The Hidden Corpse

by Debra Sennefelder

  “I just got the most amazing facial.” If Hope’s wallet could afford monthly appointments, she’d book Gigi in a heartbeat. For now, she’d have to make due with at-home facials for the foreseeable future.

  “How did you find out about my spa?” Pamela stiffened and her line-free face tensed.

  “Lily Barnhart, of course. You’ve been keeping this gem of a spa a secret. You really shouldn’t. It’s fabulous.”

  “Lily told you?” Pamela’s voice softened as a half smile formed on her plump, glossed lips.

  Not in so many words, but Hope kept that little nugget to herself. “I’m surprised you haven’t told anyone about this place. It’s fabulous. Drew has to write a profile about this spa.”

  Pamela’s smile faded as her eyes clouded over with panic. “No, no, no, he doesn’t have to.”

  Hope shrugged. “You may be right. After all, the spa is a good distance from Jefferson so not everyone will be able to make an appointment. If you don’t mind me asking, why did you open your business so far from Jefferson?”

  “For the clientele, of course. If you’ll excuse me, I have to call a distributor about a delivery.” She turned and disappeared into a back office.

  Hope thanked the receptionist again for her assistance and left the spa. All of Pamela’s polish and poise couldn’t disguise she was unnerved by Hope’s presence. The door of the spa closed behind her as she stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  Why was the spa such a secret? What was Pamela hiding and why?

  * * *

  Hope’s fingers flew over her phone’s keypad as she typed a text to Drew. She wanted to tell him about her visit to the spa. Maybe he could get away from the office and join her at the Coffee Clique. When she finished typing, she set her phone down, reached for her double latte, and waited for Drew’s reply.

  “I’m so glad I’ve run into you.” Norrie Jennings approached the table and, without hesitation, pulled out a chair and sat.

  Hope arched an eyebrow. “Please, do join me.”

  “Thank you.” Norrie set her coffee cup on the table and dug into her large tote for a notepad and pen. “I love coffee shops. There’s such a sense of community in them. You know, where everybody knows your name. It’s so charming.”

  Norrie took a sip of her coffee, then flipped open her notepad and studied the page before lifting her head. “The other day when we ran into each other at Mrs. Griffin’s house, I didn’t have the opportunity to ask you what it was like when you came upon Mrs. Olson’s burning house.”

  “Are you asking for a quote for a story you’re writing for the newspaper?”

  “Yes. It’s going to be another front-page story.”

  When Hope worked in magazine publishing, she’d mentored young assistants and groomed them for editorial positions. She encouraged them to promote their accomplishments and not be ashamed of having professional goals. Norrie was someone Hope would have admired for her ambitions if she weren’t running over Drew to make a name for herself.

  “I appreciate you have a job to do, but I’m not comfortable discussing the fire.” Hope reached for her latte and took a drink.

  Norrie regarded Hope for a moment. “Of course. I understand.”

  Hope expected the reporter to push back since she was looking for an exclusive. Why had Norrie given up so easily? Hope’s phone buzzed and a message from Drew appeared on the screen.

  Can’t meet. Catch up later.

  Great. She was stuck with Norrie. The last person she wanted to have coffee with.

  “Could you then tell me about your relationship with Cal Barnhart?”

  Hope’s head swung up. “What?!”

  “Mr. Barnhart visited your house the afternoon he learned his wife was dead. Why was he there?”

  The hairs on the back of Hope’s neck stood up. “Are you watching my house?”

  “No, of course not. But I do have sources.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t reveal my sources.”

  “You have no right to pry into my personal life.”

  “So, Cal Barnhart is a part of your personal life?”

  “Don’t twist my words. I have a right to privacy.”

  “You went on national television, a reality show, and now you write a blog about your home and your family. Do you think you can have privacy?” Norrie challenged.

  Norrie’s words stung Hope for a moment. She had put her life out there on The Sweet Taste of Success for many weeks, but it was only a sliver of her life—baking. Yes, in the confessionals she’d mentioned her previous life as a magazine editor, her mother and sister briefly when she spoke about how she learned to bake, and how much she missed her husband because she was living in a hotel during the competition. It was only after the show her personal life made the newspapers and gossip websites because of Tim’s philandering. She’d never commented publicly on her marriage and she’d never sought interviews to tell her side of the divorce story. Rather, she had kept her head down, worked hard, and prepared for her move back to Jefferson.

  “Cal Barnhart and I have a professional relationship, and I will not comment on a police investigation.” Hope collected her purse and coffee. “And one more thing, Miss Jennings, I do believe everyone is entitled to privacy in their lives and you should be ashamed of yourself for prying into mine.”

  She marched off, weaving between the tables to get to the exit. The woman had some nerve ambushing her and twisting very innocent actions into something scandalous. God, she hated reporters. Except for Drew, of course.

  “There you are. I was able to sneak away.” Drew leapt onto the curb and dashed to Hope. “What happened in Westport? I just got an earful from my editor.”

  “It’s not a brothel. Wait, what’s going on with your editor?” Hope took a drink of her latte, so much more enjoyable away from Norrie.

  “He called me into his office, shut the door, and told me I wasn’t to write an article on Pamela’s spa. What’s going on?”

  “Why did you pitch the article? How come you didn’t wait for me to get back?”

  Drew sighed. “I didn’t pitch the article. So how come my editor knows? He’s no psychic.”

  Good question. She shot a glance over her shoulder. Norrie had said she had sources. Did one of her sources tell her about Hope’s trip to Westport? Or maybe it was as simple as a phone call from Pamela.

  “I saw Pamela at the spa and I mentioned you could write a profile on the spa. She looked a little wary and said it wasn’t necessary. She must’ve called Milo after I left.”

  “He must’ve called my editor. What’s going on? What’s with this spa?”

  “Good questions, Drew.” Anxiety churned in Hope’s stomach as she tried to wrap her head around Milo having a newspaper story killed. Though, she couldn’t rule out Norrie and her confidential sources.

  “Are you going to talk to Ethan?” Drew asked.

  “About Pamela owning a spa? And Milo not wanting any publicity for it?”

  “Gotcha. We don’t have enough.”

  “Not yet. You keep digging. There’s obviously something the Hutchinsons want kept quiet.”

  “First, I need a coffee.” Drew reached for the door handle.

  “You should know Norrie’s in there.” Her cell phone buzzed and she checked the caller ID. Calista Davenport. “I have to take this call.”

  Drew sighed again. “Guess I’ll pass on coffee. I better get back to the office anyway. Call you later.” He turned and walked to the curb and waited until a car passed, then crossed the street.

  Hope headed to her car with the phone to her ear. “Hi, Calista.”

  “I’m calling to touch base about the recipes for the cookbook.” Calista’s words were rapid. She spoke as fast as she walked the streets of midtown Manhattan.

  “Great.” Hope cringed. She’d barely had time to brainstorm ideas, much less develop the recipes. “I’m narrowing them down and will have the recipes to you by the end of the week
.”

  “Perfect. Now, just one more thing about the recipes. I need five.”

  “Five?” Hope arrived at her SUV. “Corey told me two.”

  “Corey isn’t the editor of the book. I am and I need five recipes by the end of the week. Shouldn’t be a problem for you, right?”

  Calista’s question was left hanging in the air as Hope tried to wrap her mind around having to develop five recipes within just a few days. “No, not at all. I’m looking forward it.”

  “Good, that’s what I like to hear.”

  What Hope would have liked to hear from Calista was good-bye.

  “One more thing.”

  That wasn’t what Hope wanted to hear.

  “I heard about what’s happening up there. Cal Barnhart’s wife being found dead after disappearing. You’re in his photography workshop?”

  “Was,” Hope corrected. “It’s been cancelled.”

  “Don’t be too disappointed. He’s a good photographer but there are better ones to learn from and, for what it’s worth, I suggest you keep your distance from him.”

  Hope wasn’t surprised to hear Calista knock Cal’s skills. She was a hard-nosed editor who demanded perfection and often clashed with photographers and food stylists.

  “Why? What’s his story?” Hope grimaced as she said the words. Didn’t she just a few minutes ago tell Norrie everyone had a right to privacy and now she was asking about Cal’s personal life?

  “A rumor was circulating he was involved with someone from a recent shoot for Dessert Time magazine.” There was no hint of embarrassment or shame in Calista’s voice for passing along gossip. In her mind, she was just passing along information.

  “I appreciate your concern.”

  “Well, you can show your appreciation by sending me those recipes ASAP.”

  Before Hope could reply, their call was disconnected. She pulled the phone from her ear. “Bye, Calista,” she muttered. Considering their relationship, perhaps brief conversations were the best.

  The drive home took less than five minutes and as soon as she hopped out of her SUV, she slipped off her pumps and wiggled her toes in the grass. She couldn’t believe she used to wear high heels every day to work. She grabbed her latte and purse. Barefoot, she crossed the lawn to the front porch.

  All the relaxation she felt after her facial was wiped away by her run-in with Norrie and the weird thing at the newspaper. Why would Milo want to suppress an article on his wife’s business? Why did the editor agree to it? What happened to freedom of the press?

  Bigelow’s loud and piercing bark jogged Hope out of her thoughts. He was always excited when she came home, but there was something different in the tone of his bark she couldn’t identify.

  Her eyes darted around as she climbed the porch steps with a keen sense of alertness. She was looking for something out of the ordinary. And when her gaze landed on her front door, she found something out of the ordinary.

  She crept forward. A torn sheet of notebook paper was nailed to her door. The block lettering read: PLAY WITH FIRE AND YOU’RE GOING TO GET BURNED.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hope steadied her hand as she poured a glass of iced tea. She tightened her grip on the pitcher’s handle just to make sure she didn’t drop it. At a noise from the mudroom she looked up, startled, and then realized the noise was Ethan’s footsteps approaching. Finding the sinister note nailed to her door had sent a powerful message to her. Someone wanted her to stop inquiring about the deaths of Lily and Peggy.

  Ethan’s stride into the kitchen was purposeful, and he exuded authority in his uniform. The gun holstered to his belt was added reassurance for Hope. “Are you okay? You still look a little pale.”

  “I do?” Gosh, what had she looked like when he’d first arrived? He’d come speeding down the street with his lights flashing and swerved sharply into her driveway. He’d jumped out of his car and pulled her into a protective hug for a long moment, until she felt safe again.

  “Iced tea?” She raised a glass.

  When he nodded, she came out from behind the island and set the glass on the table. He followed, pulled out a chair, and sat. He dropped his notepad and pen on the table. There was a bunch of scribble on the page.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” His heavy brows knit together and the lines around his mouth deepened. He was worried about her, again. He was always there for her when her life turned upside down and unraveled.

  “I’m better now.” She was. Ethan was there.

  “What else can you tell me?” He clicked his pen, ready to write. When he arrived, he took her initial statement and then sent her back inside the house while he collected the note and nail as evidence.

  “Nothing really.” Hope returned to the island and took a sip of her iced tea. She had considered spiking her drink, giving it a kick that would calm her nerves faster than just letting time do it. Though, she should probably keep a clear head to answer Ethan’s questions. “I came home and there it was.”

  After discovering the note, she’d rushed through the house to make sure the back door and all the windows were locked. Bigelow thought it was a game, so he’d playfully trotted after her room to room. She couldn’t explain to the dog it wasn’t a game, it was a warning to back off.

  “You have no idea who could have left the note?” Ethan cocked his head sideways. His espresso brown eyes hinted he didn’t believe her earlier when he’d asked the same question.

  “Like I said before, I don’t know who would’ve nailed that note into my newly refurbished door.” She was so proud of the door—a great find at a tag sale last year, which Ethan had helped her transport back to her house. She’d spent a long weekend sanding, priming, and painting, and all of her hard work had paid off. The black door was a striking contrast to the white painted porch and really set off a pair of wall-mounted lanterns she’d refurbished.

  “You can fix the nail hole,” Ethan said, as if reading her mind.

  “I know I can.” Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten in hours. She grabbed a block of Vermont Cheddar cheese from the refrigerator and a box of crackers. Still under Ethan’s scrutiny, she assembled a cheese plate.

  “A little putty and it’ll be as good as new.”

  “A little putty? That’s not the point. I spent days working on the door and then some lunatic rams a nail into it to try making some kind of point.”

  “What point?”

  Hope pressed her lips together. The most obvious point would be the lunatic wanted Hope to stop asking questions about Lily Barnhart and the fire. “You’re the police, what do you think?”

  “I think you’re doing it again. I think you’ve gotten yourself caught up in this murder investigation and you’re making someone nervous. Very nervous.”

  Before Hope could respond, the back door opened and Claire called out a greeting. Saved by her sister. “You won’t believe the day I had. Running for mayor is an exhausting job.” She entered the kitchen. For someone who was complaining about how tired she was, she looked far from run-down. From her three-inch pumps to her gray dress to her rosy cheeks, she exuded poise and radiance, which was far from what Hope looked like when she was exhausted.

  “Hi, Ethan.” Claire waved as she caught sight of Hope. “Wow! You look great!” She grabbed Hope’s hand and twirled her around to get a full look. Her eyes scanned Hope from updo to nude pumps and then nodded approvingly. “Hot date?” she asked, winking.

  “Date?” Ethan echoed.

  “No, no, no date.” She had no dates planned. Well, there was dinner with Matt, but it wouldn’t be a date. It would be a celebration of his new house.

  “Oh, I forgot. You went for a spa treatment.” Claire let go of Hope’s hand and then dropped her designer monogrammed purse on the island.

  “How do you know about the appointment?” Hope asked.

  “Drew told me. Why else would you be all dressed up? After all, you can’t go for a facial dressed in your yoga pan
ts.”

  Hope propped her hands on her hips. “You make it sound like I live in yoga pants. You know, I do wear other clothes.”

  Claire shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “What spa did you go to?” Ethan asked.

  “It’s called Day Spa in Town.” Hope grabbed a cracker and nibbled as she considered how much to tell Ethan. Was it a coincidence a threatening note was left for her upon her return from a visit to the address she found in Lily’s notebook? She doubted it. But, she had no evidence to prove they were connected and, without evidence, whatever she said was nothing more than speculation.

  Claire joined Ethan at the table. “She should get a facial more often. What about you? Manicures? Pedicures? You know they’re not just for women anymore.”

  “Do I look like a mani-pedi kind of guy?”

  Hope stifled the laugh erupting in her throat, but it was no use. The image of Ethan sitting for a manicure was the most ridiculous thing.

  “Just trying to make conversation. What are you writing there?” Claire gestured to Ethan’s notepad.

  “An incident report.”

  “Why are you writing it here? Don’t you have an office . . .” Claire paused for a nanosecond before she swiveled her head to Hope. “What kind of incident?”

  “Nothing. Barely an incident.”

  “A threatening note was nailed to her front door,” Ethan said.

  Hope shot Ethan a “really, did you have to say that?” look.

  Claire’s eyes widened with horror as she jumped up from the chair. “What?!”

  “Calm down.” Hope walked around the island to her sister. “Like I said, it’s no big deal.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down. What have you gotten yourself into?”

  “Now that’s a very good question,” Ethan chimed in. “I know you’re snooping around trying to find the person who set the fire and you need to stop.” His lips set into a grim line.

  “Is she safe here?” Claire asked.