The Grim Steeper: A Teapot Collector Mystery (16 page)

Brenda eyed her as she drained her cup. “Dana, are you done with my book order yet?” she called out, not letting her gaze leave Sophie.

“Nope. Just got the computer to boot up,” Dana said. The bells over the door chimed, indicating another customer coming in. “It’s going through some updates right now, Bren. You know what computers are like.” After a beat, she said, in her best customer service voice. “Hi, can I help you?”

There was an answering murmur from the customer.

“What are you trying to get at?” Brenda asked, setting her mug aside and leaning toward Sophie. “You’re not trying to pin the blame for the grading scandal on Vince, are you? Just because your boyfriend is up to his neck?”

“Of course not.” So much for the fake grade not being a big deal. Brenda seemed alarmed, and Sophie felt the need to tread carefully. “I’m trying to understand everything. One of the ladies in their group saw the dean and Mr. Nomuro arguing, that’s all.”

Brenda blinked and squinted. She looked conflicted. “What did she hear?”

“I don’t know, exactly. Did they have anything to argue about?”

Brenda shrugged and looked off into space, chewing her lip and playing with the fringed end of her scarf. “I don’t know. It’s just . . . I lost track of Vince at one point. We were supposed to stick together, you know, present a united front. But he ditched me, and when I saw him next he was following the dean into a corner at that awful yoga and tea place at the top of the hill.”

That accorded with what she had heard from Julia about the conversation, though in that scenario it was the dean who had
dragged
the registrar away to talk at him. However, if Thelma was right and did indeed see the registrar near the scene of the crime at the right time, perhaps she should point the police toward Brenda Fletcher to expose her boss, and Julia would need to recount what she heard, as well. “Didn’t you find out what it was about?”

“Right, eavesdrop on a conversation between my boss and a colleague?”

Sophie’s phone chimed and she glanced down. A text message from someone she didn’t know. Wait . . . Tara . . . Tara Mitchells, the
Clarion
reporter. Her eyes widened. The girl had done her homework; Sophie’s cell number was on the Auntie Rose website as the contact for private party bookings. She put the phone away, though, as Brenda stood, straightening her coat, which had bunched up around her hips as she sat.

“I don’t have time to wait. Dana, if you’re not ready right now, I’ll come back. The college is having a meeting today to discuss what to do about the dean’s death, and Vince is in a tizzy. I have to be there.”

Dana, who had of course been simply stalling, did have the books ready.

Brenda helped pack them into a box. “I took a brownie from the basket,” she said and smiled. “My birthday is next week; I’ll consider it my present, and a bonus for making me wait!”

Sophie approached the cash desk. “I suppose the police will want to talk to you at some point. I’m sure they’ll be asking everyone about their alibi for last night, you know, after the tea stroll.”

The assistant registrar gazed steadily at her and said, “If you want to know where I was, just ask me.”

Busted. Okay. “So, where did you go after the tea stroll?”

“That’s none of your business, is it?” she said. “But it’s no big deal. I went home. Nothing earth-shattering about that. I told my roommate all about my evening. I talked his ear off, moaned about it for an hour until he was sick and tired of listening, then I went to bed.”

Dana checked Brenda out without further delay. Sophie thought for a moment; Brenda said that Vince was in a tizzy. Well, if he had killed the dean, he most certainly would be, and there were likely police swarming the campus, talking to everyone. She checked the text message from Tara.
Dean A killd at yr place? Need comment for campus ppr.

A comment she would proceed to twist into something entirely different, Sophie thought. However, it did suit her agenda to talk to the reporter, who had resources she didn’t.
Meet me at Auntie Rose’s
,
she texted back.

“I have to go,” she said, slipping her phone back in her purse and approaching the cash desk. “That
Clarion
reporter who tricked me at the reception is asking for a quote. I have a few unsuitable ones for her.”

“Way to go, Sophie!” Dana said, high-fiving her. “Shut her down! I wouldn’t go within a hundred yards of her.”

“Oh, I’m definitely meeting her, but this time she won’t get anything out of me. She was hanging around last night, and since she was skulking, I figure she may have seen something worthwhile. She’ll talk, I’ll listen this time.”

“A year ago I would have predicted you’d get blindsided again,” Dana said, as she typed something into her computer. “But you’re not the pushover I thought you were. Or, at least, you’re only half the pushover I thought you were.”

Sophie leaned on the cash desk and eyed Dana, petting Beauty, the cat, as she wondered if she should bring up a topic she was worried about.

“You look
tres serious
,
” Dana said, glancing over at her then back to the computer. “What’s up?”

“Wally and Cissy are having an argument. I think I know why Wally is upset. Would he talk to me about it if I asked?”

“What did Cissy say?” Dana asked, this time fixing her gaze on Sophie and not looking away. “Why is Wally upset?”

Sophie considered; but shook her head. “I can’t divulge.”

“Ah, so it has to do with . . .” Dana watched her for a moment, then a slow smile tilted her mouth in the corner. “Let me guess; Eli is going to propose to me. He thinks it’s a big secret, but I snooped in his coat pocket and saw the ring receipt from Brummel Jewels in Buffalo.” She did a little cha-cha behind the cash desk and Beauty glared at her, then leaped down to the windowsill.

“Okay,” Sophie said slowly.

“I think he went to Cissy about it, to ask her opinion, or whatever. She
thinks
she’s mysterious, but the girl hasn’t got a subtle bone in her body. Maybe I’ve known her too long, but I know everything from her stupid hints. Anyway, I’d bet she’s been going on and on about Eli’s proposal plan, thinking that’s a great way to get Wally to propose to her.”

Sophie sighed. “The amazing Dana; how
do
you do it?”

“I’m very intuitive. Also, I’m fairly self-involved, so I think a lot about this stuff.
And
I eavesdrop like crazy.”

Sophie smiled at Dana’s self-deprecating humor. She seemed like the kind of woman who would be self-involved; she was gorgeous, spent a lot of time and money on clothes, hair and makeup, and worked hard to get exactly what she wanted in life. She had decided Eli was the one from almost the moment she saw him, and had reeled him in effectively. But she was also generous, helpful and committed to the happiness of those she loved. “I think maybe Wally is put off that she’s been going on and on about Eli’s proposal plans.”

Dana nodded, her expression sobering. “We both know Cissy is a bit of a boob. She has no clue how to handle a man.”

“Neither do I!”

“Honey, you don’t need to ‘handle’ Jason, you need to finally be straight with him, for God’s sake. Grow a pair and tell him how you feel!”

“So, about Wally,” Sophie said, refusing to get sidetracked to her and Jason’s personal business. “I agree that’s what’s going on. Should I talk to Wally?”

Dana paused for a moment, then shook her head. “Let me take care of it. Cissy has been my friend for many years, since we were toddlers, practically. I think I know what to do. Those two kids will be perfect together, but Wally is the kind of guy who will drop down on one knee after the Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘N Fruity pancakes at the IHOP. You and I both know that he needs to get creative so he can make it a proposal for Cissy to remember, or she may say no. I know Eli is planning something biggish, but to be honest, I don’t care about that as long as I get a proposal. Cissy’s another story; she’s been ODing on all those reality bride shows on TV,
and for her proposal she expects fireworks spelling out
Will You Marry Me?
accompanied by baby cupids with sparklers squeezed into their butt cheeks.”

Sophie snorted in laughter.

Dana’s beautiful face softened with affection. “And she deserves it. I kid a lot, and Cissy has her problems, but she’s sweet. She lets me run this place like it’s my own, and she trusts me implicitly. I never had that in my family so Cissy is my sister, at heart. I like to boss people around, so let me distract myself until Eli proposes with helping Wally propose to Cissy in a way she’ll remember for the rest of her life.”

Sophie circled the cash desk and threw her arms around Dana, tears welling in her eyes. “You’re so much nicer than you pretend to be.”

“Don’t go mushy on me, Soph,” she said, squeezing and releasing, pushing Sophie away to arm’s length. “I
am
nicer than I pretend to be, and you’re
smarter
than you pretend to be. I heard you setting Brenda up. I’ll bet she’s doing a little investigation of Vince Nomuro right this minute!”

“I hope not; I don’t want anyone putting themselves in danger, or getting in trouble.” Sophie patted Dana’s shoulder. “And now I’m going to go and squeeze some information out of a college reporter who
also
thinks she’s smarter than me and everyone else, I suspect. How dumb does she have to be to sabotage me, and then try to use me as a source?”

Sophie drove back to Auntie Rose’s. Tara was already there. She was across the street with her camera, trying to get a shot of where the police were working, but they had constructed a tent in such a way as to block anyone’s view. As she watched, Tara snuck across the street, popped up over the barrier and snapped quickly. But she was not quick enough. Wally, behind the barrier, popped up too, grabbed her camera,
and held it away from her while he scanned through and deleted the offending photo.

Sophie snickered. She was surprised by Wally’s swiftness and his proactive move, but pleased that Tara didn’t get the picture. “Tara, I’m here,” she said, motioning to the girl. “You can come back to the kitchen if you want to talk.” She then turned and strode along the lane to the kitchen door.

Chapter 15

T
ara flung a few choice phrases at Wally, then followed to where Sophie stood waiting with the door open, and stomped in past her. The kitchen was empty, but Sophie could hear murmuring from the general vicinity of the tearoom. Maybe they had moved inventory to the gift nook. It also smelled like Laverne had lavishly sprinkled powdered rug cleaner throughout the tearoom.

“Have a seat,” Sophie said to Tara, who plunked down at the table and moodily scanned the photos on her digital camera.

“Jerk cop,” Tara muttered, her pale cheeks suffusing with red that spread down her neck. She yanked her windbreaker jacket off and flung it to the floor, her blond hair swinging free as she unwrapped a school colors scarf from her neck and plopped it on top of the jacket.

“The barrier was put up to keep the public out. Why did you think they’d let you take a photo and keep it? Or publish it?”

“Freedom of the press!” she sputtered, smacking the table. “We live in a free country, and they’re trying to keep me from exercising my rights.”

“Your
rights
? The right to take a photo of the corpse of a murder victim?” Sophie shook her head and examined the girl, the anger she felt from Tara’s article about Jason and her exposing him as the supposed cheater bubbling at a low simmer, ready to boil over. “
Your
rights. What about the victim and his family? What about
their
rights? What were you planning to do, splash it on the front page of the
Clarion
? Share it on social media? What kind of lies and misquoted words were you planning to go along with it?”

Tara stilled and glared at Sophie through narrowed eyes. Laverne popped into the kitchen.

“Oh, it’s you, honey. We’re taking inventory and tidying in the gift nook. It’s best to keep busy so we don’t think about . . . you know.”

Sophie took a deep breath, her godmother’s sweet, throaty voice reminding her that this was her happy place, and she would not bring anger into it. It was up to her to handle Tara in a way that calmed the girl and got what she needed out of her. “I’m making some tea, Laverne. Do you and Nana want some?”

“Not right now, honey. We’ll get some in a while.” She disappeared back into the tearoom.

“Who was that?” the Cruickshank student asked.

“That’s Laverne Hodge, my godmother and my grandmother’s business partner in Auntie Rose’s.”

“She looks . . . I don’t know, exotic,” Tara said. “What’s her heritage?”

Sophie paused; the word
exotic
struck her as out of place. Laverne was not “exotic”; her family history was so deep in the Gracious Grove area, there were still places named for
the Hodges. But she couldn’t think of a reason not to answer, even though it was none of Tara’s business. “She always says her family has a bit of every culture in it, but her ancestors are African-American and Seneca Indian, mostly. Why?”

“No reason,” Tara said. “My family is so bland. I wish it was more interesting, like yours. I looked up about you. Your dad is, like, mega-rich, right? And your mom is always on the society pages. I saw pictures; she’s gorgeous. You’re so lucky.”

Sophie put on the kettle and sat in a chair opposite the student, regarding her thoughtfully. She would not be deflected from what she had to say. “Tara, you talked about the freedom of the press, but don’t you have a responsibility, too? You can say and do whatever you want and label it freedom of the press, but freedom of any kind comes with responsibility. You should be fair. You should be accurate.” She paused. “And you should be human.”

“As reporters we’re not supposed to have feelings about an investigation; we’re supposed to stay neutral.” Tara blinked, then looked back down at her camera, scanning through her photos again. “It was such a big break, the tip I got about the Mac MacAlister grading alteration. I need more. I need to match that break or—” She shrugged.

“Or you’re just a flash in the pan? A one-off?”

Tara nodded.

“Where did you get that information?” Sophie asked suddenly.

“On the grade hike? Someone sent me a note.”

“Do you know who it was and just don’t want to say? Or was it an anonymous tip?”

“Oh, it was freaking anonymous, all right,” Tara said, bitterly. “It was written in all caps, printed off some computer and slipped in an envelope with my name on it. Jeez. If it
had been a phone call or a message online, I might have had a chance to trace it. I have a guy who is into computer stuff, and he could have found out where it came from, but no, it had to be old school.”

“Which was the point, I guess. Didn’t you ever wonder why you were given the tip?” She meant that in two ways, she supposed; she wondered why someone exposed Mac’s grade hike, and why in particular to Tara Mitchells.

“No. Should I?”

“I thought reporters were curious about everything.” Sophie got up and found the containers of treats she had baked earlier, what seemed so long ago now. How could she say this without being insulting . . . or, in this case, was insulting what she wanted to go for? She turned and gazed at the girl. “I think you were given the tip because someone knew you were the type who would rush to publish the story without a lot of background checking.” Sophie had an idea that whomever was actually responsible for the grade scam was also the one who gave the newspaper reporter the tip about Jason. “The important thing is, didn’t you think there must be more? Why would just one athlete have his grade elevated? Isn’t that the story you want to tell? Expose the fraudster. Get to the bottom of it.
That’s
what a good journalist would do.”

Tara was silent, staring down at her camera, scanning through photos.

Sophie filled a plate with cookies. “Look, Tara, the problem is, I don’t trust you. You lied about what I said, implied awful things about Jason and sabotaged me. You took what I said about Jason’s youth and twisted it into something wholly different.”

The girl chewed the inside of her cheek. “I won’t do it again.”

“Aaand we’re back to . . . why would I trust you?” There
was iron in Sophie’s tone; she had learned, running her own restaurant, that there were times when being nice meant people saw you as soft. So you had to play the bad guy sometimes.

Tara’s mouth twitched, and her cheeks stayed red. The kettle whistled, so Sophie got up, found her current favorite blend, a black tea with mandarin peel, spooned some into a diffuser and popped it into the teapot, bobbing the diffuser up and down in the boiling hot water. As she did all that, she kept her eye on Tara. The girl was making a decision, it seemed to Sophie.

Finally, Tara said, her tone snippy, “I think it might be best if you and your grandmother took a more conciliatory approach to me, you know. I’m working as a stringer for a major New York newspaper that is interested in Dean Asquith’s murder.”

Sophie thought for a moment, considering all the problems with that statement. “Okay, not to be snide, but when you say ‘a major New York newspaper,’ I wonder; if it was the
Times
, you’d say the
Times
. Likewise the
Daily News
. I have a feeling you are, pardon the pun, trying to fool me with a second-string—at best—newspaper somewhere in New York State, not the city. And why the implied threat? I’ve already said I don’t trust you, and now I think I’ll make sure no one I know talks to you.
No
one!” She got her phone out and started writing a text blast for all her friends. “This is what I’ll say, and I’ll get everyone I know to send it on to all of
their
numbers.” She read aloud as she typed: “
If contacted by blond, blue-eyed news reporter Tara Mitchells—or her by any other name—do NOT speak to her; she will twist your words and—
”

“I’m sorry!” Tara looked horrified, eyes wide, body frozen to stillness. “I’m sorry! Look, I shouldn’t have done what I did, but I needed a hot quote and you kinda gave it to me, you know?”

“Keep talking,” Sophie said, as she rapidly finished the
text and then started adding names from her contact list. Cissy, Dana, Julia, Eli, Wally, Jason and even Thelma.

“How can I get you not to send that? I promise I will report only what you say. I
promise
!”

Sophie shook her head. “Tara, I’m not an idiot . . . or only rarely. I can see all the loopholes in that. Even if you reported accurately what
I
say, you wouldn’t feel bound to keep to that with anyone else. No, I think it’s best if I warn everyone I know not to talk to you.” Her thumb hovered over the send icon as she waited.

“What can I say?” Tara wailed, clutching at her hair. “You won’t believe anything I say!”

Sophie nodded. “You’re right. That is
exactly
the problem! You might think that nothing you do right now will hurt you, but nowadays the stuff you do as a student can and will follow you. Nothing truly disappears in the digital age.” Sophie well knew that; one or two savage online reviews of her restaurant, In Fashion, had followed her. Though it wasn’t why her restaurant had ultimately died, it hadn’t helped matters any. “You twisted what I said and then lied, writing that I said Jason could easily have hiked Mac’s grade. Why?”

“I was . . . trying to open up a dialogue,” she said huffily, chin up. “The accusation was out there, so I had to give it a voice, you know, so it could be confirmed or refuted.”

“Horse pucky,” Laverne said, passing through toward the stairs. She paused and examined the young woman, who stared back uncertainly. “You don’t believe that. Stop trying to find an excuse, and admit you did wrong. Tell Sophie
why
you won’t do it again, then maybe she’ll believe you.” Laverne headed upstairs.

Tara was stone faced. She stood and grabbed her jacket and scarf off the floor. “I’ll go.”

“And I’ll send this text,” Sophie said, waggling her cell
phone. “Or we could talk, and you could tell me if you noticed anything that night. If you want to report the real story, I’ll consider helping, but you have to show me what you’re going to write.”

Tara paused, eying her, then pulled off her scarf again and removed her jacket, slinging it over the back of her chair, this time. “Look, if we talk, will you not send the text?”

“I’m saving it,” Sophie said, hitting save. “If I hear from anyone that you’re badgering them, or if I get a whiff that you’re lying about what people are saying, it’s going out, and it’ll expand like a foodie’s stomach at a buffet.” She laid the phone down on the table. “I saw you hanging around last night. Did you go to each of the tearooms?”

She shrugged moodily. “Kind of. I mean, I followed the group, you know? I took photos.”

“So you saw the college registrar and assistant, and the dean and his wife and the coach and his wife.”

“And
darling
Kimmy, and Mac, and Mac’s parents; I saw them all.”

Sophie tried to think about what she needed to know, but she was so exhausted, thinking was becoming difficult. She squinted. Laverne came back downstairs and clapped her hands together.

“Is this young lady staying for lunch?”

Sophie shook her head, but Tara brightened and said, “Sure. What are we having?”

“Sophie made a lovely soup yesterday, a cream of cauliflower harvest vegetable with smoked gouda. I think I’ll heat that up and we’ll have some of those cheese biscuits you baked in the middle of the night,” she said, squeezing Sophie’s shoulder.

Minutes later they all sat down together at one of the tables in the tearoom. Nana and Laverne exchanged glances.

“So, Tara, what are you attending Cruickshank for?” Nana asked.

“Communications and journalism,” the girl said, then spooned up the soup, rolling her eyes at the flavor. “This is out of this world,” she muttered, then buttered a cheese tea biscuit and dipped it in the soup, eating more.

“Everything’s so different nowadays,” Laverne mused. “With the Internet and cable TV, and mobile devices. Folks get their news from so many sources. My niece Cindy spends half her day online, between schoolwork and socializing. Who knows what to trust online.”

“I heard one person at the tea stroll talking about that,” Nana said. “She said something about trolls and I thought she was talking about fairy tales, but I guess that’s something online?”

“That’s people who purposely stir up trouble online. They may even lie or misrepresent things to get folks fighting,” Sophie said. Tara was paying attention, she thought, even if she was eating. Time to inject a little pointed reference. “That’s the problem; who do you trust? I think that’s where news organizations need to step in and become a trusted source.”

Laverne snorted. “Hmph . . . too many reporters want to stir things up, not report on the facts. Insert themselves in the story, muckrake, fake quotes, don’t do the research.”

“Now, Laverne, I’m sure there are good reporters out there,” Nana said. “And maybe the new generation will realize that personal ethics are all we have left in this world. Each person has to make a choice as to what they’ll do that day, tell the truth or cast slurs and aspersions.”

Tara stopped and eyed them all. “I get it. I
get
it! You’re all ganging up on me,” she said, and threw her spoon down, folding her arms over her chest. “Fine. I’m the bad guy here.”