Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery)

by Amanda Cooper

  He nodded. “And Dana Saunders . . . do you know her? She works at the bookstore. She wasn’t too fond of her, either.”

  “Dana didn’t like Vivienne Whittaker? Why is that?”

  “I don’t know, it was some stuff from a hundred years ago about Mrs. W. breaking her and Frank Whittaker up.”

  How odd that Dana hadn’t seen fit to mention that when she was talking about Vivienne Whittaker breaking up Francis and Belinda’s romance! But it did explain why she had sounded so sour when talking about Vivienne breaking up Francis’s love affairs. “How do you know all this?”

  He quirked a smile. “I listen. People don’t think teenage guys do, but . . . well, I do. If you’re gonna be a writer, you have to listen.”

  He was going to be a reporter someday, or an exposé writer.

  “So do you know anything about Gretchen Harcourt, or her husband, Hollis?”

  But the boy’s attention had drifted elsewhere by that point. Laverne was deep in a conversation with Nana and her two old friends, Helen and Annabelle, as Malcolm sat nearby sipping his tea and chatting with Horace Brubaker. Instead of answering Sophie’s question, Josh took the chance to scoot over to Cindy, who was making shy eyes at him. Sophie drifted over to the foursome of older ladies who sat in a semicircle, in time to hear Helen say, “That Thelma . . . she sure is in a heap of trouble.”

  Nana replied, “Just because she phoned in her suspicion that Francis did something to his mother, that doesn’t automatically mean she’s the guilty party!”

  Laverne grumbled, “I wouldn’t put anything past that woman. Nothing! The hell that she puts poor Gilda through . . . it’s too much!”

  “But surely she wouldn’t actually hurt anyone, would she? Not on purpose.” Annabelle, a soft-spoken and timid lady who was never seen without her knitting bag, making something soft and pink or blue for one of her innumerable great-grandbabies, looked horrified at the thought. She dropped a stitch, tsk-tsked to herself, and concentrated on picking it up.

  “I heard that they figured out the poison was in a cupcake, the very one that was made in their kitchens!” Helen interjected. “And just last week Thelma was saying the world would get along very nicely without the Whittaker family, and Vivienne in particular.”

  Nana, with a troubled look on her softly wrinkled face, shook her head. “I’ve known Thelma Mae almost my whole life. She can be cantankerous and downright impossible at times, but I have never known her to harm a soul, unless it was with a cutting word. There’s no reason to think the deadly cupcake was made in their kitchen.”

  “Who else could have done it?” Sophie asked, thinking aloud. “I’m not saying I think she did it, but I’m just wondering how many other folks could have done it.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past Florence. Those two never did get along!” Helen said.

  “Would you get along with the hussy who bedded your husband?” Laverne said.

  “You told me that story the other day,” Sophie said to Laverne. “But was it true? I mean . . . was it more than an accusation on Vivienne’s part?”

  “Who knows?” Nana said.

  “Who knows if it’s true? Vivienne accused Florence of it right there in the country club in front of all their friends!” Laverne said.

  “But that was a long time ago, right?” Sophie pointed out. “What happened after that?”

  “There was a lot of talk in Gracious Grove, I can tell you,” Laverne said. “I heard that Francis Senior bought Vivienne a big diamond ring soon after, and Florence and Jackson Whittaker separated.”

  Helen nodded and leaned forward. “Jackson Whittaker had a terrible temper and was a drinker and gambler. It wasn’t a good marriage from the start. He lost all his share of the Whittaker family money they made from the grocery stores, but they never did divorce.”

  Nana said, “I guess through the years and after both brothers died in that car crash the gossip has died down. Vivienne didn’t cut Florence out of her family’s life, anyway. You’d think she would have if the gossip was true.”

  “But Mrs. Earnshaw is really unhappy about Cissy marrying a Whittaker,” Sophie commented. “I guess she believes all the gossip. Phil sure seems angry about Cissy marrying Francis, too.”

  “I was terribly troubled when I heard someone saying it must be Phillip Peterson who did it,” Annabelle said. “He wasn’t even there that afternoon, I said. Imagine, blaming poor Cissy’s brother!”

  Annabelle didn’t want it to be anyone. Sophie sympathized, but if there was a murder, there was a murderer right there in sleepy, comfortable, wonderful Gracious Grove. “Why was this . . . this person saying it was Phil?”

  “Well, it was that trouble a few years back,” Helen said, trading glances with Nana. “I really shouldn’t say anything.”

  “Are you talking about the trouble between Phil and Francis?” Sophie had both Cissy’s and Phil’s view of the traffic stop that resulted in Phil’s legal troubles. What did others think?

  “Well . . . kind of,” Helen said.

  “And then there was something about him damaging Vivienne’s car, right?” Sophie asked.

  The women exchanged looks but stayed silent. Just then Sophie heard something banging in the kitchen. She dashed back and noticed a figure silhouetted in the glass insert of the kitchen door. She looked out the sidelight and saw, standing shivering, Gretchen Harcourt. She hurried to open the door. “Gretchen! What are you doing here tonight?”

  “I’ve been trying to call you for hours, but your phone just keeps going to message,” she griped, squeezing past Sophie into the kitchen and pulling her cashmere sweater close around her shoulders. “Gosh, it’s freezing out there! It’s May, for heaven’s sake. Supposed to be almost summer.”

  Sophie was tempted to say that it was May in upstate New York, so you had to expect the unexpected. It was not unheard of for there to be light snow showers in May. Where had Gretchen been living? “What can I do for you?” Sophie asked, her tone cold, not even willing to ask someone that rude in for a cup of tea.

  The young woman stiffened and crossed her arms over her body in a combative stance. She glared at Sophie, her face pale in the fluorescent light of the kitchen, and said, “I want you to tell Cissy Peterson that you’re not going to plan her bridal shower. It just isn’t right! I’m the maid of honor; it’s supposed to be my job!”

  “You and I are working together on it, right?” Sophie said, slowly, taking in how angry Gretchen was. The woman’s face was set in a pout. “Look, Gretchen, why is this such a big deal to you? Cissy knows what she wants, so why shouldn’t I help her get it? She wants a party like my Sweet Sixteen, and you weren’t even here then.”

  To her dismay Gretchen plunked down right there in the middle of the kitchen floor. “This wretched ole town! Of course I wasn’t here then! I grew up in Tuscaloosa and I’ve worked durned hard to make myself over as a northerner, but y’all are so . . . just so . . . aw, heck! You’re a bunch o’ crabby, stiff-necked, know-it-all Yankees!” Then she burst into tears.

  Chapter 12

  After getting the woman calmed down and sitting at the table with a hot cup of tea in her frozen fingers—Pearl helped soothe the weeping belle, coming to the rescue with a throaty purr and comforting “body kiss”—Sophie got the whole story. Gretchen Mayweather Harcourt, daughter of the South, had been trying to fit in up North for as long as she had been married to Hollis Harcourt. That was why the country club and all its purviews were so important.

  “Instead of trying to change, you should have realized that to most of us there is nothing so charming as a Southern accent. We find it disarming!” Sophie smiled across the table at her.

  Gretchen hugged Pearl and sniffed. “But y’all think we’re a bunch of dumb bunnies if we talk like this, dontcha?”

  “Some folks, maybe. But I’ve met people from all over, and there isn
’t an accent around that indicates anything about a person other than where they’re from,” Sophie said, with all sincerity.

  “Thank you for that! I’ve had a devil of a time tryin’ to change pretty much everything about me. Hollis’s momma, Marva Harcourt, says I sound like a hick.”

  “She’s rude to say that. I don’t pay attention to what rude people think.”

  Gretchen cocked her head to one side. “Y’know, you’re right.”

  “So we’ll work on the shower together,” Sophie said. “I do know what Cissy wants as far as the tea part of the shower and the colors, but you probably know a lot better than I do what to do about games and stuff like that.”

  Gretchen sighed heavily, the weight of the world on her narrow shoulders. “If this was one o’ my friends back home, I’d know exactly what she wants. But this is different!” She ruffled Pearl’s fur with agitated movements, and the elegant cat leaped down with a mrow of disapproval. She started grooming to right the flow of her luxurious fur. Again Gretchen sighed deeply. “Fact is, I’m not Cissy’s first choice; that woulda been Dana. She’d even of preferred you over me, no offense.”

  “None taken,” Sophie murmured, amused by Gretchen’s blundering impolitic remarks. “So why did you agree to do it?”

  “Hollis. Him’n Francis Whittaker . . . why, they’re thicker’n fleas on a redbone! Francis is gonna be a big-shot businessman. He’s got him a ten-year plan to make partner at Leathorne and Hedges. And my Hollis . . . he plans to be governor of New York one day. Or a senator. Or something. I don’t pay too much attention when his family starts talking politics, which means I don’t pay attention most of the time at family gatherings. Hollis is gonna start with a run at city council in Gracious Grove, and from there the sky’s the limit!”

  “He’ll have to get some hidden sex scandals first, though,” Sophie joked. Gretchen’s face paled and Sophie realized she had gone much too far. “I was joking, Gretchen, just a stupid comment about politicians,” she said, touching the other woman’s arm. “I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry!”

  Gretchen stared at her. “I swear, I do not get y’all’s sense of humor. As if!”

  “Speaking of city politics . . . you must know Belinda Blenkenship, right? The mayor’s wife?”

  Gretchen sniffed. “I know her.” Her shortness spoke volumes.

  “But you don’t like her.”

  “In my town we woulda called her lowlife white trash. No better’n she ought to be.”

  “That’s harsh.”

  “If you knew what I know . . .”

  “And what is that?”

  She looked conflicted, but then said, “She made a dead set at every man in this town. She only married old Blenkenship because she couldn’t find anyone else to make an honest woman of her after all the messin’ around she done. Hollis told me that.” A sly expression settled on her face and she leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Y’all know she hated Vivienne Whitaker, right?”

  Sophie nodded. “I’ve heard that Vivienne broke up her romance with Francis.”

  “Darn tootin’. She told a friend of mine that someone oughta put Vivienne out of her misery like a mad dog.”

  “Holy cow! That’s a little pointed,” Sophie replied.

  With a malicious grin, Gretchen said, “That’s just the kinda gal she is. Anyway, my Hollis, he’s gonna be mayor someday, then move on to state politics. Far’s I know.”

  “It’s an expensive game, though, politics. Does Hollis’s family have money?”

  If Gretchen noticed how indelicate it was to ask about someone’s financial situation, she didn’t flinch. “Enough to make a splash in Gracious Grove and Ithaca. But he’s gonna need more. Him and his daddy are gettin’ into real estate development with some o’ Papa Holly’s good-ole boys. Francis is gonna be their pet architect, he says.” She sighed. “It all sounds boring as heck! If I’d’a known Hollis was serious about politics, I woulda run in the other direction at the Southern Ladies’ League Cotillion.”

  Papa Holly. Why did that name . . . ah! Sophie remembered now that Vivienne had called the older man she was sitting with Holly. So that must have been Hollis Harcourt Senior. And they were arguing about Francis’s involvement in something, and now she found that Mr. Harcourt and his son were involved in the development that Francis was head architect on. Interesting. Gretchen had been at the engagement tea, but she couldn’t have had anything to do with the poisoning. Could she?

  “Does Mr. Harcourt know Vivienne Whittaker?” she said, fishing for more information.

  “Well, sure. They all belong to the country club, you know.”

  “Did they have any business together? Or was there anything between Mr. Harcourt and Francis Whittaker?”

  Gretchen stared at her. “I do not have a clue what y’all are talkin’ about!”

  From the lessening babble of voices in the tearoom, it seemed that the tea was winding down, but Laverne and Nana could handle it. Cindy and Laverne had already pledged to stay a few minutes after the meeting to tidy up. Sophie was interested in Gretchen’s take on the tragedy, and curious about one more thing. “After the tragedy, when you all were corralled here in the tearoom, I saw you texting someone while we were waiting for the police to interview us. Who were you texting, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Hollis, of course. I just wanted him to know I might be late.”

  It seemed like she was texting a lot more than that, but Gretchen seemed suddenly evasive, so Sophie left it alone for the moment. “What exactly happened, anyway? I haven’t been able to get an independent view of the tea.”

  Gretchen rolled her eyes. “It was boring, then it was awful. Old women are the most hateful . . .” She trailed off as Nana came into the kitchen.

  “Well hello, Gretchen. How are you doing, dear?” she asked, as she put a pitcher of milk back in the glass-doored refrigerator.

  “I’m very well, ma’am, thank you. And how are you holding up?” Her Southern accent was gone, erased by careful diction.

  “I’m fine.” Nana paused on the threshold, and glanced back and forth between the two of them. “I’ll just be in the tearoom with Laverne. A couple of the others will be coming through the kitchen and out the back door, Sophie, since they parked in back.”

  “Okay. Do you need any help?”

  “We’re fine. Josh is staying to help . . . the lure of Cindy, I think.”

  “I’m sure it didn’t take that. He’s a nice kid with good manners,” Sophie commented.

  “That he is.”

  At that moment Forsythe Villiers came through the door. He stopped as he caught sight of Gretchen. “Mrs. Harcourt, how divine to see you again!”

  Gretchen flipped her long hair back. “Why, hello there, Mr. Villiers. Fancy seeing you here. And how are you doing this fine evening?” There was a flirtatious note in her voice.

  “How do you two know each other?” Sophie asked.

  “Mr. Villiers is a member of the country club, of course,” she said, all of the snobby brittleness back in her tone.

  “When I moved here, my family insisted. And we are well connected in other social ways, are we not?” He dropped a wink. “Good evening, Sophie,” he continued, “and as for you, Mrs. Harcourt, I’ll see you online.”

  Sophie felt like an outsider in her own home, with undercurrents between the two visitors that she didn’t understand. Good-ole Southern gal or country club snob: Which was the real Gretchen?

  “You were saying that old women were the most hateful . . . and then you had to stop. Were you talking about the Mrs. Whittakers?”

  “Who else? I know y’all aren’t supposed to speak ill of the dead, but my granny said if that was so, and we couldn’t be nasty to one another when we’re alive, where did that leave us?”

  “True. Were the Whittakers behaving badly?”
/>   “Just some sniping back and forth.”

  “About what?”

  Gretchen shrugged. “I dunno. Something about money.”

  “Try to remember; what exactly was said?”

  “I tell you, I don’t recall! And then Mrs. Vivienne was asking what was in everything, putting up her nose like there was a funny smell in the room and she wasn’t sure which of us dealt it.”

  Sophie snickered, surprised that the old he who smelt it dealt it rhyme from childhood had come back in such a strange guise. She sobered, though, and asked, “What did you all eat? What was there?”

  Gretchen wrinkled her nose. “Why?” Sophie was silent for a moment, and Gretchen’s expression changed. She bounced up and down in her chair. “Oh! Are y’all snoopin’? Tryin’ to figure out whodunit?” Her eyes sparkled.

  “Do I look like the kind of person who would do that?” Sophie asked, rather than answering directly.

  Gretchen sighed. “Nah, I guess not. Sure would be a hoot, though, right? I mean, putting one over on that dumb ole Wally Bowman.”

  “You think Wally is dumb?” Sophie was surprised. She knew Wally from way back, and he was quiet but smart. It was easy to underestimate his kind of intelligence, though, Sophie supposed.

  “Dumb as a box o’ rocks. Why, any idiot can see that he’s holdin’ a candle bright as day for Cissy, but does he say anything? Nope. Suffers in silence instead. I just hate that let the better man win crap. Who says Francis is the better man?”

  Gretchen’s take on the dynamic between Wally and Cissy shocked Sophie. “Wally and Cissy? Really?” Maybe Sophie hadn’t been back in Gracious Grove long enough, nor had she been looking for the signs.

  “Yeah.” Gretchen tilted her head to one side, her eyes holding a far-off look. “I know I just said Wally’s dumb, but still . . . it’s romantic, don’t you think? My daddy used to sing a song to Momma . . . ‘Young love, first love,’” she warbled.

  “But Wally wasn’t her first love. Was he?”

  Gretchen gave her a look. “Boy oh boy, it’s true, then. You really were full of yourself as a kid and clueless about anyone else. That’s what Dana told me, but I didn’t believe her.”