Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery)

by Amanda Cooper

  “I’ll see if I can do anything to correct that.” Sophie glanced around. “Wish I had time to look through the cookbook section.” She paused, as a wave of weariness passed over her. “What I really wish is that this whole thing had never happened.”

  “I’m sure Francis is with you on that,” Dana replied.

  Sophie paused, then said, “Dana, I heard that you and Francis were a couple once, but that Vivienne split you up. Is that true?”

  “Technically. We did date for a while. Are you asking if I had a motive to kill Vivienne?”

  Sophie smiled. “You weren’t even there, at the engagement tea, so no, not really.”

  “It’s true that old Viv split us up. She never failed to point out to Frankie that I couldn’t help his career in any way. But my head was pretty messed up at that point. I was a party-hearty girl, and when Francis drifted out of my life, I don’t think I even noticed.”

  That explained that. “I guess I’d better call Gretchen and try to meet up with her. She sure seems to be in the know with a lot of folks at Leathorne and Hedges,” Sophie said, explaining about the Silver Spouts meeting the night before, and Forsythe Villiers and SuLinn Miller.

  “Watch out for Forsythe,” Dana said, her tone and expression suddenly serious.

  “Why? He seemed nice enough when we talked.”

  “Oh, he seems that way, all right, but he’s a snake in the grass. Watch out, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “Come on, you have to explain more than that.”

  “No, I don’t; just know I met him in questionable circumstances once, and I’ll say no more. You’ll see. Now scoot, I have some serious reading to catch up on.”

  Chapter 15

  Outside, Sophie sat down on the front stoop and pulled out her phone, calling Gretchen’s number. The girl answered.

  “It’s Sophie Taylor, Gretchen. Cissy wants to go ahead with the shower as planned despite the tragedy, so there’s no time to lose. Do you have a half hour?” There was silence for a moment, but Sophie could hear the other girl’s breath puffing into the phone, and she mumbled something. “Gretchen?” Sophie prompted.

  “Well, sure. Okay. Where would you like to meet?”

  So, no invitation to Gretchen’s home. “I had coffee with Cissy downtown at a little patisserie the other day. How about there?”

  “I know where you mean. Give me half an hour to . . . to take care of some things.”

  Sophie agreed. In the meantime, she called home to talk to Nana. “I’m still working on the wedding shower tea for Cissy,” she explained, telling her grandmother that she was meeting with Gretchen.

  “Why didn’t you have her come here?”

  “I didn’t think of that. But I wanted to go downtown to check out this kitchen shop Dana Saunders told me about, anyway, so I’m on my way.” Something else had occurred to her, and she asked, “Nana, you’ve known Gilda Bachman a long time, right?”

  “Well, yes. I’ve known her a long time, but I don’t know her well. Laverne knows her better than I do, especially since Gilda started going to the church Laverne attends.”

  “Do you think she would ever do something strange?”

  “Like poisoning Vivienne Whittaker to get her boss in trouble? Or to get back at the Whittakers for being rude to her in the past in a million little ways? Honey, I’ve been on this earth for a long time and I know better than to put anything past anyone.”

  So it was possible that Gilda may have done something, either for the motives her grandmother mentioned, or one more obscure. “I’ll be back in an hour or two, early enough to help with that busload you have late this afternoon.”

  “Thanks honey. Don’t get into any trouble, and don’t ask the wrong people the wrong questions. Or even the right people the wrong questions!”

  Once again her grandmother had proved to be a touchstone of good sense in a weird world. Sophie retrieved the SUV and drove off toward the center of town. Libby Lemon’s was a revelation. She had been in lots of kitchen stores, especially as she was stocking In Fashion, but she never expected to find one in Gracious Grove, nor had she ever been in one that combined professional-grade kitchen equipment with the cute, the handmade and the extraordinary from around the world. She wandered through the kitchenware emporium, enjoying handling all the tools of her chosen trade. Sophie soon had a basketful of citrus zesters, pasta cutters, a gnocchi board, a cupcake corer and icing sugar stencils. Some handmade kitchen towels that looped over drawer pulls called out to her—handy and pretty—since they had teacups and teapots all over them. She also checked Cissy’s listing on their wedding registry, and added a practical set of three graduated sizes of springform pans to the pile at the cash register.

  She turned around to check out the last aisle, which had paper goods, like fancy cupcake papers and sleeves, and saw Belinda Blenkenship browsing the retro aisle that had baking dishes in funky 1950s colors. It was too good an opportunity to miss.

  Sophie hustled over and browsed the same aisle, “accidentally” bumping into her. “Oh, I’m sorry, I just . . . oh! I know you.” She tempered her expression to one of appropriate sadness. “You were at the engagement tea the other day, the one where Vivienne Whittaker died!”

  The young woman’s dark eyes widened. “Y-yes, I was there.”

  “I hope you’re doing okay?”

  “I . . . I’m fine, thank you very much.” She was dressed in a pastel skirt suit, pale mauve, over a patterned blouse with lilacs strewn over it. Her blonde pouf of hair was topped by a pillbox hat, and she clutched a yellow purse. The color scheme was a little Easter egg and a lot 1950s homebody.

  “I understand congratulations are in order,” Sophie soldiered on, “for your marriage to the mayor. How wonderful!” The young woman’s expression was one of fear and her gaze darted this way and that, like she was looking for an escape hatch. “Oh, by the way, my name is Sophie Taylor,” she said, sticking her hand out. “My grandmother owns the tearoom you were taken over to.”

  “Oh. Yes.” Belinda brightened. “I liked that tearoom better than the other one. It was prettier.”

  “You should come for tea one day.” Sophie was starting to think this was a waste of time and actually feel sorry for the girl, but she had a purpose. “It must be exciting to be married to the mayor, right? All those formal parties and luncheons, kind of like being the First Lady of Gracious Grove!” Sophie was swinging for the fences, hoping her instincts were right and Belinda saw herself as a modern-day Jackie Kennedy.

  “Do you think so?” she asked, pathetically eager. “I want to be a credit to Gracious Grove, you know, and to do a good job.”

  So she saw being the mayor’s wife as a job; interesting. “Your husband is a lucky man,” Sophie said. “He must be popular. My godmother says he runs unopposed almost every time, except this last time. I guess Oliver Stanfield ran against him in the last election. I wonder why?”

  “Oh, it was just a misunderstanding. Mikey went and had a talk with Oliver and he withdrew.”

  “But he said there was a family reason?”

  She colored. “Mikey said he reminded Oliver that his son was in jail, and that wouldn’t look good to the town for the mayor to have a son in jail.”

  Hmm . . . blackmail. Lovely quality in a mayor. She bit back her first response, which would have been that Mikey ought to watch what skeletons he had in his own closet before rattling those in someone else’s, and instead she said, “That was so smart! I’m sure Mr. Stanfield appreciated the warning.”

  “Mikey says that sometimes you just have to be honest with people and warn them when they’re about to do something stupid, like talk about something they ought not, or do something that is bad for their friends.”

  Sounded faintly ominous. “So does he know Vivienne? Is that why you were at the engagement tea?”

  She looked nervou
s and picked a tea towel off the rack, a completely impractical tea towel that was glitzed up with beads and embroidery. “Do you think Cissy Peterson would like things like this for her shower?”

  She just didn’t seem bright enough to pull off the cupcake switcheroo necessary to kill Vivienne Whittaker. Or was she cleverly hiding intelligence behind a facade of stupidity? In any case, she seemed to be avoiding the question. “Who did invite you to the tea, Belinda?”

  “Uh, I don’t remember.”

  “Oh. Francis Whittaker told me he did, but maybe he misspoke.”

  She looked relieved. “Yes, that’s it, it was Francis Whittaker! He came to see us at the house once. Mike and him and friends.”

  Mike Blenkenship, Francis Whittaker and “friends.” “So you and Cissy and Gretchen must all get along well, right? I mean, you’re almost the same age, have a lot in common . . .” Sophie let that trail off as Belinda’s face held a confused expression.

  “I don’t know Cissy very well, but Gretchen doesn’t like me much. I don’t know why.”

  That confirmed the guess she’d made based on the chilly exchange in the tearoom after the murder. Sophie said, “You should definitely get those tea towels. I’d buy a half dozen if I were you. Cissy will love them!”

  The mayor’s young wife lunged at the remaining ones on the peg and bundled them in her arms. “Thank you so much! I just didn’t know, and it’s always best to get advice when you don’t know, right? Excuse me now. I’ll go buy these.”

  For a second Sophie felt bad for suggesting the hideously impractical tea towels, but in the grand scheme of things it didn’t matter much. Everyone got gifts they regifted or quietly donated to charity. But the test had served its purpose; Belinda was the kind of girl who could be depended upon to do exactly what you told her to do. That was probably how she had been coerced into making a sex tape and why she’d ended up at a drug den. Belinda would be a useful pawn in someone’s scheme, Sophie thought, following her to the checkout. As she lined up behind her, she said, “So, what did you take to the shower . . . what food, I mean?”

  Belinda whirled, her eyes wide. “Uh, I don’t remember. Gotta go! Ta-ta!” She grabbed her bag and exited swiftly.

  Couldn’t remember? Interesting. Sophie took her bags to the SUV and stowed her purchases in the back. As she locked up, Sophie noticed Gretchen on a street corner deep in a conversation with Forsythe Villiers. Sophie was about to start over to meet her, but the conversation evidently took a serious turn and the two embraced. Not hugged . . . embraced. It was more personal and lasted too long for a casual, friendly hug. The gentleman then strolled off down the street, hands in his trouser pockets, his fedora jauntily tipped to one side. He disappeared into an old brick repurposed office building.

  Trouble in paradise? Sophie wondered. Did this mean Gretchen was tired enough of Hollis’s political ambitions that she had embarked on an affair, or was it just a basically harmless but a little too cuddly flirtation? Dana’s warning about Forsythe echoed in her memory; a snake in the grass, she called him. That implied that he would strike out when one least expected it. But how? And why?

  She headed toward the patisserie wondering how to handle what she had seen. She got a table for them, and when Gretchen entered, looking adorable in a pale-blue jacket over skinny jeans and a white blouse, she waved to her.

  “Well, hey there, Sophie,” Gretchen said, bending over and giving her a quick, brief “girlfriend” hug. She plunked down in the seat opposite Sophie and looked around. “Now, what to have that’s totally bad for me? I’m ravenous.”

  “Talking to Forsythe probably made you that hungry,” Sophie said, watching the young woman. “He does seem to specialize in arch drollery, which can be so tiring!”

  Gretchen cocked her head to one side. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “What do I mean about Forsythe? I just saw you two on the street hugging. I assumed you’d just had lunch with him or . . . or something.” Gosh, she was no good at this. She hadn’t wanted to make it sound accusatory, because . . . because she just didn’t.

  “Yes, we . . . well, we didn’t have lunch, we just bumped into each other and were talking.”

  “Oh.” She couldn’t very well say what it had looked like, and she didn’t want to get into it, so she just dropped the subject. “So, let’s grab a coffee and some pastries. I tried a few things here with Cissy, and now I want something different, something gooey and chocolaty!”

  “Sure. Uh . . . Forsythe and I . . . we’re just friends, you know.”

  Sophie glanced over at the worried young woman. “Okay. Don’t sweat it.” She paused, but then said, “I ran into Belinda Blenkenship at Libby Lemon’s just a few minutes ago. She seemed so out of place at the engagement tea the other day, but she says Francis invited her.”

  “He did not!” Gretchen snapped. “As if he would invite that white trash—” She shut up then, and shook her head. “I don’t know who invited her, but it couldn’t have been Francis.”

  “She wouldn’t have just shown up out of the blue. Maybe she’s friends with Cissy?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Gretchen said, retreating to frosty politeness.

  Time to let it go. After sharing a slab of brownie and sipping their coffees, Sophie took a notebook out of her purse and laid it on the table in front of her. “We know the color scheme of the shower now; Cissy wants it yellow and white.” She shuddered, the memory of the yellow icing on Vivienne Whittaker’s face, as she died, like a bad dream that just wouldn’t go away.

  “What is it with those folks and yellow?” Gretchen said, picking up the last crumbs on the brownie plate with the moistened tip of her finger. She licked her finger. “Vivienne Whittaker leaped on that yellow cupcake like it was manna from Heaven.” She paused, and her eyes widened. “Oh my gosh! The cupcake . . . was the poison in that? Do you know?”

  “Maybe,” Sophie said, unwilling to give away anything that she had learned from Dana or Wally. “How many vanilla cupcakes with yellow frosting were there on the tea table?”

  Gretchen shrugged and rolled her eyes. “I’m supposed to remember that?”

  Sophie paused, watching her. She seemed nervous. “No, I guess you wouldn’t be watching anything like that, would you?”

  “I was bored to tears,” she huffed. “Especially after my mother-in-law got in a snit and left. Then I—”

  “Your mother-in-law? That’s Marva Harcourt, right? She was at the engagement tea?”

  Gretchen frowned at Sophie’s tone. “For a little bit, yeah. Is that a big deal?”

  “No . . . no, of course not. But nobody had mentioned it.” Sophie’s mind was reeling as she ran through the implications. Hollis Harcourt Senior was involved in the development deal. Somehow Francis got the rights to design for the development for Leathorne and Hedges and was rewarded with a big promotion and first dibs on the designing. Hollis and Vivienne were arguing at Auntie Rose’s. And now she learned that Marva Harcourt was indeed at the tea that fateful afternoon. “I’m just surprised, I guess. I didn’t know Cissy knew your mother-in-law.”

  “Everybody who is anybody knows each other in this town, but . . . well, I don’t know if Cissy knows Mama Harcourt or not.”

  “Why did Mrs. Harcourt leave early?”

  “Oh, that awful old woman insulted her. Florence tried to smooth things over, but Marva got in a fight with Cissy’s grandma—or as much of a fight as a clubwoman ever engages in—and stormed out. Does it matter in some way?”

  “No,” Sophie assured her. “Like I said, I’m just surprised. If Cissy doesn’t know Mrs. Harcourt, why was she invited?”

  “Vivienne and Florence know her. Marva and Holly Harcourt are solid-gold members of the country club, like the two Mrs. Whittakers.”

  Sophie digested that for a moment. Had Vivienne Whittaker threatened some kind of status quo w
hen she tackled Mr. Harcourt? Had she threatened to disclose something about the new development? Was she upset about how her son got his advancement? Maybe she was worried it would come back to haunt him. But still . . . that was an awful lot of supposition, and it didn’t give any proof that Marva Harcourt was the one to plant the lethal cupcake. “So, just to get this straight, Vivienne and Florence invited her to Mrs. Earnshaw’s engagement tea for her granddaughter?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess. When you put it that way, it sounds kind of . . . interfering. Is . . . is there something wrong, Sophie?”

  She ignored the question. “But both Florence and Vivienne wouldn’t have invited her to the tea. Which one actually did the inviting?”

  “Florence, I think.”

  “So what was the fight between Marva and Thelma about?”

  Gretchen sighed wearily. “Oh lord, it was stupid. First off, I think Thelma was in a snit because she didn’t know Marva and was put out that Florence had invited her. Then something happened in the kitchen; I guess Marva insulted the place—”

  “Wait, in the kitchen? Marva was in the kitchen? Why?”

  “How should I know?”

  Sophie remembered what Gilda had been complaining about, the folks milling around in the kitchen “helping.” What a great opportunity to arrange the cupcake platter with the one poisoned cupcake. But it still didn’t say how the killer directed that cupcake to Vivienne, unless they knew her preference for yellow, or vanilla, or something like that. If Marva had left before the tea, then she couldn’t have been the one who made sure Vivienne got the poisoned cupcake. A dedicated risk taker might have planned it that way, though, and then skedaddled to get out of there so she wouldn’t be under suspicion. That insult and the resulting fight and her storming out could have been just the cover Marva wanted. “So you weren’t in the kitchen when all this was happening?”