Three Widows and a Corpse

by Debra Sennefelder

  “Look, I have to go. I’ll call you later. Take it easy today, and please try to stay out of trouble.”

  “Aha . . . wait . . . what?” Before she could ask what he had said, he was gone. She’d only been half-listening because she’d been distracted by her insecurities. Had he shared a nugget of the investigation even though he couldn’t officially? Or had he been talking about dinner plans? Either way, she had to figure out what to do about their situation—how they’d handle his inability to share his job with her.

  Bigelow stretched out his body and then jumped off the bed. He was ready to start his day and, as the human, she should also. She tossed off the covers and stood, carefully putting weight on her injured ankle. She smiled. No shooting pains, and the swelling had gone down. She was on the mend.

  Bigelow woofed.

  “I know. I won’t overdo it today. I just have a couple of errands to run. I need to get your food and go to the farmers market.”

  One of the best things about summer in New England was the farmers markets. She visited at least one every week. Her schedule had been jam-packed with work and remodeling. She hadn’t had the time to plant a vegetable garden, but that was on her to-do list—some year. Until then, she’d visit markets. The bonus to her outings was that she regularly posted about them on her blog.

  Bigelow woofed again and then darted out of the bedroom. His toenails clicked on the hardwood floor, and she heard him descend the staircase. It looked like someone needed to go outside ASAP. She wiggled her toes into her flip-flops, her summer slippers, and pulled on her robe. She grabbed a hair tie from the nightstand and swept up her shoulder-length dark brown hair before following Bigelow downstairs.

  By the time the coffee finished brewing, Bigelow was back inside and looking for breakfast. She wanted a shower, but Bigelow’s begging eyes had her scooping out his kibble. She combined the dry food with a spoonful of wet food.

  Hope poured her coffee while Bigelow chowed down. She walked out of the kitchen and past the table to scan the family room for Princess. The cat liked to hide but showed herself when she was hungry. Hope had tried leaving a filled bowl of food for her, but Bigelow helped himself to the food every chance he got. A few times he’d tried in Princess’s presence and she hadn’t approved of his rude behavior. She’d swiped his nose with her paw. It may have felt good to Princess to put the dog in his place, but he didn’t seem fazed by the assault.

  The back door swung open and Claire bounded in, wearing white capri pants, a lilac-colored, short-sleeved T-shirt, and pink training shoes. Her car key dangled from her hand. “Why isn’t your door locked?”

  “I forgot after Bigelow came in. Coffee?”

  Claire shook her head. “No. I’m on my way to the gym. Already caffeinated. Why are you still in your jammies? How’s your ankle?”

  “I slept late. The ankle is better. Thanks.” Hope moved to the table and sat. So far, she’d experienced no discomfort and was splitting her body weight equally between both legs. Things were definitely looking up.

  “I heard someone confessed to the murders.” Claire walked to the table, but she didn’t sit.

  “Wow. That was fast.”

  Claire laughed. “Who needs the newspapers or news shows?”

  “You’re in a good mood this morning.” Hope took a drink of her coffee. She’d love to go for a run but thought her usual three miles would be pushing her recovery. It was best to wait and give her ankle some more time to fully heal.

  “I’m feeling good. I can’t mope around forever. And my clothes were getting a little tight.” Claire lowered her head. Vanity was a powerful motivator. On a scale of one to ten, gaining a few pounds was a twenty in Claire’s mind. “I booked an hour with Gavin for every day until next weekend.”

  “You’re going hardcore. Impressive.”

  Gavin was the most sought-after trainer at the Workout Fix, Jefferson’s only fitness center. His tough-love approach yielded results. Brides-to-be and mothers-of-the-brides clamored for sessions with him. Since Claire had sold his Colonial for well over asking, he always had time for his favorite real estate agent.

  “I also heard the woman who confessed works at Cooking Now. She’s the one who’s Lionel’s daughter and you were talking to Reid about, right?”

  Hope nodded. “Yes. In fact, she was here yesterday.”

  Claire’s blue eyes grew wide. “What? You had the killer here in your house?”

  “I’m not sure she’s the killer.”

  “What are you talking about? She confessed. I heard she walked into the police station and told them everything.”

  “You heard a lot for someone who’s been a hermit.”

  “Never mind where I get my information.” Claire raised a hand in surrender. She was quiet for a moment and an uneasiness poked at Hope. What was she thinking? “You have quite a puzzle to figure out.”

  “What? No dire warning?”

  “No. You’re a big girl and can make your own decisions. If you want to entertain killers and get pushed down embankments, so be it.”

  “I didn’t entertain a killer. She came over here to yell at me for talking to the police about Miranda. I did the right thing. I told the police what I knew. See? I’m playing it safe.”

  “You want a medal?”

  “No. You’re confusing me.”

  “You’re being silly. I have to go or I’ll be late for my session with Gavin. He doesn’t like tardiness.”

  “Who are you and what have you done with my sister?” Hope wasn’t sure why Claire opted not to lecture her and, to be honest, she wasn’t sure how to handle her sister’s newfound realization Hope could take care of herself.

  Claire smiled. “Silly Hope.” She wiggled her fingers in a wave and left the house, closing the back door behind her.

  Hope dashed to the door and locked it before heading upstairs for a shower and to get ready for her day. She reached the staircase but halted when a loud screech startled her. A flash of fur followed the noise, barreling down the staircase. Hope’s gaze followed the fur, and it came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs for a nanosecond and then tore off in the direction of the family room.

  She heard a loud thump from the room. To think she’d been worried about high-energy Bigelow when she took him in.

  He had nothing on the cat.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A jingling bell greeted Hope after opening the front door of the Bark Boutique. Newly opened, the shop was packed with adorable dog clothing, fun toys, food, and treats. One-stop shopping for fur moms like her. The bell also alerted the owner of her arrival.

  “Hope! Good to see you.” Trudy Fraser stepped out from behind the counter. Her brown eyes were warm and welcoming. A foster mom to many pets, she always wore clothing that featured a dog or cat on it. Today, it was a vest featuring a variety of dogs and was paired with a white, button-down blouse and black pants.

  “Love your vest.”

  It seemed impossible, but Trudy’s smile broadened. “Fifteen percent goes to a rescue group. I have one with cats on it too.”

  “I’m sure it’s just as pretty. Bigelow and Princess need some food.” Hope walked farther into the shop, which was divided into two sections—cats and dogs—and those sections were broken down into categories of food, apparel and leashes, toys, and health and wellness.

  Trudy crammed a lot into the small square footage.

  “We got a delivery of Bigelow’s food this morning.” Trudy turned and walked to the dog food aisle. She pulled out a ten-pound bag from the shelf.

  “Here, let me.” Hope leaned forward to take the bag, but Trudy swatted at her hand. “Ouch.”

  “I heard about your accident. I’ll carry this to the counter.”

  “I’m doing better.” She’d had the sliver of hope her incident would go unnoticed, but it made the Gazette, and not a little passing notice in the police blotter but rather a front-page story.

  “You shouldn’t be walking around.” Wit
h the bag in hand, Trudy walked to the counter, and Hope followed. “I stopped at The Coffee Clique for my morning latte and everyone was buzzing about Kitty Ellis’s confession.” Trudy changed the subject without batting an eye. A murder confession was far more interesting than a tumble down a slope. “She works at the magazine where you’ve been freelancing. Do you know her?”

  Hope wasn’t about to get snared into the gossip chain and have any comment she made exaggerated and taken out of context. Been there, done that.

  “I also need some food for Princess.” Hope traveled down the cat food aisle for a few cans. Princess was addicted to salmon, so Hope grabbed four cans of the Salmon Delight entrees.

  “I’m still in shock over Lionel Whitcomb’s murder and poor Maurice Pomeroy. I remember when there were no murders here in town.”

  And so did Maretta Kingston.

  Would Trudy also blame Hope for the uptick in fatal crimes in town? Not willing to find out, she steered the conversation back to feeding her cat.

  “Princess loves salmon and chicken.” Hope also snagged a few cans of chicken stew.

  “I wonder what Whitcomb’s wife will do now,” Trudy said.

  Which one?

  With her arms full of petite cans of food—a nice variety, she thought—Hope returned to the counter. “I’m sure Elaine will survive.”

  “Guess you’re right. She’s one of those women, you know.” Trudy scanned each can of food and dropped them into a bag with the store’s logo on it. “I probably shouldn’t talk out of school, but we all know what kind of person she is. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was trotting around town with another man in a matter of weeks.”

  Trudy chuckled as she scanned the large bag of food for Bigelow.

  “Why do you say that? Do you know something?” Hope reached for an individually wrapped dog cookie. She preferred to make Bigelow’s treats herself, but with her jam-packed schedule, she’d been hard pressed to find time to bake.

  “I shouldn’t gossip.”

  Really?

  “You may know something that could help the police with their investigation.”

  Trudy took the cookie and scanned it before placing it in the bag. She set down the scanner and looked torn. “I saw Elaine with a man last week. They looked pretty cozy.”

  “Do you know who the man was?”

  “No. He was about Whitcomb’s age. But more handsome and a much better dresser. With all his money, you’d think Whitcomb would have dressed better.”

  “Where did you see them?”

  “Horseshoe Tavern. Doug and I go there at least once a month. Do you know it?”

  Hope nodded. The restaurant, popular for its house brews and burgers, was a forty-five-minute drive from Jefferson, and she’d met the owner during a challenge on The Sweet Taste of Success.

  “Elaine and the gentleman were in a deep conversation at a private table. I got the impression they didn’t want to be seen.”

  The bell over the door jingled and a woman entered. She called out a greeting to Trudy.

  “Is there anything else you need, Hope?” Trudy asked.

  “No, nothing.” Except maybe some more details about Elaine’s dinner date. “Could I leave this here? Drew is meeting me in a few minutes and he’ll carry all of this to my car.” Her ankle was definitely feeling better, but she didn’t think lugging around the bag of food was a good idea.

  “Sure. No problem.” Trudy stepped out from behind the counter and approached her next customer.

  Hope left the shop. When she stepped outside, she was greeted by humidity and heat. A combo she’d be happy to pass on. But she didn’t have a say in the matter, so she was glad she’d chosen to wear a white gauze dress and pull her hair into a ponytail. She’d also slipped on her favorite tan sandals and opted not to wrap her ankle with an ACE bandage. She hoped she wouldn’t regret not stabilizing her ankle. She had a habit of being a bad patient.

  She walked along Main Street, passing a cluster of antique shops between the Bark Boutique and The Coffee Clique. She lingered for a moment at one of the storefront windows, staring at a display of Wedgwood dessert plates. She recognized the pattern. Produced in the nineteenth century, the dishes had an unexpectedly contemporary feel with their vibrant shades of oranges and browns. The set would certainly be a nice addition to her china collection. Though the mid-four-figure price was too rich for her at the moment.

  “Someday,” she said wistfully.

  Realizing if she stood there any longer, she’d make a rash and financially bad decision, she pulled herself away from the window and continued toward The Coffee Clique. That was when she spotted Iva Johnson. The temptation to turn and pretend she hadn’t seen the bitter housekeeper was overwhelming, but they’d already made eye contact. A quick greeting and an even faster goodbye wouldn’t kill her.

  “Hello, Iva.” Hope plastered on her best smile. She was intent on making the best of the unexpected encounter.

  “See you’re up and about. Recovering from your incident the other night?” Iva’s voice was gravelly thanks to years of smoking, and edged with hardness.

  “I’m almost fully recovered. Thank you for asking.” Hope still had her smile in place.

  “Well, I guess things happen when you poke around in someone else’s business.” Iva arched a thin, over-plucked brow.

  Hope and Iva had history and none of it was good. Back then, Iva was Iva Collie, eldest daughter of an alcoholic who used his wife as a punching bag, and sometimes his kids as well. It was the least-kept secret in town. Everyone knew, but no one did anything to help. Whispers of speculation, nods of understanding, and not a single tear shed when old man Collie collapsed of a heart attack. By the time Hope was old enough to understand what was happening in the Collie household, Iva had already dropped out of school and become a teenage bride and mother. Keeping Iva’s roots in mind helped Hope not take the insult personally.

  “Have a nice day.” Hope stepped forward. She needed to get away from Iva because there was only so much goodwill in her.

  “It surprised me that woman confessed to the murders. It’s all anyone is talking about at the diner. My money was on the current Mrs. Whitcomb.”

  Hope paused. “Why?” She was curious if Elaine had fired her. Iva’s loyalty was commerce-centric. If you paid her, you had her allegiance.

  “She and Mr. Whitcomb fought like . . . well, like cats and dogs.”

  “Marriages have their difficulties.”

  Iva scoffed. “Tell me about it.”

  “I have to get going.” Hope started forward again, desperate to get to The Coffee Clique for a cinnamon roll.

  “It’d gotten worse the past few weeks. And then Mrs. Whitcomb was meeting another man for dinner secretly. Their marriage was doomed. Most are anyway, right?”

  “How do you know?”

  “I overheard her on the phone a few times when I was at the house. She whispered, but I could still hear.” Iva smiled. She hadn’t gotten the memo that eavesdropping wasn’t something you should be proud of.

  “Do you know who the man was?” Could it be the same man Trudy had described seeing with Elaine at the Horseshoe Tavern?

  “No. Never heard his name. Wait . . . come to think of it, Elaine was talking to someone the day someone killed Mr. Whitcomb. Not sure if it was the guy.”

  “How can you be certain she was talking to a man?”

  Iva tilted her head. “You know when a woman is talking to a guy. And trust me, he wasn’t a telemarketer. Not the way she was twirling her hair around her finger and keeping her voice low.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  Iva shook her head. “I just remembered now.”

  “Really?” Hope didn’t bother trying to cover up her sarcasm.

  “Hey, I don’t need your judgment. Things have been very busy lately. My mom is sick, and I’ve been taking her back and forth for treatments. Maybe I should get one of those fancy planners you shared on your blog and write st
uff down.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your mother. How is she doing?” Hope didn’t have to work hard on gathering up some compassion for Iva. Having to deal with an ill parent wasn’t an easy thing to go through.

  Iva lowered her eyelids. Her sparse lashes were thick with black mascara that clumped rather than volumized. “As good as can be expected. Thanks for asking.”

  “The conversation you overheard the day Lionel was killed—do you remember what Elaine said?”

  “I do.” Iva smirked. “She was meeting the person at the restaurant at six the night of the Scavenger Hunt.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I am.”

  It was the meeting with a mystery man that caused Elaine to be late for the Scavenger Hunt, not wayward false lashes. She’d lied about what caused her to arrive late at the event. What else had Elaine lied about?

  Suddenly, Hope craved a beer. She had to text Drew. “Be sure to tell the police what you remembered. It’s important.” Hope walked away.

  “Hope, wait.”

  Hope stopped and turned. “Did you remember something else?”

  “No. It’s . . . I haven’t been working anywhere other than at the Whitcombs’ because I’ve been caring for my mom, and now I think I won’t be working there for much longer. So I need a job. Something. Maybe part-time.”

  Hope wasn’t sure what Iva was looking for from her.

  “You’ve got that big house. Maybe you need some help?”

  Okay. It was now clear. Iva was asking for a job.

  “I kinda need some cash quick because my car needs a repair and I use it to drive my mom to her treatments.”

  “I . . . I . . . don’t need help with the housework. I’m sorry.”

  Iva’s face slacked, and she broke eye contact with Hope. Her reaction tugged at Hope’s heart. The woman was a walking, talking fount of bitterness and jealousy, but she was a person who was struggling and whose mother was ill.

  “What would be a great help, but I’m not sure if it’s something you’re interested in, is taking care of my chickens. There’s a bunch of chores to do, and I also need help with some yard work. It’s not a lot of hours. Would you be interested?”