Storm in a Teacup Read Online Free Page A

from me is a chair wearing neckties. Paisley, striped, bold solids — all sewn together to form the strangest chair skirt I've ever seen. Above the chair is a built-in glass hutch full of figurines like those that used to come in tea boxes.
    The whistle of the teakettle pierces the silence, and a moment later, Hazel Lottie plunks someone's back pocket on the end table to my right, followed by a chipped rose-enameled teacup. I look closer at the pocket. It's exactly what it looks like; she's made a coaster from the butt pocket of someone's jeans. The tea smells of mint, and I lift the cup to my lips.
    She plops herself into a burgundy armchair, without spilling scalding tea all over her lap somehow. Her hair clashes horribly with the upholstery. "So," she says. "If you're here and a Mediator, you're probably looking for Lena."
    I choke on my sip of tea and set the cup down on the denim coaster. "Why do you think that?"
    "She's missing, of course. Her idiot bandmate tried to feed me a line about her going to work with some new teen hit, but Lena's about as likely to play country as I am to burst into a spontaneous trapeze routine." Hazel takes a gulp of tea, which makes my throat convulse just to watch. My own esophagus still throbs from where the liquid made contact with my flesh.
    Hazel Lottie might sound like something you'd buy at Starbucks, but she's no kooky old bat. Chair skirt and coasters notwithstanding. I reformulate my line of questioning and nod my acquiescence.
    "I am looking for your granddaughter, Ms. Lottie."
    The old woman harrumphs and claps her hands to her knees. "Granddaughter? Lawdy. No. Lena did my cleaning for me, honey. And call me Hazel."
    I didn't really think they were related, but I'm glad she's confirmed it. "How long did she work for you?"
    "Oh, a year or so. She came in a couple hours a day, three days a week. Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. Sometimes I'd have her over on Sundays for brunch. She did like my cream cheese stuffed French toast." Hazel sits back in her chair again, taking another big swig of her tea.
    I try another sip of mine and burn my tongue. Lady must have a leather-lined mouth.
    "Someone at The Hole said you used to come in to see her band play," I say.  
    Hazel shakes her head in a violent nod. "Lena was awful good with that bass. Though you wouldn't know it for all the racket the damn singer and guitarists make. I went to see her oh, four or five times."
    "You didn't seem surprised to see a Mediator asking about her."
    "Lawd, no. She was a good girl, but sometimes dark things done swallow the light."
    I'm the choir, and she's preaching right to me. "So you think she got killed by demons?"
    Hazel drains the rest of her tea and dumps the empty cup on her own dark rinse coaster. She pulls her feet onto the seat of the chair and crosses her legs, leaning forward to look at me. "I don't know what I think."
    "But you think she's dead?"
    "I reckon I don't know."
    "You said was."
    "Oh, honey. If you try and dissect all my crazy old fart ramblings, you'll drive yourself mad." Her lips part in a wide smile showing one missing eyetooth.  
    Old fart, maybe. Crazy, not so much. I don't know how to get Hazel to tell me her suspicions, so I switch tactics. "When was the last time you saw her?"
    "Roundabout two months back. She'd switched our schedule round a bit so she could work Saturday mornings at that awful diner, and she came to see if we could switch back because she was going on graveyard shift there four nights a week. Poor little chickadee. Wore herself out working both places. I told her I'd pay her more, but she said she needed the money."
    "Would you mind telling me how much you paid her?" If she was squirreling money away, maybe she vanished on her own just to get away. It happens.  
    "Of course, dear. I paid her twenty-five hundred dollars a month."
    I have to rewind in my head before that computes. "You paid her over two thousand dollars a month to work —" I do the math,