Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) Page 2

  “So, what were you going to say about Cissy, Nana?” Sophie asked, perching on the arm of the overstuffed armchair to bring herself down to her grandmother’s eye level. Pearl wanted in on the conversation, and leaped gracefully up on the back of the chair, so she, too, was eye level with the humans. Sophie took the fluffy cat in her arms, cradling her like a baby. The cat purred, a throaty hum like a distant boat motor on the lake.

  Rose smiled at the cat and girl; it made such a pretty picture, both of them so beautiful, both blue eyed. Pearl was a Birman, with a dark mask, ivory ruff and chocolate brown legs, and the mandatory pale socks required by breed specifications. Birmans were supposed to be one-human cats in their single-minded devotion, but Pearl made an exception for Sophie, perhaps sensing the bond between grandmother and granddaughter. She treated Sophie like she did Rose, with sweet adoration and affection.

  “Nana? What about Cissy?”

  Rose started. “What? Oh! My mind wandered for a moment. Cissy’s engaged to be married, and nothing will do for the girl but to have her bridal shower here, in Auntie Rose’s Victorian Tea House!”

  Sophie gasped and said, “How does her grandmother feel about that?”

  Rose reached out to scruff her cat’s chin. “How would I know? The last time that woman spoke to me, Eisenhower was president.” She was exaggerating, but she truly was not on friendly enough terms to ask Thelma what she thought of anything. “Cissy apparently informed her matron of honor, Gretchen Harcourt—she married Hollis Harcourt, the lawyer, and has only been in town a couple of years—that Auntie Rose’s is where she wants it held. We’re to go all out, I was told.”

  Sophie eyed her grandmother; what exactly was Nana trying to say? “I’ll be happy to help,” she said, slowly. “Do you need an extra hand in the kitchen? Making tea? Serving? Setting up? Cleaning afterward? I’ll do it all, if you like.”

  “I want you to do the presentations.”

  “Presentations.” Sophie’s mind was a blank. She gently set Pearl on the back of the chair and regarded the cat; she squeezed her blue eyes shut then opened them wide. Sophie looked back to her grandmother. “Nana, what do you mean by presentations?”

  “I guess you’ve never been to one of Auntie Rose’s bridal showers. I do a talk about tea and the Victorian era, the history of teapots, highlights from the Auntie Rose collection, and the presentation of the ‘tea-a-ra’ to the bride. I would like you to take over for this one.”

  “Nana, I couldn’t,” Sophie said, horrified. “Mom says you’ve become famous for what she calls your ‘tearoom shows.’ She sent me a newspaper clipping! I couldn’t do it justice.”

  “Now you listen to me, Sophie Rose Freemont Taylor,” Nana said, her voice stern. “I don’t want you to do my presentation, I want you to do your own bridal shower presentation! And don’t tell me you can’t do it. You managed In Fashion for three years.”

  “Managed it into bankruptcy,” Sophie said, feeling the familiar tightening in her throat when she thought of her beloved restaurant, shuttered and auctioned right down to the carpets. She turned to Pearl and lifted her gently to her lap again, burying her face in the Birman’s luscious mane of fur. Pearl nudged her hand and purred throatily.

  “That’s the past,” Nana said, putting one warm hand on Sophie’s shoulder and squeezing, while she gently petted Pearl’s head. “I have faith in you. If you don’t do it, I’ll have to cancel.”

  “Cancel? Why?”

  “I need to scale back, honey,” she said, her shoulders drooping. “The showers just exhaust me. This last week we had a bridal shower, a birthday party and four bus tours, and the Silver Spouts meeting is coming up. I’m exhausted!”

  Sophie was immediately stricken by guilt. She examined her grandmother’s careworn face, the wrinkles more pronounced than in bygone years. While she had been puttering around, Nana had been overworking herself. But there was something more there than the workload bothering her grandmother. “Nana, is there some reason you don’t want to do Cissy Peterson’s shower? I mean, other than the work?”

  The older woman looked off into the distance for a moment. She walked over to the shelves, adjusted an art deco round teapot with Bakelite handle and knob. “It’s complicated. I know you see Thelma Mae Earnshaw as just an annoying old woman and she does drive me crazy. Did you know she has started serving a full-on cream tea, and is trying to start her own teapot-collecting club? I just don’t understand the woman. I exaggerated about her not talking to me since Eisenhower was president, but our relationship is strained. Always has been. And yet . . . she was my friend once.”

  Sophie waited for her grandmother to get to the point. Pearl jumped down from Sophie’s lap and headed downstairs, perhaps to beg treats from Laverne, Nana’s only employee in the tearoom.

  “It’s about the wedding,” Nana finally said. “Cissy is marrying Francis Whittaker Junior. Remember him?”

  “Frankie, that . . . that putz? I sure do.”

  “Honey, don’t call him Frankie. Or a putz. Frankie . . . uh, Francis is now an architect and still lives in the Whittaker house his daddy built. Vivienne—his mother—moved out to a modern home up in the hills. But you know what Thelma is like; she thinks that the Whittakers aren’t up to her standards. Thelma Mae Earnshaw has always stood on the dignity of her mama’s family being the first to settle Gracious Grove. She’s bad enough now, but you would not believe the way she put on airs when she was Thelma Mae Hendry!”

  “What do you mean, the Whittakers aren’t up to Mrs. Earnshaw’s standards? They’re the richest family in the whole area.”

  “The Whittakers are nouveau riche, if you listen to Thelma tell it. After all, the Whittakers’ money came from grocery stores. She’s always claimed that Vivienne, Francis’s mother, was born in a hootchy-kootchy traveling show, back in the fifties. I guess that’s why she’s so dead set against Cissy marrying Francis.” Her forehead wrinkled. “I guess that’s what it is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know, honey. I’ve been listening to Laverne too much; you know how she likes to gossip.”

  “If something is worrying you, tell me.”

  Nana scrunched up her face. “Laverne has some idea that there’s trouble at the company Francis works for, Leathorne and Hedges Architecture. Her niece works there, and she’s heard rumblings.”

  “Nothing really to do with him, is it?”

  “True . . . not worth talking about. Gossip is mostly fancy and frills put on speculation.”

  Sophie watched her grandmother’s face, but she wasn’t saying anything else. “Let’s go down to the tearoom and discuss this. If you want me to do Cissy’s shower, I can try.” Her stomach twisted. It was silly; she had managed and been the executive chef of an eighty-seat restaurant in the trendy garment district of New York, the youngest to do both jobs, she had been told. Surely she could do a little bridal show presentation and talk about teapots for twenty minutes. So why was she so uptight about it?

  Maybe because she had failed so miserably in her last job.

  • • •

  Laverne Hodge was already setting up the tearoom for the expected afternoon guests. Auntie Rose’s Victorian Tea House was a forty-year tradition in Gracious Grove, popular long before the rage for tearooms peaked as baby boomers aged. Part of Auntie Rose’s popularity could be explained by Gracious Grove being a “dry” town, conducive to civilized discourse over tea and scones, rather than boozy confessions over whiskey and peanuts. But mostly it was because Rose and Laverne excelled at providing the true tearoom experience, with refreshing tea, soothing decor and good food.

  Sophie remembered Nana’s favorite joke . . . guests came for the tea and stayed for the experience, but spent their money on the pretty doodads! The Tea Nook, a small room off the tearoom proper, was responsible for much of the profit, and so was carefully tended. Fresh offer
ings of tea-scented candles, teacups, complete tea sets both for children and adults, packaged tea—including a blend called Auntie Rose’s Tea-riffic Tea—books on tea with bookmarks, and “tea-shirts,” which were T-shirts with teacups and teapots emblazoned on them, were added weekly.

  The tearoom itself was pretty, if a little too frilly for Sophie’s taste. White wainscoting lined the main room, with rose-toile-papered walls above. Antique sideboards and buffet hutches filled with teapots in various themes lined the walls. An ornate Eastlake buffet held floral teapots, while a heavy Victorian held chintz designs. On floating shelves in between there were animal shapes, people, royal family tributes, Red Hat Society teapots and too many more to name.

  Scattered around the room—it used to be a living room and dining room, but a wall had been removed and supporting pillars had been added to make space for the tearoom—were white-linen-covered tables with comfortable chairs, about eleven tables in all, enough space to seat forty-four guests or so. Nana threaded through the chairs and tables, straightening as she went, toward the cash desk at the front. Sophie followed, tentatively, realizing why she had avoided the tearoom for three days: She was afraid of the responsibility her grandmother seemed eager to foist upon her.

  Was that what she had been left with since her restaurant went belly-up, this crippling lack of confidence? It hadn’t really occurred to her why she had been floating along, listless and directionless, but fear explained a lot, even why she let her mother cajole her into the awful date with Dr. Sebastian-the-Repulsive. A part of her had bought into her mom’s belief that she ought to just give up and marry a rich dude.

  That wasn’t exactly what Rosalind Taylor had said, but it was the thrust of her argument. Sophie squared her shoulders. Nana needed her and she was going to help however she could. If that meant hosting Cissy’s bridal shower, then she’d do it. Maybe it would be fun.

  Right, like tooth extraction or taxes. Fun or not, she’d do it.

  She hustled across the room to relieve Laverne, almost as old as Nana, of a heavy tray of tea things. “Let me,” she said, hefting the tray.

  “Sophie!” Laverne said, her black eyes glowing with fondness. “My sweet godchild. Rose told me you were in town, but until I saw you I didn’t dare believe it.” Without the burden of the tray, she reached out to gather Sophie into a hug.

  Laverne Hodge, whose ancestry dated back to the Seneca Indians and an African-American trader, was honorary godmother to Sophie, adopted as such long ago at a tea party for her fifth birthday. Little Sophie was teary-eyed because her mother had called to say she couldn’t make it to Nana’s for the party. Laverne had said she would stand in as Sophie’s “godmother,” and ever after had showered Sophie with goodies, handmade quilts and all of the homey goods a “mother” could think of.

  Sophie set the tray down and was enveloped in the woman’s suffocating hug. “Auntie Laverne,” she mumbled, her voice muffled by Laverne’s aproned bosom, “I’ve missed you so much!”

  The woman held Sophie away from her in her strong grip. Head tilted to one side, she squinted at her godchild. Laverne was tall and strongly built, so she met Sophie eye to eye. “Now, don’t you say that. You’ve been here three days and I haven’t laid eyes on you ’til today.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Laverne exchanged a glance with Rose, who counted bills at the cash desk, put the float back in and stashed the extra money in a canvas deposit bag. The two women had been friends for so long they didn’t need words, communicating with shared looks instead. “If you’re here to help,” Laverne said, turning back to Sophie, “we need to set the tables with silverware and dishes so I can get a batch of cranberry lemon scones in the oven. We got a three o’clock bus tour coming in, and it’s near two now.”

  While the three women worked they talked, of course. Sophie caught up on all the news that was fit to spread, as Laverne called it.

  “So Cissy is getting married,” Sophie mused. “And to Francis Whittaker! Why does Mrs. Earnshaw really not like the Whittaker family?”

  Laverne looked over at Nana, who was now busy in The Tea Nook filling up the candle display, then bent toward Sophie. “There was quite the scandal back in the day. The Whittakers all belonged to the country club, you know. I worked there as a waitress for a while, and was working the night of the big dustup!” Her dark eyes sparkled.

  “What happened?” Sophie asked, patting the wrinkles out of a tablecloth.

  “Everyone was well oiled, as you can imagine.” The country club, being outside the town limits, served alcohol, one reason memberships were sought. “Alcohol loosened a few tongues and Vivienne Whittaker, she up and threw a glass of champagne in Florence Whittaker’s face and accused the woman of sleeping with her husband!”

  “Really? Was it true?”

  Laverne shrugged. “Always was bad blood between those two sisters-in-law, ever since Vivienne snagged the Whittaker brother who didn’t gamble and drink his money away, and Florence got stuck with the Whittaker that ended up penniless.”

  Nana, who had silently approached, said, “Are you two gossiping about all that old water under the bridge?”

  “Mucky water still runs dirty, you know that, Rose,” Laverne said, dropping a wink in Sophie’s direction. “Those two just barely tolerate each other to this day.”

  “So that’s why Mrs. Earnshaw doesn’t like the idea of Cissy marrying Frankie—I mean, Francis—because of the old scandal?”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say,” Laverne said, with a bland expression on her face. “But I will say, with both those Whittaker brothers in the grave, you’d think the sisters-in-law would be better friends.”

  They continued to work, but when Rose left the room to check on the scones, Sophie said, “Laverne, can I ask you something?”

  “What’s troubling you?”

  “Nana wants me to do the presentation for Cissy Peterson’s bridal shower. Is there some reason she doesn’t want to do it?”

  Laverne’s dark eyes shifted away, to the door that led to the tearoom’s kitchen. “No mystery, child. She believes Cissy’s shower will help you get your feet wet. Pun intended.”

  “I don’t need her propping up my wobbly self-confidence,” Sophie grumbled. She followed Laverne, folding napkins, laying out silverware and setting the centerpieces in place. They were small crystal vases of fresh white tulips today, a pretty reminder of spring.

  “She’s just worried about you. You’re her favorite grandchild.”

  “I know. My brothers hardly ever get to Gracious Grove anymore.” Sophie stood back and looked the room over with a critical eye. A bus tour at three, and it was two thirty now. The tables always looked so pretty, the fresh white linens a backdrop for the eclectic mix of china Nana used. She didn’t go for clunky restaurant dishes, instead hitting yard sales and antique markets for mismatched china that made the tables bloom with color. Sophie liked setting the tables in themes . . . blue willow pattern on one table, roses on another, spring flowers on yet another.

  They chatted and finished setting the tables. Laverne told her there was talk of annexation of local farmland, an extremely divisive issue among Grovers, as locals called themselves, and the ever-present issue of liquor or no liquor. There weren’t many dry towns left in New York State, Gracious Grove being one of only a handful, all but a couple in the western half of the state.

  “That talk was during the last mayoral election, though. A local developer, Oliver Stanfield, ran briefly, so there was some discussion about annexation and the liquor laws, and all that folderol, but he dropped out of the race for some reason or another. From then on it was another smooth sail to victory unopposed for Mr. Mayor Blenkenship.”

  “I hope the town doesn’t change too much,” Sophie fretted. “It’s charming and doesn’t need an influx of big box stores and crowded suburbs.” And now she sounded more old-fas
hioned than her forward-thinking grandmother!

  “What will be, will be,” Laverne said.

  Just as Sophie was straightening the last place setting of silver, a young woman came in the door, setting the bell over it jangling. She was slim and thirtyish, perfectly coiffed and nicely dressed in a form-fitting D&G charmeuse floral dress, carrying a Marc Jacobs bag. She looked like the kind of women who came to In Fashion for cocktails. Sophie was immediately on guard. “I’m sorry, we’re not quite open yet. Are you with the bus tour?”

  “Certainly not,” the woman sniffed. “I’d like to speak to Rose Freemont.”

  “She’s busy right now. May I help you?” Sophie asked, approaching her.

  “I don’t think so. I need to speak to her about Cissy Peterson’s bridal shower.”

  Sophie straightened her shoulders. “I can help you with that. I’m Sophie Freemont Taylor; Rose Freemont is my grandmother. I’m taking over the organization of Cissy’s shower for my grandmother. And you are . . . ?”

  The woman had gone on alert as soon as Sophie announced her name. “I’ve heard about you. You’re the failed restaurateur, right? I’m Gretchen Harcourt. Welcome to Gracious Grove.”

  She stuck her hand out and Sophie took it even as the insult sank in. It went beyond the failed restaurateur dig; Welcome to Gracious Grove? This was her home away from home, so to be welcomed by a woman who had married into the town, so to speak, stung. But she would take the high road. She barely touched the other woman’s chilly hand and released. “How can I help you regarding Cissy’s shower? You’re the matron of honor, right?”

  Gretchen Harcourt’s beautiful face had a frozen look, like botox meets bad temper. “I need to cancel. We’re switching the venue to the country club.”

  Chapter 2

  “Isn’t it a little late to be deciding that?” Sophie was familiar with country club calendars and doubted they would be able to fit in a bridal shower that was just a couple of weeks away.