Steeped in Suspicion Read online

  Steeped in Suspicion

  A Pebble Cove Teahouse Mystery

  Eryn Scott

  Kristopherson Press

  Copyright © 2020 by Eryn Scott

  Published by Kristopherson Press

  All rights reserved.

  www.erynscott.com

  [email protected]

  Facebook: @erynscottauthor

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  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover by Victoria Cooper

  Map by Hanna Sandvig at The Book Cover Bakery

  Contents

  Map of Pebble Cove

  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

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Next in the series:

  Also by Eryn Scott

  About the Author

  For “Mayor” Stubbs, honorary mayor of Talkeetna, Alaska from 1997-2017.

  (Photo credit: Jenni Konrad)

  1

  There was a point in my life when I thought I would never return to my grandmother’s beach house in Pebble Cove.

  Then again, there was also a point when I doubted I would live to see my tenth birthday and here I stood, the day after my twenty-fifth.

  I approached the house trying to sort out the feelings rushing around me as palpably as the coastal winds.

  Was I still mad at Grandma?

  I suppose it didn’t quite matter anymore. Unlike me—placing foot after foot on the stones which led up to the stately house—she would never walk this path again.

  She was gone.

  My fingers clutched the letter I’d received from her lawyer informing me of her passing, and how she’d left me the house and the tea shop she ran here. She’d left my mother her personal diary and a yellowed letter I knew Mom wouldn’t open, but everything else, she’d bequeathed to me.

  Tears threatened at the edges of my eyes, stinging in the wind. It wasn’t a surprise, I suppose; the woman was almost ninety years old. It wasn’t uncommon for a person my age to lose a grandparent. The unusual part was that I hadn’t spoken to my grandmother in fifteen years.

  I’d never gotten up the courage to come see her. Even though I’d thought about her often, I’d still been unable to parse my mother’s feud with Grandma from my own feelings. Now that she was gone, the regret of never having reached out to her felt like a kick to the gut.

  I glanced back at my car wondering if it was too late to turn back, to run away. My long hair plastered itself to my face. I added remember to tie my hair up into a bun before exiting the car to my list of things I wished I’d done. I forgot how blustery it got here on the coast. I suppose I hadn’t been here for over a decade, so it was understandable that I forgot.

  The things I couldn’t forget if I tried? The way the waves lapping at the shore made me whole when I hadn’t even realized I was missing a thing. The soft notes of my grandmother’s wind chimes, clanging as the wind brushed through them. How her gabled Victorian house had been sitting on that beach for a hundred years and would last a hundred more.

  Even though I’d only spent a few summers here, I remembered, sunrise to sunset days spent on the beach exploring. After so many years, the house in Pebble Cove joined Narnia and Hogwarts in my memory: places that were so vivid, such a part of my soul, but that I’d accepted I would never physically visit. It felt eerie to be here now, filling me with as much excitement as it did unease.

  I didn’t know what I would do with the place. I could sell it right away, like my mom wanted me to do. The realtor said she had an offer on the table already. Or maybe it would be better to rent it out for a while and wait for the market to pick back up. Either way, I had a few days to decide before I went back to my Portland basement apartment on Monday.

  Glancing down at the key in my other hand, I swallowed my doubts and walked forward.

  The gray color of the paint, along with the stark white trim made the home look updated, welcoming. The front door contained half windows with designs cut in the glass, which caught the light in a diamond-like faceted way. Business hours were posted in one of the small windows. A wrought-iron hanger attached to the house held a sign over the door.

  Even though the house hadn’t been a tea shop back when I used to visit, my grandmother always had an affinity for herbal healing and nontraditional medications.

  A pit grew in my stomach. It had been that very interest that had led to the fight between her and my mom.

  Stepping under the sign, I shoved the key into the lock, pushing aside the memories I didn’t know how to deal with right now.

  The breeze fell away as I entered. I eyed the ornate rug that ran down a short hall as I pushed the door closed, cutting off the last bits of wind that attempted to follow me.

  Inside, the air was cool and stagnant. The smell of tea leaves permeated the place to such a degree that I half expected the air to be tinted sepia, and for the light scent of sugar to sparkle at the edges of my vision.

  I proceeded forward into the main tearoom. It didn’t sparkle, but the place had a softness to it. From the smooth edges of the dark wood that lined the floors, to the wooly pillows, cushions, and blankets that sat atop chairs of every shape and size. Along one of the interior walls was a large wooden bar that appeared to have been lifted straight out of an old English pub.

  From the half-dozen small tables dotting the large room and the barstools, it seemed that the tearoom was a café of sorts. But the bar also held prepackaged teas that told me Grandma sold her blends in addition to serving them.

  A towering bookshelf to my left held stacked board games, card sets, and a few paperbacks. In one corner of the main room, a stack of political yard signs leaned at an angle. In another corner were baskets full of blankets and outdoor seat cushions. The house was just as beautiful inside as it was outside. The home’s high ceilings and thick moldings fit in with the mental picture I conjured when I thought of Victorian-style houses.

  My attention moved to my grandmother’s kitchen. I wondered if the stained-glass bird I gave her for her seventieth birthday still hung in the window over her sink.

  I would’ve peeked inside to check … if it hadn’t been for the man filling the doorway, standing in the way. I jumped, surprised to see another soul where I’d expected only nostalgia.

  His dark hair was swept back off his face, and dark stubble covered his chin. From his tweed pants, suspenders, and button up, I realized I hadn’t completely left the hipsters behind in Portland. His face was pulled into such a severe scowl that I was overcome with the need to make him smile.

  He stopped when he spotted me, jumping a bit at the sight of me too. Then he raised his eyebrows. “This must be the granddaughter, then.” The words were clipped, tired, neither inviting nor unwelcoming.

  This must be the neighbor the realtor warned me might be here watering the plants.

>   He wasn’t who I’d been expecting. For some reason, I’d pictured someone closer to my grandmother’s age. This man couldn’t have been much older than me, definitely not over thirty. I opened my mouth, ready to confirm that I was “the granddaughter,” but before I could, he walked toward the tea bar.

  “How did I not even hear you come in?” He shook his head. “Two weeks alone and I’m getting soft.”

  Was he staying here in addition to watering the plants? I wondered as I regarded him. He sure seemed at home, the way he walked behind the counter and began reading a newspaper sitting on the tea bar. I, on the other hand, couldn’t foresee relaxing at all while this surly, sighing, suspender-wearing man was around.

  I was about to ask him one of the many questions lining up in my brain when the bell on the front door jingled. The sound of footsteps followed a gust of wind down the hallway. I squeezed my eyes shut as I—all too late—realized I hadn’t locked the door behind me. Between this plant-watering neighbor who seemed to have moved in, and now whoever had just let themselves inside, Pebble Cove was turning out to be a place with very few boundaries.

  Glancing up at Mr. Suspenders, I caught him heave out another sigh. I couldn’t hear what he muttered after that, but it sounded a lot like, “Now she’s done it.”

  “Helloooo.” The greeting bounced off the walls of the long hallway.

  My shoulders tensed. I might not be as far left on the sour spectrum as Mr. Suspenders, but making small talk with people had never been one of my strengths.

  My strengths were more along the lines of getting lost in a book, so much so that the world around me fell away, or clearing my throat as if I might say something but then not saying anything. I wasn’t shy. I just hated being the center of attention … or even to the immediate left or right of attention. I’d had enough attention for all the wrong reasons before I even hit puberty.

  Cloggy shoes clomped around the corner and broke me out of my thought bubble. I glanced up to see a middle-aged woman enter the room.

  “Hi there!” she said, patting her coifed, chin-length brown hair even though it looked as if it contained enough hairspray to hold it in place through a hurricane. “I’ve been watching you.” She flashed me a smile.

  My discomfort ratcheted up a few notches at her statement.

  Her smile faltered. She stepped toward me. “I mean, I’m not a stalker or anything. Just your neighbor.”

  “Some might say those are the same,” muttered Mr. Suspenders.

  My eyes widened at his curt and candid remark. I tried to gauge the woman’s reaction, but she either didn’t hear him, or ignored him, because she held her hand out and said, “I’m Daphne Bertraud, by the way. And you must be Rosemary.”

  She was watching me and knew my name? These neighbors were officially way too much. The last thing I wanted to do was shake her hand, but I also feared confrontation more than most tortures, so I reached out and took it, nodding in lieu of speaking.

  Daphne was one of those people who held your hand too long after the shaking was over—which made me regret the action even more. She squeezed tight, even pulling my hand closer to her, probably wondering why I never came to see my grandmother.

  Meanwhile, I was wondering if she would ever give my hand back. Compiling a list of nonconfrontational ways to retrieve it, I’d come up with three solid options when she let go. Relief washed away the heat that had been rising to my cheeks.

  “It’s always great to meet a fellow flower sister.” She beamed.

  My eyelids blinked questions in Morse code. What? Sister?

  “Daphne.” She pointed to her chest. “Rosie.” The finger swung around toward me.

  I pursed my lips. I mean, rosemary plants grew flowers. The problem was she’d said Rosie. No one called me Rosie. Rosie felt like a person I wasn’t, would never be. A woman with a playful gleam in her eye and an adventurous spirit. I was Rosemary, unassuming, easy to overlook, and I liked it that way.

  At least, I thought I did.

  Hearing her call me Rosie started a tiny pit of longing in my stomach to be something more than the girl who’d been sick, the girl who’d survived so much only to fade into the background.

  “If Rosemary’s smart, she’ll take her stems and run far, far away from all of us,” Mr. Suspenders murmured.

  I kept my focus on Daphne, knowing I would gawk if I let myself look back at him. The frank way he spoke was both terrifying and exhilarating to me.

  Daphne seemed to be an expert at ignoring his comments, confirming my suspicion that they knew each other.

  “Well,” she said, fluffing her hair again. “I’ll let you get situated, but I wanted to ask a tiny favor.” At this she cringed a little as if what she was about to ask wasn’t tiny. “It’s just, I’m not sure what your plans are—if you’ll keep it a tea shop or not or if you’ll sell the house.”

  Daphne was rambling. I glanced over at Mr. Suspenders. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “I wanted to ask what you were doing with her stock of Women’s Liber-tea.” Daphne’s gaze moved to the containers along the wall behind the bar. “I’m going through menopause, is all, and the blend helps me. I ran out the other day, and I didn’t want to intrude, but …” She held out a handful of bills.

  My pursed lips parted. “Oh.”

  She shoved the money into my hands. “Can I buy the rest of her stock?”

  I regarded the guy who was either staying here or tending to the plants. Either way, he had to know more about this than me. But when I glanced back, Mr. Suspenders kept his gaze averted. With this clear refusal of eye contact came an obvious avoidance of responsibility. I was on my own with this one.

  “I’m not sure what I’m doing with the place yet,” I said cautiously, realizing that anything I said was bound to go straight into the Pebble Cove gossip mill once Daphne returned home. “I’d be happy to sell you one or two, but I should keep the rest in stock … just in case.”

  Daphne raised an eyebrow in interest. “You must’ve talked to Gretta, then.”

  I inclined my head, hoping that was enough of an admittance. I had, in fact, talked with Grandma’s realtor, Gretta, on the phone yesterday. Besides warning me about the neighbor who would probably be here watering plants when I showed up, she’d informed me that while there was an offer on the table, it was much lower than what she thought was fair for the business and the house.

  “And?” Daphne watched me. “Will you take her advice?”

  “Uh …” I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you’re here, aren’t you? I suppose that’s something.” Daphne waved a hand at me.

  The woman wasn’t wrong. I could’ve done all the signing and legal stuff remotely. I told myself that I needed to come see the place once more, to see how it felt to be here again. Since I hadn’t ever gotten closure with Grandma, this was my odd way of trying to get it. I’m not sure what I’d been expecting. I’d missed my chance. I should’ve had Gretta fax me the sales papers to sign and been done with it.

  But just as I couldn’t let Daphne take Grandma’s entire stock of Women’s Liber-tea, I also couldn’t seem to let this place go without saying goodbye.

  Sliding a few bills out from the large wad she’d offered me a moment ago, Daphne said, “Okay, I’ll take two bags, then.”

  I took the money and glanced back at the bar once more. Mr. Suspenders was watching us this time, but he still made no move to grab the bags for me or be helpful. I gave the room a scan, wondering if he’d even watered the plants or if he’d let that job go undone too.

  Stifling a grumble, I made my way over to the bar and searched around. “Can you point out where she keeps them?” I asked the guy, ducking to get a better view of the dark shelves on the backside of the bar.

  “The bin all the way to the right,” Daphne said, popping her head over the top of the bar and almost making me gasp in surprise.

  I hadn’t asked her, but she must’ve known Mr. Suspen
ders wouldn’t help me. My attention tracked over to the wicker baskets lined up under the bar and realized they bore small tags. She was right; the one to the far right had “Women’s Liber-tea” written across it in my grandmother’s delicate scrawl. Pulling two of the prepackaged bags out of the bin, I handed them over.

  “Thank you, dear.” Daphne hugged them to her chest. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She waved over her shoulder as she turned to leave, clomping away in the same manner she’d arrived.

  Tomorrow? I cringed.

  I held a hand up in a wave, too tired to give in to my curiosity. Tomorrow, I’d be sure to lock the front door.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Daphne said, turning around.

  My shoulders hunched in response, but I tried to combat the unsociable reaction with a friendly lift of my eyebrows.

  “I’m very sorry about your loss.” Daphne’s face squished into a kind smile. “Helen was a lovely woman, and we’re all going to miss her, well—everyone but Carl.” She chuckled.

  “Thank you,” I said with a nod. “Who’s Carl?”

  She jabbed a thumb to her right. “Your neighbor on the other side. You drove through his property to get here.”

  “Oh, right.” Another neighbor? Then where did Mr. Suspenders live? This was becoming more confusing by the second. “Carl didn’t like my grandma?”

  “He doesn’t like anyone, but no, especially not your grandma.” Daphne clicked her tongue. “At least Helen’s at peace now. I sure hope when it’s my time, I can go in my sleep like she did.”