Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
The pre-dawn darkness of Monday morning wrapped around The Perfect Steep like a wool blanket—heavy, familiar, and slightly scratchy around the edges.
I’d been awake since four, unable to sleep with George Pickering’s confessions swimming through my mind like poisonous fish in a polluted pond.
Each secret he’d recorded felt like a small stone dropped into still water, and I couldn’t stop imagining the ripples spreading outward, touching everything, everyone.
“What do you think, Chowder?” I asked, watching him waddle into the kitchen wearing his Monday ensemble—a crisp bow tie in brown tweed and a matching vest he’d selected himself from his wardrobe.
He had exquisite taste for a French bulldog, suggesting he understood the importance of making an entrance.
He’d taken to Mondays with the grim determination of someone who understood that weekends were too short and bills came too often.
“Don’t forget your tweed cap,” I reminded him. “You’ll look just like Sherlock Holmes. Very appropriate for our current case.”
He snorted his opinion of early mornings and positioned himself by his food bowl with the patience of a saint awaiting martyrdom.
“I know, I know. Your breakfast is three minutes late. How ever will you survive such deprivation?” I filled his bowl with the fresh chicken and rice package from the fridge that cost as much as a human meal.
“We’re solving a murder today. Possibly multiple murders, if Pickering’s journal is any indication.
But yes, your gastrointestinal needs take precedence. ”
Chowder ignored my sarcasm with considered practice, attacking his breakfast like it might escape if he didn’t pin it down immediately.
After he’d finished and conducted his morning ritual in the back garden—a process that involved extensive sniffing and the careful selection of exactly the right spot—we set out for The Perfect Steep on foot.
The walk was only six blocks, a pleasant morning constitutional that Chowder had come to expect as part of our routine.
Harbor Street at 5:30 in the morning possessed a quality of light that made even the most ordinary things appear touched by grace.
The Spanish moss hanging from the live oaks caught the early sun like silver lace, swaying in the salt-tinged breeze that rolled in from the harbor.
The street itself was brick—old brick, laid sometime in the 1890s, uneven enough to require attention but charming enough to make tourists stop and take photographs.
We passed the Grimm Island Public Library first, a narrow building painted Charleston green with black shutters, its windows displaying this month’s featured books and a poster for the summer reading program.
Deidre would be arriving there later—even in retirement, she volunteered three mornings a week, unable to fully let go of her decades organizing the island’s collection.
Then came Whitmore’s Antiques, housed in a restored 1920s storefront with beveled glass windows that caught the morning light.
The shop’s displays showcased carefully curated pieces—Victorian mourning jewelry, Depression glass, fine porcelain that had once graced Charleston drawing rooms. Deidre’s cousin Dolores ran the place with an impeccable eye for quality.
Beaumont’s Bakery occupied a corner building with French doors that would open onto the sidewalk once the day warmed.
Through the windows, I could see Clarence Beaumont pulling trays from the oven with practiced efficiency.
The bakery had been featured in Southern Living twice—once for their croissants, once for their bourbon pecan tarts worth every penny of what he charged.
Chowder paused to investigate the lamppost outside Nature’s Remedy—Eugene Bradshaw’s crystal and wellness shop, painted in soft sage with cream trim.
The window display featured an artful arrangement of amethyst clusters and rose quartz on white linen, looking more like a gallery installation than a retail display.
Eugene might believe in the metaphysical properties of crystals, but he had the marketing sense of someone who understood his wealthy clientele.
The harbor itself stretched out to our left, visible between buildings, the water painted copper and gold by the rising sun.
A few boats were already heading out—sleek fishing vessels and the occasional yacht, their silhouettes dark against the brightening sky.
The smell of salt and expensive cologne from the men’s boutique mixed with the sweetness from the bakery, creating the low-country perfume that meant home.
We passed Harborside Gallery, its windows showcasing local artists whose work commanded serious prices.
Next was The Copper Pot, a farm-to-table restaurant that had waiting lists stretching weeks in advance during tourist season.
Then Bella Boutique, where tourists bought linen dresses that cost more than some people’s mortgage payments.
The Perfect Steep sat on its corner like a grande dame hosting morning court.
Even from half a block away, I could see the robin’s egg blue paint catching the light, the white trim crisp and clean from my March touch-up.
The vintage sign—wrought iron with gold lettering—creaked slightly in the breeze, a sound so familiar I’d have noticed its absence more than its presence.
I unlocked the back door—the one that opened directly into my commercial kitchen—and was immediately enveloped by the smell of home.
Tea leaves and lemon oil I used on the heart pine floors, underlaid with the ghost of yesterday’s scones.
The pre-dawn quiet made every sound feel amplified—the creak of floorboards in their familiar spots, the tick of the vintage clock above the register, the soft hum of the refrigerator that occasionally sounded like it was trying to communicate in Morse code.
Chowder made his way to his designated spot by the window, where early morning sun would shortly arrive to warm his cushion.
He settled in with a sigh that suggested walking six blocks had exhausted him beyond measure, though I’d seen him chase butterflies for twice that distance when properly motivated.
I moved through my opening routine with the muscle memory of years of practice.
First, the ovens—preheated to exactly 375 degrees for the scones that would be my first batch of the day.
While they warmed, I pulled out my industrial mixer and began assembling ingredients for lemon scones with lavender glaze, measuring flour and sugar with precision.
Baking was chemistry, not art, and chemistry required exactitude.
The dough came together under my hands—butter worked into dry ingredients until it resembled coarse sand, then cream and eggs folded in until just combined. I shaped it into rounds and slid the trays into the oven, setting my timer for eighteen minutes. Eighteen, never twenty. Twenty made them dry.
Next came the chalkboard—a massive slate board that took up most of the wall behind the counter. I wiped away yesterday’s specials with a damp cloth and began writing in my careful script.
Monday’s Offerings:
Lemon Lavender Scones—$4.50
Cucumber & Mint Tea Sandwiches—$8.00
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.