Earl Grey & Murder, page 8
I knocked.
The door creaked open a moment later, just wide enough for Henrik Wells to appear, framed by shadows and perfectly controlled lighting. His hair was slicked back with the kind of precision that screamed performance, and his suit was too crisp for someone supposedly elbow-deep in gallery maintenance.
“Peyton Hart, right?” he said with that curated smile—polite, polished, empty. “What brings you by?”
“I heard you might be busy,” I replied, keeping my voice casual while my pulse tripped over itself. “Just wanted to follow up on something. Someone mentioned Margot would be here today, and I wanted to drop by and say thank you personally.”
Henrik opened the door a little wider, but didn’t move from his spot. If anything, he seemed to fill the doorway more, like a human barricade in tailored wool.
“Busy is an understatement,” he said smoothly. “We’re prepping for the next exhibition. A bit of cleaning. Reframing.”
“Changes?” I echoed, stepping just inside the threshold without thinking. The air inside smelled faintly of paint thinner and varnish. Normally, that scent would spark something familiar—creativity, inspiration. Today it just made my skin feel too tight.
Henrik’s smile didn’t waver. “Routine upkeep,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the gallery’s interior. The lights were off beyond the foyer, shadows pooling along the floor like spilled ink. “Margot liked things… curated. It’s important we maintain that standard.”
He looked calm. Measured. But there was something brittle in the way he said her name.
“I just thought,” I said slowly, “I could talk to Margot and look at a few pieces. I heard someone's been buying through Elise. I mean, the paintings Margot did for her shop are stunning. In fact, I'm thinking of upgrading the art in my teashop.”
“A lot of pieces move through here,” he replied, still smiling. “Nothing of concern.”
I couldn’t help noticing: no staff. No open crates. No sign of real maintenance happening at all.
Just Henrik. And the dark.
And that smile that never touched his eyes.
I squared my shoulders, pushing past the itch of unease crawling beneath my skin. “I had a follow-up question about the collection. I was told Margot—”
“Is still indisposed, I’m afraid.” Henrik cut in smoothly, his voice slick and polished, like glass over something cracked. “Anything you need can come through my office.”
He shifted slightly, angling his body in the doorway—not aggressive, but deliberate. A posture that looked casual if you weren’t paying attention. But I was. And it was clear: I wasn’t getting past him.
The silence behind him told its own story. No echo of voices. No shuffling feet or scuffed cardboard. No music humming from a back room speaker. Just dim light filtering through dusty windows and shadows that seemed to twist in the corners, like something turning away before I could catch it.
He was alone.
“Henrik,” I said, keeping my tone even, “this is important. Margot’s work—it struck a chord. I think she would want to know how it’s resonating.”
His expression flickered. Just for a second. Like my words had bumped into something unguarded. Then his smile smoothed out again, all surface and shine.
“Margot values her privacy,” he said. “She’s very… particular about boundaries.”
He didn’t say don’t ask. He didn’t have to.
I offered a careful nod. “Of course. But some of the pieces—there’s so much going on beneath the brushwork. Layers. Symbols. Things that feel personal. And I just thought…” I trailed off, watching his face. “Only she could really explain what’s there.”
He gave a tight, almost pleasant smile. “Trust me when I say Margot is far too busy for inquiries right now.”
That smile was starting to feel like a mask made of mirrors—reflecting exactly what he wanted me to see, but offering nothing in return.
Frustration sparked low in my chest.
“What could possibly be more important than her own exhibition?” I asked, sharper now.
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping as if to make the lie more intimate. “Margot’s process is… complicated.”
The words curled around the space between us, designed to sound thoughtful. But they landed wrong. Weighted. Too rehearsed.
I stepped back half a pace, just enough to feel the tension release from my shoulders, but not enough to drop it altogether. Not enough to give in.
Our eyes locked. His—cool and calculating. Mine—curious, unblinking.
I wasn’t done. Not even close.
I pasted on my best version of a bright smile—something warm enough to pass, even with unease crawling beneath my skin. “All right. Will you let Margot know I dropped by?”
“Of course,” Henrik replied, voice smooth as silk. Too smooth. Too easy. The kind of answer that slipped past without leaving fingerprints.
I stepped back into the street, blinking against the sunlight as the door clicked shut behind me. The square buzzed with its usual life—laughter, foot traffic, the metallic clink of café spoons—but it all felt distant. Muffled. Like I’d stepped out of somewhere colder than shadow.
I needed space. Clarity. Familiar ground.
Steeped in Mysteary was waiting like a lighthouse on a foggy shore.
The bell above the door gave its soft chime as I walked in, and I let the quiet settle around me like a blanket. The scent of tea—bergamot, citrus, something floral I couldn’t name—wrapped itself around my senses, calming the edge that Henrik’s performance had frayed.
I moved to the kettle out of instinct, filled it, set it on the burner. Every action was muscle memory. Safe. Steady.
While the water heated, I drifted to one of the corner tables and pulled my journal from my bag. The leather cover was worn at the edges, soft from use. I flipped to a blank page, uncapped my pen, and sat in the silence that only a closed shop could offer.
I started writing.
Margot missing.
I underlined it once. Then twice.
Assistant picked something up late last night.
Henrik at the gallery—alone. Blocking the door. Too calm. Too neat.
I tapped the pen against my lips, staring at the ink like it might rearrange itself into answers.
Naomi’s warnings. “She didn’t want to be saved. She wanted to be remembered.”
The words sat heavy on the page, like stones dragged from deep water.
The kettle whistled, sharp and sudden.
I rose and moved to the counter, poured water over the loose Earl Grey I’d measured without thinking. The leaves swirled slowly, unfurling like secrets steeping in silence.
I held the cup close, breathed in the scent. It should’ve calmed me.
It didn’t.
Because the longer I stared at those notes, the clearer one truth became:
Henrik was hiding something.
And if he wouldn’t let me in during the day…
I’d find a way in at night.
The bell over the door gave a sharp chime—short, clipped—interrupting my thoughts.
Not the usual customer entrance.
I looked up just as Levi stepped inside, the late light catching on the edge of his jacket. He didn’t even glance at the tea shelf. His eyes were locked on me, and his expression was already in mid-scowl.
So this was going to be one of those visits.
“Afternoon,” I said, raising my mug in mild salute.
He didn’t return the gesture. “Why were you questioning Elise today?”
No preamble. No pleasantries. Classic Levi.
I blinked at him, all wide-eyed innocence. “Questioning? That’s such a strong word.”
He folded his arms. “You were poking around about Margot’s assistant. Elise called it ‘invasive with a smile.’”
“I prefer ‘politely curious,’” I replied. “With excellent manners.”
He stepped closer, voice low. “You don’t get to interrogate people because you’re bored.”
I gasped. “I’m never bored. I’m engaged. Emotionally, intellectually—spiritually, depending on the blend.”
Levi’s jaw flexed. “This isn’t a game, Hart.”
I sipped my tea. “Did I say it was?”
He sighed and raked a hand through his hair, and for half a second, he looked tired. Not angry. Not annoyed. Just… worried. Which he would never admit.
“You don’t know what kind of mess you’re walking into,” he said quietly.
“No,” I agreed. “But I know when someone’s trying to clean it up by hiding the broom.”
His mouth twitched. A flicker of amusement. Or maybe irritation that I’d made a point.
“I’m serious,” he said.
“So am I,” I replied. “You storm in here like I’ve tampered with classified documents, but all I did was ask Elise why a mystery package was picked up in the middle of the night.”
“Which, by the way, wasn’t your business.”
“Then maybe someone should make it my business,” I said sweetly, “before I get more curious.”
He didn’t say anything to that. Just stood there, arms crossed, watching me like I was a puzzle with one piece left to flip over.
“I also might’ve casually bumped into Henrik earlier,” I said, stirring my tea like this was small talk and not a confession.
Levi’s eyes narrowed. “Where?”
“Outside the gallery,” I replied. “He was doing a very convincing impression of a man pretending to clean.”
Levi looked like he was chewing glass. “And you just… walked up and started asking questions?”
“I knocked,” I said. “I’m not a heathen.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are going to make me regret every decision that’s led me to this point.”
I took another sip, savoring the warmth. “Henrik was cagey. Smiling too much, talking too little, blocking the door with his entire body like a very expensive security gate. And before you say it, I was polite.”
“You’re never just polite,” he muttered. “You’re polite like a crowbar is polite when opening a locked drawer.”
I beamed. “Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“It felt like one.”
He exhaled through his nose, sharp. “I don’t like babysitting trying blondes with bad instincts.”
I set my mug down with exaggerated care. “If I were a brunette, would that be easier for you?”
His mouth twitched, just barely. “No. You’d still talk too much.”
I shrugged. “That’s fair. But I’d look fantastic doing it.”
He tried—tried—not to smile. Failed. It lasted half a second, but I saw it. And he knew I did.
He cleared his throat like it might erase the moment. “Just… stay out of this."
My smile faded. “Can’t promise that.”
Our eyes met. Tension stretched between us, quiet and unspoken. Neither of us blinked.
He turned for the door. “Don’t make me arrest you.”
“Then don’t give me a reason to break in.”
The bell chimed behind him as he left.
And I was already thinking about which shoes would be quietest on hardwood floors.
Chapter
Twelve
I slipped into the inn just after sunset, the sky outside streaked with soft lavender and gold. The lamps were already on inside, casting warm puddles of light across the hardwood floor. It smelled like citrus cleaner and cinnamon-sugar scones, which—given Sasha—meant she’d probably cleaned out a cupboard and stress-baked.
She was behind the counter in the dining room, scribbling something into a ledger with a glass of wine balanced dangerously close to the edge.
“Good timing,” she said without looking up. “I just hired a manager.”
I blinked. “You what?”
She grinned and glanced up. “Part-time. But still. A real, grown-up decision. I even filled out paperwork without dramatic sighing.”
“That’s incredible,” I said, dropping my bag near the door and stepping into the light. “Are we celebrating? Is there champagne? Should I toast dramatically?”
“You can,” she said, “but I’d settle for you not sneaking out in the middle of the night like a Victorian ghost with unresolved trauma.”
I gave her a sheepish look.
She narrowed her eyes. “What are you up to?”
I paused. Just a second too long.
Sasha’s eyebrows rose. “Peyton…”
“I’m just going to peek inside the gallery after hours,” I said innocently, as if we were discussing a quick errand to the bakery.
Her face lit up like a lantern. “Breaking in?”
I rolled my eyes. “Not breaking. Entering. Softly. With intention.”
Sasha snorted. “That’s been on my bucket list since I was twelve. Hang on—let me change.”
“You’re not serious.”
She was already halfway up the stairs. “You think I’m letting you sneak into a possibly haunted art gallery alone like some amateur? Girl, no. We’re dressing for stealth.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was in black leggings, a dark hoodie, and sneakers with worn-out soles for quiet steps.
Sasha came downstairs in black jeans, a leather jacket, and a knit beanie, holding two flashlights and what looked suspiciously like pepper spray.
I arched a brow. “You’ve done this before.”
“I’ve planned to do this before,” she said. “But you? You’re my opportunity.”
It should’ve worried me how fast she said that.
Instead, I grinned.
We left the inn under the cover of dusk, dressed like a very stylish pair of stagehands from a community theater production of Ocean’s Two.
Sasha insisted on walking like we were “just out for a casual evening stroll,” but the fact that she kept whispering “casual evening stroll” under her breath didn’t exactly sell it.
“Will our favorite detective be a problem tonight?” Sasha said. “I'm just assuming he probably clocked it the second you started pretending you weren’t going to do this and may show up.”
“Well, he told me not to.”
She smirked. “That’s basically an engraved invitation.”
I glanced around, heart thudding a little harder as we approached the building. The gallery loomed ahead, quiet and dark, the sign in the window still reading CLOSED in crisp serif font.
“There’s a non-zero chance he’s watching from a rooftop somewhere,” I muttered.
Sasha snorted. “You think he has rooftop stakeout energy?”
“He has every kind of overprepared energy.”
“Well,” she said, nudging me with her elbow, “if he does show up, you can distract him with your very charming banter. Flash those big innocent eyes. Say something about art being a mirror of the soul.”
“Oh, yeah, and then you sneak off while I dramatically flirt?”
“Exactly.”
“I’m not good at dramatic flirting.”
“You are with him.”
I gaped. “I am not.”
“You flirt like a Jane Austen heroine with a grudge.”
“That’s just how I talk.”
“Uh-huh.”
We both burst out laughing, and I had to cover my mouth with my sleeve as we neared the gallery door.
We were terrible at not drawing attention to ourselves. The kind of terrible that probably had Levi sighing somewhere in the shadows, muttering to himself about “irresponsible blondes.”
But by the time we reached the side entrance, my laughter had faded, replaced by that flicker of adrenaline again. The kind that said we were officially past the point of pretending this was a joke.
And the gallery—quiet and waiting—was just on the other side of the glass.
“Okay,” Sasha whispered, peering up at the side of the building, “Plan A is out.”
Plan A had been the side door. It was locked. Very locked. Unreasonably locked. Like Henrik had hired a locksmith who specialized in emotional repression.
“So… Plan B?” I asked.
She pointed to a small window half-shielded by a hedge. “That one’s cracked. Probably opens all the way.”
I stared at it. “That’s, like, shoulder-height. For a tall person. Which I’m not.”
“Well,” she said brightly, “lucky for you, I have the upper body strength of someone who once moved a full bar cart single-handedly during a wedding disaster.”
She wasn’t lying. I’d seen it.
Sasha boosted herself up first, bracing a foot against the brick and wobbling alarmingly for a second before gripping the sill and muscling the window open with a grunt.
Then she swung one leg inside like she was attempting an interpretive dance called Crime But Make It Fluid.
“Your turn,” she hissed once half of her was inside and the other half was still dangling in what could only be described as a very compromising angle.
I stepped forward, glanced nervously down the alley—and met the icy, unblinking stare of a cat.
Jet black, perched on a trash bin like it paid rent, judging us like it chaired the Neighborhood Crime Prevention Committee.
“We have an audience,” I muttered, pointing.
The cat blinked. Slowly. Disapprovingly.
“Great,” Sasha called from halfway in the window. “We’re being morally evaluated by the neighborhood familiar.”
I reached for the sill. “If I fall, I’m taking you down with me.”
“Promise?”
With one very undignified hop, I managed to get both hands on the edge of the window. My foot skidded against the hedge. The cat sneezed like it was offended by my technique.
Sasha reached out, grabbed the back of my hoodie, and yanked.
There was a very awkward flail, a moment of undignified wheezing, and then suddenly we were both inside—crumpled in a heap on the gallery floor, surrounded by darkness and the faint, unmistakable scent of lemon polish and poor decisions.
We laid there for a second. Breathing.
The cat outside yowled once. Distant. Judgmental.
