Shadow of a Spout Read online

  “Are we allowed to use the elevator?” she said, as they waited for the car. “Given that . . . well, that the body was there on the second floor?”

  “We have the spot cordoned off, and they’ve dusted the elevator for prints,” he said tersely.

  They rode up in silence, Rose apprehensive about the sight she would see. But when the elevator doors opened seconds later she had to sidle around the area cordoned off and screened. Crime scene tape held up with lobby stanchions surrounded a plastic opaque screen, behind which Zunia’s body still lay. Rose shivered, her memory returning to what she had witnessed. It made her think of her teapot, and she staggered slightly.

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Freemont?” Eli asked, as he guided her down the hall.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she said, pausing outside their room door to catch her breath. She was exhausted and needed more sleep, but she needed her heart meds and something to eat first. She grabbed his hand and looked up at him in the dim corridor light. “Eli, please tell me what happened. Do you know yet? Do you have a suspect? It scares me so much that she was killed right there, at the elevator not twenty feet from my room. And with my teapot! How is that possible?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t say anything at this point,” he said, his voice gentle as he looked down at her. “Please try not to worry about it. Murderers are resourceful. If it hadn’t been your teapot the killer used, it would have been something else.”

  “But . . . why my teapot?” she said. “Was it because of the argument I had with her about it? And how did the killer get it?” That indicated forethought, a premeditated murder, then, not a sudden impulse crime.

  “Try to get some rest, Mrs. Freemont. I’ll have someone bring up some breakfast for you. Tell my aunt I’ll talk to her in a while.” He turned and strode away, then bolted through the door to the staircase, eschewing the elevator.

  * * *

  Saturday had been a calmer day at Auntie Rose’s Victorian Tea House, one Sophie handled by herself except for the waitressing of one of Laverne’s great-nieces, a sweet fourteen-year-old named Cindy, who the patrons seemed to adore given the amount of tips she collected. The girl was bright and asked a lot of questions about the cooking industry along the way. Gilda Bachman, next door at La Belle Époque, had handled the day mostly alone as well, with just a couple of hours of waitressing help from Cissy, Thelma’s granddaughter and Sophie’s friend. They hadn’t been as busy as Auntie Rose’s, but had still had a steady stream of customers.

  Cindy headed home on her bicycle. Sophie closed up and cleaned, happy the week was done. Sunday was the one day a week they were closed. She looked forward to sleeping in, and then having time to fuss around in the kitchen with some new ideas she had for tearoom lunches. Autumn was just around the corner, so she was toying with some squash and pumpkin soup recipes. She had hoped Jason would call her to go out, but he hadn’t so far. Maybe she’d call him tomorrow and invite him to come over and sample whatever she whipped up.

  She was done setting the tearoom itself to rights, and started scrubbing the kitchen down, wiping out the oven, then using a bleach solution on the counters, making sure everything was as clean as her grandmother liked it. She was just restoring order to the fridge when she glanced out the kitchen window and spotted Gilda bolting across the lane.

  The woman banged on the door. “Sophie, Sophie!” she cried.

  “What is it, Gilda?” Sophie asked, throwing open the door. Since everything seemed to panic the woman, Sophie wasn’t overly concerned. After the awful incident in the spring—the death of one of Gracious Grove’s leading citizens in La Belle Époque’s tearoom—Thelma had eased up on some of her poor treatment of her sole employee. Gilda now lived at La Belle Époque in her own suite of rooms upstairs, which was easier on Thelma than trying to rent them out. The dirty-tricks campaign against Nana had stopped, a pleasing turn of events, as Thelma Mae Earnshaw and Rose Freemont made a kind of uneasy peace after a long-standing quarrel (on Thelma’s part) over the theft of Harold Freemont at the Methodist Church picnic back in the middle of the last century.

  But Gilda was worse than usual, out of breath, her frizzy hair wild around her head.

  “Gilda, calm down, what’s wrong?” Sophie asked, pushing the woman into a chair so she could catch her breath.

  She looked up at Sophie and clutched at her hand. “There’s been a murder at the hotel where Thelma and Mrs. Freemont are staying!”

  Chapter 7

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Sophie cried into the phone to her grandmother, minutes later.

  “Sweetheart, I was going to after the tearoom closed, but I didn’t want to worry you in the middle of the day when you couldn’t do anything.”

  Sophie calmed down; she sat on one of her grandmother’s chairs petting Pearl as Gilda paced back and forth, fretting and pulling at her frizzy hair. “Is the convention going to go on? Why don’t you and Laverne just come home?”

  Her grandmother filled her in on Zunia Pettigrew’s death and what she had learned that day between naps, news brought to her by Laverne, who ventured out to have lunch with her father and speak with the others, and Thelma, who was wide-eyed with wonder, loudly concerned about them all being “murdered in their beds.” The Sommers felt that they did need to stay and go on with the convention because it was “what Zunia would want”—nonsense, Nana said, given the self-centered nature of the victim—and there still had to be a decision made in regards to the New York State division presidency.

  “That doesn’t mean you have to stay there, Nana. I’d feel a lot more comfortable if you and Laverne just came home.”

  “I can’t. I haven’t told you everything.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation on her grandmother’s end of the line and Sophie was breathless; what more could there possibly be?

  “Sophie, it was my teapot, the one I took to show the group. It was my teapot that was used to bash her head in!”

  Sophie was stunned and wordless for a long moment, then filled with questions that required a lot more explanation. “How did the murderer get it? Was it in your room? Why the teapot?”

  “I don’t know anything. I’m so afraid they think I did it, after the fight I had with Zunia in front of everyone.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Sophie exclaimed. “No one could ever think you capable of murder.”

  “That’s what Laverne says, but you haven’t seen how all these folks looked at me as we were all being questioned. Or rather how they weren’t looking at me! Some actually averted their gaze as they passed me on the way out of the convention room.”

  Sophie gave Pearl a last pat, and set her aside on the sofa. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  Her grandmother sighed. “Yes, please, sweetie; I would appreciate it.”

  She spent twenty minutes throwing some things in a bag, at the same time writing instructions for Gilda, who would look after Pearl. She adored the cat, so it would be a treat for her, in truth, to have a reason to pet and pamper Pearl. The best thing about moving into La Belle Époque for Gilda was that she had been able to adopt Sweet Pea, the chocolate-point Siamese left ownerless by the death of the woman who had been murdered in that tearoom in May. Sweet Pea treated Gilda as if she were his personal servant, and that seemed to suit them both just fine.

  Poor Gilda was well intentioned but scattered. Sophie had had staff members like her in her own days in the restaurant industry; written instructions along with frequent contact and reassurance was the only way to be sure an employee like that would not panic and get flustered, so Sophie made the instructions very detailed indeed, even down to making sure Pearl had fresh water in her dish at all times. Leave nothing to chance, she figured. Maybe that was why she had been called a details-obsessed micromanager in the past. And a tight-ass.

  She then called the head of the local chamber of commerce and asked if t
hey would mind very much shifting their Monday meeting to La Belle Époque. She would be sure Gilda had treats and goodies enjoyed by chamber members in the past; she always kept some in the freezer for emergencies. It wasn’t as good as freshly made, but it was better than nothing. She hated doing it, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to come back to Gracious Grove by Monday to open. The chamber of commerce director got back to her immediately and agreed.

  In rapid succession Sophie made a sign for the window saying they’d be closed until Wednesday, when they would reopen for regular hours. She then posted a message on social media saying the same, all while Gilda followed her around gabbling at her, offering messages to give to Thelma, things to ask Thelma, a request to have Thelma call her back.

  Sophie texted Dana, asking if she could check in on Gilda the next day, and Dana called her to say she would. She’d haul Thelma’s granddaughter Cissy Peterson along, too, Dana said, if she could drag her away from Wally, her new boyfriend, who happened to be a police officer in Gracious Grove. Cissy or Dana could help Gilda with the tearoom on Monday, too, though Thelma might well be able to come back to town, even if Sophie’s grandmother couldn’t. She was on the road and almost to Butterhill, about fifty miles away, in little more than the hour she had quoted to her grandmother.

  Butterhill was a medium-size town in Wayne County, somewhat north of Gracious Grove, closer to Lake Erie. The way there was through farm country and apple orchards, past silvery rivers and through wooded glades. It would have been a lovely drive if Sophie weren’t fretting the whole way about her grandmother’s predicament.

  How could anyone think her Nana could commit murder? That astounded her. But she was quite ready to tear a strip off anyone who disrespected either her grandmother or her godmother, Laverne Hodge. She slowed as she entered Butterhill. The town was pretty enough, though it didn’t have a patch on Gracious Grove, but she was too busy following her cell phone’s map to the Stone and Scone Inn to pay much attention.

  The inn was bigger than she had expected, a cobblestone building, two full stories and taking up the whole town block it was on, with a sign out front proclaiming its build date of 1837. She turned into a lane and followed it behind the building to the half-full parking lot, noting several police cruisers parked in a cluster along the tree-lined edge. She grabbed her duffel and handbag from the back of the SUV and locked it, then crossed the cracked and pothole-riddled pavement.

  A blonde girl with two long braids lounged outside the service entrance, smoking a cigarette by an empty green-painted Dumpster, the lid propped open against the brick wall. Ribbons of crime scene tape fluttered from the handle of the service door and from a light overhead. That gave her a queasy feeling in her stomach; it appeared probable that they had taken away the Dumpster and that this was a new one. She didn’t want to imagine why they had taken the Dumpster away.

  “Hi,” Sophie said, pausing. “Is the only entrance to the inn on the street out front?”

  “Unless you want to come through the kitchen,” she said, a stream of smoke erupting from her mouth. She dropped the cigarette, put it out with her tennis shoe and then deposited the squashed butt in a coffee can by the rust-brown service door.

  “Actually I’d rather come through the kitchen,” Sophie said, with a smile. “I’m a cook; that’s my comfort zone.”

  “You going to be working here?” the girl asked holding the door open for Sophie.

  “No, I’m visiting. My name is Sophie Taylor.”

  “Too bad,” she said. “They could use a better cook than the one we have now. The last good one quit two weeks ago in a huff. You sure you want to come this way?”

  “I’m always interested in kitchens.”

  She led Sophie down some dim stairs to the basement, then through a windowless, well-lit kitchen where a cook worked alone at a prep station by deep stainless steel sinks. He was gangly and tall, with a hairnet on his head and a beard net over his chin. He nodded to them, his gaze following Sophie with curiosity. There were two other cooks working at the gas grill and a steam table, both moving too slowly to be truly efficient. It didn’t give Sophie a good feeling about their ability, but at least the place was clean.

  “Do you work in the kitchen?” she asked the young woman she was following.

  “Nope. I’m Melissa, the housekeeper. Chambermaid. Whatever you want to call it, I’m it! We’re supposed to have someone come in for the inn itself in the evening—you know, vacuuming the dining room, dusting, the hallways, garbage, reception area—and I’m responsible for guest comfort.”

  “That’s a lot of work.”

  “You’re telling me. Even more right now. Brittany, the evening girl, often doesn’t come in, never shows up on time and isn’t great even when she’s here. My hours are supposed to be eight to five, but a lot of days I actually work longer, like now, until seven or so, just to give guests a chance to get out of their rooms so I can clean ’em. Brittany didn’t even come in the last two evenings, so I’ve been on my own this weekend of all weekends! We’re never at full capacity except for this teapot convention thingie they’re having. I haven’t had a break in days.”

  They were following a narrow corridor that branched off into different locked rooms—storerooms, she supposed, as well as one area that was a walk-in freezer. There were dusty security cameras mounted near the ceiling in odd spots along the corridor and near the back door. Sophie took in a deep breath, the smells of a basement restaurant kitchen oddly familiar, and yet . . . there was a staleness to the air, a faint sourness.

  “What’s that door there?” Sophie asked, as they passed a windowed steel door on their way toward an open staircase.

  “That’s the stairs up to the dining room,” she said, as a waitress carrying a plate laden with a half-eaten steak pushed through it and passed them, going into the kitchen. Shouting voices erupted, as she told the cook the patron had sent the steak back and he yelled his displeasure.

  “There’s a coffee shop, too, at the front of the inn right on the street,” Melissa continued, raising her voice to carry over the din coming from the kitchen. “But they only serve soup, hamburgers, sandwiches . . . that kind of stuff. They have a flattop and an oven and make their own stuff. Some folks will eat at the coffee shop because they say it’s better than the S and S dining room.”

  “S and S . . . oh, Stone and Scone!” They passed another door. “What’s that room?”

  “We call it Bertie’s panic room,” she said, with a snicker.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just a private joke,” she said hastily.

  They ascended some steps and emerged through a door into a short hallway with a door to the left and a divider to the right. Sophie blinked and looked around. “Where are we?”

  “That’s the door to the owner’s suite,” she said, pointing to a door right on the hallway. She then grabbed Sophie’s sleeve and tugged her beyond the divider into an open area. “There’s the check-in counter,” she said, pointing to a wood-paneled chest-high divider, beyond which Sophie could see an office, with a plaque reading PRIVATE on the open door.

  Just then the front door of the inn opened and Rhiannon Galway, of Galway Fine Teas, wandered in toward them.

  “Rhiannon!” Sophie called, to get her friend’s attention. She turned to the chambermaid. “Thank you so much for helping me find my way, Melissa. My grandmother’s staying here, so I came in a hurry when I heard what had happened last night.”

  Her eyes widened. “I know . . . a murder! Nothing like that has happened in Butterhill, except for the occasional domestic situation, you know. Is your grandmother one of those teapot collectors? What a nutty bunch! A lot of them are staying here in the inn except for the Monroe group; they live close by, I guess, and just drive into town for the convention.”

  Sophie’s grandmother had told her that, and that some others stayed with
local members while in town, so not all convention attendees were staying at the Stone and Scone. Rhiannon saw her and waved as she headed for the check-in desk, where a balding man stood, head in his hands, staring down at a ledger.

  Sophie waved back, but turned to Melissa. “Were you here when it happened?”

  “Are you kidding? That was the middle of the night; I was long gone. But,” she said, moving closer and looking both ways, “I hear that some awful woman named Zunia Pettigrew was killed. She badmouthed one of the old ladies, so the woman bashed her over the head with a silver teapot.”

  “That’s not true at all!” Sophie said. No wonder her grandmother was concerned, if that’s what people were saying. “Do you honestly think a little old lady is going to bash someone over the head? It’s ridiculous.”

  “All rightie!” the girl said, giving her an uncertain look.

  Maybe she had been a tad vehement, but it just riled Sophie to think of anyone suspecting her grandmother.

  “I gotta go,” Melissa said. She dashed behind the check-in desk, grabbed a patchwork slouch bag and hefted it over her shoulder. “I’m done for the day. I’d be gone already but the cops had the rooms tied up for most of the morning so I couldn’t get to them until this afternoon. I’ve already done as much of the other stuff as I’m doing. See you tomorrow,” she said, waving.

  “Wait a sec,” Sophie said, racing after her. “So did you clean the dead woman’s room, too?”

  “No way,” Melissa said. “The cops still have that one sealed. They let the woman’s husband retrieve some of his stuff, but then he had to move into a room with his daughter.” She cocked her head to one side. “Why do you want to know?”

  “No reason; idle curiosity. Bye, Melissa. Have a nice evening.” She turned and walked over to Rhiannon, who was talking to someone in the little alcove on the other side of the divider near the front glass door, where there was a seating area with a few chairs and potted palms. “Hey, Rhi, how are you? You look tired.”