But that woman . . . she wouldn’t be too logical. Women, except for Thelma herself, just weren’t. Maybe she would believe an anonymous note, or a whispered phone call. A thrill shot through Thelma as she remembered the old mystery movies she loved, like Dial M for Murder, or Strangers on a Train . . . a black-and-white movie, her in a glamorous fedora and trench coat whispering in the phone receiver that so-and-so ought to be looked at more closely because they had dark secrets to hide.
She’d do it. She got up suddenly, knocked the plastic basin and water sloshed all over the floor. Darn it! She’d have to make sure Gilda cleaned that up first thing in the morning, but right now she had a phone call to make.
• • •
Purring awoke Sophie. She opened one eye to find Pearl staring into her face, blue eyes set in a chocolate mask and almost crossed with the intensity of her stare. The sun was already up, and so should she be.
“Hey, Pearlie-Girlie, Nana’s up, right? And you’re my wake-up call?” The cat purred and murmured something, then jumped off the bed and headed downstairs with a soft thump-thump-thump. Sophie had stayed up late trying to figure out how Vivienne Whittaker had been killed and who would have done such an awful thing. She felt enormous sympathy for Francis, losing a mother like that. He and Cissy would bond even more now, perhaps, with the mutual loss of parents to link them.
After a shower, some hair and makeup fussing and a cup of coffee drunk while she did all those things, she descended to find Laverne and Nana communing over tea in the kitchen.
“It’s about time you made your star appearance,” Laverne said, tilting her head for a cheek kiss. It was a greeting almost twenty years old, a private joke between her and her godmother.
She kissed both women good morning and poured a cup of tea out of the big urn on the stove. “So what’s on tap for today?”
The two friends exchanged glances.
“After yesterday, we weren’t sure what you wanted to do,” her grandmother said.
“What do you mean? I’m going to help here, and plan Cissy’s bridal shower.” She told them about the weird phone call between her and Cissy the night before.
“Things may be a little different now, though,” Nana said. “Wally Bowman showed up here first thing this morning and told us some news.”
Had they found the killer so quickly? “What’s up?”
“They got an anonymous phone call last night. Someone told them something very interesting. The caller said that Francis had been seen in Ithaca last week asking someone about undetectable poisons.”
Sophie stared, open-mouthed. “Francis? But . . . but . . . why would he want to kill his own mother? That’s horrible!”
“Good lord, honey, where on earth have you been hiding?” Laverne asked. “There are a hundred-and-one reasons to kill someone, even your mother. Maybe she has a fat insurance policy on her. Maybe she knew something he was doing that he oughtn’t have. Maybe she disapproved of his upcoming marriage and was trying to stop it, or maybe—”
“Okay, okay! You watch too many crime shows. Still . . . I just can’t see Francis killing his mother.”
“No, I agree,” Nana said.
Just then they heard a throaty motor roar up to Belle Époque next door, then stop.
“Wonder what’s going on?” Sophie wandered to the kitchen window, which looked over on the inn next door. She watched for a moment, and gasped as she saw a sight no one could ever have expected.
“What’s wrong, Sophie?” both older women chimed.
“They’re . . . good heavens! They’re arresting Mrs. Earnshaw!”
Chapter 8
“What?” Nana sprang to her feet with a swiftness that belied her age and hustled to the window. “What do they think they’re doing?”
“I don’t know,” Sophie said, giving up her spot so her grandmother could see. “But I’m going to find out.” She raced to the front door and then outside. This was getting to be a habit, one she’d just as soon break.
A police officer with a grim expression had Thelma Mae’s arm in a light grip. “Please, Mrs. Earnshaw,” he pleaded of the elderly woman, “don’t make this any harder!”
“Billy Anderson, you ought to be ashamed,” Thelma wailed, “arresting a woman the same age as your grandma!”
Sophie, alarmed, dashed toward them, hands out. “What’s going on? Why is Mrs. Earnshaw being arrested?” It was too ridiculous and shocking a statement even to believe, but as he guided her down the path toward his cruiser, what else could she say?
“Miss, please go back to your home. There’s nothing to see here.”
At that moment Gilda Bachman, Thelma’s long-time employee, trotted out of Belle Époque weeping. “Sophie, what are we going to do?” she wailed, wringing her hands. “They’re arresting Thelma!”
The police officer, a fresh-faced fellow of about twenty-three, was pink with agitation as he gently tried to convince Mrs. Earnshaw to sit in the backseat of the police cruiser. “Ma’am, we are not arresting Mrs. Earnshaw,” he said over his shoulder to Gilda. “She’s coming to police headquarters to . . . to help us in our investigation.”
Gilda wailed even louder and put both hands to her head. “No! I know what that means. You’re gonna get her down there, torture her into a confession, then throw her in the hole!”
The young officer rolled his eyes. “Good grief!”
Sophie took a deep breath and grabbed Gilda’s arm, feeling her trembling all through her body. “Calm down, Gilda. Officer, Mrs. Earnshaw is in frail health and clearly very upset. Why don’t we go back to Belle Époque and talk about this?”
“I’m sorry, miss,” he said, and he genuinely looked like he’d rather be anywhere but there, his cheeks burning red with embarrassment and his gaze darting around to eye the neighbors out on their lawns watching the drama unfold. “I was told to bring Mrs. Earnshaw down to police headquarters and that’s what I’m going to do. None of this would have been troubling except she told me she wasn’t going and threw a plate of flapjacks at my head. Now, I’m not going to arrest her, but you see my dilemma? If I report what she did, she could be arrested for assaulting an officer of the law.”
“But you don’t want to do that,” Sophie guessed, noticing the sticky residue of syrup on his otherwise pristine uniform. The sugary smell was intensifying in the warm spring air.
His face got even pinker as he shook his head. “No ma’am,” he said, with feeling. “Do you have any clue what kind of ribbing I’d take for arresting an old lady for assault with a plate of pancakes? I’d never live it down.”
“Mrs. Earnshaw, please don’t worry,” Sophie said, approaching the inn owner, who stood by the open cruiser door, tears rolling down her lined cheeks. She put her arm over the woman’s shoulders. “This police officer says he only wants to take you to police headquarters to ask you some questions. Do you know what this is about?”
She shook her head, but it was clear from the way her glance slid away and her shoulders trembled that she did. Sophie turned to Gilda. “Do you know what this is about?”
The woman shook her head. Sophie turned back to Mrs. Earnshaw. “Ma’am, I think you should go with him, but . . . can I call Cissy for you? I’ll make sure she meets you at the police department, and . . . and if you want a lawyer . . .” Sophie calmed her mind and sorted through all the scrambled thoughts. “You don’t have to talk to them, that I know. She doesn’t have to talk to anyone, does she officer?”
“No, ma’am, she doesn’t have to talk to anyone. But if they only want to clear up a misunderstanding, it might be better for her if she does.” He shrugged. “It’s your call, ma’am,” he said, looking down at Mrs. Earnshaw.
Her watery eyes squinted, and she glared around. “All right, I’ll go. Seems like no one is on my side, anyway, I may as well get it over with. Bring on the rubber hoses and waterboard,
Billy,” she said, as she climbed into the cruiser with some difficulty.
The officer shut the door gently and turned back to Sophie. “They really do just want to ask her some questions.” He paused and glanced over to the cruiser, where the woman sullenly folded her arms over her bosom. “I think, anyway.”
“I’m calling her granddaughter to meet her there.”
As the cruiser drove away, Sophie took Gilda’s arm. The woman was in her sixties, but appeared older. She wore a matronly dress and her frizzy hair was confined atop her head by a neon-pink scrunchie. “Come and have a cup of tea with Nana and Laverne,” she said, curiosity burning in her gut. Despite Gilda shaking her head, Sophie thought that she knew something, and they would pry it out of her with tea and sympathy.
Laverne and Nana had been watching the proceedings from the tearoom windows, and both hustled out to help a shaky Gilda back to the kitchen. Gilda knew her way around at Auntie Rose’s. Over the years she and Laverne had struck up a friendship, and Gilda even attended Laverne’s church now.
The odd little train made its way back to the kitchen and soon the two women had Gilda ensconced in a sunny window seat with a cup of strong tea and a lemon cranberry muffin. It appeared to Sophie that Gilda was enjoying being at the center of a drama, but there was no doubt she was shaken. Sophie went into the tearoom and made a quick call to Cissy. There was no answer, not that strange since she was probably comforting her fiancé, who, after all, had just lost his mother. She called Peterson Books ’n Stuff, got Dana and told her what had happened to Cissy’s grandmother.
“You’re kidding, right? They’ve arrested Granny Thelma?”
“Not arrested, Dana, taken in for questioning.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Of course there is! But she wasn’t too happy about it and refused to go at first.”
“I’ll bet that’s a big fat understatement,” the other woman said, her tone wry. Everyone in Gracious Grove knew about Thelma Mae Earnshaw’s temper. “Why are they questioning her? What could she possibly know?”
“The death did happen in her tearoom,” Sophie said, chewing on that thought. Did she know more than she had told the police at first? It was possible. With Mrs. Earnshaw you could never be sure. “They were bound to want to talk to her more after some investigation.”
“True. I’ll call Cissy and have her call you, okay?”
“Don’t worry about having her call me, just make sure she gets to the police station as quickly as she can!” Sophie returned to find that the three women were deeply into the topic. Her grandmother brought her up to speed.
Her expression perturbed, she said, “Gilda tells us that Thelma, in her infinite wisdom, decided to turn in Francis Whittaker by calling the police anonymously last night and telling them that he had poisoned his mother.”
Sophie plunked down in a kitchen chair. “She called the police anonymously from her own phone? Didn’t she realize they’d know who phoned?”
Laverne bit her lip, but a snicker escaped.
“It is not funny, Laverne Hodge,” Gilda said, her lined face twisted in anguish.
“Of course it isn’t, dearie,” Nana said, shooting her friend and employee a quelling look. Laverne settled down, but there was still a glimmer of mischief in her dark eyes.
“Why does she think Francis did it?” Sophie asked.
The woman sighed and stared out the window, over to Belle Époque. “Who on earth understands that woman’s mind? I’ve known her for years and I still don’t.”
“Does she really know something, or did she see something?”
“I don’t think so. She can jump to a conclusion faster than a cat can jump on a mouse.”
Laverne took Gilda’s hand and patted it. “I don’t know how you put up with everything Thelma puts you through!”
Gilda’s eyes shone with gratitude at the kind words. “We manage most of the time, but . . .” She paused and guiltily looked around. “I just feel so bad when she makes me do something to you folks.”
“What do you mean, do something?” Sophie asked.
“Well, like the phony ad saying Auntie Rose’s was closed for renovations.”
“That was you?” Nana asked, her lined face expressing astonishment. That had to be acting, because Nana had suspected all along who was behind the dirty-tricks campaign, and in fact her eyes twinkled with humor.
Gilda nodded. “And the misdirected teapot shipment, and the rumors of food poisoning and . . . I’ve been so awful and you’re being so nice to me!” She broke down and wept.
Nana and Laverne exchanged looks over her head. “So why do you do it, dearie?” Nana asked.
“I have to!” Gilda whined. “She keeps threatening to fire me. Who else would give me a job at my age?” She was silent for a long moment, still staring out the window, the tears drying on her capillary-threaded cheeks. “She said she was going to make me a partner. Do you know what that would mean to me? To actually own a piece of something?”
The phone rang and Sophie got up to answer it. It was Dana Saunders.
“So I got ahold of Cissy and she’s over at the police station now, but I thought I’d let you know some stuff I found out.”
“Cool! What’s up?” Sophie was surprised at Dana’s help—they had never been close friends—but glad to have it.
“So listen to this: The cops think it was a poisoned cupcake that killed Vivienne Whittaker.”
Sophie was stunned. “A poisoned cupcake?” She remembered the platter of cupcakes; death by red velvet? “Do they . . . oh my gosh! Is that why they’ve asked Mrs. Earnshaw in for questioning?”
“Wouldn’t that just be too fabulous if it was true, if Thelma had finally gone off her rocker and did someone in?” The malice in Dana’s voice dripped like the poison they spoke of.
“I wouldn’t want to see Mrs. Earnshaw up for murder,” Sophie said, reprimand in her voice.
“Careful now, or you’ll start climbing up on that priggish pony again,” Dana warned. “You’ve not had to live in the same town as that woman. Do you know she had the police investigate me because she said I must be stealing from the bookstore?”
“Really?” Sophie was appalled. “What is up with her?”
“I don’t know, but whatever it was happened too long ago for even the dinosaurs to remember.”
“Dana, you know a lot about local gossip . . . do you know anything about Belinda Blenkenship? The girl who married the mayor?”
She chuckled, a throaty warm sound. “Do I? Oh yes, I surely do. Gracious Grove’s own local Miss New York State.”
“She’s a beauty contestant?”
“Among other things.”
“I was surprised the police let her go the way they did,” Sophie said.
“Doesn’t surprise me. There was a hubbub locally when she and Mayor Mike married, and he ordered several blog posts and gossip sites taken down over his dear little wifey. He sued a couple of others who refused to retract, including one shock jock on satellite radio. They know darn well they better handle her with kid gloves or His Honor will come down on them.”
“What’s so controversial about her?” Sophie was trying to get at the implication behind Dana’s among other things remark.
“Let’s see . . . where to start? Her title was taken away from her when a sex tape emerged. She was caught in a cocaine den but was released for lack of evidence. She told the cops that she had been tricked into going there, and I guess when she batted her long lashes they just believed her and let her go.” Dana paused, and then said, with great emphasis, “Oh, and she despised Vivienne Whittaker with a white-hot passion.”
“What? Why?”
“She was one of the legions of dumb blondes our own Francis ‘dated’—and I hope you can see the air quotes around that word—and who Vivienne chased off fro
m her little precious. Word on the streets was, she was pregnant when Frankie broke up with her, but I can’t confirm that.”
“Pregnant with Francis’s baby?” Sophie blurted out.
“So I’ve heard, but rumor is . . . oops, customer . . . I gotta go,” she said.
“You can’t leave it at that!”
“I’ll tell you more later, but I really have to go.”
Dial tone. Her head spinning at what she had heard, Sophie went back to the table to find the women still talking over what had happened the day before.
“So, you and Thelma were setting stuff on platters,” Laverne summed up for Sophie’s sake. “But then everyone came into the kitchen and began helping willy-nilly?”
Gilda nodded, misery and guilt in her eyes. “All of ’em at once! I guess someone heard me just mentioning quietly that I didn’t have any help. Thelma says she does it all, but she’s usually just telling me what to do then going off to look out the window.”
“But you didn’t see anything?”
She looked down, hesitated, but then nodded. “I did see something. I saw Phil pour something into the fruit punch.”
“Phil? When was he there?” Laverne asked.
“Before the party began,” Sophie said, watching Gilda’s face. Nana turned to stare at her, but Sophie didn’t elaborate.
The woman nodded. “That’s right. Thelma knew he was there, but she was off doing something, or getting ready. He didn’t know I saw him, but I was peeking at him out the door of the back bathroom. Thelma is always blaming me for food missing, but I think Phil sneaks in and takes it, so I watch him every chance I get. That’s when I saw him lookin’ around and pouring something out of a bottle into the punch bowl.”
“Did you tell the police about him being in there and what he did?” Sophie asked.
“Turn in little Philly, Thelma’s grandson? Might as well slit my own throat,” the woman grumbled.
“And he actually put something in the punch?” Nana asked.
Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) Page 9
