Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) (15 page)

“No one gets through life without regrets, right? I wish I’d done better in school and police college so I could take the detective’s test right now instead of having to upgrade. I’m doing correspondence courses to bring up my grade average from college.” His smile died, as he added, “I sure would like to be the one who busts whoever killed Mrs. Whittaker. For Cissy’s sake. And Francis’s, of course. Look, I gotta go. It’s been nice talking to you.”

“Okay. Be careful out there.”

“Sure, ’cause the mean streets of Gracious Grove are so darned dangerous.” He was being facetious.

“But someone has killed, and once that happens . . .” She shuddered, as it passed through her, the chill of knowing that someone she had met was a killer. Maybe even someone she knew very well.

As Wally left, Nana entered the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. “I need a cup of tea. I’m kind of tired today. Did you and Wally have a nice visit, honey? I saw him leave.”

“Yes,” she said, absently. “Nana, who do
you
think killed Vivienne Whittaker? You must have an opinion.”

“Oh, must I?” She sat down opposite her granddaughter. “I just can’t credit that any one of those folks would set out to poison someone. Did it have to be someone at the party?”

“Well, not necessarily, I suppose. But if you were going to kill someone that way, you’d want to be there to make sure it went according to plan, right? I’m assuming that only one cupcake was poisoned. No one would risk killing a whole party of folks with random poisoned cupcakes, and no one else keeled over, even though some of the cupcakes were eaten.”

“Even if you were there it wouldn’t be easy,” Nana said. “How would you make sure, if you only had one poisoned cupcake, that the right person got it?”

“But
did
the right person get it? Or did the wrong person die? Is there a killer out there even now plotting to knock off the person they originally intended? I just can’t get that thought out of my head.”

“Honey, if Vivienne died, isn’t it likely that she’s the one they intended to die?”

“I know you’re right. That’s what Wally said. Okay, so going back to your question, how would I make sure the right person got the one poisoned cupcake? Well, I’d be the one to hand it to her.”

Nana nodded thoughtfully as the kettle whistled. She poured the steaming water in the teapot and clapped the lid on, then sat down in Wally’s vacated chair. “That’s the best way to be sure, I guess. But what if people remembered that? Wouldn’t it be risky to be the one who poisoned the cupcake
and
passed it to Vivienne?”

“How else could you be sure she got the right one? Unless . . .” Sophie’s brain finally kicked into gear. “Of course! Nana, if you made up a plate of cupcakes and wanted to be sure I picked a certain one, what would you do?”

The older woman considered the question for a moment. Her lined brow furrowed in thought. “For
you
? I’d make sure only one was chocolate. You love chocolate, so you’d probably pick that one.”

“Right!” She paused and thought some more. “There’s another way, though; if you wanted to be sure I didn’t pick any other, you could be even more certain if
every other cupcake had coconut on it
,” she said, leaning forward and emphasizing each word by tapping on the table.

Nana’s bright blue eyes widened. “Of course, because you don’t like coconut.”

Sophie nodded. “I loathe coconut
on
things. Don’t so much mind it
in
things, but I hate it just sprinkled over the top of something. So if there was a plate full of cupcakes, and only one did
not
have coconut, I would be sure to pick that one.”

“Honey, I think you’ve got something there,” Nana said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “You should tell the police.”

“Oh, right, go to the detective and say I have a way to break the case?” Sophie snorted in laughter. “I’m sure they’ve already thought of this. And it doesn’t really prove anything. Maybe they already know who did it and are just waiting for forensic evidence, or something.” Sophie got up and made her grandmother a cup of tea and set it down in front of her.

“Thanks, honey. It would be interesting to know if Vivienne had strong preferences, though. Did you notice anything about the cupcakes when you were over there?”

Sophie shuddered. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at yellow frosting the same way again, after seeing it smeared all over Vivienne’s face.”

“Okay, so she was eating one with yellow icing?”

Sophie nodded. “A vanilla cupcake with yellow frosting, judging by the smooshed remains on the floor. And the other ones on the platter—the ones that were left—were all red-velvet cupcakes.”

“So . . . maybe she didn’t like red-velvet cupcakes.”

“Interesting idea. Kind of weak, though.” She looked over at her grandmother, who sipped her tea and sighed in contentment. “How do I find out Vivienne Whittaker’s preferences?”

“I’d say ask Francis or Florence.”

Sophie nodded. “You’re right. Maybe I should talk to them before I worry the police about any of this. I might be barking up the wrong tree.”

• • •

W
ith her new goal in mind—helping however she could to figure out who had tainted the lives of people she cared about—Sophie raced upstairs and called Cissy. Pearl jumped up on her lap as she leaned back in one of the cushy chairs and waited as the phone rang.

“Hello?” Cissy sounded out of breath.

“Cissy, it’s Sophie. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.” Dumb thing to say. Her fiancé’s mother had been murdered; could there be a good time?

“No, it’s fine.”

It occurred to Sophie in that moment how difficult Cissy’s path was, and that she’d had little or no help lately, especially with a grandmother as nutty as Thelma Mae Earnshaw. On impulse, she said, “I was just wondering, can I do anything? More than just with the shower, I mean. But now that I’ve mentioned it . . . do you still want that to go off as scheduled?”

“Why not?” she said. “Francis still wants to have the wedding, so yes, the shower is on.”

“But can I help you out in any other way? You’re dealing with so much right now.”

She hesitated. “I need to go to Ithaca for a couple of hours; there’s a mix-up with a book shipment. Could you come over and sit with Francis? Florence went down to the police station to ask about any breaks in the case—she’s desperate for them to solve this—and I hate leaving Francis alone right now. He’s distraught.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” It was the least she could do.

“Would you? Thank you so much, Sophie! I really appreciate it.”

Feeling a little guilty because what she really wanted was information, Sophie said, “Don’t mention it.”

“No, I
really
appreciate it. I don’t have anyone else I can ask. Dana would, but I need her in the store. And Gretchen . . .” She fell silent.

“She’s not so bad, you know,” Sophie said. “I talked to her last night and it seems like she’s just trying too hard to fit in.”

Cissy said, “So she got to you with her
ah’m just a sweet Southern belle among all o’ y’all nasty-ole Yankees
routine, did she?” Her mimicry of Gretchen’s Southern drawl was perfect.

Taken aback, Sophie stammered, “Yeah, I guess maybe she did. She came to our door last night all upset.”

“Let me guess: She was mad that I asked you to help with the shower. Sophie, I believed her sweetness and light routine the first time I heard it, too. Then after I heard her trash-talking me to some of her country club friends, I decided I’d keep her at arm’s length. I’m only nice to her for Francis’s sake and because of his friendship with Hollis.”

“I was taken in, hook, line and sinker,” Sophie admitted. “I thought maybe we could work together after all.”

“Don’t let it stop you from working her over to get what I want for the shower, but don’t be suckered in and end up doing everything yourself.”

Cissy actually sounded much more focused today than Sophie had ever heard her, and Sophie was grateful. Tragedy had that sharpening effect on some people, Sophie had observed before. “I’ll be right over.”

Ten minutes later she parked her grandmother’s SUV behind the bookstore and trotted up the steps to Cissy’s upstairs apartment. She didn’t even have a chance to knock on the door before Cissy pulled it open, as she tugged on a Windbreaker and grabbed her purse.

“Cissy!” Francis yelled from somewhere in the depths of the apartment. “Will you be gone long? What if I need something? Where are you going?”

Cissy rolled her eyes and disappeared back into the apartment. Sophie entered and listened to the indistinct soothing murmur of Cissy’s voice in what must be a bedroom, since she could see the empty living room from the kitchen. Arriving like this felt almost like the babysitting assignments she’d had as a teenager during the summer in Gracious Grove. She’d arrive just as the parent was putting the kid to bed and telling them to be good.

Cissy reappeared. “Here,” she whispered, holding out a piece of paper. “This is my cell-phone number in case Francis needs something.”

“Is he going to be okay with you gone?” Sophie matched her voice level to Cissy’s whisper.

She sighed, her pale, thin face wan with exhaustion. “I think so. It’s just hit him hard . . . harder than I expected it would.”

“It’s his mother, after all; I guess we never know how it’s going to hit us until it does. You probably know that better than anyone.”

Cissy surprised Sophie by reaching out and hugging her. “You’re right, I do know how he feels. Maybe that’s why I’m trying to be there for him, but it’s not easy. Look, thanks for this,” she murmured. “I need to go to Ithaca and sort this book shipment out, but I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“Okay.”

She was gone swiftly. Sophie stood for a moment, gathering her wandering thoughts, and heard Francis say something. She headed toward the other room, about to ask him what he had said, when she heard him speak again. This time he said, louder, “I need to talk to you, and soon!”

She came around the corner of the door and said, “I’m right here.”

He was on the phone and started, gasping, “What the heck?” He slammed the phone down and glared at her, then lay down on the bed and turned away.

Chapter 14

I
n the brief glance she had of him, Francis looked dreadful; scruffy, beard coming in, eyes hollow and bags under them.

“I’m sorry, did I startle you?”

“I . . . I didn’t know you were here,” he mumbled, over his shoulder.

“Cissy didn’t want you to be alone. I thought she told you I was here.”

“No, she didn’t bother. I’m not a baby, for God’s sake. You can go.”

Sophie hesitated. On the one hand, with his rudeness there was nothing more she’d like to do. On the other hand, if she was honest with herself, she had come with ulterior motives, and so she’d stay. “Don’t let me stop you from phoning whoever you were phoning. How about I make us some tea? My grandmother always says there is nothing like it to make you feel better.”

He didn’t say anything, so she went back to the kitchen and busied herself with making a pot of tea. Cissy had a complete setup . . . teapot, diffuser ball, loose-leaf tea, strainer, everything. She had Earl Grey, English breakfast, oolong, green and even maté, an Argentinean tea with a bit of a kick to it. Plain-old English breakfast was safest, so she brewed a pot while pondering how to get Francis to talk.

He ambled into the kitchen. His haunted expression tore at Sophie’s heart, and she wordlessly pushed him into a chair and gave him a cup of tea with sugar. He was suffering shock, as any person who witnessed a loved one murdered before their eyes would, and sugar could help, or so she’d heard.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” he said, glancing at her, then frowning down into his cup.

“Don’t mention it,” she said, sitting opposite him at the little dinette table. “I know you don’t need babysitting, but Cissy is so worried about you she just didn’t want to leave you alone. When I happened to call about the wedding shower, she asked me to come over. Have you eaten today?”

He shrugged.

She jumped up. “Let me fix you what Nana used to make when I didn’t feel like eating.” She rummaged around and came up with some eggs, milk, sugar, vanilla and a blender, and whipped up a frothy eggnog, poured it into a tumbler and grated some nutmeg over it. “Drink up.”

As she ran water and squirted some dish soap into the sink, she said, over her shoulder, “Go ahead and call the person back, the one you were calling when I interrupted.” Curiosity was eating her alive; to whom did he say,
We need to talk
? And what did it mean?

“It’s not important. I just left a message on the voice mail of a friend of my mom’s who lives out of state. I really don’t want her finding out about . . . about the thing on the news.”

“Oh. Of course!” Sophie immediately felt bad for what she had been thinking. She sat down opposite Francis again. “Drink! You need to keep up your strength.”

“I miss Mom so bad,” he said, his voice thick with tears. “Who would do that to her? She was such a good woman! I just don’t understand.”

“Me neither,” Sophie said. “And I can’t imagine what you’re going through. It must be awful.”

“It was terrifying to be right there and yet not be able to help her,” he said, wrapping his hands around the tumbler. “I didn’t know what to do! If I could go back, if I could . . . I don’t know, do things differently . . .”

Sophie waited, but when he didn’t continue, she asked, “Like what?”

He shrugged, and took a gulp of the eggnog. “I don’t know.”

She hesitated, but then said, “Did she seem ill before it happened?”

“No, not at all! Everything was fine. She gave a nice speech before lunch. We ate that god-awful food and dessert, then she looked . . . I don’t know. Dizzy, or something. She got up, then collapsed.”

“Is there any news on the investigation from the police?”

“They don’t seem to be doing a damn thing!”

“Have you asked them what’s going on?”

“Yesterday I talked to Wally, but he’s no good. I’m so frustrated!” He clutched his head and scrunched his tousled hair in his fingers.

“It’s so awful. Someone would have to plan well ahead of time to do that, to poison your mother, right?”

He scruffed his fingers along his jaw, where a dark beard was beginning to bristle. “That’s true, isn’t it?” he said, frowning down at the tabletop. “I mean, poison? It’s not a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing.”

Sophie could see the wheels turning as he considered it. It was good that he was focused on something other than his own pain, so she decided to encourage his thought process. “Who could have wanted to kill your mother? I haven’t been back to town long, but everyone says she was a great woman, just like you said.”

He nodded, his mouth compressed in a firm line against the onslaught of emotion Sophie could see welling up in his eyes. “
Nobody
would want to kill her! That’s the thing. It doesn’t make any
sense
.” He hammered the table on the last word.

She didn’t state the obvious, that someone must have wanted her dead because she had been murdered. “Was she involved with anyone? Or did she have any friends?”

“Involved . . . do you mean, was she dating anyone? No. When she went to country club dances, she would go with a couple who are her best friends.”

“Who are they?”

“Marva and Holly Harcourt. They’re the parents of my buddy Hollis Harcourt Junior; everyone just calls Hollis Senior ‘Holly.’”

“Oh. What about . . .” She paused, surprised to learn that Hollis and Marva Harcourt were Vivienne’s particular friends. The meeting she had witnessed between Vivienne and Holly did not seem friendly. She tried to figure a way to ask about the meeting. “Uh, Francis, was your mother worried about anything to do with your, uh . . . your recent promotion?”

He stared at her, brow crinkled. “No, of course not. Why would she be?”

Sophie didn’t know how to respond, and she didn’t want to talk about the meeting she had witnessed. Not yet, anyway. “What about anyone else at the tea? Was there anyone there that someone might have a grudge against? Like . . . you, or your aunt?”

He looked startled and his eyes widened, but he shook his head and said, “You mean maybe my mom wasn’t the target? That’s just not possible!”

But Sophie would swear there was something or someone. His mind went elsewhere, even as he stared at her, his eyes glazing and his brows furrowing in thought. “Francis, are you sure?” she urged. “I mean, if there is no one who would want to kill your mother, then maybe someone
else
at that tea party was the intended target.” She worried that if he had thought of something, he’d try to tackle it himself. That could be terribly dangerous with someone out there willing to kill. But it was such a limited array of possibilities, motives and murderers; who among those few killed Vivienne Whittaker, either on purpose or accidentally?

There was a tap at the back door; Florence Whittaker, looking older and less well kept than usual, came in without waiting for an answer. She frowned as she stared at Sophie. “What are you doing here? Where’s Cissy? Who . . . ?” She looked over Sophie’s shoulder. “Francis!” She pushed past Sophie and flew at her nephew. “My dear boy! You should be lying down, getting rest. Come on, right now.” She grabbed his shoulder.

“I’m okay, Aunt Flo!” he said irritably, hunching his shoulder out of her grip. He glared up at her. “I wish everybody would just leave me alone.”

“We were just having some tea and I made him an eggnog. To keep his strength up, he needs food.”

The woman’s sharp gaze softened as she looked down at her nephew. “You’re right about that.”

“Would you like a cup of tea? Cissy had to go out to take care of a misdirected book shipment in Ithaca, but she’ll be back in a half hour or so.”

Florence Whittaker slumped down in a chair and seemed grateful when Sophie set in front of her a warm mug of tea, then pushed a sugar bowl and cream pitcher toward her. She dribbled a little milk in the mug and took a long draft. “Oh, that’s good. I don’t think I’ve stopped for a cup of tea in the last twenty-four hours, much less something to eat.”

“Mrs. Whittaker, the same goes for you as goes for Francis,” Sophie said, examining the woman’s face. She seemed to have aged a decade in the last day or so, her strong jaw softened by sagging skin and her dark eyes clouded. “You need to keep your strength up, too.”

“I just don’t think I could eat.” She stared down into the cup, her gaze pensive. “I miss everything about Vivienne. I used to call her most mornings and we’d meet at the coffee shop. I know everyone drags out the old gossip, the stuff about us being enemies, but that just wasn’t the case. When we lost our husbands, it was . . . it was a bonding experience, I guess you’d call it. With Jackson gone, Vivienne and Francis were all the family I had left.” She put her hand across the table and rested it on Francis’s. “Now you’re it, my boy, you’re all I have left!” She squeezed and released.

He didn’t seem comforted and moved his hand. He’d probably rather have his mom back, Sophie thought. “We were trying to figure out who at the party would have wanted to harm Vivienne.”

Florence’s mouth tightened. “That’s just . . . that’s
gruesome
, to speculate like that about our friends!”

“I didn’t mean it that way, Mrs. Whittaker. Don’t
you
want to figure out who killed your sister-in-law?” Sophie sat down opposite Florence, who she had thought of as an enemy of Vivienne’s until now. What about all the scandal, the accusation of adultery? Sophie considered it for a moment; was it possible that the whole thing had been blown out of proportion? Could it have been one of those mistakes that the two then got past and even laughed about later? Both women were widows, and neither had remarried; they had a lot in common. She wished she could just ask the woman outright about her legendary feud with Vivienne, but Sophie just wasn’t hard-nosed enough to ask,
So, did you really have an affair with Vivienne’s husband?

Florence Whittaker stood, tugging her beige jacket down over her stomach. “I think you need look no further than that—that miserable old interfering—” She stopped and shook her head. “How
could
she call the police and tell them that Francis had anything to do with the death of his own mother? It was unthinkable.”

“So you think Mrs. Earnshaw did it?”

She looked undecided. “Well, not on purpose,” she said, backtracking. “I’m not saying that.” She paced over to the kitchen sink and stared out the little window that overlooked the back lawn. “But there was probably some rat poison out in that kitchen, or something, and she thought it was flour. I wouldn’t put anything past that busybody. She’s nutty as a fruitcake.”

There were so many holes in that theory that Sophie didn’t even address it. But she was curious about Florence’s poor opinion of Cissy’s grandmother. “Everyone is saying that Mrs. Earnshaw is upset that her granddaughter is marrying Francis. What does she have against your family? I’d think she’d be thrilled that her only granddaughter was getting married.”

Francis shook his head. “I was
floored
when I heard what she’d done, turning on me like that. To call the cops? I haven’t exchanged more than two words with the woman since . . . well, since we were all teenagers!”

“You hung around with Phil, though, right?”

“And Phil is her grandchild and therefore perfect,” Florence said bitterly, turning to face them. “That skunk has had more second chances than a lucky Las Vegas gambler. Heck, if he was at the tea, I’d say maybe
he
did it. He hated Vivienne and he hates me.”

“Why would he hate
you
, either of you, for that matter?”

“Aunt Flo!” Francis said, with warning in his tone. He gave her a look, then eyed Sophie. After a moment he seemed to make up his mind and said, “You won’t pass this on, right? If I tell you something?”

Sophie knew she shouldn’t promise. Carefully she said, “Who would I tell? I mean, really, I have never lived in GiGi, and I’ve only been back for a week after being away for the better part of ten years! I don’t know
anyone
.”

Francis nodded, took another drink of the eggnog, then set the glass aside. “Mrs. Earnshaw always blamed my mom for that trouble Phil was in a few years back, when he was caught bringing booze into Gracious Grove. She thought, for some reason, that my mom had called the cops and turned Phil in. He told his grandma that he and I were brewing moonshine in my dorm room at Cornell, and that’s why the booze was in his truck.”

She knew the story already, but didn’t say so. “Was it true?”

“Of course not!” he barked, glaring at her. “Would I risk my college career on a bootlegging business? That’s
crazy
! I was past all that kid stuff and was focused on getting my architecture degree. But she has always given Phil a pass for every dumb thing he ever did.”

Sophie let that sink in; some of it was true. Phil, by the evidence of her own eyes, was
still
trying to smuggle booze into Gracious Grove. Also, Cissy had said much the same thing about Phil’s run-in with the police. It was true that Thelma Mae Earnshaw was
still
making excuses for him. However . . . “You aren’t suggesting that Mrs. Earnshaw took out her grudge against your mother by killing her?”