Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) (13 page)

“Yes, did she?” Forsythe prodded. “I heard her tongue was protruding.”

“I think we can safely assume she suffered,” Sophie said, feeling ill. “Could we change the subject, please?”

“Francis was in to work for a moment today,” Forsythe said. “He looked terrible. We’re all getting together to send a bouquet.”

“I understood you didn’t know him?” Sophie said, reflecting on what Laverne had told her.

Forsythe gave her a sharp look. “That
was
true; I didn’t know him except to see him, but last week we had a budget meeting concerning his coup. I had to be there to take notes for the accounting department head, who was away.”

“What exactly
is
his coup?” Sophie asked.

He didn’t answer, but SuLinn jumped in. “My husband says that Francis is going to be the architect for some of the model homes and maybe more in that new development. They’re talking big: housing, condos, commercial, the whole thing. No one quite knows what Francis did to get the job.”

“I saw the signs when I was out on the highway today. It’s probably good for Gracious Grove, as long as it doesn’t gut the downtown. I’ve heard of that happening to small towns.”

Forsythe gave SuLinn a look. “No one was supposed to say anything about Francis
getting
the job. Yet. I don’t know why it’s such a big secret. I think that’s only because there is some venom over the fact that young Francis was given such a plum assignment. Your
husband
can’t be pleased.”

SuLinn looked hurt, and Sophie rushed to say, “So . . . housing and commercial? Like, new stores and malls, maybe?”

Forsythe nodded. “Huge! Especially by Gracious Grove terms. The planned development spans hundreds of acres outside of town limits, but it’s an area planned for annexation. The residential units already are designed with a higher density than allowed by Gracious Grove bylaws. If annexation goes through, something is going to have to change, either the plans or the bylaws.”

“It depends on who is greasing whose palms,” spoke a deep voice. It was Horace Brubaker, who was sitting placidly nearby.

That made Sophie think of the other headlines she had seen in the newspaper that day and the implication of a kickback scheme. She hadn’t read the piece. “Do you really think there is bribery going on, Mr. Brubaker?”

His leathery face creased in a grimace. “I think wherever there is big business, there is corruption. I’ve lived long enough to believe that the corruption that is noticed and acted upon legally is only about ten percent of the reality.”

Laverne came over just then to help the elderly man to a table where her father sat. He bowed, and tottered off to have his tea and muffins.

Sophie digested what Mr. Brubaker had said. “It’s amazing they gave the design job to Francis, since he’s a junior member of the company.”

“Randy—that’s my husband—said it’s only fair Francis gets the job,” SuLinn commented, giving Forsythe a look. “He’s the one who snagged the development for Leathorne and Hedges.”

Sophie considered that and wondered how he did it. “He brought it in, so he gets the job?”

Forsythe’s brow wrinkled. “That’s not how
I’d
run a company. Whoever will do the best job should get the assignment.”

SuLinn shrugged. “That’s the way Leathorne and Hedges works, Randy says.”

“Maybe Randy is kissing up to Francis to get a piece of the action,” Forsythe said, his tone dry.

SuLinn clamped her mouth shut and looked away. It was not a very polite thing to say right to the fellow’s wife, Sophie thought. Forsythe had a sharp tongue but little company loyalty.

“It’ll be tough for Francis to concentrate on work for a while, with his mother gone,” Sophie said, to deflect the topic away from the disagreement between the two. “They were close, weren’t they?”

SuLinn shrugged. “I guess. Say, I hear you’re doing a bridal shower for Cissy here at Auntie Rose’s; it’s weird that it’s not going to be at her grandmother’s place.”

“Not so weird if you know the history. It goes back to when we were teenagers. Cissy told me she wants it just like my Sweet Sixteen birthday party that was held here. I guess that’s what the engagement tea at Belle Époque was all about, to placate Mrs. Earnshaw.”

“Too bad a dead body ruined it,” Forsythe said.

On that less than diplomatic remark, the conversation turned away from the topic, and SuLinn and Forsythe started talking about Leathorne and Hedges business again, but more mundane stuff than the controversial material they had been discussing. Sophie drifted over to talk to Josh. He seemed to be feeling a little out of place now that the meeting was over and the social part of the evening had commenced.

“You’ll have to write down your blog name for me, so I can look it up,” she said, after greeting him.

“I can give you my card,” he said, pulling out a card with his name, e-mail and various social handles, as well as his blog URL. “So, is it true?” he blurted out. “Was Mrs. Earnshaw arrested?”

“No! Not at all. She just had to go and give her statement to the police, you know, like on the cop shows.”

“I don’t watch cop shows,” he said.

“Oh. Well, that’s all it was, and there was a misunderstanding with the police officer.”

Josh rolled his eyes. “I’ll bet. The only woman on this street crabbier than Mrs. Earnshaw used to be my grandmother. Now that Grandma has moved . . .” He trailed off and shrugged.

Sophie chuckled then sobered. “Is that the rumor that’s going around? That Mrs. Earnshaw was arrested?”

“It’s ’cause everyone knows how much she hated the Whittakers and didn’t want Cissy marrying Francis.”

“I still don’t get why.”

The boy shrugged again, but didn’t comment.

“But surely she’s not the only one who would have wanted Vivienne Whittaker gone,” Sophie continued. Odd to be discussing this with a sixteen-year-old boy, but the kid was an old soul, mature beyond his years.

“It’s not just her, it’s her grandson, too. Everyone knows that Phil Peterson hated Mrs. Vivienne,” Josh said. “He made it real clear. And the woman who works there . . .
she
had a grudge against Mrs. Whittaker, too.”

“Gilda had something against Mrs. Whittaker?”

He nodded, his expression solemn. “I deliver the local paper, and one afternoon a few months ago I was coming for my pay. Miss Bachman was always the one who gave me the money. No one answered at the side door, so I went in and heard her crying. I asked her what was wrong and she told me that Mrs. Whittaker had been having tea with a charity group when Miss Bachman spilled it all down her blouse and skirt. I guess the woman had a fit and demanded Gilda be fired.”

“Really? I didn’t know that. Are you sure that was Mrs.
Vivienne
Whitaker?”

He nodded. “And Dana Saunders . . . do you know her? She works at the bookstore. She wasn’t too fond of her, either.”

“
Dana
didn’t like Vivienne Whittaker? Why is that?”

“I don’t know, it was some stuff from a hundred years ago about Mrs. W. breaking her and Frank Whittaker up.”

How odd that Dana hadn’t seen fit to mention that when she was talking about Vivienne Whittaker breaking up Francis and Belinda’s romance! But it did explain why she had sounded so sour when talking about Vivienne breaking up Francis’s love affairs. “How do you know all this?”

He quirked a smile. “I listen. People don’t think teenage guys do, but . . . well, I do. If you’re gonna be a writer, you have to listen.”

He was going to be a reporter someday, or an exposé writer.

“So do you know anything about Gretchen Harcourt, or her husband, Hollis?”

But the boy’s attention had drifted elsewhere by that point. Laverne was deep in a conversation with Nana and her two old friends, Helen and Annabelle, as Malcolm sat nearby sipping his tea and chatting with Horace Brubaker. Instead of answering Sophie’s question, Josh took the chance to scoot over to Cindy, who was making shy eyes at him. Sophie drifted over to the foursome of older ladies who sat in a semicircle, in time to hear Helen say, “That Thelma . . . she sure is in a heap of trouble.”

Nana replied, “Just because she phoned in her suspicion that Francis did something to his mother, that doesn’t automatically mean she’s the guilty party!”

Laverne grumbled, “I wouldn’t put anything past that woman. Nothing! The hell that she puts poor Gilda through . . . it’s too much!”

“But surely she wouldn’t actually
hurt
anyone, would she? Not on purpose.” Annabelle, a soft-spoken and timid lady who was never seen without her knitting bag, making something soft and pink or blue for one of her innumerable great-grandbabies, looked horrified at the thought. She dropped a stitch, tsk-tsked to herself, and concentrated on picking it up.

“I heard that they figured out the poison was in a cupcake, the
very
one that was made in their kitchens!” Helen interjected. “And just last week Thelma was saying the world would get along very nicely without the Whittaker family, and Vivienne in particular.”

Nana, with a troubled look on her softly wrinkled face, shook her head. “I’ve known Thelma Mae almost my whole life. She can be cantankerous and downright impossible at times, but I have never known her to harm a soul, unless it was with a cutting word. There’s no reason to think the deadly cupcake was made in their kitchen.”

“Who else could have done it?” Sophie asked, thinking aloud. “I’m not saying I think she did it, but I’m just wondering how many
other
folks could have done it.”

“I wouldn’t put it past Florence. Those two never did get along!” Helen said.

“Would
you
get along with the hussy who bedded your husband?” Laverne said.

“You told me that story the other day,” Sophie said to Laverne. “But was it true? I mean . . . was it more than an accusation on Vivienne’s part?”

“Who knows?” Nana said.

“Who knows if it’s true? Vivienne accused Florence of it right there in the country club in front of all their friends!” Laverne said.

“But that was a long time ago, right?” Sophie pointed out. “What happened
after
that?”

“There was a lot of talk in Gracious Grove, I can tell you,” Laverne said. “I heard that Francis Senior bought Vivienne a big diamond ring soon after, and Florence and Jackson Whittaker separated.”

Helen nodded and leaned forward. “Jackson Whittaker had a terrible temper and was a drinker and gambler. It wasn’t a good marriage from the start. He lost all his share of the Whittaker family money they made from the grocery stores, but they never did divorce.”

Nana said, “I guess through the years and after both brothers died in that car crash the gossip has died down. Vivienne didn’t cut Florence out of her family’s life, anyway. You’d think she would have if the gossip was true.”

“But Mrs. Earnshaw is really unhappy about Cissy marrying a Whittaker,” Sophie commented. “I guess she believes all the gossip. Phil sure seems angry about Cissy marrying Francis, too.”

“I was terribly troubled when I heard someone saying it must be Phillip Peterson who did it,” Annabelle said. “He wasn’t even there that afternoon, I said. Imagine, blaming poor Cissy’s brother!”

Annabelle didn’t want it to be anyone. Sophie sympathized, but if there was a murder, there was a murderer right there in sleepy, comfortable, wonderful Gracious Grove. “Why was this . . . this
person
saying it was Phil?”

“Well, it was that trouble a few years back,” Helen said, trading glances with Nana. “I really shouldn’t say anything.”

“Are you talking about the trouble between Phil and Francis?” Sophie had both Cissy’s and Phil’s view of the traffic stop that resulted in Phil’s legal troubles. What did others think?

“Well . . . kind of,” Helen said.

“And then there was something about him damaging Vivienne’s car, right?” Sophie asked.

The women exchanged looks but stayed silent. Just then Sophie heard something banging in the kitchen. She dashed back and noticed a figure silhouetted in the glass insert of the kitchen door. She looked out the sidelight and saw, standing shivering, Gretchen Harcourt. She hurried to open the door. “Gretchen! What are you doing here tonight?”

“I’ve been trying to call you for hours, but your phone just keeps going to message,” she griped, squeezing past Sophie into the kitchen and pulling her cashmere sweater close around her shoulders. “Gosh, it’s freezing out there! It’s May, for heaven’s sake. Supposed to be almost summer.”

Sophie was tempted to say that it was May in upstate New York, so you had to expect the unexpected. It was not unheard of for there to be light snow showers in May. Where had Gretchen been living? “What can I do for you?” Sophie asked, her tone cold, not even willing to ask someone
that
rude in for a cup of tea.

The young woman stiffened and crossed her arms over her body in a combative stance. She glared at Sophie, her face pale in the fluorescent light of the kitchen, and said, “I want you to tell Cissy Peterson that you’re not going to plan her bridal shower. It just isn’t right! I’m the maid of honor; it’s supposed to be
my
job!”

“You and I are working together on it, right?” Sophie said, slowly, taking in how angry Gretchen was. The woman’s face was set in a pout. “Look, Gretchen, why is this such a big deal to you? Cissy knows what she wants, so why shouldn’t I help her get it? She wants a party like my Sweet Sixteen, and you weren’t even
here
then.”

To her dismay Gretchen plunked down right there in the middle of the kitchen floor. “This wretched ole town! Of
course
I wasn’t here then! I grew up in Tuscaloosa and I’ve worked durned hard to make myself over as a northerner, but y’all are so . . . just so . . . aw,
heck
! You’re a bunch o’ crabby, stiff-necked, know-it-all Yankees!” Then she burst into tears.

Chapter 12

A
fter getting the woman calmed down and sitting at the table with a hot cup of tea in her frozen fingers—Pearl helped soothe the weeping belle, coming to the rescue with a throaty purr and comforting “body kiss”—Sophie got the whole story. Gretchen Mayweather Harcourt, daughter of the South, had been trying to fit in up North for as long as she had been married to Hollis Harcourt. That was why the country club and all its purviews were so important.

“Instead of trying to change, you should have realized that to most of us there is nothing so charming as a Southern accent. We find it disarming!” Sophie smiled across the table at her.

Gretchen hugged Pearl and sniffed. “But y’all think we’re a bunch of dumb bunnies if we talk like this, dontcha?”

“Some folks, maybe. But I’ve met people from all over, and there isn’t an accent around that indicates anything about a person other than where they’re from,” Sophie said, with all sincerity.

“Thank you for that! I’ve had a devil of a time tryin’ to change pretty much everything about me. Hollis’s momma, Marva Harcourt, says I sound like a hick.”

“She’s rude to say that. I don’t pay attention to what rude people think.”

Gretchen cocked her head to one side. “Y’know, you’re right.”

“So we’ll work on the shower together,” Sophie said. “I do know what Cissy wants as far as the tea part of the shower and the colors, but you probably know a lot better than I do what to do about games and stuff like that.”

Gretchen sighed heavily, the weight of the world on her narrow shoulders. “If this was one o’ my friends back home, I’d know exactly what she wants. But this is different!” She ruffled Pearl’s fur with agitated movements, and the elegant cat leaped down with a
mrow
of disapproval. She started grooming to right the flow of her luxurious fur. Again Gretchen sighed deeply. “Fact is, I’m not Cissy’s first choice; that woulda been Dana. She’d even of preferred
you
over me, no offense.”

“None taken,” Sophie murmured, amused by Gretchen’s blundering impolitic remarks. “So why did you agree to do it?”

“Hollis. Him’n Francis Whittaker . . . why, they’re thicker’n fleas on a redbone! Francis is gonna be a big-shot businessman. He’s got him a ten-year plan to make partner at Leathorne and Hedges. And my Hollis . . . he plans to be governor of New York one day. Or a senator. Or something. I don’t pay too much attention when his family starts talking politics, which means I don’t pay attention most of the time at family gatherings. Hollis is gonna start with a run at city council in Gracious Grove, and from there the sky’s the limit!”

“He’ll have to get some hidden sex scandals first, though,” Sophie joked. Gretchen’s face paled and Sophie realized she had gone much too far. “I was joking, Gretchen, just a stupid comment about politicians,” she said, touching the other woman’s arm. “I didn’t mean it. I’m
so
sorry!”

Gretchen stared at her. “I swear, I do not get y’all’s sense of humor. As
if
!”

“Speaking of city politics . . . you must know Belinda Blenkenship, right? The mayor’s wife?”

Gretchen sniffed. “I know her.” Her shortness spoke volumes.

“But you don’t like her.”

“In my town we woulda called her lowlife white trash. No better’n she ought to be.”

“That’s harsh.”

“If you knew what I know . . .”

“And what is that?”

She looked conflicted, but then said, “She made a dead set at every man in this town. She only married old Blenkenship because she couldn’t find anyone else to make an honest woman of her after all the messin’ around she done. Hollis told me that.” A sly expression settled on her face and she leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Y’all know she hated Vivienne Whitaker, right?”

Sophie nodded. “I’ve heard that Vivienne broke up her romance with Francis.”

“Darn tootin’. She told a friend of mine that someone oughta put Vivienne out of her misery like a mad dog.”

“Holy cow! That’s a little pointed,” Sophie replied.

With a malicious grin, Gretchen said, “That’s just the kinda gal she is. Anyway, my Hollis, he’s gonna be mayor someday, then move on to state politics. Far’s I know.”

“It’s an expensive game, though, politics. Does Hollis’s family have money?”

If Gretchen noticed how indelicate it was to ask about someone’s financial situation, she didn’t flinch. “Enough to make a splash in Gracious Grove and Ithaca. But he’s gonna need more. Him and his daddy are gettin’ into real estate development with some o’ Papa Holly’s good-ole boys. Francis is gonna be their pet architect, he says.” She sighed. “It all sounds boring as heck! If I’d’a known Hollis was serious about politics, I woulda run in the other direction at the Southern Ladies’ League Cotillion.”

Papa Holly. Why did that name . . . ah! Sophie remembered now that Vivienne had called the older man she was sitting with
Holly
. So that must have been Hollis Harcourt Senior. And they were arguing about Francis’s involvement in something, and now she found that Mr. Harcourt and his son were involved in the development that Francis was head architect on. Interesting. Gretchen had been at the engagement tea, but she couldn’t have had anything to do with the poisoning. Could she?

“Does Mr. Harcourt know Vivienne Whittaker?” she said, fishing for more information.

“Well, sure. They all belong to the country club, you know.”

“Did they have any business together? Or was there anything between Mr. Harcourt and Francis Whittaker?”

Gretchen stared at her. “I do not have a clue what y’all are talkin’ about!”

From the lessening babble of voices in the tearoom, it seemed that the tea was winding down, but Laverne and Nana could handle it. Cindy and Laverne had already pledged to stay a few minutes after the meeting to tidy up. Sophie was interested in Gretchen’s take on the tragedy, and curious about one more thing. “After the tragedy, when you all were corralled here in the tearoom, I saw you texting someone while we were waiting for the police to interview us. Who were you texting, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Hollis, of course. I just wanted him to know I might be late.”

It seemed like she was texting a lot more than that, but Gretchen seemed suddenly evasive, so Sophie left it alone for the moment. “What exactly happened, anyway? I haven’t been able to get an independent view of the tea.”

Gretchen rolled her eyes. “It was boring, then it was awful. Old women are the most hateful . . .” She trailed off as Nana came into the kitchen.

“Well hello, Gretchen. How are you doing, dear?” she asked, as she put a pitcher of milk back in the glass-doored refrigerator.

“I’m very well, ma’am, thank you. And how are you holding up?” Her Southern accent was gone, erased by careful diction.

“I’m fine.” Nana paused on the threshold, and glanced back and forth between the two of them. “I’ll just be in the tearoom with Laverne. A couple of the others will be coming through the kitchen and out the back door, Sophie, since they parked in back.”

“Okay. Do you need any help?”

“We’re fine. Josh is staying to help . . . the lure of Cindy, I think.”

“I’m sure it didn’t take that. He’s a nice kid with good manners,” Sophie commented.

“That he is.”

At that moment Forsythe Villiers came through the door. He stopped as he caught sight of Gretchen. “Mrs. Harcourt, how divine to see you again!”

Gretchen flipped her long hair back. “Why, hello there, Mr. Villiers. Fancy seeing you here. And how are
you
doing this fine evening?” There was a flirtatious note in her voice.

“How do you two know each other?” Sophie asked.

“Mr. Villiers is a member of the country club, of course,” she said, all of the snobby brittleness back in her tone.

“When I moved here, my family insisted. And we are well connected in other social ways, are we not?” He dropped a wink. “Good evening, Sophie,” he continued, “and as for you, Mrs. Harcourt, I’ll see
you
online.”

Sophie felt like an outsider in her own home, with undercurrents between the two visitors that she didn’t understand. Good-ole Southern gal or country club snob: Which was the real Gretchen?

“You were saying that old women were the most hateful . . . and then you had to stop. Were you talking about the Mrs. Whittakers?”

“Who else? I know y’all aren’t supposed to speak ill of the dead, but my granny said if that was so, and we couldn’t be nasty to one another when we’re alive, where did that leave us?”

“True. Were the Whittakers behaving badly?”

“Just some sniping back and forth.”

“About what?”

Gretchen shrugged. “I dunno. Something about money.”

“Try to remember; what exactly was said?”

“I tell you, I don’t
recall
! And then Mrs. Vivienne was asking what was in everything, putting up her nose like there was a funny smell in the room and she wasn’t sure which of us dealt it.”

Sophie snickered, surprised that the old
he who smelt it dealt it
rhyme from childhood had come back in such a strange guise. She sobered, though, and asked, “What did you all eat? What was there?”

Gretchen wrinkled her nose. “Why?” Sophie was silent for a moment, and Gretchen’s expression changed. She bounced up and down in her chair. “Oh! Are y’all snoopin’? Tryin’ to figure out whodunit?” Her eyes sparkled.

“Do I look like the kind of person who would do that?” Sophie asked, rather than answering directly.

Gretchen sighed. “Nah, I guess not. Sure would be a hoot, though, right? I mean, putting one over on that dumb ole Wally Bowman.”

“You think Wally is dumb?” Sophie was surprised. She knew Wally from way back, and he was quiet but smart. It was easy to underestimate his kind of intelligence, though, Sophie supposed.

“Dumb as a box o’ rocks. Why, any idiot can see that he’s holdin’ a candle bright as day for Cissy, but does he say anything? Nope. Suffers in silence instead. I just hate that
let the better man win
crap. Who says Francis is the better man?”

Gretchen’s take on the dynamic between Wally and Cissy shocked Sophie. “Wally and Cissy?
Really?
” Maybe Sophie hadn’t been back in Gracious Grove long enough, nor had she been looking for the signs.

“Yeah.” Gretchen tilted her head to one side, her eyes holding a far-off look. “I know I just said Wally’s dumb, but still . . . it’s romantic, don’t you think? My daddy used to sing a song to Momma . . . ‘Young love, first love,’” she warbled.

“But Wally wasn’t her first love. Was he?”

Gretchen gave her a look. “Boy oh boy, it’s true, then. You really were full of yourself as a kid and clueless about anyone else. That’s what Dana told me, but I didn’t believe her.”

Sophie didn’t have an answer. None of
them
would ever realize it, of course, but Sophie had seemed so self-absorbed because she was working hard at fitting in, in Gracious Grove. “Every teenager in the world is self-centered,” she finally said.

Gretchen thought about it and said, “I think you’re prob’ly mostly right.”

“So Wally was Cissy’s first love?”

“Yup. And I don’t think he’s ever gotten over her.”

Learn something new every day
, Sophie thought. But back to the matter at hand . . . “I was asking about what was served at the tea party.”

“Oh, yeah!” Gretchen wrinkled her nose. “Nothing worth eatin’, that’s my answer. Sandwiches. A whole bunch of ’em! Dry, tasteless . . . worse than I’ve ever had. Some filling that came out of a can. There were cookies. Biscuits, only they call ’em scones, another name for dry wedges of tasteless dough.”

“And cupcakes, right?”

“Yup. Red velvet.”

“
Only
red velvet?” Sophie asked, remembering the vanilla yellow-frosted cupcake Vivienne had eaten.

“Far as I know,” Gretchen said, eyeing her. “Why do you wanna know?”

Sophie shook her head. She pondered what her grandmother had told her that Laverne discovered over at Belle Époque, about the commercial clamshell container with
RED
-
VELVET
CUPCAKES
printed on it, against the woman’s assertion that the cupcakes had looked homemade. Gilda wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but she wasn’t so out of it that she didn’t know homemade from store bought. “You said Vivienne was asking what was in everything. Did it seem like she was suspicious of what had been put in her cupcake? I mean . . . did it seem like she was worried that someone was trying to poison her?”

“Gosh, of course not!” Gretchen picked up her cup and stared into it, then set it back down on the table. “She was . . . just being careful of her allergies. I’m like that. I can’t eat shrimp, and folks put shrimp in the darnedest things. This one time—”

“Did she say what she was allergic to?” Sophie took Gretchen’s mug over to the teapot, refilling it and setting it down in front of her as the girl answered.

“Well, no.”

It didn’t really matter, Sophie supposed, since it wasn’t an allergic reaction that had killed her.

Gretchen took a sip of tea but set the cup aside. “I don’t really even like tea. I drink it ’cause I have to, but . . . I think I’d best get going,” she said, standing abruptly.