The Hidden Corpse

by Debra Sennefelder

  When food bloggers got together for a meal, they were all experts. As the hostess, Hope was the referee. “I’m sure she’ll be here by the time Louis is done cooking. I made a tossed salad and green beans with goat cheese.” Hope pulled open the refrigerator door, took out a large salad bowl, and reached back in for a jar of homemade balsamic vinaigrette.

  “Great. Low carbs. I tested cake recipes all last week. I’m dying for protein. Bless you.” Felicity carried the wine to the table and then asked what she could do to help. Hope wasted no time in putting her to work and, by the time Felicity finished setting the table, Louis was bringing in the beef tenderloins perfectly cooked and charred just enough. Hope tented the meat with aluminum foil so it would finish cooking. Meanwhile, she set out the salad and green beans on the table. But Elena still hadn’t arrived. Felicity left another voice mail for the missing blogger as they sat down to eat dinner.

  “Wait!” Felicity yelled.

  Startled, Hope and Louis snapped their heads up. “What?” they asked in unison.

  With her cell phone out, she smiled. “Photos.” She stood and clicked away on her phone.

  “Ugh, I totally spaced.” Louis shifted and pulled out his cell phone from his jeans back pocket. “Gotta take a photo of this.”

  Not to be left out, Hope stood and went for her cell phone. Together, the three of them snapped photos of their food and one another and then posted them across social media. The one truth about food bloggers was that no meal should go undocumented. Especially since they were in a private kitchen and there weren’t any other diners around who would find the activity annoying.

  After the photographs were shared, the three of them ate their meal over conversation that revolved around what else? Blogging. It was impossible for bloggers not to talk shop when they were together. Most of the time they worked in isolation, so when they were lucky enough to be in the company of other bloggers, they couldn’t talk enough.

  Through dinner they discussed recipes, how to come up with post ideas, newsletters, and promotion. The conversation flowed easily and, by the time Hope served coffee with dessert, they all agreed they should do some type of event while they were all together in Jefferson. Hope suggested a panel discussion at the library.

  She was confident Beth Green, the head librarian, would be able to pull it off with short notice. Louis beamed with excitement and said he would discuss how bloggers work with brands. Felicity immediately jumped on discussing recipe development and Hope offered to talk about search engine optimization or SEO for short. She loved the topic and could go on endlessly about SEO, but it could be a dry subject for most people. Dull or not, it was an important part of their business, and she’d make the presentation as interesting as possible.

  By the time they’d cleared the dishes, all three of them were officially worried about Elena. She hadn’t called or texted again. She’d left the inn early in the morning and returned several hours later, Felicity said. At the time, there wasn’t any indication Elena would be a no-show at dinner.

  “Are you sure Elena doesn’t know anybody in the area?” Hope asked as she closed the dishwasher door.

  Felicity casually shrugged. “She didn’t say she knew anyone up here. But who knows.”

  “Maybe she’s just a flake.” Louis had settled on a chair in the family room and was bent forward rubbing Bigelow’s belly. “He’s a great dog.”

  Hope eyed her canine companion. He was a great dog when he was getting a belly rub or eating or sleeping. “He’s a work in progress.”

  “Something’s up with Elena. She got weird after the first day of class.” Felicity glanced at her phone. “Look at the time. We probably should get going. Ready, Louis?” She grabbed her wrap and purse off the chair at the table.

  “Gotta go, dude,” Louis said to Bigelow and Bigelow’s head swung up. “Sorry.”

  Hope and Bigelow walked their guests to the front door. “Thank you for coming this evening.”

  “It was nice. Very . . . cozy. Quaint. Next time you must come to Brooklyn. The energy and food scene is amazing.” Felicity air kissed Hope before she turned and walked out onto the front porch.

  “You’re always welcome in Hoboken. Thanks, Hope. Good times.” Louis followed Felicity down the porch steps.

  Hope closed the door and found Bigelow staring at her. “Next time you must come to Brooklyn. The energy and food scene is amazing,” she said in a mocking tone. “What’s wrong with Jefferson?”

  Bigelow’s head tilted sideways.

  “I know. It’s not the city. But it’s pretty amazing here. Except for the murders,” she conceded as she locked her door. “Let’s finish cleaning up.”

  She walked back into the kitchen with Bigelow behind her. At the table she pushed the chairs under the table and adjusted the centerpiece. The telephone rang and she hurried over to the end table in the family room, with Bigelow following her. The caller ID came up as Corey Lucas, her former producer on The Sweet Taste of Success. She grabbed the handset and clicked the phone on. “Hello.”

  “Hey, I’m on my way to the Met, but I wanted to touch base with you about the cookbook. Are you in? If you are, we need to schedule a meeting.”

  Hope glanced at her watch. Corey was on his way to a performance at the Metropolitan Opera House while she was tidying up for the night. Maybe the energy in Jefferson didn’t quite come close to that of New York City. “Good evening, Corey. I’m fine. Thank you for asking. How are you?”

  Corey exhaled a deep breath. “Busy. Late. Ugh, this cab won’t move. Midtown traffic is a nightmare.”

  “I need a little bit more time to decide.”

  “Time? Honey, we don’t have time. I’m not thrilled being pulled back into The Sweet Taste, but we’re all stakeholders in this. Are you in or are you out?”

  Hope wasn’t the only person who moved on after the reality show. Corey left The Sweet Taste of Success to work on a reality show about bad first dates while she came back to Jefferson. The show tanked her career in publishing but, for Corey, it helped him score a bigger job. Proof there were no guarantees in life but more than not, she was glad she took the risk to step out of her comfort zone and appear on the reality show.

  She drifted over to the French doors and looked out to her expansive backyard. When she originally saw the property, her first thought was there was so much potential. The second thought was that potential cost so much money. Building the garage put a significant dent in her savings account, and there was still a long list of things that needed to get done and they all required money. And the cookbook meant money.

  “I’m in. I’ll do it.”

  “Great! Now I won’t have to sue you. Hey, the light is green and it means ‘go’! Sorry, Hope. If it’s not traffic, it’s the cabbies.”

  “Sue me? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s in your contract. I don’t recall the exact wording, but you agreed to do a cookbook if the show decided to publish one—hey! Seriously? Do you even have a driver’s license?”

  “I did?” Hope racked her brain to recall the contract she signed so long ago. Why didn’t she remember the clause? Oh, boy. What other clauses were in the contract she didn’t remember? She’d have to review the contract ASAP.

  “You could sound a little more enthusiastic about this. It’s a great opportunity to get back out there. Who knows what it could lead to? Finally! Just pull over! Yes, here is fine. Geez. Why didn’t I use a car service? Look, I’m at the Met. Gotta go. I’ll e-mail you the particulars.” And with that, the line went silent.

  Hope clicked her phone off and held the handset close to her chest. Staring out into the night, with the twinkling stars above, she prayed she made the right decision.

  “Woof.”

  Bigelow’s deep bark drew her attention from the night sky and she looked at the dog. He was an unexpected addition to her life and now she couldn’t imagine her life without him. She needed to keep a roof over his head and food in his b
owl, so if contributing a couple of recipes to the cookbook could help her financially, then she’d happily contribute and promote the book.

  The recipes needed to be perfect and she needed to start first thing tomorrow. Her gaze drifted back to the window. With her priorities rearranged, she needed to let the police investigate the fire and two deaths. She couldn’t become any further involved. She’d done her civic duty by answering Reid’s questions and by sharing her theory with Ethan.

  Now it was time to focus on her career and leave the suspicious deaths to the police. After all, she was a blogger and not a detective.

  * * *

  It was official. Hope was out of her mind. What other reason could there have been for agreeing to participate in The Sweet Taste of Success cookbook? Oh, right, she was contractually obligated to participate. She moaned as she pulled her bedcovers closer to her chin. Darn, stupid contract. She opened her eyes and was greeted by just a hint of light. She stretched her full body from her fingertips to her toes, prompting Bigelow to lift his head. His tired eyes told her he wasn’t ready to wake up yet, and she sensed her stretching wasn’t appreciated by the dog.

  “You hogged the covers last night,” she told him as she reached for her phone to check e-mails. She found one from Corey, just like he promised, with the particulars of the cookbook deal.

  Two recipes from each contributor. It wasn’t the recipes she needed to develop and photograph that had Hope regretting her decision. It was the editor’s name. She let out another moan. Maybe a lawsuit wouldn’t be so bad after all. Publishing was a small world with a long memory. And nobody had a memory like Calista Davenport.

  She’d come to Hope for a favor for one of her authors, and Hope had turned her down. Now the woman would be editing her.

  Good going, Hope.

  She shook her head. Of all the editors on the island of Manhattan . . . oh well. Focus on the project, not the editor. She’d develop and submit her recipes and pray for the best.

  After she flung off the covers and climbed out of bed, she padded into her bathroom to get ready for her day while Bigelow remained curled up on the bed. Lucky dog. After Hope finished her morning chores and the administrative tasks for her blog were done, she patted Bigelow on the head. He’d settled on his bed in the kitchen and was gnawing on a chew toy and didn’t seem to notice her leave for the library.

  She pulled opened the main door of the Jefferson Town Library and stepped inside. The two-story stately brick building had housed the library since 1916 and served the community through a depression, wars, and the invention of electronic readers.

  Quiet sitting areas were arranged in the front of the library, while the back section was filled with stacks and stacks of books. Fiction and the children’s section were located on the first floor, nonfiction was housed upstairs, and meeting rooms were located on the lower level.

  Hope threaded her way through the reading tables and displays to arrive at the circulation desk, where Beth stood conferring with a patron. Her light brown hair was pulled back by a floral headband and she wore a simple blue dress. Her style was understated and refined, and fitting for a head librarian. She patiently explained to the older gentleman how to access a website he wanted to visit. When she was finished, the gentleman thanked her and walked away from the counter with the aid of his cane.

  Beth tilted her head sideways and her smile was replaced by a frown when she made eye contact with Hope. “How are you doing? I heard you tried to rescue Mrs. Olson from the fire. Is that true?”

  Hope didn’t want to discuss her ill-conceived, spur-of-the-moment idea to race into a burning building. In hindsight, it was a foolish move she regretted because she wouldn’t have been able to save Peggy. Thankfully, there had been a levelheaded police officer nearby to stop her.

  “Such a loss for Meg and her family and for Jefferson. Mrs. Olson was a kind, generous woman.” Beth’s frown slipped away as her face brightened. “I’m going to remember her that way.” She gave a firm nod. “Now, how can I help you today?”

  “I wanted to speak to you about a panel discussion for the library. It’s last minute, but I think it’s an interesting topic.” Hope launched into her pitch about the blogger panel. Beth seemed intrigued and asked several questions, jotting notes as they discussed the event.

  “It does sound fascinating.” Beth reached for a calendar.

  “What’s fascinating?” Sally Merrifield asked as she approached the desk with a pile of books. Sally retired as the head librarian several years ago. Now she volunteered several hours a week wherever needed in the library.

  “Hope and her fellow blogging students who were taking Cal’s photography workshop have offered to do a panel discussion about blogging.” Beth studied the calendar. “We do have a lot scheduled. But I think we can squeeze in your event.”

  “Given what has happened, perhaps now isn’t the time to have another event.” Sally had disapproval written all over her face. The seventy-plus-year-old woman followed rules, whether they were hers or long-standing rules steeped in tradition.

  Beth, on the other hand, preferred to be flexible and, given she was a librarian in the twenty-first century, flexibility was an asset. A primary task for her was to create a place where readers of print books or e-books wanted to come and be a part of the community.

  “It will be a challenge, of course.” Beth nodded. “However, I think we have a rare opportunity by having four successful bloggers in town all at the same time.”

  Sally shook her head and made a tsk-tsk sound.

  Beth looked at Sally and gave an “I’m the head librarian” nod. “I think this is a good idea. It’ll give people something to focus on other than the tragedy.” She turned back to Hope. “Can I call you in about an hour or so? I need some time to come up with a plan. We can post on our community Facebook page as well as the library’s page and I can send an e-mail blast to our list.”

  “Sounds like this is all coming together,” Hope said with satisfaction.

  “Apparently so,” Sally said with a sniff of disapproval. “I have work to do. Have a nice day, Hope.” She ambled off to the rare books room.

  Beth turned her attention back to Hope and she looked a bit more relaxed. “I also heard Maretta Kingston wants the spot now vacated on the P&Z Commission. You’re hosting an event for her. An English tea party?”

  Hope nodded. “Will you be able to attend?”

  “I’m going to try. I’m surprised Maretta is looking to serve on a town board. She’s never shown an interest before.” Beth gave a casual shrug. “I guess she’s full of surprises. Maybe she’ll consider volunteering here. With Lily gone, we’ll need to find someone to replace her for the annual book sale.”

  “Did you know her well?” Hope asked out of pure curiosity, since she’d made a promise to herself the night before to leave the investigating to the police.

  “Not very well. We met to discuss the book sale. She was busy between her job and the P&Z.”

  “Did she ever talk about the commission?”

  Beth shook her head. “No. Though, I did hear from another volunteer that the last vote about Lionel Whitcomb’s proposed development irritated him. And what I just told you is the extent of my information regarding the P&Z board.”

  Hope tried to hide her disappointment, but her interest was piqued. Again. “I’ll let you get back to work. We’ll talk later.”

  She pushed herself away from the counter and headed to the main exit. From what Beth said, it sounded as if Lily decided to take on the bullish developer whom Hope had more than a nodding acquaintance with. She couldn’t decide if it was a smart move on Lily’s part or a foolish one. She also couldn’t help but wonder how he was handling the forced delay.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hope had always been the person who followed through on her promises. When she said she’d be somewhere, she was there. When she said she’d do something, she did it. So why was it so hard for her to keep the promise she
made to herself? She promised she wouldn’t investigate the deaths of Peggy and Lily. Yet, she had stood at the circulation desk asking Beth questions about Lily. She tried to convince herself she was simply curious. Who was she kidding?

  She trotted down the front steps of the library and waited on the curb for a break in traffic so she could cross the street. Her cell phone rang and she pulled it out of her purse.

  She swiped her phone on. “Corey, I got your e-mail. I’m working on the recipes. I mean, I’m brainstorming ideas.”

  “Good, good. Not why I’m calling. How come you didn’t tell me about those two dead women? Seriously, Hope. You’ve got an angle that’s perfect for television. We’d have a hit show,” Corey said above the noise of horns blasting. He must have been walking to his office in midtown Manhattan.

  “I’m only doing the cookbook. No more reality TV.” She caught a break in the traffic and dashed across the street. Most of the businesses on Main Street were antique shops.

  Antique lovers flocked to Jefferson year-round to shop. The biggest season for tourists was autumn, when the trees were blazing with color, there was a nip in the air, and the buzz of excitement for the upcoming holidays swirled.

  “What’s that old saying about protesting too much?”

  Hope walked along the brick sidewalk until she arrived at the Red House Antique Shop. “What are you talking about?” The quaint red clapboard house was once the home to the town’s first mayor and had since been converted to a retail space on the first floor and an apartment on the second floor. The large front window featured a display of Blue Willow dinnerware, with a rare soup tureen set in the center of the nineteenth-century mahogany table. She stepped closer to the store window and bit her lower lip. She wanted the table. Too bad its price tag had too many zeroes. Shoot.

  “Your blog has a YouTube channel. You’re not as camera shy as you claim to be. Hey! Watch it,” Corey shouted. “Sorry. These drivers are unbelievable.”

  “What?” Hope blinked a couple of times. She’d been mesmerized by the table and barely heard what Corey had said. Something about YouTube? Oh, that old argument. They better be careful, they were becoming like an old married couple.