Free Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) by Amanda Cooper

shock right now,” she murmured. “He doesn’t look well at all.”
    Gretchen was watching Sophie and Cissy with a cool, evaluating stare. Why wasn’t she helping her friend, Sophie wondered, irritated by the woman’s detached behavior. Searching her mind for some distraction, Sophie picked at a detail that puzzled her. “Cissy, why did Wally call Mrs. Whittaker . . . Mrs.
Florence
Whittaker . . . his aunt?”
    “She was Florence Bowman—Wally’s dad’s sister—before she married a Whittaker,” Cissy said. “I thought you knew that.”
    “I may have,” Sophie admitted. “But I only spent summers here, remember, so some of the finer points of Gracious Grove intermingling may have eluded me.” That meant that Francis and Wally were practically related; funny that she had not known that before.
    “Right,” Cissy said, her tone weary. She put her head down on the table. “I wish this was all over,” she muttered, and it wasn’t quite clear to Sophie exactly what she meant by
all
.
    Wally Bowman entered that minute, and it interested Sophie to see how his gaze went directly to Cissy. He looked concerned, but his expression blanked as he caught sight of Francis Whittaker eyeing him. “Frankie . . . Francis, may I speak with you alone?” They disappeared outside for a few minutes and when they came back in, Francis appeared paler, shock etched on his face. He leaned, palms flat, on a table.
    “What’s going on, Wally?” Thelma Mae said, her voice loud enough to fill the room. “I’ve got a right to know!”
    The police officer strode to the center of the room and gathered everyone in his gaze. “I know you’re all wondering the same, exactly what Mrs. Earnshaw just asked. I understand that you’re frightened and upset. Especially those of you who were in the room when Mrs. Vivienne Whittaker was taken ill.” He eyed Cissy.
    “Enough chatter,” Florence said, standing slowly, tugging at the frilled cuffs of her springy blouse. “Cut to the chase, Wally. What happened to poor Vivienne?”
    “Well, that’s a problem; we don’t exactly know.”
    Francis sat down, thudding into the nearest chair as if his legs wouldn’t hold him any longer. He buried his face in his hands and moaned.
    Wally glanced at him, then continued. “The medical examiner says if he was to hazard a guess, he’d say that Mrs. Vivienne Whittaker had been poisoned, either purposely or accidentally, by something she ingested in the minutes before her demise.”
    “You mean something she ate?” Thelma Mae loudly asked. “If that’s what you mean, just say it plain, Wally; don’t beat around the bush.”
    He met her grim stare. “All right then, yes, it appears it was something she ate or drank in your tearoom that killed her.”
    “You finally did it,” Francis said, lifting his face and glaring at the senior owner of Belle Époque. “You finally
killed
someone with your awful food!”
    “It wasn’t
me
that cooked it,” she said, her face going a blotchy red and her cheeks puffing out. “It was Gilda! Don’t go pointing your finger at
me
, young man.”
    “I didn’t do anything wrong!
She’s
the one who buys expired produce and past-date chicken,” Gilda Bachman said, pointing a shaky finger at her employer. “I told her she’s got to get fresh, but she never met a corner she didn’t want to cut!”
    “Enough!” Everyone turned to look at Sophie, who hadn’t even realized she had spoken out loud. Her nerves were frayed. “This is not the time to be making accusations.” And besides, food poisoning or salmonella wouldn’t have resulted in an immediate death. If Vivienne Whittaker was poisoned, it had to be deliberate. Sophie knew that, but didn’t see the point in sharing. “Wally, how can we help?”
    He nodded and cast her a grateful look. “Thank you, Sophie. Glad to see someone has some sense. We’ve got a team of investigators who are going to take you somewhere one at a time to answer