Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery)

by Amanda Cooper

  “Come on, forget about it for the moment,” Sophie said, taking her grandmother’s arm. “Let’s get changed for the meeting.”

  Sophie had pictured the Silver Spouts as four or five grandmotherly ladies with knitting bags, but that was not the case. Laverne had come back to Auntie Rose’s and brought her niece, Cindy, with her, as well as her elderly father, Malcolm. The Hodge Seneca heritage was strong in Malcolm’s face, the straight, long nose and downturned mouth giving no hint of the quiet, mild-tempered gentleman he was. Sophie greeted him affectionately—he was an old friend—with a hug he returned with surprising strength for a man in his nineties.

  The rest, other than two old friends of Nana’s, were strangers to Sophie.

  “Sophie, come, let me introduce you to everyone,” Nana said. “You know Annabelle and Helen,” she said, stopping at each old friend.

  They made the usual noises of welcome and Helen, the sharper of the two, asked, “We’re all so pleased for Cissy, catching such a promising young man as Francis Whittaker. When will we hear wedding bells for you, Sophie dear?”

  “You do still need someone else in your life before you can get married, right?” she asked. “Or has that changed?”

  One fellow chuckled under his breath, and she eyed him with interest. He was dressed very nicely, but with an old-fashioned air. He was slim and tall, she noted, with a sports jacket and bow tie; that alone in Gracious Grove set him apart, as most men wore polo shirts and khakis, or a T-shirt and jeans. His thinning fair hair was combed back and parted in the middle, like a banker in an old photo.

  “Sophie, this is a newer member of the club, Forsythe Villiers,” Nana said, leading her over to the fellow, who leaned against the archway that separated the tearoom from The Tea Nook. “He just started collecting a year ago but already has a fine collection of art deco teapots. You two are sure to hit it off.”

  His pale-gray eyes bright with interest, he bowed over her hand. “And why is that, Mrs. Freemont, other than the obvious, that Miss Sophie is as lovely as her grandmother?”

  “I collect art deco and art nouveau teapots and accessories,” Sophie said, watching him place an air kiss a correct one inch above the back of her hand. It could have seemed affected but he played it naturally, so she believed the formal manners were just a part of his character. “I’ve actually got a couple to show the group tonight.”

  “We’ll compare notes later, shall we?” he asked, squeezing her fingers and releasing.

  “Certainly.”

  Next was an elderly gentleman, Horace Brubaker. He was the only member, Nana said, who had more teapots than she did. He had been collecting for a very, very long time. Nana then led her to a teenage boy who stood blushing and eyeing Cindy. “This young fellow is Josh Sinclair; he’s Lina Sinclair’s grandson. You remember Lina, Sophie. She owned the big green house three doors down when you were a teenager.”

  Sophie remembered Lina Sinclair quite well . . . too well. That woman was as crabby as Thelma Mae Earnshaw, but without the charm.

  “Lina moved into assisted living almost a year ago now. Josh and his folks were cleaning up the house to sell—it still hasn’t sold—and they all came here to lunch one day. He came over to help out with the yard work, got interested in teapots and started collecting! We’ve never had a full-fledged member this young, but Josh collects English teapots, and has a couple of rare ones!”

  “Josh, hi. So . . . why teapots?” Sophie asked.

  With a quick glance over at pretty green-eyed Cindy, who sat with her hands folded on her lap, watching, he swept his unruly reddish-brown hair out of his eyes and said, “My great-grandma gave me a teapot the last Christmas before she died. Everyone laughed—thought she was nuts . . . uh . . . senile—but I understood why she did it. She knew it would mean something to me. We used to talk about English history and I told her I was going to research the family background in England, so she gave me a teapot with the Sinclair crest on it.”

  “That’s really interesting,” Sophie said. He was so well spoken for a sixteen-year-old boy! She cocked her head and listened as he went on.

  “I . . . uh . . . I write a blog on English history, and do the minutes for the Silver Spouts meetings.”

  “That’s great!”

  Nana took Sophie’s arm and moved her on to the last member present that evening, a young Asian-American woman with straight, dark hair perfectly cut to shoulder length, and wearing skinny blue jeans with a patterned chiffon blouse. “And this is SuLinn Miller. She’s new to Gracious Grove and new to the Silver Spouts. She collects Chinese and Japanese tea vessels.”

  “Where did you live before GiGi?” Sophie asked after commenting on the tea information.

  “New York,” she said. “My husband and I had an apartment on the Lower East Side. I loved it so much!”

  “Sounds like you miss it.” Sophie examined the other woman with interest; here was someone to talk to about New York!

  “I really do. I’ve never lived in a smaller town, and it’s a little hard to get used to. You know, I’ve actually eaten at In Fashion. I was so sad to hear it had closed!”

  Sophie shrugged, but murmured a “thank you.” That was the last thing she wanted to talk about this evening, but fortunately her grandmother called the meeting to order before she needed to respond further. Sophie took a seat by Laverne, who proceeded to gossip in her ear about each of the members.

  Nana talked about a proposed bus trip to Wadmalaw Island, in the low country of South Carolina, to visit the last remaining American tea plantation. She then asked for members’ opinions on an alternate trip, to Trenton, Tennessee, where the world’s largest collection of teapots was housed. Many were the veilleuses-théières type, or night-light tea-warmer teapots, very old and very valuable. It was decided to put it to a vote during the end-of-the-month meeting, when all twenty-one members would hopefully attend. Josh took notes and promised to make up a ballot for the vote.

  Laverne chattered on; Sophie learned that Josh was sweet on Cindy, whom he had met a couple of times before at meetings, but that Laverne, as much as she liked the boy, did not want them to get too friendly. Cindy was only fourteen and too young for all that “love nonsense.” Cindy could hear her aunt and looked like she wanted to sink through the floor. Sophie tried to quiet her friend down, but Laverne seemed to be purposefully raising her voice just enough that Cindy heard.

  Sophie changed the subject to the other Silver Spouts she had never met before. Laverne proceeded to tell her about SuLinn Miller and Forsythe Villiers.

  “That SuLinn . . . she’s a real nice girl, but shy, I think. Got the most amazing teapots, though! She brought a couple of them for her talk to the Silver Spouts . . . you know, everyone who wants to join has to do a little talk. Her ma came from Japan and taught SuLinn the tea ceremony. She’s going to show us sometime.”

  “What does she do here in Gracious Grove?”

  “Well, now, I don’t know if she does anything. They don’t have any kids yet. Her husband is an architect at Leathorne and Hedges, the same place where Francis Whittaker works, but I don’t know if SuLinn has a job of her own. That Forsythe fellow, he works at the same place. He doesn’t seem to be friends with Francis—I asked him outright—but they’re in different departments, so maybe that just stands to reason in a big company like that.”

  “What does he do there?” Sophie asked, trying to keep everyone straight. It was starting to get confusing.

  “He’s an accountant.”

  Nana, who spoke about tea growing in general after proposing the bus trip, had been sending them quelling looks for a while, so they both hushed up.

  It was Sophie’s turn. She retrieved her two teapots from a table behind them. “I’ve chosen a couple of my favorite teapots.” She talked about the metal teapot first. “You’ll notice the design . . . it’s shaped like an art deco light sco
nce, flared upward in a fan shape, with an oversized black Bakelite handle and finial on top. It is highly collectible and reasonably valuable, but still not my favorite.”

  She had their attention; this was good. Her nerves began to ease. “This beauty is my favorite,” she said, holding up a teal-blue Fiestaware teapot. She gave them a brief history of Fiesta dinnerware, the beginning of the Homer Laughlin company in 1936 and through the various designs. “I love the colors of Fiesta,” she said. “The solids are so gorgeous—bright and bold—and they combine utility with beauty. I like it so much I collect and use the dinnerware!”

  The Silver Spouts applauded politely, with Horace Brubaker clearing his throat and thanking her for an informative talk, and inviting her to come see his Fiesta collection anytime. The meeting was over, Nana announced, and the social part of the evening commenced. “I want you all to enjoy the treats this evening,” Nana said, “since my granddaughter, the famous chef, made most of them!”

  Sophie blushed and had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. There must be some middle ground between her mother’s resolute ignoring of her career choice and her grandmother’s unwavering fawning over it. Okay, maybe fawning was a little harsh, but Nana sometimes went overboard in her praise. “I didn’t do much,” Sophie said, straightening her sleeves. “I visited the patisserie downtown today and made some pastries inspired by what I ate there. I baked what I’m calling Baklava Scones, sweetened with honey and studded with walnuts.” She and Cindy brought out the trays of goodies while Laverne and Nana made tea, a smoky Earl Grey for some, a strong, black, orange pekoe for the others.

  SuLinn approached Sophie after most had their plates and were munching enthusiastically. “You’re so brave, standing up there impromptu and speaking! I find it hard to speak to groups. Just after I joined I had to bring a couple of my teapots to show folks and tell them what they were.” Joining the Silver Spouts meant the member had to agree to display and talk about their teapot collection. “I just read off index cards. I don’t think I looked up once.”

  “It wasn’t easy for me at first. Speeches in school were awful! But I’ve been hardened to it. As a chef it was part of my job to go out on the floor and talk to the guests, see if they’re enjoying the food.”

  “Yes, I remember. My husband and I had the A-Line Skirt Steak at In Fashion. You stopped by our table to ask how it was. My husband told you it was wonderful!”

  A-Line Skirt Steak, so named merely to fit their fashion district theme, was a simple marinated, grilled skirt steak with caramelized onions and a balsamic reduction. Sophie sighed. “It was good, wasn’t it? Simple is sometimes best.”

  Forsythe joined them and greeted SuLinn with a chaste peck on the cheek. “So, Miss Sophie, I understand you were at the heart of the excitement, the murder of Mrs. Vivienne Whittaker!”

  She found his ghoulish interest a little unsettling, as she looked into his glittering gray eyes. Why did it excite him so? “I was there. It was awful.”

  SuLinn gave him a look and said, “It must have been. You poor thing! Did she . . . did she suffer?”

  “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 u
p,” 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?”