Oolong, Farewell: A Tea and Tarot Cozy Mystery

Book 3: Tea and Tarot Cozy Mysteries

by Kirsten Weiss

Genres: Animal Cozy Mysteries; Supernatural suspense; humor; Cozy Mystery; funny; tarot; culinary cozy

Synopsis

When all the neighbors want you dead...

Abigail Beanblossom is finally getting into the groove of her new Tea and Tarot room. But in Abigail's mind, when things are going right, that's exactly when they're about to go wrong.

She never could have guessed, however, the mother who abandoned her as a child would suddenly return, looking for tea and sympathy. Now, all Abigail wants is to escape. So, when her grandfather's friend, Archer, asks Abigail and her partner Hyperion to investigate the murder of his neighbor, the two amateur sleuths leap at the opportunity.

Abigail suspects Archer's fears of arrest are a tempest in a teapot. The victim's been renting out his mansion for noisy events and bringing the entire neighborhood to a boil. And the old money and nouveau-riche suspects are as plentiful as they are quirky.

But when Archer becomes suspect #1, Abigail and Hyperion must steep themselves in the fraught world of upper-crust homeowners associations and Instagram stars. Because this cockeyed killer is just getting started...

Oolong, Farewell is book 3 in the Tea and Tarot cozy mystery series. Start reading this hilariously cozy caper today!

Tearoom recipes in the back of the book.

Release date: September 21, 2020

Publisher: misterio press

Print pages: 201

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

 

When you run a tearoom, even a tea and Tarot room, an elegant and genteel atmosphere shouldn’t be too much to ask.

I hovered beside Mrs. Bicklesworth’s table, a white tea towel folded over my arm, a tiered tray of scones and finger sandwiches dangling from my hand. Mrs. B. was good people—gracious, elegant, and connected. I was determined to treat her right.

“I’ve always felt tea is more than a beverage.” The elderly woman’s eyes twinkled as she raised the teacup to her lips. “It’s a meditation.”

Brrrrrrrt! A mechanical, grinding noise roared through the tearoom.

Mrs. Bicklesworth spat tea. Cards shot from a Tarot reader’s hands and fluttered to the faux-wood floor. Watercolors of herbs rattled on the white walls, their wooden frames tilting slowly leftish.

Brrrrrrrt!

A waitress squeaked, splashing the tea she was pouring across a white tablecloth.

Brrrrrrrt!

I set the tray on the table and stretched my lips into a smile. “Apologies for the disturbance. I’ll be right back.”

So much for elegant and genteel. Whipping my tea towel over one shoulder, I stormed down the hallway. Twinkle lights blinked around my target—my partner's doorway.

I shoved open the door and strode into Hyperion's office, a gypsy caravan of incense, red carpeting, and New Age knickknacks. “What’s going on?”

My neighbor, Brik, stood on a ladder. His upper body was obscured by the swags of white gauze that hid the ceiling pipes. His denim-clad lower body was... impressively muscular.

Not that I was looking or anything.

Hyperion craned his neck up at the contractor. “But can you do it?” Even ordering contractors around, my partner managed to look like a male model. His near-black hair fell just so across his forehead. His button-up linen shirt lay open at the collar.

My muscles tensed. “Do what?” I adjusted the snood that kept my long, blond hair from falling into someone’s scone. “And unless something's leaking or on fire, don't do anymore of it now. You’re rocking the tearoom, and not in a good way.”

The contractor ducked his blond head beneath the fabric. “Yep, I can do it.”

“Do what?” I managed not to stomp my feet, but just barely.

“Why are you wearing a towel?” Hyperion asked me.

“What? This?” I yanked it from my shoulder and held it out to him. “I wanted your opinion. Does this smell like chloroform to you?”

“Ha, ha,” my partner said. “I'm not falling for that again.”

“Again?”

Hyperion rolled his eyes. “You wouldn't believe my Thursday night.”

I could believe it had been more exciting than mine. Hyperion had an active romantic life. I’d spent my free time online, killing zombie Nazis. “What are you doing?”

“Installing a fake ceiling to hide these pipes once and for all,” Hyperion said.

“What's wrong with the fabric?” I asked and motioned toward the gauze draping the ceiling.

“I'm bored with it. Also, it’s against the fire code.”

I swallowed, acid scorching my stomach. Fire code? “Did an inspector come by and no one told me?” Yikes. Were we in violation? What else had happened I didn’t know about?

“I’m being proactive,” Hyperion said.

I relaxed slightly. “Can we afford a new ceiling?” Beanblossom’s was less than a year old—still officially in the start-up stage. This also happened to be the barely-breaking-even stage. Most restaurants didn’t survive their first year, and when I wasn’t fighting zombie Nazi’s, I was sweating over our finances.

“Don't worry,” he said, “this won't affect the tearoom finances. My online Tarot courses have been doing well. I'd like to invest in my office, especially since I meet private clients here.”

We mostly kept our tea and tarot finances separate. I was the tearoom, he was the Tarot side. It kept things simpler. And if he wanted to upgrade his office, it was his business. But he could have scheduled this for Monday, when we were closed.

Something shifted in the corner, and I took a quick step backward.

Demonic, amber eyes glowed from the low shadows of a 60s-era media cabinet. Hyperion’s enormous tabby, Bastet, emerged from beneath it. The cat sneered at me and hopped onto the driftwood and crystal filled altar.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” I already knew the answer—because I would have griped about the noise.

His brown eyes widened with innocence. “I didn’t think it would be an issue. My private reading room is a critical part of Beanblossom's Tea and Tarot.” Hyperion wafted his hands as if fluffing the air around me.

I reared backward, nonplussed.

“There's something off with your aura,” he said.

“You read auras now too?” I asked.

He cocked his head and squinted at me. “Forsooth, I see mother issues. Er, have you seen her yet?”

The tabby swished his striped tail.

I grimaced. “No.” My mother—both my parents—had spent most of my life out of my life on various New Age, spiritual quests. I'd been such a drag on their groove, they'd left my grandparents to raise me.

I swallowed the ache in my throat. In hindsight, it had been a blessing. But as a kid, all I’d understood was how badly the rejection had hurt.

And now, after more than a decade away, my mother had returned to San Borromeo. She was currently camped out in my old bedroom at my grandfather's house.

“The sooner you get it over with,” my partner said, “the happier you'll be. And you'll get all this nasty brown and red out of your aura.”

“My aura's fine,” I snapped. “And can the new ceiling wait until Monday, when we're closed?”

“Well, of course,” Hyperion said loftily. “I wouldn't want to disturb the tearoom.”

My eyes narrowed. That had been way too easy.

“Like I told him,” Brik said, “I'm not available until August anyway. But I can schedule the work for a Monday.” He climbed down the ladder and carefully did not look at me. “Hi, Abigail.”

“Hi.” It's almost impossible to scowl at someone who looks like a well-groomed Viking—the kind you see on TV, not in those creepy museum exhibits. His mane of blond hair was tied back in a neat ponytail. And his white t-shirt was pristine.

Almost impossible.

A month ago, Brik and I had shared a knee-shaking kiss. He'd been pretending it hadn't happened ever since.

I stared at my hands. It didn’t make any difference to me. I mean, it wasn’t like I’d kissed him. I’d been the kissee, not the kisser. But it was the principle of the thing.

“The new ceiling will be elegant and professional,” Hyperion said.

“And more importantly,” Brik said, “not a fire hazard.”

“Um, what is this about fire hazards?” I asked nervously.

“The fire department's started cracking down on violations.” My neighbor studied the filmy gauze above him and shook his head. “All that fabric... I don't think it'll fly.”

“The only way that fabric would catch fire is if there was already a fire in the building. I use flameless candles.” Hyperion motioned to Bastet. “These regulations are an inhuman, fiendish malignancy.”

Brik shot me a look, his sea-blue eyes questioning.

“Lovecraft word of the day calendar,” I said. December 31st couldn't come soon enough.

“Right.” Brik nodded. “You mentioned something about that before.”

My gaze flicked to the chandelier. At least Brik had remembered that even if our kiss had slipped his mind.

“What’s wrong with my calendar?” Hyperion asked. “When you stop learning new things, brain rot sets in.”

Bastet scratched behind his ear and yawned.

“Okay,” my neighbor said. “I'll get you an estimate tomorrow.”

“That's it?” I asked, indignant. That was all he had to say to me? True, I wasn't sure what I wanted that kiss to mean either, if anything. In fact, I'd thought I was okay with letting the whole thing lie. But his Viking nonchalance was getting a little demoralizing.

Brik's brow furrowed. “I'll be sure to include the cost of rewiring the chandelier too?”

Chandelier? Was he kidding me?

“Hyperion!” A man's voice echoed down the concrete hallway outside. “You've got to help me. Hyperion!”

The office door burst open, and Bastet bolted beneath the round table.

Archer Simmons sagged against the blinking doorframe, his ascot askew. The little man raked a hand through his thinning, silvery hair. “Thank God, you're here. It's been a nightmare. An absolute nightmare.”

“Don't tell me they've shortened your newspaper column again?” Hyperion's black brows drew downward in concern.

“Worse.” Archer straightened off the door and smoothed the front of his elegant gray suit, then nodded. “Much worse.”

“What's happened?” I asked.

Archer groaned theatrically. “My neighbor’s dead. He's been murdered, the creep.”

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

“Murdered?” I asked.

“And now they're going to arrest me.” Archer clutched his thinning hair. “Me! And I have the most-read society column in Northern California.”

“Newspapers still have society columns?” Brik asked.

“He's in shock.” Hyperion led the older man to one of his throne-like, red velvet chairs.

“There are still newspapers?” Brik asked.

Archer glared.

Bastet edged from beneath the table and prowled toward the newcomer.

“What exactly happened?” I asked. “Who's dead?”

“Tom Henderson,” Archer said.

Brik, Hyperion, and I shared a glance. Hyperion shook his head. I shrugged. I hadn't heard of Henderson either.

Archer lurched forward in the chair. “Tom Henderson. Tom Henderson! He has the biggest party rental house in San Borromeo, for the simple reason he's not supposed to have a party house in San Borromeo. It's completely illegal. But he's making so much money at it, he can just laugh off the paltry fines the city imposes.”

“And he's dead?” Brik’s brows pulled together.

“Well, of course he's dead. Why wouldn't he be dead?”

Bastet leapt into Archer's lap. Absently, the elderly man petted him.

“Why would the police arrest you?” I asked.

“It's irrational and frankly lazy,” Archer said. “Just because I'm his neighbor... I mean, what was I supposed to do? Of course I called the police to complain about the scoundrel. There were helicopters! At night! And all that music. His constant parties were a nightmare.”

I carefully avoided looking at Brik. My neighbor’s house was party central. We’d met when I’d first complained about the near-nightly racket. “So you made noise complaints,” I said.

“Me and a half dozen other neighbors.” Archer adjusted his cravat. “And I might have threatened to kill him in print. But it was satire.”

“I think Archer needs a cup of tea,” Hyperion said, patting the older man’s shoulder.

“Oh, I do.” He leaned forward in the chair. “And maybe a Tarot reading.”

“How do you feel about herbal tea?” I asked.

“I'll drink anything if it will take the edge off.”

Empress Tea it was then—a relaxing blend of chamomile, lemon thyme, and lavender. I hurried to the front room and at the counter, I added the herbal blend to a glass teapot.

As I filled the pot with boiling water, I studied the tearoom. The noise level had returned to a mannerly murmur. The wait staff seemed to have everything well in hand. I was supposed to help serve, not gossip with Archer. But he was an occasional customer and a good friend of my grandfather’s.

I set the teapot, cup and saucer, and sugar bowls on a tray, and returned to Hyperion's office.

Brik packed his drill into a large, paint-spattered toolbox.

“It's so thoughtless,” Archer said. “It's cruel, having loud parties, with all sorts of cars lining the street, and the strobe lights. And did I mention the helicopters? Those celebrities who have the nerve to lecture us about global warming all fly in on helicopters. But I suppose in fairness, what else is a multi-millionaire to do? There's no parking on those narrow streets, thanks to the parties.”

Hyperion made a sympathetic noise.

“But I didn’t kill him,” Archer said. “I only wanted him dead. Is that so wrong?”

Brik shook his head. “Nope. I can’t blame you. That sort of thing will drive down home values.”

I goggled at my neighbor. Brik had loud parties practically every night. True, he was good about shutting things down at a reasonable hour. But he got away with the parties because two of his immediate neighbors were elderly and hard of hearing. His other immediate neighbor was me, and I was a pushover.

I just don't like narcing on people to cops. Not unless they're doing something really wrong, like robbing a store or putting someone in danger. Also, complaining to the cops would seem pretty petty after that kiss.

My neck stiffened. Dammit, was that why he'd kissed me? To shut me up? He knew I hated those parties.

“What?” Brik asked me. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Like he’s transformed into a tubular, withered foulness,” Hyperion said.

Archer eyed my partner and leaned slightly away.

I took a deep breath and held it in, released it. “You have parties every week.” I set the tray on the round table in front of Archer and turned to Brik. “Several times a week in fact. Every week.”

“But I don't charge for them.”

“Are there helicopters?” Archer folded his arms across his navy blazer. “Because I don't think we can be friends if there are helicopters.”

“No choppers,” Brik assured him.

“There's no parking left on the street because of all the guests at your parties,” I said slowly.

“Fortunately,” Archer said, “I have a driveway where I can park. When it’s not being blocked by partygoers.” He thumped his fist on the table, rattling the teacup in its saucer. “And it's the principle of the thing.”

Brik's brow creased. “You never complained about my parties before,” he said to me.

“I complained about a million times,” I said.

He blinked. “You did?”

“No one listens to me,” I grumbled.

“I listen to you,” Hyperion said.

“No one's listening to me,” Archer said. “Wrongfully accused murder suspect. Right here.”

Hastily, I poured Archer's tea. The scent of lavender and lemon thyme wafted through Hyperion’s small office. “Okay,” I said, “tell us what happened.”

“How should I know?” Archer asked. “I didn't kill the man. It has to be one of the other neighbors. But I like them all. I don't want them to be killers, even if the man deserved to die horribly. Maybe his wife, Vanella, did it. They say the spouse is always the most likely suspect, and what sort of a name is Vanella?” He sipped his tea. “Delicious, Abigail. Well, are you going to come with me or not?”

“Come with you where?” Hyperion asked.

“To the scene of the crime, of course. How can you investigate if you don't examine the scene of the crime?”

“Investigate?” I felt my concerned smile waver. “I can't leave Beanblossom’s. It's Friday afternoon. We've got a full tearoom.”

“Let one of your waitresses manage things,” Archer said. “This is murder. Havoc. War. And money is no object.”

Hyperion straightened.

“I don’t think you’re giving the police enough credit,” I said. “Realistically, what can we do—?”

The phone rang in my apron pocket, and I pulled it out. Gramps. Thank God. A reason to escape this loony conversation. “Excuse me, I have to take this.”

I edged into the hallway and gently shut the door behind me. The twinkle lights blinked balefully. “Hi, Gramps. How are you doing?” My chin dipped, my chest squeezing, because I knew my mother was driving him crazy. I just didn’t know what I could do about it.

“You've got to get out of the tearoom,” he said. “Now.”

I stiffened. “What? Why?”

“She's on her way. I'm sorry, Abigail. I couldn't stop her.”

My blood ran cold. I didn't need to be told who she was. My mother.

“I don't know what's gotten into her,” he continued. “I think... I think you may be her new spiritual quest.”

“What?” I yelped.

“I know it sounds nutty,” he said, “but she had an odd look in her eye over breakfast when she was talking about you.”

My heart gave an odd lurch. “Oh?”

“And she threw out all the milk and replaced it with that soy stuff. And she replaced my favorite peanut butter cereal with nuts and twigs. It’s supposed to be healthy, but it tastes like sawdust.”

“When'd she leave?”

“She took my Lincoln without asking. I just saw it exit my drive.”

“But why do you think she's coming here?”

“She may have said something about getting a Tarot reading.”

My hand tightened on the phone. Of course. My mother wasn't coming to see me. She was coming for the Tarot.

The beginnings of a headache pricked at the front of my skull. “Thanks for the heads-up.” If she had the Lincoln, I had time. Good luck finding parking for that boat in tiny San Borromeo.

I leaned against the cool, concrete wall. “Aside from the milk and cereal, how are things going? With her in the house, I mean.”

“The incense burns Peking’s eyes. She knows we hate incense.”

Peking was his pet duck. I wasn't sure if ducks could smell, but I knew Gramps hated incense.

I shut my eyes. “Look. If you need a break. She can stay at my place.” Because the only thing worse than the thought of spending time with my mother was the thought of my mother breaking my grandfather.

“No,” he said manfully. “It's okay. The weather's been good, so I keep the windows open. Peking spends more time in the backyard, looking for bugs. I have to keep an eye on him, in case the neighbor's cat decides to get fresh, but like I said, the weather's good. Tomas is having a barbecue tonight. I'll go there.”

“You don't think she'll invite herself along?” I asked, aghast at the idea of her crashing one of his friend’s family dinners.

“It's a barbecue, Abigail. Meat. Your mother won't go anywhere near it. Not after her time with that militant vegetarian group.”

Right. Rumor had it she was still persona non grata in Mongolia.

“Can you get out of there?” Gramps asked. “Go home sick or something. She doesn’t know where you live.”

I glanced at the twinkle lights. “I’ve got an idea that will keep me out of the tearoom.” I hesitated. Should I tell him about Archer? I shook my head. They were friends, but Archer would kill me if I ruined a good story by blabbing it first.

“Good.” He paused. “I’m sorry about this.”

“Why? Corralling her isn’t your job.”

“She’s…”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.”

We said our goodbyes, and I returned to the office.

“Abigail and I are a team,” Hyperion was saying. “If she can't go—”

“I'm in,” I said. “Let's go.” Because when life hands you lemons, it’s time to start lobbing them at some murder suspects.

 

Bastet perched in my lap, we followed Archer's Jaguar up the winding hillside road. The cat kneaded his paws, his claws sheathing and unsheathing. They dug into my linen skirt.

I scowled at the tabby.

“Spill.” Hyperion whipped his Jeep around a tight bend, and I leaned into the door. “What really changed your mind about helping Archer?” he asked. “Was it the money is no object line?”

“No, I wouldn’t even know how much to charge.”

“Then what?”

“My mother's on her way to the tearoom.”

“Seriously? That takes some brass. No offense,” he added quickly. “It's bad form to criticize other people's relatives. But... what are you going to do? I know I said you should rip the proverbial bandage off, but I also know it's not that easy.”

“No, it isn't.” I slumped in the seat. I’d have to face her someday. Just… not today.

“Do you think it’s possible she wants to make amends?”

“For abandoning me at the airport when I was a toddler?” I rapped out. How do you make up for that? “No, I don't. I don't care how much self-actualization she's gone through. There's no coming back from that.” My panicked grandparents had raced to collect me while my parents flew to India. I hoped my parents had at least hit turbulence.

Hyperion was quiet for a long moment. “But what if there was a way? What if she could come back from it?”

“There isn't, and she can’t.” But my heart pinched. A tiny part of me wanted to believe it was possible. I mentally gave that part of me a swift kick in the butt.

This happened every time my parents came back. I'd get my hopes up that they'd changed, that things would be different, that they wanted me. And every damn time I'd been disappointed.

I wasn't going through all that again.

“Do you think Archer is in any real trouble?” Hyperion asked. “He's a teensy bit of a drama queen.”

That was the pot calling the kettle black, but I bit down hard on a half-dozen comebacks. Hyperion had earned a free pass for changing the subject away from my family.

“I'd like to see that satire piece he wrote about this Henderson guy,” I said. “I have a hard time believing it's too awful. Archer does have an editor, and the newspaper has got to be careful about libel.”

“But he said they're neighbors. If they were both at home, then Archer had opportunity. He wouldn’t have done it, but it might not look good.”

“If they were both at home. We need to find out when Henderson was killed and where Archer was at the time.”

“All right, but you do realize Archer couldn't kill anyone?”

“Of course he couldn’t.” I refused to believe any of my grandfather’s friends were murderers. “But like you said, it still might not look good to the cops.”

“Hm.” Hyperion pursed his lips. “Tony's got to be involved, don't you think?”

“Yeah.” San Borromeo was too small to have more than one police detective. And Hyperion had a massive crush on Detective Tony Chase. “Is that going to be a problem?”

We slowed, lurching over a speed bump.

“No,” he said. “I can't pretend to be someone else for a guy. I’m a brilliant amateur detective, and Tony's going to just have to take me for who I am.”

“Are you two dating?”

He winked. “Not yet.”

I sighed and settled back in my seat. It was a little depressing that Hyperion had a more active love life than I did. Of course, that wasn't exactly difficult. My love life was DOA.

We followed the Jaguar into a circular driveway. The Jeep slowed to a stop in front of Archer’s sleek, mid-century modern house, white and L-shaped.

Handing Hyperion his cat, I stepped from the Jeep. I let my gaze rove from the ornamental grasses dotting the yard, the swimming pool cutting through the lush lawn, the orange umbrellas and lounge chairs. Archer lived well.

Hyperion snapped on Bastet's leash.

“This way,” Archer whispered.

“Why are you whispering?” Hyperion asked.

Archer’s white brows drew together. “Shh!”

Cat in the lead, we trotted across the sloping lawn. A trail appeared at the edge of the grass. It wended beneath eucalyptus trees and more clumps of tall, ornamental grasses.

Archer made a shushing motion and tiptoed to a wooden gate in a high, redwood fence. The gate was arched, with a circle cut in the top.

The older man pointed to the circle. “I had this installed years ago when a producer bought the place next door. He had all sorts of movie stars visiting—Cary Grant, Paul Newman, Sidney Poitier. Take a look.”

Hyperion stepped up to the gate and peered through the hole, about the size of my fist. “Whoa. That's a lot of cops.” He stepped away from the gate. “You didn't tell us the police were still here.”

“Didn't I? Well, I don't like to let the grass grow under my feet. The sooner you get started clearing my name the better.”

“Let me see,” I said. Fortunately, Archer was roughly my height, so the peep hole was Abigail-level. I edged up to the gate and looked through.

A pair of steel-gray eyes stared back.

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

“Gagh.” I leapt away from the gate.

Bastet hissed.

The wooden gate creaked open, and Detective Tony Chase stepped through. “It figures I'd find you here,” he drawled.

The tall, handsome detective pushed up the brim of his cowboy hat with a gloved hand. And not a cool leather glove, a latex glove. Chase was a committed germophobe.

He nodded at Archer. “Mr. Simmons. I thought I told you I'd take your statement later?”

“You did. Is later now?” Archer got busy examining his nails. “It's such a vague term.”

The detective turned to Hyperion and me. “What are you two doing here?”

Hyperion and I stammered out something incoherent about old friends and modern landscaping.

“Mr. Simmons?” the detective asked.

The elderly man motioned toward us with a sweeping gesture. “Hyperion and Abigail are my private investigators,” he said loftily.

“Really?” Detective Chase edged back his navy suit jacket, exposing the badge on his belt. It was almost as big as his buckle. “Neither of you mentioned getting your private investigator's license.”

Gulp.

“You do know that practicing without a license is punishable by law?” he continued.

Crud. Near my sandals, which was approximately where my stomach had fallen, Bastet meowed in agreement.

Archer blinked rapidly. “Did I say investigators?” He motioned grandly toward us a second time. “Hyperion and Abigail are my private consultants.”

“Mm.” Detective Chase raised a skeptical brow. “And what exactly are you consulting on?”

“This and that,” Hyperion said, dismissive.

“Nothing much,” I said.

“They are private consultants,” Archer said.

“And you’re paying them, because if you’re paying them to consult on a murder—”

Archer shot me a worried look.

“No money’s changed hands,” I said quickly. “And it won’t.”

The detective lowered his head and gave me the sort of scrutiny one would generally reserve for a particularly interesting bug. “Mr. Simmons, I’ll speak with you later.” Detective Chase stepped backward through the gate and shut it.

“Perhaps we should take our conversation elsewhere,” Archer suggested.

“Let's,” Hyperion said.

We scurried across the lawn toward Archer’s house.

“I don't think Chase bought it,” I muttered to Hyperion.

“No kidding,” Hyperion said. “But all we were doing was standing by a gate, gawking at a horrific crime scene like any other red-blooded American. What could he do?”

“We don't know it was horrific,” I said.

“Of course it was horrific,” Hyperion said. “Did you see the expressions on the crime scene techs' faces. They looked positively ghoulish with glee.”

Ugh. “More Lovecraft?” I asked.

“Alliteration, partner. Alliteration.”

“One of my favorite writing techniques,” Archer said. “Not that those Visigoths at my paper would recognize good prose if it bit them in the posterior. What's this about Lovecraft?”

Hyperion explained about his calendar, and we strolled into Archer's massive home.

Archer led us into a marble-floored living area with wood-paneled walls. Our host dropped onto a sleek, gray couch.

We sat more gingerly on matching chairs opposite.

Bastet made himself comfortable on a gray velvet ottoman.

“All right,” Archer said. “Let’s talk compensation. I’ve been wracking my brain on the walk over. If I can’t pay you money… I can get you Mrs. Worthington-Smythe.”

Hyperion’s mouth parted. “You… What?”

“Who?” I said.

“She’s practically royalty,” Hyperion said. “She makes the people in this neighborhood look like peasants. No offense, Archer.”

“None taken. But if she gives your tearoom her blessing—”

“We’d never go hungry again,” Hyperion breathed.

“We’re not hungry now,” I said. Though word-of-mouth could be powerful.

“I hear she’s into psychics,” Hyperion said.

“It’s true,” Archer said. “She makes Sarah Winchester look like a piker.”

“This could be big,” my partner said to me.

“And I’ll get my paper’s restaurant reviewer to stop by,” Archer said. “But only because when I’m under stress, I can be difficult. Consider it a bonus.”

“Deal.” I stuck out my hand. The local reporters had turned up their noses at Beanblossom’s after we’d declined to comment in a past murder investigation.

“I'll round up the troops.” Archer pulled a phone from the inside pocket of his gray suit jacket and made a call.

“Darling, have you heard...? I know, it's ghastly. I've brought in two private— consultants to help us out. They're here now... Yes... Yes... Excellent.”

He pocketed his phone. “Pepper's bringing Cosmo.”

“Who are Pepper and Cosmo?” I asked.

“My nearest two neighbors, and the other two members of the noise committee. Cosmo lives on the other side of the Henderson’s hell house, and Pepper lives behind it.”

“The homeowners association got involved?” I asked.

He looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows, at the swimming pool and lawn beyond. “Yes, but our committee isn't exactly a part of the HOA.”

“Why not?” I asked. Noise complaints seemed like exactly the sort of thing a homeowner's association was made for.

“Legal reasons,” Archer said.

Hyperion's brown eyes narrowed. “What sorts of legal reasons?”

“The president felt that some of our tactics might leave the HOA open to liability.”

“What tactics?” I tilted my head and studied Archer. His cherubic face didn’t look guilty, but he sure sounded guilty.

He examined his manicure. “Nothing illegal, I assure you.”

“What tactics?” I repeated.

“Did you know the Maasai dislike having their picture taken without permission so much, they'll hurl spears right through the windows of offending safari trucks?” Archer asked.

“I get the feeling you're stalling on the tactics question,” I said.

“Fine,” Archer said. “If you must know, it was really no big deal. The usual things. When the wind was in the right direction, I'd have a little bonfire by the fence so the smoke blew into their party.”

“Is that all?” Hyperion asked shrewdly.

“I might have made sure to add plastics to the fire to get a real chemical smell.”

“And?” Hyperion asked.

“And someone may have put that extra strong glue in the locks so the renters couldn't get their keys to work. That sort of thing.”

“Someone?” I asked sharply.

“Cosmo and Pepper denied it, but it wasn't me.”

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Hyperion said.

Tell me about it.

Bastet’s claws unsheathed on the velvet ottoman. Hastily, I scooped up the cat and set him in my lap before he could damage Archer’s furniture. He dug his claws into my thigh, and I winced.

“Normally,” Archer said, “I'm a very considerate neighbor. But you have no idea what I've been dealing with. This has been going on for nearly six months.” He pointed toward the window. “Once, the police came to their gates with a cease and desist notice and a fine attached. Henderson just stood on the other side of the gate and laughed at them. He told them his watch cost more than their fine, and he refused to open the gate. The city tried cutting off his water supply, since he hasn't paid the bills in months. He hired a crooked plumber to tap into my water main. Mine. You would not believe the bill. I'm still battling the water company. And did I mention the helicopters?”

“You might have,” Hyperion said. “Once or twice.”

“After all that, can you begrudge a person a bit of glue in the locks? It only took the bastard an hour to get a locksmith to his party mansion anyway. I'm sure the cost was trivial compared to all the money they made that night. And then they hosted that play that shall not be named.”

“Macbeth?” I asked.

“No, the one about the singing Austrians escaping Nazis.”

“I like that musical,” Hyperion said.

“So do I,” Archer said, “except they’d modernized it.”

“How do you modernize a play about the second World War?” I asked.

Archer’s mouth pinched. “Rap music—which I have the greatest respect for. Sex—ditto. And a murderous conclusion involving high-kicking ninja nuns and window-rattling explosions. Why do you think I won’t name it? They changed the name. It was a travesty. Henderson should have been killed just for allowing it on his property.”

“You probably shouldn’t say that to the police,” I said.

“I have to ask,” Hyperion said. “What did they call the musical?”

“So Long, Farewell.”

And, moving on. “What was this satire piece you wrote?” I asked.

“Oh, it's nothing, I'm sure.” He tapped his phone's screen and handed it to me.

I enlarged the article and read, my alarm growing. “Archer, this is—”

“What? What is it?” Hyperion snatched the phone from me and read. “Good grief. It's practically a help wanted ad for a hitman. I can't believe your paper published it.”

“My paper is run by children. All they care about is scaring readers for clicks. Modern media’s a virtual haunted house.”

Hyperion angled his head, his brows drawing downward. “So…”

“Of course they let me run the article,” Archer continued. “And it was accurate, and I was very careful not to name names.” His shoulders sagged. “But I shouldn’t have written it. I was just so frustrated.”

“Constant noise can make anyone crazy,” I said, sympathetic.

“I meant frustrated with my profession. I’ve sold my soul—” A doorbell rang, and Archer bounced from the sofa. “That will be Pepper and Cosmo.” He hurried from the room.

“He seems really down about his paper,” Hyperion said.

“He’s got bigger problems than the state of modern media,” I said, worried. “Archer might be a real suspect. This article could easily be construed as a threat.”

“Tell me about it.”

“He needs professional help.”

Hyperion’s expression turned knowing. “He isn’t the only one who could benefit from a psychiatrist. Have you considered the impact of your mother’s—?”

“I meant legal help. We’re amateurs. And I don’t need a psychiatrist. I need my mother to go back to whatever spiritual retreat she came from.”

“Parental challenges aside, you were the one who agreed to investigate.”

“I know, but—”

Archer returned with a tall, voluptuous, middle-aged blonde and a tanned man who looked like he'd stepped from the pages of an over-50 bodybuilder magazine.

We rose and shook hands with the newcomers.

“Pepper, Cosmo,” Archer said, “I'd like to introduce you to Abigail and Hyperion. They've solved more homicides than the San Borromeo PD.”

“I wouldn't go that far,” Hyperion said modestly.

“You certainly have lately,” Archer said. “These two are brilliant. But of course, Hyperion has something of a leg up with his psychic powers.”

“I'm a Tarot reader,” Hyperion said, “not a psychic. There's a difference.”

“Yes, yes,” Archer said, “a distinction without a difference.”

Hyperion shook his head. “Actually—”

“And Abigail. What can I say about Abigail?” He tapped his finger on his chin. “Well, I guess there's nothing much to say, is there?”

I folded my arms. “Hey, there’s a lot you can say about me.”

They turned to look at me.

“I run Beanblossom’s Tea and Tarot.”

Hyperion coughed gently.

“Well,” I amended, “I run the tearoom part. Plus, I’ve killed ten thousand, three hundred and eighty-two zombie Nazis.”

Pepper blinked.

“I killed them online,” I said.

Archer’s brows rose. “How… fascinating.”

“I’m in the top twenty,” I said defensively. “The game is very competitive. Oh, and my grandfather has a duck.” Which made Gramps interesting, not me.

I had to have some cool hobbies aside from sitting in my garden and eating burritos. Oh, my garden! “And I like to garden.”

They stared.

“Herbs mainly. I grow them in containers…” I deflated. Maybe there wasn’t much to say about me.

I needed better hobbies.

Archer cleared his throat. “All right then… What were we talking about?” He dropped onto the sleek sofa.

“Next steps,” Hyperion said.

The others sat around the low, 50s-era coffee table. Face hot, I shuffled to a chair and joined them.

“What can you tell us about the victim?” I asked the newcomers in my most professional tone.

Cosmo snorted. “You won’t lack for suspects.”

“The poor high school,” Pepper said.

“High school?” I asked.

“The ticket sales for their play were abysmal because of you know what,” Pepper said.

“So Long, Farewell?” Hyperion asked.

She nodded. “Their shows were on the same night. It was too late for the high school to switch gears. Not that it would have mattered. After So Long, everyone had lost their taste for singing nuns.”

I cleared my throat. “Look, we want to help—”

“Good,” Archer said.

“But this seems serious,” I said. “All of you could be suspects. Hyperion and I are amateurs. Have you considered hiring a professional?”

“Professionals are hardened and cynical,” Archer said. “I need someone who’ll believe us no matter how many fake snakes are in the garden.”

“I’m not sure—” I began, bemused.

“What else can you tell us?” Hyperion asked.

Pepper smoothed her slim, pink skirt. “Tom Henderson and his wife come and go. But they're here at least one week or so out of the month.”

“Do you know when they returned this month?” I asked.

“Too soon,” Cosmo growled.

“I think I saw his Mercedes in the neighborhood about a week ago?” Pepper looked to Cosmo, and he nodded.

“What about his wife?” Hyperion asked.

“Vanella? We don't see much of her anymore,” Pepper said. “She knows the entire neighborhood is furious with her. Besides, this isn't exactly a community where people pop over to their neighbors to borrow a cup of sugar.”

No, it wasn't. It was one of those places without sidewalks, to discourage the perambulating proletariat, like myself. Ha, take that Hyperion. I could alliterate too.

“But she doesn't seem the type to kill anyone,” Cosmo said.

“Where were you last night when Tom Henderson was killed?” I asked. “I mean, you may have seen someone if you were nearby.”

“I was at home,” Cosmo said. “Pepper was helping me film a video for my VR firm.”

“Oh, you’re a videographer?” I asked her.

“Everyone’s a videographer today,” Pepper said. “I suggested it would look more professional if I managed the camera. That way Cosmo wouldn’t have to stare at a tripod.”

“How long were you together?” I asked.

They looked at each other.

“From eight until eleven?” Cosmo asked.

“That seems about right,” Pepper said. “When was Tom Henderson killed?”

Whoops. We didn’t know the answer to that yet.

“We couldn’t say,” Hyperion said quickly.

“Look,” Cosmo said, “I guess the killer could have been a neighbor. You can only take so much. But personally, I blame that promoter.”

“Promoter?” Hyperion asked.

The phone rang in my skirt pocket. I checked the number and my stomach rolled. It was an international number, so it had to be my mother. How had she gotten mine?

I pocketed it without answering. “Sorry. You were saying?”

“It's disgusting,” Cosmo rumbled. “She lives right here in San Borromeo. She knows what an impact her parties have on this community. But she was the number one promoter booking that house.”

That proverbial sinking feeling bottomed in my stomach. “Which promoter, exactly?”

“She's a PR consultant,” Archer said, “not a promoter. I believe you two know her? Beatrice Carson.”

Hyperion made a low whistle.

“You know her?” Pepper asked.

I swallowed. Weakly, I said, “We may have once accused her of, um, murder.”