Shadow of a Spout (9 page)

Chapter 9

W
hile waiting for her dessert after an all but inedible dinner consisting of overcooked and then microwaved fish with a too-salty and undercooked risotto, Sophie looked around for Rhiannon. She wanted to ask her friend a few questions, but the woman was not in her place at the table.

“Did you see Rhiannon leave the room?” she asked Laverne, who was sipping tea and waving the waitress over to take her plate.

“She darted out of here in a hurry. Maybe she went off to the washroom. This food would be enough to send anyone there.”

“Was it always this bad?”

Laverne shook her head and frowned. “Last year it was real good—home-style, but well made, you know.”

“Cutting costs, I’ll bet, and maybe some personnel issues. What do you think of Rhiannon?”

“Poor girl. She just doesn’t seem like a happy sort. I hadn’t met her before this, so I barely know her. What is she like?”

Sophie folded her hands in her lap and looked off into the distance, considering. “She’s nice. Smart. Her mother started Galway Fine Teas. Rhi tried to take it to New York City, but the shop there failed so she moved back here, to Butterhill.”

She sighed and looked down at her hands. “Maybe that’s why we became friends so easily; we both had our failures in NYC. Her mother got married and they decided to move to Arizona. She’s started a Galway Fine Teas there, so she gave Rhiannon the shop here in Butterhill. I think after the disaster in New York City Rhi is deathly afraid of failing this time. She feels like she owes it to her mom to keep it going, but I’m afraid she just isn’t a good enough businesswoman in some ways.”

“What do you mean?”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “Listen to me, the failed restaurateur talking about how someone should do business. But she takes things too personally. I guess this Zunia person wanted to get Rhi out of the ITCS, didn’t want her to be the supplier anymore. She’s been complaining about it nonstop since I met her. I get the feeling it’s important to GFT—you know, the contacts and prestige, and probably even the actual business—but I said there could be a million reasons the woman might feel that way. Rhi was convinced it was personal.”

“I think she’s right in this case,” Laverne murmured, glancing around. Sophie’s grandmother was holding court with Horace on one side of her and Malcolm on the other, charming both elderly gentlemen. Laverne leaned closer and said, “It started last year. There was something going on between Rhiannon and Walter, some of us thought. Zunia was miffed; she didn’t think it was proper, whatever it was.”

“Rhi and Walter?” Sophie said, eyes wide, remembering the look that passed between the two. “But he’s married and older and . . . are you
sure
?”

She hunched one shoulder. “Not positive. But that was the rumor going round, apparently the dirt Zunia used to force Rhiannon to back out of running for the ITCS New York State division presidency.”

“I had heard the woman started a rumor about bad finances or something like that, or at least that’s what Rhi implied when she was complaining about her. This is
awful
! You mean Zunia threatened Rhiannon that she’d reveal the affair—or whatever—to . . . what, the world? Who would care? Unless it was the ITCS members? Or . . .” Sophie paused. “Mrs. Sommer?”

“I’d say Mrs. Sommer. Nora looks genteel and retiring, but the woman has claws of steel sheathed in velvet gloves. I don’t imagine Rhiannon wanted to face that.”

“If it’s even true,” Sophie said, not able to wrap her mind around vibrant Rhiannon Galway and white-haired Walter Sommer. “Is it possible that the rumor was started by Zunia herself as a way of sabotaging Rhi?”

“I suppose,” Laverne said, doubt lacing her tone. “But then why wouldn’t Rhiannon just tell her to back off?”

“Anyway, even if it was personal—the issue about dumping her as ITCS tea supplier, I mean—Rhiannon should be lobbying the other ITCS chapter members, not letting Zunia determine it for her. I guess the point is moot now, with Zunia gone.”

The waitress brought their desserts and Sophie poked at hers, lava cake, the enduring fad among second-rate restaurants. Still, a well-made lava cake was
good
: warm and decadent, chocolaty and sweet with a depth of cocoa flavor that should make you hum a happy tune, not able to sing out loud because you were too busy filling your face. She was no food snob and enjoyed hot dogs, French fries and everything else if they were done well. One of the best meals she had ever had was poutine in Montreal from a street cart: real cheese curds and hot, delicious gravy over hand-cut fries . . . awesome!

But this lava cake was topped by a spiral of whipped topping from a can, and had a drizzle of what looked like commercial chocolate syrup over it. She cut into it, but there was no warm gush of chocolate, no sweet lusciousness, no rich scent wafting to her nose. She took a bite and chewed, then pushed it away. “Awful,” she muttered.

Laverne chuckled. “Should have stayed with the store-bought rice pudding; at least they couldn’t mess that up.”

Sophie eyed the Sommers, who still sat listening as Orlando Pettigrew poured out his heart, it appeared. The widower took out a tissue from his jacket pocket and wiped his eyes, then blew his nose loudly. Emma muttered something to her father and bolted out of the dining room. Josh excused himself and went after her—to snoop, Sophie hoped. Walter Sommer steadily drank as his wife darted unhappy glances in his direction while chatting quietly to Orlando.

Then the ITCS president stood and began a slow ramble about the room, stopping to talk to the other ITCS members at their various tables, as well as other folks who appeared to be just diners from the town of Butterhill. Their waitress paused near Sophie and watched him with a frown.

“He doesn’t seem too steady on his feet,” Sophie said to her.

“I’m worried his waitress has over served him, but at least he doesn’t have to drive anywhere.”

“He’s got a room on the second floor with all the other ITCS members, I suppose,” she said.

“As much good as that does him.”

“What do you mean?” Sophie asked.

The waitress looked around, then leaned over and said, “I’ve heard the man sees each convention as a hunting ground for new playdates, if you know what I mean. Don’t know how his wife stands it!” She was just then hailed by another diner and sailed away to take an order.

Walter continued his progression around the room, stopping longer by the younger women’s chairs. He seemed to be successfully charming them, because many giggled, and one actually blushed. Sophie glanced over at Nora Sommer. Could this whole thing be as simple as a woman scorned? Was Zunia involved with Walter herself, this year? And had she become the victim of a wife’s wrath?

She shook her head. If Zunia had truly used some indiscretion between Rhi and Walter as fuel to get her to quietly withdraw from the division presidency race, it wasn’t likely that she would then turn around and get caught in the same trap.

Pastor Frank, who had been sitting alone at a table, got up suddenly and headed over to Orlando Pettigrew. He stopped and said a few words, but the grieving widower did not seem to appreciate whatever he was saying. He bolted up and shouted, “Shut your face, Barlow! We were just fine and you’re an idiot. Zunia was
not
going to leave me for you.”

The pastor backed away and a hush fell over the room as a red-haired man in a rumpled suit entered and spied the confrontation. He paced over to the two men and took the pastor by the elbow, escorting him from the rom.

“What was that all about?” Sophie whispered to Laverne.

“That was one of the detectives, O’Hoolihan. Must want to ask the pastor a few questions. He
said
he’d be back.”

“The guy’s got timing,” Sophie muttered. “I was afraid they were going to come to blows in another minute.”

“On the other hand, it might have been interesting if he hadn’t interfered.”

Sophie nodded, acknowledging that she would have liked to have heard more. “Rhi introduced me to the pastor. What’s his story?”

“I’ve always thought Frank was a lonely soul,” Laverne said. “He’s a pastor without a congregation; what could be lonelier than that?”

“But what did that mean, Pettigrew saying that Zunia was not going to leave him for the pastor? That implies the pastor thought she was, and just told the guy now!”

“It doesn’t seem likely—Zunia and Frank?” Laverne shook her head, puzzlement in her dark eyes.

“I can’t imagine it, from what I’ve heard about Zunia Pettigrew. Wouldn’t that be trading down? She wasn’t one to trade down, from the little I know of her. Too ambitious.”

“Hard to say,” Laverne replied.

Horace and Malcolm got up and headed back to their room, likely to play a few hands of gin rummy before they turned in, Laverne said. Walter at last approached their table and bowed, wavering a bit and smelling of wine.

“Miss Laverne,” he said, with a slight slur. “Would you be so good as to introduce me to your
charming
companion?”

Laverne turned to Sophie. “Sophie Freemont Taylor, this is Mr. Walter Sommer, esteemed president of the ITCS. Walter,” she continued, turning to him, “this is Sophie Taylor, Rose’s granddaughter and
my
goddaughter.”

There was a hint of warning in her tone, but the gentleman didn’t appear to hear. He took Sophie’s hand and bowed over it. “What a beauty you are,” he breathed, the scent of red wine on his breath.

Sophie was accustomed to handling drunken flattery; any woman who has ever been a waitress is. “Thank you. I think your wife would like to speak to you, sir.” She pointedly looked over at Nora Sommer, who stared straight ahead while listening to Orlando, who was still talking.

“Nah, she’s good, listening to poor old Orlando.” He hiccupped and sat down in Josh’s vacated seat. “Miss Sophie Taylor, may I ask you a question?”

Sophie sighed. Would the next words from him be the reasonably polite standard
Did it hurt when you fell from heaven? ’Cause you sure look like an angel
, or the more casually insulting and insinuating
What would you like for breakfast tomorrow morning?

Instead, he said, “Do I look like a lady-killer to you?”

Chapter 10

“I
beg your pardon?”

“Stupid detective kept asking me ’bout Zunia.” He put his elbow on the table and cradled his chin. “Poor old Zunia.”

She paused, then smiled encouragingly. “I’m sure you had an alibi for the time of the death. My grandmother said you weren’t even out in the hall when the commotion happened and she was found.”

He shrugged glumly, shoulders slumped, then he tried to sit up straight, wobbling a bit. His chin went up. “I was shlee . . . uh . . . sleeping. Cop doesn’t believe me.”

“How do you know he didn’t believe you?”

“Kept ash . . . asking the same question in different ways, you know?”

“You didn’t hear the alarm or the screaming?”

He shrugged, wavering back and forth. “Sleeping like a baby.”

He said the words, but he just didn’t seem convincing to Sophie; maybe that was because he was drunk, though. “What about
Mrs
. Sommer?”

“Nora? She was already
snoooring
her head off when I got back, ’bout ten. She’s always like that, takes shlee . . . sleeping meds, conks out cold.” He stuck his palm up, then flapped it down, like someone standing upright, then lying flat out. “She was out like a light ’til the police made me wake her up.”

“Then neither of you has anything to worry about, correct?”

He nodded, but still looked worried, his addled gaze wavering, his gaunt face drawn in a frown, lips pursed. He shook his head. Why
was
he worried?

Nora Sommer, her arm through Orlando Pettigrew’s, strolled over and grabbed her husband’s jacket sleeve. “Come along, Walter. We’re going with Orlando to see that officer and find out what he is doing to poor Frank. You
know
he mustn’t be treated harshly, even if he is a little deluded. Poor man’s a saint!”

Orlando was silent, his expression showing that though he might not agree with what Mrs. Sommer said, he wasn’t going to contradict the wife of the group president.

Sophie stood and stuck out her hand. “Mrs. Sommer, I’m Sophie Taylor, Rose Freemont’s granddaughter. I came as soon as I heard about this awful tragedy.”

The woman looked at the outstretched hand but didn’t move to shake. “I can’t imagine why.”

“It was Nana’s teapot stolen from her room and used as a weapon. Didn’t you know that?”

“I hadn’t heard,” she said coolly. “Come, Walter.
Now!
”

She tugged his jacket sleeve again and Walter stiffly stood with the exaggerated care of a very drunk person who wishes not to appear drunk. He bowed, almost fell over, and said good-bye to the table at large, no longer singling Sophie out.

Laverne and Nana went upstairs, as it was getting late by early-to-bed standards. Sophie beckoned SuLinn, who slid into a seat next to her.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” SuLinn said, touching Sophie’s bare arm delicately. “Not that . . . well, I know with that woman dead and your grandmother . . . Oh, I’m just happy to see you!”

They hugged. “If you’re that relieved to see me, maybe this isn’t the place for you?” Sophie joked, eyeing her friend. SuLinn had started out shy and for a while Sophie wasn’t even sure the other girl liked her, but she was slowly emerging from her shell and now was much more open.

“I don’t know. I guess the convention isn’t what I thought it would be.” She glanced around the room. “I should have known, but I like hanging out with your grandmother and Laverne and thought the others would be like them.”

“I know what you mean.” Sophie noticed that the waitstaff were clearing tables and gathering linens, a sure sign they were getting to the end of their shift. It was only eight thirty, which in her world would have meant that the dinner menu would be in full swing. In Fashion stayed open until almost midnight for theatergoers and others, but a dining room in a small-town inn would be done by nine.

She already knew that the local museum tour that had been planned for Saturday evening had been canceled out of deference to the loss of the chapter president, who was to lead the walk. Convention attendees had been left to their own devices, which meant an early bedtime for most. No one really knew yet how the convention was to proceed after Zunia’s tragic passing. Nana had told Sophie that Nora Sommer had informed the conventioneers that she would have plans decided upon by the next morning, after she talked to the ITCS executive board, which consisted of her husband, herself and one other local member who acted as treasurer.

So . . . what to do? Shopping always filled in the gaps, and she had needs. “I forgot a couple of things,” Sophie said, grabbing her handbag and pushing her chair back. The dining room was empty now; her and SuLinn were the last ones sitting. She smiled apologetically to their waitress, and stood. “Is there a drugstore in town that would be open this late?”

“Sure is. It’s a nice night,” SuLinn said, sweeping her dark straight hair back into a ponytail and tying it with an elastic as she, too, stood. “I’ll walk with you and show you where I saw one on our way into town.”

“Perfect. You’d think I’d know the town better. I’ve come here a few times to pick up tea, but Rhiannon’s place is on the outskirts, so I never have a reason to actually venture down Main Street.”

They headed out the front door past the café that was still open. Sophie sniffed the air from the café as someone exited, catching the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and a hint of spicy cinnamon. “That smells good,” she said. “I’ll bet the food is better in the café than in the dining room. Maybe I’ll try something from here before bed.”

“How do you eat so much and stay slim?” SuLinn asked.

Sophie glanced over at her with a quizzical look. “And
you
ask
me
this? I’ve seen you inhale your share of dessert platters, girl.”

SuLinn chuckled, a laugh that was heard only by her closest friends. Sophie smiled at the heartwarming sound. Coming home to Gracious Grove had meant life opened up like a flower. In New York she had met a few nice people but they were all in the food industry and too busy to hang out together. In Gracious Grove she had reconnected with old friends like Cissy Peterson, Dana Saunders and even Jason.

She had made new friends, too, in particular SuLinn and Randy Miller. They all did things together: movie nights at Cissy’s, barbecues at the Millers, and girlie outings with just SuLinn, Cissy and Dana. Rhiannon joined occasionally, but mostly stayed to herself. Sophie worried about the rumor that Rhiannon and Walter Sommer had been having an affair. Rhiannon’s secretiveness could be attributed to that, she supposed.

SuLinn led the way down Main Street, past darkened shops, to Butterhill Drugs, a little pharmacy in an old storefront but updated with fluorescent lighting and mirrored cosmetics counters. Sophie grabbed a basket, picked up a notebook and some pens, then found some travel-size bottles of her favorite shampoo and body wash, and selected a deodorant stick.

“You forgot toiletries?” SuLinn asked, her dark eyes widening with surprise. “Those are the first things I pack. I have to have my moisturizer, makeup, toothpaste, contact solution, contacts, favorite brush, body lotion . . . The list goes on and on. When we go anywhere, Randy says we need a trailer just for my cosmetics.”

“Y’know, when you find out that your grandmother’s mixed up in a homicide investigation you forget a lot of things.” As she scanned the shelf and nabbed a cheap comb and brush set, she noticed Emma Pettigrew standing near the soda cooler in intense conversation with a middle-aged woman. “Who is Emma Pettigrew talking to?” Sophie asked her friend.

SuLinn put down the industrial-size bottle of shampoo she was examining and followed Sophie’s nod. “I don’t know!”

“Introduce me to the girl?”

“I hardly know her myself.” SuLinn demurred, folding her slim arms over her body. “I just met her yesterday for about two seconds.”

“Just introduce me; I’ll do the rest.”

They approached the two and SuLinn made a stilted introduction, then melted away toward the snack-food section.

“My grandmother and her group the Silver Spouts are at the ITCS convention,” Sophie explained, mostly to the older woman. “Nana was just saying how nice it was that Josh had someone to talk to other than all the old ladies and gentlemen at the convention!” She examined the older woman; she was probably in her fifties, slim but with wide hips and graying sandy hair, her mouth bracketed with lines and her hazel eyes underlined by dark circles. She was dressed casually, in tan capris and a sleeveless cotton blouse.

“Who is Josh?” the woman asked the teenager, her eyes narrowing.

“Just a kid,” Emma said, eyeing Sophie with perturbation on her face.

It was easy to see that she looked like the woman, and equally easy to see that Sophie was interrupting a conversation of some sort, something heavier than what chips to buy, or whether Emma could dye her mousy hair. Sophie explained, “Josh Sinclair. He’s just sixteen, the youngest member of the Silver Spouts. Probably the youngest member of the ITCS! You must be Emma’s mother?”

“I’m Dahlia Pettigrew,” she said with a nod.

“Are you here for the convention, too?” Sophie asked.

Dahlia stiffened and grasped the strap of her shoulder bag with a fierce grip. “I wouldn’t be caught
dead
with that bunch of hypocrites!” Two red spots bloomed high on her cheeks and her eyes widened slightly, maybe as she realized what she had just said. But she went on: “
Worse
than hypocrites; they’re a pack of wolves in sheep’s clothing. I’ve done my time with them all, and look what happened: Zunia stole my husband then got herself killed. If Orly didn’t make such a big deal out of it and threaten to withhold child support, I would never have let Emma within a hundred feet of those . . . those
jerks
!” Her voice sounded like tears were clogging it by the end of her statement.

Emma looked like she wanted to sink into the floor after her mother’s rant. The woman had stopped as she caught her daughter’s look, though it appeared that she was stifling more that she would have liked to say. She took in a deep, calming breath and let it out through pursed lips. “I shouldn’t have said that, given what’s happened, but it’s been difficult. Zunia
made
it difficult. Excuse us; we have to run. We have a lot to talk about, number one among those things whether she should even be staying there with some murderer running around loose. You understand, I’m sure.”

She took her daughter’s arm and the two marched out of the store, leaving Sophie to watch them go. Where had Dahlia Pettigrew been the night before, and how much did she hate her ex-husband’s new wife? Enough not to be sorry she was dead, it seemed from her comment.

Sophie bought her stuff. As she and SuLinn walked back to the inn, Sophie told her what had been said and what she was wondering. “Maybe Josh will have more info. I’ll have to track the kid down. That woman was practically shaking and crying, she was still so angry about the way her marriage ended.”

“You can’t blame Dahlia Pettigrew for being bitter, though. I would be, if some woman stole my Randy.”

Sophie didn’t answer. Could a husband be stolen? He wasn’t like a billfold left on a park bench. It was a nice August night, and they strolled back slowly. Sophie told SuLinn about her evening out with Jason and how she thought there was a kiss coming, before the storm washed it away. “I wish I knew what he was thinking, how he was feeling.”

“Ask him,” SuLinn said. “I could never do it, but I’m sure you could.”

“I don’t know about that,” Sophie said. There were roses somewhere. She breathed in deeply; the fragrance was heavy on the warm evening air. It made her think of rose hip tea, something she was considering serving at Auntie Rose’s. She let her mind go back to Jason, though, and her feeling that she just didn’t know where she stood with him. “Jason and I are friends again, but there was a time when he wouldn’t even talk to me, I hurt him that bad.”

“Years ago, when you were kids!” she said. “He’s an adult, Soph, and so are you. I’m sure he’s let go of that.”

“Maybe. Even if he has, though, he’s moved on.” They paused outside the inn and Sophie examined it in the floodlights that illuminated the front. It was an old building, a couple hundred years, probably, constructed of cobblestone. A pergola jutted off to one side. She checked her watch. “I don’t want to go in yet. My nana has this weird nighttime ritual of bending and stretching you would not believe, and I’d rather give her and Laverne space and privacy. Want to walk around there and see if there’s a garden?” she asked, pointing to the pergola.

“Sure. I want to phone Randy,” she said, naming her husband, an architect with a local firm. “He has a meeting this evening and will just be getting home. I’ll give him a few minutes to get a drink and relax, but the garden would be a great place to phone from.”

They strolled down the front sidewalk and climbed some crumbling concrete steps. Beyond the pergola there was an enclosed garden accessed by a wooden gate and lit by solar lights. Benches lined the fence, interspersed by gardens that created private little alcoves for chatting or relaxation. Sophie was interested because she had often thought the back of Nana’s tearoom property could be developed in a similar manner, with private tables for intimate brunches or picnics.