Honey Mead Murder: Honey Bear Cosy Mysteries, #1

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 were 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