How much had Zunia’s threats cost Rhi, emotionally? Zunia was a fairly recent member of the society while Rhi had been a member for years, so it must have been a bitter pill to swallow, feeling compelled to withdraw from the presidency election as she had. It was telling that no one had apparently even told Rhi about the new schedule of events, starting this morning. Was she being ostracized for some reason, sidelined to avoid embarrassing the ITCS president and his wife?
The room was tidy enough, if drab and boring, so there was little else to look at. She read the titles of the books piled haphazardly on the shelves. Some were paperbacks, a whole lot of Stephen Kings sprinkled with some Dean Koontz, Clive Barker and Peter Straub. Sophie shivered. Nothing she’d read! Especially at night with the lights out and alone. The only time horror novels or movies were good, Sophie reflected, with more than a little gloom, was if you had a boyfriend you could cuddle up to. In other words, never, in her case.
There was a pretty little box with stone inlay on the bookshelf, and she picked it up to admire it, but as she turned it over, a piece of paper fell out. She opened it slightly, enough to see “For my darling sweet Rhiannon . . .” in a familiar hand, when she heard Rhiannon coming. She folded it back up, stuck it in the box and put it on the shelf. She recognized the handwriting from notes her grandmother had received in the last few weeks concerning the ITCS convention. That was the sloping cursive of Walter Sommer, a man who prided himself on sending handwritten invitations to each teapot-collecting society.
She hadn’t wanted to believe the pastor when he said Rhi and Walter were having a fling, but how else did one explain his note? He wrote “For my darling sweet Rhiannon.”
Chapter 14
Rhiannon, now dressed in jean shorts and a tank top, returned to the living room, sweeping her auburn hair up into a ponytail and fastening it with a thick purple elastic. “What brings you here?”
“I was just wanting to get an insider’s view of some of these teapot society members. I can’t believe it, but folks are actually gossiping that Nana killed that woman with her teapot!”
“I heard that it was done with your grandmother’s teapot. Weird.” She went into the little kitchenette that was off the living room. “I’ve got some iced tea I made with fruit zinger tea and some lemon balm from a neighbor’s garden,” she said, sticking her head out of the tiny room. “Want to try it?”
Sophie said, “Sure.”
“Sit. I’ll bring it into the living room.”
Rhiannon seemed so nonchalant about all that had happened at the inn. Was that innocence, or an attempt to feign innocence? Sophie couldn’t believe where her mind was going, that she was even considering the notion that Rhiannon had anything to do with the murder, but SuLinn’s information about Rhiannon lying about being at the inn had thrown her for a loop. Sophie slipped off her sandals and sat cross-legged on the sofa. A moment later Rhiannon came into the living room with two tall glasses, condensation frosting the outside. “Here, give it a go. My mom e-mailed me the recipe.”
Sophie sipped and then took a long drink. “That’s good. I might try something like this in the tearoom. We’ve got iced tea, but I’d like something a little different—a signature drink, you know?”
“I’ll write this down, and you can play with it. You’re the chef!”
“Maybe I could use a chai blend, or something like that.” Sophie examined Rhiannon. “I was noticing the photos on the wall. You’ve been going to the ITCS convention for a long time.”
“Long as I can remember. My mom was one of the founding members before I was born. She lived in New York City at one point, and then moved here when she got pregnant with me.”
They had talked enough over the summer that Sophie knew Rhiannon’s mom was a single mother who left the big city for the good of her unborn child. She used some inherited money to start a tea shop in Butterhill, trading on her Irish heritage to import the very best of English and Irish blends, at first, before getting into professional blending herself.
“But it seems lately that there has been some infighting,” Sophie said, eyeing her friend. She was going to sugarcoat it, but what was the point? She had always been straightforward, and it generally served her well. “You got caught in the cross fire last year, I understand.”
“Cross fire?” Rhiannon asked, her voice cool.
After looking at the photos, Sophie could see that Rhi resembled her mother except for having thin lips and a strong set to her chin. “You must know what I mean.” Sophie’s mind was jumbled with too many things she wanted to ask about; the note had confused her and put her off balance. She wondered whether there was any connection between that and Rhi’s conflict with Zunia. “I heard that Zunia Pettigrew blackmailed you into dropping out of the division presidency run last year.”
Rhiannon took a long drink of her iced tea. In the dimness of the apartment, with the shades still drawn against the heat of the day, her pale skin glowed, the freckles dotting her face standing out. She flipped her ponytail with one hand and put the cold glass against her neck. The silence stretched out, but she finally said, “My mother would say I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
“Nana says the same thing. But then she says she supposes it’s better than speaking ill of the living.”
She flashed a quirky grin, only one side of her mouth lifting. “I love your grandmother. She’s awesome.”
“So what I’m saying is, why shouldn’t we speak ill of Zunia Pettigrew? It doesn’t seem that anyone other than Pastor Frank liked her much.”
“Poor Frank,” Rhiannon said softly. “I’ll never understand why Zunia was leading him on like she was.”
“You think she led him on?”
Rhi took another long sip of her iced tea. “She had the poor guy tied up in knots. You didn’t know her, but she was like . . .” She made a noise in her throat and shook her head, her thick ponytail swinging. “My mother says that her Irish grandmother talked all the time about imps and sprites, and one in particular. She’d tell Mom that if she wasn’t a good little girl, the goblin would get her. I guess a goblin is an evil, crabby, nasty creature. Ever since I met Zunia Pettigrew, she’s who I picture when I think of goblins.”
“Wow, I know I said we should feel free to speak ill of her, but . . . that’s harsh!”
“But it’s true! She was evil. Five foot nothing, squat and mean-looking. How she got a husband I’ll never know.”
“She must have had something going for her. She got Orlando Pettigrew to leave his wife and Pastor Frank was crazy for her.” Not to mention Walter Sommer, apparently. Who could throw beautiful Rhiannon over for Zunia Pettigrew? If that’s what happened to Rhiannon and Walter’s relationship. The woman must have had a bizarre kind of sex appeal.
“I guess she had that confidence thing,” Rhiannon mused, staring down into her glass. “I’ve never been able to master it, but men seem to fall for it. You know, that I know you want me kind of thing. Zunia was like that.”
“But she couldn’t have been nasty all the time, right? Otherwise no one would like her.”
Rhiannon glanced up, a brooding look on her pretty face. “The first time I met her, I guess I thought she was pretty terrific. She had this passionate character and it was riveting, in a way. She just seemed to care so much about everything, like she was going to suck life dry. You felt . . . How can I explain it?” She sighed and shifted. “It was like her world was intense color and everyone else was gray.”
“I guess that would attract people.”
“You should know,” Rhiannon said, darting a glance at her. “You kinda have that, you know—the passion thing. When you get talking about stuff you care for, it’s like no one else can get a word in edgewise.”
Sophie shrugged off the uneasy feeling that it wasn’t meant as a compliment. Her enthusiasm for life and her chosen profession was sometimes an asset,
sometimes a liability, depending on how it struck those with whom she was dealing. Maybe Rhiannon was one of those who found it off-putting. “But why the teapot society, do you think?” Sophie watched her friend, her emotions tangled with all she feared and wondered about, the fight Rhi had had with Zunia, lying about it, the note Sophie had found from Walter Sommer.
“Why did she belong to it, you mean? Instead of some bigger, glitzier society, like the New York Classical Music Society, or the Italian Art Society? I have a feeling she met Orlando Pettigrew in some other capacity and joined the society to get closer to him. Poor Dahlia; she never saw Zunia coming.”
“I’ve met Dahlia. I guess she’s pretty bitter.”
“Wouldn’t you be?” Rhiannon said, a flush tinting her skin with pink. “I mean, you’d think you’d be safe going with your husband to teapot collectors’ meetings, right? But no, some skank comes along and steals your husband right out from under your nose. It stinks.”
“You seem to feel strongly about married men not doing that kind of thing, cheating on their wives,” Sophie said, tiptoeing toward asking about Walter.
“I sure do!” she said. “Women shouldn’t poach other women’s husbands; that’s all there is to it.” Her expression changed, becoming pensive. “And if . . . if something happens, if you get caught up in something, then you pull up your big-girl panties, back off and leave him alone. You try to forget him. You just . . . You go away.”
Sophie heart constricted. She felt so bad for Rhiannon, who must have been caught up in much the same thing with Walter: an older man wooing her, her attempts to resist, loneliness and a moment of poor judgment making her weaken to his charms. She didn’t get it, especially not with Walter, but it must be difficult to live with yourself after. “Some men just have to have any woman they see,” she said obliquely, hoping that wasn’t offensive.
“No kidding! Anyway . . .” She tossed back the rest of her drink. “What was it you were here for? I don’t think you’ve said yet.”
“I guess I just wanted your take on what happened. You know them all a lot better than I do. Who do you think killed Zunia? And who would be cold-blooded enough to set Nana up for it by stealing her teapot and using it as a weapon?”
“Geez, that’s a lot to ask.”
“Okay, let’s start easy. You were at the first meeting that Friday afternoon, right?”
“Sure.”
“It seems like Zunia went out of her way to anger several people. I mean, she was really dismissive about a couple of the ladies who took their teapots up to her for evaluation, and then she pretty much told Nana her teapot was worthless. Did you notice anyone getting upset?”
“Other than your grandmother, who tore a strip off Zunia?”
“I would have loved to see that. What are the chances? Nana’s so mild-mannered usually, and the one time she puts someone down, the woman gets murdered. The real problem is that during the tea after the meeting Mrs. Earnshaw went around and jokingly told everyone Nana was a real firecracker and that folks in GiGi were afraid of her. She even said someone died in Nana’s tearoom, which is totally not true. I can’t believe people fell for it.”
“Why would the woman do that?”
“You have to know Mrs. Earnshaw. She had every kid in the neighborhood afraid of her when I was young. And over the years she played a bunch of dirty tricks on Nana before they declared a truce a couple of months ago.” Sophie then went through what she knew about everyone’s movements that night. “What were you up to Friday evening?”
Rhiannon colored faintly. “I just watched some TV and went to bed and read a book. Normal Friday night. What else?”
Sophie shrugged. “Someone said they saw you at the inn, that’s all.”
Rhiannon stiffened and narrowed her eyes. “What’s this all about?”
Watching her friend, Sophie said, “I just thought if you were there you may have seen something, or someone, out of the ordinary, you know?”
“I may have stopped in there for a second. Poor Bertie is having trouble with the inn, and I said I’d try to find him another cook.”
“So that explains why the food was so awful if he’s having trouble with his chef.” Sophie still watched Rhiannon, and asked, “What time was that?”
She shrugged. “I don’t remember. It was just for a moment, no big deal. What is this all about, Sophie, really? Don’t you believe me? What are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Rhi. You know me better than that.”
“Do I?” Rhiannon stood and took Sophie’s empty glass. “I have to get moving. I have stuff to do today. We talked a week or so ago, and I think I remember your grandmother saying she wants an order of Auntie Rose’s Tea-riffic Tea Blend, so I’m going to print the labels this morning and put together a box for her.”
Sophie stood, too, and touched Rhiannon’s bare arm. “Rhi, listen to me: I’m sorry, and I don’t mean to imply anything, but someone did see you at the inn, and . . . and they saw you arguing with Zunia. I know darn well you wouldn’t have done anything to her, but people are bound to talk, you know?” Her words hung in the air, practically visible, the tension between them like a wire. What she wanted Rhiannon, her new friend, to say was, yes, she had been there, yes, she had argued with Zunia because . . . of something silly, like she bumped into her in the lobby, or insulted her dress.
Instead Rhiannon’s chin went up, and she said, her tone sharp as a needle, “You want the scoop on Zunia Pettigrew? She was a hateful, miserable, manipulative, needy little husband stealer. Now, I have a busy day ahead of me, Sophie, so I’m sure you’ll understand if I ask you to leave.”
A few seconds later Sophie was on the other side of the door staring at the brass numbers. What was there to do but turn and walk away, knowing that Rhiannon was watching and waiting for her to go, peeking out of the door curtains. Maybe she hadn’t spent enough time with her new friend to notice that she was moody and changeable. Of course, confronting her about being seen arguing with a murder victim probably wasn’t the best test of a new friendship.
The sultry humidity made the air feel like she was swimming through a vat of thick pea soup, the kind Sophie made only for cold, blustery New York afternoons at In Fashion. She turned her mind away from the conversation with Rhiannon and thought about soup. Food always soothed her nerves. Fall was coming, even though the August heat made it seem that the cool winds of autumn would never arrive. She had to consider what kinds of soups she would add to the menu, and when. Focusing on her plans for the tearoom helped her get through the walk back to the inn in the sweltering air.
But the sight of three Butterhill police cruisers in the parking lot didn’t do her mood any good. The police detective had asked Nana to stay in Butterhill for the time being, her grandmother had said, but that was silly! She was only an hour away, for heaven’s sake. Sophie walked into the lobby and let her eyes adjust to the dimness, while the cool air from the air-conditioning evaporated the film of perspiration on her neck and arms. It was just about noon, and she wondered where everyone was. The coffee shop was full as usual and the dining room appeared to have folks in it, but no one from her party of friends. She texted Dana, saying, “Where R U?”
Maybe they all headed off to Dana’s secret consignment shop, and maybe her grandmother and the other Silver Spouts were at another convention event. The convention room doors were shut tight, and there was a MEETING IN PROGRESS sign on the door, so that was a good guess.
Sophie couldn’t think of anything but getting Nana off the hook. What was bothering her most was, how did someone get into Laverne and Nana’s room to steal the teapot? They had both agreed that they locked the door behind them before going down to dinner.
She shouldn’t interfere because the police would be asking these same questions, but no one else was as motivated as she was. Bertie Handler would be able to tell her abou
t security, how the keys were handled, how the cleaning staff was selected, how the master keys were guarded, that kind of thing. Would someone random be able to just lift a key from the maid? Was there a way to jimmy the locks? She went over to the check-in desk and leaned on it, trying to see into the office through the open door. She dinged the little bell on the counter. “Hello! Mr. Handler? Yoo hoo!”
No one came out of the office. Maybe he was in there and just hadn’t heard her. She went around the counter and ducked her head in, then, eyes wide, walked right in. It was as if a whirlwind had gone through the office, lifting every shred of paperwork and tossing it haphazardly around. It was a small room, wood-paneled and with a bank of file cabinets, tables, office chairs, stacked chairs and various pieces of office equipment squeezed in, lining every wall. But the wild flurry of paperwork distracted from other thoughts. It literally covered every surface, even the upturned stack of old dining room chairs, where a heap of file folders spilled sideways, saved from toppling off only by the rungs of the chair.
This was no way to run an inn. But as her gaze drifted she began to see a kind of organization and found the desk among it all, the desktop computer on, photographs of local scenes drifting lazily across the screen like ducks on a pond. How could anyone work in this chaos? She pushed some of the piles of papers on the desk into neater stacks, but one piece was longer than the others so she pulled it out. It was labeled COMPLAINT with a law firm heading. She scanned it and her eyes widened even farther.
Summarizing the jumble of legal jargon, it stated that Zunia Pettigrew was suing Bertie Handler, owner of the Stone and Scone Inn, for defamation of character. It claimed that Bertram Julius Handler did with malice use electronic mail to inform Mrs. Nora Sommer of a purported affair between the complainant and Mr. Walter Sommer. It was dated the day before Zunia’s death. Sophie dropped the paper as if it were on fire, but then swiftly tucked it back into the pile, sending the stack askew as it had been. It stuck out of the stack but she didn’t have time to correct it, as she heard footsteps.
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