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

  “I heard something about it.”

  “Phil says Francis was making moonshine in his dorm room, but Francis claims Phil was lying to get him in trouble.”

  “Out of the two, I know which one I’d believe.”

  “Francis.”

  Jason nodded.

  “Phil thinks Vivienne Whittaker turned him in to protect her son.”

  “Do you believe Phil?”

  Sophie tapped her pencil on the notebook page. “I don’t know. Just speculating.”

  “Clarify.”

  “Say Francis really was in partnership with Phil to make booze and sell it in Gracious Grove, and say Francis’s mom wanted to shut the guys down, and yet keep her son out of trouble. For a determined mother like Vivienne Whittaker, it would make sense to turn Phil in to the cops, knowing that the police were unlikely to believe much of what he said. Her position as an important woman in the community would make it easier to pin it all on screwup Phil, rather than college kid Francis. All Francis would have to do is deny, deny, deny when they asked him about Phil’s accusation. It would serve the purpose of shutting Francis down and making sure he didn’t suffer the blame and separating the two guys.”

  “That’s Machiavellian! It would take a lot of guts to turn in the guy who could squeal on your son, though.”

  “I think both those Whittaker women have a lot of guts.”

  “But that’s all water under the bridge and now Vivienne Whittaker is gone. Those two things don’t have anything to do with each other.”

  Yet hatred was a powerful motive for murder, and Phil must have hated Vivienne for getting him in trouble.

  Jason stood and stretched. “I’d better get going.”

  “One sec . . . you said Francis has been hanging out with you more lately. You’ve been invited to the wedding, right?”

  “Francis has asked me to be a groomsman.”

  “Let me guess: Hollis Harcourt Junior is best man, right? Did you agree?”

  “Of course. I mean, what was I going to say?”

  “But you used to call Francis an idiot,” she said, eyeing him with a sly smile.

  “That was a long time ago,” he said severely. “He’s changed his life and now he’s marrying Cissy.”

  Sophie was ashamed of herself. “I was with him today, and this has really hit him hard.”

  “He was close to his mom. I should go.”

  Sophie stood and walked with him to the back door. “Jason, about your friend, the professor . . .”

  After a moment, he prompted her, “Yes?”

  She chickened out of asking him what their relationship was, and simply said, “I would tell her to wait and find out more before investing too much money in a restaurant in the new development. If the town does annex the land, and the no-alcohol bylaws stay in place, it could be pretty tricky to open a fine dining establishment. It’s a tough business, and the only people who should gamble on it are those who have the money to lose if it goes belly-up.”

  “Thanks, Soph. I’m glad you’re staying in GiGi.” He dropped a kiss on her cheek and headed out, hands in his pockets, whistling.

  She watched him go, hand to her cheek.

  • • •

  As Jason Murphy left Auntie Rose’s, Thelma, watching out her kitchen window, kept her eye on Sophie Taylor, who stood in the back door and looked after him. Anybody with half a brain could see that girl was regretting dumping the fellow. He wasn’t good enough for her when he was bumming around Europe and then going into the army, but now that he was a professor he was suddenly good enough again. Hmph.

  Her conscience stirred. The girl was a nice child, though, to bring her soup like that. Why she was wondering about Marva Harcourt being in the kitchen was a mystery, though. Thelma was just about to lock up when she heard rustling in the bushes that lined the parking lot of Auntie Rose’s.

  “Who’s there?” she shouted nervously. “I got the cops on speed dial, you know!” She was about to skedaddle inside and slam the door shut when her grandson emerged from the bushes.

  “I thought Jason’d never leave,” Phil hissed and sidled past her into Belle Époque. “Can you put me up for the night, Grandma?” he asked.

  “Who are you hiding from, the police?”

  He shrugged and loped into the kitchen; as she locked the door, he stuck his head in the fridge and came out with a hunk of cheese in his hand. She watched him eat hungrily, her heart softening. She had planned on giving him a good talking to, but instead said, “You want something to eat? I’ll make you scrambled eggs.”

  He nodded and sat down at the table by the window, gloomily staring over at Auntie Rose’s. “What was he doing there?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, but he was there for a good half hour or so. That girl is sweet on him again, I can tell.”

  “I always liked Sophie. She’s pretty,” Phil said. “But man, she is so stuck up!”

  “The whole family is,” Thelma grumbled, moving from the fridge to the stove and cracking a couple of eggs into a hot pan. She cooked them for a while, made some toast and slid it all onto a plate. The eggs were browned real good, just like Phil always wanted them. He loved her cooking, which was more than she could say for Cissy. Thelma sat down opposite him and drank a cup of cold tea while he ate. “Phil, why were you in here that afternoon, the day that Vivienne Whittaker keeled over?”

  He shrugged, hunching one shoulder as he mopped up the last bit of ketchup with his toast. “Free country, right?”

  She waited, knowing he would feel compelled to say something more. He always did, even as a youngster, when he was in the wrong.

  “Look, I’m not supposed to tell anyone,” he said, glancing around, “but someone asked me to put something in the punch you were serving.”

  Thelma’s heart did a flip-flop dance. “You put something in the punch? Are you crazy? What did you put in it?”

  “Just a little hooch, that’s all.”

  She reached over and smacked the side of his head. “What is wrong with you?”

  “Ow! Nothing’s wrong with me! I have a plan, is all.”

  “A plan to end up in jail? What kind of plan?”

  “It’s all up here,” he said, sitting back and tapping the side of his head. “But I need money, and lots of it!”

  She closed her eyes and counted; ten might be enough, but if not, then twenty or thirty would do. Plan? Phil Peterson never had a plan in his life. He was as shiftless as his father and twice as dumb, and she had to admit that even though she loved him. Why hadn’t he taken after his mother, like Cissy had? She opened her eyes after a twenty count and glared at him. “So, who asked you to liquor up the punch?” She hadn’t noticed anything, but then she hadn’t drunk it. Neither had Vivienne, as a matter of fact, because it was red fruit punch made with that tropical blend Thelma liked, and served to her patrons, and the picky woman made a big deal about all the dyes in punch mixes.

  Phil smirked. “I’m not saying.”

  “Okay, have it your own way,” she said, weary to the bone. “You staying the night?”

  “Yeah. I’m beat.”

  “The cops know you’re here?”

  “Nope.”

  “You trying to stay away from them?”

  “No more than normal,” he said. He got up, stretched and hugged her hard. “You’re the best, Grandma.”

  “I know,” she grumbled, but hugged him back. As long as there was breath in her body, she would look after Phil and Cissy. No one was going to hurt them, or use them bad. No one!

  Chapter 17

  Sophie made a quick call to Cissy to ask that they meet the next day, then went to bed. After morning coffee and a quick shower, she headed out. It was Dana’s day off, so Cissy was tied to the store. She was at the computer that was in a corner behind the counter when Soph
ie came in, carrying a white pastry bag of cranberry lemon scones and a little pot of homemade strawberry preserves. “Let’s have a feast,” she said to her new/old friend.

  As they wiped their fingers clean on paper napkins after their repast, Sophie took a sip of coffee and said, “Cissy, who do you think did it, poisoned Vivienne Whittaker?”

  Pale-blue eyes wide, Cissy shook her head. “I just don’t know! I’ve had nightmares, and in my dreams it’s . . .” She stopped and shook her head. “Never mind.”

  “No, go on,” Sophie said, crumpling the paper bag into a ball and tossing it into the recycling bin. Beauty dashed after it and sniffed the bag, then returned to hop up on the counter, using a stool nearby as a step.

  “In my dreams it’s Florence who died, not Vivienne.” She shot a quivery look at Sophie. “That sounds bad, right?”

  “You can’t help wishing Vivienne hadn’t died—she was your fiancé’s mother—and even if you subconsciously wish it was Florence instead, that doesn’t make it bad, either. I know you wish no one had died.”

  “That’s true.” She took a deep breath, and let it out. “Thanks, Soph.”

  “I’ve heard so many stories about the engagement party,” Sophie said, carefully. “What really happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Okay, can we start at the beginning? I don’t mean to be nosy, but it’s so confusing! The engagement tea was your grandmother’s idea, right?”

  “No, not at all. Where did you hear that?”

  “I don’t exactly remember . . . I think it was your grandmother who said it. So, if it wasn’t your grandmother’s idea, whose was it?”

  “Well, it was Vivienne’s, really,” Cissy said, frowning into her coffee mug. “I was telling her that Grandma complained that she felt left out, since I wanted my bridal shower at Auntie Rose’s. Vivienne said, why didn’t Grandma have a tea to celebrate the engagement?”

  “Okay.” Sophie readjusted her thinking. “But your grandmother was happy about it?”

  “She grumped about it a lot. You know what she’s like.”

  “I did wonder about that. It was a lot of work, and meant she had to close the tearoom for that one day.”

  Cissy nodded. “She complained about it being just her and Gilda doing everything, so I told her I’d have people bring stuff, you know, to help out. Like a potluck.”

  “And did they bring stuff?”

  “Sure. I wasn’t supposed to bring anything, but I brought red-velvet cupcakes.”

  Sophie was stunned. “You brought the red-velvet cupcakes?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Uh . . . no reason.” This changed everything. “Did you buy them or make them?”

  “Oh, bought them. I don’t bake.”

  “Who put them out on a plate?”

  “I did,” Cissy said.

  Sophie stared at her friend, trying to rein in her ideas. She had been wondering where the cupcakes had come from, but not once did she consider Cissy as a possible source. “Why red-velvet cupcakes?”

  Cissy shrugged. “Someone suggested them, so I brought them.”

  “Someone said to bring red-velvet cupcakes?”

  “Not specifically.” She paused and furrowed her brow. “What was it . . . ? Oh, I don’t remember!” she cried, shaking her head. “This has all been so difficult . . . it’s chased thoughts right out of my head.”

  “If you plated them, where did you get the one non-red-velvet cupcake?”

  “I don’t understand,” Cissy said. “I only put six red-velvet cupcakes on that plate.”

  “Six?” There had been at least that many left on the plate when Sophie saw it, but they were just arranged in a sporadic semicircle. “And then what? Did you take it out to the tearoom?”

  “No, I left the plate where it was; we weren’t ready for dessert. We hadn’t even had lunch. Besides, the plate wasn’t full. I thought I’d put something else on it to fill it up.”

  What else had been on the platter? She had pictured a plate with a full ring of red-velvet cupcakes and one non-red-velvet cupcake in the center. But was that the case? It didn’t make any sense. If Cissy’s were store bought, then who provided the homemade ones? “You sure you didn’t notice if someone else put more red-velvet cupcakes out?”

  Cissy said, “I didn’t see if they did, but I got distracted and didn’t think about it after that. It was about then that Vivienne took me aside to talk for a moment. She was worried about something.”

  “Worried? What about?”

  “I don’t know. It was too busy and there were too many people milling around, so we never got to finish our talk.” She clicked on her cell phone, checked her text messages, then looked back up. “How are you and Gretchen doing with the shower plans?”

  “You’re not supposed to fret about that,” Sophie said absently, while she considered all that she had heard. If she was right, then someone, between the time Cissy had put her red-velvet cupcakes on the plate and went to talk with Vivienne, had finished filling it. It was then brought out to the tearoom with that one poisonous vanilla cupcake with yellow frosting. If she was right. But who did it?

  “Cissy, how well do you know Belinda Blenkenship?”

  “Not very.”

  “So who invited her to the engagement tea? There seems to be some confusion about that.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Cissy’s vagueness could be so frustrating at times! “Who is likely to have?”

  “Maybe Vivienne? Or Florence?”

  “Why didn’t they leave it up to your grandmother?”

  Cissy sighed and rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know. Vivienne probably thought Granny would invite Phil and his girlfriend and no one else. She’d have been right.” She paused. “What you need is the Gracious Grove Whisperer.”

  “What?”

  “It’s this social site where rumors and gossip are traded. I’ll bring it up for you; give me your phone.”

  Sophie handed over her cell phone and Cissy tapped in some searches and came up with a social network called Whisperer. She handed it back to Sophie, explaining that towns, cities, social groups, all kind of units had Whisperer sites.

  “There is one voice in particular on the GiGi Whisperer site that seems to have all the dirt on everybody. You can privately ask prominent Whisperers or post a public message asking for whispers, or you can do a search.”

  Sophie did a quick search on Belinda Blenkenship and came up with all the old scandals, but also saw some interesting photos. There was Belinda with a man who must be her husband, the mayor, and a bunch of men all by the development sign going into the ground. Everything she looked into came back to the new development, and it all started with Vivienne’s concern that Francis was going to be connected to it and it was going to backfire. Why? And could that actually have led to her murder? Or did it just mask a more personal reason for her killing?

  How frustrating investigation must be for the police, all the innuendo and confusing paths that led nowhere. But maybe they had already figured it all out. Maybe even now they were planning an arrest.

  Sophie hoped so; she wanted to stop worrying about it, but she just couldn’t while it was unresolved, such a terrible crime and right next door to her grandma’s establishment. She watched her friend, who was now just staring out the store window and petting Beauty, who did not seem as friendly with Cissy as she did with Dana. “I’m curious, Cissy; how did you and Francis get together?”

  She cocked her head to one side. “It just kinda happened, you know? There aren’t many guys in Gracious Grove. Most of them leave for college and never come back, so I haven’t dated a whole lot. Grandma always fussed that I’d be an old maid. But one day Vivienne came into the bookstore and we got talking. She invited me over to the house for dinner. Francis was there, too, and
he asked if I wanted to go out for coffee. We talked, and he was so nice to me. Then he asked me out to dinner, and I went. He had changed a lot from when we were teenagers and he listened to me as I talked about the store, and what I wanted to do with it; it was nice to be listened to for once. That was a year ago.”

  It almost sounded like an arranged marriage with Vivienne as the matchmaker, and Sophie couldn’t help but remember the women who had been chased off to make way for her. Belinda was only the latest, Sophie would bet, and Dana one of the earliest. It was likely no coincidence that Vivienne happened to come into the bookstore and happened to invite Cissy to dinner on the same night Francis happened to be there. Jason said Sophie had a devious mind, but it wasn’t devious to see the careful planning behind so-called happenstance, was it?

  Cissy Peterson would make the ideal ambitious and successful fellow’s wife, intelligent, gentle, reserved. Even clothes-wise she was perfect; no shocking outfits or risqué head turners on Cissy. No scandalous past, and no tattoos or piercings to frighten the conservative in Gracious Grove political and social circles. Today she was dressed in a pretty butter-yellow twin set with real pearls and a blue-floral skirt, very ladylike and proper.

  “You must love Francis,” Sophie said.

  “Of course,” Cissy said calmly, and went back to checking her messages.

  “Are you waiting for something?” Sophie asked, watching her thumb through her list. “If I’m holding you up . . .”

  “No, not at all,” Cissy said, looking up from the phone. “I ran into Wally last night and he said he’d let me know if he found out anything about Vivienne that he can share with me.”

  “Ran into him? Where?”

  “At the grocery store.”

  Sophie was silent, wondering about all she’d heard about Wally still caring for Cissy. “What made you decide to get married?”

  “Francis asked,” she replied, with a surprised expression.

  “That doesn’t mean you had to say yes,” Sophie said.

  “But I want to be married. Don’t you? I want . . .” She paused and sighed, wrapping her arms around herself and looking up at the display of twinkling crystals overhead. A prism of color kissed her cheek. “I want a home; a real home. And kids. I want . . . I want . . .” She stopped, tears gleaming in her eyes.