Shadow of a Spout Page 10

  “You forgot toiletries?” SuLinn asked, her dark eyes widening with surprise. “Those are the first things I pack. I have to have my moisturizer, makeup, toothpaste, contact solution, contacts, favorite brush, body lotion . . . The list goes on and on. When we go anywhere, Randy says we need a trailer just for my cosmetics.”

  “Y’know, when you find out that your grandmother’s mixed up in a homicide investigation you forget a lot of things.” As she scanned the shelf and nabbed a cheap comb and brush set, she noticed Emma Pettigrew standing near the soda cooler in intense conversation with a middle-aged woman. “Who is Emma Pettigrew talking to?” Sophie asked her friend.

  SuLinn put down the industrial-size bottle of shampoo she was examining and followed Sophie’s nod. “I don’t know!”

  “Introduce me to the girl?”

  “I hardly know her myself.” SuLinn demurred, folding her slim arms over her body. “I just met her yesterday for about two seconds.”

  “Just introduce me; I’ll do the rest.”

  They approached the two and SuLinn made a stilted introduction, then melted away toward the snack-food section.

  “My grandmother and her group the Silver Spouts are at the ITCS convention,” Sophie explained, mostly to the older woman. “Nana was just saying how nice it was that Josh had someone to talk to other than all the old ladies and gentlemen at the convention!” She examined the older woman; she was probably in her fifties, slim but with wide hips and graying sandy hair, her mouth bracketed with lines and her hazel eyes underlined by dark circles. She was dressed casually, in tan capris and a sleeveless cotton blouse.

  “Who is Josh?” the woman asked the teenager, her eyes narrowing.

  “Just a kid,” Emma said, eyeing Sophie with perturbation on her face.

  It was easy to see that she looked like the woman, and equally easy to see that Sophie was interrupting a conversation of some sort, something heavier than what chips to buy, or whether Emma could dye her mousy hair. Sophie explained, “Josh Sinclair. He’s just sixteen, the youngest member of the Silver Spouts. Probably the youngest member of the ITCS! You must be Emma’s mother?”

  “I’m Dahlia Pettigrew,” she said with a nod.

  “Are you here for the convention, too?” Sophie asked.

  Dahlia stiffened and grasped the strap of her shoulder bag with a fierce grip. “I wouldn’t be caught dead with that bunch of hypocrites!” Two red spots bloomed high on her cheeks and her eyes widened slightly, maybe as she realized what she had just said. But she went on: “Worse than hypocrites; they’re a pack of wolves in sheep’s clothing. I’ve done my time with them all, and look what happened: Zunia stole my husband then got herself killed. If Orly didn’t make such a big deal out of it and threaten to withhold child support, I would never have let Emma within a hundred feet of those . . . those jerks!” Her voice sounded like tears were clogging it by the end of her statement.

  Emma looked like she wanted to sink into the floor after her mother’s rant. The woman had stopped as she caught her daughter’s look, though it appeared that she was stifling more that she would have liked to say. She took in a deep, calming breath and let it out through pursed lips. “I shouldn’t have said that, given what’s happened, but it’s been difficult. Zunia made it difficult. Excuse us; we have to run. We have a lot to talk about, number one among those things whether she should even be staying there with some murderer running around loose. You understand, I’m sure.”

  She took her daughter’s arm and the two marched out of the store, leaving Sophie to watch them go. Where had Dahlia Pettigrew been the night before, and how much did she hate her ex-husband’s new wife? Enough not to be sorry she was dead, it seemed from her comment.

  Sophie bought her stuff. As she and SuLinn walked back to the inn, Sophie told her what had been said and what she was wondering. “Maybe Josh will have more info. I’ll have to track the kid down. That woman was practically shaking and crying, she was still so angry about the way her marriage ended.”

  “You can’t blame Dahlia Pettigrew for being bitter, though. I would be, if some woman stole my Randy.”

  Sophie didn’t answer. Could a husband be stolen? He wasn’t like a billfold left on a park bench. It was a nice August night, and they strolled back slowly. Sophie told SuLinn about her evening out with Jason and how she thought there was a kiss coming, before the storm washed it away. “I wish I knew what he was thinking, how he was feeling.”

  “Ask him,” SuLinn said. “I could never do it, but I’m sure you could.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Sophie said. There were roses somewhere. She breathed in deeply; the fragrance was heavy on the warm evening air. It made her think of rose hip tea, something she was considering serving at Auntie Rose’s. She let her mind go back to Jason, though, and her feeling that she just didn’t know where she stood with him. “Jason and I are friends again, but there was a time when he wouldn’t even talk to me, I hurt him that bad.”

  “Years ago, when you were kids!” she said. “He’s an adult, Soph, and so are you. I’m sure he’s let go of that.”

  “Maybe. Even if he has, though, he’s moved on.” They paused outside the inn and Sophie examined it in the floodlights that illuminated the front. It was an old building, a couple hundred years, probably, constructed of cobblestone. A pergola jutted off to one side. She checked her watch. “I don’t want to go in yet. My nana has this weird nighttime ritual of bending and stretching you would not believe, and I’d rather give her and Laverne space and privacy. Want to walk around there and see if there’s a garden?” she asked, pointing to the pergola.

  “Sure. I want to phone Randy,” she said, naming her husband, an architect with a local firm. “He has a meeting this evening and will just be getting home. I’ll give him a few minutes to get a drink and relax, but the garden would be a great place to phone from.”

  They strolled down the front sidewalk and climbed some crumbling concrete steps. Beyond the pergola there was an enclosed garden accessed by a wooden gate and lit by solar lights. Benches lined the fence, interspersed by gardens that created private little alcoves for chatting or relaxation. Sophie was interested because she had often thought the back of Nana’s tearoom property could be developed in a similar manner, with private tables for intimate brunches or picnics.

  She paused by a rosebush, breathing deeply the heady fragrance of an old, open type of rose that had thorns thickly strewn all the way up each stem. It was a divine scent, and she closed her eyes, close and distant sounds washing over her. Traffic, someone laughing somewhere, a dog barking, people arguing.

  Arguing? The patio and garden appeared deserted, but the voices were close and sounded like they were raised in anger.

  “Wonder what’s going on,” Sophie said to SuLinn, as she led the way along the winding paths through the garden, past a clump of tall ornamental grasses that swayed in a sudden breeze.

  As they rounded a bend in the walkway, Bertie Handler, the inn owner, strode past them, his expression grim. Sophie turned and watched him storm off, then followed the path. Pastor Frank was sitting alone on a bench, his head in his hands. At the sound of their scuffling feet he looked up, tears on his cheeks.

  SuLinn dashed toward him. “Mr. Barlow, are you all right?”

  He looked up at her with a lost expression in his eyes. “I s’pose.” He pulled off his steel-framed glasses and knuckled his eyes, sniffing miserably.

  Sophie approached behind her friend, who had pulled a tissue from her handbag and gave it to him. “Pastor, were you and Bertie Handler arguing about something? Is everything all right?”

  “He was mad because . . . because of that incident in the dining room, I guess,” he said, his gaze shifting back and forth. He hung his head. “I feel so alone!”

  Sophie sat down on a chair by the bench he sat on. Remembering the pastor’s outburst in the
dining room, she gently said, “You can talk to us, Mr. Barlow. You must be devastated by Zunia Pettigrew’s death; you were so close, in the same group and all.”

  “We were close!” the pastor exclaimed, his eyes watering behind his glasses. He dabbed at his eyes with the tissue SuLinn had given him, shoving the glasses up on his forehead so he could dry his welling tears. “So close! No one understood her. She was magnificent, fiery, so passionate and full of life. But I shouldn’t say another word. It’s not my place.” He eyed SuLinn, who stood nearby.

  Sophie exchanged a look with SuLinn and faintly motioned with her head for SuLinn to leave them alone. She knew it was easier sometimes to confide in a stranger than someone you may actually see again.

  “I want to call my husband,” she said, “so I think I’ll just go over to the picnic table there and do that.” She took out her cell phone and retreated.

  “Mr. Barlow, I’m so sorry,” Sophie said, leaning over and patting him on the back. “It’s much harder on you because you were close with Zunia, and maybe no one understands how close.” She wasn’t sure how to bring up what she had heard in the dining room.

  “We were. I’ve only known her a year or two, but I’m the one who really understood her. Better than her own husband!”

  “I didn’t know the woman at all, but from what I’ve heard she didn’t seem to have a lot of friends. Why is that?”

  “People were jealous. After she won the presidency of the division last year all the infighting escalated. Rhiannon was the worst—so petty! Zunia was just trying to save her hurt feelings because the girl didn’t have a chance, you know. Not against Zunia.” He snuffled and his chin trembled, a low moan escaping him. He swept back a long hank of gray hair and sighed. “My poor darling Zunia!”

  His anguish seemed so extreme that Sophie wondered, was it fake? It felt over-the-top, but she had known many people who indulged their emotions to an extent that it seemed they were putting on a show when they were being as genuine as they could ever be. The pastor might be one of those.

  Or he could be lying through his teeth. But why would he lie about having an affair with her? That put him square in the police’s sights as someone who had an intimate relationship with Zunia. “I’m truly sorry for your loss. You seem more heartbroken than even her husband.”

  The pastor nodded as he took his glasses off, wiping the lenses with the tail of his plaid shirt. “That’s something we shared, Zunia and me; we both felt things deeply, you know, and so few people really do.” He shoved his glasses back on, clenched his fist and hammered his chest, leaving his hand there. “We both had big hearts, full to overflowing. I don’t think I’ll ever get over this, and I want whoever did it to pay.”

  “The police will find the guilty party.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He shook his head, but stayed silent.

  “Who do you think did it? Do you have any ideas?”

  Crickets nearby chirped, as he looked off into the gloom. A rumble of thunder rolled across the heavens. “I don’t want to point fingers.”

  So he did have an idea. “It won’t go any further,” Sophie said, softly. “I don’t know any of these folks. I’m only here to support my grandmother, who I know for sure would never do anything like that. Who are you thinking?”

  He looked to the right and left, and whispered, “I think that Orlando is in over his head, you know? He should never have married Zunia . . . not man enough for her. She was dissatisfied, and I know for a fact he was regretting it, too.”

  “But why would he try to place the blame on my grandmother? Whoever did it stole the teapot from my grandmother’s room and used it to kill Zunia.”

  He choked on a sob. “I don’t know. I just don’t know!”

  “Mr. Barlow, my godmother told me that there were rumors going around last year that Rhiannon Galway was having an affair with Mr. Sommer.” She felt disloyal to her friend even saying such a thing. Her intent was not to paint Rhiannon as the villain, though; it was to get more information on the dynamics of this odd group. “What did you think of that?”

  “Oh, that was true!” Barlow said. He pushed his glasses up onto his forehead again and used his wrist to stanch the flow of tears, which never seemed to stop. He took in a deep, shaky breath. “Zunia was appalled! I didn’t want to say it earlier, but that is precisely why she tried to save the girl trouble. She very wisely convinced Rhiannon to withdraw from the division president election rather than let it get around. Better for everyone, you know.” He settled his glasses back down on his nose and nodded. “Better for everyone.”

  Blackmail as a public service: That was a new one. But Sophie was not going to say what she really felt, that Zunia sounded like a poisonous witch with a b. “I felt sorry for you when the detective came up to you in the dining room and escorted you away in front of everyone. What on earth did he want?”

  “He just had a few questions, that’s all. I . . . I had better get going,” he said, standing and brushing off his slacks.

  He seemed nervous all of a sudden. “Mr. Barlow, why did Mr. Pettigrew say his wife was not going to leave him for you, in the dining room, just before the detective came in?” Sophie examined his face in the yellow glow of the one of the lamps that lined the pathway.

  “That is private business,” he said, his voice trembling. “Between me and Orlando.”

  “Unfortunately everyone must be talking about it because he made quite a big deal out of it in front of everyone. That’s so awkward for you. Where were you last night when everything was happening?” Sophie asked, hoping to force an answer while he was flustered.

  “I was, uh . . . tied up. Busy. Look, I’ve got to go. Excuse me.” He backed away, then whirled and bustled down the path a ways. But he stopped and turned back to her. “I don’t care what Orlando says; it’s true: Zunia and I were planning on running away together. We were just going to get this conference out of the way, and she was going to tell him.” His voice broke. “She was too good for him!” He whirled and strode off to the side door of the inn and disappeared.

  SuLinn, slipping her phone in her shorts pocket, strolled toward Sophie. “What the heck was that all about?”

  Sophie told her what they had talked of. “I wasn’t sure about the rest, but that last bit sounded like the truth. She really was planning on running away with him.”

  “Or at least he thought she was,” SuLinn said.

  “Good point. And as long as he was convinced it was so, he would sound that sure.” Would a woman as ambitious as Zunia Pettigrew really give up everything to run away with Pastor Frank Barlow? He just did not seem like the type to incite the kind of passion that would overwhelm a sensible woman’s judgment, and she’d be trading down from Orlando Pettigrew, even though that guy didn’t seem like much of a prize to Sophie. She considered Barlow’s certainty, and remembered from a long-ago job at a restaurant in Little Italy a woman who had all the staff crazy for her. She played them off against one another and each fellow was sure of her affection for him until she finally ran away with the restaurant owner.

  That guy gave up everything—his family, his business, his kids—just to be with her. But then they divorced within a year and he came slinking back to his wife, who remarried him. Was this a similar case? She shook her head. There didn’t seem to be a thing to support that. Except . . . Her eyes widened as she considered the presence of Pettigrew’s ex-wife in town. Where did she fit into the puzzle?

  “You’re not trying to figure out who did it, are you?” SuLinn asked, watching her.

  “I can’t leave it alone, not when Nana’s teapot was used as a weapon. She’s really upset about it, and I won’t have her used like that.” Sophie’s heart thudded. She had been accused before of feeling like she needed to correct everything, wanting to make everything right for
everyone. It had backfired innumerable times in her career, but she kept making the same mistakes. This time, though, there was no question it was right to want to help her grandmother.

  “SuLinn, someone with murder on their mind snuck into my grandmother’s room when she wasn’t there, stole that teapot, then killed Zunia Pettigrew with it. They went out of their way to make it look like she did it.” She nodded sharply. “So yes, I’m going to do my darnedest to figure out who did it and make sure they go to jail.”

  As they walked back into the inn one thing bothered Sophie about the conversation she had just had. If Pastor Frank had nothing to do with Zunia’s murder, then why didn’t he answer her innocent question about where he was? Granted he didn’t owe her an explanation, and she had no real right to ask, but still . . . why not just tell her where he was instead of evading the question?

  Chapter 11

  Thelma Mae Earnshaw didn’t like feeling bad about her behavior. Sometime in the last few months she had grown a conscience, and that was an uncomfortable thing to own, like having a parrot on your shoulder that only ever squawked when you did something wrong. Now she felt bad for talking trash at the convention, spreading that stupid stuff about Rose Freemont being a dangerous sort. But who would have thought that bunch of ninnies would believe that sweet little grandmotherly Rose Freemont would be a killer? And how was Thelma to know Zunia Pettigrew would up and get herself murdered straight away? With Rose’s banged-up ugly old teapot?

  It was like the good Lord was testing Thelma, and she did not appreciate it. After a lifetime of hardship, she and He were already on uneasy terms, and it didn’t appear that it was going to get any better. He needed to start cooperating or it would be no wonder that she kept choo-choo-chugging off the rails.

  There was only one way to feel good again and that was to figure out who did it, then march right up to that O’Hooligan, or whatever his name was, and tell him. So Thelma was skulking, trying to find clues. She had skulked in the coffee shop to no avail, lingering behind booths and listening in on a few of the teapot convention folks’ conversations until an exasperated waitress asked her if she was ill. Now she was skulking behind a bamboo bush in the lobby. Everyone knew the husband was always the first suspect, and right now Zunia Pettigrew’s husband . . . What the heck was his name? She couldn’t remember, except that it was a city. No one ought to be named after a city. That would be like calling her Nimrod Earnshaw, after the town in Oregon where a niece of hers lived, or Elephant Butte Earnshaw, after the park in New Mexico where her cousin three times removed got stuck in a crevasse.