Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) (11 page)

Sophie watched her for a moment, then decided just to be as matter-of-fact as possible. “What on earth possessed her to call the police and tell them Francis did it?”

“She’s never wanted me to marry Francis. She says—get this—that his family is low class.” She took another bite of baklava and then moistened her fingertip, picking up the flaky crumbs from her plate and licking her finger.

“Is that all she has against him?”

“What else could there be? Francis has done so well for himself. We’re all really proud.”

“I was surprised to hear that he had become a successful architect. He seemed headed down the same road as Phil—no offense, Cissy.”

“None taken,” she said. No one knew Phil’s proclivity for flouting the law better than his sister. “Francis got tired of getting in trouble, his mom told me. He went to Cornell, majored in architecture, then landed a great job. Just a month ago or so he was given a huge promotion because he got an investment group that is developing a tract of land outside of GiGi to sign with Leathorne and Hedges for the architecture. Vivienne was so proud.” Her voice choked with emotion. The mother’s pride was now a thing of the past, and no one understood how that felt better than Cissy.

“So how did he manage such a coup?” Sophie asked.

Cissy shrugged and dipped one finger into the cappuccino foam. “I don’t know. He’s only told me the barest details. It’s going to be a big deal!”

“What . . . are they putting a Walmart in downtown Gracious Grove?”

“Right, like that would ever happen,” Cissy said, with a faint smile. “Houses? Stores? I honestly have no idea what it’s all about.” And couldn’t care less, from her tone.

It was puzzling to Sophie that she knew so little about such a major part of her fiancé’s life. Shouldn’t she be passionately interested in the details?

“How did you and Francis get together?” Sophie finally asked.

Cissy took a long drink of her cappuccino and licked the foam from her upper lip. “We always knew each other, from when he and Phil used to hang out.”

Sophie remembered Phil’s assertion that Francis’s mother made sure the buddies were split up. “Why did Phil and Francis stop hanging out with each other?”

Cissy sighed and rolled her eyes. “Long story.”

Curious, Sophie said, “I’ve got time.”

“I keep forgetting that you haven’t been around GiGi for so long. It was a few years ago, when Francis was at Cornell. Phil claims that Francis and he were in business to make alcohol in his dorm room and sell it here in town. It sounds like something Phil would dream up, but Francis?
He
says it’s not true and I believe him over my brother any day. So Phil had moonshine in his pickup and Wally Bowman—he was just starting with the police force then, after college—pulled him over for a traffic stop. He had a brake light out, or something dumb like that. Typical Phil. Anyway, long story short, Wally busted him. Phil
claimed
he was moving the booze for Francis.”

“Could that be true?”

Cissy shook her head. “No way. You know what Phil is like . . . always in trouble. Francis had cleaned up his act and was doing well at Cornell. I always thought that Phil felt abandoned by his buddy and tried to set him up when he got caught with the booze. Anyway, the police went easy on him and charged him with just a misdemeanor. He spent thirty days in County and got off without a record.”

Sophie ate the last palmier; how could she raise the possibility that Phil, angry at the family and not wanting Cissy to marry Francis, had killed Vivienne? Or maybe intended to kill Francis?

Oblivious, Cissy stared off into space. “Can you do an all-white-and-yellow theme for my bridal shower tea party?” she asked, her voice strangely thick. “Vivienne would have liked that. Yellow was her favorite color.”

“You got along with Vivienne?”

Cissy nodded, one tear trickling down her cheek. “She was really kind to me.”

Sophie briefly thought about what she’d learned regarding Vivienne breaking up her son’s romance with Belinda Blenkenship; she must have liked Cissy a lot, to be nice to her.

“You know, just before the party yesterday she gave me a box and told me it was a special present just for me and that I should tuck it away, then open it in private. She wanted to know what I thought about it.”

“Have you opened it?”

“Oh, no . . . it makes me cry just thinking about it. She wasn’t supposed to give me anything until the wedding shower! She was so sweet to me.”

“I’m so sorry, Cissy, really,” Sophie said, putting one hand over her friend’s. “We’ll make sure the color scheme is yellow and white.” She shuddered, remembering the yellow cupcake frosting smeared around Vivienne’s mouth; how was she going to go on with that image in her head? Especially if the cupcake was indeed what killed her.

Cissy turned her hand palm up and squeezed. “I’m so glad you’re home, Sophie. I don’t have a lot of friends, and we always were . . . friends, I mean.”

Sophie squeezed back, tears welling in her own eyes. Maybe she had underestimated what a good friend Cissy could be. “I’m glad to be home. I don’t have many friends either. There was never time, in New York. I had lots of acquaintances and work buddies, but not many friends.” She took a deep breath. “I feel like I’ve been looking for something for a long time and now that I’m back in Gracious Grove I’ll find it.”

There was a watery pause, and both young women sniffed and smiled at each other through the tears.

“Who do you think did this awful thing?” Cissy said, reaching into her purse for a tissue. She blew her nose daintily.

“You know everyone a lot better than I do, Cissy,” Sophie protested.

“I know, but I just can’t imagine it. To purposely
kill
someone? I think it was some kind of dreadful mistake.”

“Maybe.” How did poison
accidentally
get into a cupcake? This was no mistake, but if Cissy needed to tell herself that, then Sophie was not going to interfere.

“Can I ask you a huge favor?” Cissy asked, eyeing her across the table.

“I’ll try,” Sophie replied, loath to commit without knowing what she was getting herself into.

“It’s about Granny; she can be a royal pain in the butt, but she means well.”

“I know.”

“One thing she has just been
so
upset about over the years is that your grandmother never asked her to join the Silver Spouts. It’s kind of like an honor in Gracious Grove to be asked to join, you know.”

“You
know
how your grandmother has always been toward Nana,” Sophie said.

“But it’s time those two mended their fences, don’t you think?” She looked off into the distance and said, her tone sad, “Don’t you think life’s too short?”

“Well, yeah.”

“No, I mean, life’s too short to hold a grudge for so long.”

“I get you.” And she really did. But there was no calculating Thelma Mae Earnshaw. Cautiously, Sophie said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Cissy stood and meticulously calculated the total and tip, and laid a ten-dollar bill down on her plate. “Vivienne’s death is tragic, and just when we were going to be happy.” Cissy paused, staring down at the table, her eyes watering again. “I think it was just an accident.”

Sophie wasn’t going to argue with her. “I’ll drive you back to the bookstore.”

“No, you go on with your day,” Cissy said, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. She held her head high and looked up and down the pedestrian mall as they exited the patisserie. “I could use a little fresh air. I’d like to walk and remember that it’s spring, and I’m getting married in four weeks!”

“And
I’m
going to make sure you have the most wonderful bridal shower tea party in the world, no matter how Gretchen interferes. Yellow and white and pretty.”

• • •

H
er dark eyes twinkling, Laverne slipped back into the kitchen of Auntie Rose’s.

“Well?” Rose said, her gaze fastened on her old friend. Laverne had gone over to Belle Époque, supposedly to help Gilda close up.

“
Well!
I’ve got news.” After explaining that Thelma had been delivered home by the police, but had gone directly upstairs to lie down, Laverne said, “There
were
some store-bought buttercream-frosted cupcakes in the fridge at Belle Époque, just like Gilda said.”

“
Were
 . . . meaning that there aren’t any there now?”

“Police took them for evidence,” Laverne said. “But listen to this . . . Gilda swears up and down that when the police took those cupcakes away, the container was full, not a single one gone out of it.”

“Which means that the poisoned cupcake was probably brought in by whoever intended to do Vivienne in.”

“
If
it was Vivienne Whittaker who was the target,” Laverne said.

Rose nodded, thoughtfully. “What about the container the red-velvet cupcakes were brought in?”

“That is a good question,” Laverne said, her face wrinkled in thought. “One was empty and in the garbage, according to Gilda. But there’s some confusion there. The way she remembers it, the red-velvet cupcakes looked homemade, not store bought, and yet she saw one of those cheap grocery store clamshell containers with a label saying
RED-VELVET CUPCAKES
.”

“Hmm. But we don’t know who made them or who brought them.”

“No, we do not,” Laverne said. “Do you think it matters?”

“Well, we don’t think she ate a red-velvet cupcake, right? If that’s so, then whoever brought the red-velvet cupcakes probably wasn’t the murderer. In any case, we’ll have to find out who brought them,” Rose said.

“We surely will. Anything we can dig up will help.”

Chapter 10

S
ophie picked up a newspaper from a box outside GiGi’s French Pastries, then went back to the SUV in the parking lot across the street. She sat at the wheel and watched Cissy walk away, window shopping at the gift stores along the pedestrian mall, then glanced down at the newspaper. The headlines blared
ANNEXATION
PLANS
IN
THE
WORKS
FOR
GG
,
TWO
ARRESTED
IN
K
ICKBACK
SCHEME
and
CITY
TENDER
PROCESS
CALLE
D
INTO
QUESTION
below the fold, but above it was a full half page headlined by
MURD
ER
OF
LOCAL
SOCIALIT
E
CALLED
“
TERRIBLE
TR
AGEDY
.”

There was a huge photo attached, and Sophie was reminded that Vivienne Whittaker had been in the tearoom before her death with a gentleman . . . what did she call him? Sophie couldn’t remember. But they were arguing, and she seemed upset; she said something about her son being the only important thing. Sophie read the story.

“According to reliable sources, Vivienne Whittaker, clubwoman and leading light in many local charitable concerns, was poisoned at a private event at Belle Époque Inn and Tearoom.” The story went on to name those at the event, and even named the poison used, cyanide, before giving a history of her life and charitable involvements.

Sophie swallowed hard and felt her throat close. Cyanide! She remembered a little chemistry and a course in geology she had taken once. Cyanide was present in nature, especially in peach pits and cassava root. It had a lot of uses, including the refinement of gold and silver. Did all that mean it was readily available?

She also remembered a court case a few years ago where a man used a cyanide “suicide” pill to kill himself right there in the court after his guilty verdict was read. He had died quickly, just like Vivienne Whittaker. Sophie sat and pondered that; could someone have stuffed a suicide pill into a cupcake? How could you be sure the right person would take the right cupcake?

Or . . . Sophie’s eyes widened. Had Vivienne maybe killed herself? No. That was the last thing the woman would do at the engagement tea for her son and daughter-in-law-to-be when she had been so looking forward to having Cissy as her new family. No loving mother would
ever
do such a thing in front of her son. Thoughts in a tumult, Sophie checked her mirrors and pulled out, driving slowly through town.

As she drove she turned her thoughts away from the awful death she had witnessed and focused on the beauties of Gracious Grove. She remembered each place she passed along the way and what it meant to her: the library where she had devoured cookbooks and biographies, the public garden where she and Nana had walked and talked, marveling at the roses that were her grandmother’s favorite flower, the local high school all her Gracious Grove friends had attended, and where she had longed to go. The closest she ever got was attending a few school events during vacations, a Christmas concert, an Easter festival chorus. Maybe if she had spent all her life in this town it would not affect her the same way, but having been away for a few years, she saw it with fresh eyes.

Gracious Grove was lovely, gowned in pastel trees: cherry blossoms bursting into flower, apple blossoms a shower of white and lilacs heavy and fragrant with flowers. Every corner she turned took her to a new vista, sometimes of gracious homes and two-centuries-old stone buildings sloping down the steeper streets, and then a view of the lake in the distance, sparkling in the sun, blue sky arching in splendor above. The lake . . . she would always remember it fondly, whole days spent on its shore, swimming, picnicking, then later a bonfire and marshmallows toasted, couples drifting off hand in hand to kiss and cuddle in the dark.

She thought about Jason Murphy, and how she would always see him as he was the summer she turned sixteen. He was already tall, skinny and as brown as an acorn from being out in the sun. He drove his dad’s boat around the lake with all of them yelling and whooping it up. His hair shone with golden streaks in it, and as she watched him pilot the craft she had never been happier.

Until her mother descended on Gracious Grove for one of her brief, flying visits near the end of August. Jason was going nowhere, her mother insisted. He was lazy. He didn’t even work. (That wasn’t true; he did work in his dad’s hardware store, but his hours were flexible because Jason’s parents believed that he should be a kid while he could.) He had no future plans, goals . . . did Sophie really think he would amount to anything other than taking over the family hardware store?

The battering had gotten to her, and she reluctantly accepted the reality that she was going to go off to her last year of high school, then directly to a summer of prep courses, then on to university, the same one her two brothers were attending, if she kept her grades up. When would they ever be together again? So she broke it off in a weepy, stormy scene and allowed her mother to haul her back to New York.

And now he was, of all things, an English professor! That still wouldn’t be good enough for her mom because he wasn’t a professor at Brown, or Harvard, or Yale. It was disconcerting how often her mother’s voice was in her head, judging, commenting, criticizing. It had taken a lot for her to break away from her mother’s expectations and do what she wanted, to go to cooking school and earn her degree in restaurant management.

If she hadn’t let her mother pull her away from Jason, who knew what would have happened? Instead, every man she met and liked, she judged by Rosalind Freemont Taylor’s exacting measures. If she ever managed to erase her mother’s voice from her head, maybe she’d be able to move on in other ways than just her career aspirations.

She had to go to a tea-blending store in Butterhill, so she headed out of Gracious Grove, hoping the drive would clear her head. She had only gone a quarter mile when a huge, shiny-new signboard set in a field made her pull over and stare in surprise. That was the signboard from the photo she’d found under the table where Vivienne Whittaker and that fellow had sat. The exact one! She could tell by the background, a farmhouse and big red barn in the distance, with a set of three silos, and an old oak tree right near the sign.

Now she could see what it read:
COME HOME
TO
LAKEVIEW
ENCLAVE
;
HOMES
OF
DISTINCTION
,
A
GATED
COMMUNITY
.
Lakeview? Not exactly; she had driven inland from Seneca Lake, but okay. It was illustrated with photos of a smiling, pale, blond family all wearing polo shirts and riding bicycles. Builders were listed as Stanfield Homes and Hammond Construction, and the developer was listed as GG Group. According to the billboard it was going to be a planned, gated community with a retail component along the highway so home buyers would have all the conveniences.

Maybe this was the development Francis had brought to Leathorne and Hedges, the reason he got such a big promotion. But even so, why did Vivienne Whittaker have a photo of the development with her? Or . . . was it the man she was with who had dropped the photo? Either way, it was odd that the photo had even been taken. Why was it of interest? And was Vivienne really concerned about Francis’s part in the development, as it seemed from her words?

Sophie started up the SUV again and pulled back onto the road. She drove on, her path taking her past Cruickshank College. On a whim, she turned around and pulled through the stone gates and up the long, crushed-gravel drive that curved past a grove of graceful white paper birch. The vista opened out to the college building itself, made of white limestone and originally used as a home by Cruickshank, a lumber baron in the Finger Lakes region. She stopped the SUV and sat for a moment in the visitors’ parking lot, watching students lolling in the spring sunshine and one professor under a huge, old chestnut tree laden with spikes of fragrant white flowers.

Was that . . . she squinted and stared through the glare of the windshield. Jason was the professor teaching his class out under the spreading chestnut tree! Just then, the kids all got up, dusted themselves off and headed toward the building, while he put his briefcase on a bench and gathered the papers he had been reading from. She got out of the truck and crossed the grass to the shade tree, and stood before him.

“Sophie!” he exclaimed, looking up from his papers.

“Jason. How are you?”

“Good! That was my Introduction to American Poetry class. I thought an outside class would keep the students awake.” He smiled, but then his eyes widened. “Oh, hey, I heard you saw that terrible scene yesterday . . . Vivienne Whittaker’s death. So tragic!”

She nodded but didn’t answer as he clicked his case closed. After a pause, she said, “I’m kind of trying not to think about that today.”

He looked stricken for a moment, then stepped over to her and pulled her into a hug. She took a deep breath and relaxed. He smelled so good! Like aftershave, but not too strong, and fresh laundry and leather. She luxuriated for a long moment, but then a silvery voice said, “Jason, we have a meeting?” Sophie looked up.

A woman stood near them, smiling; she was slim and attractive, dressed neatly in a skirt suit and holding a sheaf of papers.

“Oh, sorry!” Jason said, with a start. He held Sophie’s arm lightly, still. “Julia, this is Sophie Taylor, an old,
old
friend of mine!”

This was the part of the romantic comedy flick where Julia should say “Not too
old
a friend,” with a sarcastic, jealous edge, as she grabbed Jason’s other arm, but instead the woman looked completely pleasant. “Julia Dandridge,” she said, striding forward, hand outstretched. “So nice to meet a friend of Jason’s.”

Her handshake was warm but brief, a mere clasp and release. Sophie smiled at her, wondering what her relationship was with Jason.

“I do have a departmental meeting,” he said, with regret in his tone. “Julia is the English Lit department head . . . medieval literature is her specialty. It’s nice to see you again, Sophie. I hope you’re doing okay? I’ll drop in at your grandmother’s on the weekend.”

“I’d like that.”

Heads together, the two professors walked off, comparing notes. Sophie and he were old,
old
friends, he’d said. She wasn’t going to dwell on it. Jason was her past and it was pleasant to look back on that time in her life, nothing more. She had shopping to do, a tearoom to work in and a bridal shower tea to plan.

• • •

T
helma Earnshaw stared out her window over to Auntie Rose’s. They had had a steady stream of customers and a lot of them were locals,
all
of ’em taking a gander at Belle Époque as they slowly entered the tearoom next door. Darned rubberneckers. It was an outrage, but did the police take an interest and stop those people from staring? No.

She had thought she ought to stay closed so folks didn’t ask awkward questions or make a big deal about someone dying after eating something at her tearoom, but darned if she didn’t think that was a bad idea. She was missing out on a whole passel of customers who would love to come and gawk, and she’d make them buy tea and food, too, whatever she could scrounge up from the freezers. They might not eat it, but they’d buy it. As she usually did, she ignored whispers in her brain; this time the whispers murmured that it was unfeeling to open so soon after her granddaughter’s mother-in-law-to-be died in her establishment.

She hoofed it awkwardly over to the wall phone and dialed a number. “Gilda? Get your butt up out of your easy chair and come on down to work. We’re going to open, and no one can stop me. Oh, and go pick up cleaning supplies at the dollar store. Darned flatfoots left fingerprint powder everywhere.”

She hung up as Gilda squawked some questions Thelma wasn’t about to answer, and went back to the window. Rose would just love to lord this over her,
if
they were speaking, which they weren’t. While it wasn’t exactly true that they hadn’t spoken at
all
in the past sixty-some-odd years, they hadn’t spoken much. But it wasn’t her fault that Rose had the audacity to claim she didn’t know what she was doing when she stole Thelma’s beau back . . . how long ago was it, actually? Let’s see . . . she did some quick math, which turned into confusion. What year was it right now? Lord, it did not seem possible that she had lived past the millennium, and here it was . . . how many years later?

She got confused and gave up. The important thing was, never once had Rose apologized for stealing Harold Freemont away from her, all those years ago. Not to say she lamented marrying her own gone and regretted hubby; he was a good man and he did his best, even though his best was often second rate.