Page 6 of Honey Mead Murder

The help?

The help.

“Maisie happens to be one of the two people in charge of the pub and my sister-in-law.” Murphy was prepared to put up with a fair amount of nonsense from customers. It was par for the course when dealing with the public. He refused to allow someone to denigrate anyone who worked with him. “Even if she wasn’t both of those things, she would still deserve respect, as does everyone you might place in the help category.”

“One—”

“One should enjoy a tour from these two while I get back to work making mead.” Murphy spun around and strode back into the brewery, allowing the door to shut firmly behind him. He chuckled when he spotted Teagan and George practically glued to the window. “Enjoy the show?”

“What a pair of absolute arseholes.” Teagan said what Murphy had been thinking. They turned away from the window. “Well, one must get back to work, mustn’t one?”

“One must.” George snickered. They all had another laugh before pulling themselves together. “Bumble’s in your office, sleeping on a blanket if you’re wondering. We didn’t want his fur getting anywhere near the equipment or mead.”

“All right, let’s get to experimenting.”

FOUR

GEORGE

It had been a rough night for George. His anxiety and excitement about a date with Murphy had made it impossible to settle down. He’d done a workout, tried a calming tea, and even tried ASMR videos on YouTube, but nothing helped him fall asleep.

What was he going to wear? Should he take his headphones? What about Bumble? He didn’t want to subject the poor dog to a wild night at the pub.

Though, wild might be a slight exaggeration. Things never got too loud at the pub. It wasn’t large enough, and Murphy ran a tight ship.

Thankfully.

George grabbed his phone and sent his cousin Margo a quick text message. She responded with an affirmative almost immediately. “What do you think, Bumble? Would you like to spend the evening with your auntie?”

Floating through the day in an anxious haze, George finally left the cottage an hour before the tasting. He drove down the lane to his cousin’s house. Bumble adored Margo’s place; his best friend Treacle lived there.

Treacle was a timid Chihuahua that spent most of his time asleep by the fireplace. Bumble enjoyed being cosy with him. The two had been fast friends since they met.

“There you two are.” Margo stepped out of her cottage with a floury apron on. She opened her door all the way to allow Bumble to amble inside to find his friend. “Don’t you look handsome?”

“Margo.” George hadn’t really dressed up. He had changed his usual long-sleeved T-shirt for a button-down and his jeans for trousers. “Sure you don’t want to come with?”

“Who’s going to watch the children?” Margo glanced back over her shoulder. “They’re already curled up in the dog bed. Plus, Maisie told me Ella Donelson would be there. I’d frankly rather eat glass than spend a minute with her and her dreadful husband.”

“One would.” George dodged back out of reach when she flicked her kitchen towel at her. “Want me to come by after or in the morning?”

“Come in the morning. These scones I’m baking will make for a great brekkie while you spill the details on your date.” She tucked the towel into the pocket of her apron. “Just jam your headphones on and avoid the loathsome duo. You’ll be all right.”

“That should make for an interesting first date.”

“Not a first date, Buzz.” Margo stepped out of the doorway and came over, resting a comforting hand on his arm. “You’re dipping your toes in the pool with the safety of other people around you.”

“How is being around other people supposed to relax me?”

“Just… try to enjoy yourself, okay? If you get stressed, Murphy’ll let you hide in his office. He always does.” Margo squeezed his arm again, then sent him on his way. “Have a pint for me.”

There wouldn’t actually be pints. Tastings at the brewery tended to involve little glasses of all varieties and whatever little nibbles Maisie had put together. She was a wizard at creating an appetiser menu that paired with the mead.

The parking area in front of the brewery was jam-packed. George slipped on his noise-cancelling headphones before he got out of the vehicle. He adjusted the level to low in the hopes of dimming the overwhelming background noise but still being able to hear conversations.

Honey Bear Brewery had an almost stereotypical Scottish pub attached to it. Wooden panels on the walls and soft lighting made for a warm, cosy atmosphere. Small round tables were littered around the room.

The bar itself took up most of the wall across from the door. They only stocked mead, so glasses lined the shelves instead of the usual liquor bottles. Stools at the counter were already filled with the regulars who came to tastings.

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