A pumpkin spice haunting, p.1
A Pumpkin Spice Haunting, page 1
A Pumpkin Spice Haunting
The Wallshire Mystery Series
Book Five
H. C. Cardona
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Your exclusives!
Did You Enjoy A Pumpkin Spice Haunting?
Acknowledgments
Chapter
One
I opened Steeped in Mysteary earlier than usual, still rubbing sleep from my eyes and clutching a travel mug full of something dangerously close to espresso sludge. Wallshire’s Pumpkin Festival was this weekend, which meant chaos was imminent—and chaos, conveniently, paired well with caffeine.
The second I stepped inside, I was hit with a wall of scent so rich it nearly knocked me over: pumpkin spice, toasted vanilla, a hint of clove and sage. Comforting, nostalgic… and just the tiniest bit intoxicating. Like the kind of candle that whispered, go ahead and buy the knit sweater—you’ve earned it.
The kettle was already singing by the time I flipped the sign to Open, and before I could even finish measuring out the new blend of Harvest Hearth, the bell over the door chimed. And then again. And again.
Locals trickled in like leaves falling from the trees—one at a time at first, then all at once. Mrs. Leland from the bookstore wanted “something witchy.” Harvey, Wallshire’s unofficial organizer and actual head mailman, wanted “whatever’ll keep my bones warm during the hayride.” The shop filled with chatter, laughter, clinking mugs. It was cozy, chaotic, and humming with that particular brand of autumnal magic this town practically bottled.
But underneath the bustle, I felt it—flickers of tension. Subtle, but there. A few sideways glances. A pause that lasted a beat too long. Mrs. Tansy whispering behind her scone. Nothing concrete. Nothing I could pin down. Just a whisper under the surface, like something stirring in the leaves.
I pushed the feeling aside and got back to test-blending. This year’s seasonal teas were giving me more trouble than I expected. Harvest Hearth was almost there—warm and smoky with a cinnamon finish. Bonfire Bloom still needed a touch more brightness, and Graveyard Grey? Well, that one was moody and mysterious like a certain broody detective, but in a way that made your tongue feel like it needed a nap. I’d get there.
As I worked, I found myself thinking—again—about how far I’d come. When I first moved back to Wallshire, I wasn’t sure I’d stay longer than a season. Now? The tea shop was home. These people were mine. And despite the ghosts—real or metaphorical—that always seemed to come clawing out of the woodwork once the leaves started to turn, I felt rooted.
Still, autumn had a way of unearthing things best left buried. And Wallshire never did like to keep its skeletons in the closet.
The bell over the door exploded into a jingle tornado, which could only mean one thing: Sasha.
She burst into the shop like a spell gone slightly sideways—velvet coat flaring behind her, rust-colored hat tilted at a daring angle, and boots that screamed these were made for stomping on mediocre ideas and anyone who dares suggest chamomile is boring.
“Peyton!” she announced, arms flung wide like she was summoning ghosts. “We need a Halloween-exclusive blend. Spooky. Witchy. Unforgettable.” She threw the last word at me like it had glitter trailing behind it.
I didn’t even look up from the tea jars I was alphabetizing. “Define ‘unforgettable.’ Because the last thing I want is people’s tongues going numb and ending with the hay maze spontaneously combusting.”
Sasha waved a hand. “That would sufficiently fall under unforgettable. And anyway, last year, the hay maze fire was a festival bonding moment. We need to top that.”
“Right,” I said, straight-faced.
She flopped dramatically onto one of the stools by the counter, hat bobbing. “Pey, darling, your tea is art. All I’m asking is for one bold brushstroke in your cozy canvas of clove and cinnamon. Your mother was too straight-laced to even consider such a thing."
I raised a brow. “No dry ice.”
“Fine.”
“No glitter.”
She winced. “Mildly rude, but okay.”
“And absolutely no more ‘accidentally fermented honey.’”
“That was one time!”
I crossed my arms. “It exploded, Sasha.”
We stared at each other in a long, silent standoff, her eyes all fire and enthusiasm, mine all suspicion and mild trauma.
Finally, I sighed, because of course I did. “I’ll try something. Try, mind you. But if I catch you sneaking in any surprise ingredients like last time—”
“Noted, noted,” she said quickly, already pulling a notepad from her coat pocket and jotting something down like a caffeinated crypt keeper. “I’m thinking black tea base, a hint of smoked apple, a touch of sage—mysterious but approachable. Sexy but seasonal.”
“You want sexy tea now?”
“It's the twentieth century. Everything is sexy.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help smiling. Sasha’s brand of chaotic optimism was exhausting, yes, but also kind of irresistible. Like a hurricane with a Pinterest board.
I had a feeling this Halloween blend might just kill someone.
But hey—at least it’d be memorable.
Sasha leaned on the counter, chin in hand, and gave me a sly smile. “So… how’s the new haunted house?”
I snorted. “It is not haunted.”
“Peyton, it creaks when there’s no wind and has more cobwebs than your Halloween storage bin. I’m just saying, if a ghost offered you tea at midnight, would you really be surprised?”
I rolled my eyes and poured hot water over the Graveyard Grey I was still testing. “It’s fine. Strange, but fine.”
The truth was, I hadn’t said much about the house since I moved in a month ago—mostly because I hadn’t quite figured out how I felt about it. Technically, it was my mother’s house. But calling it “hers” always felt odd, considering I barely knew the woman. She was murdered months ago, and growing up, she was more of a distant postcard than a warm presence. So, living there now? It felt like squatting in a stranger’s memory.
Still, I couldn’t deny the comfort of having my own space. A real home. One with walls I could paint whatever color I wanted. I’d started adding little touches—refinishing the kitchen shelves, switching out the frilly lace curtains for deep green linen ones, planting rosemary and sage outside the back door. The guest room was now a library in progress, with stacks of books slowly claiming territory. And I bought the world’s coziest armchair. It was hideous—pumpkin orange and far too big—but it felt like a hug every time I sat in it.
“I’m still settling in,” I said, glancing at Sasha. “But it’s starting to feel like mine. Less like a museum to a woman I didn’t know, and more like… a home I might actually want to stay in.”
Sasha’s expression softened for a second before she perked right back up. “Well, you’re officially a Wallshire homeowner. You’re basically part of the town’s historic preservation society whether you want to be or not.”
“Do I get a badge?”
“You get judged silently if you install modern light fixtures; does that count?”
We both laughed, and then she straightened, twirling a strand of hair. “Speaking of homes, the inn’s been wild lately. Theo—my night manager—keeps alphabetizing the spice rack by color, which I didn’t even know was a thing. And I had a date with Gabe last weekend.”
I perked up. “The mailman Gabe?”
“That’s the one,” she said, sighing. “He was sweet. He brought me a pumpkin donut. But I don’t know… it felt more ‘neighbors sharing a carb’ than ‘soulmates under the harvest moon.’”
“Well,” I said, handing her a mug, “if it helps, you’re definitely not haunted.”
“Debatable,” she said, sipping. “But this tea? Definitely magical.”
Sasha gave me the look—chin tilted, one brow arched, all-knowing smirk and mischief. “So… how’s self-defense going?”
I straightened a few tea tins on the shelf behind me, trying to play it cool. “Good.”
She narrowed her eyes like she didn’t believe me. “Just good?”
“Well,” I said, dusting off an imaginary speck, “Brandon Hoover teaches the class himself.”
That got her attention. “Hoover? Annie told me he’s cute.”
I blinked. “Annie… actually talks?”
Sasha snorted into her tea. “Don’t let the silent barista act fool you. You should hear her go off about oat milk ratios. She practically ranted for twenty minutes because someone asked for a ‘latte with no foam.’”
I grinned. “Okay, I stand corrected. I thought she was part statue.”
“She probably just thinks you’re intimidating.”
“Me? I trip over air and talk to tea leaves.”
“Exactly.”
We both laughed, and I moved around the counter to refill the sample tray. The shop had quieted down—just the hum of the kettle and the soft clink of ceramic. Outside, leaves swirled past the windows like confetti in slow motion.
“But yeah,” I continued, “self-defense is going well. Brandon’s a good instructor. Very focused. Kind of intense in a I’ll teach you how to elbow someone in the ribs while maintaining eye contact kind of way.”
“Hot,” Sasha muttered behind her mug.
“Calm down,” I said, bumping her hip with mine. “It’s not like that.”
She arched a brow.
“I’ve mostly been working on breaking holds and getting out of choke positions,” I added quickly. “Which is surprisingly useful, considering how often I seem to find myself in weird situations involving locked doors and murder suspects.”
Sasha raised her mug. “To preparation.”
“To being a walking hazard,” I clinked mine against hers.
I glanced at the time and wiped my hands on a dishtowel. “I’m heading to the gym after this, actually. He’s running a bonus class before the festival chaos kicks off.”
“Look at you,” Sasha said with mock pride. “Peyton Hart: tea witch by day, ninja-in-training by night.”
I tossed the towel at her. “If I come back with a black eye, you’re bringing me scones.”
“Deal. But if you come back with a number…”
“Oh my gourd,” I groaned. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best,” she sang, already halfway to the door. “And you’re welcome.”
“Tea?” I asked, already reaching for the newest blend I’d been tweaking all morning.
Sasha perked up like I’d just offered her backstage passes to the Spice Girls reunion. “Obviously.”
I poured her a steaming mug of the Ghostly Grey—my moody little ode to Halloween. Earl Grey base, a hint of smoked lavender, and just enough blackcurrant to make it taste like secrets.
She took a slow sip, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Ooh. It’s like if a haunted library had a love child with a goth bakery.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was,” she said, setting the mug down with a dramatic flourish. “Ten out of ten. Slightly witchy. Mysterious. A little flirty, even.”
I was mid-sip myself when she smirked and added, “Speaking of flirty… seen Detective Brooding lately?”
I choked. Just a little. Enough to regret every choice that led to this moment.
“You mean Levi?” I said, clearing my throat and trying to pretend my ears weren’t turning an extremely uncool shade of pink. “Not really. I mean, we run into each other now and then. He’s probably just… busy. You know. With detective things. Brooding. Solving crimes. Staring pensively at crime boards while drinking his perfectly brewed tea.”
Sasha gave me a look that said she wasn’t buying any of it.
I busied myself with lining up the tea jars again, even though they were perfectly aligned already. “I think he’s just got a lot on his plate. It’s not like we’re—” I waved vaguely. “A thing.”
Which was technically true.
Still, there was a small part of me—tiny, quiet, annoyingly persistent—that missed him. His grumpy smirks. The way he listened like he actually heard things people didn’t say. How he always stood just a little too close, like he didn’t realize the effect it had on my brain cells. Or maybe he did.
But I didn’t think about that.
Nope.
I definitely didn’t think about that while staring at the ceiling at two in the morning or while sipping tea that tasted vaguely like longing.
Sasha rested her chin in her hand, watching me too closely. “You sure you don’t want to add a splash of hot detective to the next blend?”
I snorted. “If I do, it’ll be by accident. Like the glitter incident.”
“Ah yes.” She sighed, lifting her cup. “The one time Wallshire got scandalous sparkle in its sinuses.”
“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Not a chance, babe.”
Chapter
Two
Later that afternoon, I swapped out my tea-stained apron for workout gear—black tank, zip-up hoodie, and yes, pumpkin leggings. Bright orange with little jack-o’-lantern faces all the way down the legs. Subtlety was for summer. October demanded commitment.
I headed to Hoover’s Gym, which sat on the edge of town like a barn that drank too much protein powder. From the outside, it looked unassuming—gray siding, faded sign, the faint sound of ‘80’s rock seeping through the walls. But inside? It was all business. Exposed beams, worn mats, punching bags that had clearly seen some things, and enough sweat lingering in the air to make your pores flinch in sympathy. It smelled like determination and disinfectant. Very macho chic.
I ducked into the locker room, and sure enough—Zoey was already there, half-changing out of overalls and covered in what looked like equal parts hay, glitter, and unhinged October energy.
“You look like you lost a fight with a scarecrow,” I said, pulling my hair into a bun.
Zoey grinned, cheeks pink and eyes bright. “I won, actually. But it was close.” She kicked off one boot and wiggled her foot. “Ashcroft Orchard’s Haunted Hayride is officially underway, and it’s already chaos. A kid threw up in the corn maze. Twice.”
“Twice?”
“Twice. Same kid.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Festive.”
She waved off my concern. “Speaking of festive! You’re helping. Saturday night. I already told Ashford.”
I gave her a look. “Zoey.”
She clasped her hands dramatically. “It won’t be scary. Just a little spooky! Wholesome spooky. Cinnamon-scented spooky.”
“You said that last month with the fall festival. A raccoon crawled across my foot in the graveyard scene.”
“Okay, this activity it’s more organized. We even have lighting. Kinda. Look—people say the orchard barn is haunted.”
I paused mid-lace. “Haunted how?”
“Whispers,” she said, eyes wide. “Lights flickering. Someone saw a shadowy figure in the rafters last week.”
I blinked. “Like… a person?”
Zoey shrugged. “Or a ghost. Or a very ambitious squirrel. Either way, it’s adding vibes.”
I sighed. “Fine. But I’m not playing the witch again. The nose glue nearly took my actual nose.”
“No witch. I need you for spooky tea service. Maybe a floating table. Mugs of Graveyard Grey. A bit of fog if we can swing it.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Great. I always dreamed of being the ghost of seasonal beverages.”
Zoey grinned, triumphant. “Welcome to the haunt, Hart.”
We headed out of the locker room and into the main gym floor, where a few early birds were already stretching on the mats. The lighting was soft and golden from the late afternoon sun slanting through the tall windows, and the whole place smelled like old leather and focus.
And then there was him.
Brandon Hoover stood near the center mat, clipboard in one hand, arms crossed over his broad chest. The man looked like he’d been carved from disciplined oak and protein shakes—tall, lean, all quiet power and thoughtful intensity. His hair was always slightly messy in that I-don’t-care-but-somehow-still-perfect way, and his eyes? Deep-set, dark, and quietly watchful, like he was always processing something just under the surface. He was soft-spoken, serious, and the kind of guy who could probably lift a tractor but would apologize if he bumped your elbow.
He nodded at us as we walked in, offering a small smile. “Glad you made it, Peyton.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, trying not to sound winded just from looking at him.
Annie was already by the wall, sipping from a reusable water bottle and watching everything with her usual silent, analytical intensity. Two other locals—Frankie from the hardware store and Maria from the post office—were stretching beside her, chatting about Halloween costumes and whether or not the hayride was cursed this year.
