Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) Page 6

  Wally Bowman cast one long glance around the room. “Francis, you want to tell me what happened here?”

  “My mom . . . she’s sick. I need to get to the hospital,” he said, his voice choked. He straightened his tie and jacket, then started toward the door.

  “Wait!” Wally said, putting out his arm to block the way. “Francis, it’s okay, she’s being taken care of. Cissy, you want to tell me what happened?”

  Francis paused, then turned toward his fiancée.

  Tears stood in her eyes, but she responded well to Wally’s command. “We were having a little celebration for our engagement. Everything was real nice,” she said, nodding toward the table arrayed with a tea set and trays with the remnants of finger sandwiches, scones and frosted red-velvet cupcakes. “We were just having some snacks when Vivienne started up out of her chair, then collapsed on the floor.” She waved her hand at the mess—tea spilled, crumbs and yellow icing smeared around.

  The florid, heavyset woman moaned. Everyone turned to look at her.

  “Aunt Florence?” Francis said, looking worried.

  “It was her,” Florence Whittaker said, pointing one shaky finger at Thelma Mae Earnshaw, still collapsed on the chair but now with both hands over her eyes. “It was her cooking that caused this! Poor Vivienne. She’ll probably have to have her stomach pumped. What was it, cheap chicken with salmonella in the sandwiches?” she screeched, working herself up. “Or . . .” Her voice trailed off and she just stared, shaking her head. She leaped up from her chair and grabbed her big purse. “We need to get to the hospital. Francis is right. We need to go.”

  “I agree,” Cissy said, her tone calm. “Before it’s too late.”

  Sophie stared at her childhood friend. Cissy’s high voice was calm, her gaze level, her face as pale as always. Wally was watching her, too. His cell phone chirped and he answered it, his expression becoming grave. “Okay,” he muttered. “All right, I’m on it. Immediately.” He cleared his throat. “This room is now off-limits to anyone. We’ll need to move you all out of here.”

  “Wally, why?” Cissy asked.

  “What’s going on?” Sophie asked, moving toward Cissy.

  Wally adjusted his uniform tie, then surveyed the group, his gaze settling on Francis. “I’m sorry, Frank,” he said, his tone grave. “Your mother didn’t make it. She’s dead.” He paused, and his glance took them all in. “Until we figure out why, I have to secure this scene for the detectives and the forensic investigators.”

  Chapter 5

  “Dead?” Francis paled and staggered back. “Impossible!” His voice sounded thin and raspy.

  “No!” Florence screeched, her pouchy eyes wide.

  “What did it?” Sophie asked Wally, who was watching them all with squinted eyes. “Did she have a heart attack? Or . . . how did she . . . ? I don’t understand, Wally.”

  “All of you will have to . . .” He paused and looked around. “Let’s go next door. Sophie, can we go over to Auntie Rose’s?”

  “Why?”

  “We need to vacate this place, but I don’t want folks to go too far,” he said, raising his voice over the scream of sirens now filling the air. Another car screeched to a stop outside, and doors slammed.

  “Wally, you need to tell us what’s wrong.” Her voice sounded strange to her, quivery and trembling. “I mean, I know what’s wrong, but why . . .” Sophie didn’t want to think about what his concern implied.

  “You need to just do as I say,” he said, steel strengthening his tone. He glanced over at Cissy, who was pale but composed. “Take Cissy and the others over to your grandma’s and I’ll explain as soon as I can.” He walked to the door and motioned for them all to follow.

  Thelma Mae Earnshaw stubbornly refused to go. “I have not set foot in that woman’s home for forty years, and I’m not about to go now!”

  “Grandma, please,” Cissy pleaded. “This is not the time.”

  Gilda Bachman, Thelma Mae’s only employee and general factotum, had already exited, and Florence Whittaker had taken her nephew by the arm and was tugging him toward the door.

  He resisted. “Wally, what the hell is going on? I need to get to the hospital. My mom—her purse is still here with her insurance card and—and . . .”

  Sophie watched Francis’s face. He clearly had not taken in what Wally had said, that his mother was dead.

  “Francis, it’s too late,” Florence said, tears clogging her voice, making it thick with emotion. “She’s . . . she’s gone. The only sister I ever had!” She grabbed her nephew’s arm and squeezed, her knuckles white from the pressure.

  He wrenched his arm away from Florence and seemed to crumble in on himself, his shoulders slumping, his whole body shuddering. “That’s not possible. She just can’t be gone! How could this have happened? You have to tell me!”

  Florence grabbed him in a hug, her gigantic handbag whacking against him. “I don’t know,” she said. She forced his head against her shoulder so they were bound in a tight embrace. “But right now we have to do what Wally says and go next door.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Flo,” Wally said.

  “Aunt?” Sophie looked between them.

  But her implied question was ignored as Wally waggled his fingers to get everyone moving as outside car doors slammed shut. They trooped out into the early May sunshine, where just a few minutes ago life had seemed so normal. Sophie blinked at the transformation the parking area had undergone. Two Gracious Grove police cruisers were parked at the curb and a mobile forensic unit was pulled into the drive. Neighbors were coming out of their houses and watching; they clustered in small groups, heads bent toward each other as they chattered. Whatever had killed Mrs. Vivienne Whittaker, leading socialite of the Gracious Grove social scene, it seemed the police weren’t convinced it was natural, or they wouldn’t be making this much of a fuss, Sophie thought.

  Her grandmother took everything in stride and set about, with Laverne’s help, to organize. A half hour later the last customer had left Auntie Rose’s and the only folk sitting at the tables were those who had been at the tragic engagement tea, as well as Sophie’s nana, Laverne and Sophie herself. As long as there were customers no one had said a word about the tragedy next door, though there was a lot of whispering and covert glances by those who had just dropped in for tea and scones.

  Tea had been made and served to those who had come from Belle Époque, but silence still reigned. Sophie surveyed the party. Cissy sat next to Francis, but they weren’t talking. Gretchen Harcourt flanked Francis on the other side; she was playing with her bracelet in between texting. Wally should have barred them from communicating, because Sophie had a feeling the news would be all over town with Gretchen Harcourt’s own spin on it before the police had done any investigating at all. A young blonde woman, waved hair as stiff as a 1950s beehive, wept quietly into her hands and blew her nose on a cloth hankie.

  Gilda Bachman sat alone at a small table for two as did Thelma, who had a sour look on her wrinkled face. Nana had tried talking to the woman but had been ignored. Laverne, standing by the serving hatch at the back of the tearoom, busied herself with folding linen napkins for the next day’s trade. Florence Whittaker sat staring at the wall, a frown etching wrinkles into her high forehead. Sophie wondered how she felt in light of what Sophie now knew about the bad blood between her and her sister-in-law. Had they buried that decades-old hatchet, or was it still sharp and hurtful?

  Florence had moaned that she had just lost the only sister she ever had; perhaps that was how the tragic death struck her on a personal level. What happened if you lost the one person you shared both a family and an enmity with? Was she feeling bereft in more than one way?

  “I wish I knew what was going on over there,” Nana whispered.

  “Me too,” Sophie murmured, reliving the moments of horror, watching Mrs. Vivienne Whittaker’s patrician f
ace, yellow-smeared and contorted, turn red. The memory left her light-headed and nauseous. How awful to die like that, confused, scared, sick. It was terrible that her only child had to witness it, too. Tears welled in her eyes but she refused to give in. The others needed her to stay strong. “I know everyone here except for one . . . who is the blonde girl, the one with the inappropriate hairdo?”

  Nana looked over and smiled gently. “She’s Mayor Blenkenship’s wife.”

  “The mayor’s wife? But I had the impression he was older . . . at least in his fifties or so?”

  “He is, but this is his third wife, newly minted. They just got married, oh . . . not even a year ago? It was big news at the time, got a lot of coverage. What is her name?” She frowned for a moment, then her expression cleared. “Belinda, that’s it! Poor girl. I’ve seen her photo in the society pages—and before you ask, yes, the local newspaper still does have such a thing—and I got the feeling she is trying to make herself over into a trophy wife.”

  “I think she’s been watching too many reruns of Mad Men,” Sophie muttered, eyeing the skirt suit and blue eyeshadow.

  “She’s young,” Nana said.

  Sophie settled in to wait. Trying to take her emotion out of it, she replayed the scene in her mind, her restaurateur’s experience making every detail jump out. Belle Époque, like Auntie Rose’s, was a large house turned into a tearoom, and like Nana’s, the front rooms had been renovated into one larger space. The tearoom had been closed for the afternoon to other patrons because of the engagement tea, so the big center table was the only one in use. Trays of the leftovers of unevenly cut finger sandwiches and salads had been discarded on nearby tables. A few crumbling pastries were on large plates, and vanilla-frosted red-velvet cupcakes formed a spotty half ring around a platter, while a tiered tray of pale, dry-looking scones filled the center of the table, a silk flower in a milk glass vase the only decoration.

  The trays were almost empty, as were the partygoer’s plates, so they must have almost finished their food. Three large teapots cluttered the table even more, accompanied by an array of lemon wedges, milk pitchers, sugar bowls and packets of artificial sweetener. Was there anything there she should remember, any little detail Wally would need to know about?

  Cissy had been sitting so still for so long that Sophie was startled when she jumped up. “Oh, this is awful!” she cried, wringing her hands, tears streaming down her pale, narrow face. She turned to her fiancé. “Francis, can’t we do something? They can’t keep us caged up like animals.”

  Francis, his expression blank, shook his head.

  “Cissy, please; I know this is terrible, but we have to wait until Wally tells us more,” Sophie said, taking her friend by her wrist and leading her to sit in a chair near Mrs. Earnshaw. “I think Francis is in shock right now,” she murmured. “He doesn’t look well at all.”

  Gretchen was watching Sophie and Cissy with a cool, evaluating stare. Why wasn’t she helping her friend, Sophie wondered, irritated by the woman’s detached behavior. Searching her mind for some distraction, Sophie picked at a detail that puzzled her. “Cissy, why did Wally call Mrs. Whittaker . . . Mrs. Florence Whittaker . . . his aunt?”

  “She was Florence Bowman—Wally’s dad’s sister—before she married a Whittaker,” Cissy said. “I thought you knew that.”

  “I may have,” Sophie admitted. “But I only spent summers here, remember, so some of the finer points of Gracious Grove intermingling may have eluded me.” That meant that Francis and Wally were practically related; funny that she had not known that before.

  “Right,” Cissy said, her tone weary. She put her head down on the table. “I wish this was all over,” she muttered, and it wasn’t quite clear to Sophie exactly what she meant by all.

  Wally Bowman entered that minute, and it interested Sophie to see how his gaze went directly to Cissy. He looked concerned, but his expression blanked as he caught sight of Francis Whittaker eyeing him. “Frankie . . . Francis, may I speak with you alone?” They disappeared outside for a few minutes and when they came back in, Francis appeared paler, shock etched on his face. He leaned, palms flat, on a table.

  “What’s going on, Wally?” Thelma Mae said, her voice loud enough to fill the room. “I’ve got a right to know!”

  The police officer strode to the center of the room and gathered everyone in his gaze. “I know you’re all wondering the same, exactly what Mrs. Earnshaw just asked. I understand that you’re frightened and upset. Especially those of you who were in the room when Mrs. Vivienne Whittaker was taken ill.” He eyed Cissy.

  “Enough chatter,” Florence said, standing slowly, tugging at the frilled cuffs of her springy blouse. “Cut to the chase, Wally. What happened to poor Vivienne?”

  “Well, that’s a problem; we don’t exactly know.”

  Francis sat down, thudding into the nearest chair as if his legs wouldn’t hold him any longer. He buried his face in his hands and moaned.

  Wally glanced at him, then continued. “The medical examiner says if he was to hazard a guess, he’d say that Mrs. Vivienne Whittaker had been poisoned, either purposely or accidentally, by something she ingested in the minutes before her demise.”

  “You mean something she ate?” Thelma Mae loudly asked. “If that’s what you mean, just say it plain, Wally; don’t beat around the bush.”

  He met her grim stare. “All right then, yes, it appears it was something she ate or drank in your tearoom that killed her.”

  “You finally did it,” Francis said, lifting his face and glaring at the senior owner of Belle Époque. “You finally killed someone with your awful food!”

  “It wasn’t me that cooked it,” she said, her face going a blotchy red and her cheeks puffing out. “It was Gilda! Don’t go pointing your finger at me, young man.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong! She’s the one who buys expired produce and past-date chicken,” Gilda Bachman said, pointing a shaky finger at her employer. “I told her she’s got to get fresh, but she never met a corner she didn’t want to cut!”

  “Enough!” Everyone turned to look at Sophie, who hadn’t even realized she had spoken out loud. Her nerves were frayed. “This is not the time to be making accusations.” And besides, food poisoning or salmonella wouldn’t have resulted in an immediate death. If Vivienne Whittaker was poisoned, it had to be deliberate. Sophie knew that, but didn’t see the point in sharing. “Wally, how can we help?”

  He nodded and cast her a grateful look. “Thank you, Sophie. Glad to see someone has some sense. We’ve got a team of investigators who are going to take you somewhere one at a time to answer some questions. We need to figure out what happened and when. Mrs. Earnshaw, since it’s your place, we’ll take you first.”

  “You want to use my kitchen, Wally?” Nana asked.

  “I was hoping you’d say that, Mrs. Freemont. I already showed the detective in there.” He took Thelma Mae’s arm, helping her out of the tearoom toward the back.

  • • •

  They were going to try to pin it all on her, Thelma Mae thought, busily taking in every detail of the spotless kitchen beyond Auntie Rose’s Victorian Tea House as she lagged, making Wally haul her along step by step. Gilda had to go and open her big fat mouth when all Thelma had been doing was pointing out that she herself was not the one who cooked the food. Besides, everyone knew the “best before” date on food was just a guideline, not a hard-and-fast rule! She had been doing the same thing for years and never made anyone sick. That she knew of. Yet.

  That woman’s red face and wide-eyed stare were going to haunt her for some time to come. Maybe—just maybe—she’d stop buying past-date chicken and produce. Not that she believed it was her fault, but it could be her bargain with God; he’d get her out of this mess, and she’d stop trying to cut so many corners. She muttered a quick prayer that nothing she had done had caused Vivienne Whittaker’
s death.

  She eyed the detective, a woman, older and with craggy features, some wrinkles around the eyes and mouth. Who was she? Did Thelma know her people? Or was she new in town, one of those feminists come to take jobs away from Gracious Grove men? Women should not take jobs from men; it wasn’t right.

  Take Wally Bowman, for example . . . now, how old was Wally? Just a year older than Cissy, so thirty. He had grown up, though. He wasn’t broad shouldered and big bellied like his daddy, Florence’s brother; instead he was slim and tall, kinda gangly. Shouldn’t he be the detective and the woman the officer? Or maybe she should be a meter maid, like they had back in the old days.

  As Wally guided her to a seat opposite the detective at the little table in the corner, where Laverne Hodge and Gilda sometimes sat to have their morning coffee (both employees chattering like magpies, exchanging all kind of secrets, probably), Thelma Mae had a few seconds to think about what she would tell them. Not everything. Oh, no, certainly not everything. Not about the booze Phil had stored in her stockroom, nor about how that boy kept at it, trying to turn dry Gracious Grove into party central, as he called it. Nor her fears about Cissy marrying Francis Whittaker. Everyone kept congratulating her: “Such a successful boy!” “Such a good match!” “Cissy will be well taken care of; those Whittakers sure know how to make money.”

  And how to lose it, Thelma Mae thought, her foreboding about the marriage clouding everything else. Ever since Cassandra, Cissy’s mother, died fourteen years ago . . . was it fourteen years already? No, not quite. Thirteen and a half or so. Since then Thelma Mae had done nothing but worry about her only granddaughter, and now to have her marry into that family!

  “Mrs. Earnshaw!” Wally Bowman said loudly.

  “All right, Wally, you don’t need to shout,” she said, eyeing him with irritation. Why were young people all so loud? She wasn’t hard of hearing, no matter what Gilda hinted.