Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) Page 5

  “Why?”

  “No one knows.”

  “Who was he engaged to?”

  “No one you know.” Cissy stood. “I really have to go. Dana will be fuming by now, even though I texted her I’d be late. So are we good with what we need for the bridal shower?”

  “We’re good for now,” Sophie said, standing, too. She followed Cissy down the stairs and let her out the side door.

  Cissy turned back and awkwardly grasped Sophie in a hug. “It’s good to have you back in GiGi,” she said, calling the town what they all had as kids.

  • • •

  The next day Sophie realized she should be working on the shower invitations with Gretchen but she didn’t know her address, phone number, or anything else about her. Since she had to go out to buy supplies, she decided she’d stop off at the Peterson bookstore to check in with Cissy. She didn’t relish the thought of working with Gretchen, but had decided to woman up and see it through to the bitter end.

  She took Nana’s SUV and drove down toward the common, turning left before she got there so she could head down to Cayuga Street, where the Peterson bookstore was located. It was in an old house, the one Sophie remembered from childhood as Cissy’s home, when her mom was still alive, a gracious old red brick Queen Anne too big for the smaller modern family. Like Nana’s establishment, Auntie Rose’s Victorian Tea House, the bookstore took up the whole main floor of the former Peterson residence, the big picture windows—sheltered by the wide porch that fronted it—filled with a stained-glass sign that proclaimed it to be Peterson Books ’n Stuff.

  Sophie parked in the drive, hopped up the four steps and entered, a string of silvery bells tinkling a welcome. She stood for a moment, letting her eyes get used to the dim lighting. The different rooms of the main floor—what used to be living room, den, dining room and spare room—now had no doors and were labeled as KIDDY LIT, MYSTERIES & ROMANCE, NONFICTION and MAINSTREAM. The large foyer was the reception area and cash desk. A wooden counter near the front held the cash register and the usual stacks of pamphlets, bookmarks and sale items. Hanging over the desk was a polished branch that had strung from it crystals, necklaces, ribbon bookmarks and bracelets that flashed in the pin spot halogen lighting. This main room also had a table in the center piled high with teddy bears, kids’ books, sale items, mugs with cute sayings and boxes of all-occasion cards. One large bookshelf was filled with best sellers.

  The serene sounds of harp music filled the air, along with the scent of potpourri. She turned, and saw that she was being studied by a Persian-looking cat, sitting alone on the cash desk, unblinking in his calm observation. “Well hello, gorgeous. And what’s your name?”

  “Beauty,” came a voice.

  Chapter 4

  Dana Saunders was sitting behind the cash desk, her feet up, a hardback novel in her lap.

  “Hey, Dana,” Sophie cried. “Long time no see!”

  “It’s been a few years.”

  “Is Cissy here today?”

  “She’ll be in at some point. She’s meeting with her wedding planner this morning, and then she’s going to some do at her grandmother’s. Thelma is capable of holding a grudge about the bridal shower—as you well know—so to placate the old biddy she’s doing tea there this afternoon with Francis’s mother and aunt. I’m not invited.”

  “She didn’t mention it to me when I saw her yesterday, so I guess I’m not invited, either.” Sophie approached the desk. Dana still sat, her finger holding her place, a cup of steaming coffee on the windowsill beside her. “Cissy told me you worked here. Do you like it?”

  “Suits me. The work’s not hard and all the books I can read.”

  “How is it, working for Cissy?”

  “It’s fine. She’s too easygoing, but I try not to take advantage.”

  Sophie rested her arms on the cash desk counter and Beauty came to her, sniffing her breath, rubbing against her tentatively. She scratched along her chin and behind her ears; she was almost as pretty as Pearl!

  Dana was still striking, Sophie thought, though she’d gained some weight. It suited her; she looked lush and gorgeous in that effortless way some women have, dark haired and dark eyed, her skin olive and her coral-lipsticked mouth full. She wore tangerine cropped pants and a cerulean embroidered tunic, not a color scheme that every woman could wear but on her it was stunning. “Dana, can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.” The woman set her book aside and stood, stretching, languid as any cat. She approached the counter from the other side and rested her arms along it. Beauty abandoned Sophie and made a beeline for Dana, rubbing against her face and purring. “What gives?”

  How to start? “Cissy and I talked about her wedding yesterday.”

  “Right, to the wonderful Francis.”

  “I remember him as Frankie,” Sophie said, reaching out and stroking Beauty. “I called him a putz, and Nana disapproved. Is he some kind of big shot now? What’s up with that?”

  “He’s an architect. Went to Cornell, graduated top of his class.”

  “Aha!” Sophie said, understanding immediately how that made Francis a respected local-boy-makes-good kind of guy.

  “Yeah, aha. His mom doesn’t let anyone forget it, either. He’s recently made a big score, some huge development that he’s the chief architect on. Since the news broke, his mom has been parading around town, mentioning ‘her son, the architect’ at every turn.”

  “His mom . . . Vivienne Whittaker, right?”

  “That’s right.” Dana’s laconic manner was soothing.

  “The Whittakers . . . they own a grocery store in GiGi.”

  “Used to. When Francis Senior and his ne’er-do-well brother were killed in an accident five years ago, they sold to some out-of-state conglomerate that has been lobbying to break the ‘dry’ statute ever since so they can sell wine and beer.”

  Sophie smiled. “Like that’ll ever happen!”

  “I know, right? I’ve heard they’re giving up and have sold to someone else now.”

  “I guess Cissy is lucky, in love, marrying a successful guy?”

  “Hah! Lucky? If she listened to me, she’d break it off.”

  “Why?” Sophie asked, smelling a good story.

  “I shouldn’t say,” Dana murmured.

  Sophie leaned forward. “I won’t tell a soul, Girl Scout’s honor,” she said, crossing her heart and her eyes.

  Dana grinned. “You’re a lot more fun now than you were back in the day.”

  “Was I that bad?”

  “Man, you were a prig. I envied you and disliked you at the same time.”

  “Envied me?” And disliked?

  “Oh, come on! You attended private school in Connecticut. You lived in New York and had a house in the Hamptons. You shopped at friggin’ Bergdorf Goodman! I was stuck at Gracious Grove High with Phil Peterson and Wally Bowman as potential boyfriend material. Ugh.”

  Sophie shifted, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking. Her privileged background, bought by her mother’s marriage to a man with money, was only one part of who she was and not the most important, she hoped. “And all that time I would have given anything to be going to GiGi High with all of you. I tried to talk my mom into it, but she wouldn’t budge. Nothing but the best for her little girl.”

  Dana looked at her in disbelief for a long minute then laughed, tossing her dark hair back and combing it with her fingers. “I think I believe you. Who would have thought it?”

  “So, about Francis Whittaker . . . what’s wrong with the guy?”

  Rolling her eyes, Dana said, “Not much, I guess. Sometimes I wonder if I just haven’t given him enough of a chance. He was such a tool in high school. But this development is apparently a big deal, as much as I make fun of it. And I know he really wants to marry Cissy; I don’t think it’s just her ‘litt
le girl lost’ routine, though a lot of guys dig that.”

  “He’s successful and he’s not a bad guy and he really wants to marry Cissy, but still, you don’t think she should marry him,” Sophie said, summarizing, trying to make sense of it.

  “I know. Sounds lame.”

  “No, Dana, there has to be some reason.”

  She sighed. “Not necessarily.”

  “Okay. What I really came here for today was to get Gretchen Harcourt’s phone number or e-mail address or something. We have to get together to plan the bridal shower.”

  “Gretchen. Another on my top ten ‘yuck’ list.” Dana grimaced, but shuffled some papers aside on the cash desk. “I’ve got her number here,” she said, pulling out an address book and thumbing through it. “Just be careful; that witch with a b will tell you anything, and it won’t necessarily be what Cissy wants.”

  “She already tried that on me,” Sophie said, and related the tale of Gretchen’s visit to cancel the shower and what Sophie had done about it.

  “Good going!” Dana laughed out loud and high-fived Sophie, while Beauty leaped from the cash desk down to Dana’s chair.

  As she typed Gretchen’s contact information into her cell-phone contacts list, Sophie, curious about the liquor confrontation at Belle Époque, asked, “So how is Phillip doing now?”

  “He’s still the same old Phil the Pill.”

  “I thought you dated him once?”

  “For a millisecond. Selfish to the bone, that’s Phil.”

  “What does he do? I mean, for a job.”

  Dana smirked. “What do you think? Not a damn thing.”

  • • •

  Sophie tried to call Gretchen but just got her voice mail. She was hoping the matron of honor would know what color scheme the shower would be so she could order the flowers for the tables ahead of time, but that was a no-go. Too bad she hadn’t thought to ask Cissy the day before. Sophie headed to the store that used to be Whittaker Groceries—there was indeed, as Dana had indicated, an UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT sign in the window—picked up tearoom supplies and headed back to Auntie Rose’s in time to help set up.

  As she parked the SUV, she noted the cars lined up at Belle Époque. According to Dana, Cissy had caved in and had some kind of familial tea party going on to placate her grandmother. It was family; you did what you had to do. As Sophie made her way to the side door, arms loaded with groceries, a Lincoln pulled up and eased into a parking spot. A gorgeously dressed woman got out of the driver’s side, as a younger fellow in a suit and tie emerged from the passenger’s side.

  That, if she was not mistaken, was Vivienne Whittaker and her son, Francis Junior, the mother-in-law-to-be and groom-to-be. With a start, she realized that Vivienne was the well-dressed woman at Auntie Rose’s two days before, the one who was arguing with a gentleman about something or other. Small world. Wait . . . wasn’t the argument about her boy, in other words, Francis? Hmm. Gretchen pulled up just then in a silver Prius. So she was around, just not answering her voice mail. Sophie would give her until the next day and call again. They all went into Belle Époque.

  What Sophie wouldn’t give to be a fly on that wall. She bit her lip to keep from laughing as she noticed Phil Peterson skulking out the back door, getting on a motorcycle and tearing off down the road, away from the tea party that was about to commence and to which he was probably not invited, anyway.

  “Supplies, Nana,” Sophie called out. Nana came into the kitchen trailed by Pearl, who jumped up on the counter, only to be shooed down by Sophie. No cats on the food prep area, she believed. Sophie started unloading plastic wrap and cupcake liners.

  “Sophie, I was going through the lost and found and wondered about this photograph,” Nana said, holding out the picture Sophie had put there the night before.

  “I know. I don’t know who dropped it. It was under the table in the front window. What is it of? I couldn’t see last night; it was too dim.”

  Nana handed it to her. “It’s just some land with a signboard on it.”

  “Weird,” Sophie said squinting at it. The sign was there, but it was blurry, impossible to read what it said. She handed it back to her grandmother. “I don’t know who dropped it. There were two or three changes of table here that afternoon.”

  “Okay, I’ll put it back in the lost and found.”

  It was a quiet day at Auntie Rose’s, so after putting the groceries away and helping to set up, Sophie retreated to her sitting room to try to plan out the bridal shower presentation she’d give. Nana, Sophie knew, would give a little talk on the history of teapots with selected examples from her own collection, then she would explain various tea ceremonies around the world. There would be a luncheon—a generous cream or savory tea—and the presentation of the “tea-a-ra” to the bride-to-be, a handmade tiara fashioned of cute teapot trinkets. She would wear that while she opened gifts, and then everyone would play games; in other words, typical bridal shower stuff, but with a tea theme.

  She lolled back in her chair with a clipboard and package of color-coded file cards, trying to figure out what to say and how. She had always believed in being prepared, but this was out of her comfort zone, for sure. A scratching at the door indicated that Pearl wanted to come in, so Sophie bounced up, set the door ajar to let the cat come in, then dropped back into the chair. “What should I do, Pearlie-girlie?” she said, thinking out loud. “I want to make this the best shower; Cissy deserves that. But how?”

  She thought about Dana’s uncertainty over Francis. She wouldn’t say what she had against him but Sophie would swear there was something more than just leftover dislike from the old days. “It’s getting a little warm in here, Pearl. If I’m going to be here all summer, I’m going to have to get an air conditioner.”

  She set the cat aside on the other chair and roamed, opening all the windows, trying to get a cross breeze going in the attic apartment. She stood looking out the dormer that overlooked Belle Époque. The tearoom windows were open and she could hear Thelma’s stentorian voice as she held forth at length. Nana had told her all about how the woman had tried to re-create the Auntie Rose experience, the tea talk, the showers and Red Hat Society luncheons, though nothing quite worked.

  For one thing, Thelma Mae Earnshaw was just not a good cook, nor was Gilda, her employee. They used frozen food, popped into the oven and overbaked. If Thelma spent half as much time on being original and using fresh ingredients rather than copying Auntie Rose while skimping on the food, Nana said, she might get somewhere. Instead, she had spent the last few years on dirty tricks—waylaying packages meant for Auntie Rose’s, starting rumors about the food used at the tearoom, even going so far as inserting an ad in the local paper saying Auntie Rose’s was closing for renovations—but nothing had dulled her nana’s popularity.

  Pearl rubbed against her ankle. Just as she bent over to pick up the cat, Sophie heard a loud scream, and a ruckus broke out in Belle Époque—shouts and a woman’s wailing voice. Sophie put Pearl down and raced for the stairs, clattering down the two flights and out the side door and over to the inn next door. It was like déjà vu from the other day with Phil’s busted liquor bottles. She raced in the front door and saw a ring of women, some weeping, all looking down at someone or something. “What’s going on?”

  Five faces turned to regard her, then turned back to the matter at hand, which, Sophie saw, as she pushed through, was Vivienne Whittaker on the floor. She looked a ghastly yellowish color, but Sophie realized in a flash that that was just the frosting smeared on her face. Her eyes were wide and she was making an eerie sound, like air being let out of tires.

  The moment froze in time and Sophie saw Gilda Bachman, Thelma’s underpaid assistant, with the phone in her hand. She was babbling about a sick woman, while Thelma fell back on a chair, hand clutched over her heart. Francis was on his knees by his mother, yelling in her face, asking what was w
rong, cake crumbs grinding into his trousers. Cissy clutched at Francis’s suit jacket sleeve, the fabric bunching in her fingers. Others clustered in a group, watching, horrified, but she couldn’t manage individual faces, just a blur of female figures.

  “Is she choking?” Sophie cried, bending over them. “Can anyone do the Heimlich? Or . . . or is she having a heart attack?”

  Cissy screamed, “Do something, Francis!”

  A heavyset, handsome woman was standing nearby moaning, hand over her mouth, her heavily mascaraed eyes wide. She slumped down into a chair and covered her face with her hands. The wail of sirens in the background alerted them that the ambulance was on its way, and Sophie ran to the door just as it screeched into the parking lot. “This way!” she shouted, as it pulled to a halt.

  Two paramedics jumped out and opened the back doors, working together to get a heavy case out. A police car screamed to a halt, too, and Wally Bowman threw himself out of the car and hustled to the door. “Sophie, I heard you were back. What’s going on?” Paramedics pushed past them carrying their emergency kits.

  “I don’t know, exactly,” Sophie said. “I was in my apartment and heard a scream. When I came over, I saw Vivienne Whittaker on the floor, sick or choking or having a heart attack . . . or something!”

  Wally strode in and Sophie followed, hanging back but still able to see, since the paramedics had cleared the way. They knelt by Vivienne, whose eyes were now closed, her face red. The convulsions had stopped; Sophie couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or bad. The paramedics, two young guys, worked to rescue the distressed woman, initiating CPR and hooking up a heart monitor. Their dialogue was terse and cryptic.

  The guests, knotted together, watched the scene, the attitude of the group one of disbelief mixed with shock. One paramedic fired a series of questions at Francis, who replied with what little he seemed to know about his mother’s health. No, she had no heart ailments that he was aware of. Yes, she had allergies but only to a few foods, none of which had been served that day that he knew of. No, no history of stroke, and no, she was not on blood thinners. He thought. He wasn’t sure. They finally strapped Vivienne to a gurney and wheeled her out to the ambulance; moments later they screamed away toward the closest hospital.