Tempest In The Tea Leaves Part 3

"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.

s.h.i.+vering, 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 sungla.s.ses 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, pus.h.i.+ng his gla.s.ses 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, h.e.l.l, 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.

4.

A knock on my door later that afternoon had me hoping and praying for another customer. Maybe someone hadn't listened to the rumors and had decided to give me a shot. If people didn't give me a chance, I was doomed to fail for sure. And the last of my trust fund money was dwindling fast. If that happened, I'd be forced to go homeless or go home. I wasn't sure which option would be more unpleasant. I took a deep breath and opened the door with a smile.

My smile vanished like a puff of incense smoke, and I gasped. "Mom? Dad?"

Vivian and Donald Meadows stood on my doorstep, in the flesh, within touching distance. Something they'd promised would never happen, and I'd prayed they were right. Glancing around to make sure no one was looking, I quickly ushered them inside and closed the door behind them.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"Nice to see you, too, darling." My mother air-kissed my cheek as always.

"Sylvia." My father nodded and then patted my shoulder.

"I hope you're not here to convince me to come home with you," I said. "Because that's not going to happen. This is my home now."

"Oh, we're not leaving anytime soon, dear," Mom clarified. "Of course, we're not staying in this dreadful place, either. Why, it's simply spooky is what it is. I don't know how you sleep at all." She tsked. "Oh my G.o.d, what is that thing?" Mom raised her fingertips to her lips, careful not to touch her cashmere gloves against the perfectly lined mauve lipstick. "An albino rat?"

Morty turned up his nose and wandered upstairs, not giving my mother the time of day. "That thing is Morty, and he's not a rat. He's a cat." I'd have given anything to turn my back on my parents and follow his lead right about then.

"You hate cats."

"No, Mom, you do."

She shuddered. "All the more reason not to stay here. Your father and I both cleared our schedules and will be staying at that charming inn on the edge of town. We're here to support you one hundred percent, darling. After all, family is family, you know."

"So you've always said. You can't choose your family ; you have to make the best of what you've got. That works both ways, Mom. Does that mean you've finally accepted me for who I am?" I purposely looked at my sanctuary and then back at them. "For what I am?"

"We've accepted you need help, Sylvia," Dad chimed in, nodding once. "And that is precisely what we are prepared to do. Help you out of this little mess you've gotten yourself into before you tarnish all our names."

I should have known it was too good to be true. They were worried about their own name. Okay, so maybe they didn't want to see their only child go to jail, but one thing was certain. If I let them help me, there'd be consequences. They'd insist I go home with them. I'd rot before I'd let that happen. "Hey, wait a minute. I know news travels fast, but come on. How'd you find out about the murder so soon?"

"Murder?" my mother shrieked, losing her composure, which never happened. "No one said anything about murder. Donald, we have to do something."

"Don't worry, Viv. We're not leaving until this case is closed. Things are much more serious than I thought. Do you see why we should never have let her leave?" Dad paced my foyer. He only paced when he was really worried. "He said you were in trouble, and he needed to ask us some questions. Nothing about murder."

G.o.d, when would I learn to keep my big mouth closed? For someone who could read the future, I hadn't seen that one coming at all. Wait a minute. . . . He? "Um . . . who needs to ask you some questions?" Suspicion clawed at my insides. I swear to G.o.d if a certain someone had brought this misery to my doorstep, I'd- "Mr. and Mrs. Meadows, so glad you could make it." The devil himself waltzed through my front door without even knocking. "The name's Detective Stone."

Only one thought ran through my mind over and over: here was a murder I'd gladly do the time for.

"I'd ask you to come in, Detective, but gee, you already did." I closed the door behind the real rat in the house. Where was Morty when I needed him?

"Sylvia, mind your manners, dear," my mother said. "I raised you better than that." I knew she was frowning on the inside even if her Botoxed wrinkle-free face didn't show it.

"Sorry, Mom, it's been a long day," I mumbled, feeling like a child. Every time I was around them, they had that effect on me. Might as well roll with the mood I was in. I stuck out my tongue at the detective behind her back, and his lips twitched. If he laughed at me, I'd smack him good. "I was about to take a lunch break when you guys, er, surprised me. Anyone hungry?"

"We already ate," my dad said, following my lead to the kitchen.

"Tea, then?" I entered Vicky's ma.s.sive kitchen with her well-worn hardwood floors, antique harvest table, and chipped china.

This room had been frequented regularly over the years. I could see why. The table sat right by the large windows that allowed the glorious rays of afternoon suns.h.i.+ne to pour in and warm the area, making the room come alive. The decor in this room, like the rest of the house, was older than my great-grandmother's hope chest. So full of charm and history. I loved it all.

A musty whiff of mildew and mothb.a.l.l.s drifted past my nose. I smiled warmly. Morty was here, somewhere, no doubt hiding. And watching . . . always watching.

"I'll take coffee if you have some," Dad said to me, then turned to the detective. "Not a big fan of tea, although Sylvia's is reported to be outstanding." He went to sit at the head of the table, and the chair slid from beneath him all on its own. He fell down hard, and my mother rushed to help him up.

"Oh, dear me, this place is a death trap." Mom dusted off the back of Dad's coat.

"Gotta watch these old houses and all the creatures within." Detective Stone glanced around warily, and I knew he was looking for Morty. "They can be temperamental." He chose his seat carefully on the side of the table. "I'll take tea. I'm pretty observant." He stared me down. "Maybe I can guess what's in it."

"Sorry, Detective." I smirked, sitting at the head of the table with ease and relis.h.i.+ng the looks on their faces. Most people would be freaked out, but I wasn't most people. I didn't spook easily. "Can't give away my award-winning secret recipe, now can I?" I said to the detective.

"Depends on the secret part." He swirled his tea around as he talked. "What you put in it could land you in jail." He smelled it and took a couple sips.

"She's not going anywhere." My mother sat up straight, her eyes taking on a calculating gleam, her tone becoming no-nonsense.

"Says who?" Detective Stone met my mother's gaze, studying her closer, no doubt rea.s.sessing her.

"Says her lawyer," she said matter-of-factly. "Pa.s.s the cream and sugar, please."

Um, yeah, not going to happen. "Wait a minute, Mom. You're not my lawyer. I don't need a lawyer because I'm innocent."

"Innocent of what, exactly?" My father slid the cream and sugar in front of my mother and faced the detective head-on. "What exactly has my daughter done this time?"

"Dad!"

"I take it she has a history of getting into trouble?" The detective set his nearly empty tea down and wrote in his notebook.

"Not trouble per se." Mom waved her hands about. "Just predicaments with her little hobby."

"Mom!"

"Hobby?" Detective Stone asked, writing more of G.o.d-knew-what in that d.a.m.n notebook of his.

"You know, her little fortune-teller act," Mom clarified.

"So you don't believe she's psychic, either?" The detective looked at both my parents with renewed interest.

"Good Lord, no," Dad answered. "She's seen some things that have come true in a roundabout way, I suppose, but we simply chalk it up to coincidence. Being a man of science, it's hard for me to be a 'true believer,' as she calls them." He looked at me and winced. "Sorry, honey. The truth hurts, but you need to hear it for your own good, so you will stop wasting your life and do something real." He took a sip of his coffee, then cursed.

"Careful, dear," Mom said, dabbing the corners of her mouth, her eyes darting about the kitchen. "There's something odd about this house and everything in it."

"That burned my lip." Dad rubbed his mouth. "I don't remember the coffee being that hot. It's almost as if the cup heated itself."

I ground my teeth hard, as if I were grinding fennel seeds in the mortar while making my tea. "My fortune-telling is not an act, Mother. Or a hobby. It happens to be what I do. Who I am. Like it or not, Dad, I'm not normal like you guys."

The detective grunted. "I could have told you that." He never looked up, still writing in his book . . . until his pen broke and spurted ink all over the front of his white dress s.h.i.+rt. "What the h.e.l.l?" He jumped back and grabbed a napkin, scrubbing the darkening stain.

"Serves you right. And you might want to blot, not rub, the threads right off," I pointed out, enjoying every minute of my afternoon tea.

"Thanks." Detective Stone narrowed his eyes.

"Anytime." I batted my lashes at him. "On a more serious note, just because I have visions doesn't make me a freak. It makes me special. You should be glad I can see into someone's future. And if you had listened to me, Detective, Amanda Robbins might still be alive."

"Oh, dear Lord, this whole mess doesn't have something to do with one of your visions, does it?" Mom asked.

"She had a 'vision' of the librarian getting murdered by a man, and then it came true," Detective Stone explained. "Or so she claims." He shot a look at me and then turned to my dad. "Mr. Meadows, is there any way your daughter could have gotten hold of some of your digoxin?"

"Absolutely not. I don't have digoxin lying around. No doctor does. It's a controlled substance. Pharmaceutical reps aren't allowed to sample it. The only way to get some would be to have a doctor write a prescription, and I can a.s.sure you, I didn't write any for her. Since I know Sylvia doesn't socialize with a doctor-type crowd, I'm confident there's no way she could have gotten hold of digoxin. Why do you ask?"

"The tea leaves she gave the librarian were laced with digoxin."