The Uninvited Corpse

by Debra Sennefelder

  Hope had seen that before in New York City. Models, trophy wives, aging executives. Fillers and injectables were as common as wearing black among the women hustling to survive in the concrete jungle. If she’d stayed in the city or won The Sweet Taste of Success and gotten her own television show, would she have succumbed to the pressure to look young?

  Hope bit back her reply. She wasn’t clumsy, she was startled because Elaine snuck up behind her. “Again, why are you here?”

  “I came to ask a favor. I need you to give me a cooking lesson.”

  “I’m not a cooking instructor.”

  “You teach cooking on your blog. Your recipes, tips, and techniques.”

  “You can read my blog.” Hope hoped Elaine would take the hint.

  “I don’t have time to do that. And reading really isn’t my thing.” Elaine set the two cans of tomatoes into the grocery bag.

  “Of course it isn’t. I do have a lot to do today.” Hope turned. She walked along the brick path to the front porch that ran the length of her house. She’d stripped and stained the wood floorboards over the weekend, hung new light fixtures and set out a round café table in the corner with three chairs. In a few weeks, she’d hang baskets of flowers and add more seating and tackle the landscaping around the porch. Ever since she had been a little girl, she’d dreamed of having a front porch. Her parents’ colonial had a simple front step, and her New York City condo had a small terrace. Now she could spend warm days with a cup of iced coffee and a good book. Where she could wave to neighbors as they walked by and where she could hand out candy on Halloween to trick-or-treaters. Elaine’s footsteps followed her. Clearly, getting rid of her wasn’t going to be easy.

  “Hope, I really need your help. I have to learn how to cook.”

  Hope reached the steps of the porch. She looked over her shoulder. “Why do you have to learn how to cook?”

  “Because . . . yesterday . . .” Her eyes watered.

  Was Elaine going to cry? Hope prayed she wouldn’t. Did the woman need a hug? A tissue? A mood stabilizer? “What’s wrong?” If she was lucky, Elaine would gloss over her sudden display of emotion.

  “Yesterday reminded me how unpredictable life is. It may seem like a little thing, especially to a woman like yourself, but to be able to make dinner for my husband after he comes home from a hard day of work would mean the world to me. Please.” Elaine grabbed hold of Hope’s forearm and held tightly. Her large green eyes begged Hope to help.

  Hope wanted to turn Elaine away, but there was a small chance a few hours spent with Elaine could lead to some information that might help prove Claire didn’t kill Peaches. From Hope’s experience, she guessed Lionel couldn’t have been happy with a wife who batted her eyelashes at every man she met and liked to flaunt her surgically enhanced assets. If true, that meant Elaine could have believed her marriage was in trouble and she could have been jealous of Peaches. Peaches was professional, smart, and wore modest blouses keeping her assets private. Jealousy was a powerful emotion.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Elaine smiled a triumphant smile. “Great. Call me.” She turned and hurried down the brick path to the road, where she slid into her luxury car and drove off.

  Hope continued to her front door and entered her house. Just a few minutes earlier she’d promised Ethan she’d stay out of the murder investigation. Now she was actively inserting herself into the investigation against his wishes. She pushed away the thoughts of what would happen when he found out she’d lied to him. How would their friendship be affected? The thing that was going on between them, which was still a big unknown and unnamed, was going to be changed. It had to be if he couldn’t trust her to keep her word. Whatever that thing was, she wasn’t sure she wanted to lose it.

  Hope put away the groceries in record time so she could jot down some notes about the murder and she began with Elaine. Elaine’s unexpected and surprising visit was still fresh in her mind so the notes came quickly. Hope had a couple of theories of why Elaine could have murdered Peaches.

  Number one. Elaine could have been jealous of Peaches and wanted to get rid of a threat to her marriage. Elaine might come off as a bimbo, but Hope would put money on the fact Elaine was a smart woman and she could have easily lured Peaches to Audrey’s house under false pretenses. Hope stared at the rest of the lined page in the composition notebook, waiting for theory number two, but nothing came. Then an idea sparked. Number two. Perhaps Peaches was cheating on Lionel somehow in their business arrangement and he and Elaine planned together to kill Peaches. Elaine led Peaches into the study and Lionel entered from the garden and hit her on the head, killing her.

  Pleased with herself for coming up with two viable motives for murder, Hope set the notebook aside because she needed to prepare dinner. The few minutes she focused on Elaine kept her mind from churning over what Detective Reid had said about Claire. She tied on her apron and began chopping vegetables. The mundane job settled her mind, and by the time she rinsed off her chef’s knife, she had bowls of zucchini, peppers, mushrooms, and a couple of minced garlic cloves ready to go when the lasagna noodles were al dente and her thoughts about Claire’s financial situation calmed down. She was confident that when her sister arrived for dinner, she wouldn’t lose her cool and make things worse. She needed Claire to open up in order to help her.

  The more she thought about Reid’s claim that Claire had money problems, the more impossible it seemed. Just two weeks ago they had hit a string of stores in Manhattan’s trendy Meatpacking District and Claire shopped without a care in the world. Hope shook her head as she recalled all the receipts her sister stuffed into her purse. Not once did she hint at the fact she didn’t have the money to pay for all the clothes and shoes. Her sister couldn’t be that irresponsible? Could she?

  Once the noodles were cooked and cooled to the touch, she assembled the lasagna, layer on top of layer, in a large rectangular stoneware dish. She’d made her vegetable lasagna a hundred times. She loved the familiarity of the recipe and the surprise it provided each time she made it because of the different ingredients she used. She selected what was in season or what she craved.

  Hope popped the completed lasagna into the oven and set the timer. While the lasagna baked, she responded to new comments on her recent post about spring cleaning. The trend of commenting on posts was down across the blogosphere, so she was grateful for every comment left and made it a priority to reply to each one. She wanted a relationship with her readers because blogging was a lonely job. When she worked at the magazine, her days were filled with meetings, conference calls, and a little water-cooler conversation. Now she was working alone in her kitchen most days. Vanessa came and went throughout the week, depending upon how much work Hope had for her and how much work Audrey had for Vanessa. Most days Hope enjoyed the solitude, the ability to focus without any interruption, but some days she missed having coworkers, missed having a reason to delay a specific task because of a sudden emergency. There were moments now when Hope looked back at those good old days and wondered if she’d made the right choice in leaving her publishing career, her Upper West Side condo, and her favorite coffee shop to come back to Jefferson.

  The oven timer dinged, and she hurried to pull the dish out and set it on a cooling rack. The lasagna took her breath away. Utter deliciousness. The mozzarella cheese topping was lightly browned, bubbling hot, and melted to perfection.

  As she admired the lasagna, she realized only time would tell if she’d made the right decision by moving back home.

  Speaking of time, Hope glanced at the clock on the wall oven. Claire should be arriving any minute.

  Right on time, the back door swung open and Claire entered, looking as if she hadn’t a care in the world and that it wasn’t raining outside. Her long blond hair bounced with soft curls and her makeup was subtle and flawless, while her shift dress exuded professionalism without being severe.

  Hope glanced at her outfit of the day, which was a pair
of slim khaki pants with a chambray shirt. Good thing she chose not to write a fashion blog.

  “Today has been a crazy day.” Claire dropped her tote bag on the island.

  “That’s an understatement.” Hope opened the refrigerator and took out a pitcher of iced tea, then filled two glasses.

  “You seem stressed.” Claire took a glass and then a long drink. “Something smells really good.”

  “I made a vegetable lasagna. It needs to set for a little bit, then we can eat and you can tell me about your visit with Detective Reid. And about the text messages between you and Peaches.”

  “Oh” was all Claire had to say.

  “Let me see your phone.” Hope held out her hand. She wanted to see every one of the messages between Claire and Peaches. If she was going to help her sister, she needed to know everything.

  Claire’s shoulders slumped and she sighed. “They really don’t mean anything.” She put down her glass then reached into her sleek leather tote to pull out her phone. She handed it to Hope.

  Hope swiped the phone on and tapped on the Message icon and read the most recent texts between Claire and Peaches. Her eyes widened with disbelief as she read their catfight play out with emoticons and acronyms.

  “They really don’t mean anything? Seriously? You told her she was a dead woman.” Hope looked back up at her sister.

  “It was a figure of speech.”

  Shaking her head, Hope handed the phone back to Claire. She didn’t need to see any more of the text messages. She got the picture and so did Detective Reid.

  “You need to take this seriously,” Hope warned.

  “I am.” Claire put her phone away.

  “I’m not seeing that. You know you won’t be able to have Jacques color your hair if you’re in prison.”

  Claire looked shocked.

  “Good. I got your attention. Finally.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Right now, we’re going to have dinner.” Hope pushed away from the island and began to set the table for the two of them. As Claire moved the tray of lasagna to the table and grabbed two cloth napkins from the hutch, Hope sliced a baguette. She didn’t want to discuss murder while they ate, so they talked about Claire’s kids and about how Hope finally decided on a color for the dining room. They agreed on a date to fly down to Florida to visit their mother.

  As they cleared the table together, Hope was reminded of when they were kids. Their mom had dinner ready for them every night, and cleaning up after the meal was the responsibility of her daughters. It didn’t matter if the girls were fighting; they had a job to do and their mother expected them to do it without any drama. Two girls and no drama was a tall order.

  “Detective Reid told me you’re having financial difficulty. Why didn’t you tell me?” Hope carried the dishes to the counter.

  “It’s not a big deal.” Claire followed with the lasagna.

  “Maybe you should work for Corey. You have a gift for putting a spin on a terrible situation. You could make a fortune in reality TV.”

  “It’s not a spin.”

  “You’re right. It’s a denial. And it’s more than a little problem. Or else Detective Reid wouldn’t think you had a motive for murder.

  “It’s not that bad, really. Since Andy and I are both self-employed, cash flow is always a challenge. We didn’t go unscathed during the recession. Both of our industries took a hard hit, but it’s better now. Reid is blowing this all out of proportion.”

  Hope let out a sigh of relief. “So you didn’t need Peaches to die in order to pay off any of your bills?”

  “No. Sure, she got the Hunting Hills listing, but there’s a new condo development in the works, and it has more units than Whitcomb’s stupid subdivision. And I have an in with the developer. I’m good.” She winked.

  “I’m so happy to hear that.”

  Claire wrapped an arm around Hope’s shoulder. “Look at my little sister, all worried about me.”

  Hope smiled. “I was.”

  “But do you really think I’d be so irresponsible? My finances just don’t affect me. Andy and I have two children. I would never do anything to hurt them. I’d sell all my shoes for those kids.”

  “I know how much you love your shoes.”

  “I love my kids,” Claire assured her sister.

  “I’m sorry. He just sounded . . .”

  “So certain?”

  “Yes. And that’s what I’m worried about. It doesn’t seem like he’s looking anywhere else for a suspect.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Find the killer.” Easier said than done. Hope knew she couldn’t investigate under the radar. Her ten years in New York City she enjoyed the anonymity that came with living in a place with over eight million people, which made reentry into Jefferson challenging.

  “I better get going. The storm is getting worse. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Claire hugged Hope. “Don’t think I didn’t notice your new composition notebook on the coffee table.”

  Hope smiled. Her sister knew her well. She let go of Claire and watched her leave the kitchen. As she filled the dishwasher, the mudroom door closed. She glanced over to the coffee table. The notebook called to her, but she needed to do something first.

  With a deep breath, she grabbed her phone and punched in Elaine’s phone number. While she was preparing the lasagna, she’d brainstormed a simple menu for Elaine’s lesson. Simplicity was key because she had no idea of Elaine’s skill level in the kitchen. A Parmesan chicken cutlet with risotto and asparagus would be a good meal for Elaine to cook. Though, considering Elaine’s attention span may be too short to make risotto, rice pilaf would be a better choice.

  After a few minutes on the phone with a very excited Elaine, they set the cooking lesson for the next day. Hope stepped back from the windows in her family room. The storm had ratcheted up in intensity. The antique glass rattled, and the cold penetrated, sending shivers down her spine.

  As she set the phone back into its base, she wondered if she would be giving a cooking lesson to a killer.

  Chapter Eleven

  A gust of wind whipped outside, tossing branches across Hope’s yard and dragging her from her thoughts. She needed to do something besides speculate on suspects and motives for murder.

  The perfect project to keep her mind out of the murder investigation was painting. She’d finally decided on the paint color for the dining room after weeks of paint swatches on the walls. She’d studied each color to see how it changed throughout the day. Some colors were discarded because they were too light, others were too intense for the room, others didn’t feel right to her with the decorating scheme she had planned for the room.

  The winning color was Vanilla Cream, aka off-white, and it was a Frye-Lily paint. The company had provided her with the paint and paid her a fee to write a series of posts on the painting projects in her new home. Sponsored posts were a large part of her income from her blog and admittedly the most difficult aspect of blogging because she needed to find the balance between promoting the product and being authentic to her readers. So far, she believed she was doing okay because she was pleased with Frye-Lily paints, and her posts reflected her enthusiasm for the products. A win-win for the paint company, her, and her readers.

  With the roller by her side, Hope stepped back from the interior wall of the dining room and marveled at the improvement a couple coats of paint made. The wall had been dingy and dirty after years of neglect, and now a fresh warmth spread across the expanse of the wall. She’d refinished an antique hutch that would fit perfectly there. It was in the living room waiting to be moved to its new location. A stack of boxes waited in the center of the dining room to be unpacked. Inside was her grandmother’s Wedgwood china she treasured and couldn’t wait to display. She still needed to purchase a table and chairs, along with a chandelier. Good thing she planned on hitting the flea market over the weekend.

  “Hope!”

  She looked over
her shoulder, in the direction of the kitchen. Ethan. She set the roller in the tray and hurried into the kitchen.

  “Hi.” She crossed the space to Ethan.

  His hair was damp and rain dripped from his uniform shirt collar.

  “I made vegetable lasagna for dinner. Let me reheat a plate for you.” She moved toward the refrigerator and pulled open the door.

  “Thanks, but I grabbed a sandwich earlier.”

  She shut the door and turned around. “Oh. Would you like some dessert? I stashed some cookies I baked for the library, and I can put on the kettle.”

  “Don’t go through any more trouble. I just wanted to check on you. I really don’t like the way we left things earlier.”

  “Neither do I. I was angry and scared, and I felt a little unsettled. I’ve never found a dead body before.”

  He walked forward and reached out to her, and she extended her hand to him. “I’m sorry you had to experience that.”

  She glanced down. Her hand fit nicely into his, and his tight squeeze was reassuring. A smile tugged at her lips. She felt safe with him. Her gaze lifted, and she found him staring at her. Was he thinking about kissing her? Nerves and anticipation shimmied through her. She leaned forward, and he leaned forward. She was going to kiss Ethan.

  A thunderous crackle exploded outside. Hope jumped while Ethan ran to the window over the kitchen sink.

  “Darn storm,” Hope muttered.

  “Doesn’t look like anything is down.” Ethan turned back to Hope. “Do you think you should be alone?”

  The question caught Hope off guard. Was he thinking he should stay the night? If he was, he’d be sleeping on the sofa. Right?

  Hope shrugged. “It’s just a storm. Besides, I wasn’t alone tonight. Claire was here for dinner. I’m actually tired. It’s been a long day and I didn’t sleep well last night. Plus the painting.” She yawned, covering her mouth.

  “Sure. I need to get back to the station. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

  She followed him to the mudroom and locked the door behind him. She was tired, but she wasn’t ready to go to bed just yet, and she needed to clean up her painting supplies. But first, a cup of tea. She set the teakettle on the stove and pulled out a large mug from an upper cabinet. When the kettle whistled, she poured the hot water into the mug and let the tea bag steep. She took her mug over to one of the chairs by the fireplace, where a sweater waited to be finished. She reached into the basket and pulled out the turquoise partially knitted sweater and began working the needles. The turtleneck sweater was going to be a birthday gift for Claire’s daughter, a fashionista in the making. Hannah loved clothes and she loved the boho look. The sweater could be paired with a flowy skirt and worn with boots in the fall. Hope was a few rows into the sleeve when the telephone rang. She set aside the sweater and walked over to the counter, where her cordless phone was. The caller ID told her it was Vanessa.