Where was Gilda? She was supposed to be nosing around and reporting back. Thelma’s feet hurt, and she wasn’t about to trot around asking questions and snooping like she’d like to, even if she did resemble Margaret Rutherford as Miss Marple, from the old movies. Cissy was off who knew where, catering to Francis Whittaker, no doubt, the big baby. You’d think he was a kid, not a grown man, the way he went on about losing his mother. Cissy had lost hers at sixteen and you didn’t hear her whine about it.
Not now, anyway.
She slipped her shoes off and rubbed one foot against the other, hoping her elastic hose didn’t develop a hole in the toe. These things were darned expensive and the way things were going at Belle Époque, she’d have to start subsisting on her pension. If they didn’t solve the murder soon, she’d be out of business. Bookings had slowed once the initial curiosity about the “Killer Tearoom,” as the local TV station had called it, was over. They got a great video of her waving her fist and calling the reporter names, too, just as the fool was trying to do a spot right outside her door. Invasion of property, that’s what it was!
“It’s getting dicey,” a voice remarked, just around the corner from her little alcove.
“I know,” said a second speaker. “But we need to just keep our noses to the grindstone, so to speak, and keep on. Now that Vivienne’s gone, we oughtn’t to have any more trouble, right?”
“Yeah, she was the only one who was really onto the plan,” the first fellow said. “Or at least the only one inclined to squawk about it.”
“We’d better get moving,” the second guy said. “That tearoom girl is giving us an odd look. I don’t like the way she’s been snooping around.”
“You think she’s suspicious?”
“I do,” second guy replied. “She’s been asking a lot of questions. But there are ways to make sure she doesn’t cause us any trouble.”
The first guy made a sound of surprise.
“No, not that way!” second guy said. “Nothing drastic, just something to scare her. We need a little more time, and it’ll be a done deal.”
The rustling sound of men in suit jackets moving away told Thelma they were leaving; she ducked her head around the corner to see who had been talking. Well, fancy that, she thought, recognizing one of the men. What were they up to? From their words she couldn’t be sure if they were involved in Vivienne Whittaker’s murder or not; she hadn’t thought of the possibility that whoever planned it might not have even been at the party.
She was going to have to go home and think about this. It sure seemed shady. But those cops, especially that woman detective, wouldn’t look kindly on Thelma calling them with a tip again, not after the last little trouble. It was important that she actually have a solid lead this time.
Gilda hobbled over with a plate full of food and sank into a seat on the bench next to Thelma. “Gosh, my feet hurt so bad!”
“Bet mine hurt worse. You’re gulping down a platter of free food and yet you didn’t even think to bring me a cup of tea? A fine helper you are,” Thelma grumbled.
Gilda shrugged. “You didn’t ask me for tea, you just asked me to snoop around.”
Thelma decided to ignore the back talk in favor of information. “And?”
“And what?” Gilda asked, her protuberant eyes holding a puzzled expression. She chewed and swallowed.
“And did you find anything out?”
“Not really. Folks were mostly talking about Francis and Phil and what they said.”
“Who said what?”
Gilda’s eyes widened and she processed the question. She took another bite of a brownie and chewed, thoughtfully. “Well,” she said, after she swallowed. “The mayor said that Francis ought not to have to put up with abuse from the likes of Phil Peterson.”
“Humph. I knew I never liked him. I sure didn’t vote for him!” She hadn’t voted for anyone, but Thelma didn’t share that information. “What else?”
“Oh! The most interesting bit . . . old lady Sinclair’s house that just sold? Some college professor bought it and they’re going to put in a new tearoom, all modern, fang shooey, or something like that, with the latest of everything!”
Thelma’s hand flew to her bosom and she couldn’t breathe. Another tearoom on their street? More like another nail in her coffin! “How—who—” Her voice came out as a croak. Now what?
“Sophie looked real worried, I can tell you that. She said it would be all right, but she sure looked worried.”
Thelma took a deep breath. Sophie Taylor was a smart young girl. If she was worried, it didn’t look good. Would the misery never end for Belle Époque?
• • •
It was late, and darkness had crept across the sky, shading from mauve to deep purple. Sophie was up in her room trying to plan Cissy’s wedding shower tea party, even though her mind was in a million other places. She was tired of thinking the same things. Vivienne’s murder had something to do with the new development; she was worried about Francis being held responsible for some kind of illegal activity, and had threatened the wrong person, but who?
Marva’s behavior was suspect, and Gretchen seemed frightened. Could the two have worked together to kill Vivienne? Neither seemed like the type to commit such a heinous act.
Belinda Blenkenship would make the ideal tool, and could have been used to place the cupcake without even being aware of what she was doing until it was too late. That would explain why she now looked so frightened, Sophie thought.
Florence Whittaker had the nerves for that kind of plot, but how did she benefit from killing Vivienne unless it was motivated by the long-existing enmity between them, which seemed to have mostly evaporated?
Francis was there and could have done it, but since his mother had only ever acted with his best interests at heart and there didn’t seem to be any problems between them, his motive was murky at best.
Sophie heard a clatter and looked out her kitchenette window toward the street; her grandmother was dragging a garbage pail to the road. Darn it! Why hadn’t she known it was garbage night? She had to pay more attention to duties around Auntie Rose’s to make Nana’s life easier.
She slipped on a pair of tennies and, followed by Pearl, galloped down the steps and wound her way through the kitchen, hoping she’d be in time to help, or at least scold Nana for doing the labor herself. But when she got to the street, all she could see was the garbage can and no Nana. How the heck . . . ?
“Nana? Where are you . . . oh!” Sophie saw a pair of slippered feet sticking out from behind the garbage can. As she raced toward her grandmother, someone ran up behind her and scooped up Pearl, who yowled indignantly and struggled to get free.
The hooded figure, face shadowed in darkness, muttered, “Keep your nose out of everyone else’s business, or you’ll suffer. We’ll start with the cat.”
Sophie shrieked, “Let her go!”
He tossed Pearl down and raced off. Torn between following and taking care of her grandmother, Sophie chose to scoop up Pearl and go to help Nana, who was now clambering to her feet, quivering all over with fear.
Chapter 23
“Who do you think did it?” Laverne asked Sophie the next morning.
Sophie shook her head, staring out the window toward Belle Époque. The attack was deeply troubling. She feared that even the police, who had come rapidly when she called 911, couldn’t stop a determined killer. Wally Bowman and the detective agreed that given the attacker’s words, it had to be related to the murder next door. Their officers scoured the neighborhood, but the attacker was nowhere to be found. Sophie spent the night in her grandmother’s apartment, not content to be even one floor away.
“I don’t know,” Sophie said, in response to Laverne’s question. “But I know who I suspect.” She related her conclusions of the night before.
Nana limped into the kitchen, looki
ng exhausted. “I’ll be glad when all of this is over,” she moaned, getting a mug from the mug tree on the counter.
“You sit!” Sophie said, jumping up. “I’ll get your tea. After what you’ve been through . . .” She shook her head and grabbed the teapot, as Pearl ambled in and wound around her feet, none the worse for the trauma of the night before.
Nana slumped down in a chair and Pearl jumped up on her lap. Nana hadn’t argued with Sophie about getting her own tea, and she normally would have. Laverne cast her a worried glance, brows raised.
“Don’t go fussing about me just because I’m letting someone else get my tea,” Nana said, hugging the cat to her in a fierce embrace. “I’ll be fine, but at my age aren’t I entitled to take it easy sometimes?”
“You sure are,” Laverne said, promptly. “It’s just that we’ve been telling you that for a while, but you never let us take care of you.”
“Maybe I’ve decided I should. Anyway, you were talking about the crime, the real crime, poor Vivienne Whittaker’s death.” She shifted the cat and pulled a paper out of her housecoat pocket. “I tried to figure out a list of suspects. Like Sophie said, it ended up being everyone at the tea the day Vivienne was killed!”
“I know,” Sophie said, putting the steaming mug in front of her grandmother. “But surely we can eliminate some.”
“Like Gilda?” Laverne said. “That woman couldn’t poison anyone unless it was with bad cooking.”
“And Mrs. Earnshaw,” Sophie agreed, taking her grandmother’s list and drawing a line through them both.
“It’s her bargain hunting that’ll kill someone. She never saw day-old anything she wouldn’t buy and pass off as fresh!” Laverne said.
Nana frowned at the paper. “I just can’t see that Belinda, the mayor’s wife, as doing anything. She seems like such an inoffensive little thing! My bets are on Florence Whittaker, Marva Harcourt, Gretchen Harcourt, or Francis himself.”
“You think he would kill his own mother?” Laverne’s dark face wrinkled in a troubled frown. They had gone over it again and again, but still, it was shocking to consider.
Nana shook her head. “I just don’t know anymore. I can’t believe he would, but you really never know.”
Sophie was alarmed by her grandmother’s weary willingness to consider Francis the villain. “I just can’t believe he’d do it!”
Laverne shrugged. “If you’d said two weeks ago that there would even be a murder next door, I would have said you were crazy. We can’t rule anyone out!”
Nana said, “I’m just afraid to rule anyone out.”
“So we’re back to square one, with everyone who had access on the list of suspects, including Phil Peterson.”
“Poor Thelma. If he’s guilty . . . just imagine how she’ll feel!” Nana shook her head.
“I’m really angry. I’ve never been so afraid in my life as when I saw you lying on the ground, hurt,” she said to her grandmother. “And to threaten poor Pearl? That sweet cat never did anyone harm in her life! I want this over, and I want it over soon. I know the police are doing their best, but I almost feel like we have a better shot of figuring this out than they do. We should have some kind of a gathering and invite all of the people who had opportunity or motive to do it, even if they weren’t on the scene.”
“Then what?” Laverne said.
“Then we watch, listen and make comments. Maybe one of them will reveal something if we put them all together.”
“It works in the movies!” Laverne said. “But I don’t know about real life.”
“It might be worth a try.” Nana sat up straighter. “We’ll only have one chance with all the suspects together.”
“I was thinking about how we could get them all here,” Sophie said. “Maybe we could make it a memorial tea to honor Vivienne’s charity work?”
“Good idea!” Laverne said. “Bigwigs can’t resist making it look like they’re committed to charitable causes, even if they only do it to network. Probably never heard of the widow’s mite,” she grumbled, referring to the biblical parable.
“It’s a good thought, Sophie, and I hope I have another one,” Nana said. “I want to hold it over at Thelma’s.”
“At Belle Époque, right where the murder happened?” Sophie asked.
Nana nodded. “Make the guilty squirm.”
“Do you think Mrs. Earnshaw will go along with the plan?”
“Old fool ought to, with you two trying to help her!” Laverne said.
“She’ll do it if Cissy says it’s a good idea,” Nana commented.
“So I’d better get Cissy on our side,” Sophie said. “But I don’t know whether to tell her everything or not.”
“Do you know, I never once thought of Cissy as a suspect?” Nana said.
“I considered it,” Sophie admitted. “But not seriously. Is that strange?”
“Not at all,” Laverne said. “It just means we know that child better than to believe her capable of it.”
The two older women set to planning the menu for the memorial tea, and Sophie promised to design invitations and hand deliver them. Her mind was still working furiously on the problem of who killed Vivienne Whittaker, but she was also wondering who would have the nerve to attack Nana. Everyone in Gracious Grove adored Rose Freemont.
She hadn’t recognized the voice, nor the figure, but the person—probably a man—had been growling and was hunched over. She must have been asking the wrong questions and had endangered Nana, and that just wouldn’t do.
So it was imperative that they figure it out. First things first: Get Cissy on board with the charity memorial, without letting her in on the secret motive behind it. She thought for a moment, then called her friend. “Cissy, how are you? How is Francis today?” she asked. Cissy replied that they were both all right, and Sophie launched into an explanation of their intent to put on a charity memorial on a more personal scale to honor Vivienne Whittaker. “I think we could do a better job to honor her than the country club, I mean the true essence of who she was. What do you think?”
“I think it could be a good idea,” she said, slowly, sounding unsure.
Sophie immediately continued, saying, “We were wondering, though, if you could talk your grandmother into having it at Belle Époque?”
There was a pause, then Cissy said, “Why would you want to have it there? Why not Auntie Rose’s, away from the . . . uh, the scene of the crime?”
Sophie was ready for that. “Nana is concerned for your grandmother, Cissy. Business has fallen off at Belle Époque since the murder, right? If we have the event there, it will signal the public that the tearoom is open and ready for business, and that it’s safe to go there.”
“Ah, I get it! Public Relations 101 . . . appearance is everything.”
“Right!”
There was silence for a minute. “I guess we can try it, but it’ll mean convincing Grandma to go ahead. She’s kinda difficult.”
No kidding, Sophie thought. “I’m sure you could get her to agree if you tell her that it will be good for business. I’m still working toward resolving that old feud between our grandmothers. Maybe this will help, if we’re all working together? We’ll take care of the menu, all she has to supply is the venue.”
“Okay, so when do you want to do this?”
“Is this Sunday afternoon all right? I’m going to have the invitations printed and hand deliver them myself.” She paused for a beat, then added, “Oh, and Cissy? Please don’t invite anyone yourself. I’d rather do this with the invitations so we can be sure to get the right folks there.”
“Okay,” she said. “Are you inviting Gretchen?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What about Dana?”
“Uh, I don’t know.” Sophie thought quickly. Dana was a good coconspirator and one of the few people who could not
have committed the crime. “Do you want her there?”
“She could be helpful.”
“Helpful?” For a moment Sophie thought Cissy had caught on to their plot to uncover the murderer of Vivienne Whittaker, but then she continued.
“She’s great at pitching in to serve food, and all that. Gretchen would have a fit if I asked her to help, and we can’t leave it all up to Gilda, poor old dear, on her day off!”
Sophie wondered how Dana would appreciate being volunteered to help, but she made a swift decision to appeal to their friend’s sneaky side. “I’ll invite her myself,” she said. “Don’t you worry about it.”
The quick copy place out near the college did a great job with the invitations Sophie carefully designed on her laptop, and Cissy called late that night to let her know that her grandma had acquiesced, after a lot of grumbling and a promise from Cissy to help her get ready for the memorial.
So the next day Sophie, envelope of invitations on the seat beside her, checked the list she and Nana and Laverne had made.
Gretchen and Hollis Harcourt
Marva and Holly Harcourt
Mayor and Mrs. Michael Blenkenship
Nuñez Ortega and Julia Dandridge
Shep Hammond
Harvey Leathorne
Oliver Stanfield
Forsythe Villiers
Randy and SuLinn Miller
Francis Whittaker
Florence Whittaker
She was inviting a couple more folks, of course, like Jason—she just liked having him around—and even Phil Peterson, who she could not eliminate from her list of suspects.
One of the people on the list was a killer; someone, with malice in their heart, had laced a cupcake with poison and arranged it so that Vivienne would eat it and die in agony. That was easier to imagine in some of the invitees than others.
Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) Page 26
