Tempest in the Tea Leaves

Book 1: A Sunny Meadows Mystery Series

by Kari Lee Townsend

Genres: Paranormal Cozy Mysteries; Female Sleuths; Paranormal Romance; Humorous gen fiction

Synopsis

In the fortune telling business there are a lot of pretenders, but Sunshine Meadows is the real deal—and her predictions can be lethally accurate . . .



Leaving the Big Apple for the quaint town of Divinity, New York, Sunny is determined to make it on her own as a psychic. With an ancient Victorian house as her place of business, Sunny uses various psychic methods to aid the town's residents. But when she uses tea leaves to give a reading for a frazzled librarian, what she finds at the bottom of the cup is anything but helpful. Sunny informs the police of her deadly vision, but her warning is too late. And with hard-nosed, ruggedly handsome Detective Mitch Stone denying her abilities and naming her prime suspect, the situation is dire. Now Sunny has to use her visions to clear her name, before the killer can put an end to the psychic's future.



Contains mature themes.

Release date: March 20, 2021

Publisher: Oliver Heber Books

Print pages: 239

Sample

Chapter One

“Sylvia Eleanor Meadows, get back in this penthouse immediately!” my father, Donald Meadows—the almighty doctor and king of his domain—thundered as though I were still nine. He stood on the busy street in Manhattan and stabbed a finger toward the enormous building behind him, his gray-streaked, perfectly coiffed brown hair not moving an inch.

“It’s Sunny now, Dad, and has been for almost a decade.” I pulled my long sweater coat closed over my save the planet T-shirt in a useless attempt to hide the hole in the thigh of my jeans. My parents’ perusal of my person and the disapproval reflected in their eyes revealed they’d seen it all. I suddenly felt the same sense of failure and inadequacy I always felt whenever I was around them.

Just one of the many reasons I was leaving the city.

“You’ll always be Sylvia to me.” He squared his shoulders in his precisely tailored Armani suit, and I knew he’d never budge on that one. As my parents’ only child, they’d both been hurt when I’d changed my name, but I couldn’t help it. I hated the name Sylvia, and I was nothing like them. I sometimes wondered if I was adopted.

“I’m not going inside, Dad.” I threw my single tattered plaid suitcase that had once been my grandmother’s into my brand-new car: a used, slightly rusted but well-loved white VW bug. The orange, yellow, and pink flowers on the sides suited me perfectly. “I’ve told you dozens of times already that I’m moving. You need to accept it.” I added a large box filled with my fortune-telling supplies right next to the single suitcase in the backseat.

“Don’t be silly, darling. You can’t go anywhere in that, that . . . thing. Why, I don’t think it could even make it across town, especially in this weather.” My mother, Vivian Meadows—the ruthless lawyer and queen of high society took me by the arm. She dusted the light snowflakes off her expensive suit and smoothed her golden blond, chicly styled hair. “Come inside, and let’s have brunch. It’s freezing out here. We’ll have Eduardo make us a nice espresso.”

“I hate coffee, Mom. Have my whole life.” I sighed. No matter what I said, they still weren’t hearing me, and that was half the problem. “My heater works fine in the car, and I took a course in auto engine repair, remember? I’ll be okay, and I plan to grab a hot chocolate at the D&D on my way out of town.” I reached in and turned the engine on to warm up my bug. She sputtered to life with a few groans and one loud backfire, which startled a few pedestrians and earned me several frowns.

Story of my life.

No one around here understood me, and I sure as heck didn’t fit in. Getting my hair cut at cosmetology schools instead of expensive salons and shopping for my clothes in thrift stores apparently wasn’t cool enough for these people. At twenty-nine, it was long past time I moved on and started living my life—not the one my parents had chosen for me.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said I will cut you off if you go,” my father stated with no emotion.

“I don’t need your money. I have my trust fund,” I retorted, lifting my chin and meeting his eyes square on.

“Which won’t last forever, dear,” Mom added, her smile pleasant enough, but her eyes calculating as her brain undoubtedly searched for a way to stop me.

“That’s why I’m going to open my own business,” I pointed out in a serious, firm voice.

My father’s laughter boomed out of his broad chest, hanging in thick puffs of cold air between us. “You call that a business?”

“I’ll call you when I get there,” I said through my clenched teeth, refusing to let him bait me. I looked them each in the eye, one last time. “Good-bye, Mom and Dad. Take care of yourselves.” I slid into my car and pulled away from the curb without a backward glance, feeling free for the first time ever.

I’d prove them wrong if it was the last thing I ever did, and then we’d see who would have the last laugh. What could possibly happen to me that was worse than what I’d had to endure thus far?

Divinity was a small town in upstate New York. Far enough away from the city to give me peace of mind, yet still a part of the state I loved. The four seasons had always appealed to me, and I couldn’t imagine living in an area that didn’t have them all. Each season brought its own unique qualities, adding variety to the life we lived, and I’d learned to appreciate every little aspect.

Even ice and snow.

My sputtering little bug chugged its way down Main Street, my tires sliding through the late afternoon slush as I pulled into Rosemary’s Realty and cut the engine. I took a deep breath of clean air and felt exhilarated. This was it. The day I picked up the keys to my new house. I had already closed months ago, but I had Rosemary hold the keys. Organization was not one of my strong suits.

I grabbed the batch of homegrown tea leaves I’d made especially for Rosemary as a thank-you and hurried into the realty office. Five minutes later, I had keys in hand, ready to walk out the door and start my new life.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Rosemary asked, slipping her tiny spectacles off her nose and letting them hang around her neck from the delicate chain they were attached to.

“What do you mean?”

She shook her platinum blond bees’ nest of hair. “You seem like a sweet girl, and well, I’d hate for anything bad to happen to you on account of that old place being haunted and all.”

I patted her hand. “Oh, don’t you worry about me. I don’t scare easily.” I winked.

“If you say so.” She sniffed the can of tea leaves and closed her eyes for a moment as though in heaven. “Thank you, sweetie. And good luck to you.” Her smile looked more like a grimace, and I could have sworn I heard her mumble, “You’re gonna need it,” as I walked out the door.

A few minutes later, I drove back down Main Street, turned onto Shadow Lane, and pulled my bug into the driveway of an ancient Victorian house with a massive wraparound porch. When I’d first seen this old, beautiful painted lady that held so much charm, I knew I had to have her.

Lady Victoria.

No one in town wanted to own a haunted house full of old antiques, so I got her for a steal, and “Vicky” became mine. From the moment I first stepped foot in the door, I felt at peace. Like she approved and had been waiting for me. Like she knew I would understand what it was like to be different. Unwanted. Boy, did I ever.

I smiled fondly as I stared up at my new home in desperate need of a fresh coat, making a mental note to add painting the house to my spring project list. Along with trimming the overgrown trees and bushes surrounding the lot. They might be bare of needles and leaves now, loaded down mostly with ice and snow, but it was plain to see come spring, they would bloom and suffocate the poor neglected house.

“You’ve been alone and neglected for far too long, old girl,” I said as I slid the key in the lock and opened the door.

A gust of wind swirled around and rushed in after me as though Vicky were taking a deep breath. The door slammed closed behind me, and I jumped then laughed. All the rumors must be playing tricks on me.

I wandered through the parlor and looked over the formal living room with pleasure. No TV, which was perfect, and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled with old treasures I couldn’t wait to get my hands on. One of the benefits of buying this house was that it came fully furnished with Victorian pieces. All except for one room off to the side. I peeked in the door and stared in wonder.

My sanctuary.

The room was small but cozy and filled with great light. This room had been left empty. Like a sign that I was meant to decorate and use this room for my readings. Not one to question signs from the cosmos, I made another mental note to spend all week giving my sanctuary a makeover.

Shivering, I realized how cold it was in the house. The thermostat read fifty-five degrees. It was a wonder the pipes hadn’t burst. I hurried to the kitchen and checked the phone, but nothing had been turned on yet even though I’d made arrangements well in advance. I pulled a pad of paper and pen out of my tassel-fringed knapsack and made an actual note to follow up on that, but I refused to let anything get me down. I chalked it up to the wonderful pleasures of owning my first home and taking care of her myself—no staff in sight.

In the meantime, I found a stack of wood that looked like it had been there for centuries. I’d had the house inspected, so I was pretty confident if I started a fire in the fireplace, I wouldn’t burn the house down. The one activity I had wanted to participate in as a child—that my mother had actually agreed to—was Girl Scouts, where I learned to build a fire with sticks.

Wonder of all wonders, it paid off.

I bit my bottom lip and pride swelled within me. A roaring fire came to life as evening settled over Vicky and me. Quickly getting to work, I made myself familiar with the house and all its nooks and crannies while there was still enough light. Locating several candles, I brought them to the living room and lit them, then called the gas and power company again from my cell phone. They assured me they would get right on it.

In the meantime, I unpacked my single suitcase in the master bedroom, changed the sheets, and slid into warm flannel pajamas. Adding groceries to my list, I made a cup of cocoa from the stash I had brought with me and carried it to the living room to enjoy my first night of independence, freedom, and solitude.

So why couldn’t I shake the feeling I wasn’t alone?

The next morning, I blinked my eyes open to a dark and gloomy day. Snow fell in heavy flakes outside my bedroom window, and the house was freezing again. The fire must have burned out overnight, and obviously the furnace still wasn’t on. Burrowing deeper beneath my down blankets, a shiver raced up my spine with the same feeling I’d had the night before.

Someone was watching me.

Turning toward my bedroom door, I sucked in a breath and yanked the covers over my head with a little shriek. My heart pounded and my pulse raced. I slowed my breathing and forced myself to relax. There was no reason to be afraid. It wasn’t like a monster was out there, I told myself, and slowly lowered the covers.

“Hello,” I said in a careful voice, staring at the large cat who sat a mere foot away from my head.

He studied me with the blackest eyes I’d ever seen, and his fur was nearly glowing it was so white. He didn’t hiss, didn’t meow, didn’t purr, didn’t so much as blink. He simply stared as though he were making up his mind about me.

I wasn’t afraid, but I had to admit, it was a bit unnerving. “Where on earth did you come from?” I mused aloud. When I’d toured the house over a month ago with Rosemary, he hadn’t been here. There had been no evidence a pet or person or anyone had stepped foot in this place in a very long time.

Rosemary had said she’d kept the house locked up tight until yesterday when she’d handed over the keys to me. I couldn’t help wonder how he had gotten inside and who had been taking care of him all this time. He certainly didn’t look hungry. He looked perfectly fit, perfectly groomed, and perfectly beautiful . . . in a creepy sort of way.

I flipped back the covers and sat up, but the cat didn’t even flinch. Add perfectly calm and in control to his list of eerie qualities. I shook my head in wonder. “Okay, then, there’s only one thing to do. Call Rosemary and see who you belong to. Because there’s no way you could have survived all this time out here on your own.”

I hopped out of bed, tossed on my thick terry-cloth robe, and padded in fuzzy slippers all the way downstairs. At the bottom, I stopped short. The cat sat on the hardwood floor, looking at me. “Wait a minute, you were just upstairs. How’d you beat me down here?”

Again with the quiet, piercing stare. At least this time, his ear twitched.

“Aha, I saw that.” I pointed at him. “You really are alive and not some stuffed animal or, worse, a figment of my imagination. I’m on to you. You’re not so tough there, buster.”

He blinked, like he was getting tired of our game, and turned around to walk regally to the living room and take up residence on the sofa as though he owned the place. Guess that meant he’d decided I was harmless as well.

I chewed my bottom lip, tapping my slipper on the cold wooden planks as I studied him. Something about this feline called to me. Something that said he was different and all alone in this world, but I still couldn’t fathom how that could be. It might actually be nice to have someone around to keep me company, I decided. Only he wasn’t mine. What if he really did belong to someone else?

I shivered, feeling the morning chill, and went over to stoke a fire in the fireplace. Glancing at the cat, I did a double take. I could have sworn he arched a brow at me.

“Oh, please, a little confidence here,” I said, and once the fire was roaring to my satisfaction, I gave the cat a satisfied smirk.

He turned his head in the other direction, the little stinker.

I went into the kitchen, picked up the phone, and was greeted with a dial tone. Yes, it was working! I called the real estate agent’s office, and Rosemary answered on the first ring.

“Oh, Rosemary, thank God.”

“What’s the matter, sweetie? I knew it was a bad idea to let you buy that old place.”

“I’m fine, Rosemary, there’s just something I need to ask you.” I peeked around the corner at the cat, and he pierced me with an accusing look. I shrugged as though I had no choice and then ducked back behind the wall where he couldn’t see me.

“Fire away,” she said.

“Well, I seem to have inherited a cat along with the house.” I turned around and jumped out of my skin, letting out a yelp.

He sat on the kitchen floor at me feet, his black eyes narrowed.

“A cat? What cat? And why did you yell? Do you need me to call animal control?”

“No!” I took a deep breath, my hand on my chest, then said, calmer, “No, I’m fine, really. I thought I saw a mouse.” A lie.

And there went the cat’s eyebrow again.

I frowned as I continued. “I’m wondering if the cat belongs to anyone in town. He’s bright white with jet black eyes and really big. Not overweight big, but really built for a cat, I guess you could say. Very svelte and sleek. Quite lovely in a spooky, eerie, masculine sort of way.”

The cat puffed out his furry chest and started licking his paw. He looked as though he could understand what I said and was pleased. He had quite the personality I was finding out, and I couldn’t help being amused.

“Honey, I’ve lived here all my life. No one in town owns a cat like that. Must be a stray, though I can’t for the life of me figure out how he got inside that old house.”

“Still, I’d hate to take him away from some poor soul who might be missing him,” I responded. “He’s quite a character.”

The cat shot me a look I could have sworn was a scathing response to my sarcasm.

Rosemary sighed as though in defeat. “I’ll put some flyers around town for you if you want. If no one claims him in a week, I say keep him. You could use an ally in that death trap.”

I giggled. “It’s not like he’s a watchdog.”

The cat stopped cleaning himself, gave me a disgusted look, and pranced out of the kitchen with his head held high.

“Either way, he’s better than nothing. You never know if all them ghost stories are true.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Rosemary.” I hung up and added cat food, toys, a scratching post, bed, and litter box to my shopping list, secretly praying no one would claim him. Like it or not, we’d somehow bonded, and I didn’t plan to give him up without a fight.

Later that day, I left the cat on the couch by a well-stoked fire with a small bowl of water, and then I headed into town. I tried to ignore the signs posted about the mysterious cat found out at the old Victorian house on Shadow Lane. Rosemary hadn’t wasted a moment in respecting my wishes, even though I secretly prayed no one would claim the cat. He felt like a sibling, something I’d never had. For some reason, I already felt closer to him than I did my parents. Sad but true.

I continued on down the street and bought a week’s worth of groceries and plenty of cat supplies, meeting a few residents along the way. The last stop I made was at the hardware store. I bought supplies for my sanctuary’s makeover and ordered a sign to be hung above my front door, then headed home.

“Home,” I whispered, smiling. I liked the sound of that.

After spending all week redecorating my sanctuary and waiting for the phone to ring from someone claiming the cat, Rosemary called and said she’d taken the signs down.

The cat was mine.

I stared at the feline, knowing in my gut I was more his than he was mine and decided I couldn’t keep going around calling him “cat.” But what on earth was I going to name him? I paced my living room as he sat watching me from his usual perch on the sofa.

Glancing into the kitchen, it dawned on me that in the entire week of knowing him and trying to care for him, he’d pretty much continued to care for himself. He hadn’t touched his food or water, hadn’t played with his toys, and hadn’t slept in his bed. No one in town had ever heard about or seen him, yet he’d been in the house alone for months before I’d moved in.

It was almost like he was immortal.

I stopped pacing and stared at him. That was it. I grinned. The perfect name.

“I’m going to call you Morty,” I said.

Morty looked at me for a full intense moment, and then he meowed for the first time since I’d met him. I swear if I didn’t know better, the corners of his lips tipped up a smidgen.

“Morty it is, then. It’s you and me, pal, because from here on out, I guess we’re in this together.” I reached out to scratch behind his ears.

And he let me.

                         

                          Chapter Two

“Tell me now! Please, I have to know. You have to help me!” A woman with long auburn hair half falling out of its up-do barged through my front door at 5 p.m. Monday evening, a gust of wind and snow swirling in on a cloud of crystals behind her. She stood there, staring at me all wild-eyed in her disheveled dove gray suit, looking on the verge of a nervous breakdown. “What do you see?”

A psycho crazy lady, I wanted to say, but I could tell she was seriously upset. Something told me those words would push her right over the edge. I pasted on my most comforting smile and said, “It’s okay, calm down.” I hurried to close the door, shutting out the frigid evening temperatures. January in upstate New York could be brutal, and this lady hadn’t even worn a winter coat. It looked as though she’d simply walked out of her house in a panic and in the dark, no less. “Why don’t you come warm yourself by the fire and tell me how I can help you?”

“Y-Your sign says Sunny’s Sanctuary. Is that you? Are you Sunshine Meadows, the fortune-teller?” She stood rigid in the same spot, wringing her hands.

If this was Crazy Lady’s idea of calming down, I was a little alarmed to find out what the rest of my customers would be like. “Slow down for both our sakes. Don’t make me pull out my Valium.” I winked, only half kidding.

Crazy Lady did not look amused.

“All righty, then. Yes, I’m Sunshine Meadows, but everyone calls me Sunny.” I’d only been here just over a week, yet people already knew my name and what I did for a living. I’d call that a success. “And you are . . . ?” I asked, gently taking her arm and carefully guiding her into the front parlor.

“Oh, sorry. I’ve had a rather rough week.” She held out her hand. “My name is Amanda Robbins, and I’m the town librarian.”

We shook hands, and then she sat down in a high-backed chair. She stared into the fire, reflecting on something that obviously troubled her, judging by the frown lines surrounding her mouth. I sat in the matching chair, giving her a moment to gaze into the crackling orange and yellow flames until she calmed down a bit.

Morty wasn’t the only thing keeping me here. Something about this mystical town called to me, as though the universe was telling me this is where I belonged. The people here needed me. I peeked at my troubled guest and knew in my gut the universe was right.

“Yoo-hoo, Ms. Robbins, you in there?”

She looked at me and blinked.

“Ah, there you are. Good.” I gave her a cheeky grin. “Now, why don’t you tell me what has you so upset?”

She took a deep breath. “I can’t tell you, but I’ll pay you whatever you want. Please, you have to read my fortune and tell me what’s going to happen to me.” Her chest began to heave again, and there went those fidgety hands.

So much for calm. “Okay. Keep in mind the more relaxed you are, the clearer my vision will be.” She nodded once and took a shaky breath as I stood up. I was determined to put her at ease however I could. “Come with me.”

“Y-You do your readings in this house?” She looked around a little warily as though just now realizing where we were. “Don’t you find it . . . you know . . . creepy?”

“Of course I do my readings here. I live here.” I took in the same walls that had freaked her out. “I don’t find this old house creepy at all. I find it comforting.” The pipes groaned, the walls creaked, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. “No worries,” I said to Ms. Robbins. “The house has more bark than bite, I’m finding out.”

The librarian yelped, lifting her feet off the floor. “What was that?”

“Don’t mind him, that’s Morty.” I picked the pristine white cat up off the floor and deposited him on the couch. “He was here when I moved in, all alone with no collar. I guess he’s decided to let me stay.” I gave him a stroke and then sat back down.

“I’ve never seen a cat so white with eyes so black before.” She shivered as Morty kept his cold, dark stare focused on her.

“I know, he’s kind of intimidating, but he has a way of growing on you.”

She shivered. “I don’t know about that.”

“He won’t bother you.” I shot Morty a look that said, Be good. He twitched his lips, making no promises. Shaking my head with a half-smile, I met the librarian’s eyes as I said, “Follow me. You’ll be fine, I promise.”

She followed me without saying a word into the room I’d set aside specifically for my fortune-teller business. Parting the strands of crystal beads, we entered my sanctuary.

“Oh my. It’s rather charming . . . and unexpected.” Ms. Robbins’s lips parted slightly as she scanned the small cozy room, her flowery perfume mixing with the scent of my aromatherapy oils.

I’d painted the walls a soft, pale blue meant to relax the seeker while the seer—that would be me—read his or her fortune. New age music poured quietly out of the speakers, a tropical fish tank bubbled away in one corner, a fireplace popped and crackled in the other, and various green plants and herbs were scattered about. Constellations covered the ceiling in a dazzling imitation of the universe, and when I dimmed the lights, they glowed—my favorite part. And last but not least, my fortune-teller paraphernalia sat on shelves in the other corner.

“Please sit down,” I said, pointing to the old-fashioned tea table in the center of the room. When she sat, I plopped down across from her and reached out. “Put your hands in mine.”

She swallowed loudly. “O-Okay.”

“Good,” I said in encouragement. “Now close your eyes and breathe deep, letting your body relax from the top of your head down to your toes.”

When she did as I told her, I closed my own eyes and breathed slow and deep until I went into a meditative trancelike state. About ten minutes into the process, I felt the librarian relax, and just like that, I knew which psychic tool would work best on her. It always happened that way for me.

“Tea leaves.” I squeezed her hands and let go.

“Excuse me?” Her eyelids fluttered open.

“Certain psychic tools work better on certain people. You, my dear, are a tea leaf sort of girl.” I nodded once with conviction, then got up and went over to my supply shelf.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive.”

“Because I need you to be accurate.”

“Trust me. I’ve always had a gift of seeing into the future. I’ve simply found certain tools enhance my visions. I’ve never been wrong before.” I bypassed my crystal ball, Tarot cards, pendulum, astrology and palm reading charts and finally found my special batch of homegrown tea leaves.

“My readings always come true. I admit I sometimes have trouble interpreting them. That’s something I’m working on. But in the end, the true meaning eventually reveals itself.” I returned to the table and set my supplies down. Right next to the lovely ancient china tea set I’d found in Vicky’s kitchen.

“Ready to get started?” I asked.

“More than you’ll ever know.” She exhaled heavily, and I couldn’t help wonder what could possibly be so bad.

“Fabulous!” I tried to inject some positive energy into her gloomy mood. “First I need you to brew the tea.”

“All right.” She glanced around. “Where are the tea bags?”

“Oh, I never use tea bags.” I shook my head. “The bigger the tea leaf, the better the shape. I have my own special batch I put together right here.” I pushed the canister in front of her. “Place the loose tea leaves in this small white cup while I boil the water.”

She did as I told her and when the whistle on my teakettle blew and steam billowed into the air, I brought the kettle over to the table and set it on a hot plate. “Now pour the water into the cup and stir the tea with a spoon as it brews.”

Again, she followed my instructions, and I watched carefully. I’d learned over the years that a skilled seer could interpret signs right from the start of the brewing process. For example, if any tea leaves spilled, it was a good sign.

Unfortunately, everything stayed inside the cup.

A sudden feeling of doom saturated me. Not good. I stifled the urge to groan and continued the ritual. She set her spoon on the saucer. “Whoops, I didn’t see you already had a spoon there. Sorry for dirtying a second one.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Congratulations.”

“About what?”

“You’re having twins.”

She gasped. “How’s that possible?”

“Two spoons on the same saucer.” I squinted into the cup and then realized I’d spoken too soon. “Whoops, hang on a sec. It’s not twins I see, but”—I paused and swallowed a gasp—“twin tumors.” I bit my lip. So much for good news. “I’m so sorry.”

She pursed her lips and lifted her chin a notch. “I’m fine, and I trust you’ll keep this confidential. The doctor is the only one who knows, and miracles happen every day. Let’s continue, shall we?”

“I won’t say anything,” I said, hating this part of my job. I cleared my throat. “Okay, then. Drink the unstrained tea and think about exactly what it is you wish to know. When you only have a teaspoon of liquid left, stop.”

She sipped the tea. “Wow, this is surprisingly delicious.”

“Thanks”—I think—“but focus. Concentrate on nothing else except what you want to know.”

I continued to watch, her brow furrowing as she drained most of the cup. “Now what?”

“Hold the cup in your left hand and swish three times in a counterclockwise motion. Then tip the cup upside down on the saucer, allowing the excess liquid to drain. Hand me the cup when you are finished.”

The woman did as I requested. I held her cup carefully in my hands, with the handle pointing toward the librarian and read the pattern of the tea leaves.

Starting at the handle, I worked my way around the cup in a counterclockwise motion from the rim to the bottom. Leaves to the left of the handle represent the past and to the right of the handle represent the future. Leaves at the top of the cup near the rim represent the immediate future while those at the bottom represent the distant future.

I puckered my brow. There were no leaves at the bottom of the cup, but a feeling in my gut told me it didn’t have anything to do with her tumors.

“What’s wrong?” Ms. Robbins asked.

“I’m not sure.” I felt that feeling of doom spread to my every cell. “Let me concentrate and keep looking.”

“Sure,” she said, but from the corner of my eye I could see she was back to wringing her hands again.

Tea leaves provide two sets of patterns. The images that appear in the white space are positive and good, while the images that appear in the tea leaves are negative and bad. I cleared my head, staying focused, and concentrated hard on the shapes before me, so my clairvoyant mind could interpret them correctly.

A single large clump of tea leaves across from the handle indicated there was trouble ahead and someone else was causing it. There was a distinct long white stalk representing a white man. I took that to mean a man was the one causing the trouble.

“What?” she fairly shrieked. “I can’t take it anymore, just tell me.”

“You asked for it,” I muttered. “Brace yourself now. I see trouble ahead. Trouble involving a man.” I squinted harder. “And I see a deer, which means a dispute or quarrel, probably with this man. I also see a flag, which means danger from wounds inflicted by this enemy.”

“Yes, he’s wounded me. He broke my heart, but I wouldn’t call him an enemy. He needs time to come around. He would never hurt me.”

I took one more look into the cup and gasped. “Oh my God, a kettle.” I had never seen this image before in all my years of reading people’s futures.

“A kettle? What on earth does that mean? That he’s going to make me tea, too?”

My vision blurred into tunnel vision, and I stared into the future, looking out of someone else’s eyes. I could feel the anger, feel the hatred . . . feel the panic. Suddenly I was standing in a room full of books, staring down at a woman who was lying on her back, a broken cup on the carpet beside her and blood along the side of her head. I sucked in a sharp breath and jerked, snapping myself back to the present.

“Good Lord, is it really that bad?”

“It’s worse.” I met the librarian’s gaze dead on. “He’s not going to make you tea.”

“Then what’s he going to do?”

“He’s going to kill you.”

“Detective Stone, ma’am. Captain said you wanted to speak with me?” the big, dark, brooding hulk of a man said from my doorway at 7 p.m. He had a slightly crooked nose and long, jagged scar along his square jawline.

I stood there like an imbecile for a minute, trying to find my tongue. He was huge, and intimidating, and I should have been scared to death—but I wasn’t. I wouldn’t call him handsome, but there was something so captivating about him, so mesmerizing. And he smelled amazing. A hint of aftershave, a smidgen of starch, and a dollop of coffee. He had a vulnerability about him that he was trying too hard to hide, simmering just beneath the surface. Like with the librarian, I knew in my gut he needed me. I wasn’t quite sure how, but I was intrigued enough to want to find out.

“Oh, right,” I finally said, and stepped back. “Please, come in.”

His eyes flashed and he gave me a quick, but thorough, once over. He stepped across the threshold, scanning every inch of the room before focusing back on me. “Is there somewhere we can sit?”

“Right this way, Chief.”

“It’s Detective.”

“I know, I just meant—”

“If you don’t mind,” he cut me off, “I’m kind of in a hurry.” His blank unreadable face stared at me pointedly.

“Oh-kay, never mind.” Mr. Grumpy Pants wasn’t that intriguing. I led him to the same spot in front of the fireplace where I had first talked to the librarian. Morty’s hackles raised, and he let out a hiss. “Be polite, Morty. Don’t you know if you can’t say anything nice, then don’t say anything at all?” Morty stood, thrust his nose in the air, and pranced out of the room. “Sorry about that.”

“Interesting pet you’ve got there.”

“Oh, he’s not mine. This is his house.”

“Lady, no one’s lived here for years.”

“Well, he certainly has. I’m beginning to see he doesn’t warm up to just anyone. Can I get you something to drink, Detective?”

“No thank you, ma’am.” He reached into the inside pocket of his sports coat and pulled out a pen and paper.

“Please, call me Sunny,” I said. “Ma’am reminds me of my mother.”

He arched an ink black brow the same shade as his thick hair. “Sunny? Unusual name.”

“Thank you.” Ever the optimist, I took his comment as a compliment, though it probably wasn’t meant as one. “It’s Sunshine Meadows to be exact.” His brow crept higher. “My parents named me Sylvia, but I changed it as soon as I was of age. I don’t know, Sylvia sounded way too stuffy. I always thought Sunshine suited me better, don’t you think?”

“Tinker Bell suits you better if you ask me,” he mumbled, flipping open his notebook.

“Tinker Bell?”

“You know,” he gestured toward my overall appearance with his pen, “cute blond pixie cut, green eyes, petite frame . . .”

This time I quirked a brow at him and stifled a smile. Maybe he had potential after all. I bit the side of my lip.

“Never mind.” His voice was curt. “Why did you call me here, Miss Meadows?” His eyes met mine. “Or is it Mrs.?”

A little zing zipped through me. “Oh no, it’s definitely Miss. Not that I’m against being Mrs. or anything. But I’m not one.” I could feel my pale cheeks flush pink, my freckles undoubtedly bright red. “Call me Sunny,” I snapped, irritated with myself.

He stared at me for a full minute, scribbled something in his notebook, and then spoke. “So, Miss Meadows, how can I help you?”

“Right.” I felt like a fool and had no idea why he rattled me so much. “Sorry.” I sobered, remembering why I’d called the police in the first place. “I wanted to speak to a detective because this matter is of grave importance.”

“What matter?”

“I witnessed a murder,” I finally blurted.

He surged to his feet. “Are you crazy? Why didn’t you call 911?” He pulled out his cell.

I jumped to my feet and grabbed his arm, feeling a tingle travel through my fingertips and warmth hum through my veins. I yanked my hand away and clenched my fist, my eyes locking with his shocked ones.

He cleared his throat. “You didn’t answer my question. Why didn’t you call 911?” he repeated, shifting his stance.

“Because the murder hasn’t happened yet,” I finished.

He sat back down, his eyes guarded and full of wariness now as he rubbed his forehead. “How the hell did you see a murder if it hasn’t happened yet?”

“Tea leaves,” I answered quietly, afraid to meet his eyes and see the same look everyone back home always gave me. Total disbelief and speculation that I had more than one screw loose. I peeked up at him. Oh yeah, he had “the look.”

“Are you kidding me?” He scowled. “You mean to tell me you saw this so-called murder in one of your readings?”

“That is correct,” was all I could get out. This was why I had waited an hour after the librarian had left before calling the police. I’d warned the librarian, gave her some calming tea leaves to drink later, then sent her on her way. Yet something told me it wasn’t enough. I needed to do more, even though I knew this would be the response I would get.

He rubbed his whiskered jaw, looking like he didn’t have a clue what to do with me. Well, he wouldn’t be the first, that was for sure. “I’d heard you were some fortune-teller from the Big Apple, but come on,” he finally said. “You don’t really believe in all that hocus-pocus, do you?”

I jerked my shoulders back. “As a matter of fact, I do. I’m psychic, Detective. Tools like tea leaves simply help me interpret my visions more clearly.”

“Then why don’t you clear a few things up for me. When is this murder supposed to take place, and who is supposed to commit the heinous act?”

“I don’t know,” I said sheepishly.

“Well, that’s crystal clear, now isn’t it?” The detective stood, closing the book on this case . . . on me.

I rushed forward and blocked his path to the door. “Look, I might not know when it’s going to happen, but I do know it’s a man who commits the murder. If you don’t do something quickly, that poor little librarian is going to die.”

“I saw Ms. Robbins this morning, and she was fine.”

“Um, hello, hence the words ‘it hasn’t happened yet.’” I looked at my watch. “Clock is ticking, Detective.”

He sighed, grumbling, “Fine. I’ll check on the librarian, but that’s as far as I’m prepared to go. I don’t like playing games, Miss Meadows.”

“I’m not playing games. I’m telling you the truth.” I opened the door for him. “Thank you, Detective. You won’t be sorry.”

He turned and strode out the door into the frosty night, mumbling, “I’m already sorry, Tink,” and then he was gone.

Twenty minutes later, I heard sirens wailing and screeching in the distance. My heart started pounding, and all I could do was pray it wasn’t the librarian. Or if it was, then maybe they’d gotten to her in time and caught the bad guy before he could hurt her. Either way, justice must be done.

The siren was so loud now, it sounded like it was right outside. I went to peer out the window but jumped back when someone pounded on my door.

“Who is it?”

“Detective Stone, Miss Meadows. Open up.”

I scrunched up my face. What on earth was the detective doing back at my house? Exhausted and weary, I wanted this day to be over. I opened the door wide to a pair of handcuffs dangling from his fingertips.

“W-What exactly do you plan to do with those?” My voice hitched.

“Nothing if you come along peacefully.” His eyes studied me as he finished with, “I’m taking you in.”

Shock ripped through me like ice water. Taking me in? In where . . . jail? This was not how I’d expected the first day of my new job to go, and my future was most definitely not looking bright.

I pushed my fear aside and allowed my outrage to consume me. “Taking me in for what? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

He simply stared me in the eye with that stern unreadable expression of his. “Just doing my job,” he answered, his deep voice devoid of any emotion. “Sunshine Meadows, you’re wanted for questioning about the murder of Amanda Robbins.”

 

Chapter Three

How could I have ever been attracted to that Neanderthal? I thought, dusting off my clothes. The nerve of him actually hauling me into jail like I was some dangerous criminal. Me . . . Tinker Bell, for God’s sake. Honestly, what did he think I could possibly do to someone? Pixie-dust them to death?

“You’re free to go, Miss Meadows.” Detective Stone parted his sports coat, placing his hands on his jean-clad hips as he leaned forward an inch, exposing his weapon. “Don’t leave town. You’re still a suspect in this murder. Until I catch the killer, you won’t be able to blink without me knowing about it. Do I make myself clear?”

“As my clean-freak mother’s windows,” I ground out between clenched teeth. “Are we done here? I would think almost two hours of questioning would be more than sufficient.”

He stepped back. “I’ll be watching you.”

“Enjoy the view,” I snapped, turning around and storming out of Divinity’s cold and dreary police station, leaving the detective in my dust.

“It’s dark outside. Need a lift?” he called out from behind me.

“Not from you,” I hollered, and kept charging down the snow-covered sidewalk.

Detective Stone might not have enough evidence to detain me, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t keep looking for a way to pin this murder on me. I had to clear my name and find the real killer. My business would fail for sure if people thought I gave fortunes of doom and gloom. Or worse, if they thought I was a murderer. No way would I return home to hear my parents say I told you so. Also, I felt somewhat responsible for Amanda Robbins’s murder. I should have called the police immediately instead of waiting for an hour.

Guilt was an ugly beast.

Slowing my pace, I strolled along Main Street. The moon was out and as full as it could get. I should have known. Quacks came out in droves during a full moon and did all sorts of crazy things. I watched fluffy white snowflakes dance in the amber glow of the old-fashioned brass street lanterns. It felt like I stood in the middle of a snow globe. Quaint Victorian houses, fine restaurants, and elegant storefronts lined the streets, still decked out in their leftover holiday decorations even though they’d already rung in a brand-new year. Like they were afraid to let go of the past.

It was only 10 p.m., yet there wasn’t a soul in sight. Back in the city, things were just getting started. I had to admit, I liked the slower quieter pace of small-town living, but my system hadn’t quite adjusted yet. I was wide awake and admittedly could use a drink after the ordeal I’d been through. Stopping at the sign for my street, I looked up at the corner bar and decided to go in.

Opening the heavy door, I slid inside Smokey Jo’s Tavern. Everyone stopped . . . and stared. So this was where all the people were. The place was packed, and apparently news of the librarian’s murder and my questioning had already spread. People whispered and gossiped, undoubtedly speculating about what might have happened.

I made a beeline for the bar and slapped my money down on the rich mahogany surface. “You Jo?”

The blond-haired, blue-eyed hottie behind the bar winked. “You must be new to town, love.” His chuckle came from deep within his impressive chest barely hidden under his painted-on-shamrock T-shirt that left little to the imagination. “The name’s Sean O’Malley, lass. That”—he jerked his head to the side—“is Jo.”

A tall, robust, burgundy-haired woman with smoky gray eyes and a sinfully red cocktail dress swayed over behind the bar and handed the blond hunk a set of keys. “Sean, would you be a darling and bring out another case of wine?”

“Anything for you, Jo.” With one more flash of his dimples in my direction, the man disappeared in the back.

The woman turned her attention on me, her smile warm and friendly. I liked her instantly. “Watch out for that one. He’s the biggest flirt this side of the river and just as big of a heartbreaker.” She stuck out her hand. “Joanne Burnham, but everyone calls me Jo.”

I shook her hand. “Sunshine Meadows, but you can call me Sunny.”

“I like to play a game whenever I meet a new customer. You see, as a bar owner, I’m a student of human nature and have a knack for sizing up people from looking at them. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. Go for it.”

She studied me. “Let me guess. You don’t look like the high-society wine type we usually get passing through from the city or the sophisticated, chic, martini-Cosmo type the other half is.” She tipped her head to the side. “Yet you smell of money. Probably born into it, although you thumb your nose at it with your simple haircut, makeup free face, and peace sign T-shirt. I’m guessing you rebel in your choice of drink as well, probably horrifying your parents.” She grinned. “Beer?”

I laughed. “Normally, yes, but tonight I’ll take a shot of whiskey.” My smile dimmed. “Make it a double. I’m in the mood to get a little tipsy.”

She arched a winged, auburn brow. “Rough day, honey?” She poured the light golden-brown liquid and slid it across the bar in an expert fashion until it stopped right in front of me.

“You could say that.” I downed the shot, and tears sprang to my eyes. The fiery liquid burned a path straight to my gut, warming the chill from my bones and numbing the shock I still felt over being a suspect in a murder case. I motioned for another. “Don’t worry,” I said, responding to her hesitant look. “I’m not driving. I walked. You’re good, by the way. You should be a shrink.”

“I sort of am, if you think about it.” She handed me a napkin along with a refill. “Comes with the territory.”

“I hear that. People always want me to solve their problems, fix everything. I might see what’s going to happen to them, but there’s nothing I can do to change it.” I shook my head, saddened once more over what had happened.

“I heard about Amanda Robbins. Nice lady, but an odd duck. A bit of a spaz, if you ask me. Still, she didn’t deserve to die.” Jo looked around the bar. “Everyone’s pretty set right now if you want to unload.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” I dropped my chin. “I couldn’t, really.”

“Really, sweetie.” She peeked down to meet my eyes. “You could.” Her smile was so sincere I couldn’t seem to help myself. The entire story spilled out of me, and I had to wonder if this woman had a little magic of her own. It felt great to have someone to talk to. Something I needed desperately right now.

Nearly an hour later and after yet another double, I had officially reached tipsy status as I finished with, “That stubborn detective has made me his prime suspect. Can you believe it?”

“Anyone can see you’re not the murdering type, sugar. Mitch is the biggest cynic around. He acts all tough and serious because of his ex-girlfriend.” Jo leaned in close, and her eyes sparkled as though she loved a good juicy piece of gossip.

“He used to live in the city, too, you know. Moved here a year ago to be a small-town cop. Said he’d had enough of city life and all the crazies that resided there. She really did a number on him, if you know what I mean.” Jo ran her fingertip down her jawline, and an image of the detective’s scar flashed in my mind’s eye. Had his ex-girlfriend really done that to his face? “He refuses to date anyone now, much to the dismay of all the women in town.”

Well, that explained a lot about why Grumpy Pants was so serious and, well, grumpy. A part of me softened toward him, and I felt an overwhelming desire to help even though he wanted nothing more than to ruin me. I wrinkled my forehead, tracing circles around the top of my glass. “So . . . what exactly did this woman do to him?”

The bell above the door jingled, and Jo turned the heat in her stare up several notches, her smile nearly blinding now as she saluted the new patron. “Hey, Mitch. The usual?”

I glanced over my shoulder, and my stomach flipped. As much as I wanted to help him, I equally wanted to throttle him. And right now he was the last person I wanted to see. “What are you doing here?” I turned around and stared straight ahead.

Detective Stone sat on the stool right beside me, of course, and took a chug from his longneck before answering. “Can’t a man enjoy a beer after a hard day’s work?”

“Aren’t you still working?”

“Divinity’s finest is always working.” Jo shook her head. “Isn’t that right, Mitchell?”

“Something like that.” Mitch took another swig of his beer, then nailed me with those penetrating eyes of his. “But my ‘official’ shift ended after I finished with you.”

Jo went about making herself look busy by wiping off the top of the spotless bar.

“Hey, Jo, bring the lady a refill, would ya?” Mitch’s eyes narrowed as he sized me up.

“Sure thing.” Jo poured me another double whiskey.

“Getting me drunk won’t make me slip up and tell you anything, Detective. As I’ve said a million times already, there’s nothing more to tell. I had a vision, it came true, and now the poor woman is dead while the real murderer is running around free as a bird.” I downed this double whiskey a little easier now as my body was already buzzing and numb from the others. I wasn’t much of a drinker, I didn’t have nearly enough food in my system, and I weighed little more than the “real” Tinker Bell. I set the glass back on the bar and wobbled a bit.

Four double whiskeys in one hour . . . not a good idea.

“Easy now, lass.” Sean winked. “I’d say that whiskey’s gone straight to your wee little head,” he added, while restocking the bar beside Jo. “I’d be happy to help you home. Just say the word.”

“I’d say you’re right, Mr. O’Malley.” I giggled. “And I might have to take you up on that lovely offer.”

Mitch reached out and caught me before I tumbled to the floor, his eyes traveling between the hunky bar back and myself with a disapproving look, then finally settling on me. “You’re a bit of a lightweight, I take it.”

“Ya think?” I giggled near hysteria now, going all floppy in his arms and letting him take all my weight. I barely had the energy to blink. I had come to Divinity right after New Year’s to start my life over, and now my life was a total mess.

“I think you need to go home and sleep it off.” He shot Sean a hard look. “I’ll drive.” The detective met my eyes once more. “And I don’t want any arguments from you. You’re not walking home like this.” He sat me back on my stool.

I started to protest, but good ole “Mitchell” ignored me, paying our tab and helping me to my feet. “Let’s go, Tink.”

“Fine, Captain Hook, cuz you sure aren’t Peter Pan,” I slurred. “Nothing carefree or fun about you, uptight scallywag.”

He ignored me, half carrying me to his squad car for the second time that day.

“Really, daaah-ling, we have to stop meeting like this.” I snorted, my common sense gone with my sobriety.

He shook his head, drove me home in silence, and then fished my keys out of my purse. Unlocking the door with one hand, he carried me inside since my legs no longer seemed to work. I had to admit there was something very appealing about Detective Stone. He was big, strong, and ruggedly handsome, making a woman feel protected and safe, but he was also distant, aloof, and off limits. Oh, who was I kidding? That was half the attraction. I felt suddenly sleepy.

“Where’s the killer kitty?”

“Who, Morty? He’s harmless.” I yawned. “He disappears at night, you big scaredy-cat.”

“You weren’t the one he was hissing at and staring down with those freaky eyes.”

The detective scanned the entryway, honing in on the same couch we had sat on earlier, then deposited me on my back. He tossed an ancient afghan over my body, and the shutters on the outside of the house shook as though it was storming out. But other than soft snowflakes, the night was still and quiet. The detective glanced around with a puzzled look on his face, and I began to wonder if the house really was haunted.

The house quieted.

A V formed on the detective’s forehead.

I giggled.

“Stay put. I mean it,” he said, shaking his finger. I wanted to protest, but instead I closed my eyes, no longer able to keep them open. He tucked the edges of the blanket around me, making me smile just a little, then he mumbled, “The streets aren’t safe, Tink.”

I could hear him lock the door on his way out, and for the first time since this whole awful ordeal had happened, I felt hope. The streets aren’t safe, Tink. He didn’t actually think I was the murderer. He might not believe I was really psychic, but he also didn’t believe I was capable of killing another human being, no matter what he said.

Maybe it was about time I proved him right.

Hours later, just before dawn, I slipped out of my house. With flashlight in hand and plenty of warm, dark clothing, I tiptoed behind bushes, weaving in and out of people’s backyards until I reached the librarian’s house. It hadn’t been hard finding her address since her name was still listed in the phone book. Police tape surrounded the premises, forbidding others to cross the yellow line. But I had no choice. I had to clear my name, and they’d never let me snoop around during the light of day.

Although now that my alcohol-induced buzz had worn off, my brain was rethinking my rash decision.

I chewed the inside of my cheek, peeking around once more. No one was up. I wasn’t going to break or enter anything, so what was the harm, really? Creeping forward before I could change my mind, I walked around the entire house. I didn’t see any signs that someone had broken a window or forced their way in. Either the librarian had left her doors unlocked at night, which seemed out of character for Crazy Lady, or there was only one other explanation.

Amanda Robbins had known the person who killed her.

Well, that didn’t narrow the suspects down much. This was a small town. I was pretty sure everyone knew everyone else. But who would she welcome into her home after dark? My tea leaves had clearly shown a man was the killer, not to mention the eyes I had witnessed the murder through had most definitely belonged to a man. A bitter, angry man, to be exact.

Shivering, I finished walking around the house, preparing to make my escape before the sun rose completely. I happened to glance down and saw footprints other than mine. Footprints that had to be at least a half day old. It had snowed last night, so they were partially filled in but not completely. Hmmm. They were right outside the master bedroom window . . . but they did not belong to a man.

I knelt down and studied the prints. Small. That didn’t make any sense. The killer couldn’t be a woman; I was sure of it. Another thought hit me square in the gut. There was a witness out there that no one knew anything about.

I straightened and turned to leave.

“Going somewhere, Tink?” Detective Stone stood before me, arms crossed and definitely back on duty. Steam rose in misty puffs around him with every word he spoke.

“For a walk?” I said uncertainly, matching him puff for puff. I could have kicked myself for my hesitation. “I’m an early riser,” I added with more conviction. So not the truth. I was much more of a night owl and a late sleeper, but somehow that didn’t sound like it would help my case right now. Given my current situation, I thought it best to plead the fifth.

“You always walk on other people’s properties?”

“Okay, so I admit curiosity. Never mind that. Did you notice in your investigation that there are footprints by the bedroom window?” I pointed smugly to the ground beside me.

He slid a pair of aviator-style sunglasses on as the sun cleared the horizon, the frigid morning air ruffling his thick hair. “There’s not much I don’t notice, Miss Meadows.”

I threw my hands up. “Then you must realize there might be a witness out there walking around who can clear this whole unfortunate mess up.”

“Or the killer is a woman, not a man like your so-called reading revealed.” His head tipped down, and I could tell he was sizing up my boots. Then he looked over the top of his rims so I could see his intensely serious dark eyes. “A woman with the same size feet as you, I’d wager.”

“Normally that would intimidate me, but I heard you last night. You were worried about me because you know the real killer is still on the loose. You don’t really think I’m capable of killing anyone, Detective.” I crossed my arms over my own chest and lifted my chin a notch. “I’m on to you.”

“You heard nothing,” he said with a blank expression, pushing his glasses up all the way. His cheek twitched once, just a little, but I saw it. “Move along, Miss Meadows. This is private property and a crime scene.” He turned around and headed for the street. “Don’t you have a business to run?”

“You and I both know that no one is going to come to me for a reading until this case is solved.” I hurried after him. “I’m helping you out.” I waved my hands about. “Sticking to you like glue and all that, so you can keep your eye on me.”

He grunted. “Not gonna happen, Tink. Go pester someone else, and let me do my job.” He kept walking down Main Street, several yards ahead of me, then glanced over his shoulder and stopped.

“What? Last I checked this street was public domain.” I fluttered my lashes at him. “You can’t stop me from walking on it.”

He rolled his eyes and then resumed walking, picking up the pace. I had to practically run to keep up with him. He stopped at the coroner’s office, pausing outside the door. I quickly slowed to a power walk, waved at him, and kept moving as though I did this every morning. Once he hurried inside, however, I did a quick turnaround and slipped in after him.

I stood back in the shadows as he jogged down a stairwell, then I carefully followed him to a morgue-type room below. He entered the coroner’s office labeled Kip Johnson, with the door slightly ajar. I tiptoed to the edge and peeked inside, seeing the detective standing by a middle-aged man with brown hair parted on the side and small, round spectacles perched on the end of his nose. They both stared down at the sheet-covered body of Amanda Robbins. I huddled close, my ear near the crack.

“You’re telling me she had a reaction to nuts, Kip?”

“Yes, but that’s not what killed her,” said a sharp, piercing voice that reminded me of Maxwell Smart. “She was poisoned,” the voice finished decisively. “The time of death appears to be around six thirty p.m.”

“What about the blood on her temple?” Detective Stone asked, his voice much deeper and smoother. I forced myself to concentrate on what they were saying.

“Probably fell after her heart stopped,” Kip speculated. “It doesn’t take much digoxin to stop a person’s heart. Pretty lethal stuff if used in the wrong dose, and I found plenty of it in her system.” A pause filled the room. “Plenty in her teacup as well.”

I sucked in a sharp breath. Someone put poison in the tea I’d given the librarian?

The door whipped open, and I tumbled inside the office, bouncing off the detective’s wide sculpted chest. Coroner Kip stared bug-eyed above his bifocals, his mouth agape.

“Oh my, I, um . . . Oh, hell, I got nothin’.” I stared at them both sheepishly.

“I’d say you’ve got plenty,” Detective Stone said, his eyes accusing. “Plenty of clues that point in your direction, Miss Meadows. Right size foot, right kind of tea leaves. What you don’t have is an alibi from the time the librarian left your house at six p.m. until I arrived at seven p.m. With a time of death at six thirty, you would have had plenty of time to commit the murder.”

“I also don’t have a motive, Detective, and you don’t have hard evidence.” I tried to poke him in the chest, but he caught my hand. Jeepers, he was quick . . . and jumpy. Once again, I wondered what his ex-girlfriend had done to him. “You can’t prove that digoxin came from me.” I stood to my full height, which barely hit his shoulder.

“It’s only a matter of time before you slip up, Tink.” He let go of my hand. “And when you do, I’ll be waiting. There has to be something more you’re not telling me.”

Oh, there was. Like the fact that my father was a world-renowned doctor who had access to digoxin. Now more than ever I needed to find the real killer before Detective Stone locked me up and threw away the key for good.