Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) (7 page)

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.

“You haven’t answered Detective Morris, so I just thought you didn’t hear the question,” he said.

“Question? Nobody’s asked me anything yet. How can I answer if you haven’t asked anything?”

He sighed and compressed his lips, then said, slowly and clearly, “Ma’am, please listen carefully.”

The woman, supposedly a detective, looked like she was going to smile, but instead said, “Mrs. Earnshaw, can you tell me in your own words what happened?”

“Well, now, who else’s words would I use? Stupidest thing I ever heard.” She let her gaze drift over the kitchen. My, it sure was clean. Almost
too
clean! Like a hospital. That was Laverne Hodge’s doing. She was a hard worker, that one, not like Gilda. Maybe Thelma could steal Laverne away from Rose. She grinned. Wouldn’t that just be the cat’s pajamas, to be able to steal Laverne Hodge away from Rose Freemont!

What would it take, she wondered?

“Ma’am?”

“Oh, right. Give me a moment.” Now, what did she want to tell them?

“Ma’am, all I want is your account of what happened at the engagement tea for Miss Peterson!” the detective said loudly. She wasn’t hiding any smile now; she looked as grim as a Bible-thumper in a casino.

“Well, now, you don’t have to raise your voice,” she said. Why were folks so impatient? Nobody had time anymore for—

“Ma’am!”

“Okay, keep your knickers on. Let’s see . . . that snoot, Vivienne, suggested I have that darn tea party, but then she got all in a tizzy about something, all worked up about money and worrying about her precious Francis, and . . . well, anyway, Cissy is my only granddaughter and if I can’t have a tea for her then who can? But that Vivienne had the nerve to say—”

“Mrs. Earnshaw, just today, okay?” Wally passed one hand over his eyes, like he had a headache or something. “Detective Morris wants to know exactly what happened starting from the preparations today for the tea to the moment when Mrs. Whittaker became ill.”

“Why didn’t you say so? If folks would just say plain what they want, I wouldn’t have to go through so much trouble all the time.”

He drummed his fingers on the table, but then the detective woman cast him an irritated look, and he stopped.

“Mrs. Earnshaw,” the detective said, her tone gentle now. “I can only imagine how upsetting this had been for you. I’m sure it will really help things along if we solve this quickly.”

Now that made sense! Thelma told her most of what happened as Wally scratched down notes. But only most; a little trimming here and there was necessary, right? She wasn’t about to tell them anything that made her or her establishment look bad. That would get all over town in a hurry, then no one would come! And she loved her business. It was going to be so much better, too, once she had a chance to use the million ideas she had gotten just from coming over to Auntie Rose’s. Belle Époque was going to beat it hands down this summer.

She added a few choice words about Rose Freemont and Auntie Rose’s Victorian Tea House, and how jealous Rose had always had been. She may have embellished just a little bit, and she may even have told a fib or two. But it sure did feel good to complain, for once, to people who were listening instead of to those with their ears closed, like Gilda and Cissy.

Once she was done, the detective seemed satisfied enough, though Wally kept giving her that fishy-eyed stare she remembered so well from his father, and, come to think of it, Florence Whittaker! Two of a kind, those siblings were, Wally’s papa and Florence Bowman, as she was then, Florence Whittaker now. Not like Cissy and Phil; now those two were as different as chalk and cheese.

“Okay, ma’am, you can go back to the tearoom,” Detective Morris said.

“Back to Belle Époque? Good. See what kind of mess your people made, and let me tell you—”

“No, ma’am, not there yet,” Wally said. “Just back out to Mrs. Freemont’s tearoom. And send Cissy in, if you would.”

She harrumphed. “Well, you could have said that. Auntie Rose’s is not the
only
tearoom in town, you know, though some people act like it is.” As she limped back out to the tearoom—her hip was giving her trouble today, probably all the work she had done to get ready for the ruined engagement party—she eyed the folks out there as she passed each table, moving toward one near the door.

It was clear as a bell to her that Wally and the rest of the police believed Vivienne Whittaker was done in. It was no accident and she knew who she hoped was responsible.
And
who she hoped it wasn’t. She sure hoped it wasn’t Phil, who had hated Vivienne since long before the engagement was announced and he was told by the snobby hoity-toit that he would not be welcome at the wedding. ’Course, you couldn’t blame the woman after the trouble Phil had caused, even though Thelma would never admit it out loud. That boy . . . sometimes he was a handful. His problem was he had no patience. Revenge was not best taken on an impulse, it was something to be planned, like any event you looked forward to.

But Phil . . . he got mad when he suspected Vivienne Whittaker had turned him in to the police once, and so had taken it out on her foreign car, which explained her trying to ban him from her son’s wedding. Had his dirty tricks gone beyond the foolery he had done with Vivienne’s car, those words scratched in the paint? Thelma almost didn’t blame Vivienne for that, but Phil was basically a good boy; he wouldn’t have done anything on purpose to kill her.

However . . . what if it was an accident? What if he had only meant to make her sick?

All Thelma knew was, Phil had been right there in the kitchen of Belle Époque taking a particular interest in everything that was being set out for the party just minutes before the guests arrived. And Thelma was in and out, not thinking anything about it. He could have done something. She would
never
tell Wally Bowman or any other police officer that. She only had two grandchildren, and she would die before she let one be carted off to jail, guilty or not guilty.

Chapter 6

A
s much as she tried, Sophie could not stop wondering: What did the police know that led them to think Vivienne had been murdered? Because for all Wally tried to talk around it, it was clear that was the thrust of their fears and beliefs.

Mrs. Earnshaw whispered something to Cissy as she made her way to a table, and Cissy jumped up and headed to the kitchen. She came back out a few minutes later, telling Gretchen she was next. When Gretchen emerged, she went to Belinda Blenkenship and said stiffly, “They want to see
you
.”

Gretchen sat alone and stoic after talking to the police, but her eyes darted all around the room, resting on each person who had been at the tea. What was she thinking? Sophie wondered.

After a lapse of a few minutes, Wally came out and said, “Mrs. Florence Whittaker, the detective would like to see you next.”

Where did the mayor’s wife go? There was only one other way out of there and that was through the side door. It seemed like special treatment.

When Florence Whittaker emerged, teary and sobbing, she sent in Francis, who came back out fifteen minutes later, red eyed and pale, but composed. “They want you and your grandmother in together,” he said, without looking at Sophie. He slumped down into a chair and put his head in his hands. Cissy moved to sit next to him, but didn’t touch him.

Sophie and Nana headed back to the kitchen, where they found Wally sitting with a woman in a black suit jacket and gray slacks.

“Sophie, Mrs. Freemont, this is Detective Morris. Detective, this is Sophie Taylor and her grandmother, Mrs. Rose Freemont, owner of this establishment.”

“I’ve actually been here for tea with my mother and aunt,” Detective Morris said, the timbre of her voice husky but pleasant.

“I thought you looked familiar!” Nana said. “You had the escarole salad and iced tea.”

“Please sit down, ladies,” the detective said. “I understand, Sophie, that you ran over to Belle Époque even before the police and paramedics arrived. Did you hear something?”

She told the detective about the scream she had heard through her open third-floor window. “I don’t know who screamed, but it was loud.”

“That would have likely been Florence Whittaker,” Wally said, checking his notes.

The detective cast him a look and he shut his mouth. “Did the scream sound frightened to you, or . . . how
did
it sound?”

Sophie eyed the woman. What exactly was she fishing for? “It sounded, I don’t know . . . like a scream. I didn’t think about it, I was just in a hurry to find out what had happened.”

“What did you see when you entered?”

“I saw folks standing around and Mrs. Whittaker . . . Mrs.
Vivienne
Whittaker . . . in trouble. I rushed over to them, but I didn’t know what to do.”

“What did you think was happening?”

“At first I thought she was choking. I said that someone should do the Heimlich maneuver.”

“But you didn’t volunteer.”

Sophie paused, but then said, “No. The last time I did it, I almost got sued.”

“I didn’t hear about this, Sophie, honey!” her grandmother said, one hand on her arm.

At the same moment, Wally blurted, “Sued? Why?”

Sophie covered her grandmother’s hand and squeezed. “I ran a restaurant in New York called In Fashion,” she told the detective. “I was the manager and executive chef.”

“Aren’t you a little young to run your own restaurant?” Detective Morris said.

Sophie shrugged. It was the criticism most leveled at her when talking about the failure of In Fashion and maybe there was some truth in it. She had trusted people she shouldn’t have. It was a humbling experience, being so sure of herself when she started, knowing every step of the path to success, and then failing so miserably anyway. Some folks, including former instructors, told her she had not been entirely responsible, but she beat herself up anyway.

The detective made a note on a pad of paper and said, “What happened that caused you to almost get sued?”

“I was making the rounds of the tables, like I did every night after the first rush, just making sure people were enjoying the food. A woman started to choke on a piece of lobster, and I . . . I did the Heimlich.”

“And? Didn’t it work?”

“Oh, it worked all right. The hunk of lobster popped out into the clarified butter bowl and the butter splashed on her breast. The dress she was wearing was an Ungaro original, silk, and worth a lot of money.”

“So you saved her life and she sued you?”

“She was going to until one of the financial partners ponied up for the money to pay for the Ungaro.”

“So since then you don’t do the Heimlich,” the detective said.

“I would have tried, but when I got a good look at Mrs. Whittaker, I didn’t think she was choking.”

The detective narrowed her eyes. “Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know, it just . . .” Sophie shook her head. “I can’t explain why I thought it, but it didn’t
look
like she was choking, exactly.”

“Interesting,” the detective said, her gaze fixed on Sophie’s face. “How did she look to you?”

“She was getting red in the face, and her eyes were wide open, like she was scared.” Sophie shivered and forced back tears. “But it wasn’t like she was choking, it was more like . . .” She thought for a moment. “More like she was
suffocating
.”

“Did you notice anything else? Anything out of place, or odd?”

Sophie pondered that for a moment, but shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t know. It feels like there’s something there, but I can’t say what it is.”

“If you think of anything, please let me know.” She turned to Sophie’s grandmother. “Ma’am, I understand you and Mrs. Earnshaw don’t get along.”

“Who told you that?” Sophie asked.

“Why?” the detective shot back.

“Sophie, every Gracious Grover knows the state of my relationship with Thelma Mae Earnshaw. It’s no secret.” Nana looked the detective square on. “Thelma, bless her heart, is a cranky soul. She always thinks that someone else has the only thing that would have made her happy. She’s like that dog that has a bone, but suspects that every other dog has a better bone. So she snaps and snarls and tries to steal every other bone she sees, disregarding the one right in front of her nose.”

“That’s funny, Mrs. Freemont, because Mrs. Earnshaw said much the same thing about you, that you were jealous of her success and always had been.”

Sophie gasped. “That is
so
not true!
She’s
the one who has tried to sabotage my grandma! You just ask around town; ask folks about Mrs. Earnshaw trying to ruin Nana’s business.
She’s
the one who badmouths Grandma every chance she gets.”

“Sophie!” Nana said, warning in her tone.

The detective sat back in her chair. “So it is your considered opinion that Mrs. Earnshaw would go out of her way to harm Mrs. Freemont’s reputation and livelihood. And that there has been bad blood between them for decades?”

Startled, Sophie said, “Well, kind of. I guess. But mostly on Mrs. Earnshaw’s part.”

“Interesting. And immaterial, I suppose.” The detective closed the notebook in front of her with a slap of paper on paper. “Is she the kind who would hide things?”

“What kind of things?” Nana asked.

“Information, or even her suspicions.”

“If it had to do with Phil, she would,” Sophie muttered.

Wally jumped up. “Do you think Phil could be involved with this?”

“With killing Mrs. Whittaker?” Sophie regretted her impulsive muttering. “He would
never
do anything like that. He’s an idiot, but he’s never hurt anyone, right?” The boy she remembered was mischievous, not malicious. But what had the intervening years done to him?

“There is bad blood between Mrs. Whittaker and Phillip Peterson, though, isn’t there?” the detective asked.

“Look, I just got back in town,” Sophie said. “I don’t have any idea about bad blood.”

“Would it surprise you to learn that Phil Peterson uttered threats against Mrs. Whittaker?” the detective asked. “And that he vowed in public to stop the marriage between his sister and Francis Whittaker no matter what it took?”

Wally looked away, toward the window. He must be the source of that information, and Sophie was irritated at him for turning on his former friend until she remembered that this was a murder investigation, not a time to worry about being a snitch. And it was his job. Once upon a time they had all three been best buddies, Wally, Frankie and Phil, but that, she heard, had ended badly. “He’d never kill anyone,” Sophie said. “Come on, Wally, you
know
that! You guys were friends!”

“You can’t protect Phil, so don’t even try,” Wally said.

She frowned, her gaze slewing between the two police officers. “I’m not trying to protect anyone, least of all Phil Peterson. I really can’t help you. Like I said, I’ve only been back in town a week.”

“Look here, you two,” Nana said, squinting at the detective and Wally. “I don’t like the tone you’re taking with my granddaughter. She doesn’t know anything, and neither do I.”

After a long wordless pause, the detective nodded, as if satisfied. “Okay, you can both go,” she said, standing. “If you think of anything, Sophie or Mrs. Freemont—anything that seemed
off
to you—please let us know. Officer Bowman will be keeping an eye on things.”

The detective followed Sophie and her grandmother back out to the tearoom and stood by the servery. She cleared her throat, successfully gathering everyone’s attention. “I know you’re all concerned and I’ll make it official. At two forty-three this afternoon, Mrs. Vivienne Whittaker was pronounced dead at Cruickshank Memorial Hospital.”

There was a startled outcry, then the hum of subdued conversation. Sophie watched as Gretchen Harcourt tapped away at her phone screen. Live updates, no doubt, announced on every social network there was. Francis groaned and buried his face in his arms, while Cissy patted him on the back and frowned off into space. Gilda Bachman narrowed her eyes and stared at someone, but she was slightly cross-eyed, so Sophie couldn’t tell who exactly she was staring at from among Gretchen, Cissy, Francis, Florence, or Laverne.

“You can all go home. Mrs. Earnshaw, are you expecting any new guests today?”

Thelma ran Belle Époque as a bed and breakfast, but it was struggling, to say the least, from what Sophie’s grandmother said.

“They’ve all gone and I don’t have a soul coming today. I’m going broke and this mess is going to just kill me!” She sent an accusatory stare around at all of them. “I’d think you all would be trying to help me, instead of gossiping and treating me bad. Especially you, Rose Freemont! After what you did to me, you should be trying to help me!”

Everyone stared. Nana said, her voice trembling, “Now that is just
enough
, Thelma Mae Earnshaw. I saw Harold Freemont first, and don’t you
ever
forget it!” With that, she turned and retreated, climbing the stairs to her second-floor apartment.

Wally whispered something to the detective, probably clearing up that reference. It would seem obscure to someone who didn’t know the history between the women.

“Really, Granny, can’t you just let it go?” Cissy said, in a low tone. “It was, like, sixty years ago already, and you got Grandpa, didn’t you? There are more important things going on, you know. Come on, Francis, we have things that have to be done. Or . . .” Her expression stricken, she turned and looked at the detective. “We can’t . . . can we plan . . . ? I guess not, I mean . . .”

Sophie felt horrible for her old friend. She turned back to Detective Morris and said, “I think Cissy is wondering, will the family be able to plan a funeral for Mrs. Whittaker?”

“Not yet,” she said, her husky voice holding a neutral tone. “I’m sorry, but you’ll all have to just wait until we figure things out. Mrs. Whittaker’s body will not be released to her family until we are satisfied we have all we need.” She turned to Thelma. “But the scene has been cleared, Mrs. Earnshaw, so you can go back to your place.”

“Poor Vivienne!” Florence moaned. “She’d despise all this fuss.”

• • •

E
veryone had gone home. Sophie stood in the tiny kitchen of her grandmother’s upstairs suite looking out the window toward Belle Époque, wondering how everyone was coping. She desperately wanted to rush in and ease people’s suffering. That part of her personality had made both life and work difficult at times. She had tried to fix problems at the restaurant alone instead of using the resources her partners could offer simply because she
never
asked for help if she could avoid it. Nana told everyone that when Sophie was little, standing on a stool at her grandmother’s elbow, her favorite phrase was
I can do it myself!
when stirring a stiff batter.

“What are you thinking, my Sophie?” her grandmother said, from behind her.

“Truthfully?” she asked, turning and eyeing her nana, who had already changed into a nightie and slathered lotion on her face, though it was only about six thirty. “I was wondering why I have a sudden urge to try to figure out what happened to Vivienne Whittaker so everyone can begin to heal.”