Chapter 07: “A cup of tea never hurt anyone”

Jeff’s black El Camino rolled to a stop near Cornice Place, its growling engine reluctantly settling into silence. The car was as much a part of him as his battered leather jacket—a symbol of something he once was, or maybe something he still pretended to be. Outside, the remnants of the crime scene clung to the air like a bad smell. Yellow tape fluttered halfheartedly in the breeze, its corners curling like it couldn’t bear to stay tethered to the past violence. Bloodstains marred the door of the musicians’ apartment, and dark streaks seeped into the sidewalk below, refusing to fade even under the glare of the unrelenting Missouri sun.

Jeff stepped out into the humid St. Louis heat, immediately regretting it. The air was thick, suffocating, and carried the sour tang of pavement baked far beyond its breaking point. His shirt clung to his back like a second skin as he squinted through the shimmering haze toward the courtyard. Wallace was out there, methodically pulling down the crime scene tape with an unsettling sense of normalcy. Mr. Kim stood beside him, his young son, Wen, crouched low on the sidewalk, furiously scrubbing at a stain with a toothbrush like it was the only thing keeping the world from falling apart.

Jeff dragged a hand through his sweat-dampened hair as he approached. “You know you can’t be doing that,” he called out, his voice dry, scratchy, and carrying a faint edge of irritation.

Wallace didn’t stop, didn’t even look up. His movements were mechanical, robotic, as if he were on autopilot. Wen, for his part, didn’t seem to notice Jeff at all. The boy scrubbed and scrubbed, small hands working with a desperate energy.

“I hope that’s not your toothbrush, kid,” Jeff added, crouching slightly to meet the boy’s eye.

Wen glanced up briefly, offering a shy smile before returning to his futile task. Jeff sighed, the weight of the scene pressing against him. He straightened and turned his attention to Wallace.

“Hey, Wallace,” Jeff’s voice hardened, cutting through the still air, “you can’t be cleaning this site up. The boys’ll throw you in jail for this. You understand that?”

Wallace finally paused, his head tilting slightly as though hearing Jeff from a great distance. His hands, stained with flecks of dried blood, continued to grip the crime scene tape.

Jeff’s eyes narrowed in confusion of the dissonance. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, he felt the impact of someone colliding into him from behind.

“Oh, Mr. Eccles! Didn’t see you there!” exclaimed a melodic, lilting voice.

Jeff turned to find Mary Brightstone, the overly cheerful Welsh tenant, struggling with two oversized grocery bags that seemed determined to consume her entirely.

“Here,” he said, steadying her before grabbing one of the bags. “Let me help you with these.”

“Oh, such a gentleman,” Mary beamed, her face glowing with gratitude and perspiration. “I’m on the third floor.”

Jeff glanced up toward the building. The heat and humidity had already drained what little energy he had, and the thought of climbing three flights of stairs made him want to groan. Instead, he gave her a faint smile and gestured for her to lead the way.

The ascent was agonizing. The stairwell was a suffocating concrete oven, trapping the heat and amplifying it tenfold. Each step felt like dragging himself through quicksand. Sweat trickled down his spine, pooling in the small of his back, and his shirt clung to him like a wet rag. Mary, on the other hand, seemed unaffected. She climbed with a lively bounce in her step, chattering nonstop about her mother’s garden back in Wales.

“It was the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen,” she said, her voice carrying an almost musical quality. “Roses the size of dinner plates, daffodils that could make the sun jealous. Oh, and the tea roses! Have you ever smelled tea roses, Mr. Eccles? Absolute heaven, I tell you.”

Jeff grunted in acknowledgment, too winded to reply properly. He marveled at her stamina, wondering if her cheery disposition was fueled by some secret reserve of energy he couldn’t fathom.

Inside her apartment, the oppressive heat gave way to a stifling floral fragrance. The space was a kaleidoscope of floral patterns, lace doilies, and faded photographs. Lavender-scented sachets hung from cabinet handles, and a delicate porcelain tea set occupied a place of honor on the kitchen counter. Mary immediately busied herself with the kettle, despite Jeff’s protests.

“Really, Mrs. Brightstone, I should be going,” he said, his voice flat with exhaustion.

“Nonsense!” she replied, bustling about with an air of determination. “A cup of tea never hurt anyone.”

Resigned, Jeff slumped into a chair at the small dining table. His eyes wandered over the cluttered space, lingering on a faded photograph of a younger Mary holding a child he didn’t recognize. Her voice faded into the background, blending with the hum of the kettle, as his thoughts drifted.

He was back at that tea room with Debra, watching her laugh as he struggled through his fifth cup of tea. He’d taken her there by mistake, thinking it was a coffee shop, and she’d teased him mercilessly as he tried to find one he liked. He could still hear her laughter, bright and unrestrained, echoing in his mind like the soft chime of bells. Her smile had been infectious, lighting up the dimly lit room and, for a moment, his entire world.

“…and so I put an axe in his forehead,” Mary’s words jolted him back to reality.

“Wh-what did you say?” Jeff stammered, his heart racing.

Mary turned, her expression puzzled. “I asked if you wanted cream or milk?”

Jeff blinked, his mind struggling to reconcile what he thought he’d heard. “No, Mrs. Brightstone, I don’t care for tea.”

“Nonsense,” she said firmly, placing a delicate cup and saucer before him. “Who doesn’t like tea?”

The room seemed to grow colder as Jeff picked up the cup out of politeness. The tea inside was a deep, unnatural red, almost black. He set it back down immediately, his unease growing.

When he looked up, Mary was gone.

“Mrs. Brightstone?” he called out, his voice trembling slightly.

The apartment was silent. Too silent.

“Thanks for the tea, ma’am, but I really should be going,” he said, his words trailing off as he stood.

The faint sound of something wet and rhythmic caught his attention. A slow, sickening thud-thud-thud echoed from the hallway.

Jeff’s breath hitched as he turned toward the sound. Jeff started to walk towards the steady rhythmic thuds of hammering of some kind. Has he looked down the vacant hall, he noticed the time on a clock at the end of the hall. “Mrs. Brightsone, I got to go, I got something’s I got to take care of. “

The hammering continued unceasingly consistent.

Jeff headed towards the door, noticing a framed photograph of Mrs. Bright stone and who he assumed to be the late Mr. Brightstone. Opening the door, Jeff turned back as to announce his departure, but the consistency of the hammering changed his mind as he closed the door behind him as he left.

In the dim light of the hallway, Mary Brightstone stood against the far wall. Her head struck the sharp corner with methodical precision, each impact sending a spray of blood cascading down her face. The red corner of the wall carving ever deeper with each hard strike, flesh split open with every blow, revealing gleaming bone beneath. Her serene smile remained frozen, grotesquely out of place amid the carnage. Blood pooled at her feet, thick and dark, soaking into the lace-trimmed carpet.

The hammering soon ceased, the final thud being the loudest.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***