Murder in the Tea Leaves

The ride into the hills from Helga’s was a trip into another world. Even though it was only 75 kilometers away, the Montana, an architect’s house that had been converted into a hideaway boutique hotel, was a little Shangri-La.

Finley and Whitt arrived just as the sun was painting the sky above the hills a soft blush-pink. The driveway into the hotel had been shadowed with green vines until it opened up to a pebbled walkway that ran along the side of an infinity pool. The pool reflected like a mirror a nearby banyan tree, the blush sky, and a golden dot in the heavens that was the retreating sun. Whitt and Finley stood on the manicured lawn and watched until the light of the sun was replaced by strategically placed fairy lights that gave the green a mythical aura.

“I expect Puck to run across the lawn any minute,” Whitt joked.

“Yeah, do you think Lysander can mix a decent drink?”

“Let’s freshen up and see.”