“Take this to your mom at the bed and breakfast, will you?” Clem handed over the bottle of bourbon to her stepdaughter. Quinn’s mother ran the second-largest estate in Yarrow, an old governor’s mansion turned inn that her family inherited. It was the place to stay in Yarrow, and with a death in the Bonner family, the rooms had booked up fast. It was not going to be an easy week for Taylor or Quinn, especially with the Annual Yarrow Bourbon Festival coming.

“Bonner’s?” Quinn arched an eyebrow.

“Not you, too,” Clem said. She snatched the bottle back and stashed it under the register.

“Everything okay?” Addison asked as she surveyed the table.

Irene sipped her tea. “I’m sure you saw Sylvia.”

Addison nodded and reached for the jars. “Dill? This is because of her, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Irene said. “And it’s delicious.”

“I was going to have a cup of chamomile, but this might be more what I need.” With a heavy sigh, Addison said, “River’s back in town.”

Irene set her cup down. “You’re better off without him.” She wrapped an arm around Addison. “You’ve got everything you need right here.”

Irene poured a cup of tea for her daughter. While it steeped, she took one last sip of her own until there was only about a tablespoon of liquid left. She swirled the cup three times to the right before upending it on the saucer.

“You’re doing a reading?” Addison asked.

“With everything going on, I want some specific answers about what’s coming.”

“Because of my tea leaves?” Addison prodded.

Clem answered, “Because Sylvia Bonner ruffled her feathers.”

Irene rolled her eyes. “I want to know what to expect.”

Tasseography was a natural extension of what they did in the garden. Outside, they talked to the plants. In the teacup, the plants talked back.

Addison leaned forward as Irene flipped the cup. Some of the leaves stuck to the sides of the porcelain, others gathered in the bottom. She tilted it this way and that.

“Well?” Clem asked.

Irene shook her head. The symbols didn’t make sense, and they certainly didn’t shed light on anything.

“It’s not clear.” She pointed to leaves at the bottom. “There’s a man who looks like he’s carrying flowers.”

“Ooh. A visitor?” Quinn asked.

Addison clapped her hands. “Bringing love. One of us is going to have a good summer.”

“Oh, this is going to be good,” Clem said.

But Irene shook her head and pointed to another pattern of leaves. “That could be an owl.”

“Ah, yes, an owl,” Clem said, nodding sagely.

Quinn laughed. “Deception, that sort of thing. Maybe a secret lover?”

“This,” Irene continued as she traced the tip of her finger along an arc at the top of the cup, “looks like a comet, which suggests treachery.”

“So, Sylvia Bonner,” Clem said.