Miss Knight's Apprentice

Thanks for joining me for the opening scene of Brewed in Murder​, case #1 in the Tea Taster's Guide to the Apocalypse​ series.

BOOK BLURB

When tea sommelier Miss Sharma Song applies for an apprentice role at the Cozy Tea Shoppe, she has no idea that the job involves murder, mayhem, and other inconveniences. Miss Song is used to savoring the subtle notes of her favorite beverage, but there's nothing subtle about the dead body in the library.

Since a woman in her position can't afford to be picky, she joins her new employer Miss Knight in solving the murder while creating tea blends and mending cracked crockery. Did the butler who isn't really a butler do it? Or was it Miss Knight's father who is rumored to be a vampire? And how much Oil of Bergamot should she add for the perfect blend of Earl Grey?

Tea isn’t the only thing brewing in the Kenyan town of Nairobi. Freedom fighters and angry gods clash with colonial authorities and dedicated bureaucrats, while a more dangerous adversary looms on the not-so-distant horizon. Miss Song must navigate this peculiar new assignment armed with only her tea-tasting skills and fabulous flapper dresses, but will they be enough to save her from the upcoming apocalypse?

This series is for you if you love: cozy historical mysteries set in the 1920’s; paranormal women’s fiction; African mythology; witches, shifters, and lesser-known mythical creatures; exotic safaris; small town shenanigans; and a whole lot of humorous, supernatural fun. Fans of Society for Paranormals and Pirates Ahoy will delight in returning to the wild, wacky world of Miss Beatrice Knight and Storm Wavily.

CHAPTER 1

The man who answered the door of Safari Lane, 3.0B Kitisuru Road, Nairobi, wore a purple tuxedo, a gold tie, and a tentative smile as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with whatever issues I was dragging behind me.

As I wasn’t sure either, I held up the cut-out Wanted ad in front of me like a shield and blurted out, “I’m here about the job as a tea taster and blender.” Then, just in case that didn’t convince him, I added, “The security guard let me in.”

Not that the security guard had bothered too much with my credentials. He’d opened the main gate to the compound as if I were a resident or a regular guest, not a desperate young woman lost in a storm and clinging to the last slip of hope that the world had not yet shredded and incinerated.

The butler who didn’t look much older than me gave me a quick once-over, and his smile went from tentative to radiant. “It’s about time,” he exclaimed as he snagged my elbow with a firm hand, whisked me inside and closed the door. The heavy wood rattled in its frame.

The pristine condition of delicately wall-papered walls and the rich brown glow of wood floors impressed on me that the resident of this small mansion knew about interior decorating, and had the funds to do it. The expensive Persian carpets scattered around casually only confirmed this impression. I glanced down at my muddy shoes. My long, thick braid and the edges of my flimsy overcoat dripped a small pond across all of this well-maintained flooring, spreading the mud from my shoes onto previously stainless flooring.

But the butler’s smile didn’t falter, nor did he seem to notice the state of my rain-drenched clothes. Before I could marvel at his eager smile or ask him if I should remove my shoes, he steered me down a short hallway and into a large room. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves dominated one wall, and a roaring fire tucked inside a stone hearth in the far wall beckoned me forward.

“Miss Knight,” the butler exclaimed while bouncing up and down next to me, “we have a visitor.”

He directed this statement in barely restrained tones of delight to two people sitting on plush chairs by the fire. The gentleman was older, his hair thick but grey, the marks of time clearly carved into the lines on his face. The woman was middle-aged, her chin firm, her dress reminding me of a stern boarding school matron rather than a lady enjoying a quiet evening at home.

“It’s a real, live visitor,” the butler added in an awed tone.

The elderly gentleman smirked but maintained his focus on his book.

I studied the intricate threads of the carpet at my feet, tempted to ask if visitors to the estate were normally unreal or dead but thought better of it. It was none of my business as I was here for a job, not gossip.

“Send them away at once, Yanga,” the woman snapped, not looking up from her book. “You know how I deplore unwanted visitors, as if there are any other kind. And have I not instructed you to be instantly suspicious of any visitor who arrives on a dark and stormy night which tonight clearly is? For they must be vagrants, hooligans or vampires.”

“But madam, you did not,” Yanga whispered loudly with undisguised urgency while he glanced at me and smiled apologetically. “Besides, I love dark and stormy nights, and she’s here in response to the advert for the apprentice role.”

“I should go,” I whispered with equal urgency that bordered on desperation. “This was a bad idea, anyway.”

“It certainly was,” Miss Knight muttered. “Yanga, make sure you release the hounds. That should deter any future attempts by people to visit us, whatever their motivation.”

Yanga gave me a clear Stay Here gesture, ignoring my I Should Really Go gesture, and hurried to the lady. There was a moment of frantic whispering from Yanga while Miss Knight’s frown deepened in a manner that suggested she wasn’t accustomed to being defied.

To my shock and hers, Yanga won the argument, although the lady had the last word as she waved him away. The gentleman’s smirk widened into a sharp smile that suggested a hint of danger.

With the quick steps of a butler used to responding immediately to every whim and fancy of his employer, Yanga slipped past me and took up guard duty in the doorway, blocking my escape route. His teeth flashed brightly against his dark skin with a smile that suggested a mix of sympathy for my plight and an unwillingness to give in to my silent pleas.

“Come forward then,” Miss Knight ordered, her voice laced with the edgy authority that comes to those who have survived a great many decades, even though she didn’t look old enough to have such gravitas. “Let’s see what we have here.”

I was tempted to correct her — after all, I was a who, not a what — but thought better of it when I caught sight of her hefty walking stick. Made of thick, gnarled wood, it had a metal fist on one end and a metal point on the other. How many heads had that metal fist connected with? Rather than dwell on a possible answer — which I was sure would be higher than permissible by law — I shifted my gaze to the bookshelves which I openly admired. I’d never seen so many books in one place before.

“Do you like to read?” the gentleman softly asked, his eyes the gray of a storm cloud.

“Yes, sir, very much,” I replied, my gaze shifting first to him, then to Miss Knight who was twiddling with her left hand. I gasped at the shiny glint of her hand for it wasn’t made of flesh and blood but rather of metal bones with gears for joints and a series of small keys and buttons at the wrist.

Miss Knight narrowed her eyes when she caught my open-mouthed stare, and I immediately dropped my gaze to the floor, wondering if a hole might conveniently open up beneath my wet, muddy shoes and rescue me from her scrutiny and judgement.

“Did you hear that?” Yanga asked, oblivious to the silent exchange. “She likes books!”

“Good for her,” Miss Knight said. “Young lady, it is decidedly uncommon for a girl of your age—”

“I’m twenty-one,” I interrupted, eager to dispel the impression I was a child, and then flinched with regret at the cool glare she leveled at me. “My apologies,” I mumbled.

“Indeed.” She cleared her throat, gave the gentleman a stern look which silenced his chuckle, and continued, “Call me old fashioned, but it’s hardly appropriate for a woman of such tender years to roam about the colony of Kenya without a chaperone or parental figure in sight. It may be 1921, but the world hasn’t changed enough to permit such freedoms for the likes of us. Why are you unaccompanied and applying for a menial job instead of attending a fancy ball and applying for a husband?”

“Oh, I like balls,” Yanga cheered behind me.

I took in a deep breath to give myself a second to consider my answer, aware that three sets of eyes watched me with varying degrees of hospitality and hostility. The truth? I was homeless, close to penniless, and desperate for any job that didn’t involve piracy, prostitution or poison.

Deciding that the blunt truth made me sound unprofessional in addition to desperate or dodgy, I opened my mouth, a pseudo-truth forming in my mind.

“Truthfulness is the base of every good quality,” Miss Knight intoned, peering at me over her thick, purple-rimmed glasses. Her golden-tinted eyes glinted with a ferocity I didn’t expect, and all thoughts of subterfuge vanished.

“I need a job,” I blurted out, sounding as desperate as I’d feared.

“Marvelous,” Yanga enthused. “She wants a job. We should definitely give her one.”

“Need and want are not the same,” Miss Knight said.

“To be fair,” the elderly gentleman spoke again, “we did post an advert for an assistant for you. After all, Miss Knight, I’m no longer in any condition to wrestle you out of the jaws of giant crocodiles and, when necessary, retrieve you from the underworld.”

A giggle burst out of me, the sound more of a strangled cackle devoid of humor. Nobody else laughed.

Miss Knight delivered a cross look and a disdainful sniff. “Really, Mr. Timmons,” she said, “that’s hardly worth hiring her when we now have Yanga for such cross border deliveries.” She returned her attention to me. “Now, tell me how you’re wonderful.”

I giggled again, assuming I’d misheard, but the sound died in my throat, painfully and awkwardly. The lady wasn’t joking, and I doubted she had a funny bone in her old fashioned body. Nor had I misheard.

My jaw dropped and didn’t rebound despite my mother’s admonition which creeped out of the depths of memory and softly lectured, No one wants to see the backside of your mouth, except a fly.

As if summoned by the memory, a fly lazily bumbled past me, straight toward a pot of Venus fly traps squatting on a small side table. Unable to look away, I watched as the witless fly landed inside the open jaws of a particularly large Venus. The trap shut, and my sympathy went to the doomed insect. Recently my life had been a series of bumbles and stumbles around the Venus fly traps of the human world. It was a minor miracle I’d survived this far.

I glanced over at Yanga who gave me a discrete two thumbs up and a Get On With It gesture.

“I’m just average,” I answered truthfully.

Miss Knight snorted derisively. “Your modesty doesn’t impress me.”

“It’s the truth,” I protested.

“If so, then you are extraordinary,” she said and gave me an appraising look as if reevaluating her initial unfavorable impression. “Average is a very thin line on the bell curve of human experience. Few people ever achieve it.”

Mr. Timmons thunked his book on his lap, drawing my attention to him. “I believe that settles it, my darling.”

My darling? I peered through my long eyelashes at the two. Were they a couple? She looked so much younger than him that I’d assumed he was her father, or she was his caregiver.

“Very well, Simon,” Miss Knight said, her features softening as she gazed at him, her mouth shifting into a smile that made her appear even younger. Then she turned golden eyes to me, and all gentleness vanished as she surveyed me. “Let’s hope you last longer than my previous apprentices,” she added. “Disasters, every last one of them.”

Yanga grinned and held up both fists in a Hurrah motion.

As I wasn’t the least bit reassured, I whispered, “What happened to the other apprentices?”

“Don’t worry about them,” he whispered back. “I’m sure they’re much happier where they are now.”

I surreptitiously took a step away, nodding. Don’t nod your head, I scolded silently. It makes you look interested.

Any interest I’d had in this job had long evaporated like a puddle under the noonday sun. Perhaps I was exaggerating to myself the challenges of homelessness and poverty. I’d survived worse.

Returning my attention to the odd couple, I prepared to politely decline the job offer and run away into the storm, but they were engaged in an intense conversation, ignoring my existence.

“I still don’t comprehend why you must meddle in the affairs of the gods again,” Mr. Timmons murmured, looking exhausted rather than irritated.

Again? I thought. Who are these people?

“I’m all astonishment,” Miss Knight said, sounding almost innocent. “Did I not tell you, dearest?”

“About what?” Mr. Timmons asked, his voice shifting from that of a doddery old man to something sharper and more lethal as he straightened in his chair, his eyes flashing.

Miss Knight tossed her book onto the coffee table and directed a beguiling smile at him. “About the note in the library, of course.”

“Which note?” Mr. Timmons and Yanga asked simultaneously, one with concern, the other with excitement and bouncy feet.

“Why,” she said, “the note on the dead body, of course.”

***************

Launch date: end of 2025

Read the prequel series, Society for Paranormals, while you wait.

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