha paused mid-spray, turned slowly toward me, and arched a brow. “You mean like, what? Vanishing as an art piece?”
“Yes!” I spun toward her, gripping the mop like it was part of my opening argument. “If she wanted someone to pay—Julian, Henrik, whoever—this would be the perfect setup. She disappears, suspicion settles like fog, and boom. They sweat. They slip up.”
Sasha tossed the towel over her shoulder like a bartender in a noir film. “You’re seriously pitching ‘performance art revenge plot’?”
“Tell me it doesn’t feel on-brand.”
She didn’t answer. Which was her way of saying: I hate how plausible this sounds.
I resumed mopping, slower this time, watching the floor glisten beneath the lemon oil and my spiraling curiosity. “What if Naomi’s in on it? Or worse—what if she thinks she’s helping, but Margot’s playing her too?”
Sasha stopped dead in her tracks. “You think Margot would do that to Naomi? That’s… cold.”
“Margot’s an artist,” I said, voice softer now. “Everything’s about control. Vision. And Naomi would do anything for her.”
Sasha leaned against the bar, crossing her arms, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Okay, so Naomi’s the loyal one. Julian’s the distraction. And Henrik…”
“Henrik’s either the puppet, or the one holding the strings,” I said, nodding slowly as the pieces slotted into place in my head. “He knows something. That package he picked up? The late-night excuses? It’s too much coincidence.”
“You think he’s hiding her?”
“Or hiding what happened to her.”
The mop squeaked beneath my hands as silence settled over us, thick and humming with tension.
“And if Margot’s really orchestrating this,” Sasha said, tilting her head, “what does she want us to see?”
I met her eyes; the question echoing in my bones. “That’s what scares me. Because I don’t think it’s over. I think it’s just beginning.”
Sasha flopped into one of the dining chairs with a dramatic groan and reached for another scone from the tray she’d “accidentally” left on the table.
I swirled the mop like it was a fencing sword and pointed it toward her. “Okay. But seriously. If Margot did stage this, she’s playing some long, weird game.”
Sasha took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and said around a mouthful, “What if she joined a traveling tea cult?”
I blinked. “What?”
“You know, like… robed figures in linen tunics, worshipping the steam goddess of oolong. She’s out in the countryside right now giving sermons about tannins.”
I stared at her. “How many scones have you had?”
“Enough to reach enlightenment.”
I snorted and leaned against the mop handle. “Okay, but you’re not entirely wrong. Margot’s always been eccentric. If she said she was leaving society to open a pop-up shrine to bergamot, I’d believe it.”
Sasha nodded sagely. “Exactly. And if this turns out to be about a love triangle, I’m throwing scones. At people. Possibly at you.”
“That’s fair.” I paused, then muttered, “Except it might be a love square.”
Sasha groaned and buried her face in her arms. “Why are artists always so emotionally tangled? Can’t someone just have a stable crush like a normal person?”
I raised a hand. “To be fair, Wallshire's most eligible bachelor is a detective who arrests me for trespassing.”
“That’s romance in Wallshire, baby.”
We both laughed until the mop clattered to the floor and startled a cat that definitely didn’t belong to the inn.
When the laughter settled, Sasha popped her head up and said, as casually as if commenting on the weather, “I still think Henrik’s weirdly attractive. Like, haunted-butler attractive.”
I gaped. “You’re joking.”
“No! He’s got that broody, repressed academic energy. Like he’d ghost you, but then leave flowers with a cryptic Latin note.”
I held up a hand. “I literally watched him dodge a simple question about Margot by pretending to rearrange a gallery candle.”
Sasha grinned. “Hot.”
“You need a nap.”
“I need a mystery solved,” she said, sitting up straighter. “And maybe a date with someone less emotionally repressed than your boyfriend.”
“Not my boyfriend.”
“Tell that to the bouquet.”
I groaned and reached for another scone. I took a bite—flaky, buttery, criminally good—and chewed with the resolve of a woman about to solve a mystery between mouthfuls of jam.
Then I marched over to the chalkboard near the buffet, where the dinner specials usually lived. Today, it was mine. I grabbed a piece of white chalk and scrawled TIMELINE OF CHAOS across the top in big loopy letters.
Sasha glanced up from where she was vigorously wiping down a table with lemon oil. “You’re going full conspiracy chart. I respect it.”
“I’m close,” I muttered, underlining names and scribbling dates. “Margot’s last post. The showcase. Julian’s flowers. Naomi’s breakdown. Henrik and the mystery package.” I added circles, arrows, dashed lines. Tried color-coding. It looked like a Victorian ghost had tried to solve a cold case and got distracted halfway through.
Sasha wandered closer, peering over my shoulder. “You forgot the cult theory.”
“Because it’s not a theory, it’s a fever dream.”
“Dreams are valid.”
I pointed the chalk at her. “Not helping.”
“Sorry. Go on, Detective Hart.”
I turned back to the board and stared at the swirling mess of timelines and notes. The more I looked at it, the more it felt like I was standing on the edge of something, reaching—but not touching. “Something’s off. Something isn’t lining up.”
“Other than the handwriting?” Sasha offered. “Because babe, your capital letters are committing war crimes.”
I stepped back with a frustrated huff, dusting chalk off my fingertips. “Margot was planning something. I can feel it. But the pieces aren’t clicking. Henrik’s vague. Naomi’s afraid. Julian’s… Julian. It’s like they’re all playing their part in a story she wrote—but I don’t know the ending.”
Sasha tossed her towel dramatically over her shoulder. “Maybe it’s one of those stories with no ending. You know, where the author just vanishes into the woods and the fans riot on Twitter.”
I frowned at the board. “She left us clues. That painting. The flowers. That stupid poetic caption. It means something.”
Sasha leaned in, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. “Have you tried asking the chalkboard nicely?”
“I swear to Earl Grey, Sasha.”
“Worth a shot.”
I sighed and rubbed my temple. I was circling something important—I could feel it—but it stayed just out of reach, like steam rising off a too-hot teacup. Fleeting. Fragile.
And maddeningly close.
I stepped back from the chalkboard, chalk still smudged between my fingers, the words blurring together like a dream half-remembered. My chest ached—not from exertion, but from the quiet hum of doubt that had crept in and settled behind my ribs.
“What if I’m wrong?” I asked softly, not really to Sasha, not really to myself—just out loud. “What if she’s just… gone? What if I’m chasing ghosts while everyone else is trying to move on?”
The words hung in the air like steam, fragile and fading.
Sasha didn’t answer right away. She crossed the room slowly, wiping her hands on her apron, her brow furrowed just enough to crack through her usual mischief. Then she leaned against the bar beside me, her voice low and sure.
“Even if you are,” she said, “you’re the only one who’s not afraid to open the door and look.”
I swallowed hard. There it was. The thing I didn’t want to admit out loud—that somewhere deep down, I was afraid. That I wanted to be wrong, because being right might mean something terrible.
But Sasha’s words settled into me like warmth. Like tea steeped just right.
I glanced back at the board, at Henrik’s name underlined three times and circled once like it was taunting me. “We’ve been looking at what he’s doing now,” I murmured. “But what about before? Who was he before Margot? Before he became the polished assistant slash gallery ghost?”
Sasha tilted her head. “You want to go digging into haunted-butler Henrik’s past?”
I nodded slowly. “I think the answers are back there. Before Margot disappeared, before the gallery politics. Before all of it.”
Sasha chewed her lip in thought. “You know who might actually remember Henrik before the makeover?”
I looked at her.
“Professor Elridge,” she said, snapping her fingers. “That cranky, scarf-wearing art historian who used to scream about negative space and drink brandy out of thermoses. He moved out near Finch Hollow.”
“You think he’d talk to me?”
Sasha shrugged. “He loves gossip and people who bring baked goods. So yes.”
And just like that, the next step took shape—messy, uncertain, but solid.
I wasn’t chasing ghosts.
I was following echoes.
And somewhere, at the end of it, Margot was still waiting.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
The morning sunlight spilled through the lace curtains of Steeped in Mysteary, painting soft, dappled patterns across the floor and counters. Everything looked calm. Safe. The scent of bergamot and lemon balm curled through the air like a well-meaning ghost, wrapping around me and whispering: breathe, Peyton. Just for a minute.
I sat behind the counter, my laptop open, its screen casting a soft glow against my mug of Earl Grey. I wrapped both hands around the ceramic, the warmth grounding me, while my brain waded through foggy thoughts and too many suspects.
Today was supposed to be about tea. About customers and routine. But instead, I was trying to outmaneuver secrets with a keyboard and a politely crafted email.
I took a sip—just hot enough to make my throat ache pleasantly—and began typing.
* * *
Subject: Inquiry Regarding Wallshire’s Art Legacy
Dear Professor Elridge,
I hope this message finds you well. My name is Peyton Hart, and I’m currently researching local artists and their impact on Wallshire’s art legacy for an upcoming feature. Your name has come up repeatedly in my explorations—particularly in relation to Henrik Wells and his early influence on the local scene.
I would be incredibly grateful for a few moments of your time to discuss Henrik’s background, artistic development, and any stories you may be willing to share from his art school days. Your perspective would be invaluable.
Warmest regards,
Peyton Hart
* * *
I stared at the message for a few seconds. Too formal? Not formal enough? Would he sense the real reason I wanted to talk to him buried beneath the polite punctuation?
I hit send anyway.
And then came the worst part—waiting.
The cursor blinked in my inbox like it knew something I didn’t. I set my mug down, pulled my cardigan tighter around my shoulders, and leaned back in my chair. The hum of the shop settled around me, a familiar rhythm of silence and steam. For a moment, I let myself believe today would be slow. Predictable. Safe.
Spoiler: it wouldn’t be.
I already knew it.
I wandered over to the bouquet, still vibrant in its vase, as if it hadn’t yet realized the world around it was falling apart. The petals glowed in the morning light, each one delicate and full of some secret I couldn’t quite reach. I leaned in, breathing deep—the soft sweetness of jasmine, the sharpness of peony.
I pulled back before I could spiral too far.
There was still a shop to run, a mystery to untangle, and a tea kettle bubbling in the background like it understood the importance of routine.
I moved along the counter, straightening tins that had crept too close to the edge and wiping away a faint ring of dried tea. My eyes kept flicking toward the laptop, that glowing little screen full of unread messages and possibility. Don’t check again, I told myself. Stay busy.
But the itch was constant. The waiting—it frayed the edges of me.
The bell above the door chimed.
I turned, expecting Mr. Hargrove or maybe one of the morning regulars, but instead—
Naomi.
