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

  “Oh Cissy, I’m sorry!” Sophie said, tears welling in her own eyes. Of course all that would mean a lot to Cissy; she’d lost her mother at sixteen, just when a girl needed her mom the most. “But we’re young; we’ve got time. Besides, marrying doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll get it all. Is Francis the right guy?”

  Cissy, her eyes glittering, said, “Yes, he is. He’s a good man; he loves me and we want the same things. That’s what’s important, you know, not all this other pie-in-the-sky, love-forever-after stuff. People think I’m a little flighty, but I’m really very practical.”

  “More than I am,” Sophie admitted, thinking that she really wanted the love-forever-after stuff, as Cissy called it. “It’s too bad for him his mom died, and so close to the wedding.”

  “Vivienne was going to be the mom I lost,” Cissy said, turning her engagement ring round and round on her finger. “I miss her already. She brought a gift to the engagement tea, you know, a really nice one!”

  “You told me that, but you didn’t know then what it was. Do you know now?”

  She nodded. “I finally opened it. She would have wanted me to,” she said, her voice soft.

  “You said before that she was worried; are you sure you don’t know what about?”

  “I really don’t. She said she didn’t know how much she could trust people, and she looked toward the tearoom, then she thrust the box into my hands and asked me to open it later and tell me what I thought when we talked.”

  “What you thought? About what? What did that mean?”

  “What I thought of the gift, I guess.”

  Sophie asked, “So what did you think? What was the gift?”

  “A vintage teapot. Really pretty, but not very practical. It looked like it was out of her own collection, you know?”

  “I didn’t know she had a collection.”

  “Oh yes, she did; she has . . . had . . . a lovely collection. That’s why Grandma tried to get her to start a collector’s group with her, The Teapot Society. The one Vivienne gave me is a Haviland Eglantine-pattern teapot; I looked it up on the Net to see if it was special in some way. Pretty, but a strange choice. Like I said, I’m not a collector. I’ll cherish it, though, just because she gave it to me.”

  “Eglantine . . . I’ve heard that flower name before. I wonder what it means? Do you remember when we were kids and Nana set us down with a book on the language of flowers, and told us to write a poem?”

  Cissy smiled. “I do! Mine was awful, like ‘roses are red’ awful. Wait . . . let me see what it does mean.” She took out her phone and went to a browser, then tapped in EGLANTINE—LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. She frowned, her mouth twisted in puzzlement. “It means a wound to heal, ” she said, softly.

  A wound to heal. But then again, few people knew about the language of flowers, and it was probably a random pick. Sophie said so to Cissy, who relaxed.

  “You’re right.”

  “Still, it’s nice that she thought of you,” Sophie said. “At least you’ll have had a gift from your husband’s mother to remember her by.”

  Cissy nodded, but there was still a puzzled look on her face. “Why did she want me to tell her what I thought? I don’t understand. It’s just a teapot.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Sure, I’ll go get it. Can you watch the store for a minute?”

  “If I can use your computer.” Cissy invited her to help herself, and Sophie did some research on cyanide. She really would have to see about getting her grandmother’s house wired for Internet access and get her laptop out of storage. Maybe she’d set the place up for Wi-Fi and advertise it as the first hot-spot tearoom! She could do a lot on her cell phone, but she didn’t have unlimited usage.

  Cyanide was not the easiest material to get. Or was it? She tripped over a suicide site where many offered suicide pills bought in other countries. Tears pooled in her eyes as she read the hopeless messages of those wanting the pills to leave this world. Or . . . her cynical mind kicked in again. Were some of the so-called suiciders really just looking for pills to get rid of someone else in their life?

  Maybe it was easier than she had thought to get hold of cyanide, or maybe some of the cyanide for sale was just sugar pills offered by con-artist sellers. She deleted her search, left with an uneasy sense that she had stumbled across something more she needed to share with the police.

  Cissy came back bearing a pale-blue box. She set it down on the counter and lifted the lid, setting it aside, then took out a butter-yellow tissue-wrapped item, which she carefully unwrapped and put down on the counter.

  The pattern was an old-fashioned open type of rose in a pale pink, but the teapot was nothing spectacular, just a deeply fluted china six-cup teapot. The lid was stuck on. Nana did that in the tearoom to thwart the occasional touchy-feely type who just had to lift a teapot down and sometimes broke loose lids. But this was a gift, and the lid should have been wrapped separately in tissue to keep it from clanking, rather than sticking it onto the pot. “Why is this stuck?” Sophie murmured, and tugged on it. It released with a bit of a clatter to reveal some sticky putty holding the lid on. Inside the teapot she could see a piece of paper folded. She hesitated, but then said, “I think Vivienne may have left you a note.”

  “I didn’t see that!” Cissy took it and unfolded it. “I don’t understand,” she murmured, scanning it as another loose piece of paper fell out of the fold.

  Sophie held out her hand and Cissy gave her the first sheet. It was a list of names, some she recognized, some she didn’t. “Marva Harcourt, Florence Whittaker, Julia Dandridge, Nuñez Ortega, Forsythe Villiers, Mike Blenkenship, Francis Whittaker, Oliver Stanfield, Shep Hammond. Is this Vivienne’s handwriting?”

  “It is.”

  “Who are these people? I mean, I know some of them . . . Marva Harcourt is Hollis Harcourt’s mother, and of course I know Francis and Florence, and I’ve met Forsythe Villiers; he’s in Nana’s teapot-collecting group, actually, and I know he works at Leathorne and Hedges.” She paused, as another name rang a bell. “Julia Dandridge . . . that’s a professor at Cruickshank, head of Jason’s department, actually. But who are the others?”

  Cissy took the paper back and said, “Well, Nuñez Ortega is a partner at Leathorne and Hedges, Mike Blenkenship you already know is the mayor of Gracious Grove, and both Oliver Stanfield and Shep Hammond are local builders.”

  Aha! Both names were on the sign announcing the new development, Stanfield Homes and Hammond Construction. If she remembered right, GG Group was the investors’ group. Gracious Grove Group? Maybe. Sophie pondered the list, but couldn’t make any sense of it and why Vivienne had passed it on to Cissy. “What’s on the other piece of paper?”

  “It’s just a series of numbers,” Cissy said, handing it to Sophie.

  “It looks like a combination,” Sophie said. “It’s a numerical code to something, maybe an alarm code. But it also says, ‘In case something happens.’ What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. Why would she give me something like that?”

  Sophie didn’t have an answer. A tone indicated someone coming into the store, and both women looked up.

  “Well hello, ladies!” Gretchen Harcourt cried. “How are y’all?”

  Sophie folded the piece of paper and stuck it in her pocket, not sure why she wasn’t comfortable letting Gretchen see it.

  “Hey, Gretchen,” Cissy said.

  “What’s that?” Gretchen asked, coming up to the counter and examining the teapot.

  “It was a gift Vivienne gave me.”

  “Isn’t it all just tragic? I’m actually here about poor Mrs. Whittaker. Mama and Papa Harcourt are hosting a memorial service at the country club tomorrow morning at eleven, and I’m supposed to make sure you’re coming, Cissy. Francis has already said he’ll pick up his Aunt Florence.”

  “Of course
I’ll go,” Cissy said, her cheeks paling.

  “Why Marva and Holly? I mean . . . why are they putting on a memorial?” Sophie asked.

  “Well, they are just incensed that Gracious Grove’s finest, meaning that awful detective woman and dumb-as-a-stump Wally Bowman, haven’t arrested anyone yet, you know?”

  “Wally is not dumb,” Cissy declared, her cheeks flaming. “And I’m sure the detective is doing the best she can.”

  “Anyway, Marva and Holly think we need to honor poor Vivienne’s life while folks still remember the tragedy of the whole thing.”

  “I don’t think people are going to forget this any time soon,” Cissy demurred.

  “I agree; Vivienne Whittaker was a pillar of local society.” Sophie was puzzled by the Harcourts’ interest.

  “You know what I mean. They don’t want anyone to think they’ve forgotten her, I guess.”

  “So this is about them, really,” Cissy said, with uncharacteristic sharpness.

  Gretchen stiffened. “They’re just trying to do the right thing!”

  Sophie put a hand on Cissy’s knee; she could feel the tension in her friend. “Cissy, why don’t I pick you up? I know Nana will want to go, and Laverne too, probably, so I’ll bring them and swing by to get you. ”

  With a brittle smile, Gretchen said, “Well, I’m glad that’s settled. I’ll tell Mama Marva that you’ll be there, too, after I explain who you are.” She whirled and left the shop.

  “I’m really starting to dislike her,” Cissy said, with a sigh.

  Chapter 18

  “I know exactly what you mean. She seems to rocket between sweet and snobbish at the speed of light. Hollis is going to be Francis’s best man, right?” Sophie asked.

  “That’s why I ended up with Gretchen as my matron of honor, and now I’m stuck with her.” Cissy rolled her eyes. “I can tell she isn’t really into it, so I don’t expect much from her in the way of support.” She paused, then said, “Thanks for offering to take me to the memorial service, though God only knows why Marva and Holly Harcourt are putting it on. It’s got to be just for show. Marva and Vivienne did not get along!”

  Sophie really wanted Cissy’s entrée into the country club circle so she could meet the people named on the note from Vivienne, but it didn’t hurt to let Cissy think she was trying to be helpful. “Why didn’t they get along?”

  “I’m not sure. They were friends once, but something happened lately, and Vivienne was pulling away from that group. She said something about that whole country club crowd, as she called them.”

  “What did she say?”

  Cissy frowned, concentrating. “What did she say? Something like, if the only purpose of having money was to make money, then . . . oh, I can’t remember!”

  Sophie pulled out the paper and pondered the names. Marva’s was right at the top of the list. What could all these people have in common? There were employees at Leathorne and Hedges, builders and the mayor of the city. And Jason’s department head, who Sophie knew was talking about investing in a business that was going to be in the new development. The new development; that was the tie that bound all of the names. “So, how did Francis get such a great promotion, to be the designer in charge of this new hush-hush development?” She had her suspicions, but nothing solid, and wondered how much Cissy knew.

  “He’s a good architect, I guess. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Not at his age. I’m sure there are others in the company with more seniority, and seniority usually wins out. I heard that he somehow got a design contract for the development for Leathorne and Hedges, and that’s why he got the promotion; was that true?”

  “Maybe,” Cissy said.

  “The names on this note . . . they mostly have to do with the new development. It sounds like Vivienne was worried about something to do with it, don’t you think? Something she wanted to talk to you about?”

  Cissy just shrugged and looked mystified.

  How little did she know about her fiancé’s life? It was odd, Sophie thought. “Where did Vivienne live?”

  “She has . . . had a house,” Cissy said. “Actually, I’ve been over there to feed her poor cat. Sweet Pea is just lost. I feel so bad for him!”

  “What’s going to happen to him?”

  “I don’t know. Francis doesn’t like cats, nor does Florence. She’s more a dog person. Poor woman lost her dog recently, and she was heartbroken! But cats . . . not so much. I can’t take him because the last time I tried to adopt another cat, Beauty just about killed it. She does not share.”

  “Are you going over there to feed him today?”

  “No, not today. I only planned to go over every other day.”

  Sophie considered for just a moment, then said, “I could do it for you, if you like. I hate to think of the poor cat cooped up all day, waiting for Vivienne.”

  “Would you do that?” Cissy said, relief registering on her pale face. “To tell you the truth, I’m not really such a big fan of cats myself. I love kittens, but cats . . . Beauty is okay because she stays in the store, and Dana looks after her mostly. She’s really more Dana’s cat than mine. But Sweet Pea . . . he kind of intimidates me.”

  “I’d be happy to do it. Francis won’t mind, will he? I mean, me going into his mother’s home?”

  “No, not at all! He was so grateful that you made that eggnog for him yesterday. I’m really going to have to learn to cook; I know how to boil water, but that’s pretty much it. Would you teach me the basics?”

  “Sure.” Sophie stood. “Look, I have to get going, but would you like me to go now to feed Sweet Pea?”

  “Would you? Thank you so much, Sophie!” She retrieved a key out of her purse, along with a card that had a numeric alarm code on it, and an explanation of how the alarm worked.

  So the numeric code on the piece of paper in the teapot was not to the security system. Sophie had a feeling it was for a safe, and the curiosity that thought provoked was like an itch, especially when paired with the words on the paper. In case you need it. If it was a safe code, why would Vivienne think Cissy might need it? Was she afraid of something happening to her? Didn’t she trust the people closest to her? Of course, just because she had passed this on to Cissy didn’t mean she hadn’t left the same thing for her son.

  “Could you photocopy this stuff for me to mull over?” Sophie said, flapping the two pieces of paper that came out of the teapot. “If Vivienne gave you a teapot with this stuff in it, it must be important, so I’d like to think about it some more.”

  “Sure, if you really want to,” Cissy said, and went over to the computer printer on a table by the cash desk. “It can’t hurt, I guess.”

  As she photocopied the two pieces of paper, Sophie casually said, “So what exactly is Phil doing these days? Besides still trying to smuggle booze.”

  “He works in construction sometimes. Shep Hammond was a friend of dad’s, and keeps saying he made some promise to keep his eye on us.” She shivered. “I don’t like him at all. He’s . . . creepy, you know, like, handsy? He’s always touching me. But he does give my brother roofing work from time to time. That’s where Phil is right now.”

  Hammond . . . that name kept cropping up with the others. Though she already knew the answer, Sophie asked, “Did Phil approve of you and Francis marrying?”

  “Phil doesn’t approve of anything.” She scribbled an address on the reverse of one of the photocopies and handed both sheets to Sophie, with the explanation of how to get to Vivienne’s home. “My brother drives me nuts. He seems to think the world owes him something. Grandma doesn’t help matters; he can go to her with any sad story and she always gives him money, or a place to stay or whatever. I keep telling him he has to stop mooching off of her. She’s not getting any younger and she worries about him.”

  “I’d better get going.” Sophie hugged Cissy. “You ma
ke sure you’re taking care of yourself.”

  Vivienne Whittaker’s home was a faux-Victorian mansion on a hill above the town proper. The winding road that led to it twisted and turned enough that the lavish homes had no view of one another, only of the town and valley over which they looked. Sophie parked the SUV behind a line of cedars—not that she was hiding, exactly, but she did not want to excite interest in such a wealthy enclave, where they might call the police at the drop of a hat—and went up to the front door. She let herself in and set about using the code to disable the alarm.

  “Sweet Pea?” she called, her voice echoing back to her. Nothing. The entry had soaring thirty-foot ceilings, with an enormous dining room to one side and a parlor or sitting room on the other. The dining room was furnished with a heavy dining table—it squatted on thick legs and was topped by a crimson-velvet runner—ten chairs, and a sideboard that groaned under the weight of a silver tea service and matching candelabras.

  She turned to examine the parlor; the style was ornate and very formal, with Louis XIV–style gilt mirrors and a settee with low ladies’ chairs by a marble fireplace. A couple of bow-front display cases held Vivienne’s collection of teapots. Sophie went closer to examine them. They were mostly eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Staffordshire china: blue willow, hand-painted country scenes and even a couple of Toby-style figurals. Everything was antique, whispering of wealth and prestige. It saddened her that she had not known the woman who appreciated items of such rare beauty and historical significance, and now never would.

  Sophie felt eerily like someone was watching her. She turned and found that a stocky chocolate-point Siamese was glaring at her, poised in perfect position on the dining table, statuelike in his stillness. He had silently hopped up there in the few moments Sophie’s back had been turned. “Hey, Sweet Pea. You hungry, fella?”