Honey Mead Murder, page 1
ALSO BY DAHLIA DONOVAN
The Grasmere Cottage Mystery Trilogy
Dead in the Garden |Dead in the Pond |Dead in the Shop
Motts Cold Case Mystery Series
Poisoned Primrose |Pierced Peony |Pickled Petunia |Purloined Poinsettia
London Podcast Mystery Series
Cosplay Killer |Ghost Light Killer |Crown Court Killer
Honey Bear Cosy Mysteries
Honey Mead Murder | Honey Bee Murder
Stand-alone Romances
After the Scrum |At War With A Broken Heart |Forged in Flood | Found You | One Last Heist | Pure Dumb Luck | Here Comes The Son | All Lathered Up | Not Even A Mouse | Farm to Fabre | The Misguided Confession | Stubbed Toes & Dating Woes
The Sin Bin (Complete Series)
The Wanderer |The Caretaker |The Royal Marine |The Botanist | The Unexpected Santa | The Lion Tamer |Haka Ever After
HONEY MEAD MURDER
HONEY BEAR COSY MYSTERIES
BOOK 1
DAHLIA DONOVAN
TANGLED TREE PUBLISHING
CONTENTS
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
Also by Dahlia Donovan
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Publisher
Honey Mead Murder © 2023 by Dahlia Donovan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied format without the express permission from the author or publisher as allowed under the terms and conditions with which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
Honey Mead Murder is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places found therein are either from the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons alive or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
For information, contact the publisher, Tangled Tree Publishing.
www.Tangledtreepublishing.com
Editing: Hot Tree Editing
Cover Designer: BooksSmith Design
E-book ISBN: 978-1-922679-85-7
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-922679-86-4
To Meg, for sending me the initial video that inspired this series
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.”
“Tea.” Murphy subsided when they’d already danced out the door. “Sodding nosy twit.”
“I heard that, Paddington.”
Ignoring them, Murphy hefted the crate of honey to the other side of the room to one of the tables set up against the wall. It was a little brewery attached to an existing pub on the edge of the small village. They’d made the most of the space.
It was perfect for two or three people. They had enough space for the casks of mead and for brewing. He kept the business small on purpose.
His da tried to encourage him to expand. A few pubs in nearby villages often asked him to deliver to them, but he was content. The brewery was a passion project for him; he wanted nothing more than to have enough to live comfortably.
Nothing more, nothing less.
He’d never been overly ambitious. There hadn’t been grand dreams in his childhood. All he wanted was to be comfortable and satisfied.
And to take pride in what he did. The brewery and pub wer e a success in his eyes, since they paid for themselves. What else could he possibly need in life?
“Paddington?”
“Hmm?”
“George is on his way over. He has a few suggestions for flavour pairings to go with the honey. Something about early in the season making it lighter and more delicate.” Teagan stepped back inside. They hunted at the desk in the opposite corner of the room for the brewery journal. “We’re a few days behind in our notes. We haven’t even started the page for June.”
“Can you manage? I want to run to the pub and check on Maisie and Graeme. They’re setting up for the tasting party we’re throwing tomorrow.” Murphy braced himself for dealing with his younger brother and sister-in-law. He loved them both, but they were often a little much first thing in the morning. “On second thought—”
“You do not pay me enough to deal with them this early.” Teagan immediately cut him off. “Does Maisie have a theme for this event?”
“Maybe we are twins.” Murphy smiled at them. “Perhaps I’ll give us both hazard pay this year. And Maisie has a theme of sorts. Something about ‘in the mists of time’? I stopped paying attention. She mentioned dry ice.”
“Graeme’s not that bad.”
“Then you deal with him.”
“Coward.” Teagan had already dug into one of the desk drawers to find a pen and a ruler. “Off you pop. I’ve got a journal to update.”
“I should’ve stayed in bed this morning.”
“And miss George?”
Murphy paused to consider. He’d put himself through far more than his brother if it meant spending time with George. “You’re not wrong, but I don’t have to like it.”
“Grumpy bastard.”
TWO
GEORGE
“Bumble? You awake in there?” George crouched down to where his beloved rescue pug had vanished underneath the table. He was in one of his many beds in the little cottage. “Come on. The day awaits us.”
A snore was his only response. Bumble was his third rescue pug. He worked with a charity that specifically took in older dogs who often had health issues.
If George hadn’t been obsessed with his bees, he thought he might happily have dedicated his entire life to rescuing pugs. The poor creatures. He hated how often people weren’t prepared to care for their particular needs.
“Well?” George reached under the table to grasp the edge of the blanket and slid Bumble across the floor to him. He chuckled when the pug licked at one of the many bees tattooed on his fingers. “Good morning to you too. Shall we get going? Don’t you want to see Paddy and Tea?”
Shoving down the little bubble of joy thinking about Murphy always brought him, George lifted Bumble up into his arms. He sighed at the fur now covering his black T-shirt. His life was doomed to forever wearing a dusting of pug.
He carried Bumble into the bathroom and grabbed one of the cloths on a shelf across from the sink. The elder pug put up with his careful grooming with many a sigh and grunt. It was important to take great care with his skin to prevent health issues.
George set Bumble down on the floor. He grabbed a nearby brush and dragged it through his black hair. It was just past his shoulders, probably more than due for a cut. He made sure to moisturise his face and trim his goatee a little. “Well? Are we ready to see Paddy?”
Bumble wiggled a little and snuffled up at him. Murphy and Teagan were both favourites of his pug. They were also some of the rare people that George didn’t mind spending his day around.
His cousin often teased him about being a hermit. He wasn’t. There was just a massive limit to his ability to deal with people.
Part of it came from finding noise, people, and many other things overwhelming. It wasn’t until he’d been in his midtwenties that George discovered the reason for what his family often referred to as his “quirks.” He’d eventually been diagnosed as autistic, late in life, partly owing to a biased belief that autistics tended to be young white men. The world was slowly changing. But it had been a struggle to get the diagnosis even after years of research had made him almost more informed on the issue than the first doctor he’d seen.
It had been a relief to have a name for all the questions that plagued him. He wasn’t sick or dying of some mysterious illness. In fact, he was perfectly normal for an autistic.
With actual answers in hand, George’s confidence had grown. He’d decided to move from his family home in Edinburgh to Dufftown, where his cousin Margo lived. A cottage had become available, and thus had begun his obsession with creating the perfect wild garden to encourage bees.
The garden had turned into an obsession with hives and bees. His friendship with Murphy had led to him experimenting further with types of flowers in his garden to see how they affected the yield and flavour. It had become a labour of love for him.
And allowed him to spend increasing amounts of time with Murphy.
Murphy.
Murphy had begun to be a problem for George. His crush on the man had only increased over the years. At this point, it was almost painfully embarrassing that he could never gather the courage to ask him out.
Ready and dressed for the day, George decided to do the mature adult thing. He’d put the problem off for another time. Bumble bumped into the back of his leg in an attempt to herd him towards the bedroom door.
“Are we hungry?” George chuckled when Bumble headbutted his leg a second time. “I’ll take that as a yes. No need for violence this early in the morning.”
With Bumble ambling along beside him, George made his way into the kitchen. He grabbed one of the dog food packets out of the fridge and emptied it into a clean bowl. There was much snuffling and grunting from below when he took time to flick on the coffee maker before placing the dish on the floor.
“Here’s your brekkie. I’m going to have a quick check on my darlings.” George left Bumble to his breakfast and went out the back door into the garden. He paused to run a hand gently over some of the phacelias growing close to the cottage. “Hello, lovelies.”
A winding path led through his wild, secret garden. When George had moved into the cottage, he’d immediately set up a somewhat chaotic masterpiece with the sole purpose of providing for his bees. He kept most of the lawn un-mowed during summer and only did it once a month for the rest of the year.
It was wild and beautiful. Everything smelled lovely so early in the morning. The calming hum of insects was periodically disturbed by birdsong or an errant car horn in the distance.
There were times when his garden reminded him of his mind. Calm and chaotic. Wild and organised. A perfect dichotomy that confused those who didn’t care to understand the purpose.
The cottage itself was nondescript. A small, old stone structure. It was charming in a fairy-tale way, especially with vines trailing up the outer walls.
It had been renovated ten years earlier by the previous owner, and George was grateful. The more modern appliances and the open floor plan suited his needs perfectly. He didn’t need more than a single bedroom, ensuite, and a small kitchen and living room.
He lived alone with a dog. What more did he need? The garden had been what drew him to the property, after all.
It was larger than most in the area, and much of the garden had been untouched. So George had quickly gotten to work creating his perfect outdoor space. The only structure he’d added aside from beehives was a little shed for a workshop to keep his tools safe, dry, and out of the cottage.
After a quick inspection of the various sections of the garden, George continued down the path to where it opened out into a field with several rows of beehives. He preferred the British National style for the ease of maintenance and how efficient they tended to be.
