Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) Read online

  “Folks like Stanfield Homes and Hammond Construction?”

  “Yeah, I guess. When the contract for the model homes was given to Leathorne and Hedges, Frankie got credit and the promotion.”

  Put that way it seemed clear cut enough. Happened all the time in business; it was you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. It certainly didn’t have anything to do with the murder at Belle Époque. Or at least . . . if she hadn’t overheard that quarrel between Vivienne Whittaker and Holly Harcourt, she’d be able to dismiss it. A few things began to come together in her mind, but nothing she wanted to share. In fact, nothing that even made any kind of coherent sense yet.

  Holly Harcourt and others were going into the “development business” to fund Hollis Junior’s political ambition. Was that the development just outside of town? Must be. Florence Whittaker had helped Francis get the promotion at Leathorne and Hedges. Vivienne Whittaker was upset about something to do with Francis, and she was talking to Hollis Senior about it. Gretchen Harcourt was at the tea where Vivienne had died. So was Belinda Blenkenship, whose husband, the mayor, had been mentioned a lot lately. It was a jumbled mess in her brain.

  “I’m worried for Mrs. Earnshaw,” she said, suddenly. “What was she thinking, calling and throwing Francis under the bus like that?”

  He relaxed, just plain Wally Bowman for a moment. “I know, right? She’s a piece of work; always was. Detective Morris said maybe she accidentally did it, and is trying to cover up.”

  “Mrs. Earnshaw? Detective Morris doesn’t actually think that, does she?”

  “I think she was joking. It’s hard to tell with her. She’s got kind of a dry sense of humor.” He drained his coffee cup. “Poor Cissy. She’s more worried for her grandmother than for Francis.”

  “Well, some of the food was made in Thelma’s kitchen, and there were accusations flying around Nana’s tearoom after the whole awful event. I heard them! Mrs. Whittaker and even Gilda were blaming Mrs. Earnshaw, but that was before anyone knew it was deliberate poisoning.”

  Wally nodded, his brows knit.

  “I guess, though . . . I mean, it had to be someone who had access to the kitchen, and that kind of limits the field to those few people,” Sophie said, struggling to explain what she meant. “If Vivienne was the intended victim, then it was likely someone who was at the tea that afternoon.”

  He nodded again, watching her eyes. “I can’t officially say, but that makes sense. Go on.”

  “If she was not the intended victim, then the real intended murderee had to be there, too.”

  He frowned. “Yeah, of course. What are you saying?”

  She paused, lining up the salt and pepper shakers on the table, as she ordered her thoughts. “Just that I guess we can’t focus only on people who may have wanted Vivienne Whittaker dead. What if it was a misfire? Then the murderer could be someone who had no beef with Vivienne, but was trying to kill someone else.” She frowned and shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m just thinking out loud.”

  “The old saying in police work is, Look around the victim to find the killer, you know?”

  “Of course. I’m just worried and afraid for everyone. If Vivienne wasn’t the one they meant to kill, then whoever it was is still in danger.” Silence fell. Wally was clearly not going to discuss his own suspicions or feelings. He was a police officer, after all. On to something else, then. She paused, watching his face, then said, “Do you ever think about the old days, Wally?”

  “You mean when we were teenagers? Sure, all the time.”

  “If you could go back, would you do anything differently?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She searched his eyes, wondering if it was true that he still loved Cissy. Maybe it was just a lingering softness toward her, a kind of affection. “Is there anything you would do differently, about anything? Life, work, school . . . love . . . anything at all.”

  “No one gets through life without regrets, right? I wish I’d done better in school and police college so I could take the detective’s test right now instead of having to upgrade. I’m doing correspondence courses to bring up my grade average from college.” His smile died, as he added, “I sure would like to be the one who busts whoever killed Mrs. Whittaker. For Cissy’s sake. And Francis’s, of course. Look, I gotta go. It’s been nice talking to you.”

  “Okay. Be careful out there.”

  “Sure, ’cause the mean streets of Gracious Grove are so darned dangerous.” He was being facetious.

  “But someone has killed, and once that happens . . .” She shuddered, as it passed through her, the chill of knowing that someone she had met was a killer. Maybe even someone she knew very well.

  As Wally left, Nana entered the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. “I need a cup of tea. I’m kind of tired today. Did you and Wally have a nice visit, honey? I saw him leave.”

  “Yes,” she said, absently. “Nana, who do you think killed Vivienne Whittaker? You must have an opinion.”

  “Oh, must I?” She sat down opposite her granddaughter. “I just can’t credit that any one of those folks would set out to poison someone. Did it have to be someone at the party?”

  “Well, not necessarily, I suppose. But if you were going to kill someone that way, you’d want to be there to make sure it went according to plan, right? I’m assuming that only one cupcake was poisoned. No one would risk killing a whole party of folks with random poisoned cupcakes, and no one else keeled over, even though some of the cupcakes were eaten.”

  “Even if you were there it wouldn’t be easy,” Nana said. “How would you make sure, if you only had one poisoned cupcake, that the right person got it?”

  “But did the right person get it? Or did the wrong person die? Is there a killer out there even now plotting to knock off the person they originally intended? I just can’t get that thought out of my head.”

  “Honey, if Vivienne died, isn’t it likely that she’s the one they intended to die?”

  “I know you’re right. That’s what Wally said. Okay, so going back to your question, how would I make sure the right person got the one poisoned cupcake? Well, I’d be the one to hand it to her.”

  Nana nodded thoughtfully as the kettle whistled. She poured the steaming water in the teapot and clapped the lid on, then sat down in Wally’s vacated chair. “That’s the best way to be sure, I guess. But what if people remembered that? Wouldn’t it be risky to be the one who poisoned the cupcake and passed it to Vivienne?”

  “How else could you be sure she got the right one? Unless . . .” Sophie’s brain finally kicked into gear. “Of course! Nana, if you made up a plate of cupcakes and wanted to be sure I picked a certain one, what would you do?”

  The older woman considered the question for a moment. Her lined brow furrowed in thought. “For you? I’d make sure only one was chocolate. You love chocolate, so you’d probably pick that one.”

  “Right!” She paused and thought some more. “There’s another way, though; if you wanted to be sure I didn’t pick any other, you could be even more certain if every other cupcake had coconut on it,” she said, leaning forward and emphasizing each word by tapping on the table.

  Nana’s bright blue eyes widened. “Of course, because you don’t like coconut.”

  Sophie nodded. “I loathe coconut on things. Don’t so much mind it in things, but I hate it just sprinkled over the top of something. So if there was a plate full of cupcakes, and only one did not have coconut, I would be sure to pick that one.”

  “Honey, I think you’ve got something there,” Nana said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “You should tell the police.”

  “Oh, right, go to the detective and say I have a way to break the case?” Sophie snorted in laughter. “I’m sure they’ve already thought of this. And it doesn’t really prove anything. Maybe they already know who did it and are ju
st waiting for forensic evidence, or something.” Sophie got up and made her grandmother a cup of tea and set it down in front of her.

  “Thanks, honey. It would be interesting to know if Vivienne had strong preferences, though. Did you notice anything about the cupcakes when you were over there?”

  Sophie shuddered. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at yellow frosting the same way again, after seeing it smeared all over Vivienne’s face.”

  “Okay, so she was eating one with yellow icing?”

  Sophie nodded. “A vanilla cupcake with yellow frosting, judging by the smooshed remains on the floor. And the other ones on the platter—the ones that were left—were all red-velvet cupcakes.”

  “So . . . maybe she didn’t like red-velvet cupcakes.”

  “Interesting idea. Kind of weak, though.” She looked over at her grandmother, who sipped her tea and sighed in contentment. “How do I find out Vivienne Whittaker’s preferences?”

  “I’d say ask Francis or Florence.”

  Sophie nodded. “You’re right. Maybe I should talk to them before I worry the police about any of this. I might be barking up the wrong tree.”

  • • •

  With her new goal in mind—helping however she could to figure out who had tainted the lives of people she cared about—Sophie raced upstairs and called Cissy. Pearl jumped up on her lap as she leaned back in one of the cushy chairs and waited as the phone rang.

  “Hello?” Cissy sounded out of breath.

  “Cissy, it’s Sophie. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.” Dumb thing to say. Her fiancé’s mother had been murdered; could there be a good time?

  “No, it’s fine.”

  It occurred to Sophie in that moment how difficult Cissy’s path was, and that she’d had little or no help lately, especially with a grandmother as nutty as Thelma Mae Earnshaw. On impulse, she said, “I was just wondering, can I do anything? More than just with the shower, I mean. But now that I’ve mentioned it . . . do you still want that to go off as scheduled?”

  “Why not?” she said. “Francis still wants to have the wedding, so yes, the shower is on.”

  “But can I help you out in any other way? You’re dealing with so much right now.”

  She hesitated. “I need to go to Ithaca for a couple of hours; there’s a mix-up with a book shipment. Could you come over and sit with Francis? Florence went down to the police station to ask about any breaks in the case—she’s desperate for them to solve this—and I hate leaving Francis alone right now. He’s distraught.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” It was the least she could do.

  “Would you? Thank you so much, Sophie! I really appreciate it.”

  Feeling a little guilty because what she really wanted was information, Sophie said, “Don’t mention it.”

  “No, I really appreciate it. I don’t have anyone else I can ask. Dana would, but I need her in the store. And Gretchen . . .” She fell silent.

  “She’s not so bad, you know,” Sophie said. “I talked to her last night and it seems like she’s just trying too hard to fit in.”

  Cissy said, “So she got to you with her ah’m just a sweet Southern belle among all o’ y’all nasty-ole Yankees routine, did she?” Her mimicry of Gretchen’s Southern drawl was perfect.

  Taken aback, Sophie stammered, “Yeah, I guess maybe she did. She came to our door last night all upset.”

  “Let me guess: She was mad that I asked you to help with the shower. Sophie, I believed her sweetness and light routine the first time I heard it, too. Then after I heard her trash-talking me to some of her country club friends, I decided I’d keep her at arm’s length. I’m only nice to her for Francis’s sake and because of his friendship with Hollis.”

  “I was taken in, hook, line and sinker,” Sophie admitted. “I thought maybe we could work together after all.”

  “Don’t let it stop you from working her over to get what I want for the shower, but don’t be suckered in and end up doing everything yourself.”

  Cissy actually sounded much more focused today than Sophie had ever heard her, and Sophie was grateful. Tragedy had that sharpening effect on some people, Sophie had observed before. “I’ll be right over.”

  Ten minutes later she parked her grandmother’s SUV behind the bookstore and trotted up the steps to Cissy’s upstairs apartment. She didn’t even have a chance to knock on the door before Cissy pulled it open, as she tugged on a Windbreaker and grabbed her purse.

  “Cissy!” Francis yelled from somewhere in the depths of the apartment. “Will you be gone long? What if I need something? Where are you going?”

  Cissy rolled her eyes and disappeared back into the apartment. Sophie entered and listened to the indistinct soothing murmur of Cissy’s voice in what must be a bedroom, since she could see the empty living room from the kitchen. Arriving like this felt almost like the babysitting assignments she’d had as a teenager during the summer in Gracious Grove. She’d arrive just as the parent was putting the kid to bed and telling them to be good.

  Cissy reappeared. “Here,” she whispered, holding out a piece of paper. “This is my cell-phone number in case Francis needs something.”

  “Is he going to be okay with you gone?” Sophie matched her voice level to Cissy’s whisper.

  She sighed, her pale, thin face wan with exhaustion. “I think so. It’s just hit him hard . . . harder than I expected it would.”

  “It’s his mother, after all; I guess we never know how it’s going to hit us until it does. You probably know that better than anyone.”

  Cissy surprised Sophie by reaching out and hugging her. “You’re right, I do know how he feels. Maybe that’s why I’m trying to be there for him, but it’s not easy. Look, thanks for this,” she murmured. “I need to go to Ithaca and sort this book shipment out, but I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

  “Okay.”

  She was gone swiftly. Sophie stood for a moment, gathering her wandering thoughts, and heard Francis say something. She headed toward the other room, about to ask him what he had said, when she heard him speak again. This time he said, louder, “I need to talk to you, and soon!”

  She came around the corner of the door and said, “I’m right here.”

  He was on the phone and started, gasping, “What the heck?” He slammed the phone down and glared at her, then lay down on the bed and turned away.

  Chapter 14

  In the brief glance she had of him, Francis looked dreadful; scruffy, beard coming in, eyes hollow and bags under them.

  “I’m sorry, did I startle you?”

  “I . . . I didn’t know you were here,” he mumbled, over his shoulder.

  “Cissy didn’t want you to be alone. I thought she told you I was here.”

  “No, she didn’t bother. I’m not a baby, for God’s sake. You can go.”

  Sophie hesitated. On the one hand, with his rudeness there was nothing more she’d like to do. On the other hand, if she was honest with herself, she had come with ulterior motives, and so she’d stay. “Don’t let me stop you from phoning whoever you were phoning. How about I make us some tea? My grandmother always says there is nothing like it to make you feel better.”

  He didn’t say anything, so she went back to the kitchen and busied herself with making a pot of tea. Cissy had a complete setup . . . teapot, diffuser ball, loose-leaf tea, strainer, everything. She had Earl Grey, English breakfast, oolong, green and even maté, an Argentinean tea with a bit of a kick to it. Plain-old English breakfast was safest, so she brewed a pot while pondering how to get Francis to talk.

  He ambled into the kitchen. His haunted expression tore at Sophie’s heart, and she wordlessly pushed him into a chair and gave him a cup of tea with sugar. He was suffering shock, as any person who witnessed a loved one murdered before their eyes would, and sugar coul
d help, or so she’d heard.

  “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” he said, glancing at her, then frowning down into his cup.

  “Don’t mention it,” she said, sitting opposite him at the little dinette table. “I know you don’t need babysitting, but Cissy is so worried about you she just didn’t want to leave you alone. When I happened to call about the wedding shower, she asked me to come over. Have you eaten today?”

  He shrugged.

  She jumped up. “Let me fix you what Nana used to make when I didn’t feel like eating.” She rummaged around and came up with some eggs, milk, sugar, vanilla and a blender, and whipped up a frothy eggnog, poured it into a tumbler and grated some nutmeg over it. “Drink up.”

  As she ran water and squirted some dish soap into the sink, she said, over her shoulder, “Go ahead and call the person back, the one you were calling when I interrupted.” Curiosity was eating her alive; to whom did he say, We need to talk? And what did it mean?

  “It’s not important. I just left a message on the voice mail of a friend of my mom’s who lives out of state. I really don’t want her finding out about . . . about the thing on the news.”

  “Oh. Of course!” Sophie immediately felt bad for what she had been thinking. She sat down opposite Francis again. “Drink! You need to keep up your strength.”

  “I miss Mom so bad,” he said, his voice thick with tears. “Who would do that to her? She was such a good woman! I just don’t understand.”

  “Me neither,” Sophie said. “And I can’t imagine what you’re going through. It must be awful.”

  “It was terrifying to be right there and yet not be able to help her,” he said, wrapping his hands around the tumbler. “I didn’t know what to do! If I could go back, if I could . . . I don’t know, do things differently . . .”

  Sophie waited, but when he didn’t continue, she asked, “Like what?”

  He shrugged, and took a gulp of the eggnog. “I don’t know.”

  She hesitated, but then said, “Did she seem ill before it happened?”

  “No, not at all! Everything was fine. She gave a nice speech before lunch. We ate that god-awful food and dessert, then she looked . . . I don’t know. Dizzy, or something. She got up, then collapsed.”