The Grim Steeper: A Teapot Collector Mystery by Amanda Cooper Page A

Sophie said, mortified. She took a sip of what tea was left in is cup; it
was
salty. What was going on? “I’ll make you a fresh cup, sir.”
    “Never mind. I don’t want any now. Who knows what would be in it next?”
    “But I assure you, sir—” Sophie glanced over at Belle Époque and saw Thelma Mae Earnshaw’s pouchy face in the wide window of the tearoom. There was a grin on the woman’s face. Somehow, some way, that woman had something to do with the salty tea. Sophie had thought Mrs. Earnshaw’s long history of dirty tricks was over, but apparently not.

Chapter 8
    T he college group stalked away in the wake of the dean’s departure. Vince and Brenda trailed them, and they were shadowed by Sherri Shaw, Tara Mitchells and the unknown dark-haired fellow, who caught up with the dean and drew him aside.
    “
She
did it! I don’t know how, but she did it,” Sophie muttered to Dana.
    “Did what?”
    “Tampered with our sugar.” Sophie grabbed a fistful of the sugar packets and held them up to the light. Sure enough, a couple looked like they had been slit open. She tore into one of the tampered-with packets, licked her finger and tested the contents. “I don’t believe it! This is the absolute worst. She actually filled these with salt and put them in with our others.”
    “
Who
did?”
    Sophie cast a look across the lane. “Somehow, some way, Thelma Mae Earnshaw did it.”
    The strolling tea party ended in a jumble of good-byes, voices calling out through the dark, people hugging and saying adieu. Some folks lingered, chatting. Others headed for cars, parked along the street or downtown. Sophie watched, pondering the evening, wondering what would become of Jason now that she had single-handedly torpedoed his shot at making nice with the dean. It was depressing. She felt like marching right over and telling off Thelma Mae Earnshaw and her frizzy-haired henchwoman Gilda, but she knew she would never do it. It had been hammered into her early (by Nana) to be respectful of her elders, even if those elders were frustratingly juvenile and impossible to deal with.
    And besides, she had done much worse by railing at the chairwoman of the Board of Governors, who was likely at that very minute poisoning Jason’s chances by spewing lies into the dean’s ear.
    Jason loped toward her. “Soph, how are you doing?”
    “I’m so sorry, Jason!” she wailed, as he hugged her tight. She explained about the salted tea and the dean’s accusations, and her own attempt at intervention in his plight.
    “Not your fault,” he said, stroking her hair and hugging her tight. “Not your fault at all. It’s not over ’til it’s over. That’s what they say in sports, and I believe it.”
    “So it’s okay? Do you know who he’s going to announce as the guilty party?”
    His expression in the dim light from the lamp over the table looked evasive, to Sophie. “We had a talk earlier, that didn’t . . . well, it didn’t go quite as I’d planned. But I’m going to talk to him again right now, corner him and
make
him listen. I won’t be blamed for something I didn’t do,” he said, his voice hard with anger. “I’m going to point out to him that if he pins it on me and an investigation finds the real culprit,it won’t look good for the college.” He hugged her tightly, then released. “I have to go if I’m going to catch him. I saw him talking to that woman, his, uh . . .”
    “His girlfriend? I know about her, Jason. I saw her here.”
    “Oh, okay. Yeah. I saw him talking to her a few minutes ago. I’m going to catch up with him.”
    “I also saw him talking to another person, a guy, dark haired, average height.”
    “Crap.” He scanned the street, but the dean had disappeared. “I’ll have to find him. I
need
to speak with him. Talk to you later!”
    *   *   *
    R ose sipped a cup of tea at the table in the tearoom kitchen as Sophie, downhearted, cleared the last of the clutter, in and out