Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) Page 17

  “Is there any news on the investigation from the police?”

  “They don’t seem to be doing a damn thing!”

  “Have you asked them what’s going on?”

  “Yesterday I talked to Wally, but he’s no good. I’m so frustrated!” He clutched his head and scrunched his tousled hair in his fingers.

  “It’s so awful. Someone would have to plan well ahead of time to do that, to poison your mother, right?”

  He scruffed his fingers along his jaw, where a dark beard was beginning to bristle. “That’s true, isn’t it?” he said, frowning down at the tabletop. “I mean, poison? It’s not a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing.”

  Sophie could see the wheels turning as he considered it. It was good that he was focused on something other than his own pain, so she decided to encourage his thought process. “Who could have wanted to kill your mother? I haven’t been back to town long, but everyone says she was a great woman, just like you said.”

  He nodded, his mouth compressed in a firm line against the onslaught of emotion Sophie could see welling up in his eyes. “Nobody would want to kill her! That’s the thing. It doesn’t make any sense.” He hammered the table on the last word.

  She didn’t state the obvious, that someone must have wanted her dead because she had been murdered. “Was she involved with anyone? Or did she have any friends?”

  “Involved . . . do you mean, was she dating anyone? No. When she went to country club dances, she would go with a couple who are her best friends.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Marva and Holly Harcourt. They’re the parents of my buddy Hollis Harcourt Junior; everyone just calls Hollis Senior ‘Holly.’”

  “Oh. What about . . .” She paused, surprised to learn that Hollis and Marva Harcourt were Vivienne’s particular friends. The meeting she had witnessed between Vivienne and Holly did not seem friendly. She tried to figure a way to ask about the meeting. “Uh, Francis, was your mother worried about anything to do with your, uh . . . your recent promotion?”

  He stared at her, brow crinkled. “No, of course not. Why would she be?”

  Sophie didn’t know how to respond, and she didn’t want to talk about the meeting she had witnessed. Not yet, anyway. “What about anyone else at the tea? Was there anyone there that someone might have a grudge against? Like . . . you, or your aunt?”

  He looked startled and his eyes widened, but he shook his head and said, “You mean maybe my mom wasn’t the target? That’s just not possible!”

  But Sophie would swear there was something or someone. His mind went elsewhere, even as he stared at her, his eyes glazing and his brows furrowing in thought. “Francis, are you sure?” she urged. “I mean, if there is no one who would want to kill your mother, then maybe someone else at that tea party was the intended target.” She worried that if he had thought of something, he’d try to tackle it himself. That could be terribly dangerous with someone out there willing to kill. But it was such a limited array of possibilities, motives and murderers; who among those few killed Vivienne Whittaker, either on purpose or accidentally?

  There was a tap at the back door; Florence Whittaker, looking older and less well kept than usual, came in without waiting for an answer. She frowned as she stared at Sophie. “What are you doing here? Where’s Cissy? Who . . . ?” She looked over Sophie’s shoulder. “Francis!” She pushed past Sophie and flew at her nephew. “My dear boy! You should be lying down, getting rest. Come on, right now.” She grabbed his shoulder.

  “I’m okay, Aunt Flo!” he said irritably, hunching his shoulder out of her grip. He glared up at her. “I wish everybody would just leave me alone.”

  “We were just having some tea and I made him an eggnog. To keep his strength up, he needs food.”

  The woman’s sharp gaze softened as she looked down at her nephew. “You’re right about that.”

  “Would you like a cup of tea? Cissy had to go out to take care of a misdirected book shipment in Ithaca, but she’ll be back in a half hour or so.”

  Florence Whittaker slumped down in a chair and seemed grateful when Sophie set in front of her a warm mug of tea, then pushed a sugar bowl and cream pitcher toward her. She dribbled a little milk in the mug and took a long draft. “Oh, that’s good. I don’t think I’ve stopped for a cup of tea in the last twenty-four hours, much less something to eat.”

  “Mrs. Whittaker, the same goes for you as goes for Francis,” Sophie said, examining the woman’s face. She seemed to have aged a decade in the last day or so, her strong jaw softened by sagging skin and her dark eyes clouded. “You need to keep your strength up, too.”

  “I just don’t think I could eat.” She stared down into the cup, her gaze pensive. “I miss everything about Vivienne. I used to call her most mornings and we’d meet at the coffee shop. I know everyone drags out the old gossip, the stuff about us being enemies, but that just wasn’t the case. When we lost our husbands, it was . . . it was a bonding experience, I guess you’d call it. With Jackson gone, Vivienne and Francis were all the family I had left.” She put her hand across the table and rested it on Francis’s. “Now you’re it, my boy, you’re all I have left!” She squeezed and released.

  He didn’t seem comforted and moved his hand. He’d probably rather have his mom back, Sophie thought. “We were trying to figure out who at the party would have wanted to harm Vivienne.”

  Florence’s mouth tightened. “That’s just . . . that’s gruesome, to speculate like that about our friends!”

  “I didn’t mean it that way, Mrs. Whittaker. Don’t you want to figure out who killed your sister-in-law?” Sophie sat down opposite Florence, who she had thought of as an enemy of Vivienne’s until now. What about all the scandal, the accusation of adultery? Sophie considered it for a moment; was it possible that the whole thing had been blown out of proportion? Could it have been one of those mistakes that the two then got past and even laughed about later? Both women were widows, and neither had remarried; they had a lot in common. She wished she could just ask the woman outright about her legendary feud with Vivienne, but Sophie just wasn’t hard-nosed enough to ask, So, did you really have an affair with Vivienne’s husband?

  Florence Whittaker stood, tugging her beige jacket down over her stomach. “I think you need look no further than that—that miserable old interfering—” She stopped and shook her head. “How could she call the police and tell them that Francis had anything to do with the death of his own mother? It was unthinkable.”

  “So you think Mrs. Earnshaw did it?”

  She looked undecided. “Well, not on purpose,” she said, backtracking. “I’m not saying that.” She paced over to the kitchen sink and stared out the little window that overlooked the back lawn. “But there was probably some rat poison out in that kitchen, or something, and she thought it was flour. I wouldn’t put anything past that busybody. She’s nutty as a fruitcake.”

  There were so many holes in that theory that Sophie didn’t even address it. But she was curious about Florence’s poor opinion of Cissy’s grandmother. “Everyone is saying that Mrs. Earnshaw is upset that her granddaughter is marrying Francis. What does she have against your family? I’d think she’d be thrilled that her only granddaughter was getting married.”

  Francis shook his head. “I was floored when I heard what she’d done, turning on me like that. To call the cops? I haven’t exchanged more than two words with the woman since . . . well, since we were all teenagers!”

  “You hung around with Phil, though, right?”

  “And Phil is her grandchild and therefore perfect,” Florence said bitterly, turning to face them. “That skunk has had more second chances than a lucky Las Vegas gambler. Heck, if he was at the tea, I’d say maybe he did it. He hated Vivienne and he hates me.”

  “Why would he hate you, either of you, for that matter?”

  “Aunt F
lo!” Francis said, with warning in his tone. He gave her a look, then eyed Sophie. After a moment he seemed to make up his mind and said, “You won’t pass this on, right? If I tell you something?”

  Sophie knew she shouldn’t promise. Carefully she said, “Who would I tell? I mean, really, I have never lived in GiGi, and I’ve only been back for a week after being away for the better part of ten years! I don’t know anyone.”

  Francis nodded, took another drink of the eggnog, then set the glass aside. “Mrs. Earnshaw always blamed my mom for that trouble Phil was in a few years back, when he was caught bringing booze into Gracious Grove. She thought, for some reason, that my mom had called the cops and turned Phil in. He told his grandma that he and I were brewing moonshine in my dorm room at Cornell, and that’s why the booze was in his truck.”

  She knew the story already, but didn’t say so. “Was it true?”

  “Of course not!” he barked, glaring at her. “Would I risk my college career on a bootlegging business? That’s crazy! I was past all that kid stuff and was focused on getting my architecture degree. But she has always given Phil a pass for every dumb thing he ever did.”

  Sophie let that sink in; some of it was true. Phil, by the evidence of her own eyes, was still trying to smuggle booze into Gracious Grove. Also, Cissy had said much the same thing about Phil’s run-in with the police. It was true that Thelma Mae Earnshaw was still making excuses for him. However . . . “You aren’t suggesting that Mrs. Earnshaw took out her grudge against your mother by killing her?”

  “I didn’t say that.” He scruffed his hair and sighed. “I guess that’s ridiculous. I just don’t know who else . . . I mean, there’s no one!”

  “Okay, say Phil was there . . . do you think he hated your mom enough that he’d try to kill her?” She wasn’t about to say Phil was in Belle Époque that afternoon.

  “I didn’t say that, either,” he said, on a deep sigh, giving his aunt a look. “I was just explaining why Aunt Flo is suspicious of the woman, and what grudge Mrs. Earnshaw might have against me . . . why she doesn’t want me marrying Cissy.”

  “I get what you’re saying.” Sophie thought for a long moment. “But you know, someone who truly did want Mrs. Whittaker dead could have used Mrs. Earnshaw’s old grudge to put the blame on her.”

  Francis’s eyebrows went up and he straightened in his chair. “That’s possible! But who? Everyone at that tea was a friend.” He swallowed hard and collapsed in on himself again, his shoulders slumping. “I just can’t believe that we’re talking about my mom’s death like this!” he moaned. “What did she ever do to deserve this? She was the best, most loyal, most loving . . .” He put his head down on the table, cradled in his arms, and his shoulders shook.

  Florence patted his back, her expression one of sadness. She looked at Sophie and said, “You can see how this has affected him. I wish they’d just find whoever did it so we can begin to heal. Could you leave us alone? I appreciate all you’ve done, Sophie, and you got him to drink a bit of the eggnog, but I think he needs more rest.”

  “You’re right about that.” It didn’t look like either one of them wanted to discuss the tragedy any more, and who could blame them? Sophie jumped up, washed the few things in the sink and put them in the drainboard to dry. “Are you staying here?” she asked Florence, and when that woman nodded, she made a quick decision. She grabbed her purse and said, “I’ll get going, then. Tell Cissy I’ll call her later, okay?”

  Florence Whittaker nodded.

  Sophie exited and stood on the top step, pulling in a big breath of fresh May air. It felt good to be out of that cloying atmosphere of mourning, though she felt awful for even thinking it. She descended and went into Peterson Books ’n Stuff, letting her eyes adjust to the dimmer lighting. The store was set up so pin spot halogen lights highlighted some of the glittering ornaments that Cissy had strewn around to sell. Crystals were hung from hooks between the bookshelves and over a branch mounted in the window overlooking the lane, catching the May sunshine and sending prisms of rainbow colors across the walls. It was a beautiful place that Cissy had created; restful, calming and peaceful. Today the music playing was some kind of violin concerto.

  Beauty greeted Sophie at the door, winding around her feet to welcome her. Dana looked up from a book and said, “Surprised to see you. Cissy said you were upstairs with darling Francis.”

  Her derisive tone didn’t set well with Sophie. “Dana, he just lost his mother. You might show a little respect.”

  “You just can’t help being Miss Goody Two-Shoes, can you? Slipping back into your old ways.”

  Sophie stiffened. “Okay, so maybe that’s just who I am, take me or leave me. Call me Goody, from now on, I don’t care. Can you tell Cissy I left because Florence arrived and took over babysitting her fiancé?” She turned to leave.

  “Hey, Soph, don’t go! I was kidding.” Dana stood and leaned on the counter. “You’ve gotten feisty sometime in the last ten years. Good for you. Used to be you just laid back and took the ribbing.”

  Sophie returned and looked Dana over, from her carefully tousled streaked locks to her emerald blouse and white linen capris; she looked gorgeous, as always. The capris and blouse theme seemed to be almost like a uniform, and she had many variations.

  Dana was one of those people who had a sarcastic undertone to almost everything she said. Sophie never knew when she was being genuine, or if that congratulations she’d just offered was yet another layer of mockery. It was a way to put people off, Sophie guessed, to keep them uneasily at arm’s length. Approaching the desk, she said, “Dana, I know you and I never got along when we were teenagers, but let’s cut to the chase. We’re both adults now. I won’t apologize for my family having money and you don’t need to apologize for being a sarcastic bitch.”

  Dana laughed out loud and stuck her hand out; when Sophie took it, they shook. “Deal,” Dana said. “So how is Baby Francis doing, anyway? Now that Auntie Flo is there, probably a lot better.”

  “Were he and his aunt always so close?”

  The woman shrugged and patted the counter. Beauty gracefully leaped up and began to walk back and forth, curling her tail around Dana’s shoulder like an expensive shawl. “Ever since he got out of college, anyway. Florence has used all her influence—and she’s sucked up to a lot of rich people—to help him get where he is today.”

  “You mean at Leathorne and Hedges and this new, mysterious development deal?”

  She nodded. “Enter the fabulous Gretchen and Hollis Harcourt, Gracious Grove’s own royal couple.”

  “You don’t like Gretchen?”

  “I don’t like Hollis. He’s a jerk. Went down south to find a bride ’cause those girls are trained up early to be subservient, then made her change everything about herself. I knew her just after they were first married and she was a nice enough little thing, down-home accent and all. Now she’s a bigger snob than any of them. She had plastic surgery, I tell people; she got her nose turned up.”

  “Cissy seems to think she’s faking the ‘aw shucks’ Southern girl deal—you know, slipping back into it—for whenever she wants to get her way, or worm her way into someone’s confidence.”

  “Hmm, could be, I guess, but I don’t think so. I think being two people at once, a Yankee snob and a Southern good-ole gal, is breaking the poor kid.”

  “Kid? She’s about the same age as we are, or older. You do realize that you’ve always acted like you were twenty going on fifty?”

  “Just an old soul, I guess,” she said, with a quirky grin that darkened. “I didn’t have much time to be a kid, so I’ve always felt older than the rest of you.”

  “Why?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing important.” Her expression shuttered.

  “I hear from them,” Sophie said, looking upward, “that Vivienne was a friend of Hollis’s parents. Do you know anything abou
t them?”

  “Marva and Holly ‘Give ’em Hell’ Harcourt? They have an estate near Ithaca as befits their social status. Holly Harcourt is a big deal in business, but now he goes in mostly for investment.”

  “Like real estate investment?” Sophie asked. “I heard Hollis Junior and Senior are investors in the new development.”

  “Could be. Anyway, Francis and Hollis Junior met at Cornell. He’s no idiot, our Frankie. He knew to suck up to the rich folks, probably trained by his aunt. Ever since her husband lost their money, she’s been good at that. Clawed her way back to financial stability, it seems.”

  “So this development deal Francis brought to Leathorne and Hedges . . . do you think the Harcourts had anything to do with him being able to do that?”

  “Probably. I don’t really know.”

  And it didn’t seem to have a single thing to do with Vivienne’s poisoning. “Cissy still wants to go ahead with the shower, so I’m going to track down Gretchen and start the planning. Apparently the shower date is already set for the third Sunday of the month, about two weeks before the wedding.”

  “Yeah, well, the whole thing has been mishandled because Miss Gretchen doesn’t really give a care for it, fiddle-dee-dee,” she said, flipping her hair and lightly drawling the last word. “She should have worked all this out two months ago, giving folks time to shop and access the gift registries at some local stores, like Libby Lemon’s Kitchen Boutique. That’s what I would have done if I was the maid of honor.”

  “Libby Lemon’s what?”

  “Downtown . . . a new kitchen shop. It’s cool; you should go. That’s where Cissy is registered for her kitchenware.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Not sure if Gretchen does, either.”

  “I hear she does have a gift registry and a site on The Knot.”

  “Sure, but it only lists the usual things, you know . . . Bloomie’s is great, but Lord & Taylor? It would have been nice to support some local businesses so folks don’t have to go all the way to Syracuse. And lots of the people who need to buy gifts don’t have the Internet. She didn’t even give a passing thought to the old folks.”