Chapter One

Present

I’ve been told my entire life that the perfect cup of bush tea is magic, and this morning I hope with every fiber of my being that this is true. There are some hard truths I have to spill, and I’ll take every ounce of help I can get. I’m settled in one of the scarlet chairs in the EAT TV conference room, directly across the table from Travis Spriggs and his nauseating brand of bright, crisp-cut perfection—just right for television, but less like sunshine and more like a fluorescent spotlight at four in the morning. He’s flanked by two people whose names I’ve only seen in producer credits at the end of some of the highest performing shows on network television: my boss’s bosses, both sporting dark suits and expressions like cliff faces. Bronwyn, the studio exec who oversees me, Travis, and the other on-air talent at EAT TV, sits in the plush chair at the head of the table, her usual pleasant expression as drained as the tumbler of coffee in her hand.

They’re all here for me.

“I’ll get things started, Miss Sinclair,” Bronwyn says, looking at me but speaking to the executives. She hasn’t called me Miss Sinclair since the interview when she hired me three years ago. “Mr. Revilla and Ms. Abbott called this meeting. I’m sure you know why. They’re very ready to start work on the show—”

“My show,” Travis murmurs with a smug smile.

“That hasn’t been officially decided,” Bronwyn says. “We can’t have a conversation about our next steps because—well— because we don’t have your ending yet, Naomi.”

“You’ve given us a lot, Miss Sinclair. Lord knows—” Mr. Revilla gestures with a meaty hand at the chunky beige file folder in front of him. “You’ve given us a hell of a lot here.”

“But you haven’t closed the case,” Ms. Abbott speaks up. Woman’s got a twist-out with impressive volume, and I’m glad I’m not the only hair naturalista in the room. Her coils jiggle as she leans toward me. “You still haven’t told us who killed Ursula Merchant.”

I glance at my mug. The Universe seems to be following a recipe for an uncomfortable morning, blending each ingredient together artfully like the chefs I interview on A Word from the Kitchen. But if there’s a recipe for a poisonous morning afoot, I’ve got the antidote here in the cup in front of me. Bush tea—balsam, mint, and lemongrass—picked from the window herb garden in my townhouse kitchen, and brewed fresh daily the way my parents and Virgin Islanders before me have done for generations. Even with the early morning, smarmy coworker and hard truths, one sip can take my mind away from the over

cast Charlotte cityscape beyond the conference room window straight to the sunny green hills of Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas. I’ve lived in North Carolina for eight years now, but St. Thomas will always be home—and anything that gets me there this fast is magic indeed.

But not right now. I need to stay here, in everything this moment means. Immersed in all that’s led to it. Focused on the possibilities it will usher through. A sip will have to wait.

“That’s what you’ll get from Naomi, Ms. Abbott,” Travis says, injecting his tones with the most bored affect he can muster up. “She’s supposed to be giving you the details for one story, but instead you’ve got—what, five of them in here?” “Six,” Mr. Revilla mutters.

Travis’s brown eyes go wide. “Well, damn, sir, she’ll go off on a tangent or two, but I wouldn’t have guessed as high as six! For a journalist like me, who focuses like hell on the one story he’s got, that’s incomprehensible.”

“We read all six. And we enjoyed them,” Ms. Abbott is quick to assure me.

“But that’s not the point, is it?” Travis asks. “We were each asked to investigate one unsolved food-based mystery for this show you conceived. I gave you that. Naomi’s brought more stories than you can count on one hand, but she hasn’t given you what you asked for. She hasn’t answered the big question.” There’s enough sauce in the smile he beams at me to cover ten full racks of ribs. “You even know who killed her, Nay?”

Bronwyn looks caught between checking Travis’s tone and waiting out my answer. Her bosses follow suit. I sip my tea, still piping hot, and decide to address both. “Of course I know who killed Ursula Merchant,” I answer. “It’s right there in that folder I gave Mr. Revilla. That’s what these are—my notes on the investigation.”

Mr. Revilla and Ms. Abbott exchange a look. She’s ultimately the one who responds. “There’s . . . certainly a story here. Several. You’ve solved quite a few problems on St. Thomas over the past year. But when it comes to the story of Ursula Merchant, the one you were supposed to be investigating the whole time . . . there doesn’t seem to be much of anything.” “Nothing at all,” Mr. Revilla echoes.

“Naomi, they’d really like to make a decision,” Bronwyn says. “Travis presented a fine investigation on the Barbecue Sauce Killings—”

“The Carolina Barbecue Murders,” Travis speaks up. Bronwyn waves him away.

“He’s given us history, interviews, and a compelling hypothesis . . . along with a deep sense of the process, flavor, and sizzle of both styles of Carolina barbecue,” Bronwyn says. “The case you’ve been investigating, this—tea maven in St. Thomas being shot to death in her locked office—it’s equally intriguing. But while you’ve given us so much, you still haven’t given us an ending.”

“You’re right. I haven’t,” I say. “That was intentional. I’m hoping to do that today. Right now, as a matter of fact.” I clasp both hands around my mug.

Travis leans back in his seat, pressing the tips of his fingers together. “You sure that’s what you want? Naomi’s going to take you on a circular journey, which is the way she operates on A Word from the Kitchen. A ton of loose threads—”

“—which she always weaves together. The connections are there,” Bronwyn interrupts. “The best thing we can do right now is just hear you out, Naomi. You say you know how the story ends and what happened to Ursula Merchant. So let’s hear it. Who killed her, and how did all of this lead you there?”

I’m not at the head of the table, but all eyes are on me— Bronwyn’s perfectly lined and shadowed gray eyes are full of hope and curiosity, Mr. Revilla’s and Ms. Abbott’s are expectant behind their eyeglasses, and Travis seems to be trying to will his into lasers capable of slicing me to shreds. I take a deep breath, letting the scent of the brew in my cup ground and fortify me. I’d had a hot cup of bush tea that morning, too. The morning that started it all. The magic in my mug was what set this whole thing into motion—as bush tea always manages to do.

***

Excerpt from The Bush Tea Murder by Ashley-Ruth M. Bernier. Copyright 2026 by Ashley-Ruth M. Bernier. Reproduced with permission from Ashley-Ruth M. Bernier. All rights reserved.