Sophie watched him and the room was silent now, even Florence was quiet. “Or she was going to go to the police? She was done covering for you? She was tired of rescuing you from situations that you got yourself into, like selling moonshine out of your dorm room at college?”
“Yes!” Phil said, dancing around in circles. “Yeah! Vivienne turned me in ’cause she was protecting Francis.”
“But you really didn’t want her dead, did you?” Sophie asked. She spotted Detective Morris edging out from the kitchen, where she had been listening to the whole exchange. The detective nodded once to Sophie, their signal that she had called for backup, and it was on its way. No one had noticed the detective yet except Wally Bowman, who looked relieved. Sophie hadn’t wanted to put Wally in a difficult position by including him in her plans, given that his family was involved. Besides, she wasn’t sure he would believe her theories. But Sophie felt he had a right to be there, and the detective had agreed. It had just seemed simpler to keep him out of the loop, given what she suspected about his aunt.
Francis groaned. “I didn’t want her dead. I never agreed to that! Aunt Flo said she was going to scare her, that’s all, then get her to talk more rationally. I never would have agreed if—” He stopped and stared at his aunt. “I guess you didn’t want to take the risk that Mom was going to turn us in.”
“This is ridiculous,” Florence said, holding herself rigid against Wally’s detaining arm. “I am Florence Whittaker, and I will not stand for—”
“But you were born just plain-old Florence Bowman.” Thelma crossed her arms over her bosom and cackled. “Maybe in jail you’ll meet up with some of your other country club folks! Like that one that’s trying to sneak out the back door!”
Marva Harcourt, caught in the collective gaze of the crowd, turned, her pinched, immobile face expressionless. “I do not know what this is all about,” she rasped, her voice guttural with fear, “but I know I didn’t do anything to poor Vivienne.”
“Maybe not,” Sophie said. “But that’s not the only crime that’s happened in Gracious Grove lately, is it? Now I recognize the voice . . . you’re in pretty good shape for a woman your age, aren’t you, Marva? And you must have borrowed a hoodie, because you’re the one who knocked my grandma down and threatened her cat.”
“And Wally,” Sophie continued, as Marva, weeping, sank down into a chair, her husband staring at her like he didn’t know who she was. “I think you’ll find that there has been bribery and maybe fraud in the new development everyone has been whispering about, and it’s related to the motion being discussed in city council to lift the alcohol ban so that folks who own grocery stores and restaurants can sell booze.”
Julia Dandridge gasped and grabbed hold of her husband. Nuñez frowned and glanced over at Mayor Blenkenship.
“Who do you think the new owners of the old Whittaker grocery store are?” Sophie said. “Right now one of them is being held firmly by Officer Wally Bowman. Florence Whittaker went in with some of her friends,” Sophie continued, gathering in her glance Marva Harcourt, “to get back what she thought the Whittakers owed her. Her husband sold his interest in Whittaker Groceries, lost the money and died broke years ago. She’s been climbing the social ladder back up ever since.”
Francis stared at his aunt. “Is this true, Aunt Flo?”
“You’re making a lot of accusations against a pillar of this community, young lady!” Mayor Blenkenship huffed.
“Is any of it true?” Belinda Blenkenship asked. “Mikey, you didn’t take any bribes, did you?”
“It’s all true,” Sophie said, sad for the life lost and the lives ruined. “Vivienne Whittaker died because she would not stand by and let her son profit from the corruption and bribery taking place between the developers of Lakeview Enclave and the town council. They were plotting the upcoming annexation and the plan to lift the ban on alcohol to try and drive up property values.”
“Oh crap, you mean we were that close to having booze in Gracious Grove, and I’ve helped stop it?” Phil Peterson said with a groan. “Just my luck!”
Detective Morris stepped out from the kitchen area just as the sound of sirens filled the air. “Mrs. Florence Whittaker,” she said, “you are under arrest for the murder of Vivienne Whittaker. You have the right to remain silent and the right to retain counsel . . .”
• • •
Thelma, exhausted, slumped down in her chair by the window that looked toward Auntie Rose’s Victorian Tea House. Sophie, Dana, Nana and Laverne had helped Gilda clean up the tearoom after the fractious and babbling crowd had broken up. In the end, a few hundred dollars had been raised for Foodies for Families, and Nana had offered her help to raise more. Felice Delorme, though shocked by the proceedings, had left reasonably satisfied.
Gretchen Harcourt was at the police station giving an amended statement about her actions at the tea party—she was “cooperating” with the police—with her husband by her side. Though Marva was the one who had told Gretchen to bring red-velvet cupcakes, she claimed to have done so at the direction of Florence Whittaker. Phil was taken in, too, just to clarify his part in adding alcohol to the punch. Why Shep had him do that was still a mystery, except as some misguided idea to get the gathering drunk and damage reputations. Shep seemed to be a loose cannon in the whole affair, going rogue on the tight-knit group that was trying to manage the town to their own benefit.
Marva Harcourt, the mayor, Harvey Leathorne and a few others were being questioned by a whole different cadre of detectives and police officers about the charges of bribery and fraud involving the town of Gracious Grove, Leathorne and Hedges, Hammond Construction and Stanfield Homes. Thelma loudly claimed that she had overheard Harvey Leathorne and Oliver Stanfield talking, at the country club memorial, and though they didn’t seem to know who killed Vivienne Whittaker, they sure were fine about taking advantage of her death to hustle along their plans. Who knew what and when would be the puzzle to figure out, and Sophie was glad she didn’t have to do it.
Nuñez Ortega had called an emergency meeting of all employees in light of the breaking problem at Leathorne and Hedges, so Randy Miller and Forsythe Villiers had rushed off to attend. Belinda Blenkenship had unexpectedly vowed to stand by her husband and help him get through the political firestorm that was sure to follow such an event.
It had been a momentous afternoon, and late May sunshine was now slanting into the newly cleaned kitchen of Belle Époque. Sophie made tea for the older ladies while Dana finished drying the dishes and Gilda put them away. Sophie heard a scratching at the back door and opened it to Cissy, who practically fell into her arms, weeping.
“What am I going to do? What if . . . oh my lord, what if Francis really did it? He says he didn’t kill his mother, that he had no idea what Florence was up to, but . . .” The torrent became a flood and she collapsed into a chair, head in her arms on the table, her shoulders shaking as she wept.
After the worst had subsided, Laverne said, “Honey, if it helps any, I don’t think he really did kill his mama.”
“I don’t either,” Nana said.
Thelma just harrumphed, but at least didn’t say anything to make matters worse.
“But he had something to do with it. I know he did.”
“He’s admitted that much,” Sophie agreed. To agree to a plan to scare his own mother to keep her in line . . . it was a terrible thing for a son to do. And there was still the question of the missing money Vivienne was worried about; Sophie had gathered from a few hints Detective Morris dropped that it was money from bank accounts only she and Francis had access to. The detective hadn’t been willing to say much, but had not denied Sophie’s assertion that the missing money had probably been used to invest in the development land and bribe Mayor Blenkenship.
“I told the police anything I knew,” Cissy said. Her eyes welled up. “Now that I think back, I believe Florence tested th
e poison on her own old dog! Poor old Samuel died last month, and Francis told me it looked like someone had poisoned him.”
Sophie felt ill. That was exactly what would have happened if Florence wanted to be sure that she had honest-to-goodness cyanide pills, and not sugar pills. No doubt the police would be seizing her computer to see if she had ordered anything off the Internet, and maybe they’d even exhume the dog to see if it was cyanide that killed it.
“How do you feel about marrying Francis now?” Sophie asked. Dana stood by, watching her friend and employer.
Cissy, her tear-ravaged face ethereal in the thin sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, pushed her hair back behind her ears. “You know how you feel when you wake up from a nightmare? Like it was you in the dream, but you weren’t acting like you? That’s how I feel.” She paused and shook her head, choking back another wave of tears.
Dana touched her shoulder. “Say it, Cissy. Say what you have on your mind.”
“I don’t love Francis. I don’t think I ever did. Isn’t that awful?”
“You liked Vivienne, though, didn’t you?” Sophie asked.
Cissy nodded.
“Did it feel kind of like having a mom again?”
She nodded, her breath catching on a sob.
Thelma moaned, “My poor girl! You always seemed so strong. I never gave you enough, did I?”
Cissy jumped up and went to her grandmother, kneeling by her side. “Grandma, you did all you could! I know that. Phil knows it, too. We both love you so much.” She hugged her grandmother and put her head on her shoulder. “I’ll be okay. And I’ll spend more time here, I promise.”
“We’ll all look after each other better,” Nana said. “Thelma, you and I have got to stick together. We’re some of the last of the old crowd, and we’d all—Helen and Annabelle and me—would love it if you’d join the Silver Spouts.”
“Me? Join the Silver Spouts?” Thelma harrumphed again, but said, “I’ll think about it.”
“I’d love to join!” Gilda offered, as she picked at a plate of the treats left over from the shortened charity memorial tea.
A murder arrest tends to put off even the heartiest appetites; no one had eaten anything.
“Come on, Thelma,” Nana said, sitting down beside her nemesis and taking her hand as Cissy looked on, her arms around her grandmother’s neck. “We have to stick together, old friend. We haven’t always gotten along, maybe, but I know what it is to lose a child. When Harold Junior died in Vietnam, I just thought a black hole was going to open up, especially since it happened so soon after losing Harold Senior. When you lost Cassie, I felt for you, I really did, but I didn’t know how to tell you. I should have just busted your door down and made you talk to me. I’m so sorry, Thelma. Cassie was a wonderful girl.”
In that moment Thelma Mae Earnshaw did something she hadn’t done in years. She burst into tears.
• • •
It was late. Sophie had tucked her grandmother in bed with a hot water bottle, Pearl, and a good Agatha Christie mystery, The Body in the Library. The benefit of having a bad memory, Nana said, was being able to read a book you’d already read, and have it feel like the first time. Tomorrow was another day at Auntie Rose’s Victorian Tea House, with a Red Hat luncheon and a bus tour to prepare for. Sophie was going to make her frittata for the luncheon and see how it went over. She would hand print menu cards in the morning with her Frittata Primavera listed.
But she was restless. She looked out her window and could see, over at Belle Époque, that Cissy was still at her grandmother’s fussing around in the kitchen. After the bout of tears, Thelma had gotten gruff again, but Cissy said she was not leaving her grandma’s place and would probably stay the night. Sophie had suggested to her friend that maybe Gilda should move into one of the rooms upstairs that Thelma didn’t really want to rent out anymore. Cissy said it was a good idea, and she’d try to talk her grandma into it. Maybe they’d all have coffee in the morning and hash it out.
The phone rang; it was Sophie’s mother. “Mom? I can hardly hear you!” Sophie said.
“Darling, your grandmother called me! Said she just wanted to hear my voice. What in heaven’s name is that all about?”
“She misses you,” Sophie said, simply.
“But she said someone was murdered and you figured out who did it. She hasn’t had a stroke or anything, has she?”
“No, Mom, Nana is just fine and she was kind of right, except I didn’t really figure out who did it until the last possible minute.”
“What is going on in Gracious Grove?”
“I’ll e-mail you and tell you all about it. It’s easier than on the phone. How are things there?”
“Beautiful, as always. Dawn is just breaking on the Aegean . . . lovely! I’m sipping a mimosa . . . so civilized and European. I wish you’d fly over. My girlfriends are leaving in a day or two and your father is going to join me for a little vacation—as much as he ever takes—then we’re coming back for summer in the Hamptons. Buffie Tidewater’s son, Benjamin, is a concierge physician in East Hampton and he is single, darling! He’d adore meeting you. You could play golf together.”
Buffie was one of her mother’s oldest friends, but she was a snob in the worst sense, meaning, to Sophie, a sense of superiority without any claims to superior character or accomplishment. Sophie controlled her tone as she said, “I’m going to stay here and help Nana out. She can really use me right now. I’m having fun, actually, coming up with some ideas for the menu and—”
“Oh darling, I have to go. Suzette is calling me. We’re going to walk down on the dock and flirt with the Greek men. Even the fishermen here are . . . well, European. So gallant!”
Sophie set the phone gently down on the cradle as her mother hung up, and looked back out the window. A figure strolled along the sidewalk and just then stopped under a streetlight. It was Jason! She wondered if he could see her; that moment he lifted one hand and waved. He motioned for her to come out for a walk.
She waved back and slipped into her tennies and grabbed a sweater, one of Nana’s that still smelled like her lotion. As she raced down the stairs, she thought of her mother on the Aegean. Would she trade places with her mom? As Sophie stepped out onto the sidewalk and locked the door behind her she thought, Not in a million years. She was right where she wanted to be, right where Providence had put her.
“Hey, Jason, what brings you to this neck of the woods?”
“I just couldn’t sleep after that scene at the tearoom. Want to take a little walk and talk about it?”
“Sure. Let’s walk up to the old cemetery. I want to visit my Uncle Harry’s grave. I never knew him, but now I realize how much Nana misses him and Grandpa Harold.”
He put his arm over her shoulders and gave a little squeeze, then released. She wished he’d left it there, but at least he had felt comfortable enough to do that.
“Sure. Let’s go.”
She took his arm and sighed happily. Life in Gracious Grove, New York, was better than she even remembered.
Cranberry Pecan Yogurt Scones
Makes eight generous-sized scones.
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 cup white sugar
1 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. baking soda
1/4 tsp. salt
6 tblsps. or 1⁄3 cup cold butter—if you are using salted butter, you can omit salt from the recipe.
1/2 cup dried cranberries
1/2 cup chopped pecans
1/2 cup plain yogurt
Preheat oven to 425° F.
Sift together flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt (if you are using it).
Add in butter, bit by bit, mixing as you go. Rub it in with your fingers, if you like, but leave small pebbles of the cold butter in the mixture.
Stir in th
e cranberries and pecans, and then the yogurt. Mix gently, but thoroughly. It may take a bit to get all the dry ingredients worked into the yogurt.
Form dough into a ball. Place on a greased or parchment-paper-covered baking sheet and pat into a circle about 1/2 inch thick.
Sprinkle with sugar—you could use turbinado or another decorative sugar for this, if you want, but plain sugar works just fine.
Cut into eight pie-shaped segments, but don’t separate the wedges!
Bake for about 20 minutes, or until edges are slightly crisp and the top is lightly browned. It may need as little as 18 minutes, or as much as 22, but don’t over- or underbake the scones!
The scones will break apart nicely into perfect wedges. These are delicious warm or cold, with butter or not, and also stand up well to preserves or jams like Cranberry Apple conserve or cherry jam. Perfect with tea of any kind!
How to Steep the Perfect Cup of Tea
Courtesy of the tea experts at The Tea Haus (theteahaus.com), London, Ontario, Canada.
Steeping tea involves a few processes, all equally important in producing the desired beverage. In the world of tea, we like to use the word steep rather than brew since it conveys more of the process involved.
Three things are required to make that perfect cup: water, good tea, and time. Depending on the origin of the particular tea, various tricks of the trade may be employed.
Black tea is the most common tea in the west. It is a tea that is fully fermented or oxidized and has the highest caffeine content. It requires water that is at a rolling boil. One level teaspoon or two grams of tealeaf is needed per cup.
Remember that in the world of tea, a teacup is a 120-milliliter, (approximately four-ounce) not a 250-milliliter (eight-ounce) measuring cup! You may wish to utilize a strainer or infuser, a way to keep the leaves from invading the cup. Many people desire a clean cup of tea. Add the boiling water and make sure the leaves are completely immersed. They will start to uncurl themselves and begin releasing flavor and aroma. This part of the steeping is often called “the agony of the leaf.”
Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) Page 29