The Hidden Corpse

by Debra Sennefelder

  “Actually, I came to see one of your members. Kent Wilder.”

  Eli’s mouth twitched and he broke eye contact with Hope for a moment. She sensed he had a less than favorable opinion of Kent. And she wanted to know what it was. There was a way to encourage him to talk, but it would be wrong. Sort of. However, if what Eli knew could help solve the murders, then using the only tool available to her wouldn’t be so terrible.

  “It was nice meeting you, Eli. I don’t think this club is right for me. If you have one troublesome member, who knows how many more you have, and you’re right, I’m looking for privacy and a peaceful environment.” She adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder and made like she was stepping forward, very, very slowly, all the while hoping her ruse worked.

  “I assure you we don’t have troublesome members.” Eli shuffled next to Hope. He wasn’t about to let her get away. His eagerness to sell Hope a membership was written all over his thin face. “Mr. Wilder has been dealt with.”

  Ah-ha! Hope contained her excitement. She was right in reading Eli. Maybe she was getting the hang of this sleuth thing.

  “How bad was the infraction?” Hope asked in a whisper.

  Eli leaned forward and in a low voice said, “Our members come here to relax. Take in a round of golf, have a nice meal or drinks with friends. They do not come here to be hounded.”

  “He hounded someone?”

  Eli nodded cautiously.

  “Let me guess. Lionel Whitcomb.”

  Eli’s eyes widened in surprise at Hope’s accurate guess.

  “I know Kent is a real estate agent and Lionel is a developer.” Truth be told, Kent was an aggressive real estate agent who considered the death of a colleague a few months ago as a bonus for his bottom line.

  “I can’t spread gossip,” Eli said.

  “Of course not. I appreciate your discretion.”

  “Thank you. Now, if you’d like a tour, I’d be happy to show you around.”

  Tour? Right. Eli was under the impression Hope wanted to join the club. “Perhaps another time. I’m running late for an appointment.” Hope stepped away from Eli, who looked disappointed he wasn’t going to sign a new member. Even though guilt tugged at her, she stood firm with her answer.

  She continued to the exit, her mind replaying the two conversations she’d had. The distraction of dissecting Kent’s words caused Hope to miss the person approaching her, but the woman’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

  “What are you doing here?” Elaine Whitcomb stopped and placed one hand on her hip, jutting the other out. Her bright red wrap dress was tied snugly around her waist, and she could’ve used a little fashion tape at the plunging neckline, which revealed a lot of cleavage for daytime. Her golden blond hair was styled and sprayed to stay in place and her makeup was flawless, highlighting pouty full lips and high cheekbones.

  Hope ignored Elaine’s less-than-friendly tone. “Hello, Elaine. It’s good to see you.”

  Despite living in a small town, they’d managed to avoid each other for several weeks, but it was only a matter of time before they’d run into each other. At the beginning of spring, Elaine had unfriended, unfollowed, and unsub-scribed from all of Hope’s social media after she accused Hope of snooping around her house. Hope hadn’t been searching the house. She was trying to find the bathroom in the Whitcombs’ mansion and got lost. It was hard to build a friendship on that foundation.

  “I can’t say the same.”

  “I didn’t expect you to. I’ve already apologized and I do hope someday you’ll accept the apology because I meant it.” Hope wasn’t going to beg Elaine to be her friend, even though she knew the trophy wife needed one. Most of the women in town didn’t trust the flirty blonde and if Hope had a husband, she’d be cautious too. Maybe one day they’d be friends.

  “This is a private club so you should leave before I inform Eli.” Elaine tilted her head and stared Hope down. Her four-inch stilettos put Hope at a height disadvantage.

  “Actually, I was just discussing a membership with Eli.” Hope couldn’t help herself because Elaine’s smugness was reaching a level that needed to be knocked down a tad.

  “What? How could . . .” Elaine sputtered.

  Her husband arrived by her side and wrapped an arm around her waist. His beady eyes zoomed in on Hope. “What the hell are you doing here?” Lionel Whitcomb wasn’t known for small talk. Rather, he was known to be rude, impatient, and bossy. His short-sleeved shirt revealed chubby, hairy arms, and his black pants pooled at his dull loafers. He couldn’t even get his pants hemmed? Lionel in no way looked like the successful businessman he was. His thinning hair was combed over and heavy, bushy eyebrows rimmed his angry eyes. What did Elaine see in him? Oh, right, he was wealthy. From her time in New York City, Hope knew some women could and would look past a lot of flaws as long as the credit card had a high limit.

  “Can you believe they’re going to let her join?” Elaine squealed, almost showing a hint of outrage on her heavily injected face.

  “She ain’t joining.” Lionel pointed a stubby finger at Hope. “I pay a lot of money to this club. And I have a lot of weight around here.”

  Elaine closed the small space between her and Lionel and patted his chest. “My husband is a powerful man.”

  “Yet, the P&Z Commission didn’t give his commercial development their stamp of approval. From what I heard, Lily Barnhart was undecided. There was a chance she would have voted ‘no.’ I wonder what’s going to happen now that she’s gone.”

  Lionel untangled himself from his wife. “Are you implying I had something to do with her death?” His voice was loud and harsh and caused people to look in their direction.

  “Honey, you have to watch your blood pressure. Don’t let her upset you. She’s just a busybody.”

  “She’s something, all right.” Lionel stormed off toward the lounge, leaving his wife and Hope alone.

  Elaine crossed her arms over her ample chest. “You’re a busybody. Maybe I should tweet it since you’re such a social media butterfly with your blog. Hope Early, pound sign busybody.”

  “Hashtag,” Hope corrected. “It’s a hashtag on social media.”

  Elaine blinked. She guessed Elaine was confused but, since her face was as tight as a drum, there weren’t any facial expressions to decipher.

  Hope shook her head. She didn’t have the time nor the inclination to school Elaine on how social media worked. “Good-bye.” She passed the trophy wife and headed for the exit.

  The afternoon had warmed and a hint of humidity landed on her when she stepped outside. She followed the curvy path bordered with lush, fragrant flowers. The dense plantings attracted butterflies and bees and provided coverage for a chipmunk who nearly cut Hope off as it darted across the path.

  After she regained her footing, she pulled out her cell phone. The garden beds were perfectly balanced between color and definition and the mix of shapes and sizes was genius. Just the inspiration she needed for her garden. She took several photos and then continued to the parking lot.

  She had stepped off the curb and was walking toward her car when her ears perked up at the sound of laughter. She looked over her shoulder, in the direction of the sound, in time to see a man slap Everett Cranston on the back. Everett was in the middle of two men and glanced in her direction. She waved, but he didn’t acknowledge her. Before she could approach him, a horn blared, startling her. A sedan had stopped just a few feet away from her. She was blocking traffic. She waved and said sorry, though the driver probably didn’t hear her. She moved out of the way and, by the time the car had passed, Everett had disappeared into the club. Not wanting to risk another run-in with Kent or the Whitcombs, she shoved her phone back into her purse and continued to her car. She dug into her purse for her key fob and unlocked the door. She slid behind the wheel. Her next stop was home.

  Her cell phone buzzed, and she reached into her purse to pull the phone out. She glanced at the message. It was from a c
ontact at a local cooking magazine confirming a feature in an upcoming issue. An e-mail with details would follow.

  Hope smiled. Being featured in Cooking Now! magazine would be a big boost to her blog. The magazine had a reputation for only publishing recipes from established food writers or professionals. They rarely featured bloggers. She squeezed her eyes shut and savored the moment.

  Her moment of revelation was shattered when someone struck the driver’s-side window. She jumped as her head snapped around to the window.

  Lionel was standing outside her vehicle, glowering at her.

  With a shaky hand, she pressed the window’s power button and the window lowered. “What’s the matter with you? Sneaking up on me and hitting my window.”

  “Listen, lady. I’m gonna give you a piece of advice. Mind your business or you’ll be sorry.”

  Her heart was still racing but she managed to steady her nerves. “Sounds more like a threat than a piece of advice.”

  He grunted as he turned away and marched back to the country club. Hope leaned back into the headrest and took in several deep breaths. What the hell was that all about?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hope pressed the delete key hard on her laptop computer until the long string of words she’d just typed disappeared. Rereading the words, she had no choice but to admit they were forced and contrived and definitely not her. With the sentence gone, she fell back into her chair and stared at the laptop screen. Her lips pressed together in frustration. She wanted to shut the computer off and go soak in a bath. But she couldn’t. She had work to do. She released her shoulder-length dark hair from its elastic band and ran her fingers through her hair. What she’d give for a salon shampoo. The vigorous massage of the stylist’s fingertips on her scalp, the extra-long rinse of pulsating water, and the gentle rub of a fluffy towel. Between her blog and the home renovation, she took whatever pampering she could squeeze into her schedule. And a little bit of pampering would have felt good right about then.

  Maybe she should play hooky and dash off for the salon since she couldn’t concentrate on the post she was supposed to be writing. Her mind was distracted by recent events and what lay ahead in the coming days. There would be two funerals, a tea party for Maretta and a panel discussion at the library, and two recipes were due for a cookbook she had little enthusiasm for. Not to mention Lionel’s threat veiled as a piece of advice. No wonder she couldn’t concentrate.

  She straightened up, gathered her hair back into the elastic, and put her fingers back on the keyboard. Time to work.

  “There are days when the last thing I want to do is cook. Yes, you read correctly. It’s a little-known secret among food bloggers. We enjoy an evening of takeout. I’ve found those are the precise moments when I need to tie on an apron and pull out a mixing bowl and get to work. The simple ease of gathering ingredients and turning them into a nourishing meal helps clear my mind and somehow rights whatever I felt was off.”

  Hope’s fingers flew at record speed as she continued to write. Inspiration had sparked and she did her best to keep up with the flow of words spilling out of her head, until her mind drifted back to the two deaths.

  She stopped typing.

  Darn it.

  She just needed to finish the post. Just a few hundred more words.

  With her fingers repositioned on the keyboard, she began typing.

  “Perhaps it’s the familiar rhythm of cooking that settles my mind when it’s racing a mile a minute with thoughts. Thoughts like could Kent Wilder be so ambitious that he would kill two women?”

  Hope stopped typing and huffed.

  She repositioned her fingers on the keyboard and started typing again.

  “There is also comfort found in making recipes given to me from my mother, grandmother, and aunts. We share the same blood, the same genes, and the same moments in our kitchens cooking for our loved ones. While we cooked in different eras, we all shared the same experience of tying on an apron and preparing the recipes the exact same way. A connection to my past. Was there a connection between Kent and Lionel Whitcomb? Could she find out?”

  Hope huffed louder as her fingers stopped typing. It was no use. She couldn’t focus on her post. She might as well set the work aside until her mind was cleared. She stood and walked to her office to retrieve a composition notebook.

  Years ago, when Hope was a member of the mystery book readers club at the library, led by Jane, she used a notebook to jot down notes on the story she was reading. Because she was so involved with the story, she usually deduced the killer before anyone else in the group did.

  Back at the table, she pushed aside the computer and opened the notebook. She wrote a list of names—Kent, Hans Vogel, Lionel Whitcomb, Cal. Four men who could’ve had a reason to kill Lily.

  A knock at the back door was followed by Bigelow’s deep bark. The dog leapt from his bed and dashed to the mudroom. She closed the notebook, then stood to chase after her dog. She seemed to be doing a lot of that since she adopted him. Through the glass in her mudroom door, she spotted two of her neighbors. Once she shooed Bigelow back, she opened the door.

  “Hi, Hope,” Dorie Baxter and Leila Manchester said in unison. Both women were dressed for their daily walk, which normally didn’t include a stop at Hope’s house.

  “What brings you ladies by?” Hope tugged on Bigelow’s collar to keep him from jumping on her neighbors.

  “We’re not catching you at a bad time, are we?” Leila stepped over the threshold.

  “Well . . .” Hope struggled with Bigelow, who was determined to break free of her hold and greet their visitors.

  “Oh my, he’s very friendly.” Dorie followed her walking buddy into the mudroom and was on the receiving end of a playful jump from Bigelow.

  “No!” Hope grabbed hold of the dog again and gave him a command to sit. She needed to repeat it twice more before he listened and sat. “I’m sorry. We’re still working on his training.”

  “Not an A student?” Leila reached down and patted the dog’s head.

  Hope shook her head. Bigelow was far from an A. In fact, she doubted he rated a D at that point. With her pup under control, she shifted her attention back to her neighbors. “What brings you two by during your walk?”

  “It’s so awful what happened the other night. None of us can believe Peggy is gone.” Dorie shoved her hands into her pants pockets. Her lightweight trousers were paired with khaki walking shoes and a bright yellow T-shirt. She was the model for active seniors. She swam twice a week at the gym and took yoga classes three times a week and supplemented those activities with long walks.

  “You’re doing such a lovely job with this house.” Leila didn’t seem to share Dorie’s concern with the fire. She seemed more interested in Hope’s remodeling. She walked past Hope and Dorie and continued into the kitchen. It appeared Leila wasn’t one to stand on formalities, like being invited in.

  Hope let go of Bigelow’s collar and allowed him to follow Leila. She then gestured to Dorie to enter the kitchen.

  “Simply lovely.” Leila hesitated for a moment when the floor creaked.

  “The pumpkin pine flooring is over a hundred years old, so it’s a little creaky.” Topping Hope’s wish list when she made the offer on the house was to replace the uninspired flooring in the kitchen and family room once those two rooms were joined together. On a weekend trip up to Vermont just weeks after buying the house, she found the antique floorboards and had them shipped to Connecticut. That was just one of the many buying excursions she’d made since moving back to Jefferson. She spent countless Saturdays at flea markets and tag sales looking for pre-loved treasures to add to her home.

  “This is beautiful.” Dorie approached the giant side-by-side stainless steel refrigerator. “I wish I was thirty years younger and had your energy. I think I’d have a blog too.”

  Leila walked around the island and stood beside the table. She propped her hands on her hips and took in the entirety of the space. Hope
couldn’t help but join her in scanning the room. Every day she wanted to pinch herself to make sure it wasn’t all a dream. The fireplace, complete with a cooking hearth, stood solid and proud. It dated back to the original homeowner and the mantel was crafted from reclaimed wood taken from a home built in the eighteenth century. The row of twelve over twelve paned windows on the south side of the room looked out onto the property’s three acres. The room, the house was everything she dreamed of when she decided to come back to Jefferson.

  “I’ve been following your progress on the house on your blog. When do you ever find time to sleep?” Leila looked back at Hope. Her cheeks were dotted with pink blush she hadn’t blended well, while her rose-colored lipstick bled into the fine lines of her upper lip. It seemed she never left the house without being made up, even for a power walk.

  Not giving Hope time to answer Leila’s question, Dorie stepped forward. “It’s so hard to believe something so terrible happened the other night. Why on earth was Lily Barnhart in Peggy’s house?”

  “The police are trying to find that out.” Hope considered offering tea to her unexpected visitors, but she did have work to do and they had a walk to take.

  “What has Chief Cahill told you?” Dorie asked.

  “Nothing,” Hope answered.

  Both Dorie and Leila cast dubious looks her way.

  “Really. It’s an ongoing investigation so he can’t talk about it.”

  “It just seems like he spends so much time here . . .” Leila left the rest of the sentence unspoken since it was clear as crystal what she was alluding to.

  “We’re just friends,” Hope said.

  “There’s nothing to be ashamed about. You’re both consenting adults.” Leila winked.

  Hope’s cheeks warmed. Good grief, she was blushing.