Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery)

by Amanda Cooper

  “Vivienne seems to have had a history of breaking up Francis’s love affairs,” Sophie mused, eyeing Dana.

  “No comment,” Dana said sourly. She fluttered the pages of her book. “Cissy got along with her just fine—I don’t know how—but then, our little Cissy would be the perfect unquestioning wife for a man on the rise, wouldn’t she?”

  Dana looked down at her book and Sophie got the hint that the inquisition was over. “Is Cissy home? She still lives upstairs, right?”

  “Yeah, she’s up there. So is Francis.”

  “Good. Thanks, Dana.”

  Sophie knew she had to go back outside, down off the porch and around to the side to access the steps that ascended to Cissy’s converted apartment. She climbed the wooden steps and paused at the blue door, but then knocked. To her surprise it was Florence Whittaker who answered. She stared at Sophie blankly.

  “Hi, Mrs. Whittaker. I’m Sophie Taylor, Rose Freemont’s granddaughter.”

  “Oh, yes, the Taylor girl . . . come in!” She stepped back and Sophie entered. Mrs. Whittaker looked like she hadn’t slept, her sweep of dark hair in a tangle, and who could blame her? Her sister-in-law was dead and no matter how they had gotten along, it was still a shock. But as Sophie turned and regarded her, she wondered how much the two women had really disliked each other. Enough to kill? And if so, why now? Or had Florence Whittaker been the intended victim all along, and she knew it? How would that feel, if you had cheated death by so little, and someone else close to you had died in your place?

  So many questions, no answers. “Is Cissy available? I’d like to see her.”

  “She’s looking after my nephew right now. This has been such a terrible shock.” Her voice was hoarse, her tone despondent.

  “Aunt Flo, who is that? Is it the police? Have they found who did it?” Francis’s voice sounded thick with unshed tears. A soothing murmur followed . . . Cissy, no doubt.

  “No, Francis,” Mrs. Whittaker called out. “It’s just that Taylor girl, Sophie, here to talk to Cissy.”

  Cissy emerged from the next room and ran to Sophie, giving her a hug. “Oh Soph, it’s so nice to see you!” She turned to Florence and said, “I just want to talk to Sophie for a minute about poor Nana. We’re going to go down to the store porch. Can you get Francis a cup of coffee? And can you make him eat a few spoonfuls of soup? He hasn’t touched a thing, and I’m worried.”

  “I’ll make sure he eats, don’t you worry. You run along. That Thelma! What possessed her to tell the police that poor Francis killed his own mother? Your grandmother is her own worst enemy.”

  “I know, I know,” Cissy murmured.

  It sounded like old ground. People had probably been saying the same thing about Thelma Mae since she was a girl in pigtails, if she ever was. When they were all kids, Sophie’s older brothers used to tell her that Mrs. Earnshaw had sprung up out of the earth fully formed and breathing fire. The woman’s personality was such that it gave the young Sophie pause before she dismissed it as just her brothers’ idiocy.

  The two friends descended. When they got to the bottom of the steps, Cissy paused and took in a deep breath. She fished around in her little clutch purse for a piece of gum. “I know I shouldn’t say this, but I’m so grateful to be out of there for a few minutes!”

  “Don’t feel bad,” Sophie said. Cissy looked like she could use a break. “I saw a patisserie downtown that I really want to try while I’m in Gracious Grove. Can you come for a cup of coffee and a pastry?”

  “I don’t know,” Cissy said, looking back up the stairs. “Francis is in a bad state. He’s so upset he won’t sleep, won’t eat . . . I can’t even get him to talk.”

  “It won’t hurt if you come out. Maybe if you’re gone for a half hour he’ll sleep. His aunt looks like she can manage him.”

  Cissy shivered. “I’m surrounded by domineering old women.”

  “Come on; it’ll be good for you.”

  “Okay, I’ll go!” As they got in the car, Cissy pulled her phone out of her clutch and tapped in a message. “I just let Francis know where we’re going. He’s so frightened right now, afraid to let me out of his sight. But I can’t stand to be watched all the time, to be hemmed in and fussed over. Grandma did that after Mom died. Drove me nuts.”

  “What is he scared of?” Sophie asked, backing out of the drive.

  Cissy shrugged. “I don’t know. I feel like he’s worried about something but he won’t tell me what.”

  Maybe he believed he was the intended target, Sophie thought. Or Cissy! “Did your grandmother say why she tried to turn Francis in?”

  Cissy sighed. “She just kept saying he isn’t the man for me, and there was bad blood there. It goes back to the old days, I think. Grandma would never set foot in a Whittaker grocery store.”

  “But Mrs. Whittaker is only a Whittaker by marriage.”

  “I know. I’ve given up trying to make sense of Grandma’s vendettas. You know how she’s treated your nana. If she can hold a grudge over sixty years . . .” She sighed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect her of poisoning Vivienne.”

  Sophie pulled into the municipal parking lot closest to GiGi’s French Pastries.

  “You’ll like this place,” Cissy said, climbing out of the passenger side. “I know the owner. We both belong to the Gracious Grove Businesswomen’s Association.”

  As they stood in line waiting for their order, Cissy perked up, pointing to the far side of the bakeshop. “That’s the owner over there, at that table. I’d introduce you, but it looks like she’s busy.”

  She pointed to a mid-forties woman wearing a baker’s apron who was sitting at a table with a man in a suit, far from the hustle and bustle. Sophie’s eyes narrowed; she had seen that man the day before. He was one of the plainclothes police detectives who had swarmed Belle Époque. When she mentioned that to Cissy, her friend paled, but just shook her head when Sophie asked what she thought they were talking about.

  As they wove back through the crowded and noisy patisserie with their plates and cups, Sophie eyed the pair. The detective was showing the woman a series of photos. It had to be about the poisoned cupcake! The police had to be trying to track down who brought the cupcakes, every last one of them! Gilda didn’t seem to have a clue. Sophie’s stomach turned at the memory of the yellow frosting and crushed cake on the rug, and she averted her gaze.

  Once they were seated with a cappuccino and piece of mille-feuille to split, as well as a couple of hunks of baklava and a few palmiers, Sophie devoted herself first to tasting the pastries, which were delicious. The mille-feuille was flaky, the baklava intensely sweet. Cissy picked at her food and Sophie wondered if that was her usual way, or if it was because she was upset about everything that was going on.

  “I am so sorry about Vivienne. That poor woman! Francis must be in shock after such a sudden loss.”

  “He is. I wish Granny wouldn’t make things worse. Why does she always do that . . . make things worse for me?” Cissy started eating, her cheeks suffused with blotchy red and her eyes filling. She took a big bite of baklava and chewed, little flakes of phyllo dropping on the white tablecloth.

  Sophie watched her for a moment, then decided just to be as matter-of-fact as possible. “What on earth possessed her to call the police and tell them Francis did it?”

  “She’s never wanted me to marry Francis. She says—get this—that his family is low class.” She took another bite of baklava and then moistened her fingertip, picking up the flaky crumbs from her plate and licking her finger.

  “Is that all she has against him?”

  “What else could there be? Francis has done so well for himself. We’re all really proud.”

  “I was surprised to hear that he had become a successful architect. He seemed headed down the same road as Phil—no offense, Cissy.”

  “None taken,�
�� she said. No one knew Phil’s proclivity for flouting the law better than his sister. “Francis got tired of getting in trouble, his mom told me. He went to Cornell, majored in architecture, then landed a great job. Just a month ago or so he was given a huge promotion because he got an investment group that is developing a tract of land outside of GiGi to sign with Leathorne and Hedges for the architecture. Vivienne was so proud.” Her voice choked with emotion. The mother’s pride was now a thing of the past, and no one understood how that felt better than Cissy.

  “So how did he manage such a coup?” Sophie asked.

  Cissy shrugged and dipped one finger into the cappuccino foam. “I don’t know. He’s only told me the barest details. It’s going to be a big deal!”

  “What . . . are they putting a Walmart in downtown Gracious Grove?”

  “Right, like that would ever happen,” Cissy said, with a faint smile. “Houses? Stores? I honestly have no idea what it’s all about.” And couldn’t care less, from her tone.

  It was puzzling to Sophie that she knew so little about such a major part of her fiancé’s life. Shouldn’t she be passionately interested in the details?

  “How did you and Francis get together?” Sophie finally asked.

  Cissy took a long drink of her cappuccino and licked the foam from her upper lip. “We always knew each other, from when he and Phil used to hang out.”

  Sophie remembered Phil’s assertion that Francis’s mother made sure the buddies were split up. “Why did Phil and Francis stop hanging out with each other?”

  Cissy sighed and rolled her eyes. “Long story.”

  Curious, Sophie said, “I’ve got time.”

  “I keep forgetting that you haven’t been around GiGi for so long. It was a few years ago, when Francis was at Cornell. Phil claims that Francis and he were in business to make alcohol in his dorm room and sell it here in town. It sounds like something Phil would dream up, but Francis? He says it’s not true and I believe him over my brother any day. So Phil had moonshine in his pickup and Wally Bowman—he was just starting with the police force then, after college—pulled him over for a traffic stop. He had a brake light out, or something dumb like that. Typical Phil. Anyway, long story short, Wally busted him. Phil claimed he was moving the booze for Francis.”

  “Could that be true?”

  Cissy shook her head. “No way. You know what Phil is like . . . always in trouble. Francis had cleaned up his act and was doing well at Cornell. I always thought that Phil felt abandoned by his buddy and tried to set him up when he got caught with the booze. Anyway, the police went easy on him and charged him with just a misdemeanor. He spent thirty days in County and got off without a record.”

  Sophie ate the last palmier; how could she raise the possibility that Phil, angry at the family and not wanting Cissy to marry Francis, had killed Vivienne? Or maybe intended to kill Francis?

  Oblivious, Cissy stared off into space. “Can you do an all-white-and-yellow theme for my bridal shower tea party?” she asked, her voice strangely thick. “Vivienne would have liked that. Yellow was her favorite color.”

  “You got along with Vivienne?”

  Cissy nodded, one tear trickling down her cheek. “She was really kind to me.”

  Sophie briefly thought about what she’d learned regarding Vivienne breaking up her son’s romance with Belinda Blenkenship; she must have liked Cissy a lot, to be nice to her.

  “You know, just before the party yesterday she gave me a box and told me it was a special present just for me and that I should tuck it away, then open it in private. She wanted to know what I thought about it.”

  “Have you opened it?”

  “Oh, no . . . it makes me cry just thinking about it. She wasn’t supposed to give me anything until the wedding shower! She was so sweet to me.”

  “I’m so sorry, Cissy, really,” Sophie said, putting one hand over her friend’s. “We’ll make sure the color scheme is yellow and white.” She shuddered, remembering the yellow cupcake frosting smeared around Vivienne’s mouth; how was she going to go on with that image in her head? Especially if the cupcake was indeed what killed her.

  Cissy turned her hand palm up and squeezed. “I’m so glad you’re home, Sophie. I don’t have a lot of friends, and we always were . . . friends, I mean.”

  Sophie squeezed back, tears welling in her own eyes. Maybe she had underestimated what a good friend Cissy could be. “I’m glad to be home. I don’t have many friends either. There was never time, in New York. I had lots of acquaintances and work buddies, but not many friends.” She took a deep breath. “I feel like I’ve been looking for something for a long time and now that I’m back in Gracious Grove I’ll find it.”

  There was a watery pause, and both young women sniffed and smiled at each other through the tears.

  “Who do you think did this awful thing?” Cissy said, reaching into her purse for a tissue. She blew her nose daintily.

  “You know everyone a lot better than I do, Cissy,” Sophie protested.

  “I know, but I just can’t imagine it. To purposely kill someone? I think it was some kind of dreadful mistake.”

  “Maybe.” How did poison accidentally get into a cupcake? This was no mistake, but if Cissy needed to tell herself that, then Sophie was not going to interfere.

  “Can I ask you a huge favor?” Cissy asked, eyeing her across the table.

  “I’ll try,” Sophie replied, loath to commit without knowing what she was getting herself into.

  “It’s about Granny; she can be a royal pain in the butt, but she means well.”

  “I know.”

  “One thing she has just been so upset about over the years is that your grandmother never asked her to join the Silver Spouts. It’s kind of like an honor in Gracious Grove to be asked to join, you know.”

  “You know how your grandmother has always been toward Nana,” Sophie said.

  “But it’s time those two mended their fences, don’t you think?” She looked off into the distance and said, her tone sad, “Don’t you think life’s too short?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “No, I mean, life’s too short to hold a grudge for so long.”

  “I get you.” And she really did. But there was no calculating Thelma Mae Earnshaw. Cautiously, Sophie said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Cissy stood and meticulously calculated the total and tip, and laid a ten-dollar bill down on her plate. “Vivienne’s death is tragic, and just when we were going to be happy.” Cissy paused, staring down at the table, her eyes watering again. “I think it was just an accident.”

  Sophie wasn’t going to argue with her. “I’ll drive you back to the bookstore.”

  “No, you go on with your day,” Cissy said, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. She held her head high and looked up and down the pedestrian mall as they exited the patisserie. “I could use a little fresh air. I’d like to walk and remember that it’s spring, and I’m getting married in four weeks!”

  “And I’m going to make sure you have the most wonderful bridal shower tea party in the world, no matter how Gretchen interferes. Yellow and white and pretty.”

  • • •

  Her dark eyes twinkling, Laverne slipped back into the kitchen of Auntie Rose’s.

  “Well?” Rose said, her gaze fastened on her old friend. Laverne had gone over to Belle Époque, supposedly to help Gilda close up.

  “Well! I’ve got news.” After explaining that Thelma had been delivered home by the police, but had gone directly upstairs to lie down, Laverne said, “There were some store-bought buttercream-frosted cupcakes in the fridge at Belle Époque, just like Gilda said.”

  “Were . . . meaning that there aren’t any there now?”

  “Police took them for evidence,” Laverne said. “But listen to this . . . Gilda swears up and down that
when the police took those cupcakes away, the container was full, not a single one gone out of it.”

  “Which means that the poisoned cupcake was probably brought in by whoever intended to do Vivienne in.”

  “If it was Vivienne Whittaker who was the target,” Laverne said.

  Rose nodded, thoughtfully. “What about the container the red-velvet cupcakes were brought in?”

  “That is a good question,” Laverne said, her face wrinkled in thought. “One was empty and in the garbage, according to Gilda. But there’s some confusion there. The way she remembers it, the red-velvet cupcakes looked homemade, not store bought, and yet she saw one of those cheap grocery store clamshell containers with a label saying RED-VELVET CUPCAKES.”

  “Hmm. But we don’t know who made them or who brought them.”

  “No, we do not,” Laverne said. “Do you think it matters?”

  “Well, we don’t think she ate a red-velvet cupcake, right? If that’s so, then whoever brought the red-velvet cupcakes probably wasn’t the murderer. In any case, we’ll have to find out who brought them,” Rose said.

  “We surely will. Anything we can dig up will help.”

  Chapter 10

  Sophie picked up a newspaper from a box outside GiGi’s French Pastries, then went back to the SUV in the parking lot across the street. She sat at the wheel and watched Cissy walk away, window shopping at the gift stores along the pedestrian mall, then glanced down at the newspaper. The headlines blared ANNEXATION PLANS IN THE WORKS FOR GG, TWO ARRESTED IN KICKBACK SCHEME and CITY TENDER PROCESS CALLED INTO QUESTION below the fold, but above it was a full half page headlined by MURDER OF LOCAL SOCIALITE CALLED “TERRIBLE TRAGEDY.”

  There was a huge photo attached, and Sophie was reminded that Vivienne Whittaker had been in the tearoom before her death with a gentleman . . . what did she call him? Sophie couldn’t remember. But they were arguing, and she seemed upset; she said something about her son being the only important thing. Sophie read the story.

  “According to reliable sources, Vivienne Whittaker, clubwoman and leading light in many local charitable concerns, was poisoned at a private event at Belle Époque Inn and Tearoom.” The story went on to name those at the event, and even named the poison used, cyanide, before giving a history of her life and charitable involvements.