“Those videos are different. I’m doing them to demonstrate a recipe, not document every single moment of my life. Look, I have to go. I’ll be in contact with Calista.”
“Just think about it. One hour, amateur sleuth tracks down killers between recipes. I think it’ll be a hit.”
“I’m sure you do.” She swiped the phone off and dropped it back into her purse. When she looked up again, she saw Milo Hutchinson inside the shop talking with Everett.
Milo was the current mayor of Jefferson, which meant Claire was going after his job. Even with the announcement of her sister’s bid for mayor, Hope had run into Milo a few times and he was pleasant to her. He wasn’t taking the situation personally, and she was grateful because they lived in a small town.
Hope pushed open the front door and the men immediately stopped talking as their heads swung around in her direction. From the looks on their faces, she’d interrupted a serious conversation. Before she could say anything, both men shared a glance. She couldn’t read the expressions on their faces. Milo slapped Everett on the shoulder and said his good-byes, then strode to the door, quickly replacing his serious look with a friendly smile.
“Hope, good to see you.” Milo’s outstretched hand reached for the door to keep it from closing.
“Same here. Give Pamela my best. I haven’t seen her lately.”
“Yes, yes, of course. She’s very busy. Have a nice day.” The door closed behind Milo and he disappeared down Main Street in a hurry.
Hope turned to Everett. The amiable antiques dealer looked annoyed before he broke away and walked to the sales counter.
“I came in at a bad time, didn’t I?”
“Nonsense. We were just discussing town business.” He picked up a dustcloth from the counter. “Finally decided to take the plunge on the table you’ve been eyeing?”
She looked over her shoulder to the window display. Drooling over was more like it. Everett was changing the subject. If he and Milo were indeed discussing town business, it wouldn’t be appropriate to discuss it with her. Though, she couldn’t help but wonder if they were discussing the vacancy on the P&Z Commission.
“I wish. It’s a little pricey for me right now.”
“It would be perfect in your house.” Everett busied himself with wiping down a bronze glass lamp. “This would be also.”
Hope moved closer to the lamp, which was beautiful but a bit too formal for her farmhouse. “You think so?”
“Of course. This is a slag glass lamp and you’ll notice all sixteen panels are in excellent condition.” He pointed to random panels. He must’ve noticed Hope’s lack of knowledge. “These originated in the late nineteenth century in England. It was believed glass manufacturers of the time added slag from iron-smelting works to molten glass and the result was an incredible range of effects from tortoiseshell to marbling and quickly became popular for lampshades.”
“Fascinating.” Hope gave the lamp another once-over and concluded again it wasn’t right for her home. Plus, the three-digit number on the price tag reaffirmed her decision. “You know your lamps.”
“I should since it’s my job. My passion. These lamps are exquisite and this one is in pristine condition. That’s why it’s pricey.”
“Very tempting.” Hope browsed the collection of antiques in the shop. While the table was far out of her budget, there were some smaller, less expensive pieces she coveted. “I’m sure you’ve heard that Maretta Kingston has applied to fill the vacancy on the P&Z Commission.”
Everett stepped closer and inspected the lamp. Was there a speck of dust he missed? Hope glanced around the shop. Every nook and cranny was filled with something. As much as Hope loved a good cleaning session, she would have tossed in the dustcloth if she had so much to keep tidy.
“Yes. She’d be a welcome addition. She definitely has a passion for Jefferson.”
That was one of the most interesting spins on Maretta she’d ever heard. “She does. Her joining the board probably wouldn’t upset the composition of the board.”
“What do you mean?” Everett walked behind the counter and deposited the dustcloth onto a shelf. He fidgeted with a collection of knickknacks before resting his hands on the counter. He looked relaxed now. The annoyance that flickered on his droopy face earlier was gone and a lightness sparkled in his blue eyes.
Hope shrugged. “From what I’ve seen, I think Lily and Maretta shared the same vision for the town. Both women had demonstrated a respect for the town while keeping an open mind about new construction.”
“What an astute observation and I believe a correct one. With Maretta, I don’t believe there will be a change in the philosophy on the board.”
“So you don’t anticipate internal disagreements?”
Maretta could ruffle a person’s feathers with a simple greeting. So, imagining her serving on a commission where she’d have to work with others was difficult.
“No, no, not at all.”
“Lily didn’t have any disagreements with the other board members?”
“Everybody loved Lily. Regardless of how she voted. That’s why it’s so shocking what happened to her. But . . .”
“But?” Hope prompted as she broke away from a display of salt and pepper shakers and joined Everett at the counter.
“Well, I guess there’s no harm since our meetings are open to the public. There was an appeal a few weeks ago and Hans Vogel wasn’t happy with us. Especially Lily. During the meeting she got a little confrontational with him, which was out of character for her. She told him he had nobody to blame but himself for allowing his property to become a blight.”
Hope was surprised to hear Lily decided to pick a fight with Hans Vogel, of all people. He owned an acre of property just north of Main Street on a very busy street that, for the most part, was as charming as the main thoroughfare in town. However, the charm stopped dead at the rusted, damaged chain-link fence at what Hans referred to as his recycling business. The truth was, he collected junk and had piled the junk for decades. The ornery recluse didn’t recycle, he just hoarded.
“He didn’t take what Lily said well, did he?”
Everett shook his head. “I thought we were going to have to call the police, but he stormed out. Lily looked a little rattled but shrugged it off. She said he was just blowing off steam. You know as well as I do Hans doesn’t like to be told what to do.”
She did. She’d heard the stories. Luckily, she’d only had a few encounters with Hans over the years, and they were mostly from a far distance. He kept to himself, preferring not to become involved in community events and only showing up in town to mail a package, to vote, or to appear in front of the P&Z Commission.
“Why are you asking?”
Good question. She was supposed to be leaving the investigating to the police. “I guess I’m just trying to make sense out of all this. I won’t keep you any longer. Thanks.”
“If you change your mind about the table . . .” Everett called out as Hope exited the shop.
* * *
Hope moved from the refrigerator to the island to the double wall ovens with ease and precision, never missing a step or a dash of anything. She turned on the stand mixer to a low speed to combine the softened butter and lemon sugar. Within a few moments, she increased the speed and let the mixer do its magic. Before her very eyes, the butter and sugar became light and fluffy. Perfection. It was time to add the two eggs. She cracked one at a time and added them to the butter and sugar mixture until they were fully incorporated. The cookie baking was a well-orchestrated event, one that never failed to soothe her. The ritual of creating something yummy out of butter, eggs, sugar, and flour fed Hope’s creative side. It also distracted her from all the drama swirling around her lately.
Just as she scooped out her homemade ricotta from its container into the mixer bowl, the back door of her kitchen swung open and Claire entered with an unusually large smile plastered across her face. She looked like she was going to burst.
“Then just tell me.” Hope scraped out the last remaining ricotta before discarding the container in a recycling bin.
Claire pouted. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m a little busy.” After adding three tablespoons of lemon juice to the batter, she lined several cookie sheets with silicone liners to prevent the cookies from sticking.
“Testing a new recipe?”
Hope glanced up. “Yes.” She immediately regretted her fib. She wasn’t testing a recipe. The cookies were for Hans Vogel. She wanted to talk to him about his outburst directed at Lily.
She had promised herself she’d stay out of the investigation and work on the cookbook recipes, but who was she kidding? She couldn’t help herself. She’d watched her friend’s home burn down and two women were dead. Staying on the sidelines wasn’t an option. Besides, she was only going to ask questions and whatever information she got from Hans, she’d take directly to Ethan. Having a batch of homemade cookies would be a good conversation starter. They’d never let her down.
Claire peered into the mixer bowl. “Looks and smells like your Lemon Ricotta cookies. Why are you testing that recipe?”
“Just trying something different with it.” Darn, another fib. No, that was an outright lie, and her subconscious was kicking into overdrive, but if she told Claire the truth, she’d be subjected to a lecture on why her idea was a very bad one.
She added the dry ingredients to the mixture and said a silent prayer Claire wouldn’t notice there was nothing different about those ingredients.
“Oh, I can’t wait to taste one.” Claire pulled back from the mixer. “Now, back to my incredible news. Matt has put in an offer for a house. The adorable Dutch Colonial on Crabapple Lane. You know, the one with the side porch set on two acres.”
Hope turned off the mixer. “Good for him. It’ll be a perfect weekend house to escape to from the city.”
“Exactly what he’s looking for.”
“You came over here to tell me he’s put an offer on a house?” Hope used a small ice cream scoop to drop the cookie dough onto the baking sheets.
Claire nodded. “I had to pass by here on my way to the office. I thought you’d like to know Matt is finally going to be putting down some roots here.”
With the dough scooped out, Hope slid two baking sheets in each of the wall ovens and set the timer. The luxury of two ovens was a lifesaver when she was in a hurry. Within a few minutes, all of her baking would be done and she’d be ready to head out.
“Why did you think I’d like to know that?”
“Well, let’s see. He’s successful, handsome, and single.”
Hope set the mixing bowl into the sink and filled it with warm soapy water. Her sister meant well, but she was too confused about her feelings toward Ethan to consider Matt a possible romantic partner. One minute Ethan was the friend she leaned on when she needed support and the next minute he was a sexy, hot cop. If she couldn’t figure out her feelings, how could she possibly pursue a relationship with anyone?
“I don’t need you to play matchmaker. I can take care of myself.” She wiped her hands on a towel.
Claire scoffed. “I guess every family needs a spinster. Look at Mom’s sister, Blythe.”
“Hey! Pretty harsh.”
Claire shrugged off her sister’s indignation. “Sometimes the truth is. You know, maybe you shouldn’t fight it, Sis. Embrace spinsterhood because that’s the only thing you’ll be embracing since you’ve sworn off men.”
“Not true. I have Bigelow. Who is somewhere taking a nap.”
“Maybe you should get a cat. Or two or maybe a dozen.”
“You know, I’m done with this conversation.” Hope checked the timer. Just a few more minutes to go before the cookies were baked and she could visit Hans. While she waited, she decided to find out what Claire knew about Lionel Whitcomb’s proposed development. A bonus was that the change of topic would distract Claire from Hope’s nonexistent love life and talking real estate was like dangling a shiny object in front of Claire.
“What do you know about the property Lionel Whitcomb owns next to the Village Shopping Center?”
“Why are you interested in that?”
“No particular reason.” Hope shrugged off the question. “I heard someone mention it’s in limbo right now because the P&Z Commission needed more information before giving it the green light.”
“I’m sure he’ll figure it out.” Claire dug into her tote bag and pulled out her cell phone to check her messages. “I don’t handle commercial properties, but Kent Wilder has been hot for the listing since Whitcomb announced the project. He’s tired of selling starter homes. Too bad he doesn’t have the chops to work with Whitcomb. That pompous jerk will chew him up and spit him out.”
Hope’s few encounters with Whitcomb, who relocated to Jefferson a year ago with his trophy wife, led her to agree with Claire’s assessment of the man. Whitcomb was a bully who blustered his way through everything. She’d witnessed him belittle and humiliate his trophy wife, Elaine, just months ago. He crushed her spirit and it made Hope’s stomach turn and her heart ache for the woman. Why anyone would want to partner with him baffled her. But then, money was a strong motivator.
“I better get going. I have a few things to finish at the office.” Claire pushed away from the island. “Then it’s back home to work on the campaign.”
“How does Andy feel about the campaign? About maybe becoming the First Husband of Jefferson?” Hope’s brother-in-law had the heart of a saint, but he worked hard to attain a certain lifestyle and a significant cut in salary for Claire could affect their lives.
“Don’t worry. He’s secure enough to be the First Husband. And he understands this is important to me and fully supports me. He’s as excited as I am about me beating the pants off of Milo.”
The timer dinged and Hope moved over to the ovens. “You know I ran into Milo earlier at Everett’s shop.”
“You didn’t buy the table, did you?”
“No, I still can’t afford it.” Though, with the money she’d earn from the cookbook, maybe she could purchase the table. She was loath to admit it, but maybe doing the cookbook was a good thing after all. “He and Everett were having a serious conversation. On his way out, I told him to tell Pamela I said hello. I haven’t seen her lately. Have you?”
She pulled out the trays of cookies, setting them on a rack to cool. She inhaled the fragrance of the lemon and resisted the urge to bite into one of them.
“She’s been MIA lately. Maybe she’s having an affair.” Claire feigned a surprised expression.
“Claire! What a terrible thing to say. You know, that’s how rumors get started.”
“It’s already been started, and I heard it at the gym. I gotta go.” She snatched a cookie off the cooling rack. “Ooh, hot, hot . . . hot.” She blew on the cookie. “One for the road.” With her other hand, she grabbed her tote bag and dashed out of the kitchen.
When the back door closed, Hope set to work putting together a cookie plate for Hans. From an upper cabinet she pulled out a scalloped floral plate. It was one of ten she purchased at a tag sale. She loved tag sales for budget-friendly finds for her house and for her blog. The set cost her seven dollars, and she used them for photos and for gifting baked goods. She hated using plastic throwaway containers.
Before securing the plastic wrap around the plate, she snatched a cookie and took a bite. The bright, fresh flavors packed into the small cookie burst in her mouth. There was no way Hans Vogel would turn her away when she handed him the plate of cookies. She was certain of that.
Chapter Twelve
Apprehension bubbled in Hope’s belly as she approached the gate of Hans Vogel’s property. He wasn’t a man known to welcome visitors unless they had cash t
o buy one of his treasures or junk, as it was commonly known around town. Though she’d heard he did indeed have an honest-to-goodness antique from time to time, the yard full of rusting artifacts didn’t look promising. Holding the plate of Lemon Ricotta cookies, she said a silent prayer he wouldn’t toss her and her cookies out on her bottom before she could ask about Lily.
She unlatched the gate and pushed it open. As she stepped onto Vogel’s property, the gate closed with a heavy clank behind her. She followed the worn stretch of grass to the front porch of the old, neglected gray house and decided to use a ruse of being interested in one of his treasures if she sensed he was going to run her off. She reached the house. If she had to guess its style, she would have said plain farmhouse. There were no remarkable features about the modest two-story house with a narrow covered porch. She gingerly climbed the weather-beaten front steps.
So much stuff.
A wave of disgust rolled through her as she scanned the cluttered space. An old ironing board, which served as a plant stand for dead plants, piled high storage bins, a rusty washing machine, and countless stacks of tied-up newspapers. How could Hans live among all that clutter . . . correction . . . garbage?
The front door swung open and unexpectedly Hans appeared. It wasn’t his sudden appearance that stunned Hope; rather, it was the emitting odor of sourness and cigarette smoke that assaulted her nose. The smell was so pungent she almost gagged.
“What do you want?” Hans stood, filling the doorframe, and his dark gaze bore down on Hope. “What do you want? I’m not buying anything.”
She’d forgotten how imposing Hans was, and it took Hope a moment to regroup. He was a beefy man with a ruddy complexion and messy gray hair. His thick hand held the door in place, keeping her out.
“I’m not here to sell something.” She flashed a smile and hoped for one in return. None was forthcoming. Time to move on to the best tool in her arsenal. “I baked cookies. Lemon Ricotta.” She thrust the plate toward Hans. “They’re for you.”
The Hidden Corpse Page 11
