Shadow of a Spout (6 page)

Laverne nodded, noting the distinction. She was silent for a moment, as the low buzz of voices hummed through the convention room. But then a frown etched lines on her handsome face. She whispered, “What do you make of this, Rose? Zunia was not well liked, as far as I can tell, but
murder
! That’s beyond just being unpleasant to folks.”

Rose nodded, examining the others in the convention room, who were mostly pretending to ignore Rose and Laverne while covertly watching them. All except for Thelma, who sat in grumpy solitude staring down at the floor. The female deputy gave Rose a fishy-eyed stare, so she remained silent until the young woman turned away to talk to one of the guests, then murmured, “Do you think it had anything to do with Orlando and Frank’s set-to last night? I don’t suppose so. Zunia didn’t even poke her head out during that fracas.”

“That’s odd, don’t you think?” Laverne folded her hands in her floral housedress–covered lap. “It sounded like it was
about
her, after all.”

“That’s so, isn’t it?” Rose said. “And she’s not the kind to be silent.”

The deputy turned back to them, so they hushed once more. One by one the tea convention folks were being interviewed and dismissed, as well as the few hotel staff. Bertie Handler sat with one of the detectives right then, and he seemed extremely upset, as well he might be with such a nasty event happening in his hotel. He was red-faced and waved his hands around, the occasional word drifting back to them. Judging from those words he spoke about the argument the night before, the storm, the alarm, the basement and his office. The detectives then interviewed Pastor Frank, who had a bit of a shiner and a split lip. Orlando was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they were holding him separately, or questioning him somewhere else.

As the convention folks left the room every single one of them averted his or her gaze from Rose and Laverne. Rose shivered again, and this time it was not just the air-conditioning. An ominous sense of dread was building up in her; she kept visualizing Zunia’s dead eyes staring straight up at the ceiling, blood streaked across her forehead.

She frowned. There was something not right there, something that tugged at her, but what? Ah . . . the blood should not have been streaked across her forehead unless she had been knocked down by the blow, and landed on her side, with the wound upward. Then the blood would have dripped down across her forehead in that way. She shuddered. But the perfectly logical explanation was that Penelope Daley had turned her over when she found the poor woman.

Thelma was called up just as Eli came back in and strode over to the detective who was free, a young women in a suit and open white shirt. He gestured toward Rose and Laverne, but she shook her head and said something more, waving toward the other male detective.

Eli came back and sat down next to Rose, his gray-blue eyes narrowed, flashing as if lit by an inner light. “Detective Messier said they are almost to you, and then you’ll be able to get your pills. They wouldn’t let me get your purse because they aren’t done with your room quite yet, but I
could
get your medication for you, if it’s important. I’ll threaten them if I have to.”

They had given permission for the police to search their room, of course, in light of the teapot having come from there. It seemed to be taking a while, but then there was a lot for them to do.

Rose eyed the young man. “If it’s only going to be another half hour or so, I’ll be okay. What aren’t you telling us, Eli?” she asked.

He looked over his shoulder. “I shouldn’t say this, but one of your group has caused some concern with things she said yesterday.”

Laverne and Rose met each other’s gaze and said, together, “Thelma!”

Eli regarded them levelly, his expression impassive. “You know who I mean?” he asked.

“Thelma Mae Earnshaw. Who else?” Laverne said, and explained who she was in relation to Rose. “You tell your colleagues not to pay any attention to that woman. They’re interviewing her right this minute,” she said, jabbing one finger in their direction. “She is the devil’s handmaiden when it comes to causing trouble for Rose, of whom she has been jealous her whole natural-born life.”

“What exactly did she say?” Rose asked, eyes narrowed.

His lips twitched as he eyed Rose. “She apparently considers you a dangerous sort, and referenced someone who had died in your tearoom in Gracious Grove. Are you a dangerous sort, ma’am?”

“I just may be when it comes to Thelma Mae Earnshaw!” Rose fumed, knowing they would be able to straighten out that particular misunderstanding in a moment with one call to the Gracious Grove police department. But still, why did the woman have to complicate everything? “She had better watch herself. And no, of course I am not serious, but this foolishness has
got
to stop!”

The young female deputy came over to them and spoke to Laverne. “Ma’am? Detective Messier would like to speak to you now.”

Laverne stood, towering over the young deputy, and straightened her back with a wince. “Eli, I would appreciate it very much if you would check on your grandfather,” she said, turning to her nephew. “I normally would have made sure he took his medication and had breakfast—he eats real early—but since we’ve been tied up here and haven’t been able to leave,” she said, with a fierce glance at the uniformed officer, “I fear he will have forgotten his morning pills.” She then marched over to the female detective’s desk.

Eli chuckled and saluted. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, under his breath. He turned to Rose. “Detective Dan O’Hoolihan will be interviewing you, Mrs. Freemont. Given Mrs. Earnshaw’s statement and that your teapot was found by the body, he’ll be taking you over events in Gracious Grove very carefully as well as your movements here, but please don’t be alarmed. Apparently all the other old bid . . . uh, the other teapot collectors have mentioned your name when asked about anything suspicious, so we have to clear it up.”

“Am I a suspect?” she asked, her voice quavering. She cleared her throat. This was just silly.

“I can’t comment on that. I’m sorry, ma’am, but I just can’t.” He looked down at her with compassion and touched her arm. “Just be honest and we’ll clear this up as quickly as possible.”

“Of course I’ll be honest,” she said tartly. “Perhaps you will remind them to be sure Thelma is, as well!”

Chapter 6

O
nce she was sitting opposite him, Detective O’Hoolihan asked a lot of questions: her name, her address, how long she’d lived there and about her business in Gracious Grove. He asked why she was in Butterhill at the hotel. She told him about the convention and rambled on, giving a lot of details. He was calm and thorough . . .
very
thorough, jotting down notes and asking more and more questions. Rose began to feel every year of her age, and as the questions kept coming, she got a little confused. “May I have a drink of water?” she asked, her voice croaky and dry. “And I really will need my pills soon.”

“We’re almost done,” the detective said, examining his copious notes.

“Not really,” she tartly rejoined. “We haven’t even gotten to Zunia Pettigrew yet, and the incident at the convention talk yesterday. So far we’ve mostly talked about Gracious Grove and Thelma Mae Earnshaw.” She noticed Laverne was done with the young female detective and was about to sit down to wait for her. She waved her out and mouthed,
See you soon
. Laverne would be worrying about her father, and so she should. Malcolm was in good shape for a ninety-something-year-old, but that still required some time and trouble to keep him that way. Laverne was devoted to his care and should go to him, though she would bet that Eli would have made sure he was all right. He seemed like a very nice boy; she wondered if he was single, and if he was, who she could fix him up with.

“Mrs. Freemont!” Detective O’Hoolihan said, passing one hand over his eyes.

Rose had a feeling it was not the first time he had said her name. She needed to buckle down and listen; maybe the shock of seeing poor Zunia Pettigrew’s body was fogging her brain, because none of it felt real. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

He motioned to the young deputy and asked for a glass of water for Mrs. Freemont. Once Rose had quenched her thirst, he said, “Ma’am, I do want to move this along, but a woman has been killed, and I need to understand everything about it. If we continue, I can then let you go get your pills and breakfast. Take me through this confrontation between you and the victim. We have it from several sources, but none of them seem to match.”

“I’ll bet,” she said. “Thelma Mae Earnshaw made the rounds yesterday afternoon and poisoned every mind there against me. I don’t know what is wrong with that woman.”

He referred to a note on the table in front of him. “Actually, ma’am, just now she told Detective Messier that she misspoke about the incident in Gracious Grove. It was just a little joke, she claims, and it got out of hand.”

“
What
was a joke?”

“Her telling everyone that a woman died in your tearoom.”

Rose calmed herself as she prepared to answer the young man across the table from her. “Thelma is an old friend, but she does have the worst sense of humor and even poorer timing.” She explained about the woman who died in Thelma’s tearoom. He nodded, and she had a feeling she was going over ground that he had already researched.

From there they went over the previous day, through the speeches at the convention, and up to her taking the teapot back up to her room.

“What did you do with it?” O’Hoolihan asked, watching her eyes.

“I put it in a blue tapestry bag that I was using to carry some books and other things.” Rose paused and examined his blue eyes, shadowed by dark circles and with bags under them. He was relatively young to her but on the shady side of forty, she’d guess. This was a man who didn’t sleep well, she thought. “To be completely honest,” she said, impulsively, “I shoved it in the bag because I didn’t want to see the darned thing again. I felt bad about my argument with Zunia Pettigrew. It wasn’t my finest moment, and the teapot reminded me that I’d been impatient. She just got on my last nerve after I saw how she treated the others.”

“The others?”

“Jemima Littlefield and Faye Alice Benson; she treated them very shabbily, and in front of the whole group. It was shameful. I’m sorry Zunia’s gone, but you have to wonder how she treats folks in private if she’s willing to humiliate them in public.”

She could see his interest in the events of the previous day and wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Of course nothing would do but to reiterate exactly what Zunia had said to each woman. She felt like a stool pigeon, but it never for a second occurred to her that he would suspect either of them for such a heinous crime. She said just that when she was done, but he didn’t answer.

“Now, back to your teapot. What time would this have been, that you put it in the blue bag?” He jotted a note without even looking down at the paper.

“About five o’clock. The tea was about over, though there were still folks lingering to talk.” She told him about leaving the dining room and running into the inn owner, Bertie Handler. “Then we went up to our room, Laverne and I. I stuffed the teapot away, then lay down—so did Laverne—and had a little nap. We both woke up, I’m not sure what time. Then we got changed and went down to the convention dinner.”

“Who all was at it?” he asked, referring to a list in front of him.

Rose named everyone she remembered.

“You didn’t mention Thelma Mae Earnshaw.”

“No, she didn’t come to the dinner. Not sure why. I think she either went out or had dinner in the coffee shop in the front of the hotel.” She paused, frowning down at her hands resting in her lap, then plucked at a loose thread on her housecoat, wrapping it around the stem of a pearl button. “I wonder if she was even then regretting what she’d said to them all about me and didn’t want to face folks? She’s an odd duck.”

“You also didn’t mention . . . let’s see . . . Emma Pettigrew, Nora Sommer and . . . Mr. Frank Barlow.”

“I didn’t see any one of them. I know for sure Orlando Pettigrew was there, and so was Zunia. They were fighting, I think, about something.”

His gaze sharpened. “She was having an argument with her husband? What were they saying?”

“Now, that was just an impression,” Rose said, alarmed. What had she just said? She sure didn’t want to get anyone in trouble, and yet she kept doing it! She was so tired, like she could sleep for a hundred years, and when she was tired she tended to ramble. But Eli had told her to be honest, so she was. “I didn’t overhear a thing, Detective, so I don’t know that for
sure
!”

“However, it was your impression that they were arguing?”

Rose thought back. She could picture them at a small table for two by the wall, and there was an intensity as they leaned across the table toward each other, but it was not the intensity of love. They were at war with each other. “That was my impression, yes,” she confirmed.

“What happened then?”

“Nothing. I mean, they left the dining room before I did, and I didn’t see them . . . or, rather, Zunia . . . again that evening. Laverne and I went upstairs, did our nightly rituals and chatted, and Thelma came in briefly to talk.”

“Excuse me, ma’am, but did you notice the teapot in the bag at that point?”

She paused and pondered. Was the bag there? Yes. But was it still full, as it had been when she’d shoved the teapot into it? “I didn’t have a reason to go into the bag,” she said, with regret. “I can’t remember if the bag looked like the teapot was still in there or not.”

“Did you notice anything in your room disturbed?”

She shook her head. “No, not a thing.”

“What happened then?”

She shrugged. “Nothing. We turned in.”

He checked his notes. “Until everyone on the second floor was awoken by an argument.”

“Loud voices. I didn’t know it was an argument until I opened my door and saw Orlando Pettigrew and Pastor Frank struggling.”

“Did you hear what they said?”

Rose told him everything she had overheard, and he had her name off every person she had seen, and those she hadn’t. “Then I went back to bed. Next thing I knew that alarm was going off and I heard a woman scream. I guess that was Penelope Daley.”

“When you went into the hall, did you notice who all was there?”

“Let’s see . . . Josh Sinclair came to his door rubbing his eyes. A lot of the other teapot collectors came out of their rooms and followed the noise. I saw Jemima Littlefield. Thelma. Uh . . . SuLinn Miller, too; of course, she’s one of our Silver Spouts.” She named the others she saw.

“What about . . .” O’Hoolihan checked his notes. “What about Orlando Pettigrew?”

“I didn’t see him.”

“Emma Pettigrew?”

“I don’t think she was there. Josh would have been more likely to notice her.”

“The Sommers?”

“No.” She looked down at her hands, rubbing an age spot on the back of one as she thought. “Now, that’s odd. Their room was right there, close to the elevator on the other side from us.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw him when he looked out during the argument; he said then that Nora was sleeping and that they’d wake her up.” She frowned. “But when there was all that commotion with Zunia being found . . . you’d think the fire alarm would have woken them up, if nothing else.”

He went over his notes briefly, then looked up. “Okay, Mrs. Freemont. You’re free to go up to your room, but please don’t leave Butterhill for now.”

Rose hesitated. Should she ask? “Detective, I suppose you’ve told the others the same? Not to leave Butterhill?”

“For the moment.”

“Do you know if they intend to go on with the convention?”

He shrugged. “I have no idea, ma’am. We’ll be done with this room in a few hours, and I suppose there’s nothing barring it, other than the death of Ms. Pettigrew, who was the chapter president, as I understand it from Mr. Sommer. You’ll have to ask him.”

“Of course.” She stood, but wavered for a moment.

Eli Hodge was approaching just then and he took her elbow to steady her. “Let me help you upstairs, ma’am. Auntie Laverne asked me to come get you. Your room has been cleared.”

She looked up at the handsome young man. “Thank you, Eli. I appreciate your help. I’m just hungry and I think I need some coffee and my pills.”

Laverne’s nephew exchanged a charged look with Detective O’Hoolihan. “No problem, Mrs. Freemont. I’ll escort you to your room. Let me just talk to my colleague here for a moment.”

Rose moved away, but could hear them talking.

“Did you really have to keep her for so long before letting her have something? She’s eighty, for God’s sake.”

O’Hoolihan stiffly muttered, “Eli, you’ve got no reason to be here. This is
my
case.”

“I’m not stepping on your toes, Dan, really, but my aunt and granddad are here and I’m looking out for them. I’ll stay out of the investigation, I promise.”

“See that you do.”

Eli didn’t say another word, but his lips were pressed into a thin line. Rose, watching him as he approached, thought that there was much he would have liked to say. He took Rose’s elbow and guided her from the room and toward the elevator. She caught a brief glimpse of Bertie Handler at the check-in desk; he had his head down on his arms. He had been so on edge, worried about the loss of the yearly convention and how that would affect his revenue stream. He didn’t know then that murder would be a bigger threat. She was sympathetic toward him. Having run the tearoom for so many years she knew how much any service establishment relied on the customers you could count on and word of mouth, neither of which would be helped by all of this.

“Are we allowed to use the elevator?” she said, as they waited for the car. “Given that . . . well, that the body was there on the second floor?”

“We have the spot cordoned off, and they’ve dusted the elevator for prints,” he said tersely.

They rode up in silence, Rose apprehensive about the sight she would see. But when the elevator doors opened seconds later she had to sidle around the area cordoned off and screened. Crime scene tape held up with lobby stanchions surrounded a plastic opaque screen, behind which Zunia’s body still lay. Rose shivered, her memory returning to what she had witnessed. It made her think of her teapot, and she staggered slightly.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Freemont?” Eli asked, as he guided her down the hall.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she said, pausing outside their room door to catch her breath. She was exhausted and needed more sleep, but she needed her heart meds and something to eat first. She grabbed his hand and looked up at him in the dim corridor light. “Eli, please tell me what happened. Do you know yet? Do you have a suspect? It scares me so much that she was killed right there, at the elevator not twenty feet from my room. And with
my
teapot! How is that possible?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t say anything at this point,” he said, his voice gentle as he looked down at her. “Please try not to worry about it. Murderers are resourceful. If it hadn’t been your teapot the killer used, it would have been something else.”

“But . . .
why
my teapot?” she said. “Was it because of the argument I had with her about it? And how did the killer get it?” That indicated forethought, a premeditated murder, then, not a sudden impulse crime.

“Try to get some rest, Mrs. Freemont. I’ll have someone bring up some breakfast for you. Tell my aunt I’ll talk to her in a while.” He turned and strode away, then bolted through the door to the staircase, eschewing the elevator.