Page 1 of Honey Mead Murder

ONE

MURPHY

“Oi. Mr Grump? Your carthorse has arrived.”

Murphy stood up from where he was crouched down to inspect the latest delivery. “Carthorse? Hardly. I’ve already brought the delivery inside. And for the millionth time, Tea. I am not a grump.”

“No, you just hate mornings, afternoons, people, sunlight, basically everyone but your lovely George.” Teagen was, as always, immune to his glowering at them. “Well?”

“Hate is a strong word. I don’t hate you.” Murphy wasn’t entirely sure he liked his best friend every day, but he didn’t hate them. “Come on then, Tea. We’ve got a fresh batch of honey delivered yesterday. We also need to check on the two-year casks. Probably want another year on them just to get them where we want the flavour.”

For six years, Murphy had run Honey Bear Brewery. It had been a play on his nickname of Paddington, earned during his brief stint in the military, owing to his surname of Baird and his tall, stocky build. His dark brown hair and scruffy beard certainly didn’t help put people off the comparison.

His grumbly stubbornness came from both his Irish and Scottish sides. His ma had always claimed he bore more than a passing resemblance to his great-granddad Murphy. She’d been so proud when he’d decided to continue the family tradition of running a brewery.

For the first two years, Murphy had gone with simple ales. But then, he’d developed a close friendship with a local beekeeper, George Sheth. The younger man had been struggling to sell his honey.

His pride and joy.

Inspired by George, Murphy had decided to begin experimenting with family recipes. Something from his Scottish side. His da had a collection of mead ones that dated back a century or more. It had taken some trial and error to get everything right, but his brewery and the small pub attached to it were doing well six years later.

“Well? Did you finally ask our playwright out?”

“Tea.” Murphy shook his head at their teasing grin. “It’s George Bernard Sheth. Not Shaw. Plus his ma’s Scottish, not Irish, and his dad’s from India, so I highly doubt either of them are related to a famed Irish playwright.”

“Must you take all the joy out of my play on names and words? Besides if they didn’t want anyone to make the connection, why name him George Bernard? Fine, fine. Well? Did you ask him out?”

“He’s named for his ma, Georgie, and I think a great-uncle. And no, I… couldn’t ask him out.” Murphy leaned back against the table behind him. He dragged his hand across his face, pausing to scratch his beard. His blue eyes met their dark brown ones. He finally noticed they’d changed up their hair colour. “I like the green.”

“Yeah?” They reached up to run their fingers along the shaved part of their head, tracing the line of the tight box cut. “I wanted a change. A little shorter trim. And the green fits.”

“It does. What did your auntie say?” Murphy had known her for most of his life. When he was a young lad, she’d moved from Jamaica to Dufftown, a few houses down from his family. She’d taken in her brother’s child when things had gotten difficult at home for them. “I sense her work here.”

“Yep, she did the dye for me.” Teagan was a bright soul. They were in their twenties—about ten years his junior. They’d bonded over their love of beer, history, music, and video games and become great friends. “Why didn’t you ask him out? You’re both so stubbornly blind to how much you like each other. You’re perfect together. You both hate people.”

“I couldn’t get the words out,” Murphy grumbled. “And I don’t hate people. George doesn’t, either. He just finds people confusing. And he likes his bees.”

“Try miming or text messaging. Hell, how about I get you a homing pigeon?”

“I’m going to ignore you now, especially considering you haven’t asked your crush out either.” Murphy turned his attention back to the boxes in front of him. “Think we’re ready for this new mead experiment.”

Teagan gave him an excited grin. They enjoyed experimenting with flavours. “You know, we could be twins.”

“Sure. Sure. Except I’m tall, white, and thirty-eight. You’re not tall, Black, and twenty-six.” Murphy hefted up the crate of honey George had dropped off for him earlier. “Though you’re smarter and more charming than me or anyone I’m related to. Be grateful we’re chosen family and not blood-related. You’d be far less magnificent as a Baird.”

“Aw. You do love me. Should I note in my journal you’ve had your one feeling of the week?” Teagan teased him, laughing when he glowered at them. “And I’m telling your da you said he was daft.”

“How about you give me a hand instead?”

Teagan came over to inspect the jars in the box. “What’s all this then?”

“Early season honey.” Murphy lifted out the jars to place them on one of the stainless steel tables in their workspace. “He’s brought some from his first extraction, then probably in September he’ll bring the last. So I thought we could experiment with the various depths of flavour each brings out in the mead.”

“Small batch first? Make sure it’s not utter shite before we waste an entire delivery of honey.” Teagan grabbed one of the jars and then replaced the others into the crate. “Is George coming by to give us a hand with figuring out what to pair with his golden nectar?”

“Must you make it sound so salacious?” Murphy groaned.

“Do you want some of his golden nectar?” Teagan darted out of reach when he went to fling a wooden spoon in their direction. “Going to give him a text now. See if he wants to pop around to help us out.”

---