Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) (24 page)

“
Tearoom talkers
,” Sophie mused. “That could mean anything, though! It might be a group who meets at one of the tearooms. Nana has several groups that meet once a month, or once every other week, and I know for a fact that Forsythe Villiers has a group of Leathorne and Hedges young professionals who meet at Auntie Rose’s. As a matter of fact, the Gracious Grove Businesswomen’s group met at Nana’s tearoom, too.” And those women, with their action committee in the works and their critical view of the Gracious Grove political climate, just might be the “tearoom talkers” Hammond was so concerned about.

“Like I said, I have no clue what he’s talking about. I just report!” Dana eyed Sophie. “Have
you
been asking questions? Nosing around?”

“Not much before today, or not so anyone would notice, anyway.”

“So they don’t mean you!”

“I hope not. Thanks for your snooping, Dana, I really appreciate it.” Sophie watched her drift away. Dana joined the group that surrounded Francis and touched his sleeve, then put her arm over his shoulders. Sophie had kind of forgotten about Francis and Dana once being an item, but was vividly reminded.

“She’d love to push little Cissy out of the running,” Gretchen Harcourt said.

Sophie snapped around, surprised to find the young woman so close. “No. Dana and Francis are still friends, but anything else was over a long time ago.”

“You sure about that?” Gretchen watched them for a long minute. “I say she still has the hots for him, or at least for old Whittaker money. And
new
Whittaker money!”

“
New
Whittaker money?”

“Well, sure! He’s been promoted and given a handsome raise, and I heard that he got his mama to invest in the new development pretty heavy, so her estate—and Francis, I suppose—stands to make a bundle.”

Where is my money?
Vivienne had written on the note in the safe. Did she
know
she had invested in the development? Or was that where her money had gone without her being aware of it?

Money, the root of all evil, it had been said. Or rather, the
love
of money was the root of all evil. But did Francis really love money so much? He didn’t drive a flashy car, didn’t appear to have a lavish lifestyle, and his mom seemed inclined to be generous to her son and daughter-in-law-to-be. No reason for Francis to want her dead.

She turned to the girl, remembering something she wanted to ask her. “Gretchen, I was wondering about something. You told me adamantly that you were never in the kitchen, but Gilda said you were in there poking about in the fridge and checking out the sweets. What’s up with that?

Gretchen was silent for a long moment. “I did go in there. Guess I just plumb forgot.”

Eyes narrowed, Sophie watched her. “Did you bring something to the tea?”

She swallowed. “I did. Red-velvet cupcakes, homemade from my mama’s recipe. It’s a down-home tradition.”

“Why didn’t you say that before?”

“It just didn’t seem important.”

“Why red velvet?”

She shrugged. “Someone mentioned them, and I said I had a good recipe, that’s all.”

“Who mentioned them?”

She licked her lips. “I . . . I can’t remember.”

“Oh, come on . . . was it your mother-in-law, maybe?”

“I told you,” Gretchen cried. “I don’t remember!”

“Did you put the cupcakes out?”

“Well, sure. I put ’em on the same plate as those awful store-bought ones.”

“And yet you didn’t think that was important enough to mention?”

The young woman shook her head with a self-conscious look. “I . . . I gotta go,” she mumbled, and headed away, across the room.

Sophie stared at her for a long moment. Was there anything else Gretchen Harcourt was concealing?

Chapter 22

T
he crowd was breaking up and folks were drifting off. Sophie had a lot to think about, but just as she was considering gathering her group and leaving, she saw Jason heading toward her. He made her nerves flutter, but that ship had sailed long ago. The somber thought steadied her nerves.

“Hey, Jason. How are you doing?”

“I’m good. I thought I’d talk to you before I left, but I didn’t want to do it in front of the others.” He hesitated, frowning, and looked over his shoulder toward his group of friends. “Nuñez seems antsy about this development everyone is talking about, worried somehow. Is Leathorne and Hedges involved?”

She nodded. “They’ve apparently got the design contract. Must be a big one. Francis has been appointed lead architect on the project, so I’m assuming it’s a done deal. I’ve heard that there is jealousy in the firm over his promotion; some thought that he was pushed ahead of more-senior architects, but maybe there’s a reason for that.”

“What do you mean?”

Sophie shrugged.

“You’re not saying there’s anything fishy about it, are you?”

Sophie sighed. “I’m no hard-nosed cynic, Jason, but I’ve been up close and personal with business, and I’ve seen how it works. I’ve been offered great jobs if I was willing to cozy up to the right people. I’ve been
denied
jobs I was qualified for because someone’s nephew or daughter got it, with less experience.”

“Francis always did take the easy way, when he could,” Jason mused.

Sophie thought about that for a long moment, wondering if Phil had been telling the truth after all about Francis’s involvement in the bootlegging. Not that that had anything to do with anything, now, but it was an interesting thought. “So, did Nuñez think
he
ought to have gotten the job, rather than Francis?”

“I didn’t say that; he’s a partner, so I would imagine he’s way beyond that. From what I understand he mostly deals with higher-end commercial buildings and some out-of-town properties. He’s lead architect on an office tower in Ithaca. He just acted . . . a little odd. When someone tried to talk to him about the development, he kind of hushed them.”

“Who tried to talk to him?”

“Uh . . . I think it was that Hammond guy. He’s got a booming voice and Nuñez looked uncomfortable. Maybe it was just that he didn’t think it was appropriate to be talking about work at a memorial service. Anyway, Julia doesn’t like Hammond. Nuñez had him over to dinner a few times, but she told me she thinks he’s a creep.”

“Along with every other female in Gracious Grove.” Sophie pondered the implications and a question popped into her mind. “So why would Nuñez have Hammond over to dinner?”

“I don’t know. Why wouldn’t he?”

“Because the guy’s a creep.”

“If we only associated with people we wholly approved of, we’d never socialize,” Jason said.

“Thank you for that lesson; I didn’t know.” Sophie knew immediately that she had gone too far, and saw the hurt look on his face. “I’m sorry, Jason, but that just sounded—”

“Pompous? Sententious?” He gave a quirky grin. “I think becoming a college professor makes you that way. Sometimes I listen to the stuff that comes out of my mouth, and I’m appalled at how pedantic I sound.”

“I didn’t mean it,” she said, one hand on his sleeve. “I think I’m a little . . . sensitive. Coming back to Gracious Grove has been great, but I’m a different person than I was when I last stayed here for any length of time. I’m constantly being reminded that I was kind of standoffish and seemed snobby, when all that time I just longed to be a part of the group. I’m older and I’ve grown up, but it’s hard for people here to see that.”

“
I
see it,” he said, warmly. He pulled her in for a hug. “Time hasn’t stood still for any of us.”

It was good to be in his arms, but he was different, too, a man now. He had been a boy the last time he had hugged her this way.

Julia Dandridge approached. “Are you ready to go, Jason?” She gave Sophie an apologetic look. “I wouldn’t interrupt, but Jason is our ride and I have a million things to do back at work. Nuñez needs to get back to the office, too.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “I have to get Nana and friend back to the tearoom. We’re opening late today.” She and Jason said a brief good-bye, and Sophie crossed the room to her grandmother and Laverne. They were deep in conversation with Josh Sinclair.

“No one could have known what they intended to do with the property, Josh. I know your mom’s upset, but it’s not her fault.” Nana looked worried, and had one wrinkled blue-veined hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“What’s going on?”

“Sneaky doings in Gracious Grove, that’s what is going on,” Laverne said, with a
hmph
of disapproval.

“It’s a free world, Laverne,” Nana said. “Don’t you worry about it, Josh. Everything will be all right.”

“Anyone want to clue me in?” Sophie asked.

Nana said, “Josh’s grandma’s house, just down the street, finally sold. He just found out it was bought by a group that’s going to turn it into another tearoom. He’s worried that will cut into business.”

“Not yours,” Sophie said, though it was a bit of a shock. “People will still come to Auntie Rose’s Victorian Tea House for the Auntie Rose experience. Bookings are up this year, right?”

The boy looked relieved. “That’s good. I was so mad when I heard, I just thought it was a jerky thing to do.”

“It’s business,” Sophie said. “Business is never personal.”

“But you don’t expect someone you like to do something you think is jerky, you know? I
like
the professor. I’m taking a college-level preparatory English Lit course from her as a part of my accelerated program,” he explained. “I’m going to Cruickshank for a year before going to an out-of-state college; my mom thinks I’m too young to leave home yet. But she’s a nice lady, so I guess I’m just surprised.”

“Professor? She?
She
who?” Sophie said, still a little confused.

Nana said, “Oh, that’s right. You weren’t here for the whole conversation. The house was bought by a college professor and her husband. They’re going to convert it into a New Age tearoom, so Josh tells me.”

“Are you talking about Julia Dandridge?” Sophie blurted out.

“Yeah. She’s a great teacher, actually,” Josh said. “But why would she buy an old house to make it into a tearoom on a street where there’s already two tearooms?”

Sophie was stunned, and she watched as Jason and his group left. Julia caught her eye and waved. Sophie didn’t wave back.

• • •

T
helma sat in an alcove hidden from view and thought over the day. Poor Phil had been troublesome, as usual. That boy . . . he needed a whooping, but it was kind of late in his life for that. She couldn’t help worrying that despite what folks were saying—she had heard that the poison was in a cupcake, of all places—that Phil’s little addition to the punch had been lethal for Vivienne Whittaker. Did she drink it? She couldn’t have drunk it. But what if she
did
drink it? That thought kept rattling around in her brain like a hamster in a wheel, over and over. All this worry was going to make her sick, if she didn’t watch it.

Where was Gilda? She was supposed to be nosing around and reporting back. Thelma’s feet hurt, and she wasn’t about to trot around asking questions and snooping like she’d like to, even if she did resemble Margaret Rutherford as Miss Marple, from the old movies. Cissy was off who knew where, catering to Francis Whittaker, no doubt, the big baby. You’d think he was a kid, not a grown man, the way he went on about losing his mother. Cissy had lost hers at sixteen and you didn’t hear her whine about it.

Not now, anyway.

She slipped her shoes off and rubbed one foot against the other, hoping her elastic hose didn’t develop a hole in the toe. These things were darned expensive and the way things were going at Belle Époque, she’d have to start subsisting on her pension. If they didn’t solve the murder soon, she’d be out of business. Bookings had slowed once the initial curiosity about the “Killer Tearoom,” as the local TV station had called it, was over. They got a great video of her waving her fist and calling the reporter names, too, just as the fool was trying to do a spot right outside her door. Invasion of property, that’s what it was!

“It’s getting dicey,” a voice remarked, just around the corner from her little alcove.

“I know,” said a second speaker. “But we need to just keep our noses to the grindstone, so to speak, and keep on. Now that Vivienne’s gone, we oughtn’t to have any more trouble, right?”

“Yeah, she was the only one who was really onto the plan,” the first fellow said. “Or at least the only one inclined to squawk about it.”

“We’d better get moving,” the second guy said. “That tearoom girl is giving us an odd look. I don’t like the way she’s been snooping around.”

“You think she’s suspicious?”

“I do,” second guy replied. “She’s been asking a lot of questions. But there are ways to make sure she doesn’t cause us any trouble.”

The first guy made a sound of surprise.

“No, not that way!” second guy said. “Nothing drastic, just something to scare her. We need a little more time, and it’ll be a done deal.”

The rustling sound of men in suit jackets moving away told Thelma they were leaving; she ducked her head around the corner to see who had been talking.
Well, fancy that
, she thought, recognizing one of the men. What were they up to? From their words she couldn’t be sure if they were involved in Vivienne Whittaker’s murder or not; she hadn’t thought of the possibility that whoever planned it might not have even been at the party.

She was going to have to go home and think about this. It sure seemed shady. But those cops, especially that woman detective, wouldn’t look kindly on Thelma calling them with a tip again, not after the last little trouble. It was important that she actually have a solid lead this time.

Gilda hobbled over with a plate full of food and sank into a seat on the bench next to Thelma. “Gosh, my feet hurt so bad!”

“Bet mine hurt worse. You’re gulping down a platter of free food and yet you didn’t even think to bring me a cup of tea? A fine helper you are,” Thelma grumbled.

Gilda shrugged. “You didn’t ask me for tea, you just asked me to snoop around.”

Thelma decided to ignore the back talk in favor of information. “And?”

“And what?” Gilda asked, her protuberant eyes holding a puzzled expression. She chewed and swallowed.

“
And
did you find anything out?”

“Not really. Folks were mostly talking about Francis and Phil and what they said.”

“Who said what?”

Gilda’s eyes widened and she processed the question. She took another bite of a brownie and chewed, thoughtfully. “Well,” she said, after she swallowed. “The mayor said that Francis ought not to have to put up with abuse from the likes of Phil Peterson.”

“Humph. I knew I never liked him. I sure didn’t vote for him!” She hadn’t voted for anyone, but Thelma didn’t share
that
information. “What else?”

“Oh! The most interesting bit . . . old lady Sinclair’s house that just sold? Some college professor bought it and they’re going to put in a new tearoom, all modern, fang shooey, or something like that, with the latest of everything!”

Thelma’s hand flew to her bosom and she couldn’t breathe. Another tearoom on their street? More like another nail in her coffin! “How—who—” Her voice came out as a croak. Now what?

“Sophie looked real worried, I can tell you that. She said it would be all right, but she sure looked worried.”

Thelma took a deep breath. Sophie Taylor was a smart young girl. If
she
was worried, it didn’t look good. Would the misery never end for Belle Époque?

• • •

I
t was late, and darkness had crept across the sky, shading from mauve to deep purple. Sophie was up in her room trying to plan Cissy’s wedding shower tea party, even though her mind was in a million other places. She was tired of thinking the same things. Vivienne’s murder had something to do with the new development; she was worried about Francis being held responsible for some kind of illegal activity, and had threatened the wrong person, but who?

Marva’s behavior was suspect, and Gretchen seemed frightened. Could the two have worked together to kill Vivienne? Neither seemed like the type to commit such a heinous act.

Belinda Blenkenship would make the ideal tool, and could have been used to place the cupcake without even being aware of what she was doing until it was too late. That would explain why she now looked so frightened, Sophie thought.

Florence Whittaker had the nerves for that kind of plot, but how did she benefit from killing Vivienne unless it was motivated by the long-existing enmity between them, which seemed to have mostly evaporated?

Francis was there and could have done it, but since his mother had only ever acted with his best interests at heart and there didn’t seem to be any problems between them, his motive was murky at best.

Sophie heard a clatter and looked out her kitchenette window toward the street; her grandmother was dragging a garbage pail to the road. Darn it! Why hadn’t she known it was garbage night? She had to pay more attention to duties around Auntie Rose’s to make Nana’s life easier.