The Hidden Corpse

by Debra Sennefelder

  “We’re not trying to pry into your private business.” The grin on Dorie’s face contradicted what she’d just said.

  “I don’t have any private business.” What was Hope doing? She didn’t need to defend her personal life or lack thereof to Dorie or Leila.

  “Certainly your ex doesn’t have any private business. He’s flaunting his model girlfriend all over town.” Leila’s lips pursed in disapproval.

  Hope inwardly cringed. Her neighbors read those gossip websites? There was barely an ounce of truth to any of the stories those sites published. Since her time on The Sweet Taste of Success, she’d been often asked if she would do it again. Some days her answer was a firm “no” and other days it was a definite “yes.” There, looking at her two inquisitive neighbors who knew all about her ex-husband’s dating exploits because she went on national television to bake some cupcakes and pies, her answer would be a firm “hell no.” Unfortunately, there weren’t any do-overs in life. She had made her choice and she had to deal with the consequences.

  “What Tim does is no longer my concern.” Letting go of the idea that she could control Tim’s behavior was one way Hope was dealing with the consequences.

  “Darn right.” Leila nodded, and her dyed black hair cut shoulder length bounced. “I got rid of husband number one years ago and never looked back. He was nothing but bad news. Maybe sometimes it takes a second try to find your true love. I know it did for me.”

  “We didn’t come over to discuss your love life,” Dorie interjected. “We wanted to talk to you about starting some kind of neighborhood watch.”

  Leila joined Dorie at the island. “With what happened at Peggy’s house and Dorie’s break-in—”

  “You had a break-in?” Hope interrupted.

  Dorie’s head bobbed up and down. “A few weeks ago. We went away for a couple days and when we got back, we found someone had broken in through the kitchen door.”

  “I didn’t know.” Hope rested her hands on the island. First a break-in and then a fire. It appeared her road was a bit unlucky. “Was anything taken?”

  “No. If the door hadn’t been damaged, we wouldn’t have known someone came into our house.”

  “Why would someone go through the trouble of breaking into a house to take nothing? Perhaps something scared him off,” Hope suggested.

  Dorie shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe.”

  “When exactly did it happen?”

  Dorie looked thoughtful. “Let me see if I can remember.”

  Leila rolled her eyes. “Really, Dorie, it’s not so hard to remember. You and Harold left the morning Lily Barnhart disappeared. I remember because when I heard that she’d gone missing, that night I went to call you but remembered you’d left town.”

  “That’s right.” Dorie sounded confident. “Anyway, let us know if you’re interested in the neighborhood watch. We’re planning on having a meeting and we’re going to ask a police officer to join us.” Dorie turned to Leila. “We should get going. I have to feed Princess.”

  “Peggy’s cat?” Hope had forgotten about the white stray Peggy took in months ago. She didn’t see the cat when she went over to turn off the smoke detector.

  “I’ve been cat sitting since Peggy went into rehab. Meg is allergic, so I volunteered to keep her. My husband is also allergic, so the poor thing is relegated to the sunroom. Thank goodness I didn’t have the chance to return her to Peggy or she could have perished in the fire. She’s a love.”

  “Come on. We have to get our three miles in.” Leila was already on her way to the back door.

  Dorie said good-bye and followed her friend out of the house.

  Hope turned to go back to the table but stopped and pivoted. Considering what Dorie had just said about her break-in, Hope decided to err on the side of caution. She went to lock the back door. She returned to the table, pushed the notebook to the side, and pulled the computer toward her. She should be working rather than brainstorming theories of the murder. She stared at the computer screen and tapped her fingers on the table. There was no way she could concentrate on work.

  She reached for the notebook and flipped open the page with the list of names.

  * * *

  “‘We share the same blood, the same genes, and the same moments cooking for our loved ones,’” Drew read aloud from Hope’s computer.

  “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” Hope closed the refrigerator door and frowned at Drew. “Why are you reading my post?”

  Drew had dropped in after the senior walkers left and he was famished, as usual. Hope reheated leftovers from recipe testing—grilled chicken and roasted potatoes. She was trying a new spice rub on the chicken and she had finally found a combination she liked.

  Drew lifted his head and held a cupped hand to his ear. “Do you hear that?”

  Hope set the plate in the microwave and pressed the start button. “Hear what?”

  “The crashing of traffic to your blog if you publish this. What are you thinking? You’re supposed to be writing about food and recipes. Not ancestry. It’s Hope at Home, not Hope’s Blog of Family History Boredom.”

  Ouch. Hope was never one to shy away from constructive criticism, but Drew had just leveled some pretty harsh feedback at her post. “It’s a work in progress.”

  “Take my advice, stop the progress.”

  “Like you’re an expert?”

  “Well, I do know something about writing attention-grabbing copy. It’s my job as a reporter.”

  “Right,” Hope conceded. His feedback was accurate. Her prose was too flowery and boring. She’d have to delete the whole mess and start over again. “Do you want to tell me why you stopped by?” The microwave beeped and she retrieved the plate and took it to the table. She set the plate down and shifted her computer from Drew’s view. She’d had her quota of criticism and advice for the day.

  “Only after you tell me why you have a composition notebook out.” Drew pierced a chunk of potato with his fork. He swallowed his mouthful. “Leftovers make the best lunches.”

  “Yes, they do.” Hope sat across from Drew. Maybe she should work on a series about leftovers. Cook once, eat twice. Of course, the leftover meal wouldn’t just be a warmed plate of the same meal served the night before. That would be as boring as the words she’d just typed. No, she’d have to create a second way to serve the meal without requiring too much work but just enough to make it a little different.

  Drew snapped his fingers. “Earth to Hope.”

  “Oh, sorry. I was thinking of an idea for a new series on the blog.”

  Drew raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “It has nothing to do with my family tree.”

  “Good.”

  “Why are you here?”

  Drew’s eyes twinkled. Hope knew that look. He had something juicy to share. He set his fork down and took a drink from his water glass. Then he dabbed the sides of his mouth with a napkin. He then carefully folded and replaced the napkin on his lap.

  “Would you just tell me,” Hope ordered.

  Drew became slightly deflated. “You’re no fun. But I’ll still tell you. I tracked down the address from Lily’s notebook.”

  Hope perked up. “You did?”

  Drew gave an exaggerated nod. “I did. It’s called the Day Spa in Town.”

  “A day spa?” The surge of adrenaline that had pumped through her body a moment ago dissipated. She wasn’t sure what the address would turn out to be, but a day spa in Westport wasn’t a lead. She kind of hoped for the killer’s address, as unrealistic as it sounded. “Maybe she planned on booking an appointment.”

  “I did a little checking. It’s in a prime location, which means big bucks. Lily probably could have afforded services there. What’s intriguing is who the owner is.”

  Hope inched to the edge of her seat. “Who?”

  “Pamela Hutchinson.”

  “The mayor’s wife? She owns the spa?”

  Drew nodded. “She opened it about fo
ur months ago.” He picked up his fork and continued eating his lunch.

  “In Westport? Why not around here? Someplace closer? Doesn’t it seem odd she wouldn’t tell anyone? It’s a big deal opening a business.” Hope’s mouth twitched. Why the secrecy? Was there something Pamela was hiding? Then she recalled a recent news story of a day spa owner who was arrested for running an illegal prostitution ring out of the shop. “What kind of day spa is it?”

  Drew’s mouth gaped open and he dropped his fork. He must have remembered the brothel story from the news too.

  “Now there’s a reason why she would open it so far away and kept it a secret.”

  “Believe me when I tell you, if it’s a brothel, I’d have one heck of an exclusive story. ‘Mayor’s Wife Runs Prostitution Ring.’” Drew clapped his hands together. “The story practically writes itself.”

  Hope raised a cautionary hand. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

  “You’re the one who suggested it.”

  “True. But we don’t know for sure.” Hope studied the back of her hand. Her fingernails were bare of polish and a little ragged from all the work she’d been doing around the house. “I think I need a manicure. Maybe a facial.”

  “You’re going to Westport now?”

  “I certainly am.”

  Drew pouted. “I can’t go with you. I have a press conference to go to.”

  “I’ll fill you in. I promise.”

  “Well, if it’s not really a spa for ladies who lunch, be sure to get some photos on your phone and send them to me.”

  “Of course I will.” The last thing Hope wanted to find at the address was a brothel.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Day Spa in Town was nestled among some of the priciest, trendiest shops in Westport. The heavy glass door with gold lettering closed quietly behind Hope as she approached the sleek reception desk. The spa oozed expensive from the marble floor to the one-of-a-kind light fixtures to the over-the-top floral arrangements displayed throughout the reception area. Pamela’s clientele were accustomed to the best and the spa did not short-change them.

  Hope had hustled Drew out of her house as soon as he finished eating his lunch so she could get ready for her trip to Westport. She changed from her khaki shorts and tank top into a sleeveless taupe dress and stepped into a pair of nude pumps. She twisted her hair into an updo and applied a little makeup. With a final sweep of translucent powder, she remembered not too long ago she’d prepared for work the same way—professional dress, heels, and makeup. Now those clothes and accessories were for the occasional meeting with brands, interviews, and apparently a facial.

  The receptionist greeted her with a cool smile. “Welcome. Your name please?” Her pale green eyes broke from Hope to look at the computer screen as her fingers prepared to tap on the keyboard.

  “Hope Early.”

  The receptionist nodded as she typed.

  “I don’t have an appointment.”

  The typing stopped and the receptionist lifted her chin. “How may I help you today? Would you like to schedule an appointment?” Her face was flawless, and her dress appeared well tailored, perhaps a bit too pricey for a receptionist, but Hope didn’t doubt a certain appearance was required to greet the wealthy clients.

  “Is there any chance I could get a facial? I know you may be booked, but I’ve been working all day and I need a little pampering. You understand?”

  The receptionist nodded. “Of course. You’re right about us being booked, though.”

  “I see.” It was a long shot. The place didn’t look like it took walk-ins like the Hair-O-Rama in Jefferson. She had considered calling to book an appointment before she left her house but worried Pamela would have seen her name on the schedule. She wanted to look around before Pamela found out she knew about the spa.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t put it together at first. You’re Hope from Hope at Home. Right?”

  Hope nodded.

  “I love your blog. The other day I watched your video on making pie crust. Up until then, I believed pie crust was the enemy.” Her lips eased into a relaxed smile.

  Before Hope could reply, a brunette dressed in trendy athleisure wear emerged from the hallway Hope assumed led to the treatment rooms. She was followed by a tall woman dressed in a white lab coat. They said their good-byes and the client waved to the receptionist on her way out.

  “I’m happy to hear you’ve made peace with pie crust. I won’t take up any more of your time.” Hope did her best to hide her disappointment. A little part of her was hoping to find a brothel. Then Hope could understand why Pamela wanted to keep the spa a secret. But everything looked on the up and up. So, why the secrecy?

  The receptionist leaned over the desk. “Gigi just had a cancellation, and I’m sure she’d be happy to give you a facial. Just give me a moment.”

  “That would be fantastic.” Hope brightened. Things were turning around and hopefully she’d get a chatty esthetician like the gal who usually waxed Hope’s brows at her salon. Or would the esthetician be tight-lipped due to the level of clientele the spa serviced? When the receptionist reappeared, she waved for Hope to follow.

  Chatty was an understatement. By the time Hope settled onto the facial bed, wrapped in a plush robe with her hair pulled back by a headband, she’d learned Gigi was recently married to the love of her life, had honeymooned in Bermuda, and had just bought a condo in Norwalk. While Gigi, a bubbly twenty-something with high energy and the most luxurious blond curls Hope had ever seen, did a quick inspection of Hope’s skin, she shared how the drama of eight bridesmaids nearly wrecked her wedding day. Hope wanted to ask her what she expected by having eight women in her bridal party. For her wedding, Hope had two, her sister and best friend, and they were a handful, so she couldn’t imagine eight women. Gigi complimented Hope on her skin and then set to work as low classical music played in the background.

  Every inch of Hope began to relax. Her shoulders let go of the weight of all the projects she was juggling. Her muscles loosened the grip of everything she was holding on to. And her mind stopped racing with the endless to-do lists. Her breathing settled into a calming rhythm, and every breath was deep and cleansing. Her eyes fluttered shut as she eased into the most relaxing state she’d been in for months.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Jefferson.” Hope’s voice was low, and one eyelid slit open. She was in the Zen zone and didn’t want to interrupt that. She just wanted quiet. She shut her eye and tried to get back to the zone.

  “Cute town. My favorite antique shop is now there. The store used to be closer to me, but it closed after a fire and reopened up by you. Too far away now.”

  A buzzing sound drew Hope’s eyes open.

  “Just a little light exfoliation.” Gigi held the device to Hope’s forehead and dragged it across, tugging at the skin and removing dead skin cells. “Do you know Pamela?”

  “Yes.” She blinked a few times. She needed to stay awake because she was there for information, not for a nap. “Lily Barnhart told me about the spa. Do you know Mrs. Barnhart?”

  Gigi shook her head. “The only other client from Jefferson I’ve worked with is Elaine Whitcomb. Do you know her?”

  Oh, yeah. “Sort of.” Hope kept her reply neutral so whatever Gigi wanted to say about Elaine, she would. So far Gigi didn’t require much encouragement to talk. Exactly what Hope had wanted when she punched the address for the spa into her GPS.

  “I’m not one for gossip.” Gigi glided the exfoliating device down one side of Hope’s face. “But Pamela and Mrs. Whitcomb must be best of friends.”

  “Why?”

  Gigi transferred the device over to the other side of Hope’s face. “Because all of Mrs. Whitcomb’s services are complimentary and, let me tell you, she receives a lot of services.” When Gigi finished exfoliating, she set the device down and reached for a jar. She slathered a rich cream over Hope’s face and, with her fingertips, she gently massaged it into Hope’s skin
. “The woman is dripping in money, but she pays a big fat zero. That must be the reason why she’s so rich. Lucky for me she does tip—nicely.” She giggled as she continued to work on Hope’s face with her expert hands.

  Hope laughed along with Gigi, but her mind raced with the question of why Pamela would provide Elaine free services. Maybe they were good friends. It was possible. Though, Hope doubted it because Elaine didn’t make female friends easily, due to her flirtatious personality around men, and Pamela was known to have a jealous streak when it came to Milo. Just a few years ago at a party, Hope witnessed Pamela nearly assault another woman who had had too much to drink and made a pass at Milo. No, Hope couldn’t see Pamela letting Elaine anywhere near her private life. So, why would she give carte blanche to Elaine at the spa?

  “We’re almost at the end of our session.” Gigi’s hands rested on Hope’s shoulders and she began to massage deeply. Her fingers kneaded into Hope’s muscle tissue.

  Hope’s eyes fluttered closed again. “Ah.”

  Gigi’s hands worked their magic on her tense shoulders. And Hope drifted back into the euphoric state where her mind was blank. No recipes to develop. No garage or political events to organize. No dead bodies.

  “You are now ready to face the world. How do you feel?” Gigi removed her hands from Hope’s shoulders.

  Hope reluctantly roused from her relaxed state to join the real world again. Bummer. “I feel great. I needed this. Thank you.”

  Gigi said her good-byes and left to allow Hope to dress. Hope then paid her bill and as she reached the front door, she heard Pamela’s voice. She turned around and there was Pamela speaking with the receptionist. What good fortune.

  “Pamela! I was hoping I’d see you before I left.” Hope crossed the reception area quickly, so Pamela couldn’t escape to the back. Pamela straightened up at the mention of her name, but then her eyes narrowed as she saw Hope.

  “Hope? What on earth are you doing here?” Pamela released the file she held and then clasped her hands together. Petite with impeccable taste in clothing, she was wearing a navy suit, and her silver hair was cut into a chic bob. Add in the glint of haughtiness in her hazel eyes, and she looked every bit the owner of a chic day spa.