Sophie stepped forward after Felice was done and looked around the group. Had she been kidding herself that anything would come of this? She took a deep breath and said, “I would love folks to come up and say a word or two about Vivienne, and why her charitable interests were such an important part of her character. I didn’t know her well, but everything I’ve heard lately makes me wish I did. Mayor Blenkenship, would you start us off?”
He raised his eyebrows and looked around. Sophie had the sudden thought that he was looking for the reporters she had implied would be on hand to breathlessly record every moment of the important folks’ speeches. But he was on the spot now and nodded, stepping forward and turning to address the small crowd.
He tugged his suit jacket down over his paunch and took a deep breath. “Vivienne Whittaker was a grand lady. We will all miss her grace, her wit, and her dedication to this fine town and all of the citizens of it, which is why we are gathered here today. I urge every one of you to think of her as you make out a check to Foods for Families in her name.” No doubt if there had been reporters he would have been more inclined to speak on.
He wasn’t really the one she was interested in hearing from, anyway, since he wasn’t at the engagement tea and Belinda was not a serious suspect.
Felice stepped forward and said, with a tight smile, “By the way, the organization is Foodies for Families, just to be clear.”
“Mrs. Harcourt, as one who knew her better than many—you both belonged to the country club and served on the board together—would you like to say a few words?” Sophie asked, directing her gaze at Marva. “You were at the fatal tea party, and can speak about her final hours.”
Marva Harcourt, her face frozen in an expression of distaste, murmured, “I don’t think I . . . no, I really couldn’t.”
“We’d all love to hear about your special relationship with Vivienne,” Florence Whittaker said, her eyes alight with malice.
Sophie eyed her with interest. What was that all about?
Marva shot Florence a look of dislike, but perhaps realizing that resistance was futile and would attract too much attention, she stood and moved to the front of the room. “I don’t know exactly what to say,” she began.
“As a special friend you must have had many conversations about the upcoming wedding of her son. I keep thinking how pleased she must have been to be celebrating his engagement with you all. How about you tell us about the last time you saw Mrs. Whittaker,” Sophie suggested. “You were at the engagement tea, but left early?”
“Well, yes, but that was because that woman insulted me,” she said, pointing at Thelma.
“Liar! You and I got into it, but that wasn’t what got you really lathered up. I may be old but my memory’s not gone yet. We had our tiff, sure, but that was before you and Mrs. Vivienne Whittaker got into a catfight, and then you stormed out.” All heads swiveled toward Thelma Mae Earnshaw, who squatted like a malevolent gnome in a chair by the door into the kitchen. She glared at Mrs. Harcourt and continued. “You and her were talking in real quiet tones, but I could tell you were arguing about something. Then you jumped up and hollered, ‘It’s not true!’ and stormed off.”
Sophie glanced at Wally, whose eyes had narrowed, but he remained quiet. It looked like he was going to let things play out as they would.
Marva looked around, then caught her husband’s steady gaze. She calmed and raised her chin. “It wasn’t an argument.”
“Then what did you say wasn’t true?” Sophie asked. When confronting tension or fights between employees, she had learned that putting them on the spot in front of each other with a pointed question often resulted in the truth coming out more than it would in a private conversation, during which each could lie and falsely accuse with impunity.
“Vivienne said I was conspiring with . . . with others to get Francis in trouble,” Marva whispered, looking scared.
Holly Harcourt said, his tone steely, “What does any of this have to do with anything? Say, why are we here, after all? Is this really about charity?”
Felice Delorme answered, “Yes, Mr. Harcourt, this is certainly about Foodies for Families, as far as I know, anyway.” She glanced at Sophie, brows raised.
“I thought y’all wanted us to talk about Mrs. Whittaker,” Gretchen said, staring at Sophie with dislike in her eyes, her Southern showing just a little.
“I was asking Mrs. Harcourt that very thing, to speak about her friendship with Mrs. Whittaker,” Sophie said.
Thelma harrumphed. “Friendship,” she muttered.
“It was just a misunderstanding,” Marva said, her voice on the edge of hysteria. “Dear Vivienne was mistaken!”
Nuñez Ortega stood, and said, “I’d be happy to say a few words, if Mrs. Harcourt is unable.” He strode to the front of the room. “As a board member of Foodies for Families, I have worked alongside Mrs. Vivienne Whittaker. Our friendship is not old but it was active. I felt that we were kindred spirits. She was a very good woman, committed to the cause we shared.”
Felice Delorme, who had been watching the activity with puzzlement, now smiled. “I can attest to that. Mrs. Whittaker was passionate about feeding the hungry. But her overwhelming passion was her family. I know she was looking forward to her son marrying Cissy Peterson. She told me she never had a daughter, but would very soon.”
“Doesn’t anyone have anything else to say about Vivienne Whittaker?” Sophie asked, hoping to make the situation uncomfortable enough that someone would speak rashly.
Thelma sniffed. “Bunch of phonies; all of you kowtowed to her like you did all those lowdown Whittakers.”
“Grandma, that’s enough!” Cissy cried out.
“You know it’s true. After what she did to your brother, I’d think you’d be a little more careful who you married!”
“That is enough!” Francis yelled, standing up, his fist balled at his sides, but Cissy grabbed his jacket sleeve and tugged him down.
Julia Dandridge, wide eyed, looked on, and Jason, standing next to her, sighed. He knew Thelma Mae Earnshaw from way back, and knew how irascible the old lady was.
“Oh come on, Francie-pants, have your say,” came a voice from the archway near Thelma. It was Phil, but this time he wasn’t drunk. He was clear-eyed and had his hand on his grandmother’s shoulder. “Were you going to beat up on an old lady? You’ve never been good enough for my sister, and we both know that. You always let mommy dearest do your dirty work for you. Isn’t that how you got where you are today? Or was it your auntie who helped you out this time?”
Chapter 25
“What do you mean, Phil?” Sophie asked.
Shep Hammond cleared his throat, stood, and held up one meaty paw. “Now, Philly, you have got no call to speak that way to the man who will soon be your brother.”
“He’ll never be my brother. My sister is a freakin’ idiot if she marries a guy who would kill his own mom to get ahead.”
Sophie would later remember it as a collective gasp, that sound she heard, just before Francis Whittaker launched himself at Phil Peterson.
“You son of a bitch!” Francis yelped, dragging Phil down to the floor and rolling around with him, both men flailing, taking ineffective shots at each other. They almost knocked Thelma Earnshaw off her chair, but Felice Delorme raced to the elderly woman and helped her out of the way.
Jason leaped forward and collared Phil as Wally grabbed Francis Whittaker’s arm and hauled him off. “Enough!” Jason said, his tone husky with anger, shaking Phil. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Phil? How can you accuse Francis of something that disgusting?”
“Don’t ask him!” Florence said, her voice trembling with emotion.
“Now, Phil, you sure have bungled it up this time, son,” Shep Hammond said, grabbing a handful of Phil’s denim shirt in his fist.
“He was there, he coulda done it!�
�� Phil yelped, pulling away from everyone and rounding on his older friend. “Why don’t you tell the truth, Shep, huh? Why’d you want me to put alcohol in the punch at that stupid tea party? For a week I was afraid you gave me some kind of poison that killed Mrs. W., until I heard it was a stupid cupcake that did her in.”
Shep slammed his hand on Phil’s shoulder and clenched; the younger man buckled.
Jason grabbed Phil’s arms and pulled him away, saying, “Hey, now, don’t hurt him!” to the older man.
Wally had released Francis and was examining them all, his eyes narrowed. But he didn’t speak up.
In the sudden silence, Sophie asked, “Why did Shep say he was giving you something to put in the punch, Phil?”
“You’re not actually listening to this fool, are you?” Marva Harcourt said. Her husband stared down at her, puzzlement and distrust in his eyes.
Harvey Leathorne stood and hammered his fist on the table in front of him. “This has turned into a farce. Vivienne would be horrified if she heard this little slimebucket accuse her son of killing her.”
“Unless he did it,” Thelma said. “Then she’d be applauding that we finally caught on.”
“All I know is, it wasn’t me who put that poison cupcake on the plate, and as God is my witness, I want the guilty to pay!” Gilda Bachman, tears in her eyes, had moved to the middle of the floor. “I know how some of you joke about this place,” she went on. “But Mrs. Earnshaw tries real hard to make it a nice place that folks will be happy to come to, and I just think it is the lowest thing on earth to use food to kill that woman here.”
Sophie was amazed to hear Gilda speak up like that.
Mrs. Florence Whittaker said, “You are saying that? You who hated her? Oh, don’t think I didn’t know. She was nasty to you once, and you never forgave her. Why should we believe it wasn’t you who made sure she had the poisoned cupcake?”
Gretchen, trembling, stood up. “No . . . no, I know she didn’t do that. Mrs. W., it was y’all who tole Mama Harcourt to tell me to bring red-velvet cupcakes to the tea party. You told her that Mrs. Vivienne loved ’em.”
“And you’re the one who suggested that I bring red-velvet cupcakes, too. Now I remember!” Cissy said.
“But Vivienne was allergic to red dye and never ate anything that looked like it had red dye in it,” Sophie said, eyeing Florence, as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. “You needed to be sure there were only red-velvet cupcakes other than the one poisoned one you brought in your big, huge handbag.”
“That is a lie!” Florence stated, her tone calm and tinged with hauteur. “I would never do anything to harm my family. Why would I?”
An agonized groan cut through the babble. “It wasn’t supposed to be poison, it was—” All eyes turned to Francis, who had spoken. His face blanched and he shook his head. “I mean, Aunt Flo wouldn’t kill Mom. There’s no way.”
“Despite the fact that your mother was afraid you had cheated your way into the promotion with bribery? And exposing that would overturn all you had already accomplished.” Sophie glanced toward the mayor, who was slinking toward the door, his weeping wife in tow. “Wait, Mayor, isn’t it true that some money changed hands in the development deal that now sees Francis Whittaker as the chief architect of the housing complex? And that a good portion of it came to you?”
“That is a very serious charge, young lady,” Mayor Blenkenship said, his voice high and loud with tension. He waggled his finger, then pointed it at her. “You had better be able to back that up, or I will see you in court on a libel charge.”
“Slander,” Jason said, watching him, eyebrows knit in a puzzled furrow. “You couldn’t charge her with libeling you because it’s spoken word, not published.”
“Mayor, just tell her it isn’t true,” Nuñez Ortega pleaded, his tone hollow. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Right?” He looked toward Harvey Leathorne, his face pale. “Right? Come on Harvey, tell them! Tell them our company had nothing to do with any bribery to get the contract. For God’s sake, Harvey, how is this going to look?”
Hollis Harcourt said, “I suggest everyone just shut up!”
“Is that your legal opinion, counselor?” Sophie asked.
Gretchen had gone silent and was shivering, tears welling in her eyes. She was shooting glances at Francis and Florence, sobs catching in her throat. Something was seriously wrong. Sophie sidled over to her as her husband was talking about sorting things out in the legal system and the difference between libel and slander.
“Gretchen, are you okay?” Sophie murmured.
Gretchen shook her head, then whispered something to Sophie.
“Good grief!” Sophie muttered. She stood and loudly talked over Hollis. “Wally, I think Gretchen Harcourt has something she needs to say to you.”
“No!” the young woman screeched, her whole body trembling. “No, I can’t . . .” She trailed off and dissolved into weeping, hands over her face.
Wally knelt beside her and looked up into her face. “Gretchen, you told us you didn’t know anything about what happened. Do you have something to add to your statement?”
“What the hell is going on here?” the mayor said, angrily.
“I will not stay in this place where my dear sister died and be a witness to this insanity!” Florence said, standing. She tugged her jacket down around her hips and grabbed her purse. “And if I were all of you, I would not listen to this craziness. I will not look kindly on anyone who stays to listen to the words of an idiot girl who doesn’t know what she’s up to, I can tell you that!”
SuLinn Miller stood, too, and spoke, her voice trembling. “I think we ought to do whatever it takes to clear up this terrible tragedy. We’ve all heard the whispers about that development deal and corruption at city hall. If it has anything at all to do with the murder—” Her husband shushed her, but she went on. “Gretchen, what do you have to say?”
Hollis Harcourt barked, “Don’t anyone say anything!” He shot his wife a look, but she still had her head hung low.
When Gretchen looked up, gone was any hint of cunning; her blue eyes held nothing but puzzlement. “Y’know what? Y’all are crazy as bedbugs, and crooked as a barrel of fishhooks. My granny told me all o’ y’all up here were nuts . . . Yankees, she meant. But poison in a little-ole innocent cupcake?” she said, and she was staring directly at Florence Whittaker. “That’s just—well, it ain’t nice. It ain’t nice at all!” Then she collapsed back in her chair in a genteel faint.
Cissy, on her feet and breathing heavily, turned to her fiancé and said, “What is going on here, Francis? What did you mean when you said that it wasn’t supposed to be poison?”
Francis, tight-lipped, said nothing, but there were tears in his eyes. He stared at his aunt, eyebrows knit. Florence headed toward the door, but Wally had hastened in that direction and barred it with his body, as Sophie struggled to help Gretchen, who was recovering consciousness even as Hollis was whispering in a corner with his father and mother. Forsythe Villiers came to Gretchen’s rescue and helped her sit up, fanning her and muttering tender words in her ear.
Belinda Blenkenship pulled her arm from her husband’s grip and said, “I’ve been wondering and wondering about something for a while. See, Gretchen picked up the platter of cupcakes and took it to Mrs. Vivienne Whittaker first. When Mrs. Whittaker said she didn’t want one, Gretchen told her she just had to, since the vanilla cupcake had been made just for her!”
All eyes turned toward Gretchen, but she was weeping and didn’t look up.
Sophie, heart pounding and stomach churning, glanced around the room. Most were silent, but a couple of people talked in hushed tones to each other. Francis was staring at his aunt, whose face was beet red. “Gretchen, it’s time for the truth,” Sophie said, turning to the young woman. “Why did you tell me you hadn’t been in the kitchen here at a
ll that day?”
“I was plumb s-scared! I thought anyone who was in the kitchen . . . the poison had to be somethin’ she ate, raght?” Her Southern accent was getting stronger. “And then . . . and then I wondered about Mrs. Whittaker askin’ me to put the cupcake on the plate, sayin’ it was a li’l surprise for her sister. She gave me one vanilla cupcake with yeller frosting to put on the plate with my nice, normal yummy red-velvet ones and the bakery shop ones that was already there. That’s why I handed it to Miz Vivienne . . . I thought it was real nice, a sweet s-s-surprise!” She started weeping, big, gulping, gusty sobs. “Ever since I heard it was poison I bin just sick to mah stomach. That horrible woman made me into a . . . a murderer!”
Wally’s shrewd gaze swept over the room, and he touched Mrs. Whittaker’s arm gently and said, his expression grim and pained, “Aunt Flo . . . uh, Mrs. Florence Whittaker, I think we ought to go down to the police station to have a little talk.”
“Don’t you lay your hands on me, Wally!” she said, clutching her handbag to her bosom. “I’ll have a strong word to say to my brother about your behavior today.”
“You haven’t spoken to Dad in years; he never was good enough to be your brother, was he, especially after you married a Whittaker? Look, Aunt Flo, I’m sorry, but if you won’t go, I’ll need to detain you.”
“Francis, you tell them!” Florence said, her voice wavering. “You tell them it was all your idea! I can’t go to jail. I’m a member of the country club.”
“I never wanted Mom dead, I just wanted . . .” He shook his head.
“You wanted her to shut up. She was worried about the money you had been filtering out of her bank account, wasn’t she?” Sophie said, the idea coming to her suddenly.
He covered his face. “I tried explaining to her, that last day, but she said I had to return it or . . .”
Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) Page 28
