Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) (4 page)

The man stopped, lifted his black umbrella and squinted through the rain at her. “Sophie? Hey, I’d heard you were back in town. Isn’t this cool?”

Jason Murphy . . . he was a buddy of her older brothers. She’d had a crush on him until he finally noticed her when she was fifteen. The past flooded back to Sophie, the memory of that long hot summer when they finally dated, their hands constantly clasped, days spent on the lake as he piloted his dad’s boat. She recalled a wooden raft moored a hundred yards out and their towels spread on it to dry, evenings on the shore with a fire blazing within a circle of rocks, other kids roasting marshmallows and kissing. They were a gang of friends: Cissy Peterson and her ne’er-do-well brother, Phil; local beauty queen Dana Saunders; Frankie Whittaker; Wally Bowman; Sophie’s brothers Andrew and Samuel; and last but not least, her and Jason Murphy.

“Sophie? Are you okay?”

She blinked once and examined his face in the light of the streetlamp. “Yes, I’m fine. How are
you
? It’s been ages.”

“You haven’t been back for a few years. I’ve heard all about your doings, of course. Your grandmother makes sure we all do!” He laughed.

He had always been a nice guy and that hadn’t changed, but there was a bit of a bite behind his comments. He’d be . . . what, thirty-one now? He looked good, his dark hair a little long, a hint of scruff along the jawline, tall and still lanky. “It’s been a busy few years, but with my restaurant going under it seemed like a good time to come back to Gracious Grove for a while.” The wound of her failed restaurant was a sore she just couldn’t help picking at. It would never heal that way, she knew, just like long-ago skinned knees hadn’t healed while she picked at the scabs.

“New York’s loss, our gain. So you’re staying for a vacation?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted, shoving her hands in her sweater pockets. “Helping Nana, for sure. I didn’t realize how hard taking care of the tearoom is getting for her with just Laverne to help.”

“It’s tough watching them get older. My grandparents are all gone now. Grandma Murphy just died two months ago.”

“I’m so sorry, Jason,” she said, as she reached out and touched his arm. She felt a flush of heat rush over her, but when she looked up into his eyes there was no matching spark. She backed away. “I think I’d better get back home. It’s starting to rain harder.”

“Let me walk you,” he said. “You can stay under the umbrella that way.”

“I don’t mind getting wet,” she said.

“I insist.”

She laughed, chanted a bit of the old Rihanna song “Umbrella,” and then they headed up the street. “So what do you do now?” she asked.

“I teach English Lit at Cruickshank College,” he said, naming a community college that was set in the pastoral countryside between Gracious Grove and Ithaca. Cornell might be the most famous institution of higher learning in the Finger Lakes region, but there was a rich tradition of post-secondary-school establishments in the area. Cruickshank, which had started out as a religious school, was old and well-respected, with a beautiful campus set in rolling green hills. “I’m the junior professor, so I get stuck with all the first-year students, but that’s okay. I love their enthusiasm!”

“Really? That’s great.” She tried to imagine the beau of her youth, who was more interested in girls and cars and fast boats, teaching Shakespeare and Walt Whitman to college kids. “But why English Lit?”

He chuckled, a warm sound that drifted down to her as she felt the heat from his body, so close to hers. He always was good-looking, but now he had the assurance of maturity to make him more attractive. “Why English Lit? This from the girl who used to read Blake to me by moonlight, when all I wanted to do was kiss her?”

“Touché,” she said, smiling up at him. “Do you like it? Teaching, I mean.” Not kissing her! At least it was dark enough now that he wouldn’t see her blush at her own gaffe.

“I do.”

Was he going out with anyone, she wanted to ask, but that was off-limits. She had broken his heart at the end of that long-ago summer, or at least he told her she had. She had broken up with him and gone back to her private school in Connecticut for her final year of high school, while he headed off to backpack around Europe for a year before college.

They were already at the side door of the tearoom, the one that led straight up to her and Nana’s apartments.

“It’s nice that you’re here, Sophie,” he said. He leaned down and pressed a friendly kiss on her damp cheek, then turned and walked away, black umbrella bobbing along jauntily in the light of the streetlamps.

Chapter 3

I
t was midmorning. Thelma Mae Earnshaw roamed the tearoom she had created in what was once the grand dining room of the family home she had converted into Belle Époque. She moved ponderously, like a steamship, her granddaughter Cissy Peterson said, but since Thelma had broken her hip two years ago that was the best she could do, slow and steady. It was a miracle she could move at all without the aid of a walker, but no one seemed to care that she had constant pain and was much braver about it than anyone noticed.

Irritation surged through her as she viewed her employee Gilda Bachman’s latest attempts at “brightening the place up,” as she called it. Silk flowers on the tea tables? Silk flowers did not belong in a tearoom. Real flowers only! Gilda should know that by now. She complained about not having enough money to do it, but that was too bad. It was Gilda’s job to make do on the money Thelma gave her to decorate. Thelma’s grand scheme—to outdo Rose Freemont’s tearoom, steal all her customers and put her out of business—had so far failed, and most of the blame could be placed squarely on Gilda’s slumped shoulders.

Yesterday had been a good day, especially for a weekday in early May, but Auntie Rose’s had done much better; Thelma knew because she had spent most of the afternoon looking out the window while Gilda worked. All Thelma had done, then, was to tell Gilda where she could have improved, how she needed to sell more to the customers and encourage them to make future bookings, when Gilda out of nowhere blew up. They had it out and her only employee had threatened not to come to work today. If that happened, Thelma was in trouble, but it was all Gilda’s fault.

Aha, there was the woman now, Thelma thought, hearing a key in the door. She moved to a spot where she was semi-hidden so she could catch Gilda off guard—any employee worth her salt had to assume she was being spied on—and waited.

But it was not Gilda, it was . . . who
was
that? Thelma peered through the gloom, and watched her grandson Phillip tiptoeing through the dining room toward the storeroom door. He paused, glanced around, then slipped another key into the storeroom door’s lock and opened it. What on earth was he up to? And how had he gotten a key to the storeroom? Gilda didn’t even have one. Thelma couldn’t risk moving, because she didn’t do anything quietly anymore, but she could stay where she was sitting by the front cash desk and wait for her grandson to come out.

When he did, he had a big—and from the look of the strain on his face—heavy box in his arms. He pushed the door shut with his butt and crouched, wedging the box between his body and the wall while he struggled to get the key back in the lock.

Thelma briefly considered what to do, then flicked on the light switch and yelled, “Surprise!”

The box crashed out of Phil’s hold to the ceramic tile floor and there was the tinkle of broken glass. A moment later, there was the unmistakable smell of alcohol. Booze, right there in dry Gracious Grove.

“Phillip Alfred Peterson, what in tarnation have you been up to?”

• • •

S
ophie was spending the morning in the tearoom with Nana going over the teapots with a dust cloth and refamiliarizing herself with every one of them, from the quaint figurals of hats and animals and people, to the chintz and floral, right on through the classics and oldest, some as valuable as a pricey Caribbean cruise. It was a busy morning. An order of teapots and cups had just arrived and had to be unpacked and displayed on the shelves of The Tea Nook. There were also Auntie Rose postcards, fresh packets of Auntie Rose’s Tea-riffic Tea and lots of other souvenirs. But much of the work was automatic and didn’t require all of her concentration. “Nana, can I ask you something?”

Her grandmother was at the cash desk preparing the float for the day, as Laverne set the tables. “You know you can, my Sophie,” she said.

My Sophie.
It had always made her feel warm inside to hear her grandmother call her that. It was good to belong to somebody. “Do you remember Jason Murphy?”

Laverne looked up and glanced between grandmother and granddaughter. The older woman gave her employee a raised-eyebrow look, and Laverne nodded.

“I think I’d better get some of the scone batter mixed up,” she said, and headed off to the kitchen.

“I remember Jason,” said Rose. “Weren’t you and he going together at one point?”

“You know we were, Nana. Do you happen to know if he’s seeing anyone?”

The woman stopped counting money and stared at her granddaughter. “Now what made you think of him, I wonder?”

“You’ve been bugging me for days to get in touch with some of my old friends and he was a friend.”

Her grandmother’s attention was caught by something outside the window, and she frowned. “Now, speaking of your old friends, I wonder what in heaven’s name Cissy Peterson is running into her grandmother’s place for?”

“Why wouldn’t she go to her grandmother’s place?” Sophie joined Nana at the window, just as Cissy, wearing a springy skirt and blouse, dashed in the front door.

“It’s my understanding that she and her grandmother haven’t been speaking lately, since Cissy insisted on having her bridal shower here. She’s hustling pretty fast; that girl never runs anywhere.”

Sophie frowned. “I hope everything’s all right. Maybe I should go over and see.”

“You do that, honey,” Nana said. “Poor Thelma! When she broke her hip two years ago, she was lying there for an hour before Gilda came to check on her. And me right next door! I felt so awful.”

Sophie exited by the side door and circled around to the front of Belle Époque. The front door was ajar, so she slipped in past the entry lobby and into the tearoom, where she could hear loud voices. It was gloomy because the curtains had not yet been drawn back, but the unmistakable smell of alcohol hit her like a wave.

“Phil, how
could
you use Grandma’s place like this?” That was Cissy’s high, childlike voice; it hadn’t changed a bit. Sophie remembered it well from whispered confidences and lingering jokes.

“Hey, is everything all right?” Sophie called out, cautiously moving forward. “Cissy? Mrs. Earnshaw?”

Silence. As Sophie crept forward Cissy came into view along with her grandmother and brother. They stood by an open door that led off the tearoom, staring down at a cardboard box on the floor, and shattered glass among a pool of dark liquid that seeped in a stream toward the carpet. The smell of alcohol was even stronger now and seemed to fill the room. Years of restaurant work meant Sophie had a refined nose, and could even tell different types of alcohol. That was whiskey . . . whiskey, in Gracious Grove?

Mrs. Earnshaw moaned and rocked back on her heels. “We’re ruined!” she cried, putting one hand over her eyes and the other to the bosom of her flowered dress. Her grandson, Phil, sullenly stared down at the mess, poking at a broken bottle with one sneakered toe.

“Sophie!” Cissy shrieked, staring at her. “You should go back to Auntie Rose’s and forget about this . . .
please
?”

“She’s not going to do that,” Phil muttered. “She’ll be happy to spread it around. Probably call Wally Bowman herself!”

Sophie figured it out in a minute. Since the day he became a teenager, Phil had been trying to sneak booze into dry events in Gracious Grove. It appeared that he was now trying to sneak them into his grandmother’s establishment. Or maybe just using it as a storage depot.

“She’s not going to do that, Phil,” Cissy said. “Just because
you
don’t care about anyone but yourself—”

“You’re a real prig, Cissy, you know that?” her brother said. “Ever since you got engaged to that jerk, you’ve got no family feeling at all. Am I right, Grandma?”

Oblivious to her grandson’s plea, Thelma moaned, “What am I going to do? I have a bus tour coming in four hours and the whole place reeks of alcohol! A
tea
room, stinking like a distillery!”

“I’ll call to cancel the bus tour,” Cissy said, turning toward the cashier’s desk.

“Wait!” Sophie said, casting one dirty look at Phil, then dismissing him from her mind. “I’m here to help, Cissy. One thing I know from running a restaurant, you can get the smell of alcohol out of carpets. Nana has an extraction carpet shampooer and lots of shampoo, and I know how to run it. Besides, most of this liquid is on the tile, and only a bit on the rug. If we work together, we can get it done in an hour. And if we open all the windows, the odor will be gone and the carpets dry by the time the bus tour is due.”

Cissy’s eyes watered up, gleaming palely in the dimness. “Thanks, Sophie. We . . . I appreciate it.”

Thelma Mae harrumphed, but nodded and quietly said a semi-gracious thank you as Phil slunk out the back door, ignoring Cissy’s commands that he come back and help.

An hour later it was done. Doors and windows were thrown open to dry and air the place out. The two sets of guests in the upstairs bed and breakfast rooms had vacated Belle Époque, and were off touring the beauties of the Finger Lakes. Sophie saw an opportunity and invited Cissy back to Auntie Rose’s to talk about her bridal shower.

She took her directly up to her attic room. Cissy dropped into one of the overstuffed chairs in the sitting room, settling with a sigh. Sophie made a pot of tea in a good old-fashioned Brown Betty, one of the best all-round tea-making teapots, and set it on a tray with pretty teacups and a couple of leftover scones and butter. She added a pot of Nana’s preserves, a luscious pear conserve dotted with maraschino cherries that glowed in the pale jam like rubies. A soft
thump-thump-thump
indicated that Pearl was on her way up the carpeted stairs to Sophie’s apartment, alerted to the potential for a snack. Buttered scones were her favorite.

“You don’t look like you’ve eaten a thing in days, girl,” Sophie said, setting the tray down in front of her former best “summer at Nana’s” friend. While growing up she would spend most of every summer in Gracious Grove, and would reacquaint herself with many of the kids who lived in the town year-round. Cissy was one of them, always there, always the same, always glad to see Sophie despite her best Gracious Grove friend Dana’s snide remarks to the contrary.

Cissy took her time making a cup of tea, stirring in sugar and milk, answering Sophie’s questions with brief replies. Yes, she should be at work managing her bookstore, but Dana, who worked for her, was there and could handle it. Yes, she was terribly,
terribly
excited about getting married to Francis Whittaker. Her expression belied the emphasis, but Sophie set that thought aside for later.

Pearl jumped up on the chair arm and Cissy patted her lap. The Birman prettily stepped onto the young woman’s lap and sat waiting for a treat, her blue eyes wide and unblinking. Yes, Cissy continued, she knew her grandmother was hurt by her decision to have the bridal shower at Auntie Rose’s, but for just one day she wanted what she wanted. Silence fell between them. As the sun moved across the sky it beamed through the skylight in the sitting room ceiling, sending a block of light marching across the floor.

“I know Gretchen paid you a visit yesterday,” Cissy said, glancing up at Sophie over the rim of her teacup. “I’m so happy you talked her into staying with the plan.”

“Why did she want to cancel with us? Really? She said that Francis’s mother ordered it, but I wasn’t sure.”

“It wasn’t Vivienne.” Cissy set down her cup and—being careful not to disturb Pearl—pulled off her pale-blue sweater, slinging it over the back of the chair. The pool of brilliant sunlight, was directly over her chair now, setting her reddish-blonde hair aglow, like a corona. She stretched out in the sunlight, closing her light-blue eyes for a moment. Pearl did the same, lolling in the patch of sun that now hit Cissy’s lap. “Mostly, I think Gretchen just doesn’t like tearooms. If I caved in and we had the shower at the country club, she could have martinis, since it’s outside of the town limits and isn’t dry. She’s too
sophisticated
for tea.”

Why did Cissy have that kind of woman as her matron of honor, Sophie wanted to ask. But that would be impolitic, so she held her tongue.

“I guess you’re wondering why she’s my matron of honor?” Cissy asked, straightening and picking up her teacup again as she stroked Pearl with her free hand.

Spooky. When they were kids she’d do the same thing, sometimes, just pick Sophie’s brain effortlessly. “Uh, sure.”

“Francis wants to run for state senate in a few years and Gretchen’s husband, Hollis Harcourt the Third, is an attorney with connections in the senate.” She shrugged and drank the rest of her tea. “It was a small price to pay. I don’t really care who’s standing next to me at the altar. Does it matter?”

Sophie considered her words; it almost sounded like she was saying it didn’t matter who her groom was, but of course she
meant
it didn’t matter who her matron of honor was. “I’ve had friends who were willing to go into battle to secure their spot as maid of honor.”

“I don’t understand it, myself. It’s a pain in the neck. The maid or matron of honor has to do all this stuff, like organize the bridal shower.” She shuddered. “I’d rather just be a bridesmaid. Dana’s nose is out of joint. She just assumed she’d be my maid of honor. If I could go back . . . but she’s still one of my bridesmaids, so . . .” Cissy shrugged, one of her customary gestures. “That’s the best I can do. You have to make sacrifices, you know?”