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CHAPTER THREE

The morning after a storm always feels like a clean slate—air scrubbed fresh, streets glistening, the whole world somehow reset.

At least that’s what I told myself as I unlocked The Perfect Steep at precisely five thirty-seven, my usual opening routine thrown off by a restless night of dreams involving thunderstorms, lighthouse beams, and a certain sheriff with rain-soaked hair.

I decided a strong black tea was in order for myself this morning, minus the splash of milk I normally took, though I still gave myself two lumps of brown sugar. It seemed like the kind of morning for a strong dose of caffeine.

“We’re not thinking about him,” I informed Chowder, who hopped onto his window seat with the customary morning blend of enthusiasm and judgment. “Today is about tea, scones, and absolutely zero sheriffs.”

Chowder snorted in a way that could only be described as skeptical.

“Don’t give me that look,” I said, flipping on lights and adjusting the thermostat. “I’m a grown woman who runs a successful business. I don’t have time for distractions. I am perfectly comfortable living my life exactly the way it is. We’re comfortable. And we have a routine.”

I busied myself with the morning prep—measuring loose tea leaves, preheating ovens, and setting out the flour and my baking supplies.

I baked the scones myself, but the other baked goods I got from Mrs. Wexler over on the mainland—muffins, beignets, and her killer cinnamon rolls were standards, and then she’d throw in a fourth option as a surprise.

I checked the clock again, noting it was already after six, and wondering if she was okay. She’d usually made her delivery by now.

My morning regulars would arrive like clockwork—Howard from the bookstore at 6:45 for Earl Grey and a blueberry scone, Mrs. Pinkerton at 7:00 sharp for her chamomile with honey, the construction crew from the harbor renovation at 7:15 for black coffee so strong it could peel paint.

The routine was comforting. Predictable. Safe.

Which was why the knock at the door at half past six threw me completely off kilter.

Chowder barked once—his “someone’s here” alert rather than his “danger” bark, which sounded remarkably similar but involved more snorting.

Through the glass, I could see Sheriff Beckett standing on my stoop, looking far too alert for this hour.

“Stranger danger,” I muttered under my breath, giving Chowder a disapproving look he chose to ignore.

As the sheriff waited for me to open up, I took a moment to appreciate the view.

He stood a couple of inches over six feet, with shoulders broad enough to suggest he spent his free time doing something more strenuous than paperwork.

His uniform—light blue shirt and dark pants—was pressed to military precision, but it was how he filled it out that caught my attention.

I was starting to have an unusual fascination with shoulders.

I was captivated by the thin scar that traced his jawline, starting just below his ear and running about two inches down. I had a feeling whatever had happened he was lucky to be alive.

“I’m not open yet,” I called through the door.

“Official business,” he replied, holding up a leather folder.

With a sigh that was only partially for show, I unlocked the door and stepped back to let him in. “Good morning, Sheriff. You’re up early.”

“Dash,” he corrected.

“You said it was official business,” I said, arching a brow.

He smiled in that slow, thoughtful way he had. “So I did. I’m sorry to disturb you before opening hours.”

“No trouble,” I lied, remembering how’d I’d looked when he’d last seen me and trying to push through the embarrassment, though I did look pretty spectacular in my red dress, so that had to count for something.

“Are you okay? You’re looking kind of flushed.”

“I’m fine,” I said, feeling my face flush even more. “I’m just not used to law enforcement at dawn. Should I be worried?”

“Not unless you broke the law,” he said, looking around the empty room. “But I do need a favor.”

Chowder chose that moment to trot over, greeting the sheriff like he’d been sent a personal invitation with bacon treats attached.

“Chowder,” I said. “Have some dignity.” I blew out a sigh as Chowder rolled like a sausage onto his back for belly scrubs.

“He’s just being friendly.”

“You said something about a favor?” I reminded him, trying to keep things on track. “At six thirty in the morning?”

“I need to use your tea shop. For a meeting. Today, if possible.”

“A meeting,” I repeated, feeling like I was several steps behind in this conversation. “Here? The station doesn’t have a conference room?”

“It does,” he confirmed. “But this isn’t an official meeting, and I’d rather not conduct it on government property.”

My brows rose at that bit of information.

“When?” I asked, already mentally rearranging my day.

“After you close today?” He sounded almost apologetic. “Six o’clock? I know it’s short notice, but?—”

“Who’s meeting?” I asked, curious despite myself.

Dash hesitated, then said, “The Silver Sleuths.”

“I’m sorry, did you say the Silver Sleuths? As in, my Silver Sleuths? The geriatric crime enthusiasts who are bound and determined to find out everything there is to know about the mysterious new sheriff?”

He winced. “That’s a terrifying thought,” he said. “But yes. The very same. After our conversation last night, I did some research. Turns out their credentials are legitimate, and quite impressive.”

“I told you so,” I said, unable to resist repeating his words from the night before.

“You did.” He nodded, then added, “I need their expertise.”

I moved to refill my cup since my tea had gone cold. “For what exactly?”

Dash glanced toward the windows and looked out onto the empty street, then back at me, his expression serious. “A cold case. Something from before my time, but…something that needs resolving.”

My curiosity was fully piqued now. “And you think five senior citizens and their true crime book club can help where the authorities couldn’t?”

“Sometimes fresh eyes are exactly what a case needs,” he said. “Especially eyes with their specific skills.”

I studied him for a moment. There was something he wasn’t saying, something in the tension around his eyes and the careful way he chose his words.

Chowder let out a soft woof and padded his way into the kitchen and the delivery entrance.

“That must be Mrs. Wexler with the pastry delivery,” I said, setting my tea down again before I could drink it. “Do you need me to contact them?”

“If you don’t mind,” he said. “If they’re busy we’ll find another time.”

“Oh, they won’t be busy,” I said. “Not for this.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” I warned him. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into with that bunch.”

He smiled then, a real smile that reached his eyes. “I think I can handle a few enthusiastic retirees.”

I laughed despite myself. “Famous last words, Sheriff. Famous last words.”

* * *

I was so full of anticipation and nerves that I flipped the closed sign over fifteen minutes early and shooed out the last lingering customer, telling him I had a family emergency and to come back another day for a free pastry.

Walt arrived just as I was about to close the door.

“You’re the first to arrive,” I said.

“Shame,” he said. “People have no consideration of time nowadays. On time is late. If I’ve said it once I’ve said it a thousand times.

” He wore a blazer with a crisp white shirt and carried a battered leather satchel that looked like it had survived at least two wars and a hurricane. “Where do you want us to set up?”

“Your usual table?” I suggested.

Walt shook his head. “Too exposed. We’re sure to be the talk around town if people see us two nights in a row with the sheriff.

The corner table is best.” He pointed to the most secluded spot in the shop.

“Less chance of someone peering through the window. You should get blinds. If you had blinds we could close them.”

“Hmm,” I said, because I couldn’t think of anything better. Someone was getting a little too caught up in the sheriff’s game.

Deidre was the next to arrive, her wild silver curls flying and her tote bag hitched over her shoulder. “Walt’s in espionage mode, isn’t he?” she asked, spotting him rearranging my furniture.

“I shudder to think what he’s got in that briefcase,” I said.

She sighed. “I brought a bottle of wine and some aspirin. I’m thinking we’ll need both.”

Dottie and Hank came in together like usual, arguing, like usual. I’d come to realize that was their own form of entertainment.

“—at least three weeks, based on the bloating,” Dottie was saying.

“Unless there was unusual tidal activity,” Hank countered.

“Do you two ever discuss normal things?” I asked. “Like weather or sports or literally anything that doesn’t involve dead bodies?”

They both looked at me blankly.

“What’s the fun in that?” Dottie asked, genuinely confused.

I just shook my head and went to put on a fresh pot of tea.

Bea swept in last, wearing turquoise pants and a flowing top with enough sparkly bits to function as emergency reflectors. Her arm jingled with at least a dozen bangles, and her oversized purse made a suspicious clinking sound.

“What’s that sound?” I asked curiously.

“I brought ingredients to make sidecars,” she said. “I figured we’re going to need them. Walt tends to go overboard in these matters, and a little liquor will keep the rest of us from strangling him.”

“Deidre brought wine.”

Bea sighed. “Amateur.”

And then she headed toward the group and began to set out the supplies from her bag on one of the other tables. She’d even brought her own knife and cutting board for the oranges.