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 a 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.”
3
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? Pixiedust them to death?
“You’re free to go, Miss Meadows.” Detective Stone parted his sports coat, placing his hands on his jeans-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 smokey 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. M
oved 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.
Tempest in the Tea Leaves Page 3
