--Kirsten Weiss
Matcha Murder, the next novel in my Tea and Tarot cozy mystery series, launches February 28th! But you can pre-order it now!
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Chapter 1
When tourists think California beach town, they usually think something along the lines of sunshine, sunglasses, and sunburn.
The point is sun.
But every few years, the jet stream over the Pacific gets shifty. Then a watery hellscape of landslides and demented driving breaks loose.
Rain drummed on the flat roof of Beanblossom’s Tea and Tarot for the fifth day in a row. Outside our windows, the sloping street had turned into a raging river.
That river was rising. My grip tightened on the hostess stand’s wooden sides, as if its flimsy wooden sides could anchor the tearoom.
A Tesla rolled down the street. The car skidded, fishtailing frighteningly close to a Buick. The Tesla corrected, then sped up, sheeting our windows with water. A trio of white-haired women at a window table flinched.
Conversation hit a lull as customers, Tarot readers, and waitstaff studied the water cascading down the windows. Then there was a collective breath, and the clatter of teacups and chatter of Saturday morning diners resumed.
“You’re going to have to do something about that,” Verbena said from behind me. “Your tearoom’s going to flood.”
I rolled my eyes. Sure. I’ll just wave my magic wand and make the rain stop, the sun shine, and the water drain. No problem.
I released my grip on the hostess stand. “More sandbags are on the way,” I said shortly.
Verbena Pillbrow, tea witch and all-around pill, jammed her hands on her skinny hips. She was five-foot-eight-inches of annoyance, which made her four inches more annoying than me.
As a self-proclaimed tea witch—someone who incorporated tea into her magical rituals—she considered herself a higher authority when it came to tea. Water dampened the fringe of her tie-dyed brown yoga duster over her usual stretchy festival wear—a droopy tank top and thick tights.
“They’d better get here soon, Abigail.” Verbena angled her pointed chin. “And I’d like a refill of my Chariot tisane.” She thrust an empty white mug in my face. “I’ve told you before, if it doesn’t use leaves from the camellia sinensis, it’s not a tea. If you’re going to sell tisanes, at least learn about the topic.”
My fingers twitched. It was an old argument. Technically, herbal teas were called tisanes. But the common phraseology in America was “herbal tea,” so I stuck with that so as not to confuse my customers. And I’d explained this to Verbena.
Repeatedly.
Cleansing breaths. I glanced toward the counter. My manager, Maricel, brewed tea with one hand and wiped down the white quartz with the other. Her long, black braid cascaded down the back of her t-shirt, the slogan on it hidden by her apron.
Verbena could have asked Maricel for a refill, since that’s where the tea witch had been sitting. But for some reason known only to Verbena and her pagan gods, she preferred pestering me.
A Tarot reader dealt cards at one of the tables. A second reader, Sierra, sat at the bar, her toe tapping the restored wood base. Casually, she scanned the crowd for any interest in a reading.
I returned my attention to the front windows. Umbrellas wobbling, two elderly women in raincoats and matching plastic caps clambered over the sandbags protecting the front door.
They had to throw their weight into it to pull it open. A gust of wind ripped through the tearoom and snatched the door from their hands, slamming it shut. They stumbled.
Hurrying around the hostess stand, I pushed the door open. A gust of wind caught it, carrying me onto the brick sidewalk with a splash.
One of the women smiled. “Thank you, young lady.” She moved cautiously across the threshold. Her friend waited, balancing on the sandbags, one hand braced on the white stucco wall.
A black monster truck roared up the street. Water arced from its enormous tires in a muddy tidal wave.
“Look out!” I leapt over the sandbags and extended my hand to her.
But instead of taking my hand and moving forward, she stared, transfixed by the oncoming truck. “Oh, dear.”
A surfer’s pipe of water curled toward us. I turned my back, shielding her. Water iced my blouse and khakis. My shoulders rocketed to my ears, and I winced. The truck roared past.
Stupid, inconsiderate… I shook my fist at the pickup, because it beat shouting curses. As much as I wanted to swear—and I really wanted to—that wouldn’t mesh with the tearoom’s elegant, genteel vibe.
Oblivious, the black truck zoomed down Main. It turned the corner onto Front Street—so named because it fronted the ocean—and vanished.
The second woman tottered inside. I followed, tugging the blue door shut behind us.
Aghast, she studied the water puddling at my feet on the laminate floor. “It was a noble gesture, my dear,” she said. “But we are wearing raincoats.”
It had been an idiotic gesture, and my cheeks heated. Those two were more thoroughly cloaked against the elements than the guy on the fish sticks package. I, in my blouse and slacks, was not.
I swiped up the mess with a towel then went to drip behind the hostess station. Water trickled down the back of my neck. I touched the net containing my brunette curls, done up in a bun. No surprise—it was drenched.
Peeling off their raincoats, they deposited their umbrellas in the stand beside the door. “Reservations for two,” the silver-haired woman said. “Name of Samuels.”
I scanned the reservation book. Theirs were the last reservations for the morning seating. “Yes, here you—”
“My tisane?” Verbena tossed her long brown hair over one shoulder.
I stretched my mouth into a smile. “Why don’t you have a seat at the bar, Verbena?” As far away from me as possible. “I’ll be right with you.”
Without waiting for her response, I whisked two paper menus from their plastic holder. I led the newcomers to their white-clothed table. “Here you go. Your server will be with you in a moment.”
A broad-shouldered man in a sopping navy hoodie, his golden hair plastered to his head, emerged from the rear hallway. My annoyance at Verbena fled and was replaced by a golden warmth.
I forgot my sodden clothes and the rising waters. Brik. I hurried to greet him. “Hey.”
Brik and I had been dating for nearly a year, and we’d reached the easy phase of our relationship. I trusted him. He trusted me. There was no struggle, no strife. Everything just clicked. I loved that we’d gotten here.
He pulled me into a damp kiss. “Hey.” His neat beard tickled my cheeks, and I inhaled his faint, musky odor.
There was another brief fall in the volume of the tearoom, and I knew guests were watching us. My face heated, along with the rest of my body.
“Did Hyperion get you with the sink hose again?” he asked.
I scowled. “No.” In fairness, we’d been goofing around in a post-holiday season high, so I was as guilty as Hyperion. But I’d gotten very wet.
“Then why are you so wet?” he asked.
“Some jerk in a truck splashed me.” Fortunately, I kept a spare change of clothing in anticipation of kitchen disasters.
Brik grimaced.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I was just stacking more sandbags out back. Your parking lot’s not looking good.”
“Will the sandbags hold?” I asked anxiously. Brik was a contractor. If he thought there was a problem, there was a problem.
His blue eyes twinkled. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you. This isn’t a real flood—it’s only a few inches. And I’ve got more sandbags for the front door.”
I gripped his calloused hand, rough against mine, and warmth flowed between us. I hadn’t asked him to take time out of his day to help. But he knew how important Beanblossom’s was to me, and so he had. “My hero.”
“My tisane,” Verbena shouted over her shoulder at me.
Behind the bar, Maricel poured more herbal tea into Verbena’s cup. My manager shot me an apologetic look, and I shrugged a response. I couldn’t control Verbena. There was no reason to hope my manager could either.
“Is Verbena still hanging around here?” Brik asked in a low voice. “I thought she hated the tearoom.”
“That’s why she comes. To tell me everything that’s wrong with it.” She’d let the world know it too, in her many reviews. The weird thing was, the reviews were all five stars—five stars followed by a load of complaints.
“Where’s Hyperion?” He scanned the tearoom.
I peeled the fabric of my wet blouse from my back. “Hiding in his office, the coward.” I glanced past him down the hallway. The faint glow of twinkle lights surrounded Hyperion’s office door.
“Hiding from what?”
I jerked my head toward Verbena, who seemed to be lecturing the Tarot reader at the bar. Sierra nodded politely, her gaze darting around the tearoom for an escape. “Three guesses from whom,” I said, “and the first two don’t count.”
“Then your partner can help me with the sandbags.”
Oh, I want to see that. Hyperion would get drenched, and after the kitchen sprayer incident, it would serve him right. I followed Brik past the kitchen and to Hyperion’s door. Brik knocked.
“Is it safe?” Hyperion called.
Brik opened the office door and walked inside. I trailed after him.
Electric candles flickered around the room, the gold-painted crown molding glinting in their light. Against one wall, a narrow table had been decorated like an altar with driftwood, crystals, and his tabby, Bastet. The cat yawned.
My business partner had turned what had been a glorified closet into a Tarot-reading room that a world-classic psychic could be proud of. Hyperion was quite clear with clients he wasn’t psychic though. He only read the cards.
“Water’s still rising,” Brik said. “I need your help sandbagging the front door.”
“I meant safe from you-know-who.” Hyperion slouched in his thronelike, red-velvet chair at the round, scarlet-clothed table. “That cackling fury, that hapless, insipid, decomposition—”
The orange, striped cat lifted one leg and groomed himself.
Hyperion narrowed his coffee-colored eyes at the cat. “Rude.” He rose and peeled off his slim-fitting charcoal suit jacket. “Is Verbena still in the tearoom?” he asked me.
“At the tea bar,” I said.
“Right.” He rolled up the sleeves of his white, button-up shirt. Hyperion always dressed like a male model, probably because with his high cheekbones and perfect, near-black hair, he looked like one. “Let’s keep the sandbags out of Beanblossom’s then. Don’t want to disrupt the elegant and genteel atmosphere.” He smirked.
My eyes narrowed. Hyperion didn’t want to be hassled by Verbena. But I was fine with them hauling the sandbags around the outside of the building rather than through it. That would just get Hyperion wetter.
Feeling more upbeat, I changed into a dry blue peasant top and jeans, returned to the tearoom, and walked behind the bar. “Maricel, would you take over in the kitchen for a while?”
Shooting me a grateful look, my manager dropped her dish towel in a bin beneath the bar. She practically tripped over herself in her hurry to get away from the counter.
Verbena sipped her Chariot tea, one of our Tarot-themed brews. “Trouble in paradise?” she asked, arch.
“Since I don’t know what you’re talking about, no.” I grabbed my apron from behind the counter.
She braced her elbows on the white counter. Her pointed nose quivered. “You and Brik have been seeing each other nearly a year. The bloom of romance must have worn off by now. But what did you expect from such a boringly patriarchal relationship?”
“It isn’t boring,” I said, tying the apron around me. “And the romance is fine. Sure, things have settled down a bit—”
“A bit?”
“I mean, of course some of the excitement has worn off. But we love each other.”
So what if the excitement of fresh love had faded? Excitement wasn’t love. It was excitement. I didn’t need that—at least not all the time. We had something more—love built on shared values.
She tapped the back of one finger. “Unless he puts a ring on it, you’re in the danger zone. Men get bored easily. If you don’t step it up, he’ll be onto the next hot young thing.” She swiveled on her barstool and pointed at the windows.
Brik, sandbags on each shoulder, was talking to a dripping redhead. The woman laughed at something he said and splashed down the street.
“He was probably giving her directions,” I said.
“She seemed awfully charmed by his directions.”
I scowled. Not because I was jealous—because Verbena was trying to make trouble. Brik couldn’t help it if he was six-foot-two and built like a Viking marauder.
Hyperion staggered into view carrying a sandbag with both hands. He dropped it on the sidewalk, and water splashed the front window.
The women at the nearby table winced. Hyperion gave them an apologetic wave, and the men trooped past the window and out of sight.
“I trust Brik.” He’d proven himself to me in more ways than I could count. Not that he needed to prove anything. But actions really do speak louder than words.
“Of course, not all men are dogs, but today’s societal structure perpetuates male dominance and female subjugation.” Verbena sniffed. “That said, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to put some extra effort in?” She eyed me.
I looked down at my outfit. Okay, maybe my Happy New Year apron (courtesy of an apron-of-the-month club Hyperion had gifted me) was a bit much. But it was January, and the blue fabric did match my peasant top.
My jaw firmed. The customer might almost always be right, but enough was enough. “Listen, Verbena—”
The blue front door opened. Rain and wind whipped through the tearoom. A man roughly the size and shape of a gorilla strode inside without bothering to close the door.
Annoyed, I hurried around the counter. “Door!”
A woman at a nearby table leapt to her feet and shut it for me. The tablecloths floated into place.
My face heated. I’d been shouting at the detective, not the customers.
The woman skidded on the wet floor and grasped the hostess stand for balance.
“Thanks,” I said, embarrassed, and bent to wipe up the muddy mess with a fresh towel. “I didn’t mean for you to—”
“I know,” she said, “but I was closest. And it was cold.”
“Verbena Pillbrow?” Ignoring me, Detective Baranko strode toward the counter. “I was told I’d find you here.” Rivulets of water trickled down his flattened brown hair and ruddy face.
Crumpling the towel in my hand, I straightened and lifted a single brow. Detective Baranko wanted Verbena?
Baranko was my bête noir, the thorn in my side, the fly in my wine. Since Verbena fit those categories as well, I wasn’t overly concerned on her behalf. I wanted to see how this would play out.
It was sort of like choosing which movie monster to root for—the building-sized lizard or the giant robot? Either way, I’d be entertained.
“Told by whom?” Verbena swiveled on her barstool and lifted her chin. “And who are you?”
What had she done? Unpaid parking tickets? Ignoring a jury summons? San Borromeo was a small town. The detective might have gotten stuck with that sort of drudge work. I made for the tea bar.
“Detective Baranko, San Borromeo PD.” He reached inside his dripping trench coat and pulled out a badge. “I’d like you to come to the station with me.”
“Why?” she asked.
I slowed, my eyebrows pinching together. The station? That… actually sounded serious.
“I’ve got some questions,” he rumbled. “It’d be better if we talked privately.”
“No.” Verbena sipped her tea. “It wouldn’t. You can ask what you want to ask right here.”
I had to hand it to the tea witch. She was a lot more direct with the detective than I usually was. Baranko wasn’t incompetent or crooked. I just didn’t like him on principle.
“It’s about Falkner Fiore,” the detective said.
Verbena crossed her arms over her flat chest. “If you have questions about Falkner, why not just ask Falkner?”
I stumbled to a halt, a cold weight filling my gut. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. There was only one good reason why a cop would—
“Because he’s dead,” Baranko said. “Murdered.”
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