Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery)

by Amanda Cooper

“You need to tell her that you deserve respect,” Sophie said. “And if you don’t get it, you’ll have to find another job.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that!” Gilda exclaimed, one hand over her heart. “I’d never find another job in this town. With my health?”

  “Health?” Sophie was puzzled. Gilda always seemed as strong as an ox.

  “I have so many problems,” Gilda said. “Nervous bowel is only one.” She listed off a host of illnesses that all sounded vaguely the same and had to do with her fragile digestive system.

  “Eating too much of your own cooking?” Laverne said.

  Sophie shot her a shocked look. Laverne was never purposely mean.

  “You are so right!” Gilda said. “I’ve been eating too much at Belle Époque, and Thelma buys the cheapest stuff she can find, and mostly frozen processed food at that. Other than that, I live at Mrs. Stanislowski’s boarding house, and her cooking is . . . well, foreign. Goulashes and such. Other stuff I can’t even pronounce. She means well, but it’s not good, plain American cooking.”

  “American cooking? Like what?”

  Gilda sighed. “I’d love spaghetti, pizza, macaroni, chicken chow mein . . . that kind of thing.”

  Sophie bit her lip; good American cooking, indeed! They discussed food for a few minutes, and Sophie put together a grab bag of her homemade treats for Gilda and Thelma as Nana ambled into the kitchen. Gilda started up and said she’d better get back to Belle Époque. It was odd how nervous she suddenly seemed, Sophie thought.

  “S-so, I’ve been wondering and wondering,” Gilda said, as she fussed with her hair, “who do you all think k-killed poor Mrs. Whittaker?”

  It was such an abrupt change of subject that Sophie exchanged glances with Nana and Laverne. This was the work of Thelma trying to pick their brains, and why Gilda had been allowed to come over and visit, as both tearooms were getting set up for the day. But it was odd how nervous Nana seemed to make her.

  “I sure hope the police don’t keep wondering if Mrs. Earnshaw did it,” Sophie mused, with a wink at Laverne.

  Gilda gabbled, “They don’t . . . you don’t think—”

  Nana sent her a disapproving frown. “Now, I’m sure they are doing no such thing! Don’t you worry about it, Gilda.”

  She stopped clucking and just gasped, quietly, catching her breath. Sophie felt sorry for the woman, so under Thelma’s thumb and so afraid to do anything. She could not be the killer; there was just no way. It was a crime of desperation and planning, the latter not being something Gilda would be able to pull off.

  “Are you and Mrs. E. going to the memorial at the country club for Mrs. Whittaker, Gilda?”

  The woman’s protuberant eyes widened. “I didn’t know there was one!”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt are hosting it, and I said I’d take you both and Cissy,” Sophie said, to her grandmother and Laverne.

  “Yes, of course,” Nana said. Laverne agreed.

  “I’d better tell Thelma,” Gilda said, heading to the back door. “When is it?”

  “Tomorrow morning at eleven,” Sophie said, impatient for Gilda to leave. She was bursting to share what she had been up to, with Laverne and Nana.

  Gilda hustled out the door and over to Belle Époque. Sophie turned back to her grandmother and friend, relating her discovery of the list in the teapot and the safe code. She told them that with Cissy’s permission she had gone over to Vivienne Whittaker’s home, and what she had found in the safe.

  All three women were silent for a good long time as their tea cooled.

  “Why would Vivienne Whittaker be so shady?” Laverne mused, spreading her arthritic fingers out on the tablecloth and turning the gold topaz ring she wore on her index finger. “Why not just come right out and ask Cissy what she thought, rather than write down some names on a note and her safe code? I don’t understand.”

  “It’s odd, isn’t it?” Sophie said. Laverne had a point; why not come right out and talk to Cissy? “And the safe code had written on it, ‘In case you need it.’ It’s almost like she was afraid something was going to happen to her. Nana, you look like you have an idea or two about that.”

  “I do,” she said. She fiddled with the potted plant in the center of the table. It was a simple yellow primula—a primrose—centered on a hand-quilted placemat with Birman cats as the pattern. She turned the pot around and around, then said, “If I was unsure of myself, if I was afraid of stating too clearly what I thought for fear of accusing the wrong person, I would be obscure.”

  “Vivienne was afraid of something, or feared something was going on. She wasn’t sure, though, and she wanted someone else’s input, but . . .” Sophie trailed off, trying to connect the dots in her mind.

  “But she was afraid to come right out and say what worried her,” Nana finished.

  “Or she didn’t want to taint Cissy’s mind,” Laverne said. “You know, put thoughts in her head.”

  “But why the note and the safe combination. And why Cissy?” Sophie said.

  Nana said, “If what she was worried about had to do with her son, then Cissy would be concerned. Maybe she didn’t trust anyone else.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.” Sophie thought for a moment about the predicament the poor woman had been in. If she was afraid of what might happen, and even thought someone was out to get her, how lonely she must have been! “But why not talk to Francis directly?”

  “If I thought someone was sabotaging you, my Sophie, I’d try to fix the problem before I involved you, for fear it would only get worse. I’d be afraid if I said anything, you’d tackle it on your own.”

  “I would never have thought about it from that perspective. What about the names on the lists? Do you know anything about those folks?” She had learned some but not enough.

  “Let’s see, Mayor Blenkenship ran on a platform of Progress for Gracious Grove,” Nana said. “He said we needed to expand or suffocate. New business needs room to develop.”

  Laverne wryly added, “But some said he was in the pockets of developers, and that they contributed under the table to his campaign fund.”

  “Developers like the other guys on the list?” Sophie asked.

  “I suppose,” Nana said.

  “Those same builders are listed on that new development sign on the highway. I feel like it’s all tied in together: the new development; the recent articles about kickback schemes; talk about annexation; Leathorne and Hedges getting the contract to design the houses and commercial buildings for the new development; and their promotion of Francis.” She thought back to the story Phil had told, of Vivienne being the one who turned him in when he was carrying booze for Francis. If it was true, she had a history of intervening when she thought her son was getting into trouble. Is that what was happening this time? But were the players involved a lot more dangerous than Phil Peterson? She shared what she had been pondering.

  Sophie knew her grandmother was thinking, but she went ahead and asked, “Running for mayor in Gracious Grove . . . that’s never been a big deal, right?”

  Nana nodded and smiled. “Mayor Blenkenship usually runs unopposed. This last time, though, he had opposition from another candidate, one who was very popular.”

  “Oliver Stanfield,” Sophie said. “And he’s on the list.”

  “He is.”

  “And he ran for mayor.”

  “But he withdrew from the race just before the election, and Mayor Blenkenship ended up unopposed again, except for the usual oddballs, like the spaceship lady and the guy who stands on the corner downtown spouting poetry.”

  “Does anyone know why Stanfield withdrew?” Sophie asked.

  Nana frowned and glanced at Laverne. “Do you remember what was said?”

  “He had a family crisis to deal with, didn’t he?” Laverne said.

  From her conversation with
Belinda Blenkenship, Sophie now knew that the “family crisis” for Oliver Stanfield was being reminded by the incumbent that he had a son in prison, the implication being that Blenkenship would raise that subject if necessary and remind the public. She didn’t share that; there was no point. Why had Stanfield decided to run against Blenkenship in the first place? “What about the others? What could they have to do with Vivienne’s death?”

  Nana said, “I don’t know.”

  “That’s a good reason to go to the memorial tomorrow; we’re bound to meet some of these folks. I’m especially interested in Marva and Holly Harcourt. Cissy said that Marva and Vivienne did not get along at all, which makes it odd that they are hosting the memorial service.” She considered telling Nana about what she had overheard between Holly and Vivienne right there in the tearoom, but it didn’t mean anything to her yet. Maybe she’d find out more the next day.

  Chapter 20

  On a lovely spring morning, with robins warbling and sparrows quarreling, Sophie pulled the SUV up to the portico by the main entrance of the Seneca Golf and Country Club, just outside of Gracious Grove. The parking lot was jammed with cars, most of them elegant luxury models. She helped Nana from the SUV, while Cissy and Laverne climbed out of the backseat. Thelma pulled up behind them in her harvest-gold 1973 Lincoln Town Car. Gilda clambered out and ran around, opening Thelma’s door for her. The elderly woman took several minutes to heave herself out, while the valet staff gathered around the car, eyes wide. One young parking valet whistled and asked if she ever wanted to sell it.

  “Get your hands off my car and drive it carefully,” Thelma snapped, handing him the keys, then joining Sophie and her group on the sidewalk in front of the country club entrance.

  As they entered, Sophie took in the facility. The entrance was illuminated with muted lighting, a glittering crystal chandelier over a waterfall that trickled, the sound echoing with the murmurs of the crowd filing into the ballroom where the memorial was being held. By the double doors there was a big sign on an easel; it had Vivienne’s photo and her name, with MEMORIAL SERVICE written under it.

  As they entered together, an usher guided them to seats, and murmured that after a brief nondenominational service there would be a meet and greet and refreshments provided by the country club and the Harcourts. Sophie watched an usher guide in a soberly dressed Francis Whittaker, on whose arm Florence Whittaker leaned. Cissy hurried to join them. She had closed the bookstore for the morning, so Dana was there, too, and she followed her friend and employer to the front. Gretchen and a young man Sophie took to be her husband, Hollis Harcourt Junior, stood near the dais. Gretchen stalked over to Dana and whispered in her ear; the young woman flushed bright red and moved away from the seat near the front she was about to take.

  Nana pointed out Mayor Blenkenship, a pompous-looking fellow with a sturdy build; Belinda Blenkenship stood by him looking terribly out of place in her skirt suit—navy blue this time—and a black fascinator veil springing from a black-velvet bow in her pouffy hair. The young woman appeared to gird her loins, and she approached Gretchen Harcourt. A fake smile on her face, Gretchen greeted her and the two moved off, chattering as if they were lifelong friends. A tall florid fellow with a booming voice strode up the aisle, eschewing the usher by saying, “Don’t you think I know my way around this joint? I built it, fer chrissake!”

  “That is Shep Hammond,” Laverne, seated on the other side of Sophie, muttered.

  “He looks every bit as creepy as Cissy said he was,” Sophie murmured back, as Shep moved to the front, shook the mayor’s hand, then went directly to Gretchen and the mayor’s wife, kissing both soundly on the cheek close to the lips. He put his arms over each of their shoulders, his hands eventually roaming down their back to their bums. Gretchen giggled and batted at his arm, but Belinda held herself rigidly in place with a look of distaste on her pale face. Why didn’t she hit him? Sophie wondered.

  The mayor went to Shep—he swiftly released the two young women, who no doubt put up with him because of their husbands—and shook his hand, then led him away to talk in hushed, secretive tones, glancing around the room as he did. They were joined by Holly Harcourt, but it appeared that the conversation became less secretive. This was a coven of men who worked together to benefit themselves, no doubt finding ways to exclude others, as the Libby Lemon owner had suggested. It seemed to happen all too often in government, but Sophie was disappointed to see it working, politics as usual, even in Gracious Grove. Did they manage to keep it legal? Or were there rules flouted, correct ways of dealing circumvented? And did Vivienne Whittaker find out about it and threaten the status quo?

  Sophie glanced around the room and noticed Wally Bowman lingering at the back, his eyes scanning the space, as Detective Morris, dressed in a black skirt suit, roamed the perimeter, her gaze focusing on some of the folks named in the note Vivienne had written. Sophie wondered if they had cracked what Vivienne’s cryptic messages meant, and if the contents of the envelope had helped.

  The last few folks filtered in, the doors were closed and the memorial began. A local pastor spoke, then many others gave speeches praising Vivienne for her civic pride and philanthropy. Some complained about the police department’s lack of movement on the case, and took the opportunity to deride the police chief. Then Francis got up to speak. A hush fell over the crowd that had been getting a little restless at the length of the politicians’ and businessmen’s speeches.

  “My mother would have enjoyed seeing you all here today,” he said, scanning the crowd. “But she would have been puzzled, too.”

  Some murmured, as Sophie wondered where he was going with this.

  “She would have wondered, why are so-and-so here,” he said, jabbing his finger at the crowd, “when they talked so cruelly about me in the past? And why is she here, the woman who snubbed me before I got in the country club, then pretended to be my best friend? She would have wondered, why is he here, when he told everyone what a bitch I was for turning him down for a date?”

  The murmur grew. Sophie was fascinated. Francis was angry, she could tell even from a distance. Detective Morris was not watching Francis, instead scanning the crowd, pausing on certain folks whose expression made her think, Sophie supposed.

  “But most of all, she would have wondered why the one who killed her was here!”

  Gasps whispered through the crowd, and the murmur became a babble. Marva Harcourt rushed onto the stage, grabbed the microphone from Francis and exclaimed, “Now, Francis, we know you are suffering, poor, dear boy, as are we all, but there is no call—”

  “Let him talk!” someone yelled.

  Sophie turned and was amazed to see Phil Peterson standing in the aisle. Wally Bowman accosted him, but not before Phil also yelled, swaying on his feet, “You think my grandma did it—why dontcha come right out and say it, you scumbag!”

  Detective Morris, Sophie saw in a glance, was taking notes and watching.

  But Wally Bowman, whether in his capacity as police officer or friend, grabbed his arm and said, “Come on, Phil, you know this is not the time or place—”

  Phil shook him off and staggered up the aisle, shouting incoherently. Wally sighed, squared his shoulders, then grabbed him and wrestled him to the floor. “Phil, what is wrong with you?” Wally yelled.

  Thelma, seated beside Gilda a few rows back of the principals, struggled to her feet and hollered, “Wally, you let go of him!”

  “Grandma, let Wally do his job!” Cissy said. She had been heading toward her brother and Wally but she veered away from the drama in the aisle to take her grandmother’s arm and coax her to sit back down. Then she looked her brother in the face, as Wally held him upright. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Phillip Peterson!” she said, her voice choked with emotion. “Go home. Sober up. Then start behaving like an adult, instead of an idiot!”

  Applause broke out, and Francis, up on the s
tage, said into the mic, “That’s my girl!”

  Weeping echoed through the ballroom; Sophie soon realized it was Florence Whittaker, sitting with Marva Harcourt. “Vivienne would have hated all this fuss!” she wailed, as Marva patted her shoulder, ineffectually trying to comfort her.

  Sophie caught Wally’s grim expression as he half led, half hauled Phil down the aisle and out the door, where a uniformed police officer grabbed him by the hoodie, bent his arm behind his back and dragged him away. The big double doors closed behind them. The memorial service broke up soon after. Francis’s momentum had been shattered by the interruption; if he had anything more to say, he kept it to himself.

  “I sure wish Wally hadn’t stopped Phil and Francis,” Nana said.

  “Actually, I wish Phil hadn’t interrupted Francis,” Sophie said. “Phil assumed he was talking about Mrs. Earnshaw, but I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t think it can be. I wonder who he was really pointing out as the murderer?”

  “Good question,” Laverne said. “And I’ll bet it’s one Missy Detective over there is asking him right now.”

  Sophie looked in the direction of Laverne’s gaze and saw Detective Morris talking to Francis off away from everyone else. He was gesticulating and shaking his head, while she calmly watched and nodded.

  Marva Harcourt took the microphone and announced that there would be food and coffee served in the smaller conference room, and that Cissy, Francis and Florence would be there to accept condolences.

  As Sophie, Nana and Laverne filed into the conference room behind Cissy, leading Thelma, Sophie whispered, “Well, that was interesting! Why do you think Phil chose to come and make such a scene?”

  “Grandstanding, as usual. That boy has a sense of the dramatic, I will say that.” Laverne shook her head and compressed her lips.

  Laverne was right, Sophie thought. Phil had always dramatized himself, and maybe in that way he was like Cissy, but at least Cissy had a head on her shoulders. In the conference room, Sophie noted several Silver Spouts members in attendance. Surprisingly, Josh Sinclair was there with his mother, who Nana said had long been acquainted with the Whittaker family. Forsythe Villiers and SuLinn Miller were also there in their capacity as Leathorne and Hedges employee and, in SuLinn’s case, the wife of an employee. She had her arm through that of a chubby bespectacled fellow with slicked-back dark hair who must be her husband, Randy.