Chapter 1: Death in Red, White and Rooibos, a new Cozy Mystery by Kirsten Weiss

Death in Red, White and Rooibos, a new cozy mystery by Kirsten Weiss, launches June 27, 2026

Chapter 1

Is there anything more problematic than a tearoom on the Fourth of July?

Those bold Bostonians had good reason to dump tea into the harbor back in 1773—and after my latest tax bill, I was starting to sympathize. But a tearoom that hasn’t blasted into July Fourth spirit by mid-June?

Downright treasonous.

Paper butterflies dangled from the tearoom’s ceiling. Sunny-orange table runners bisected the white-clothed tables. Daisy bouquets spilled from jam jars. The decor was summery, not patriotic. Not that anyone had complained.

“How about a red, white, and brew celebration?” Hyperion leaned against the window frame and adjusted his Uncle Sam top hat.

The blue of his three-piece suit almost perfectly matched the American flag. Tall and handsome, straight of nose and chiseled of jaw, my business partner always managed to look like he’d stepped from the pages of a men’s magazine.

It was irritating. I had to work to look reasonably put together. I’m petite—five-four if I don’t tease my hair (blond, FYI), five-four-and-a-half if I do. Wearing heels is easier.

The ladies in the tearoom—and some of the men—darted glances at Hyperion, but not because of that ridiculous hat. It was his high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, and tousled shock of black hair that attracted the looks.

“The coffeehouse down the street is already using red, white and brew,” I said.

“The coffeehouse whither?” Hyperion loosened another button at his collar.

“Down the— What?” Whither? Since Hyperion had given up his Lovecraft word-of-the-day calendar, he’d been expanding his vocabulary in new and alarming ways.

Hyperion gusted an exasperated huff. “You’re overthinking this. No one’s complained about the decorations.” He paused. “I don’t think people are really into the Fourth this year.”

I’d noticed that too, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t go all in. Maybe it was a bit delusional to hope my contribution could raise people’s spirits. Except I hadn’t made any contribution yet. “I know, but...”

My boyfriend, Brik, ambled from the rear hallway. He set a cardboard box overflowing with decorations on the white-quartz counter. I straightened off the hostess stand and hoped my smile wasn’t too gooey.

POP!

I started and whirled toward the windows. Hyperion grinned, the ends of a holiday popper in his hands. “Red, white, and rooibos?”

I swallowed my annoyance. He knew my startle reflex was off the charts. “It beats red, white, and pea flower.” Butterfly pea flower was the herb of the moment when it came to brewing blue-colored tea.

“We’re trying too hard,” Hyperion said. “Beanblossom’s Tea and Tarot is America par excellence—flashy, unapologetic, and serving scones rocket hot.”

“Anything hotter than warm would be a lawsuit waiting to happen.” I smoothed my sunflower apron. “And Beanblossom’s is more elegant and genteel.”

“Is it though?”

The blue door to the tearoom swung open, the bell above it jingling. Beatrice Carson, communications consultant and PR maven, strode inside wearing a trademark vintage 1940s suit. Its lapels were wide, its skirt was tight. It was a mystery how she took a step without teetering over.

Her full lips curved in a frown. “Why aren’t the decorations up?” Beatrice was a good fifteen years older than me, with gray streaks in her coffee-colored hair. She was also a whole lot taller.

“Don’t you see the butterflies?” Hyperion motioned toward the ceiling.

Beatrice sputtered. “It’s June nineteenth. The Fourth is in two weeks. You should be done. If you’re not done, you should be decorating. Why aren’t you decorating?”

“We’ve just seated everyone,” I said. To keep things organized, we didn’t let people make reservations willy-nilly. There were strict seating times, and the first was 11:00 to 11:30 AM. It was now 11:35, and the tables were full, waitresses were bustling between them.

Hyperion’s Tarot readers hadn’t made their appearance yet. They preferred to let people settle in before making their rounds.

“I’m decorated.” Hyperion tapped his top hat. “I got the hat just for the semiquincentennial.”

“I can see that.” She scowled. “What I don’t see are your decorations for the Great San Borromeo Patriotic Porch Parade & Contest. What is wrong with everyone?”

How did she manage to squeeze capital letters into her speech? Maybe it was her communications training from when she’d worked at the White House.

“It’s important that everyone participate in a timely fashion,” she continued. “We have a memorandum of understanding. If you can’t fulfill your obligations—”

“The decorations are going up outside today.” I motioned toward Brik, pulling bunting from his box at the counter, and this time the quiver in my gut was trepidation. Our exterior wall was purple stucco. I wasn’t exactly sure how it would work with the patriotic bunting.

“You’re cutting it close,” Beatrice warned.

“The summer solstice is Sunday. A witch’s group is having a pre-solstice party Saturday. We can’t take down our Magical Summer decorations before then,” I said, because I could squeeze in capital letters too. “That gives us Monday to put up our interior decorations for Independence Day—”

“The semiquincentennial,” Hyperion interjected.

“And San Borromeo’s 150th anniversary,” Beatrice reminded me, her green eyes narrowing. “This Fourth of July is a big deal. If people like you don’t get with the program—”

“We will be rocking American independence for the rest of the summer,” I assured her. Because I love July Fourth. The history. The fireworks. The thumb-your-nose-at-the-man verve.

But the head witch was a good friend of Hyperion’s and a good client of the tearoom. We weren’t going to diss the solstice.

“Hmph.” She opened her oversized scarlet purse and retrieved a clipboard. “You’ll be selling mini-scones and iced tea at the Community Beachside Picnic & Old-Time Games Day next Saturday.”

“The twenty-seventh.” I jammed my hands in my apron pockets. “We’ve got it.”

“I’ve booked a tent for Tarot readings.” Hyperion rocked on his heels. “For the semiquincentennial.”

“Please stop saying that word.” She didn’t look up from her acrylic clipboard.

Hyperion’s dark brows pulled downward. “But—”

“It won’t fit on a t-shirt,” Beatrice said. “You’re also doing the Farmer’s Market this Tuesday. You don’t usually participate in that.” She looked up and slipped one hand into the wide pocket of her jacket.

A trio of women burst into laughter at a round table.

“I thought since the pier’s reopened…” I trailed off, my breath slowing. “It just seemed fun.”

I’d gotten my start selling tea on that pier. Now that I was part owner in a Tea and Tarot room, it seemed right to support the farmer’s market—like coming full circle.

Thanks to local support, the pier that held the farmer’s market was back in order after a storm had devastated it last year. The storm had wrecked much of Front Street, along the water.

My heart heavied, and I glanced at Brik. The community had rallied, and San Borromeo was once again shipshape. But the storm had taken some things we couldn’t replace.

Jude, an acquaintance of Brik’s, had been swept away by the waves after saving me from a killer and the storm. I still hadn’t gotten over the guilt—or the hope that she might still be alive.

It wasn’t that crazy an idea. Jude had been indigent before the storm, and came and went when she pleased. Just because we hadn’t heard from her in over a year, didn’t mean she was gone gone. Did it?

The blue front door opened behind Beatrice. My grandfather and his best friend, Tomas, ambled inside. They glanced at the PR specialist, ducked their heads, and hustled toward the counter.

The twin lines between Beatrice’s eyes deepened. “And you’ve got a booth at the Twilight Concerts Stars & Stripes Edition.” She looked up from her clipboard. “Are you prepared for all that?”

“Of course we are,” Hyperion said stoutly. “Our team is ready and revolutionary.”

Her emerald eyes narrowed. “Hm.”

My eyes narrowed too. Hyperion was the best partner a tearoom owner could hope for, but organization wasn’t his strong suit.

Hyperion cleared his throat. “Yes. Well.” Looking shifty, he edged behind the hostess stand.

Beatrice jabbed her pencil toward the windows. On the sidewalk outside, a man in board shorts carried a surfboard past. “I expect to see your exterior decorations up by close of business today. The bad news is, I seem to have run out of tickets for the fireworks on the pier.”

“What?” Hyperion howled.

My insides jumped. “Run out?” We’d been promised tickets in exchange for sponsoring the Community Beachside Picnic & Old-Time Games Day. “I thought—”

“Keep your shirt on,” she said. “I’ve got more back at the office. Come by this afternoon and get them.” She pointed at me. “You come.” She pointed at Hyperion. “Not you.” Pivoting, she strode from the tearoom.

I exhaled slowly. We’d had a rocky relationship with Beatrice in the past, but she knew her stuff. I was glad the celebrations were in her hands. She’d make sure they were memorable.

Besides, we lived in a California beach town. Surf. Sun. Bonfires on the beach. Fireworks reflecting off the Pacific. Where better to celebrate America’s big day?

I scraped my teeth over my bottom lip. But had we overextended ourselves?

After confirming with the reservation book that no more guests were expected, I turned toward the counter. The door opened behind me, paper butterflies dancing in the Pacific breeze.

Greg, the guy who owned the t-shirt shop across the street, slouched into the tearoom. He ruffled his blond hair. “Hey, Abigail. You got a minute?” He scrunched his face, brown and weathered from a lifetime of surfing.

I looked around the crowded tearoom. “Ah...”

“I’ll be quick. As you may have heard, I’m stepping down from the town council.”

I hadn’t even known he’d been on it. “Oh. Is everything okay?”

“My doctor says I need to slow down. My wife does too.”

I took a half-step closer and lowered my voice. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Ah... We’ll see. The thing is, I was wondering if you’d run to take my place.”

I took a step back and bumped into the hostess stand. “Me? Why me?” Menus cascaded from the top of the platform, and I bent to grab them off the laminate floor.

“You started that neighborhood watch. Aside from Beatrice, you’re the most involved in the July Fourth events. You’ve helped out the police all those times. You seem pretty civic minded.”

I straightened, clutching the menus to my chest. “Yeah, but I’m not political.” My default reaction to politicians was to run. My second was to check my pockets.

“No one who’s worth a damn is political,” Greg said hotly. “That’s why we need people like you on the council.”

“No, I mean, I’m really not political. I didn’t even know you were on town council.”

He rubbed the back of his sunburnt neck. “Just think about it, will you? We need someone on the council who understands the business and the residential side of San Borromeo.”

“I really don’t...”

“Think about it. It’s for my health.” Greg walked out.

“No pressure,” I muttered, replacing the menus on the hostess stand. I walked to the counter.

“I guess it’s half of five hundred years?” my grandfather was saying doubtfully. “Quincentennial? Five hundred?”

I studied him. The buttons of his brown-checked shirt had been doing extra duty lately. He had a girlfriend now, and they’d been eating out a lot. One collar stuck up from the edge of his cognac-colored knit vest.

Resisting the urge to smooth it down, I kissed Brik lightly on the cheek. His trim blond beard tickled my lips.

“Hey,” he rumbled, looping an arm around my waist and giving it a quick squeeze. “How does this look?”

I grimaced. The bunting looked like it had been balled up wet and packed away. “It will be perfect. The colors are as good as new. I’ll need to iron this before you hang it though.”

Naturally, I didn’t have an iron in the tearoom. I’d have to run home.

“Not a problem,” Brik said. “I’ll just use Hyperion’s steamer.”

I blinked. “He has a steamer? Here?”

Brik gave me a look. “How do you think he keeps his clothes so perfect?”

“Those steamers are handy.” My honorary uncle, Tomas, peeled off his orange-and-black baseball windbreaker. Lifting off his seat, he sat on his jacket and grinned, deepening the wrinkles in his aged-leather skin.

“What’s today’s special?” Gramps asked me.

“Roast beef and your horseradish,” I said.

“I’ll take one. And speaking of horseradish…” Stooping, he picked a shopping bag off the floor and pulled out a jar. “Check out my new label.”

I squinted at the red, white and blue label. Eagles screamed from the top corners like they were defending their nest egg from an IRS audit. “Liberty’s Burn Horseradish? That’s... a name.”

“That’s nothing,” Tomas said and pulled out three jars of salsa with similarly patriotic labeling. “Liberty Bell Salsa—mild with a crack of spice. Freedom Flame Salsa—extra hot. And Patriot’s Pico. That’s medium.”

“We’ve got a new banner for the farmer’s market too.” Gramps reached into the bag again and unfurled a wide sheet of white fabric: Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Heat.

“You’re going to sell out for sure,” I said.

“We’d better.” Gramps looked around.

Tomas nudged him. “Not bad for two old geezers. I told you it’s never too late.”

My grandfather frowned.

“No one thinks you’re geezers,” I said, reaching over to touch his shoulder. But I worried. Gramps didn’t take care of himself. I brought him healthy meals a couple times a week, but he wasn’t what you’d call fit.

“I thought you’d have your Independence Day stuff up by now.” Tomas jerked his thumb toward the dangling paper butterflies.

“We’re waiting until after the solstice,” I said.

“Right.” My grandfather nodded. “The witches.”

I got sandwiches and tea for Gramps and Tomas and borrowed the steamer from Hyperion. In the hallway, Brik took it from me. “Don’t worry about it. I got this.”

“But—”

The bell above the front door jangled, and I looked toward the front of the tearoom. A bulky man in a stained beige suit walked in and scanned the tables.

My stomach clenched. Baranko.

Baranko was a local detective. He never ate at Beanblossom’s, and we weren’t friends. His appearance was never good news.

Smoothing the front of my apron, I walked to the front door and pasted on a smile. “Hello, Detective. What can I do for you?”

Brik came to join me at the hostess stand. He set the steamer atop the menus there.

“Mr. Jacobs.” The detective’s lip curled. “I thought I might find you here.”

My pulse accelerated. What did he want with Brik?

Brik stood motionless. “Yeah?”

“Let’s talk privately,” the detective said.

“What about?” Brik asked.

The detective’s paleolithic brows lowered. “It’s private.”

“I don’t have secrets from Abigail,” he said, and my chest warmed a little.

Baranko shrugged. “Your funeral. Your name was on a missing person’s report for a Ms. Jude St. James.”

“You found her?” I grasped Brik’s muscular arm. “Is she alright?”

“We’ve found a body—”

“No.” My breath caught, nausea rising in my throat. No, no, no.

I knew I hadn’t been entirely realistic. But despite her problems, Jude had been tough, loyal, and weirdly ingenious. If anyone could have survived that storm, it was her.

Baranko reached into the inside pocket of his rumpled suit jacket and pulled out a phone. “We’d like you to take a look, if you wouldn’t mind.” He touched the screen, and it lit.

Brik took the phone from Baranko’s extended hand. He glanced at it, his face expressionless. “That looks like her.” He nodded. “That’s Jude.” His jaw clenched, the faint lines at the corners of his mouth whitening.

My hand found his arm before I’d realized I’d moved, my fingers closing on warm muscle, my heart folding in on itself. Jude.

Want to read more?

Pre-order on Amazon for the discounted pre-order price of $4.99 (more sellers coming available soon).

Or buy direct now for $4.99 and get printable PDFs of the recipes!

Writing Update

Death in Red, White and Rooibos is done!

One benefit of my last-minute edits is that I was able to slide in a World Cup reference. I don’t know about you, but the videos of foreigners enjoying America has definitely boosted my Independence Day spirit.

This Tea and Tarot cozy mystery is available for pre-order on Amazon now, and will be available on other sites on a random and rolling basis.

If you pre-order (or buy) before July 5th, you can take advantage of the discounted price of $4.99!

Next week, I return to working on Refuge of the Witch and the not-so-secret project accompanying it.

Here’s the plan:

To promote Refuge of the Witch, which I’m still editing, I’ve created a novella about a minor character in the book, called Winter of the Witch.

Winter of the Witch takes place about a year before Refuge.

Winter of the Witch will be free (at least initially).

But in order to get it, you must complete an online puzzle.

The puzzle will be a mystery in and of itself.

Players will have to follow the clues across the internet, and as they play, they’ll learn more about the background of the black lodge that has been causing my witches and the world so many problems.

The reason this is so much fun for me is storytelling through a game is a different animal than storytelling in a novel.

I’m learning.