Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) (3 page)

“What do you mean, the Whittakers aren’t up to Mrs. Earnshaw’s standards? They’re the richest family in the whole area.”

“The Whittakers are
nouveau riche
, if you listen to Thelma tell it. After all, the Whittakers’ money came from grocery stores. She’s always claimed that Vivienne, Francis’s mother, was born in a hootchy-kootchy traveling show, back in the fifties. I guess that’s why she’s so dead set against Cissy marrying Francis.” Her forehead wrinkled. “I
guess
that’s what it is.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, honey. I’ve been listening to Laverne too much; you know how she likes to gossip.”

“If something is worrying you, tell me.”

Nana scrunched up her face. “Laverne has some idea that there’s trouble at the company Francis works for, Leathorne and Hedges Architecture. Her niece works there, and she’s heard rumblings.”

“Nothing really to do with him, is it?”

“True . . . not worth talking about. Gossip is mostly fancy and frills put on speculation.”

Sophie watched her grandmother’s face, but she wasn’t saying anything else. “Let’s go down to the tearoom and discuss this. If you want me to do Cissy’s shower, I can try.” Her stomach twisted. It was silly; she had managed
and
been the executive chef of an eighty-seat restaurant in the trendy garment district of New York, the youngest to do both jobs, she had been told. Surely she could do a little bridal show presentation and talk about teapots for twenty minutes. So why was she so uptight about it?

Maybe because she had failed so miserably in her last job.

• • •

L
averne Hodge was already setting up the tearoom for the expected afternoon guests. Auntie Rose’s Victorian Tea House was a forty-year tradition in Gracious Grove, popular long before the rage for tearooms peaked as baby boomers aged. Part of Auntie Rose’s popularity could be explained by Gracious Grove being a “dry” town, conducive to civilized discourse over tea and scones, rather than boozy confessions over whiskey and peanuts. But mostly it was because Rose and Laverne excelled at providing the true tearoom experience, with refreshing tea, soothing decor and good food.

Sophie remembered Nana’s favorite joke . . . guests came for the tea and stayed for the experience, but spent their money on the pretty doodads! The Tea Nook, a small room off the tearoom proper, was responsible for much of the profit, and so was carefully tended. Fresh offerings of tea-scented candles, teacups, complete tea sets both for children and adults, packaged tea—including a blend called Auntie Rose’s Tea-riffic Tea—books on tea with bookmarks, and “tea-shirts,” which were T-shirts with teacups and teapots emblazoned on them, were added weekly.

The tearoom itself was pretty, if a little too frilly for Sophie’s taste. White wainscoting lined the main room, with rose-toile-papered walls above. Antique sideboards and buffet hutches filled with teapots in various themes lined the walls. An ornate Eastlake buffet held floral teapots, while a heavy Victorian held chintz designs. On floating shelves in between there were animal shapes, people, royal family tributes, Red Hat Society teapots and too many more to name.

Scattered around the room—it used to be a living room and dining room, but a wall had been removed and supporting pillars had been added to make space for the tearoom—were white-linen-covered tables with comfortable chairs, about eleven tables in all, enough space to seat forty-four guests or so. Nana threaded through the chairs and tables, straightening as she went, toward the cash desk at the front. Sophie followed, tentatively, realizing why she had avoided the tearoom for three days: She was afraid of the responsibility her grandmother seemed eager to foist upon her.

Was that what she had been left with since her restaurant went belly-up, this crippling lack of confidence? It hadn’t really occurred to her why she had been floating along, listless and directionless, but fear explained a lot, even why she let her mother cajole her into the awful date with Dr. Sebastian-the-Repulsive. A part of her had bought into her mom’s belief that she ought to just give up and marry a rich dude.

That wasn’t exactly what Rosalind Taylor had said, but it was the thrust of her argument. Sophie squared her shoulders. Nana needed her and she was going to help however she could. If that meant hosting Cissy’s bridal shower, then she’d do it. Maybe it would be fun.

Right, like tooth extraction or taxes. Fun or not, she’d do it.

She hustled across the room to relieve Laverne, almost as old as Nana, of a heavy tray of tea things. “Let me,” she said, hefting the tray.

“Sophie!” Laverne said, her black eyes glowing with fondness. “My sweet godchild. Rose told me you were in town, but until I saw you I didn’t dare believe it.” Without the burden of the tray, she reached out to gather Sophie into a hug.

Laverne Hodge, whose ancestry dated back to the Seneca Indians and an African-American trader, was honorary godmother to Sophie, adopted as such long ago at a tea party for her fifth birthday. Little Sophie was teary-eyed because her mother had called to say she couldn’t make it to Nana’s for the party. Laverne had said she would stand in as Sophie’s “godmother,” and ever after had showered Sophie with goodies, handmade quilts and all of the homey goods a “mother” could think of.

Sophie set the tray down and was enveloped in the woman’s suffocating hug. “Auntie Laverne,” she mumbled, her voice muffled by Laverne’s aproned bosom, “I’ve missed you so much!”

The woman held Sophie away from her in her strong grip. Head tilted to one side, she squinted at her godchild. Laverne was tall and strongly built, so she met Sophie eye to eye. “Now, don’t you say that. You’ve been here three days and I haven’t laid eyes on you ’til today.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Laverne exchanged a glance with Rose, who counted bills at the cash desk, put the float back in and stashed the extra money in a canvas deposit bag. The two women had been friends for so long they didn’t need words, communicating with shared looks instead. “If you’re here to help,” Laverne said, turning back to Sophie, “we need to set the tables with silverware and dishes so I can get a batch of cranberry lemon scones in the oven. We got a three o’clock bus tour coming in, and it’s near two now.”

While the three women worked they talked, of course. Sophie caught up on all the news that was fit to spread, as Laverne called it.

“So Cissy is getting married,” Sophie mused. “And to Francis Whittaker! Why does Mrs. Earnshaw
really
not like the Whittaker family?”

Laverne looked over at Nana, who was now busy in The Tea Nook filling up the candle display, then bent toward Sophie. “There was quite the scandal back in the day. The Whittakers all belonged to the country club, you know. I worked there as a waitress for a while, and was working the night of the big dustup!” Her dark eyes sparkled.

“What happened?” Sophie asked, patting the wrinkles out of a tablecloth.

“Everyone was well oiled, as you can imagine.” The country club, being outside the town limits, served alcohol, one reason memberships were sought. “Alcohol loosened a few tongues and Vivienne Whittaker, she up and threw a glass of champagne in Florence Whittaker’s face and accused the woman of sleeping with her husband!”

“Really? Was it true?”

Laverne shrugged. “Always was bad blood between those two sisters-in-law, ever since Vivienne snagged the Whittaker brother who didn’t gamble and drink his money away, and Florence got stuck with the Whittaker that ended up penniless.”

Nana, who had silently approached, said, “Are you two gossiping about all that old water under the bridge?”

“Mucky water still runs dirty, you know that, Rose,” Laverne said, dropping a wink in Sophie’s direction. “Those two just barely tolerate each other to this day.”

“So
that’s
why Mrs. Earnshaw doesn’t like the idea of Cissy marrying Frankie—I mean, Francis—because of the old scandal?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say,” Laverne said, with a bland expression on her face. “But I
will
say, with both those Whittaker brothers in the grave, you’d think the sisters-in-law would be better friends.”

They continued to work, but when Rose left the room to check on the scones, Sophie said, “Laverne, can I ask you something?”

“What’s troubling you?”

“Nana wants me to do the presentation for Cissy Peterson’s bridal shower. Is there some reason
she
doesn’t want to do it?”

Laverne’s dark eyes shifted away, to the door that led to the tearoom’s kitchen. “No mystery, child. She believes Cissy’s shower will help you get your feet wet. Pun intended.”

“I don’t need her propping up my wobbly self-confidence,” Sophie grumbled. She followed Laverne, folding napkins, laying out silverware and setting the centerpieces in place. They were small crystal vases of fresh white tulips today, a pretty reminder of spring.

“She’s just worried about you. You’re her favorite grandchild.”

“I know. My brothers hardly ever get to Gracious Grove anymore.” Sophie stood back and looked the room over with a critical eye. A bus tour at three, and it was two thirty now. The tables always looked so pretty, the fresh white linens a backdrop for the eclectic mix of china Nana used. She didn’t go for clunky restaurant dishes, instead hitting yard sales and antique markets for mismatched china that made the tables bloom with color. Sophie liked setting the tables in themes . . . blue willow pattern on one table, roses on another, spring flowers on yet another.

They chatted and finished setting the tables. Laverne told her there was talk of annexation of local farmland, an extremely divisive issue among Grovers, as locals called themselves, and the ever-present issue of liquor or no liquor. There weren’t many dry towns left in New York State, Gracious Grove being one of only a handful, all but a couple in the western half of the state.

“That talk was during the last mayoral election, though. A local developer, Oliver Stanfield, ran briefly, so there was some discussion about annexation and the liquor laws, and all that folderol, but he dropped out of the race for some reason or another. From then on it was another smooth sail to victory unopposed for Mr. Mayor Blenkenship.”

“I hope the town doesn’t change too much,” Sophie fretted. “It’s charming and doesn’t need an influx of big box stores and crowded suburbs.” And now she sounded more old-fashioned than her forward-thinking grandmother!

“What will be, will be,” Laverne said.

Just as Sophie was straightening the last place setting of silver, a young woman came in the door, setting the bell over it jangling. She was slim and thirtyish, perfectly coiffed and nicely dressed in a form-fitting D&G charmeuse floral dress, carrying a Marc Jacobs bag. She looked like the kind of women who came to In Fashion for cocktails. Sophie was immediately on guard. “I’m sorry, we’re not quite open yet. Are you with the bus tour?”

“Certainly not,” the woman sniffed. “I’d like to speak to Rose Freemont.”

“She’s busy right now. May I help you?” Sophie asked, approaching her.

“I don’t think so. I need to speak to her about Cissy Peterson’s bridal shower.”

Sophie straightened her shoulders. “I can help you with that. I’m Sophie Freemont Taylor; Rose Freemont is my grandmother. I’m taking over the organization of Cissy’s shower for my grandmother. And you are . . . ?”

The woman had gone on alert as soon as Sophie announced her name. “I’ve heard about you. You’re the failed restaurateur, right? I’m Gretchen Harcourt. Welcome to Gracious Grove.”

She stuck her hand out and Sophie took it even as the insult sank in. It went beyond the
failed restaurateur
dig;
Welcome to Gracious Grove
? This was her home away from home, so to be welcomed by a woman who had married into the town, so to speak, stung. But she would take the high road. She barely touched the other woman’s chilly hand and released. “How can I help you regarding Cissy’s shower? You’re the matron of honor, right?”

Gretchen Harcourt’s beautiful face had a frozen look, like
botox meets bad temper
. “I need to cancel. We’re switching the venue to the country club.”

Chapter 2

“I
sn’t it a little late to be deciding that?” Sophie was familiar with country club calendars and doubted they would be able to fit in a bridal shower that was just a couple of weeks away.

“We’re members, Hollis and I,” Gretchen said, straightening her back and standing, one toe pointed, the other foot behind it, like a model. “It’ll be fine.”

Laverne hovered in the background, not adding anything, but her eyebrows raised and shaking her head.

Sophie thought for a moment, observing the other woman. “My understanding was that Cissy specifically said she wanted her shower to be here, at Auntie Rose’s Victorian Tea House,” she said. “Has she changed her mind, or are you doing this on your own?”

Gretchen licked her lips and adjusted her expensive watch on her slim wrist. “I’m just . . . it’s . . . to be honest, it’s her future mother-in-law’s idea, and frankly, I agree. Tearooms are so yesterday.”

Whenever anyone said,
to be honest
or
frankly
, Sophie suspected them of lying. A spark lit in her belly. So
yesterday
? “I’ll have you know a
New York Times
financial reporter wrote an article last month about a study that said that tearooms are
the
up-and-coming type of eating establishment, and the only one that was truly recessionproof.”

“Really?”

“Yes. The study was done by a doctoral student at Harvard Business School; she said in her thesis that because of the aging demographics in the USA and an increase in disposable income in women age fifty-four to seventy-five, tearooms are not going away. There is a new tearoom opened every thirty-three-point-five hours in the United States.
That
stat is from Wharton.” Sophie nodded, sharply. She moved forward a step, invading the other woman’s space. “And younger markets are increasingly interested; the trend toward elaborate birthday parties for young children, destination bridal showers and Sweet Sixteen Parties has caused a surge in tearoom bookings. I’ve done a
lot
of research on the subject.”

Gretchen Harcourt nervously pleated the short skirt of her dress, stepped back and babbled, “All right, then, we’ll reconsider.”

“You do that. You reconsider. Tell Mrs. Whittaker
everything
I said.”

The young woman hustled out the front door just as Rose came out of the kitchen with a tray of warm scones. “Who was that, dear? I thought I heard voices in here.”

Laverne, still staring at Sophie, said, “It was that Gretchen girl, Rose, and she was going to cancel Cissy Peterson’s shower here, but missy pulled out a bunch of statistics—just rhymed them right off—and told her some percentage of people are going to tearooms, and some ages . . . I don’t know what all she said.”

“So did she cancel or not?” Rose asked, setting the scones down on the servery and approaching the two.

“She did
not
!” Laverne said. “Little Miss Business Woman, here, talked her out of it.”

“Where did you get all those statistics, Sophie?” Rose asked, a frown wrinkling her forehead.

“I made them up.”

“All of them?” Laverne asked.

“Every last one of them, right down to the
New York Times
article.”

• • •

T
he afternoon was busy, with a gaggle of drop-in visitors touring the Finger Lakes as well as a second unexpected bus tour. One of the tourists decided on the spot to book a Red Hat Society event and another a tea party for her granddaughter’s Sweet Sixteen. Sophie manned The Tea Nook for a while; she sold a pretty chintz child’s tea set, several boxes of specialty teas and answered questions about holding a tea party for a group of six-year-olds. Midafternoon Sophie had to hustle back into the kitchen and quickly whip up a batch of butterscotch scones to satisfy raging sweet tooths.

As she brought it out, she was struck by a secretive-looking tête-à-tête that was taking place in one of the more protected tables near the front window. A distinguished-looking woman had her head bent toward a well-dressed older fellow, and they were heatedly discussing something. Curious, Sophie moved nearby and caught only a few words before the woman gave her a cross look. All she overheard was the ferocious comment that her son was the most important thing in the whole mess.

Sophie retrieved a bus tray from the servery at the back of the tearoom and cleared the dirty tables. All the vintage china would have to be washed by hand, but the cutlery and some of the serving pieces could be done in the dishwasher. Someone had left a nice tip; cool! It would go in the tip jar and Nana would see that Laverne got it, and Laverne would hand it directly over to her church, where it would go to dental work or glasses for needy seniors, or schools in Africa, or something else that needed doing in the world. Such was the Auntie Rose way; Laverne often paraphrased from Luke: From those to whom much is given, much is expected.

There were three tables near the distinguished-looking couple and all needed clearing; Sophie edged toward them, not wanting to interrupt.

The woman stood, shook the wrinkles out of her skirt and said, in a firm tone, “I hope we understand each other?”

“I’ll see what I can do, Viv, but you know it may be too late. Word has already gone out.”

“I don’t believe it’s too late. I
know
you have the mayor’s ear, Holly—you and your cadre of busy buddies—and you had better bend it but good. Things look shady and it will come back to haunt him if anything goes wrong.” She bent closer and growled, “I will make it my personal quest to make sure that everyone involved will suffer in the public eye if my boy is in any way implicated in monkey business!”

Wow . . . ferocious Mama Bear!

The rest of the afternoon was uneventful but busy. Finally the tearoom closed, the three women tidied up and put dishes in the dishwasher, washing the cups, saucers and plates by hand and stacking them back in the tearoom in the service area. Pearl, as always, watched the action from her perch on a high stool near the counter.

Laverne headed home to take care of her nonagenarian father, Malcolm Hodge, and then would attend an evening prayer meeting. She was the eldest of a large family and had never married, so looking after them all had been her life’s work. She said that now, with just her father to look after, she felt like she was on holiday. Her “vacation” was her church evenings, knitting and crocheting, and the Silver Spouts, Nana’s teapot-collecting society.

Sophie did some prep work in the kitchen, then vacuumed, picking up the random bits of paper and items forgotten or dropped by visitors: a lipstick, a photo, an umbrella hooked on a chair armrest, all of which she deposited in the lost and found. She then wiped down the tables, finally turning out the lights around seven. Nana had already climbed the stairs, followed by Pearl, to soak her feet in Epsom salts, but Sophie was restless. She grabbed a sweater and walked out into the sweet springtime evening air.

She turned right instead of left so she didn’t have to pass Belle Époque, Mrs. Earnshaw’s inn and now tearoom. It was troubling that the old woman was trying to not only compete with Nana, but defeat her. The two had been dueling for decades, right back to the oft-referenced theft of Harold Freemont by pretty, genteel Rose Beaudry, as Nana was then. It seemed silly to Sophie, but it would be wrong to dismiss the other woman’s feelings.

Still . . . a sixty-year grudge?

The spring air enfolded her, the scent of lilacs and freshly turned earth drifting on a light, moist breeze as the sky turned gloomy, the purple dusk signaling rain to come. She had been avoiding this walk, this rediscovery of her old stomping ground, but why? Maybe she loved Gracious Grove too much. She liked the city, too; it was exciting, fun and fast-paced, just like her restaurant, In Fashion. But Gracious Grove was different. While New York was
hurry up and hustle
, Gracious Grove was
slow down, put your feet up, rest awhile
. Split down the middle as to which was best for her, she decided that after over ten years of
hurry up
, both in school and work, and then her restaurant, she’d enjoy the
slow down
part for a time until she knew what she wanted out of her life.

Gracious Grove was as familiar as a pair of favorite jeans, the kind that slip on and are so comfortable you know you’re going to love them forever. When she described it to city friends, she told them about the Finger Lakes region as a whole, the native lore of the Senecas and Cayugas, and the natural beauty of the area, hilltop vistas and lush green valleys. But that didn’t speak of the sense of home that hit her whenever she arrived at Nana’s.

Staying at Auntie Rose’s was like living in a teapot museum, some thought. Sophie had brought a few girlfriends to Nana’s during school break, and all were awed by the rows and rows of teapots . . . hundreds of them! It was as if time had stopped in Gracious Grove, others said, around the middle of the last century. That wasn’t true and Sophie knew it, because she had listened to Nana’s stories. As much as nostalgia for a simpler time made some long for the “good old days,” Nana was a clear-eyed realist. She told Sophie about the good, the bad and the downright
ugly
things that happened in the “good old days.”

Change was necessary and good and inevitable, and had not missed the town except for the liquor ban, which seemed an immutable part of Gracious Grove’s charm. The town endured, and so did Nana’s tearoom and her teapot-collectors society, The Silver Spouts. Nana was not getting any younger, though, as she put it herself. What would happen to the tearoom when she couldn’t look after it anymore?

The breeze stiffened. Sophie folded her arms over her chest, hugging herself as she strolled downhill, passing the gracious homes that lined Seneca. The boulevards were wide, and clapboard houses were set well back from the street. Most had a deep porch with clematis or morning glories winding up a trellis to shade the veranda from the summer sun. But in early May everything was still kind of sparse-looking, beds of tulips and daffodils giving color but everything else green. Many lawns had blooming lilac bushes, and not-yet-blooming rose of Sharon.

Once she got down to the center of town, there were neo-Gothic buildings, red brick, with Roman arched windows and ornate cupolas. Unfortunately a few old buildings had been torn down to make way for uninspired modern utilitarian designs, but
fortunately
the town had never been prosperous enough to do much damage. Old buildings were repurposed, so a mansion too big for a modern family now held a dental practice, a chiropractor and a doctor’s office. The town hall was still a New York Gothic monstrosity of red brick and limestone, as was the post office.

The center of town had been redone as a pedestrian mall, with red brick walkways lined by coffee shops, a florist, a gift shop, a sandwich place, a patisserie and many more small stores and cafés. Sophie loved the recent change. At the center of the meeting of Seneca Street and State Street was an open area with a large clock and carillon that chimed the hours. There were wrought iron tables and chairs where on warm summer nights folks gathered to enjoy coffee or tea—it was a dry town, after all—and buskers played to happy tourists and locals alike. Life was lived at a civilized pace.

Sophie adored everything that her mother hated about Gracious Grove, and maybe there was a
because
in there somewhere. Rosalind Taylor enjoyed the hustle and bustle of Miami in winter, spring in New York, London for shopping, summer in the Hamptons, Milan during fashion season and Paris in April. Sophie liked Gracious Grove all year round.

Gracious Grove, despite its name, which made it sound like it was in a green valley, was on a hillside that sloped gently toward Seneca Lake. From the cemetery on the edge of the town proper—set high on the hill to honor the dead, among them the veterans of too many wars—she could see all the way to sparkling Seneca Lake, in the valley. One of Nana’s own sons was in that cemetery, laid to rest among the spreading oak trees and stately cypresses. Sophie had never met him, since he died serving in Vietnam, and her mother rarely talked about the brother she had lost; but as a child Sophie had loved to climb the hill with her Gracious Grove friends and trace the names on the pale marble slabs. They raced among the graves and climbed the ancient ornamental plum that had stood guard for at least a century over the townsfolk who had passed on.

Gracious Grove was home in a way no place else on Earth was for Sophie Rose Freemont Taylor.

A misty rain started, so she turned back before reaching the far edge of downtown, but she still didn’t rush. Robins, grateful for the drizzle and the worms it would bring up from the hard-packed earth, began their throaty warbling love song to rain. At one with the world, Sophie didn’t even mind getting wet. She strolled, passed occasionally by a car swishing along the blacktop.

Someone was walking toward her and she had to stop that jolt of fear she automatically felt, left over from walking home alone from a day at In Fashion on a New York street. She had been threatened once, though she had never been mugged, but it had left her a little skittish. The guy seemed familiar, even from a distance. She peered into the half light of the hour after twilight, frowning through the mist. When they were close, she suddenly said, “Jason . . . Jason Murphy! It
is
you!”