Steeped in Murder: A Tea and Tarot Cozy Mystery

Book 1: Tea and Tarot Cozy Mysteries

by Kirsten Weiss

Genres: Culinary Cozy Mysteries; Animal Cozy Mysteries; Female Sleuths; Cozy Mystery; funny; tarot; culinary cozy; light paranormal; tearoom mystery

Synopsis

Tea, tarot, and trouble.

Abigail Beanblossom's dream of owning a tea room in her California beach town is about to come true. She's got the lease, the start-up funds, and the recipes. But Abigail's out of a tearoom and into hot water when the realtor turns out to be a conman... and then turns up dead.

But not even death puts an end to the conman's mischief. He rented the same space to a tarot reader, Hyperion Night. Convinced his tarot room is in the cards, Night's not letting go of the building without a fight. Steamed, Abigail realizes the only way to salvage her tea room is to join forces with the tarot reader, even if he isn't her cup of tea.

But they must work together, steeping themselves in the murky waters of the sham realtor's double dealings, in order to unearth the truth – before murder boils over again.

Steeped in Murder is the first book in the Tea and Tarot cozy mystery series. Buy the book to start this hilarious caper today.

Release date: May 21, 2019

Publisher: misterio press

Print pages: 224

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

 

In my defense, the day didn’t seem that murdery.

The scent of salt air mingled with my herbal teas – mint and rosemary and roses. Whimsical stalls for the farmer’s market lined each side of the broad pier. The scene was cheerful, colorful, and felony-free.

I couldn’t wait to escape.

My first-of-the-morning customer adjusted the glasses on her nose and peered at the tin. Her graying hair tossed in the warm breeze. “The leaves look so beautiful. I’d think you’d keep them in glass jars.”

A teenager in a black maxi-skirt and thick eyeliner drifted across the pier to stand beside her.

“Tea keeps better out of the light and heat.” I glanced longingly toward the end of the pier, and the labyrinth of low, pastel buildings that climbed the hills encircling the bay.  

My customer opened the tin and sniffed. “Mm. Olallieberry. This tea won’t be around long enough for me to worry about storage.”

The teen grunted and pointed at the bundles of dried herbs, dangling from the black canvas awning. “Do any of your herbs have, you know, magical properties?”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Beryl, you and your ideas.”

Magic? I smiled. “Magic is as magic does.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the goth asked.

It had been a saying of my grandmother’s. It meant we make our own magic, that dreams come true when you work toward them. But instead, I said, “When prepared and drunk mindfully, a good tea transports you to another world of peace and tranquility. If that’s not magic, I don’t know what is.”

“No, you don’t.” Beryl slouched across the pier toward a Tarot reader who’d set up across from my stand. A giant tabby cat sat in a miniature throne beside his table, covered in a purple velvet cloth.

“Ouch.” I laughed. Fifteen years ago, I’d been that girl. “Tough crowd.”

“Beryl’s going through a phase.” My customer stuffed the tea tin into her carrying bag. “It’s hard to believe she was such an adorable toddler.”

“Have a great morning,” I called to her departing figure. Because in that moment, I was certain it was going to be great. I’d learned not to trust my intuition long ago, but who can blame me for being buffaloed? I lived in an adorable California beach town. The sun was shining.  And I was about to start my new and improved life and open an actual tearoom. Things couldn’t be better.

A voice in my head chirruped that I’d just jinxed everything, I didn’t deserve perfection.

I told the voice to shut up. This was my fairytale, dammit.

I rearranged tins on the shelves and surveyed my tiny kingdom of tea. Tea blends mounded in antique copper bowls lined the front table display. A pallet sign – Abigail’s Teas! Hand blended! – leaned against the metal pole that held up my black awning.

An elderly accordion player wandered down the pier. He waved to my grandfather, seated on a folding metal chair behind my table.

“Go and bother Tomas!” My grandfather shouted and pointed to the black canvas wall on his left. They normally shared a table – Gramps selling his horseradish and Tomas his salsa. The two men had an informal competition over which of their wares could make more grown men cry.

Gramps popped a blueberry into his mouth and laced his fingers over the stomach of his beige sweater vest. It strained against his brown-checked shirt.

The accordion player paused in front of the Tarot reader and blatted out a tune.

The fortune teller, a slender, Eurasian man about my age, narrowed his eyes and shooed away the accordionist. The giant tabby stared at me from its throne.

Unnerved by the cat’s unwavering gaze, I shifted my own to a vegetable seller with Alice-in-Wonderland-sized purple cabbages and reddish carrots. Beside her stall, a little girl and her father sold ducklings and baby chicks from an apple crate.

I wiped my hands on the front of my apron and checked the clock on my phone.

My grandfather chuckled and adjusted the brown plaid cap on his head. “You know you want to see your new building.” His blue eyes twinkled. “Just go. I can manage your stall.”

“You’re supposed to be managing ours, Frank,” a wheezy masculine voice drifted through the black canvas wall.

“What’s the matter? You think I don’t know how to make change?” Gramps lifted an untamed gray brow.

Maybe I could sneak away. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” The market wouldn’t get busy for another hour or so.

“I mind!” Tomas laughed. “If you expect me to flog your horseradish, Beanblossom, you’ve got another think coming.”

A duckling the color of Amish butter escaped the apple crate. It waddled toward my tea stand, and Gramps tossed a blueberry the duckling’s way. The berry bounced along the rough wooden pier.

“See?” Gramps motioned toward the black canvas. “Tomas is okay with it.”

Tomas poked his head around the canvas. Tall, lanky and olive skinned, he was the Abbott to my grandfather’s Costello. They’d been best friends for decades. “I’m just giving you a hard time, Abigail.” He straightened his plaid bowtie.

The duckling beelined for the berry and snapped up the treat. The tiny bird tilted its head and gazed at Gramps adoringly.

On its throne, the tabby hunched its shoulders and eyed the tiny puff of down.

I scooted around the table and swooped up the duck. “I think this is yours.” I handed the warm fluff of down to its owner.

The duckling peeped.

“Thanks.” The man strode to the apple crate. Shaking his head, he said something to his pigtailed daughter, and she pinked.

I wiped my hands on my apron. “If you're sure you don't mind."

“I once killed a man with a bottlecap,” Tomas said. “I can sell my salsa and your grandfather’s horseradish without breaking a sweat.”

Gramps snorted and rolled his eyes.

Ignoring the invitation to rehash Tomas’s old war story, I glanced toward the Tarot reader. He spoke to a woman draped in filmy scarves and hooked a leash on the tabby.

The woman dropped into his chair and riffled a deck of Tarot cards.

I fingered the key in the pocket of my jeans. I’d been plotting and planning my tearoom since I was a little girl. A room that would be elegant, cozy and fun, filled with warmth and genteel laughter. The building of my dreams had been vacant for decades. I’d been certain someone would snatch it up before I could afford to. But the building had waited for me, like it was meant to be.

Whipping off my apron, I snatched up my purse filled with swatches and business plans. “Thanks. For everything.” I kissed my grandfather’s rough cheek, and my heart swelled with love. If it wasn’t for him, none of this would be happening.

“Get out of here,” he said.

Giddy, I strode down the pier, past stands of brilliant flowers and stalls flogging jam and honey, past stenciled signs proclaiming NO OVERHEAD CASTING to the fishermen who lined the railings.

My blouse’s billowy blue-and-white sleeves rustled, tickling my arms. I swiped a curl of brown hair, streaked with gold highlights, out of my face.

To my left, a movement caught my attention. I glanced over my shoulder.

The Tarot reader paced me on the opposite side of the pier. He was handsome, with a straight nose, chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and almond-shaped eyes. His shock of black hair was fashionably tousled. In spite of the morning’s warmth, he wore a gray turtleneck above his elegant slacks.

The tabby tugged sulkily on its rhinestone leash and pulled back toward the pier.

California. Grinning, I strode down the pier’s sloping deck to the cement walk.  The spring air smelled of suntan oil and ice cream cones. Surfers plied the Pacific’s low waves. But the beach was mostly empty at this early hour, as were the narrow streets.

And my new building was just around the corner.

Footsteps sounded behind me, and the skin between my shoulder blades prickled. I shot another quick look over my shoulder.

The Tarot reader was there, close, his expression intent. He crossed to the opposite side of the narrow road, and my muscles released. Ridiculous. He wasn’t following me. There was only one way off the pier, and the town of San Borromeo was small. I was being paranoid.

I clasped my big portfolio bag to my chest and resumed daydreaming. My menu had been planned to the last scone. I’d drawn up sketches of the interior. But I needed to spend time inside to see if my dreams would fit the reality of a sixty-year-old structure that hadn’t been occupied for thirty-plus years.

The kitchen would need new equipment. I’d have to strip the walls. New floors – wooden, of course, for warmth. Would green florals be too cutesy? Because they’d match my potted ferns perfectly and the drying herbs I intended to hang over the counter. Shelves behind it, where I’d sell tins of loose tea…

I glanced to my left.

The Tarot reader strolled past a shop selling beachwear. The tabby sneered.

I did a doubletake.

Yes, the cat was definitely sneering.

Lengthening my strides, I passed a restaurant and glanced in its broad, picture window. It was packed to the gills with diners eating leisurely breakfasts. In the reflection, the Tarot reader fell slightly behind me.

My new tearoom, a faded purple stucco building, stood on the corner of a pedestrian shopping area opposite. Art galleries and shops selling whirligigs and seashells lined the brick walkway. The owner of the t-shirt shop next door waved from his doorway. “Glad you got the place, Abigail!”

“Thanks!” Heart pounding with excitement, I fingered the key in the pocket of my jeans and jogged across the street. The building wasn't much to look at now, not with brown paper lining its dusty windows. But once I'd painted the stucco white, cleaned the windows and added flower boxes, the exterior would be perfect.

It was the sky-blue door that had captured my heart. Intricate molding. Tall, narrow windows at the top. A gorgeous doorknob with a poppy inset. Its siren song had been calling me for years, hinting at treasures hidden within.

The Tarot reader’s footsteps padded behind me, and I dared another look over my shoulder. The enormous cat bounded forward. Its tawny eyes focused on my ankle.

Clutching my purse, I nodded to the man and promptly stumbled over a loose brick.

He nodded back as he caught up with me.

 In awkward silence we walked side by side, weaving around potted plants. He pulled a key from the pocket of his gray slacks.

We reached the blue door at the same time and grabbed for the intricate knob.

“Hey!” We said in unison, twin keys extended.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“What are you doing?”

“That’s my building.”

I blinked. “No, it’s my building. I rented it starting today.”

“I rented it starting today.”

We eyed each other.

My stomach plummeted to the tips of my sandals. It was a mistake, that was all. A mistake. Something silly I’d laugh about with Gramps and Tomas later.

“My realtor,” I said, “is Reince—”

“Briggs,” he whispered.

“Oh, no.” Something was seriously wrong, and my heart clenched. “I rented this building from Reince Briggs for a tearoom.”

His skin turned a shade lighter. “I rented it for a Tarot parlor.”

In a major earthquake, the ground is not your friend. The solidity of something beneath one’s feet is so taken for granted that the shock of it confuses, disorients, terrifies. I felt that shock now, and the image of tiny white shoes floated into my mind.

A nearby whirligig rattled loudly.

“But… it’s my new tearoom!” I bleated. “I have swatches!”

He glanced at the green and white fabrics spilling from my ginormous purse. “They’re lovely swatches.”

“You don’t think… It has to be… Could it be a mistake?”

“Check your key.”

I slid it into the lock, turned it. The blue door clicked open. Dust billowed from the opening on a draft of stale air. “Now yours.”

He tried his key. It turned smoothly. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You didn’t, er, pay up front, did you?”

“Six months’ rent.” My voice cracked. At California prices, it had been a lot of money. “I paid yesterday.”

“I paid for three months yesterday too.”

“How could Reince have rented it to us both?” I raked my fingers through my hair. Saint Borromeo was the patron saint of indigestion. Maybe I should have taken that as an omen before trying to start a tearoom here.

“Obviously, there’s some mistake.” A muscle pulsed in his jaw. “I should have known when I drew the five of swords. It’s always trouble for me.”

The cat stood on its hind legs and pressed its front paws to my knee.

“Ignore Bastet.” The man’s face cleared. “But I also drew the World card, and that means my Tarot room can’t go wrong.” He snapped his long fingers. “Who put you up to this? One of the gals at the Ren Faire? It was Winifred, wasn’t it?”

“I’m not joking. This isn’t a joke.”

Oblivious to the drama, a family of three ambled past us in shorts and tees.

“No.” I shook my head and stepped backward. The Tarot reader was right. It was a mistake, that was all. It had taken me years to save up the money for the tearoom, and in the end, I’d had to borrow some from Gramps, the man who’d raised me like his own daughter. But the image of those childish shoes rose again to my mind. I pushed the vision away. “There’s got to be a rational explanation. I’ll find out what.”

“Good for you,” he said briskly. “Let me know what you learn.” He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

“Wait. What are you doing?”

“Going inside of course. World card!” He hauled the resisting feline inside.

“But I rented that building too.”

“Look, you seem like a sincere sort of schmuck, so I say this with heartfelt sincerity, goodwill, peace on earth, and all that jazz. It ain’t happening. You’ve made a mistake. This is my building.”

“But—"

“The cards don’t lie. I even consulted an astrologer, though I find that form of prognostication wooly at best, but she gave me a discount. And she assured me that today was my day. The stars are aligned. This is my tarot room, all’s fair in love and Tarot, and you, dear lady, are SOL, even if you do look like an elf.” He patted my head. “Buck up. You’ll get through this.” He shut the door in my face.

My hands clenched. “Oooh!” I blew out my breath. There was no sense in getting mad, even if he totally deserved it. And I might be height-challenged, but I do not look like an elf.

I’d just sort things out myself.

Forcing down my panic, I walked down the brick walk and around the corner to the parking lot. Parking was tight in the tiny beach town, and I’d figured now that I was a renter, I could use the building’s rear lot.

My throat tightened. It was a little ridiculous how excited I’d been parking my car here this morning.

Unlocking my blue Mazda, I dumped the fabric swatches in the hatchback.

I leaned against the warm car door and called the realtor. Maybe the Tarot reader had taken the wrong key or… something.

The phone rang twice before I noticed an answering echo nearby.

Brow furrowed, I scanned the lot, still near-empty at this early hour.

The ringing seemed to come from a dumpster near the bank’s rear entrance.

Wary, I followed the sound, my head cocked, my phone loose at my side. “Hello?”

I passed the ATM and the glass door to the bank. A faint, unpleasant odor wafted from the dumpster, and I wrinkled my nose.

The ringing stopped.

I checked my phone. It had gone to voice mail.

I hung up and dialed again. An answering ring echoed off the concrete wall. Hand tightening on my phone, I walked around the dumpster. Reince's red sports car sat parked on the opposite side.

I sucked in my breath.

The realtor lay on his back beside the dumpster. His head rested against a concrete parking curb, stained brown-red with blood.

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

I swayed, staring at the dead man, at his blank gaze, at the cloud that had settled in his eyes. His chin was pressed to his chest, his lips parted. Dew glistened on his face, giving it a waxy, unreal look.

But this was real. Blood had dried on the parking curb, stained the shoulders of his charcoal suit, puddled on the asphalt. A dark bruise spread from the center of his neck.

A nearby phone rang. Rang again. Fell silent.

“Mr. Briggs?” I whispered, denial dulling my brain. He was definitely dead, and since I wasn’t a medium, he couldn’t answer me. But the frantic, irrational voice in my head asked me not to believe my eyes. “Reince?”

A morning breeze fluttered his red tie. The spotted tabby sniffed at the realtor’s tasseled loafers.

I yelped and leapt backward, thunking against the dumpster.

The giant cat yowled, a funeral dirge, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. The cat’s turquoise leash trailed along the fresh black asphalt.

I clutched my phone. “How did you get here?”

Ignoring me, the cat examined the corpse with professional detachment. His whiskers twitched. Or was it her whiskers? Bastet was an Egyptian goddess, wasn’t she?

I wrinkled my nose, smelling dumpster and other odors I didn't want to think about too hard.

“Bastet!” The fortune teller jogged across the parking lot. “What are you…?” He trailed off, his gaze traveling from me to the dead man. “You killed our realtor!” He snatched the cat off the pavement.

The animal growled, offended.

“I did not,” I said. “I just found him here. Look, the blood is dry. Mostly.”

“What, are you a detective and a tea lady?”

“A man’s dead. There’s no need to be snarky.”

His striking face rearranged itself. Outrage, anxiety, and chagrin flitted across his mobile features. Clutching the tabby, he edged backward, as if afraid I might attack.

“His phone was ringing,” I said. “I called Reince, and I heard the phone, and I followed the ringing here.”

“Or so you say.”

“Well, yeah. I did just say it. Literally. I just said it.”

“Now who’s being snarky? I love snark, by the way, especially from elves.”

“Not funny. Not with a dead body right there.” I was only slightly height-challenged. “And some fortune teller you are. You couldn’t predict this?”

“I can’t believe you went there.”

“Sue me. I speak in clichés when I’m rattled. Our realtor is dead!”

“Well,” he said, “I tell jokes when confronted with corpses and crowded elevators. And I’m a Tarot reader, not a fortune teller.” He swooped down and pressed two fingers to the side of the realtor’s neck. “Cold as a morgue.” He loosed a gusty sigh. The cat struggled beneath his arm. “You'd better call the police. If I put Bastet down, he'll probably start nibbling on him.” He lifted the cat so they were face-to-face. “Remind me never to die when you're locked in a room with me.”

“He? But isn’t Bastet—?” I shook myself. Moving on.

I fumbled with the phone and called nine-one-one.

The dispatcher ordered me to stay where I was and not touch anything. We hung up.

“The police are on their way,” I parroted.

“They'd better be.” He gave me an appraising look. “I suppose you want to think I did it.”

My shoulders jerked. Want to think he’d done it? He could have done it. “I haven’t exactly gotten around to making a list of suspects.”

He backed away. “Or maybe you and your partner killed Reince last night, and you only pretended to be surprised when you found his body this morning. Maybe that's why Bastet has been so fascinated by you.” His eyes narrowed. “You carry the scent of death.”

Wait. What? “My partner?”

“That old guy who looks like a mafia don.”

“That’s my grandfather.”

“We can’t help our relations, elf.”

I shook my head. “Look, I didn’t kill him. And who are you?”

“Hyperion Night.” He motioned to the cat. “No wonder Bastet was stalking you. He has a sixth sense for violence. You know. Cats.”

I nodded, hysteria batting against my brain. I needed to get a grip. Fast. I took a deep breath and slowly let it go.

“As for your partner—”

“I don’t have a partner,” I said more calmly, “and I didn't kill anyone.”

“I sure hope not,” a masculine voice behind us drawled.

We both jumped.

The stranger was tall and rangy. Beneath his blue suit jacket, his button-up shirt and jeans were anchored by a massive silver buckle. His face was bronzed by the sun, his maple-colored hair touched with gold. The newcomer shifted his weight, brushing his jacket aside with one hand to expose the police shield on his hip. But my gaze fixed on the large gun holstered beside it.

“Detective Chase,” he said. “What have we got here?”

Hyperion gawped at the man. I couldn't blame him. If Apollo had fallen to earth by way of Texas, he would have looked a lot like Detective Chase.

“It's Reince Briggs,” I said, stiffening. “The realtor. He’s d-dead.” I’ve got nothing against cops in theory. Society wouldn’t function without them, and like any other group of people, most were good. But theory flies out the window when an authority figure is prepared to exert actual authority over you.

I hate it when that happens.

“Huh.” The detective drew a pair of medical gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. He squatted beside the corpse. “So, you knew the man,” he said, not touching him. “That makes things easier.”

“Are you going to check his pulse?” I glanced at the gloves, at the body. Was Reince still alive? Because this was one of those few instances when I wouldn’t mind being wrong.

“Why would I want to do that? I can see he’s dead.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “Because you put on gloves?”

“We’re standing next to a dumpster,” he said.

Feeling foolish, I turned to study the green metal bin. “Right. There could be evidence inside.”

He made a face. “Evidence is for the tech team. That thing’s covered in germs.”

But it seemed unlikely the germs would leap off the dumpster and down his throat.

“And who are you?” he asked.

“Abigail Beanblossom.”

Hyperion made a choking sound that sounded a lot like elf.

“And this is Hyperion Night,” I added, since the Tarot reader was still making gasping noises, his eyes glued to the detective.

A seagull wheeled above. Bastet tracked it with his gaze.

“Beanblossom.” The detective stood and rubbed his square jaw. “You related to Frank Beanblossom?”

“He's my grandfather,” I said, throwing an irritated look in the Tarot reader’s direction. Mafia Don. Ha.

The detective looked over Hyperion, and his gray eyes flickered like a summer storm. “Hyperion. That's a name. What's your connection to this, Mr. Night?”

“I didn't do it.” Hyperion clutched the cat more tightly to his chest.

Bastet meowed, protesting.

“I didn’t either,” I said.

“Mm hm,” the detective said placidly. “So, how do you know Mr. Briggs?”

“He was my realtor too,” Hyperion said.

“And what did he sell you?” the detective asked him.

“He rented me that building.” Hyperion motioned toward the rear of the purple stucco building.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

“And you?” He turned his wickedly gray eyes on me.

“Me? He rented me that building too.” I cleared my throat. My mouth was dry, even though I’d gulped a can of diet cola an hour ago. Stupid authority figures. “Clearly, there's been some mistake.”

“You're telling me he rented you both the same building? Did you pay any rent in advance?”

The sirens grew louder.

“Six months,” I muttered.

“I only paid three,” Hyperion said in a superior tone.

I scowled at the Tarot reader. So, I was a rotten negotiator. Did he have to rub it in?

“When did you pay this gentleman?” the detective asked.

“Yesterday,” Hyperion and I said in unison and grimaced at each other.

“Well, that is a strange turn of events,” the detective said.

“It’s got to be a mistake,” I babbled. “I’ve been planning to open a tearoom since I was five. I’ve even gone to cooking school. It's not that big of a building, but it's perfect for my tearoom.”

“Or a Tarot studio,” Hyperion cut in.

I clamped my jaw shut. I always talked too much when I got nervous. I’d make a terrible suspect in a police investigation. Authority figures made me nervous. Not that I had anything to worry about, being innocent and all. I folded my arms.

The detective brushed open his jacket and braced both his hands on his slim hips. “A Tarot studio,” he said, voice flat.

“Tarot is an amazing tool for self-development,” Hyperion said. The tabby clawed at his charcoal turtleneck. “The cards depict archetypes from our universal unconscious. They allow us to tap directly into our subconscious and superconscious knowledge. The psychologist Carl Jung did most of his work with synchronicity and archetypes around the I Ching and alchemy. But he wrote a bit about Tarot too.”

My mouth crumpled, and I forced it into a more neutral position. That was exactly the sort of thing my mother would blather about.

“If you say so,” the detective drawled.

“You sound like a skeptic,” Hyperion said.

“I’ve been meaning to get that checked.” The detective studied the body. “I thought the cards were used for fortune telling.”

“That too,” Hyperion admitted.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You both paid the dead man rent up front for that building. The whole building.”

Hyperion and I nodded.

The cat wriggled free of his arms and tried to crawl on top of Hyperion's head.

“Ouch! Get off!” The Tarot reader flailed and staggered against the dumpster. “That’s my ear, not a stair climber!”

The detective eyed him askance.

A police car skidded into the parking lot.

The detective glanced its way and groaned. “Rookies. You two, stop talking to each other. In fact, you.” He pointed at me. “Go stand over there.” He pointed to a spot on the other side of the dumpster. “And you.” He pointed at Hyperion. “Stand over there.” He pointed to a spot beside my blue Mazda. The detective waited until we'd gone our appointed spots, then he strode to the squad car and braced his hands on the rim of the open window. “The man's already dead. No need to endanger the public by speeding.”

He said something more quietly to the uniformed cops, and they nodded, exiting the car, and started toward Hyperion.

Sweat crawled down my neck. It wasn’t because I was worried about being arrested for murder or anything. It was just a really warm morning.

I mean, this was San Borromeo. Nothing ever happened here. It couldn’t have been foul play. Reince had probably just stumbled and hit his head.

I remembered the bruise on the front of his throat, and nausea swamped me. That bruise wasn’t from a stumble.

Renting to us both had been a mistake. So, I wasn’t a suspect, because you don’t kill someone over a mistake.

But grudgingly, I acknowledged it would have been pretty damn hard for Reince to make a mistake that big. Unless he’d thought I only wanted to rent part of the building?

Another squad car drove into the lot at a more sedate pace and came to a halt beside the detective. Chase leaned in the open window and spoke to one of the officers. The cop, a woman with blond hair in a ponytail, nodded, and the squad car crawled toward me.

I wiped my forehead. Mistake. It was a mistake, not a motive for murder. I'd go to the realtor’s office and get everything sorted out.

The police car glided to a halt in front of me. Two officers, a man and the woman, stepped out.

“Abigail Beanblossom?” the woman asked. She was only my height — five-foot-four — but she looked like she could take care of herself.

I nodded. “Yes.”

“We'll need to take your statement.” She opened the rear door. “At the police station, if you don't mind.”

“The police station?” I asked weakly. Why the police station? I’d only found the body. I wasn’t a suspect.

“If you don't mind,” she repeated, her posture telling me it didn't really matter if I minded or not.

“You don’t think I'm a suspect?” I couldn't be. I hardly knew the realtor. Besides, he was cold when I’d found him. Hyperion had said so.

“Ma'am,” she just said, holding the door open.

Nausea swam up my throat.

Oh damn. I was a suspect.

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

Muscles tight, I paced the interrogation room. It smelled of disinfectant. I wanted to think that was a good thing, until I considered all the reasons the room would need disinfectant. And Detective Chase gave me a lot of time to think. I’d watched enough police shows to know he was doing it on purpose – leaving me alone with my thoughts to shake me up.

It was working, and that was just irritating.

The door opened, and the detective strode inside carrying a file beneath one arm of his blue suit jacket. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he drawled and closed the door with his elbow.

I bit back a sharp remark. I’d been there over two hours and had already talked to the Texan detective twice. He’d somehow made casual intimidating, his questions pointed as a bowie knife. I glanced at the clock above the mirror.

The second hand clicked backward, thought about its next step, and made a tentative tick forward.

“Did you get everything you need?” I forced a smile.

He slid the manila folder onto the metal table in the center of the room and flipped it open. “Recognize this man?”

I came to stand beside him and looked at the page. A mugshot of an unsmiling Reince Briggs stared out at me. I sucked in my breath. “That’s—”

“Roger Byrson. AKA Reince Briggs. AKA Reynold Bing. AKA—”

“Mugshots.” I clutched the back of a metal chair to steady myself. This was happening. This had happened. “He’s a criminal.”

“Ran a standard real estate con. He’d rent houses and buildings that weren’t actually for rent. He’d find empty ones, break in and get new keys made. In the past, he managed to get out of Dodge before the actual owners showed up.”

“You’re saying, I bought—” My voice cracked. “I rented – a Brooklyn Bridge, a building that wasn’t actually for rent.”

“We can’t know for sure until we talk to the owner.”

“But. He worked out of an office. He had a partner.”

“He’s an identity thief. And the identities he steals belong to dead realtors. When did you say you paid Mr. Briggs?”

I released my death grip on the chair and straightened. “I gave him a check yesterday when we met at two o’clock.” Had he cashed it? If I got to the bank right away, maybe I could stop payment. It would be all right. Please, let it be all right.

“And when did you find out he’d rented the building to Mr. Night as well?”

“Who? Oh, the Tarot reader. Just this morning. Wait. You don’t think I—?”

“Thank you, Ms. Beanblossom. That will be all. For now.”

“But what about the money I gave him?” I started to reach for his arm and dropped my hand. “If Reince was a conman, are you going to be able to get my payment back?”

“I’m sure someone will be working on that.”

“Someone?”

“I’m just homicide, ma’am.” Pulling down the sleeve of his suit jacket to cover his palm, he opened the door.

“Was my check in his wallet or in one of his pockets?”

“No, ma’am, your check was not on his person. Have a good day.”

“Right. Right.” I stumbled outside to stand on the station’s concrete steps and blinked in the California sun. Adorable pastel buildings with scroll-like wrought iron balconies surrounded the station. Boutiques and burger joints in Caribbean shades tumbled over each other towards the Pacific. They made me want to vomit.

The money I’d paid Reince was just the first in a series of financial dominoes. My budget had been, to put it mildly, lean. If my money had been stolen and was gone, so was my tearoom. And not just the tearoom in that building, but in any building. It would take me years to earn enough back to start over in high-priced California.

Clutching my purse to my chest, I breathed heavily. The money couldn’t be gone. I wouldn’t let it be gone.

Across the street, a tourist couple paused in front of the windows of a candy shop with a wavy, shingled roof. Its decorative half-timbering exposed smooth, white stucco. San Borromeo had a dozen or so of these fairytale style buildings – knockoffs of the famous Comstock homes of Carmel. But just as good, Gramps would always say. My grandfather lived in one, and I worried about him going up and down the narrow stairs.

I also worried about his reaction to learning I’d been tricked. Gramps had a heart condition.

He’d also be wondering what was taking me so long.

I steadied my breathing and called my grandfather.

“Abigail! How’s it going?”

“Um. There’s been a small hiccup.”

“Hiccup?”

I winced. I’d have to tell him eventually, but I’d rather give him the news after I got my money back. Because I had to get it back. “I need to go to the bank. Can you hold out for another hour?”

“Not a problem,” he said stoutly.

“Tell her you have a new friend!” Tomas shouted on the other end of the line.

“What?” I asked.

“A lady friend.” Tomas guffawed.

“He’s joking,” Gramps said quickly. “Are you okay? You sound funny.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Are you sure you don’t mind managing the stall another hour?”

“I was planning on being here all day anyway. Don’t you worry.”

“Thanks,” I said, relieved and more than a little guilty. We said our goodbyes and hung up.

I hurried to my bank. After a thirty-minute wait in the lobby, the manager gave me the bad news. Reince had been there yesterday afternoon and cashed the check. The manager remembered, because she’d had to sign off on it, and had been concerned about Reince carrying so much cash.

I tasted despair, which incidentally, is a lot like aspirin with a hint of lime.

Swaying, I tottered from the bank. Okay. Okay. Maybe the realty office where Reince had worked could help. Maybe he’d left the cash in the safe there. I’d met his partner, Cyrus, and they had a secretary and everything. The realty, at least, was legit. It had been around for years, even if Reince hadn’t.

I checked my phone and jogged toward the realtors’ office.

The sky had turned that flat blue-white color that sometimes comes on hot days. A trickle of sweat dampened my pseudo-peasant top as I huffed up a steep hill and past a mix of bungalows and B&Bs with colorfully-painted front doors, low, sloping roofs, and neat gardens.

I stopped in front of a gray stucco, foursquare-style home with a wide front porch and a wood-beam awning.

Two Mediterranean Cypresses, trimmed like spearheads, stood sentry on either side of the house. An elegant, coal-colored sign for the converted real estate office stood near one cypress.

Angry voices floated from the realty and over the cheerful garden of sage and desert agaves.

I strode down the flagstone steps to the porch. Flyers displaying homes for sale papered the windows. Behind the screen, the front door stood open. I pulled open the screen door and walked inside.

A shortish man and a brown-eyed blonde faced off in the gray-tiled foyer. A hanging spider plant swayed violently beside the wooden staircase, as if someone had swatted it. Glass-frosted doors bracketed opposite sides of the room.

A third person, a gray-haired receptionist in a yellow skirt and flowered, blue blouse braced her hand on the reception desk.

“—destroyed my kitchen tiles from Bologna,” the man shouted in a thick Italian accent. His olive skin was dark with anger. A shock of near-black hair fell into his acorn-colored eyes, and he swiped it away angrily. He wore an expensive-looking blue suit. His white socks were jammed into loafers polished to a blinding sheen.

“I live there,” the blond woman snarled. “I can make whatever changes I want. Those tiles were hideous.”

The dark-haired man vibrated with rage. “It is my home!” He whirled on the older woman. “This is your fault.”

“I don't know what happened, Mr. Peretti,” the receptionist squawked. Her cat-eye glasses amplified her protuberant eyes, blue and watery. “But we’ll look into it.”

The Italian purpled and stepped closer. “Look into it? Look into it! I return from Roma and there is a strange woman living in my home.” Peretti jabbed a stubby finger at the blonde. “Did you know she sold my furniture?”

“Not all,” the blonde said. “Only the ugly pieces.”

My stomach slithered onto the sisal throw rug. Two people in one house? Whatever had been left of my denial shattered, falling to pieces at my feet. I hadn’t been the only victim of Reince’s con.

“Please,” the gray-haired receptionist murmured. “I'm sure it's all a misunderstanding.”

If only that were true. Could one of these people have killed Reince? The Italian seemed angry enough.

“It’s my home,” the blonde said. “I don’t see how you can misunderstand that.”

“My home!” the Italian, Mr. Peretti, shouted. “Mine!”

A low, hopeless noise escaped my throat.

“How dare you,” the blonde shouted.

“Dare? Dare!” Peretti's chest swelled. “Of course I dare. It is my property!”

“Sir…” the receptionist’s voice cracked.

“And you!” He stepped closer to her. “What do you know about this? Sneaking about and lurking in the background.”

The older woman gasped and took a step back. She gripped her cat-eye glasses with one gnarled hand.

My neck tightened. I don’t like seeing little old ladies picked on. “Hey.”

The three turned to stare at me.

“And what is your role in this?” the Italian snarled.

“I don’t have one,” I said. “But I've never seen a situation calmed by shouting.”

“I'll shout as much as I please,” Mr. Peretti said. “This woman tore out my garden and replaced it with a desert!”

“It's a low-water garden.” The blonde rolled her eyes.

“Who are you to tell me not to shout?” the Italian continued.

I took a prudent step backward. “Listen—”

“This woman is living in my house without my permission. And that man rented it to her. And she has a dog!”

The blonde pivoted toward the receptionist. “Where is Reince? I've left a dozen messages ever since this lunatic appeared on my doorstep.”

“My doorstep,” Peretti shouted. “Mine!”

“I don't know,” the receptionist said, her voice shaking, “but as soon as I find him, I'm sure we'll straighten everything out.”

“But he's dead,” I said.

They goggled at me.

Whoops. “You mean… the police haven't come here yet?”

The older woman's legs folded. She slid to the ground, her back against the wainscoting beneath the stairs.

I hurried to her side and knelt. “Can I get you some water? Are you all right?”

Expression wan, the older woman shook her head. “The shock… Reince can't really be dead, can he?”

I rubbed my arms, suddenly cold beneath the thin fabric of my blouse. “I’m sorry.”

“We've met before,” she said, “haven't we?”

I nodded. “Briefly. Here, in this office.” I motioned left, toward the plastic wall holders filled with flyers for homes for sale. “I was one of Reince's clients, Abigail Beanblossom.”

“I’m Florence.”

“He rented me the building at 2304 Laurel,” I said, “and I paid him upfront. Another man, Hyperion Night, claims Reince rented it to him.” I darted a glance at the Italian. He’d seemed surprised when I’d told them Reince was dead. They’d all seemed surprised. But had they been? “We can't both have the building.”

“You’re sure Reince is dead?” the receptionist asked.

“The police found his body this morning,” I said. “He's dead.” It wasn't a lie. The police had found his body after I had. But it bothered me a little that I’d instinctively veered away from that fact, as if I had something to hide.

“That’s inconvenient,” the blonde said.

“Good,” Peretti said. “The man was either a fool or a criminal. He deserved to die. I hope it was painful.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” the blonde said.

“I do go that far,” Peretti said. “Now get out of my house!”

“Under California law,” she said, “you can't force me out.”

“We'll see about that.” He stormed out the front door.

I glanced between the receptionist and the screen door, swinging slowly shut. “About 2304 Laurel, I paid six months’ rent up front. The bank told me Reince cashed the check. Could the money be here, by any chance?” Because if I didn’t get that money back… I stood and swayed, suddenly dizzy. I told myself it was just money, just a building. But that was a lie. It was so much more.

“What on earth is that racket?” A woman, tall and muscular as an Amazon and with short, graying hair, walked down the stairs. A long, sheer kimono wafted about her ivory slacks and tunic. She spotted the receptionist, sitting on the gray tiles. “What's happened?” she asked coolly. Striding to the receptionist, she helped her to her feet.

“We'll look into your building,” Florence told me and shot the newcomer a sideways glance. “And we do keep checks in the safe, but no cash. But I’ll take a look.”

“Thanks.” I hurried after the Italian. I was clutching at slippery straws, but maybe he knew something about Reince that would help. “Mr. Peretti?”

He halted on the garden path and looked over his shoulder. “What?”

I trotted down the porch steps. “I think we may be in a similar situation.”

“You and I are not in the same situation.”

“We're not?”

“I was away. I came back. A strange woman was living in my house without permission. I am the homeowner! You, signorina, are the fraudster!”

“Fraudster? I’m not—”

“Now what's all this about?” a familiar voice drawled. Detective Chase stood on the sidewalk, his long arms loose at his sides.

My shoulder muscles tensed. Nah, I didn’t look suspicious here. Not one bit.

“What this is about is none of your business,” Peretti snapped.

The detective drew aside his navy blazer, exposing his badge. “I reckon it is, as you're disturbing the peace. What's going on here?”

“You are a police officer?” Peretti sneezed.

The detective stepped backward and raised a hand. “Whoa.” A panicked expression crossed his chiseled face. “Are you sick?”

“Allergies.” He whipped a handkerchief from his inside pocket. “Inside that house there is a ring of thieves.”

The detective edged farther away from the Italian. “Are you seeing someone for that?”

“Why would I see someone? It is this foreign pollen.” The Italian blew into the handkerchief.

The detective’s mouth compressed. “How do you know it’s allergies?”

The Italian glared. “What does it matter? You are a policeman, not a doctor. Arrest someone! Arrest all of them! But especially that woman.”

The detective pulled a mask, like doctors wear, from the pocket of his jacket and slipped it over his face. “Ms. Beanblossom?”

Is not interfering in a police investigation. Had I been interfering? I hadn’t been poking my nose into the murder, just into what had happened to my money. Though the Italian and the angry blonde did make two good suspects.

Peretti stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket. “Her?” He looked me up and down, his expression dismissive. “No, not that scrawny thing.”

I straightened. “Hey!” If he was going to be like that, he could move to the top of my suspect list.

“I meant the blond she-demon inside,” Peretti continued, motioning toward the realty. “She moved into my house without permission.”

The detective cocked his head. “Now did she?” he asked, his voice muffled through the mask. “And what exactly are you doing here, Ms. Beanblossom?”

“Not interfering in a murder investigation!”

Detective Chase raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

Heh, heh. “Um, I rented my building from this company. The bank told me Reince cashed my check yesterday. I came to find out if maybe he’d left my money here.”

“And I suppose you told them all about poor Mr. Briggs's untimely death.”

Uh, oh. My gaze shifted to a poplar. A small brown bird hopped in its circle of shade. “Um, was I not supposed to do that?”

“All right then, I guess you've done enough damage. You can go.”

“But… was my cash found on Reince?”

“No. You sure you don’t have it?”

My jaw tightened. He thought I’d killed Reince to get my money back. I made a show of patting my pockets, rummaging in my purse. “Gee, no. Because I didn’t kill Reince and take it.”

“That’s a relief. Now run along.”

That was a little patronizing. But I was leaving anyway, so I smiled tightly and speed-walked down the street.

This was turning into a really bad day.

Nauseated, I returned to the farmers’ market. Narrow flags snapped from the tops of stands in the warm ocean breeze. Shoppers in shorts and tank tops crowded the pier, their footsteps a hollow, arrhythmic drumbeat on the wooden planks.

I had to tell my grandfather about the building. But the thought of letting him down when he’d done so much – raising me when my parents were finding themselves at some new age commune, lending me money to fill the gap in my financing, rescuing me… I looked down, and for a moment I swear I saw childish legs ending in a pair of white shoes. And then the vision vanished, and I was looking at my own drag-queen-sized feet.

I walked past a stall selling white and purple cauliflower in short, slatted baskets, and my stomach twisted. And then there was my grandfather’s heart. He wouldn’t be worried about the money – he knew I’d pay him back - but he’d be furious with the realtor.

I was furious at myself. Why had I trusted Reince?

If I didn’t get that payment back… My hands fisted.

Before I’d dreamed of a handsome prince, I’d dreamed of my own tearoom. A place of comfort. Doing what I loved. Independence. I could almost taste the scones, smell the brewing tea, and my heart ached with longing.

The accordion player drifted past. He played a sour note, and my fantasy evaporated.

I can do this. I inhaled deeply. I’d get the money back… somehow. I might have been conned, but the money I'd given Reince wasn’t necessarily gone for good. Reince was dead. He couldn’t have spent the cash that quickly. My face warmed at the uncharitable thought.

I stopped in front of my stall.

Gramps snoozed in the folding chair, his fingers laced over his broad stomach. A duckling nestled between his hands and chest.

Affection surged through me. I loved this man. How could I disappoint him with my mistake? “Gramps?”

He snorted and jerked upright. The duckling scrambled for balance, its unformed wings flapping helplessly.

“I’m awake!”

“Even the fish could hear you snoring,” Tomas said on the other side of the tent canvas.

I worked to smooth my expression, which I guessed was somewhere between wanting to laugh and cry. “What’s with the duckling?” I looked around the market. The little girl and her father were gone.

Gramps blinked. “Peking?”

“What?”

“Peking Duck,” Gramps said. “He imprinted on me after I fed him that damn blueberry. Apparently, blueberries are like catnip to ducklings.”

“It’s a she,” Tomas shouted.

“Fine, she,” Gramps hollered back. “I had to buy the stupid thing. It wouldn’t leave me alone, and a seagull kept trying to eat it.”

Tomas pulled back the canvas flap that separated our booths. “How’d it go at your new building?” His brown eyes crinkled with concern. “Your grandfather told me there was a little problem.”

And that was the moment. All I had to do was tell Gramps what had happened.

Or I could fix the “little problem” and then tell him. I swallowed. “Um, okay. You know. Nothing’s ever quite what you expect when you move in.”

Gramps laughed, the duckling jiggling on his stomach. “The course of business ownership never runs smooth. That’s Shakespeare. Roughly.”

A silver-haired man strolled to my table and eyed the copper bowls mounded with tea. “Have you got mint tea?” he asked, saving me from further explanation.

I dealt with the customer, and Gramps migrated to his and Tomas’s booth of fiery pain.

We closed at four. My grandfather helped me take down my stand and load everything into a pushcart. I trundled it to my Mazda.

Police tape fluttered near the dumpster, where Reince's body had lain. A ponytailed woman in what looked like a white hazmat suit examined the crime scene. Uniformed police stood guard nearby.

I rubbed my face, remembering last weekend’s CSI binge watch. What sort of trace evidence had I left when I'd found Reince's corpse?

Unimportant.

Shaken, I drove toward home, along winding treelined streets, the ocean glinting through breaks in the eucalyptus trees. I pulled into the driveway beside my sunshine yellow bungalow and slowed to a halt in front of the side yard gate. Above it, jasmine wound up the trellis.

A circular saw buzzed.

Frowning, I stepped from the car into the gravel driveway.

The full force of the noise struck me, and I flinched.

Fantastic. My new neighbor must be remodeling.

Rubbing my forehead, I trudged up the wooden steps to my front door and let myself in. Bamboo floors, soothing blue walls, and white crown molding. The bungalow had been my haven for three years now, when I'd started renting it from Tomas.

The saw screeched through the walls, drilling directly into my brain.

I gritted my teeth, dropped my purse on the dining room table and pulled out the business plan for the tearoom. The cover stared back at me. It was a watercolor I'd painted of the exterior, complete with swinging signboard that read: Beanblossom's.

A headache hammered at the back of my eyeballs, and my eyes warmed. I rubbed them ferociously. My dream couldn’t be dead. Not yet.

Feet dragging, I walked into the cheerful blue kitchen and reheated some Mexican food. While the microwave hummed, I walked inside the pantry - my pride and joy. Drying herbs from my garden hung from ceiling racks. One shelved wall was lined with metal canisters of herbs. I opened a tin of dried mint and inhaled its crisp scent. I was meant to mix tea blends. Somehow, I’d make the tearoom happen.

The microwave dinged. I retrieved my plate and poured myself a glass of iced tea — my own blend of rosemary and horsetail (great for hair and skin).

I walked into the living room. And even though I felt like pulling the curtains and huddling on the couch with a bottle of wine and a box of tissues, the day was too beautiful to ignore. I opened the French door to the deck.

The roar of the saw made me take an involuntary step backward.

I shut the door and leaned my forehead against a cool glass pane. Clearly, I should have stuck with my first instinct. But my instincts had never been good.

I drew the curtains, uncorked a bottle of wine, and flopped onto my couch. Turning on my TV, I slipped my headset over my ears. Soon I was killing Nazi zombies with Razzzor, the owner of the tech company I used to work at. After selling out to Microsoft, he spent his days gaming, getting analyzed and being rich.

“DIE NAZI SCUM!!!” I blasted an SS zombie horde and took down half a ruined church in the process.

“Watch it!” Razzzor bellowed in my ears. “You nearly dropped that wall on me.”

“Sorry,” I muttered. “It’s been a day.”

“What’s up?”

“It looks like…” My breathing turned ragged. “I think a realtor conned me out of a lot of money, my savings.”

“I sensed something was wrong.”

“Sensed?”

“My therapist says I need to show more empathy. What’s really bothering you?”

“What’s bothering me is without that money, my tearoom is DOA. On your right!” I shot a zombie, and it tumbled from the window of a French bistro.

“So, get the money back.”

So much for empathy. “I can’t,” I snarled. “The realtor’s dead.”

“Whoa. Seriously? Nine o’clock!”

A zombie emerged from a pile of rubble and exploded.

“Where are you in all this?” he asked.

I lowered my head, recognizing more therapist-speak. “I can’t go back to…”

“Working for me?” He laughed. “We did pretty well.”

And that had been a once-in-a-lifetime stroke of luck. It wouldn’t happen again.

“Just start over,” he said.

A despairing sound escaped my throat. He had no idea how hard it was to earn the kind of money I’d just lost in a day. “I’d budgeted all my savings plus some money my grandfather had lent me for the tearoom. Losing six months’ rent puts an impossible hole in my funding. I can’t just start over, unless I can find a new location that doesn’t require upfront rent and that’s half the cost. Plus, I have to pay my grandfather back. Worse, I’m a suspect in Reince’s – the realtor’s – murder.”

“Oh.” He was silent for a while. “Do you need—”

“No.” I was not going to borrow money from Razzzor. Bad enough I’d tapped my grandfather.

“Okay, but you know I’m here for you. And seriously, how bad can it be?”

“Right,” I said dully.

But liberating Europe from the vile undead had eased some of the pain. The urge to throw heirloom tomatoes at my neighbor’s house had passed, and the rough edge of panic from the morning’s imbroglio had dulled.

Because Razzzor was sort of right. There was always a bright side. I mean, things couldn't get worse.

Right?