Tempest in the Tea Leaves
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Praise for Tempest in the Tea Leaves
“My tea leaves and my tarot cards agree—Kari Lee Townsend is riding a bullet train straight to the top. I predict this vivacious, talented author will soon join the ranks of the superstars. Tempest in the Tea Leaves is a stellar launch for the Fortune Teller Mysteries, and every one of them is destined to become a classic.”
—Maggie Shayne, New York Times bestselling
author of Twilight Prophecy
“Kari Lee Townsend has a hit with her delightful new series about a fortune teller who finally leaves home to pursue her dreams and finds herself solving a murder. A little romance, a big white cat, and a Victorian house make for a fun read. The true meaning of what Sunny sees always reveals itself—and in this case, a killer.”
—Joyce Lavene, coauthor of A Touch of Gold
“You don’t need a crystal ball to predict a bright future for Townsend’s Fortune Teller mystery series!”
—Dorothy Howell, author of Clutches and Curses
“Smart, funny, and gutsy fortune teller Sunny Meadows is a delightful new star on the psychic horizon.”
—Cynthia Riggs, author of the
Martha’s Vineyard Mysteries
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
TEMPEST IN THE TEA LEAVES
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Kari Townsend.
All rights reserved.
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN : 978-1-101-51746-8
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This book is dedicated to my parents, Chet and Marion Harmon. To my father for giving me courage, honor, and integrity. You’ve been my rock, lending me strength and always being there when I needed you. To my mother for encouraging me to follow my dreams and making me believe I could do anything. You’ve been my mentor, giving me advice and lending an ear whenever I needed one. I love and adore you both.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost I want to thank my husband, Brian, for loving me unconditionally and supporting me every step of the way. I am grateful to have you in my life and know you are behind me in everything I do. I also want to thank my children: Brandon, Josh, Matt, and Emily. As always, you give me great inspiration and lots of laughs. I have to say I am one lucky lady!
Second, I want to thank my partner in crime and agent extraordinaire, Christine Witthohn of Book Cents Literary Agency. You never cease to amaze me with the lengths you will go to in making sure I am a success. Remember, you can never retire until I do, because I seriously can’t do any of this without you.
Next, I want to thank my fabulous editor, Faith Black, for taking a chance on me and believing in my work. You have a fantastic eye and an uncanny ability to bring out the best in a book. We make a great team. I love working with you and look forward to working on the rest of this series together.
I also want to thank my special peeps, the original BC Babes: Barbie Jo Mahoney, Danielle LaBue, and Liz Lipperman. You really do keep me going and make this whole process worthwhile. And last but never least, a special thanks to my extended family: the Townsends, the Russos, and the Harmons. The best support team anyone could ever ask for.
1
“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 , 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 and 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 s
till 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.”