Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) (26 page)

“Hey, you,” Dana said.

Sophie straightened and stretched. “And I thought coming back to Gracious Grove would be restful.”

Dana laughed, then said, “Well, arranging a memorial charity tea in two days for all of the leading lights of town must be tiring. I don’t like those folks at the best of times, and you’ve had to personally invite each and every one of them.”

“I know. And that’s why I’m here.”

“Not to invite me, is it?” Dana said, eyes wide and hand pressed to her bosom. “
Moi?
Why . . . I’d be delighted,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes.

Sophie laughed uneasily, not sure if Cissy had already gotten to Dana and blown things. “Look, Dana, not to butter you up, but you are simply the smartest person I know who I can trust.”

Dana paused, then said, her brows arched, “Go on. For someone who’s not trying to butter me up, you’re doing a decent job of buttering me up.”

“You’ve heard about the tea, and know I’ve been inviting people.”

“Mhmm,” Dana said, eyeing her as Beauty leaped gracefully up to the counter and waved her tail like a fan.

“I would like you to be there.”

“But you’re not going to hand me an engraved invitation, are you?”

“No. I’m going to ask you to help us with the setup and serving.” She said it straight, not wanting to sugarcoat it for the astute brunette.

Dana leaned on the counter, her scoop-necked aqua tank top offering a good look at her respectable décolletage. “You want me to
serve
these . . . people?”

“Yup. Right alongside me.”

“Unlike Cissy, I assumed there was some ulterior motive behind coming up with this plan apart from wanting to memorialize a woman you barely knew. You’d like me to keep my eyes and ears open so we can try to figure out who murdered Mrs. Vivienne Whittaker in that very spot, right?”

“
Exactly!
Nobody hears and sees more than the servers, and it gives you access to places that are concealed, and no one pays attention to you. Though with you there, I would bet every man in the place will be paying attention.”

Dana smirked. “I can play it down, too, you know . . . more small-town girl, less femme fatale.”

Sophie nodded. Dana knew exactly what she needed. “I wish you were at that darned engagement tea. We probably would have solved the murder by now.”

“You bet! However, if I was there, you would have to consider me a suspect, wouldn’t you? People keep assuming I’m still ticked over Vivienne breaking up my young love affair with Mr. Francie-pants.”

“That’s true. So I’m glad you weren’t there!” She paused. “You know, if you want people to stop thinking you’re still angry, you could stop being so rude about Francis.” And clinging to him in public, Sophie was tempted to add.

“He’s a weenie. He totally deserves it,” she said, with a sniff. “But we’re still friends and he knows where we stand. On a more serious note, I heard your grandmother was attacked night before last. Is she okay?”

“Yeah, but spitting mad.”

“And that precipitated this sneaky little party?”

“You got it. We are going to figure out who did it or die tr . . . ah, maybe that’s not a good thing to say.”

Grimly, Dana nodded. “Let’s not have any of that kind of talk. I’ll be there, and I’ll be early. You going to invite the police?”

Sophie cocked her head to one side. “Do you know what? Wally Bowman just might want to be there. He is Florence’s nephew, after all, so I can justify an invitation that way.”

“Oh, he’ll come, even if it’s just to stare longingly at Cissy,” Dana replied. “I’ll see you on Sunday.”

Chapter 24

S
unday, the one day of the week that the tea-room was closed, dawned gorgeous, and Sophie couldn’t help but think of spending it by the lake with a picnic lunch. She remembered long-ago summer vacations in GiGi with Jason and the others, down by the lake all day. It had been idyllic and far removed from the rest of her life. And yet after most of a year split between boarding school, Christmas vacation in Switzerland or Acapulco, and her parent’s condo in Manhattan, it was summer in Gracious Grove that really felt like home.

Poor little rich girl
, her GiGi friends had called her. Jason and Cissy were the only ones in their group who had never taunted her. Maybe now, with the experience of the past ten or twelve years, she had grown up enough to shed that image.

Sunday brunch with Nana was a frittata she made using heirloom tomatoes and local herbs. It was a recipe she thought would work in the tearoom for the lunch menu, especially when the local produce started hitting the farmers’ markets. They talked about the afternoon and shared their thoughts. Nana believed they ought to go into it with an open mind, but feared they wouldn’t learn anything new. Sophie was determined to figure out once and for all who killed Vivienne Whittaker. After what had happened to Nana, she couldn’t countenance any other outcome.

Sophie retreated up to her own apartment while her grandmother had a nap. First thing on her agenda was a phone call to Wally, who she found out was off duty. She invited him, since he was in a way related to Vivienne Whittaker, and he agreed to come, though he seemed puzzled by the purpose of holding the tea. It was mostly for Cissy’s grandmother’s sake, she emphasized; folks needed to stop being afraid to come to Belle Époque.

She was nervous, looking ahead, like she had been on the opening night for In Fashion. Lounging in one of the comfy chairs in her living room, Sophie decided that not only did she need to psych herself up for this experience, she should also write down her thoughts on paper, to clarify what she knew and what she suspected so she wasn’t going into it blind.

Pearl sat on the arm of the chair, and Sophie said, “Okay, Pearlie-girl, we need to figure this out.” She jotted down:

• Whoever put out the poisoned cupcake had to have been at the tea party to be sure it was delivered to the right person.
  
• But that didn’t mean necessarily that the cupcake deliverer was the only killer; there could have been one or more conspirators behind the murder.
  
• The kitchen was left unattended on occasion because of Gilda Bachman’s digestive troubles.
  
• It appeared that most of Gracious Grove knew Vivienne Whittaker was allergic to some foods, including red dye.
  

It was all interesting and suggestive, but she still didn’t have a clear idea of who may have killed Vivienne Whittaker, and she was tired of thinking about it.

At one
P.M.
she met Nana in the kitchen. Sophie had spent every spare moment in the last two days making food for the memorial tea. Nana had offered the usual Auntie Rose specialties, scones, tea biscuits, muffins and the like. A tea party of any kind
had
to have those. Sophie had whipped up a couple of batches of mini quiche florentine, lemon curd tartlets and some savory snacks. They would make tea and coffee on the spot, in the Belle Époque kitchen.

Just as they exited the back door of Auntie Rose’s, Dana pulled up and got out of her car. Sophie eyed her in surprise; the usually flamboyant Dana had definitely dressed down in tan capris and a white blouse, with a black sash belt. Her hair was neatly pinned into a bun, and she wore . . . gasp . . . glasses!

“Don’t look at me like that!” Dana said, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “I told you I could tone it down. This is how I dress when I go to the bank for a loan . . .
if
I’m going to have a female loan officer.”

Nana said, “I think you look very pretty, Dana.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Freemont,” Dana replied primly.

Sophie laughed, and gave Dana the trays to carry, while she hustled back to Auntie Rose’s, got the rest of the stuff, and met them at the back door. Gilda Bachman let them into the kitchen, then fluttered around nervously getting in the way until Sophie took charge. It felt like any catering job she’d had while she was still in culinary school and directly after, so she followed the same routine: Familiarize yourself with the kitchen, make sure supplies are in place, and get organized. She had learned a lot by working her way up in the catering business, doing any job large or small.

“Okay, let’s set up the tearoom appropriately for this kind of gathering.” She eyed the dithering Belle Époque employee. How to keep her busy? “Gilda, we’ll need your expert opinion as to . . . uh, table placement, so if you would like to go into the tearoom and have a look around, we’ll consult in a few minutes.”

The woman trudged through the door looking like she had lost her only friend.

Sophie turned to Dana. “I’ve got some brochures I picked up from Foodies for Families, and some donation pouches. I talked to them yesterday and they were more than happy to supply all kinds of promotional material. The director of the charity will be attending to welcome and thank donors. I didn’t meet her, but she sounds like a great person.” She explained what she wanted and set Dana on
that
job, since she was the only one Sophie trusted to do it right.

Cissy was supposed to be there early to help out, but couldn’t guarantee anything, she said, since Francis seemed even more depressed than he was before the memorial service for his mom and could hardly be coaxed out of the house. Nana and Laverne made themselves at home in Thelma’s kitchen, a fact that set that woman to grumble moodily in the corner. She had agreed to the memorial being held at Belle Époque, but now loudly complained about folks “running around like they owned the place.”

Sophie noticed she parked herself in a spot in the kitchen where she could easily see the alleyway and over to Auntie Rose’s. Was that the secret behind how she always seemed to know what was going on, who was coming and going? She had been obsessed with Rose Freemont for decades, since young Rose had supposedly stolen her beau, Harold Freemont, at a church picnic.

Maybe hoping for a cessation of hostilities was too much wishful thinking.

It was ten to two when the first guests started to arrive. Cissy, Francis and Florence pulled up the lane in a dark Lexus and parked in back, as Thelma faithfully reported. They entered through the back door, but Sophie ushered them straight through to the front, where Dana took them in hand and sat them down at a table along the wall. Sophie watched from the door into the kitchen. Francis looked as distraught as he must
be
, given that he had watched his mother die at the hand of a poisoner, but no one as yet had been apprehended. It was the scene of her death, too; that had to be painful. He had dark circles under his eyes and stared off, seemingly oblivious to the others around him.

She thought of her own glamorous mother, right now drifting on the calm Mediterranean Sea with her friends on a “girls” week of relaxation. First of all,
girls
? They were in their sixties. When did women stop being
girls
to one another? And second . . . relaxation from what? She had asked her mom that question. “From being a wife and mother,” Rosalind Taylor had returned tartly. But with all her chicks grown and flown, what effort did that entail, Sophie wondered. Hers was not a particularly close family, and she had regularly chosen Gracious Grove over vacations with her parents and brothers once she was old enough to make her wishes heard.

Now that she had seen her mom’s teenage pictures and heard about her difficult youth, Sophie had some compassion for her; however, didn’t growing up mean leaving behind the drama of youth in favor of a more mature outlook? Sometimes she felt more like the mother in their relationship, but she was disengaging from that now to retreat to a more neutral stance. Her mother was her mother, and she did the best she could. Unfortunately her best was not a whole lot beyond plaguing Sophie to marry soon and marry
well
, which meant rich. But still . . . Sophie loved her and yearned for a deeper relationship; she just didn’t think that would ever happen.

“What are you thinking, my Sophie?”

Sophie turned and smiled down at her teeny-tiny Nana. “I’m thinking how lucky I am to have you. And how scared I was when I saw your little slippered feeties sticking out from behind the garbage can.” Tears blurred her vision. “I want to help Francis find out who killed his mother. I want it resolved today.”

• • •

T
he event was now in full swing, with everyone who had been invited in attendance, plus a couple of stragglers and minus Phil Peterson, who no one had yet gotten ahold of, though Cissy said she had left a message on his cell phone. Shep Hammond had brought with him a glamorous young woman he explained was his “assistant.” Harvey Leathorne had brought his wife, as had Oliver Stanfield. Sophie had let a special secret guest into the kitchen, and that person was listening to what was going on.

The director of Foodies for Families had arrived right on time. Sophie was delighted to learn that Felice Delorme, a tiny five-foot-nothing fireball, was a chef, like Sophie, who had come back to Gracious Grove after a career in New York. She was several decades older than Sophie and had been a chef at a time when females were not so accepted in the kitchens of the big city. During their brief talk, Felice rolled her eyes when Sophie asked her about how male chefs had treated her over the years.

“I’m grateful women like you paved the way,” Sophie said.

Felice said, “I’ve had far too many young’uns say things could not have been
that bad
. They always act like I’m exaggerating when I tell them how it was. I’m happy that not all young female chefs feel that way.”

Sophie turned to the group, and cleared her throat. “Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for coming out today. Mrs. Earnshaw wanted to hold this gathering,” she said, indicating Thelma, who sat nearby, “to honor poor Mrs. Whittaker and give back to the program she held so dear to her heart.”

Julia Dandridge and Nuñez Ortega, arms linked, nodded soberly.

Felice was the first to speak. “I hadn’t known Vivienne Whittaker for long before she was taken from us in such an untimely manner,” she said, sweeping her gaze around the room. “But I did know how committed she was to charitable enterprises. One conversation we had just a couple of weeks ago still stands out to me. She said, ‘Felice, I’ve been poor and I’ve been wealthy, and through it all I’ve learned a lot about human nature. Some of what I’ve learned along the way has broken my heart. I want to die poor. I want to know that I have given every cent I have to help those who deserve it, instead of dying with riches that did no one any good.’”

Sophie experienced a jolt of alarm. Vivienne had certainly not gotten that wish. Was this whole thing as simple as the woman’s plan to give away too much money that others were counting on using or inheriting? She looked over at Francis, who had tears welling in his haunted eyes. Surely Vivienne wanted to leave some of her wealth for her son and his future wife and possible grandchildren to enjoy? Francis wouldn’t have killed her simply to keep her from giving away all her money, would he?

“But though she did not live to see her hopes achieved, we can honor her today by raising money toward our Foodies for Families goal of instituting a hot-lunch program at Gracious Grove Junior High School. This is a lovely little town and I feel blessed to be a part of this community, but too many people overlook the less fortunate in our midst. So, in Vivienne’s name, give.”

Sophie stepped forward after Felice was done and looked around the group. Had she been kidding herself that anything would come of this? She took a deep breath and said, “I would love folks to come up and say a word or two about Vivienne, and why her charitable interests were such an important part of her character. I didn’t know her well, but everything I’ve heard lately makes me wish I did. Mayor Blenkenship, would you start us off?”

He raised his eyebrows and looked around. Sophie had the sudden thought that he was looking for the reporters she had implied would be on hand to breathlessly record every moment of the important folks’ speeches. But he was on the spot now and nodded, stepping forward and turning to address the small crowd.

He tugged his suit jacket down over his paunch and took a deep breath. “Vivienne Whittaker was a grand lady. We will all miss her grace, her wit, and her dedication to this fine town and all of the citizens of it, which is why we are gathered here today. I urge every one of you to think of her as you make out a check to Foods for Families in her name.” No doubt if there had been reporters he would have been more inclined to speak on.

He wasn’t really the one she was interested in hearing from, anyway, since he wasn’t at the engagement tea and Belinda was not a serious suspect.

Felice stepped forward and said, with a tight smile, “By the way, the organization is
Foodies
for Families, just to be clear.”