The Uninvited Corpse

by Debra Sennefelder

  “Hi, Vanessa. How are you doing?”

  “I have to talk to you. It’s important. Very important,” Vanessa said in a rushed breath.

  “Okay. I was just doing a little knitting. But I can talk and knit at the same time.” Most of the time she could if she wasn’t involved in a complicated pattern. Luckily the sweater she was working on was a simple pattern, and she could juggle Vanessa and the center back of the sweater.

  “No, not over the telephone.”

  “Tomorrow morning?”

  “No,” Vanessa said quickly. “It’s too important. I really have to talk to you tonight. Now. I’ve been piecing this thing together, and I want to show you what I have so far. I may be completely off the mark, and that’s why I need your opinion. It’s about the murder. Can you come over now?”

  Hope glanced at the clock on the wall oven. Nine thirty. Just a few months ago in New York City her night was beginning at nine thirty. Now, in Jefferson, her night was winding down. Oh, how things changed.

  “I can come over. I’ll be there soon.”

  “Thank you,” Vanessa said gratefully, then the line went silent.

  Hope clicked off her phone. A few minutes later she was in her mudroom, grabbing her rain jacket and umbrella and heading out to see Vanessa. Had Vanessa been doing a little sleuthing of her own?

  The moonless night draped Old Village Road. With no street lamps, the headlights of Hope’s SUV lit the way to Maretta Kingston’s house, where Vanessa rented a small cottage. The whooshing of bare tree limbs filled the night air as gusts of wind assaulted everything in their path.

  Hope slowly drove up the driveway and turned off the ignition. Maretta’s quaint colonial stood equally as dark as the night and eerily quiet. On any given day, it was a little scary to approach her house, but that night the scary factor significantly increased. Maybe the first murder in Jefferson’s recent history, coupled with a fierce storm, had something to do with it or it could have been attributed to the fact Hope had no idea what Vanessa was about to tell her.

  Her call was cryptic. What had she discovered about the murder? A chill rippled through Hope.

  Hope popped open the glove compartment and grabbed her flashlight. She pushed the door open and struggled to get out. The wind was ferocious and cold and fighting against her. Using an umbrella would be useless. It would be no match against the wind. She pulled the hood of her jacket up over her head and hoped to not get completely drenched by the time she made it to the carriage house. Clearing the main house, the small white cottage in the distance came into view. A flagstone path cut through the lawn to the front porch. The cottage was built for Maretta’s mother-in-law. Hope remembered the late Mrs. Kingston as being as amiable as her son, and she had taken an enormous amount of grief from her daughter-in-law. Hope, along with most of the town, considered the woman to be a saint.

  As Hope got closer to the cottage, she noticed the front door was ajar. She stepped forward cautiously and pushed the door open.

  “Vanessa,” she called out.

  There was no answer. She shone the flashlight into the small living room. Nothing.

  She lowered her hand slightly and swept the light from one side of the room to the other.

  Her hand froze in mid-sweep.

  The beam of light discovered Vanessa Jordan’s body, sprawled out on the carpet with a pool of blood around her head.

  Chapter Twelve

  “So you came out in the middle of the night to talk to Vanessa about the murder?” Ethan pulled off his JPD baseball cap and dragged his fingers through his dark hair. “Couldn’t it have waited until morning?”

  Hope stood just inches away from him in the center of Maretta Kingston’s living room and was disconnected from everything and everyone around her. She barely heard his question. Her eyes darted around the room. Minutes earlier an officer had deposited her there after she led the police to Vanessa’s body. Her house was modest in size, and most of the furnishings had been passed down from Maretta’s parents, except for the walnut armoire. That treasured piece belonged to Alfred’s mother, the Saint. A newly purchased oriental rug in jewel tones kept the room from looking too “secondhand,” while lace doilies, family photographs, and needlepoint pillows were scattered throughout the room. Those little touches kept Maretta’s stiffness at bay.

  “You have no idea how I wish it could have waited.”

  “Do you know the potential danger you put yourself in tonight?”

  “How? The murderer wasn’t there when I arrived.”

  Concern creased Ethan’s forehead. “What if the murderer was still in the cottage when you arrived? What then?”

  A lump caught in Hope’s throat, nearly choking her. Ethan was right.

  She swallowed hard. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Well, I have and I don’t like it.” Ethan shook his head. “I’m so angry right now that you put yourself in this situation.” He reached out for her and pulled her into his arms.

  The embrace startled her, but she recovered quickly and easily in his arms. She didn’t miss her ex-husband, Tim, very often, but when she was scared or weak, she missed having someone to lean on. She thought by now she’d be a stronger person and not need to rely on any man for comfort. But she’d just found a second dead body, and she was scared.

  “I’m grateful you’re safe,” he said in a low voice for only her to hear.

  “Are we interrupting?” Maretta’s tight voice filled the room.

  Yes, you are. But it was probably for the best. Hope pulled herself out of Ethan’s arms and turned to face Maretta, who wasn’t alone. Alfred stood beside her. Both wore robes over their nightclothes and neither looked pleased by the evening’s deadly events.

  “I’d like for Hope to wait in here a little while longer until we’re finished,” Ethan said to the Kingstons.

  Maretta’s scowl deepened. “That would be preferable to her skulking around outside.”

  “I wasn’t skulking,” Hope snapped.

  “I stand corrected,” Maretta said sharply. “You were merely trespassing.”

  “Vanessa invited me.” Hope took a deep breath. She was too exhausted for Maretta’s nonsense. She looked back to Ethan. “I can wait in my car until you’re done.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Alfred Kingston said. “Please, sit down.” He gestured to the sofa.

  “Thank you.” Hope eased onto the beige sofa. The plump cushions felt good as she leaned back and allowed her body to completely relax, as much as was possible in Maretta’s home.

  “Did either of you hear anything tonight?” Ethan asked.

  “Police sirens,” Maretta said.

  Hope rolled her eyes. Maretta seemed determined to make the interview more painful than the actual murder. She tried to remember a time when Maretta wasn’t difficult and came up empty. Maretta never made anything easy. Why should questioning her about a murder be any different?

  “Before the sirens,” Ethan said.

  “No. We didn’t even hear Hope arrive,” Maretta said.

  “Do you both always go to bed so early?” Ethan asked.

  Maretta stiffened. She fixed her gaze on Ethan and arched her brows. Hope wondered if he’d ever encountered a more formidable witness. “I really don’t see how our sleeping habits would be a concern for the police department.”

  Ethan looked up from his notepad. “We could do this here or at the station. Which would you prefer?”

  Maretta blinked. “I had a headache so I turned in early.” Her demeanor knocked down a notch.

  Impressive. Ethan handled her perfectly. When he took the job as the police chief of the normally sleepy town, he probably thought it would be a piece of cake compared to his years on the Hartford police force. Little did he understand the dynamics of a small town when he moved to Jefferson. From what she’d just witnessed, it looked like he had fully acclimated to life in a small town.

  “I had a long day at the office,” Alfred added.


  “Thank you. I’ll be back shortly.” Ethan walked out of the room, leaving Hope at the mercy of her reluctant hostess.

  Maretta glared sharply at Hope as she lifted her chin and shoved her hands into the pockets of her rose robe. “I guess I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “Please don’t go to any trouble on my account,” Hope said.

  “You should have thought of that before you came over here tonight.” Maretta swung around and headed out of the living room.

  Tears threatened to flow, and Hope’s hands were shaking. She clasped them together in her lap in hopes of stopping the trembling. Hope looked at Alfred. “She’s acting as if I found a dead body just to disrupt her sleep.”

  “You know how she gets.” With his index finger, Alfred pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up past the bridge of his nose. “Don’t let her upset you.”

  “While we wait, could you tell me about Peaches? Why did she irritate Maretta so much?”

  Alfred gently shook his head. “She really had no reason to dislike Peaches so much.”

  “So why did she?”

  “Peaches flattered me.” A tinge of redness tipped his cheeks. “I guess Maretta was jealous.”

  Hope hesitated to ask the next question right on the tip of her tongue. But she had to ask. “Is that all Peaches did?” She quickly said a silent prayer the answer would be “yes” and she wouldn’t have to hear any awkward confessions. Please, please, please, say yes.

  Alfred padded over to the sideboard and lifted a crystal decanter off the sterling silver tray. He pulled out the stopper and poured two glasses of sherry.

  Oh, goodness, he needed alcohol for his answer. Hope braced herself for a whole lot of awkwardness.

  “Peaches flirted with me. But it wasn’t what Maretta thought it was.” He lifted the two cut-lead crystal glasses and turned to Hope.

  He offered her a glass. Sherry normally didn’t appeal to her. She would have preferred something stronger, like an espresso, but it was liquor. Not sure of what Alfred was going to say next, she downed the drink and set the glass on the coffee table.

  Alfred gave her a puzzled look. She guessed Maretta sipped her sherry.

  “What was it then?” she asked.

  “Peaches was trying to convince me to sell the agency to Lionel Whitcomb.”

  “He’s a developer.”

  Alfred sipped his sherry. “He’s a very successful businessman. He owns several businesses, including a few appraisal businesses.”

  Hope didn’t have thorough insight into the world of real estate, other than what Claire shared and what she’d gleaned from watching the reality show Millionaire Agents of NYC. Watching reality TV was still a guilty pleasure, but now when she watched, she knew the dark side, the side the camera didn’t reveal. The shows were like train wrecks. You couldn’t look away, and she admittedly didn’t.

  “I had no idea. Were you going to sell?”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “It seems Peaches had a closer relationship with Lionel Whitcomb than just being his listing agent.”

  “I’m sure they did. But I wasn’t aware of that until Lionel chose Peaches to be the listing agent for Hunting Hills. I suggested Claire.”

  “Did you check his past?”

  “Yes. The best I could and found no reason not to do business with him.”

  “Does Maretta know he wanted to buy you out?”

  “No, and it’s better to leave it that way for now.”

  For the first time, Hope heard Alfred sounding assertive. When Maretta wasn’t around, he obviously wore the pants.

  “Leave what?” Maretta entered the room carrying a serving tray with three filled teacups.

  Alfred’s head swung around, and Hope swore she saw him change right in front of her eyes. Gone was the confident businessman and back was the dutiful husband. “This murder investigation is best left to the police.”

  “It is their job.” Maretta set the tray on the coffee table, then swiped the crystal glass off the table and placed it on the tray. “I made herbal tea. I can safely say we’ve had enough excitement for this evening.”

  “Here, let me serve.” Alfred moved closer to the tray. “Hope, do you have any idea how much longer the chief will be?”

  Before Hope could answer, the doorbell chimed.

  “Are they going to be traipsing in and out all night?” Maretta stomped out of the room only to return moments later with Drew. “I suppose I’ll have to get another cup.”

  “Let me, dear.” Alfred set down his cup and left the living room.

  “Maretta, would you mind giving us a moment?” Drew asked bravely.

  Maretta huffed. “I’m sorry if I’m in the way in my own house.” She turned and stomped out of the room, again.

  “How did you get in?” Hope expected the officer posted at the front door of the house to keep him out since he was a reporter for the Gazette.

  Not waiting for Maretta to return with another cup, Drew helped himself to one of the cups of tea on the tray, he added a drop of milk, and stirred. He appeared to have been savoring the moment of kicking Maretta out of her living room. Normally, Hope would have let him have his moment, but not that night. “How did you get past the cop?”

  After he swallowed his drink of tea, he settled on the sofa next to her. Even in the middle of a stormy night, Drew looked pulled together, casually dressed in a gray T-shirt, white jeans, gray tassel loafers, and a tailored navy wool jacket. She glanced at herself. She’d left her house in her black fleece pants and pink sweatshirt hoodie, and her hair was damp from the rain.

  “Officer Roberts knows we’re friends, and I’m here as your friend.” He set his cup and saucer on the coffee table and then held his arms wide open. “Where else would I be at a time like this?”

  Tears streamed down Hope’s face, too many to wipe away. She’d found a friend murdered. She fell into Drew’s open arms and cried. His hold tightened around her, making her feel safe. Their friendship went back to elementary school and never wavered, even when they both left Jefferson for college and she decided to remain in New York City. He was one of the few people in her life she could always count on.

  “There. There. Let it all out. Don’t hold anything back.” His voice was gentle and caring.

  Hope nodded. It was a like a dam burst. All of the sadness, fear, and anger spilled out. She hadn’t had a moment like that since she’d discovered Tim cheated on her. Then, she didn’t have Drew or anyone to turn to for comfort, for reassurance. It was nice not to be alone anymore.

  “Good girl. I can’t believe you came out in this storm.”

  Hope shrugged. It really wasn’t a big deal. She often went out way past ten down in the city, even in bad weather. Out and about on her own was something she was used to. Though, she’d never found a dead body in New York City but two so far in Jefferson. That gave her pause for consideration. Was the little town tucked away in northwestern Connecticut really safer than the melting pot of New York?

  Drew patted her back gently. “And finding Vanessa, dead. Murdered in her own home moments after talking to you on the phone.”

  Hope shivered. Had the storm not been so severe, she might have arrived a few minutes earlier. Would she have come face-to-face with the killer? Ethan was right. She’d put her life in danger. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  “Then bravely calling the police. By the way, while you waited for the police to arrive, did you happen to take a look around her cottage or Maretta’s garden shed?”

  Hope shook her head. When the beam of light from her flashlight shone on Vanessa’s body, she froze. It took a few minutes for her to process what she’d just found. She lifted the beam of light and swept the room again, looking for someone. The house was empty, except for Hope and Vanessa’s body. Satisfied the killer was gone, she retraced her steps back to her car to call for help.

  Whoa. Garden shed?

  Hope exhaled a deep breath. So much for comfort. She pulled herself
out of Drew’s hold, reached to the tray for a napkin and dried her face.

  “I waited in my car.” She crumpled up the napkin and tossed it on the tray.

  Drew rolled his eyes. “Making a reporter out of you is going to be tougher than I thought.” He picked up his teacup and took a drink. “Now the police will find the bloodied blunt object before us.”

  “What bloodied blunt object?”

  “Duh. The one that killed Vanessa.”

  “You think Maretta killed Vanessa?

  Drew shrugged. “Maybe it’s in her purse. She’s hidden the murder weapon in her purse.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “It’s big enough to fit the whole freakin’ shed in it. I bet Maretta killed Peaches and then Vanessa found out and that’s why Maretta killed her.”

  “You really need to be careful not to hurt yourself.” Hope reached for her cup of tea and took a sip. She really needed something stronger.

  “Hurt myself how?”

  “Jumping to all those conclusions.”

  “Ha ha. You know very well I could be right.”

  Hope gave him a pointed stare. “Did you do any real journalist work today?”

  “Yes, I did. I found out Peaches McCoy was born and raised in New Jersey and moved to our fair state when she was a teenager with her mother.”