Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) (18 page)

“Whatever you’re having.”

“Sit! I’ll get you a cup.” When she returned to the table, Jason was looking at her list with a quizzical expression.

“What’s up with this?” he asked.

She shrugged and eased into the chair next to him. “It’s unnerving to have a murder happen right next door. I saw Vivienne dying. It was . . . awful.” Her voice trembled and she cleared her throat, trying to get ahold of her emotions.

“So this is a list of everyone at the party, or maybe a list of who could have done it. But it was poison, right? Was the killer necessarily right there?”

She told him her reasoning so far.

“And you know for certain that the poison was in the cupcake?”

“I’m pretty sure, yes. Look, I have an idea. Tell me if this makes sense.”

Chapter 16

I
t had all started with the conversation she had with her grandmother about how you could make sure a person would choose a certain cupcake from a plate, she told him. Then she paused for a moment, gathered her thoughts and went on. “Someone who knew about Vivienne Whittaker’s allergy to red dye would know she wouldn’t touch red-velvet cupcakes, nor any cupcakes with red or pink icing. Of course, it seems like pretty much everyone knew about her allergy, so that doesn’t narrow the field. But if you wanted to poison her, and you knew there were going to be red-velvet cupcakes at an event, then all you had to do was make sure there was one non-red-dye cupcake on the platter.”

“But how could you be sure she would even eat that one?” Jason asked. “Maybe she doesn’t like sweets, or maybe she was full. How would you know that someone else wouldn’t snatch it up before she got it?”

“True. It was an awful risk. Unless someone knew her habits, and maybe knew she would never refuse a sweet. That would indicate someone really close to her, right? Like Francis or Florence.” She chewed her lip and frowned down at the paper, then looked up to find Jason’s gaze steady on her. “What?”

“I was just recalling that expression. When you were working hard on an algebra problem, you’d look like that.”

She flushed, remembering school vacations in Gracious Grove when she and Jason would work on their homework together, sometimes in this very room, while Nana cooked. “I remember,” she said, softly. She stared back down at the sheet, but it blurred in front of her eyes. “Jason, if I could go back in time—”

“But nobody can, right?” he said. “So, why are you trying to figure this out?”

Snapped back to reality by his no-nonsense comment, she replied, “I just don’t want the wrong person railroaded. Like Phil Peterson; he’s such a screwup, but he wouldn’t kill someone.”

“He wasn’t even there, was he?”

Knowing it would go no further, she told him what she’d seen, Phil sneaking out the back door as the others were arriving in the front. “If I was the police, I’d be wondering if Mrs. Earnshaw called them with Francis’s name because she’s protecting someone, and the only people she would try to protect would be Phil or Cissy.”

“You have a devious mind,” Jason said.

“I lived in New York for seven years working in the food industry. You have to be devious to navigate your way through the restaurant world, especially when you’re dealing with food critics.” She thought more about the cupcake conundrum. “I need to figure this out. Maybe Nana will know something.” She would talk to Cissy, too, the next day, and see if she could get a sense of what all had happened in the kitchen before the tea started.

There were a few things she could investigate. First, who knew Vivienne Whittaker had a red-dye allergy before the event? It seemed to be common knowledge and something she had spoken of openly in the past. Second, who had the chance to not only bring the poison cupcake, but place it on the plate? Third, who had access to cyanide, or knew someone else who did?

“Sophie?”

She looked up. “Mhmm?”

“I’m glad you’re back in Gracious Grove. I was wondering . . .”

She held her breath, waiting for an invitation to go out to dinner. Or something else!

“You obviously know a lot about starting a restaurant; do you think there’s a market in our town for a fine dining establishment?”

That was not what she was expecting. She scrambled to think. “Uh . . . well, maybe. It’s a popular tourist area. The problem is that they wouldn’t be able to serve alcohol if they were in Gracious Grove proper, and for those accustomed to a wine list that could be a problem. Why do you ask?”

“A colleague of mine is talking about sinking a lot of money into starting a restaurant and I’m concerned.”

“Colleague?”

“Yes, you met Julia.”

“She’s starting a restaurant?”

“I guess it depends somewhat on that new development and the plans for it, but she has promised to invest her 401(k) in it.”

“If it’s in the new development, then liquor laws in Gracious Grove won’t affect her.” Sophie stared down at the paper in front of her. Jason seemed quite tied up with the other professor’s intentions. “Are you investing, too?”

“No way. Investing in a restaurant is like throwing your money in the garbage, one of my financial friends says.” His eyes widened and he stared at her. “Uh, I’m sorry, Soph, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.” She frowned, as something he said sank in. “So, it depends on the new development, you said; where did she hear about it?”

“It’s no secret. You’ve seen the signboards, right?”

She nodded.

“I guess it’s been in the works for a while, and some folks have heard about it and started making plans.”

“I just didn’t know anyone was already talking about building or leasing the commercial space.” To change the subject, she said, “You’re pretty good friends with Francis, right?”

He shrugged. “Lately he’s been hanging out with me more than he used to, I don’t know why.”

“He’s been trying to clean up his image for a long time,” Sophie said. “Did you hear about Phil’s trouble a few years back, when Francis was in architecture school at Cornell?”

“I heard
something
about it.”

“Phil says Francis was making moonshine in his dorm room, but Francis claims Phil was lying to get him in trouble.”

“Out of the two, I know which one I’d believe.”

“Francis.”

Jason nodded.

“Phil thinks Vivienne Whittaker turned him in to protect her son.”

“Do you believe Phil?”

Sophie tapped her pencil on the notebook page. “I don’t know. Just speculating.”

“Clarify.”

“Say Francis really was in partnership with Phil to make booze and sell it in Gracious Grove, and say Francis’s mom wanted to shut the guys down, and yet keep her son out of trouble. For a determined mother like Vivienne Whittaker, it would make sense to turn
Phil
in to the cops, knowing that the police were unlikely to believe much of what he said. Her position as an important woman in the community would make it easier to pin it all on screwup Phil, rather than college kid Francis. All Francis would have to do is deny, deny, deny when they asked him about Phil’s accusation. It would serve the purpose of shutting Francis down
and
making sure he didn’t suffer the blame
and
separating the two guys.”

“That’s Machiavellian! It would take a lot of guts to turn in the guy who could squeal on your son, though.”

“I think both those Whittaker women have a lot of guts.”

“But that’s all water under the bridge and now Vivienne Whittaker is gone. Those two things don’t have anything to do with each other.”

Yet hatred was a powerful motive for murder, and Phil must have hated Vivienne for getting him in trouble.

Jason stood and stretched. “I’d better get going.”

“One sec . . . you said Francis has been hanging out with you more lately. You’ve been invited to the wedding, right?”

“Francis has asked me to be a groomsman.”

“Let me guess: Hollis Harcourt Junior is best man, right? Did you agree?”

“Of course. I mean, what was I going to say?”

“But you used to call Francis an idiot,” she said, eyeing him with a sly smile.

“That was a long time ago,” he said severely. “He’s changed his life and now he’s marrying Cissy.”

Sophie was ashamed of herself. “I was with him today, and this has really hit him hard.”

“He was close to his mom. I should go.”

Sophie stood and walked with him to the back door. “Jason, about your friend, the professor . . .”

After a moment, he prompted her, “Yes?”

She chickened out of asking him what their relationship was, and simply said, “I would tell her to wait and find out more before investing too much money in a restaurant in the new development. If the town does annex the land, and the no-alcohol bylaws stay in place, it could be pretty tricky to open a fine dining establishment. It’s a tough business, and the only people who should gamble on it are those who have the money to lose if it goes belly-up.”

“Thanks, Soph. I’m glad you’re staying in GiGi.” He dropped a kiss on her cheek and headed out, hands in his pockets, whistling.

She watched him go, hand to her cheek.

• • •

A
s Jason Murphy left Auntie Rose’s, Thelma, watching out her kitchen window, kept her eye on Sophie Taylor, who stood in the back door and looked after him. Anybody with half a brain could see that girl was regretting dumping the fellow. He wasn’t good enough for her when he was bumming around Europe and then going into the army, but now that he was a professor he was suddenly good enough again. Hmph.

Her conscience stirred. The girl was a nice child, though, to bring her soup like that. Why she was wondering about Marva Harcourt being in the kitchen was a mystery, though. Thelma was just about to lock up when she heard rustling in the bushes that lined the parking lot of Auntie Rose’s.

“Who’s there?” she shouted nervously. “I got the cops on speed dial, you know!” She was about to skedaddle inside and slam the door shut when her grandson emerged from the bushes.

“I thought Jason’d never leave,” Phil hissed and sidled past her into Belle Époque. “Can you put me up for the night, Grandma?” he asked.

“Who are you hiding from, the police?”

He shrugged and loped into the kitchen; as she locked the door, he stuck his head in the fridge and came out with a hunk of cheese in his hand. She watched him eat hungrily, her heart softening. She had planned on giving him a good talking to, but instead said, “You want something to eat? I’ll make you scrambled eggs.”

He nodded and sat down at the table by the window, gloomily staring over at Auntie Rose’s. “What was
he
doing there?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but he was there for a good half hour or so. That girl is sweet on him again, I can tell.”

“I always liked Sophie. She’s pretty,” Phil said. “But man, she is so stuck up!”

“The whole family is,” Thelma grumbled, moving from the fridge to the stove and cracking a couple of eggs into a hot pan. She cooked them for a while, made some toast and slid it all onto a plate. The eggs were browned real good, just like Phil always wanted them. He loved her cooking, which was more than she could say for Cissy. Thelma sat down opposite him and drank a cup of cold tea while he ate. “Phil, why were you in here that afternoon, the day that Vivienne Whittaker keeled over?”

He shrugged, hunching one shoulder as he mopped up the last bit of ketchup with his toast. “Free country, right?”

She waited, knowing he would feel compelled to say something more. He always did, even as a youngster, when he was in the wrong.

“Look, I’m not supposed to tell anyone,” he said, glancing around, “but someone asked me to put something in the punch you were serving.”

Thelma’s heart did a flip-flop dance. “You put something in the punch? Are you crazy? What did you put in it?”

“Just a little hooch, that’s all.”

She reached over and smacked the side of his head. “What is wrong with you?”

“Ow! Nothing’s wrong with me! I have a plan, is all.”

“A plan to end up in jail? What kind of plan?”

“It’s all up here,” he said, sitting back and tapping the side of his head. “But I need money, and lots of it!”

She closed her eyes and counted; ten might be enough, but if not, then twenty or thirty would do. Plan? Phil Peterson never had a plan in his life. He was as shiftless as his father and twice as dumb, and she had to admit that even though she loved him. Why hadn’t he taken after his mother, like Cissy had? She opened her eyes after a twenty count and glared at him. “So, who asked you to liquor up the punch?” She hadn’t noticed anything, but then she hadn’t drunk it. Neither had Vivienne, as a matter of fact, because it was red fruit punch made with that tropical blend Thelma liked, and served to her patrons, and the picky woman made a big deal about all the dyes in punch mixes.

Phil smirked. “I’m not saying.”

“Okay, have it your own way,” she said, weary to the bone. “You staying the night?”

“Yeah. I’m beat.”

“The cops know you’re here?”

“Nope.”

“You trying to stay away from them?”

“No more than normal,” he said. He got up, stretched and hugged her hard. “You’re the best, Grandma.”

“I know,” she grumbled, but hugged him back. As long as there was breath in her body, she would look after Phil and Cissy. No one was going to hurt them, or use them bad. No one!