Featured Teas: Silver Needle White Tea, Darjeeling First Flush, Chamomile Citrus
Soup of the Day: Tomato Basil Bisque
I arranged the featured tea canisters on the counter display—the delicate silver needle with its fuzzy white buds, the Darjeeling in its elegant tin with hand-painted peacocks, and the chamomile citrus blend I’d created myself, bright with dried orange peel and lemon verbena. Each canister was positioned just so, labels facing out, part of the carefully curated aesthetic that made The Perfect Steep feel less like a business and more like stepping into someone’s (admittedly eccentric) living room.
The timer chimed. I pulled the scones from the oven—golden brown, perfectly risen, filling the shop with that combination of citrus and butter that would draw customers in like moths to flame. While they cooled, I mixed the lavender glaze, thinning it to just the right consistency before drizzling it across the tops in elegant zigzags.
Only then, with everything ready for the day’s business, did I allow myself to think about murder.
I’d set up the back room for our meeting—the space I usually reserved for private tea parties and the occasional book club that devolved into wine and gossip. The large farmhouse table could accommodate all the Silver Sleuths, and more importantly, it was away from the front windows where curious passersby might catch a glimpse of what we were doing. Grimm Island had enough gossip without adding me and the geriatric detective squad to the morning’s conversation starters.
Genevieve would be arriving at 7 to help with the morning rush before heading to her classes at the community college. She was reliable, efficient, and had learned my systems well enough that I could leave the front of the shop in her capable hands while I dealt with murder in the back room. The juxtaposition felt absurd—serving lattes and scones while discussing forty-year-old homicides—but that was becoming my new normal.
Pickering’s journal sat in the center of the table, its marbled cover innocuous enough to be mistaken for a child’s school notebook. I’d spent two hours last night scanning and printing every page. Now those pages were organized in neat stacks, each one a small grenade of information that might explode in someone’s face.
The back door opened at precisely 6:30—Walt’s arrival announced by his trademark three sharp knocks before entering, as if storming the beaches of Normandy required proper door etiquette.
“Oh-six-thirty hours,” he announced, though we could all see the clock. He wore his investigation uniform: pressed khakis that could stand up by themselves, a crisp white oxford shirt, and his veterans cap positioned with mathematical precision. “I brought my notes and the tactical timeline I’ve been working on.”
“Coffee’s ready,” I said, gesturing to the industrial-sized carafe I’d prepared. “Fair warning—it’s strong enough to wake the dead, which seems appropriate given the circumstances.”
“Gallows humor,” Walt approved, pouring himself a cup. “Sign of a sound tactical mind.”
Dottie arrived next, her oversized tote bag slung over her shoulder, looking purposeful despite the early hour. Today’s cat-eye glasses were purple, matching her silk blouse, and her jet-black bob was styled with the kind of precision that suggested she’d been to the salon recently. The bag clinked slightly as she set it down—probably the tin of homemade cookies she inevitably brought to share.
“I called in a favor at Charleston Medical,” she announced, settling into her chair with the authority of someone who’d autopsied half the low country. “Got the staff records from 1985. Every nurse who worked there that year is documented, along with their schedules and specialties.” She patted her bag. “Cross-referencing them against our blond woman in white is going to be tedious, but I’ve performed worse miracles. Once identified a body from a single molar and three inches of femur.”
“Do we want to know the story behind that?” I asked, pouring her coffee.
“Absolutely not,” she said cheerfully. “But I’m happy to tell it if you’re interested. The decomposition patterns alone were fascinating?—”
“Let’s save that for after breakfast,” I interrupted, knowing from experience that Dottie’s forensic anecdotes could curdle milk at thirty paces.
Bea swept in at 6:45, today’s caftan a swirl of emerald green and gold that shimmered like peacock feathers in motion. Instead of her usual chandelier earrings, she wore elaborate jade drop earrings that swayed with each step, and her dyed red hair was swept up in a style that somehow managed to look both elegant and slightly chaotic—very Bea.
“I’ve been up since four,” she announced dramatically, accepting the coffee I offered like it was holy communion. “Couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about Ruby Bailey and that reverend.” She settled into her chair with a rustle of silk. “You know, I covered the story when it happened. I was still at the Gazette then, working the society beat, but murder trumps charity galas every time. The whole island was buzzing for months.”
Deidre arrived moments later, her canvas tote bag bulging with what I knew would be meticulously organized research materials. Her silver hair was pinned back in a neat bun, and she wore sensible khaki pants and a lavender cardigan—her research uniform.
“Sorry I’m a bit late,” she said, though she was still seven minutes early. “I was at the library since opening, pulling old newspaper articles from the microfiche. The Gazette’s archives from 1985 are fascinating.” She pulled out a folder thick with photocopies. “I’ve got every article they ran about the murders, plus society pages from the months leading up to it. You’d be amazed what you can learn from who attended which garden parties.”
“That’s why we keep you around,” Bea said with a wink. “Your obsessive organizational skills.”
“I prefer thorough,” Deidre corrected, but she was smiling as she settled into her chair.
Hank arrived last, at 6:52, apologizing for being late though he was still eight minutes early by normal human standards. He wore his investigation vest—the fishing one with seventeen pockets, each containing something he’d deemed essential. Today’s cargo shorts had been ironed to within an inch of their life, the creases sharp enough to cut paper.
“I brought my notes,” he explained, pulling out a leather notebook that looked like it had survived several wars and possibly the sinking of the Titanic. “Figured if I’m going to play detective at my age, I should at least document it properly.”
“How very Nancy Drew of you,” Bea said, but her tone was fond. Hank had always been thorough, the kind of man who organized his spice rack alphabetically and kept detailed records of everything from his blood pressure to his golf scores.
I hadn’t heard him arrive, but suddenly Dash stood in the doorway, looking every inch the professional lawman despite the early hour. His sheriff’s uniform was pressed to perfection, the light blue shirt crisp and the dark pants showing their usual razor-sharp crease. His hair was slightly damp, suggesting a recent shower, and I caught myself wondering what his morning routine looked like before forcing my attention back to the matter at hand.
“Morning,” he said. “Hope I’m not late.”
“Seven on the dot,” Walt confirmed, frowning with disapproval. In Walt’s book, on time was as good as being late.
“Coffee?” I offered, already reaching for a cup.
