Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) (14 page)

“There was something I wanted to ask you; why did you want to move the wedding shower to the country club?”

“That was my mother-in-law’s idea.”

“Why did
she
want it moved?”

“I don’t know. Y’all will have to ask her.”

Just then Josh Sinclair came through the door to the kitchen followed by SuLinn Miller. “Don’t worry about it, Josh,” she was saying. She patted his shoulder. “It’ll all be okay.”

“What’s wrong?” Sophie asked.

Josh shook his head and stumbled out the back door, mortification expressed in his hunched shoulders and beet-red face. SuLinn stayed behind for a moment, though, and whispered, “He asked Cindy out to a movie. She said ‘yes’ but her aunt said ‘no’ in the most ferocious manner! She then told him that Cindy was only fourteen and wouldn’t be going out any time in the near future. Poor Josh . . . he thought she was older.”

Ah, the heartache of teenagehood. It came back to her in that moment, the longing looks young Wally Bowman used to cast toward pale, pretty Cissy Peterson. How could Sophie have been so blind? But surely teen infatuation didn’t last a decade or more, judging by Jason Murphy’s measured response to
her
.

“Poor kid,” Gretchen said, referring to Josh.

“I’m giving him a ride home,” SuLinn said. “So I’d better move! I don’t think he’s in any mood to hang around.”

SuLinn stood aside as Laverne and her gang came through the kitchen, her hand on her niece’s shoulder. Laverne was ferrying the two older ladies home, as well as Cindy, who looked a little put out. Thinking back to being that age, Sophie realized how flattering it would be for a fourteen-year-old girl to have a sixteen-year-old boy ask you out. And then to be outed by your great aunt for being so young! Mr. Malcolm Hodge followed them out slowly, taking his time with the aid of a carved mahogany cane, nodding to each lady as he passed.

“I gotta . . . uh, have got to get going, too,” Gretchen said, heading toward the back door. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Sophie, and we’ll coordinate details for the wedding shower. Will you come to Cissy Peterson’s shower, SuLinn?”

The woman flushed, her olive skin burnishing with a hint of coral on her cheeks. “I’d love to! Is she listed anywhere?”

“Yes, of course,” Gretchen said, slipping on her mantle of Yankee stiffness. “I can tell you where. Give me a call; Forsythe has my telephone number. Or check me out online. Cissy and Francis have a wedding site and registry link on The Knot, with a page for the shower details that I’m going to update as soon as we firm things up.” She was all business.

Sophie felt a little left out; so
that
was how a girl was supposed to react when she heard about a shower, asking where the bride-to-be was listed? She had never been asked to be a bridesmaid and had only rarely even been asked to a wedding. The last five or six years had been spent with her nose to the grindstone, working so hard to get and keep In Fashion afloat that she rarely came up for air and went home every night to a cold apartment and no messages on her phone.

Sometimes she got wedding invitations in the mail, but she sent back “no” to them all, preferring to mail a check as a gift. Before that, school had consumed her, with part-time catering jobs and restaurant positions fit in between. Well, that was what coming home to Gracious Grove was supposed to be about, figuring out how she wanted to live the next decade or so of her life.

Once everyone had gone and she had sent Nana up to bed once again with a cup of tea, a purring Pearl and a good mystery novel, Sophie restlessly moved around the tearoom, putting things to rights. Most of it had been done, but it wasn’t quite the way she thought it should be. She had done the same at In Fashion, drifting through the dining room after the cleaners and waitstaff were gone, putting things exactly as she wanted them.

Then she settled in the front window, pulled back the curtain and gazed out on the deserted street. Why did it feel like nothing here was the same as it used to be? Had she been gone too long, or was she coming back to it all with different eyes? She was seeing it now, her beloved idyllic summer retreat, with an adult’s clear gaze.

The last time she had spent longer than a few days in Gracious Grove she was just seventeen. She had graduated from high school and come to spend the summer, as usual, with Nana. But the old gang had broken up, or maybe she just wasn’t a part of it anymore. Cissy had a job at a youth camp on the lake and Jason had left town. She’d heard that after hitchhiking around Europe for a year he joined the army, but some medical condition forced him to leave. He then went to college, got his undergrad degree, then his master’s, and became an English professor.

Her separation from all things Gracious Grove saddened her. It was the one place on Earth—other than New York as a whole—where she felt at home. As evening crept up Seneca Street, she decided that so far she had been coasting along, just thinking ahead a few weeks or a month at a time. But she missed having a commitment to something. She needed to figure out if what she had been missing all these years was this town, her true home, Gracious Grove.

Vivienne Whittaker’s murder was a dark cloud over everything right now, though. The poor woman had died just feet away from where Sophie stood; it was unnerving to imagine someone creeping around in Belle Époque planning the heinous deed. And worse to think Sophie had looked into the face of a killer, perhaps, and hadn’t even known it. Wouldn’t that kind of evil show in someone’s expression, in their eyes? It
had
to, surely. But maybe that was naive.

One thing she knew for sure: In the last hour she had come to a couple of momentous decisions. She was staying in Gracious Grove for as long as she wanted; no time limits, no restrictions of
any
kind, no matter what her mother said. And she was truly going to try to find out, from her outsider’s perspective, who murdered Vivienne Whittaker.

Chapter 13

T
he next morning she descended to the tea-room kitchen to find Nana and Laverne yakking over a cup of tea as they had almost every morning for umpteen years. Here was the rock-solid foundation she had craved in her own home but never gotten, and so appreciated when she visited her grandmother. If she could go back and change things, Sophie would insist that she be allowed to spend her senior year living with Nana and going to GiGi High as she had secretly wanted, and she wouldn’t have broken up with Jason Murphy.

However, though she couldn’t go back, she
could
start fresh. “Good morning,” she chirped, then dropped a kiss on each cheek, relishing the softness of aging skin.

Nana and Laverne exchanged a look.

“Well, aren’t we the bright little birdie this morning?” Laverne said.

“I’ve decided that for the foreseeable future, I’m staying in Gracious Grove.”

Nana and Laverne again shared a look. “Do you mean that was in question before now?” Nana asked.

Sophie realized she had stepped wrong. She didn’t want to hurt her grandmother’s feelings. Pouring a cup of coffee from the carafe on the counter, she turned and carefully said, “Well, I
knew
I was staying for a while, but I wasn’t sure how long. Then I looked around last night and said to myself, ‘Where else would I rather be?’ So here I am!” She hugged both women, being careful not to spill, then she went for a walk, coffee cup in hand. The morning seemed bright and shiny and full of promise until she looked over at Belle Époque, and felt the dark blight on the town that was the murder of Vivienne Whittaker. It needed to be solved, the sooner the better.

As she walked uphill past Belle Époque toward the old cemetery, she contemplated the awful event. It would take a lot of desperation to kill someone. In the first black days after the investors had told her they were folding In Fashion, she had certainly
felt
like killing someone. But if she was ever going to do it, no matter how angry she was, it sure wouldn’t be in a public place in such a public manner.

What kind of person killed someone the way Vivienne had been done in? You’d have to have nerves of steel to plant a poison cupcake. You’d have to not really care if the plan fell through and someone else died instead. You’d have to be desperate. Find someone with all those qualities and you might just catch a murderer. Or you could do it the old-fashioned way and follow the clues: who bought poison, who procured or baked the poison cupcake, that kind of thing. That, however, was the province of the police. The amateur had to ask questions, make surmises, test theories.

When she returned to the kitchen of Auntie Rose’s, a depressed-looking Wally Bowman sat with Laverne, his large, square hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. “What’s up, Wally?” She sat down opposite him as Laverne excused herself to go help in the tearoom.

“This whole thing is driving me crazy,” he admitted, looking up at Sophie. “Why did Mrs. Earnshaw have to make such a muck of things? Why’d she call the station and say that Francis killed his mom?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” Sophie said. She hesitated; was she talking to Wally her old pal, or Officer Bowman? “I’m worried about how it’s affecting Cissy, too. She loves her grandmother, even if the woman is difficult.”

Wally’s cheeks pinked but he stayed silent, gloomily staring down into his cup.

“So you and Francis are cousins, right? Did you spend a lot of time together growing up?”

“Technically we’re not cousins. Aunt Flo is my dad’s sister, and Francis is Vivienne Whittaker’s son, so there’s no blood relation.”

“But did you spend any time together as kids?”

“Just like anyone else going to the same school. Not a whole lot. But I sure do feel for him right now, losing his mother like he did, right in front of him. He’s really broken up over it.”

Sophie was silent for a moment. “I’m surprised they haven’t made an arrest yet,” she finally commented, watching him. “I would think that there were a very limited number of people who could have tampered with the cupcakes.”

“How did you know the poison was in the cupcake?” he asked, then clamped his mouth shut.

“You know this town, Wally,” she chided. “You can’t keep anything a secret in Gracious Grove. I hope Detective Morris knows that.”

“Probably does. She may be an outsider, but she’s good at her job,” he admitted grudgingly. “She busted a theft ring last year when one of the fences ended up dead in an alleyway behind those shops in the middle of town. The murderer already pled guilty and is in prison.”

“This is a different kind of murder, though, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

She thought for a moment. “Well, a murder that happens as a part of a crime ring . . . that leaves traces among the criminal elements, such as they are in a town like this. But this is a murder among friends and relatives. Or rather, among frenemies.”

“Frenemies,” he said, rolling the world around on his tongue like wine. “You talking about that old stuff between Aunt Flo and Vivienne Whittaker?”

“I keep hearing about it.”

He shrugged. “It’s old history, isn’t it?”

Was it, though? Some wounds dug deep and left a mark forever. She pondered everything she had learned recently, but realized it may have sounded like she was implying that Florence Whittaker was involved. “How
is
your aunt?”

“She’s taking it hard. People think they were enemies, but she told me once that Vivienne was good folk. Said she’d bailed her out of a sticky financial situation, and Aunt Flo appreciated it. She wasn’t left much money when her husband died.”

“I’ve heard that Mrs. Vivienne got the responsible Whittaker, the one who didn’t squander his money.”

“Aunt Flo feels . . .” He shook his head and shrugged.

“Bereft?”

“Yeah. That’s the word.”

“It’s got to be tough for Francis, so much good stuff happening, with the new development and his promotion, and then his mom is murdered.”

“I heard he got a promotion. Good for him!” Wally said, with a smile that swiftly died. “We’ll find out who killed his mother, then he can move on, get past it. He’s got lots of great stuff to look forward to other than just work.”

There was an edge to Wally’s tone. Sophie watched his face, the resolute line of his jaw, the sadness in his eyes. “You mean getting married to Cissy.”

His jaw flexed. “Yeah, that.” He moved the coffee mug around in circles, watching the liquid slosh over the edge.

So what she had heard from Gretchen was true, he was still pining for Cissy. The big dummy. Why didn’t he say something to her? Sophie sighed. After being out of the social scene of Gracious Grove for so many years, it was not up to her to correct the path of true love, and Cissy seemed to be content to marry Francis. If she felt anything at all for Wally, it was not evident to Sophie. “I don’t know how it will go on. The wedding is supposed to be in just a month or so, right?”

“Four weeks and three days,” Wally croaked.

“A murder investigation in the middle of it isn’t going to help. Some folks think that maybe Vivienne wasn’t the intended victim, that maybe Francis or Florence was.”

He glanced at her, thick brows knit in thought. “I don’t think so. Why would someone want to kill either one of them?”

“But why Vivienne, then? Who would want to kill
her
?”

He was silent, his expression blanking to one of professional neutrality.

“Look, I know you can’t talk about official police business, but I already know a lot of this stuff, so there’s no harm in telling me. You
know
I don’t talk to anyone! Have you tracked down the origin of all the cupcakes?”

“I don’t know, Sophie. I shouldn’t even be talking to you about this.”

“I know. But Wally, I promise it won’t go any further than me. And Nana and Laverne. I
promise
!” She crossed her heart, like they had as kids.

He took in a deep breath and let it out, eyeing her. “Okay. We’ve interviewed the bakeshop owner, but she didn’t know anything, didn’t recognize any of the photos she was shown, other than just knowing they were locals who may have been into her shop,” Wally admitted.

“I know they found a container that was labeled
RED
-
VELVET
CUPCAKES
, but if it was labeled, it was probably from the grocery store.”

“Yup. The old Whittaker Groceries, now Triple G.”

“It’s been sold a couple of times since the Whittakers owned it, right?”

“Yeah. It’s some locals who bought it this time, I hear. But the detective says we have to keep an open mind, that just because the container says it came from the grocery store it doesn’t mean the cupcakes in it were the original ones.”

Exactly what she had thought. “And we know the cupcake that killed Vivienne was not a red-velvet cupcake anyway because of the color of the frosting right?” He nodded. Sophie’s wandering thoughts caught on another troubling problem. “Wally, I keep hearing that there is something fishy about this promotion Francis got. Do you know anything about that?”

He put his palms flat on the table and shook his head. “Far as I know there’s nothing fishy about it, just business as usual. Florence Whittaker knows folks in the building industry, so she pulled a few strings behind the scenes with those folks—”

“Folks like Stanfield Homes and Hammond Construction?”

“Yeah, I guess. When the contract for the model homes was given to Leathorne and Hedges, Frankie got credit and the promotion.”

Put that way it seemed clear cut enough. Happened all the time in business; it was
you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours
. It certainly didn’t have anything to do with the murder at Belle Époque. Or at least . . . if she hadn’t overheard that quarrel between Vivienne Whittaker and Holly Harcourt, she’d be able to dismiss it. A few things began to come together in her mind, but nothing she wanted to share. In fact, nothing that even made any kind of coherent sense yet.

Holly Harcourt and others were going into the “development business” to fund Hollis Junior’s political ambition. Was that the development just outside of town? Must be. Florence Whittaker had helped Francis get the promotion at Leathorne and Hedges. Vivienne Whittaker was upset about something to do with Francis, and she was talking to Hollis Senior about it. Gretchen Harcourt was at the tea where Vivienne had died. So was Belinda Blenkenship, whose husband, the mayor, had been mentioned a lot lately. It was a jumbled mess in her brain.

“I’m worried for Mrs. Earnshaw,” she said, suddenly. “What was she thinking, calling and throwing Francis under the bus like that?”

He relaxed, just plain Wally Bowman for a moment. “I know, right? She’s a piece of work; always was. Detective Morris said maybe
she
accidentally did it, and is trying to cover up.”

“Mrs. Earnshaw? Detective Morris doesn’t actually think that, does she?”

“I
think
she was joking. It’s hard to tell with her. She’s got kind of a dry sense of humor.” He drained his coffee cup. “Poor Cissy. She’s more worried for her grandmother than for Francis.”

“Well, some of the food was made in Thelma’s kitchen, and there were accusations flying around Nana’s tearoom after the whole awful event. I heard them! Mrs. Whittaker and even Gilda were blaming Mrs. Earnshaw, but that was before anyone knew it was deliberate poisoning.”

Wally nodded, his brows knit.

“I guess, though . . . I mean, it had to be someone who had access to the kitchen, and that kind of limits the field to those few people,” Sophie said, struggling to explain what she meant. “If Vivienne was the intended victim, then it was likely someone who was at the tea that afternoon.”

He nodded again, watching her eyes. “I can’t officially say, but that makes sense. Go on.”

“If she was
not
the intended victim, then the real intended murderee had to be there, too.”

He frowned. “Yeah, of course. What are you saying?”

She paused, lining up the salt and pepper shakers on the table, as she ordered her thoughts. “Just that I guess we can’t focus
only
on people who may have wanted Vivienne Whittaker dead. What if it was a misfire? Then the murderer could be someone who had no beef with Vivienne, but was trying to kill someone else.” She frowned and shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m just thinking out loud.”

“The old saying in police work is,
Look around the victim to find the killer
, you know?”

“Of course. I’m just worried and afraid for everyone. If Vivienne wasn’t the one they meant to kill, then whoever it was is still in danger.” Silence fell. Wally was clearly not going to discuss his own suspicions or feelings. He was a police officer, after all. On to something else, then. She paused, watching his face, then said, “Do you ever think about the old days, Wally?”

“You mean when we were teenagers? Sure, all the time.”

“If you could go back, would you do anything differently?”

“What do you mean?”

She searched his eyes, wondering if it was true that he still loved Cissy. Maybe it was just a lingering softness toward her, a kind of affection. “Is there anything you would do differently, about
anything
? Life, work, school . . . love . . . anything at all.”