Shadow of a Spout Page 11

  Whatever-His-Name-Was Pettigrew was on his cell phone, which, by the way, was the devil’s own invention. If God had meant man to be able to talk to others wherever they were, he would have made them telepathetic!

  Orlando—that was Pettigrew’s name. Orlando, as in Florida. Thelma skulked closer, and the fellow’s voice was clear as a bell. Why a bell? she wondered, distracted once again. Was a bell clearer than a foghorn or a bassoon? No one said “as clear as a foghorn,” but you sure could hear one a ways away.

  Anyhoo, Pettigrew was talking, kind of sobbing. “I’m going crazy with grief! What am I going to do without my Zunia?”

  Thelma clasped her hands to her bosom and snuck closer. Poor fella! A waitress passed by going from the dining room toward the door and gave her an odd look, but Thelma put one finger to her lips. The woman smiled and continued on her way.

  “I don’t know what the cops are doing. They keep asking me the same questions, over and over: Where was I? What was I doing? Why was Zunia out of the room? Didn’t I know where my own wife was?”

  Thelma crept closer and the bush rustled a bit, but she stilled and the noise stopped.

  “No, I told them about that. I knew she was involved with someone else, but it was going to blow over. You had to understand Zunia; she got caught up in this other guy’s fantasy and went along for the ride, but that was finished.”

  Thelma almost fell off her orthopedic loafers. So the woman was having an affair and the husband knew about it? Seemed like a good motive for murder.

  “No, she wasn’t about to leave me. She told me that herself.” He paused. “Yes, I’m sure. We talked about it, and she was going to put an end to it. She was beginning to be concerned about the guy. He scared her.” He paused. “Why? You mean why was she scared? She said he was far too serious.”

  Thelma tried to get closer but bumped into one of the chairs by the fake palm and stumbled sideways. Pettigrew bolted up out of his chair and whirled around.

  “Are you okay, ma’am?” he said, grabbing her arm with his free hand and guiding her to the chair.

  “Just a little light-headed, you know.” She stared up at him. “I should be asking if you’re okay, having just lost your wife and all.”

  He looked awful, with bags under his bloodshot eyes, clothes rumpled, chin stubbled with a day’s growth of whiskers and some bruising underneath it from the confrontation the night before with the weird pastor. “It’s like a nightmare I can’t wake up from. I keep thinking, what if we hadn’t come to the conference? What if I had been awake when she left the room? What if . . .” He shook his head and passed one hand over his face. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’ve got to get back to my call,” he said, raising the cell phone to his ear.

  “Who you talking to?” she asked.

  He looked taken aback and put one hand over the phone. “Uh . . . a friend back home. I have to tell folks, you know.”

  She nodded. “I guess we’ll need a new president, right? Not to be indelicate.”

  He looked mortified, gray eyes wide, grimace on his lips. “This is certainly not the time to be talking about this.” He moved away, speaking rapidly in a mutter to his friend on the phone, then he touched the screen and put the phone in his pocket as he headed for the elevator.

  Well, that got her a big fat nothing, except she knew that the dead woman was afraid of her boyfriend. Could be something there. But who was her boyfriend? That babbling pastor? No one would be afraid of that guy.

  * * *

  Sophie had returned to the inn room. Nana was sitting up in bed reading a mystery. She looked tired, but worse than that, she looked pensive and worried, her round face lined and weary under her tousled head of fluffy white curls. Sophie sat cross-legged on the end of the bed and shared a look of concern with Laverne, who was rubbing lotion into her elbows. “How are you, Nana?”

  “I’m just fine, my Sophie girl. Now don’t you go getting that mother-hen look with me. I’m old enough to be your grandmother,” she joked.

  “She won’t tell you how worried she is about all this,” Laverne said, pausing and eyeing her old friend. “Will you, Rose?”

  “Now, Laverne, you hush. I’m just fine, and I’m plenty old enough to look after myself.” She examined her granddaughter’s expression. “Talk to me,” she commanded Sophie.

  “I don’t know if you really want to talk about this awful business or not.”

  Sophie almost thought Nana hid a smile, but she simply said, “I want to see that whoever did this using my poor teapot is caught. We might not still hang murderers, but he or she can spend the rest of their life in jail. I sometimes think that’s worse than a quick death at the end of a rope.”

  “Whoever strikes a man—or woman—so that he dies shall be put to death,” Laverne said.

  “Vengeance is mine, says the Lord,” Nana said, smiling over at her friend.

  Laverne chuckled. “Just testing your knowledge of the good book.”

  It was an oft-repeated conversation, since Laverne was an active churchwoman and Nana preferred to do her praying at home, as she said each time the subject came up. Sophie could see that Laverne was purposely keeping the atmosphere light.

  “Tell us what you’ve learned,” Nana said, sticking a Stone and Scone Inn pamphlet in the book, a large-print Agatha Christie from the Gracious Grove library, and closing it.

  Sophie went over the two encounters she had, with Dahlia and Emma Pettigrew, and with Pastor Frank Barlow.

  “That doesn’t really explain what Orlando Pettigrew said to him in the dining room,” Nana commented.

  “No, but isn’t the husband always the last to know when a wife is leaving? I’ve had a few male friends blindsided by divorce,” Sophie said. “One said he never saw it coming until the day his wife served him with papers and moved out. Maybe Frank is right; maybe she was going to leave Orlando for him.”

  “Maybe,” Nana said, but didn’t sound convinced.

  “What do you think about Emma’s mother being in the area?” Sophie asked them both.

  “She may have just come today in response to this happening,” Laverne said, putting the last dollop of body lotion on her elbows and capping the tube. “Like Josh’s mom.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s possible, isn’t it?”

  There was a tentative tap at the door. Sophie jumped up and crossed the floor. Josh stood in the doorway, looking a little embarrassed. She invited him in but he shook his head, and she didn’t want to mortify him further. She stepped out into the dim hallway. “What’s up? Is your mom coming back to stay tonight?”

  “No, luckily. I love my mom, but she worries so much! I did what you said, told her you were here, and she seemed better about it. Anyway, I hung out with some of the staff here and they said Emma was always bumming smokes off them and talking about how awful her stepmom was . . . before the convention started, I mean. I guess the Pettigrews came the night before, like, Thursday, so that Mrs. Pettigrew could set up the meeting room for the seminar and stuff. I saw Emma for a bit but then she took off, said she was meeting her mom.”

  Sophie told him how she had bumped into the mother and daughter at the drugstore. “But the mom was in a hurry. I wonder if Emma called her to come to Butterhill.”

  Josh’s eyes widened. “No, that’s not how it happened. Mrs. Pettigrew was already in the area. Guess what for?”

  Sophie shrugged. “I can’t guess. Tell me.”

  “She’s checking out Cruickshank College for Emma. She came down the same day as they did, and I think she’s staying at the college!”

  Sophie was stunned. From being at the bottom, Dahlia Pettigrew was making the ascent up the list of possible suspects. “Do people stay at the college while they’re checking it out?”

  He nodded. “Sure. They use the dorm rooms, sometimes. I went to visit an out-of-stat
e college with my mom and dad and we stayed overnight.”

  Sophie pondered that. “So Emma’s mom could have been here at the inn last night when all the excitement happened.”

  “But she wouldn’t kill Emma’s stepmom, would she?”

  Sophie didn’t want to enlighten him on the complicated world of adult relationships. She had never felt the urge to murder, but one of her more unstable acquaintances had trashed her ex’s car, shredded his clothing and destroyed his prized old movie collection. Sophie had backed away from that friendship, not sure how to deal with someone like that. The ex–Mrs. Pettigrew sure seemed to still be upset about the divorce. “Who knows what she’d do? Probably not, but it’s one more person to add to the list. I wonder how we can find out if she’s involved somehow.”

  “Maybe you could call Mr. Murphy,” Josh offered hesitantly. “He could help you figure out if she was there at the college that night.”

  It was a good idea, but how would she ask him for information like that? Would he even know? “I’ll think about it,” she said. “Thanks for the info. Good night, Josh.”

  He headed down the hall to his room and she stood watching, wondering what he made of the adults he had encountered at this, his first collectors’ conference. Just then Thelma Mae Earnshaw trudged down the hall from the elevator, looking as if she bore the weight of the world on her shoulders.

  Nana and Thelma may have mended fences and come to uneasy terms over an invitation to join the Silver Spouts teapot collectors society, but Thelma was still Thelma. Nana had told Sophie all about what she suspected and knew for certain that Thelma had whispered among the other convention attendees, but it mystified Sophie that she would say such things.

  Thelma saw her as she reached her own room and came to a halt. “Thought you ought to know, I saw that fella, that Pettigrew fella. He didn’t see me, though. He was talking on the phone and he told somebody that he knew his wife was cheating on him, but he didn’t care because she was done with the other guy and was even scared of him.”

  Sophie stuttered, “Uh, thanks for the information, Mrs. Earnshaw.”

  “Then he saw me and he told me he was real tore up. Got huffy when I just mentioned that we’d be needing a new president for the group, though. Don’t know why.” She sagged against the door frame as she rustled around in her huge bag for the room key.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I never complain,” she grumbled. “Nobody ever asks about my health, and I don’t complain.”

  “Are you not feeling well?” Sophie asked, coming over to her. “Would you like me to call Cissy, see if she can come to visit you?”

  “No, that’s okay.” She reached out, her eyes watering, and touched Sophie’s wrist. “You’re a nice girl, Sophie Taylor. Never did like your brothers, but you’re a nice girl and a credit to your grandma. Just like my Cissy.” She fumbled with the key, opened the door and entered, slamming the door behind her.

  Sophie returned to make up her little cot by the window. She had moved the table and chairs to the center of the room so they could still be used. Nana was reading again, while Laverne had the TV on, watching CNN. There was a political scandal somewhere, a financial crisis loomed, and one analyst was saying the current government was the worst they had ever had and was going to be the death of democracy and end civilization as they knew it. Or something like that. It wasn’t that Sophie was cynical, but she was young and yet had lived long enough to hear the same guff over and over since she was a child.

  When she was done making up her cot she sat on it cross-legged and told the two older women what Josh had reported and what Thelma had said. She watched her grandmother’s face, the wrinkles that outlined her mouth emphasized by the pool of light from the bedside lamp. “What are you thinking, Nana?”

  “I’m just wondering who Orlando Pettigrew would be talking to that he would tell so much, and how it could be precisely the information we would want to know?”

  “What are you saying?” Laverne asked.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Don’t mind me; I’m just tired, I guess.”

  But as Sophie showered and changed into pj’s, she pondered what her grandmother had said. She wished she had been there to see exactly how it happened that Thelma overheard such a pivotal conversation. The woman was not stealthy and she was most definitely not quiet, though she seemed to think she was, so the man must have known she was there. Therefore he must have known she would hear him declare his wife a cheat.

  Was it posthumous damage control? Was he trying to make it seem like he had no reason to kill her because there was no rift between them? Maybe. One thing was for sure, she needed to find out much more about what was going on in the ITCS, because there sure seemed to be a lot of skulduggery and extreme emotions.

  Chapter 12

  It was early, so Rose left Laverne and Sophie sleeping and went down to the café that fronted the Stone and Scone Inn for a cup of tea. Laverne rarely got to sleep in, especially on a Sunday, when church beckoned. Sophie had never been an early riser. Years of working in restaurants meant that she was accustomed to being up until three in the morning, and asleep until ten a.m. or so. But for Rose the early morning was the best time of the day, when it was shiny and new, fresh and green.

  During the dark period after her husband and son died every morning just brought a fresh wave of misery, if she had even managed to sleep at all, but now she was content. Her grandchildren had been the saving grace in her life. Rosalind had her faults, and she didn’t spend much time with her mother in Gracious Grove, but Rose would always be grateful to her daughter for bringing three children into the world and making sure they spent lots of time with their nana.

  The coffee shop was comforting like a hundred others, with bright lights, the clink of china, and the faint sound of the radio tuned to an oldies station. There was a diner counter for folks to sip coffee at, red upholstered booths lined the walls and the windowed front, and a bank of booths with high dividers filled the center. There was a local paper on the counter near the cash register, the Butterhill Bugle; Rose picked up a copy and found a booth that had just been vacated near the front window. A waitress cleared the table while Rose ordered tea. She leafed through the paper while she waited.

  The murder of Zunia Pettigrew had made the front page, but the article didn’t have any information that was new to Rose. She soon laid the paper down and looked around with interest. Cheery waitresses dressed in gold polyester uniforms bustled from booth to booth, teasing regulars, refilling cups and clearing tables. Rose appreciated the scent of fresh coffee, and the smells were making her hungry, as were the sounds, especially the sizzle of bacon on the flattop, where a short-order cook whipped up breakfast for hungry Butterhill folk. She thought she’d stick to toast, though, her usual morning meal.

  They overlooked the main street, which was just beginning to get busy with early churchgoers. The booths in the coffee shop were now packed. Folks still had to work and many stopped for a coffee or breakfast at the Stone and Scone coffee shop; there was a police officer, a couple of young women in scrubs—maybe employees at a local nursing home or hospice, since there was no hospital in the town—and as usual, the local gathering of farmers in dirty overalls, sitting together and laughing at old jokes while trading new gossip.

  Rose had been coming to Butterhill every other year for several years. With only a couple of days spent each time she couldn’t say she knew every corner of the town. But she did know some of the inn staff, and waved and smiled when she saw a familiar face. Bertie Handler, the inn owner, had slumped into a booth on the wall near the servery and was glumly stirring spoons of sugar into black coffee. He looked dreadful, like he hadn’t slept for ages. She was about to go over to ask him if he was all right when Nora Sommer, sat down opposite him with a stack of paperwork under her arm.

  The waitress brought Rose’s tea and butt
ered toast, so she decided to eat before intruding. She wanted to speak with them both, curious if the convention was going on in the face of the awful events of early Saturday morning. Conversation rose to a lively chatter, with many folks arguing over the Bugle article, it seemed, from the number of times she heard Zunia’s unusual name spoken.

  Sophie had told them what she had gleaned the night before about the Pettigrews, and Rose put it together with what she knew. Zunia and Orlando had met as members of the Niagara Teapot Collectors Group, centered in Wheatfield, New York, near Niagara. Orlando, a real estate agent and antiques aficionado, had first joined with his wife, Dahlia, who was really the teapot collector of the two, if Rose remembered right from the first time they met. In fact, it seemed to her that Dahlia was a long-time member, maybe even one of those who had started the ITCS, though her husband was a more recent member. Dahlia was a nice woman but mousy and kind of sad-looking. She had little spunk and tended to melt into the background.

  Her husband was not an overly attractive man, but he was vigorous and cheerful with his first wife in tow. Both the vigor and good humor appeared to have been sapped, truncated by the whirlwind that was Zunia, the new Mrs. Pettigrew. Orlando’s divorce from Dahlia had happened offstage, so to speak, and Rose had not learned about the new Mrs. Pettigrew until Laverne reported back after last year’s conference. It was a done deal, and Zunia had quashed her husband’s stated intention from the previous year to run for the division head, taking center stage and declaring herself the front-runner.