I hadn’t sung that song since Patrick died. There was something in it—some quality of longing made beautiful, of absence made into art—that pressed against my chest until I couldn’t breathe. The kind of romantic ache that felt dangerous, like opening a door to a room you’d locked for good reason.
But tonight it had slipped out unbidden, humming itself into existence while I thought about locks being checked and alarms being set and the particular way Dash had looked at me in my kitchen. Not with Patrick’s easy certainty—we’d known each other since childhood, had moved from friends to lovers with the inevitability of water finding its level. This was different. Careful. Deliberate. Two people choosing each other rather than simply recognizing what had always been there.
The song wound through my thoughts as sleep finally came, and for once the yearning in it didn’t make me weep. It just made me wonder what tomorrow might bring.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Wednesday morning arrived wrapped in fog so thick the harbor disappeared entirely, leaving only the mournful call of the foghorn and the scent of salt marsh that crept through every crack and crevice of The Perfect Steep. I stood behind my counter, staring at a teapot I’d apparently been holding for the better part of five minutes without pouring a single cup, while Carly watched me with the expression of someone witnessing a slow-motion catastrophe.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she said.
“What thing?”
“That thing where you’re physically present but your brain is somewhere else entirely. I’m going to assume you’re solving murders in your head. ’Cause you’re definitely not making tea.” She gently extracted the pot from my grip. “Mrs. Hartwell has been waiting for her English Breakfast for ten minutes. She’s started tapping her nails on the table. You know what that means.”
I did know. Mrs. Hartwell’s nail-tapping was the auditory equivalent of a countdown timer on a bomb.
The door swung open, and Walt appeared with a clipboard in one hand and a determined expression that hinted he was about to reorganize my entire life whether I liked it or not. Behind him came Bea in an emerald caftan that looked like it had been woven from peacock feathers and audacity, struggling slightly with a folding table. Deidre brought up the rear, her ever-present tote bag on one shoulder and what appeared to be a tactical planning board tucked under her arm.
“We’re commandeering your back room,” Walt announced, not bothering with preamble.
“I can see that,” I said, watching as they maneuvered the table through the doorway with the kind of coordinated effort that suggested they’d planned this operation down to the last detail. “Good morning to you too.”
“No time for pleasantries.” Walt was already disappearing into the back room, the sound of furniture being rearranged with precision echoing through the doorway. “We’ve got a situation that requires immediate tactical response.”
“A situation,” I repeated.
“You,” Bea said, pointing at me with one finger heavy with turquoise rings. “You’re running yourself into the ground trying to run this shop and solve a murder. Both are full-time jobs. It’s not sustainable, and frankly, watching you try is exhausting for the rest of us.”
“I’m fine?—”
“We’re staging an intervention,” Bea declared. “A hostile takeover, if you will. The Silver Sleuths are taking over tea shop operations. You’re going full-time on the investigation.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Carly was already untying my apron. “They’re right. You can’t keep doing both. And honestly? I’d rather work with them than watch you set another batch of scones on fire.”
“That was one time?—”
“Yes, but it still smells like someone set a Christmas tree on fire.”
I pursed my lips together, trying not to be insulted. I never burned things in the kitchen, and I wasn’t a fan of what this slipup was doing to my reputation. Grace covered a lot of sins, but apparently not burning the scones.
“It was cinnamon scones,” I said for lack of anything better in my defense. “And there are worse things than the smell of Christmas trees.”
Carly muttered something under her breath and went to wait on a customer at the register.
The bell over the door chimed, and Dash walked in wearing his uniform and an expression that suggested he hadn’t slept much better than I had. His gaze found mine immediately, something passing between us that felt too weighted for a Wednesday morning in a tea shop—concern, determination, and something else I wasn’t ready to name.
“Tell me you have coffee,” he said.
“This is a tea shop.”
“Tell me you have something with enough caffeine to jump-start a corpse.”
“I have a French press in the back for emergencies.” I gestured toward the back room, where Walt’s organizational sounds had reached a crescendo. “Though fair warning, it’s become Silver Sleuth headquarters.”
“Excellent.” He headed toward the back, then paused, turning back with his hand on the doorframe. “You’re not going to fight them on this, are you? The takeover?”
