Carol Higgins Clark Boxed Set - Volume 1: This eBook collection contains Zapped, Cursed, and Wrecked.

by Clark, Carol Higgins

  “So you’re saying you have no contact information.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Did she use your phone? Were there any numbers on your bill?”

  “No. She didn’t make any calls and only answered when she could tell from the caller ID that it was me calling.”

  “We found no ID in the house, but her car is in the garage, which is locked. If I can get in there and see the license plate, my office can trace it,” Jack explained.

  Dorie took a deep breath. “We have a key. Dan and I are coming down,” she said with determination. “As soon as he gets back from the gym.”

  “Be careful. The driving isn’t going to be easy.”

  “I don’t care. Adele Hopkins was our tenant. She paid us fair and square and now she’s dead. We have to find out who this woman was. Jack, can we pay you and Regan?”

  “You don’t have to pay us. We want to help. Actually, Regan and I were just heading over to the shop where she bought all the pillows to see if anyone there knows anything about her.”

  “Oh, great. And don’t forget, we met her at Fern’s. She said the breakfast had been delicious. Maybe she went back. Fern knows everything that’s going on around town. Which reminds me of Fran and Ginnie. If you talk to them—”

  “Believe me, we have. A branch crashed through their front window this morning. They came over and plan to stay indefinitely.”

  “You poor dears.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “That’s another thing. With those two living on the block, I knew I’d hear from them if Mrs. Hopkins was doing anything crazy. They’re like our own neighborhood watch.”

  “That they are,” Jack agreed.

  “Jack, thank you for all your help. We’re so lucky to have you and Regan down there. I don’t know what we’d do without you. We’ll see you as soon as we can.”

  Jack hung up the phone. By now, Regan was standing next to him. He’d been holding the phone out so she could hear the conversation.

  “You were right, Regan. There’s no simple explanation for who that woman was.”

  Regan smiled. “Yes, but I didn’t expect there’d be no explanation. Let’s go. Something tells me that anyone on the Cape who had fleeting contact with Adele Hopkins knows more about her than Dorie.”

  13

  Aren’t we lucky to have found such a wonderful spot for breakfast?” Devon asked as he and five of his six actors piled into a minibus outside Fern’s. “We all need to start the day with a hearty, healthy breakfast. From this moment on we’re going to need every ounce of energy!”

  “Um-hmm,” the others grumbled. Being theater people, they didn’t relish the morning.

  Devon turned on the ignition and pulled out of Fern’s parking lot onto a narrow, slick road. A mile later, as their home away from home—a magnificent white mansion perched on a slope overlooking the sea—came into view, Devon outstretched his right arm. “How can we be this lucky?” he asked dramatically. “Before long we’ll be entertaining theatergoers on that sprawling lawn. They’ll be sitting in seats under an open-air tent, sniffing the sea air . . .”

  “In weather like this, they’re especially going to love it,” one of his actors remarked.

  “Oh, Brandon”—Devon chuckled—“we’ll pull down the flaps. Our audiences will be so transfixed, they won’t care where they are.”

  “The lodging is what I like,” Martha commented. “I’ve performed in places where they put us up in school dormitories that should have been shut down by the board of health.”

  “Haven’t we all?” Annie, the rep’s ingenue, agreed. She winked conspiratorially at Martha. “Living in that mansion is great, but I’d really like my own house.”

  “Me, too!” Martha exclaimed.

  Devon gasped. He knew that his cast loved to tease him. Naturally he loved the attention.

  The traveling theater company was his baby. Over the years he’d written plays that had been produced but never made a lasting impression. This last year, though, he’d written a play that had been well received at readings for investors in New York City. Devon glowingly described his creation as a comedy about a typical dysfunctional family weekend in the country. His goal, of course, was to have the play produced on Broadway. But first it would have to be tested on out-of-town audiences. No doubt the script would have to be tweaked here and there along the way.

  Devon raised enough money from investors to cover the cost of producing his play in three locations over the summer. First stop Cape Cod, then the Berkshires, and finally the Hamptons. In each place Devon had managed to find a welcoming spot to pitch his tent. He’d auditioned hundreds of actors, finally coming up with a cast that he felt was perfect to fill the roles he created—a mother and father in their mid-forties; their son and daughter, both in their early twenties; the daughter’s troublesome boyfriend; and the pivotal role of the nutty grandpa who comes to visit.

  He was wild with anticipation to get started with the rehearsals. Tomorrow night’s cocktail party would be fun, but after that they’d get down to business, doing what they all loved best. The rehearsal process was a period of discovery that was most exciting. He couldn’t wait to guide the actors, desperately hoping that they’d mine every ounce of gold out of every brilliant line of his play.

  Only one thing made him nervous—the thought of directing Floyd Wellington, the actor who was playing Grandpa. Floyd was a star of the theater world who had strong opinions about every aspect of every production he’d ever been a part of.

  It had been a coup to get him to do one of the readings in New York. All the comments from investors were that Floyd Wellington was born to play the part. Many of them would invest only if he did play the part. Wellington’s range as an actor was unmatched. Onstage he was always captivating, unpredictable, mercurial, sometimes crazy as a loon, and charming when need be. Unfortunately, he was the same way offstage. The guy couldn’t gas up his car without making it some kind of performance. He had been in one hit movie and then declared the whole experience bored him. He’d never waste his time again. In the years that followed he received numerous film offers, but it didn’t matter. He’d made up his mind. If anything, he saw his life as a movie.

  Floyd agreed to join the Traveling Thespians on their summer tour, but he made it clear he had no desire to live in a group situation, mansion or no mansion.

  “I would never expect you to,” Devon had fawned.

  For their Cape Cod stay, Devon had rented a lovely home on the water where Floyd would live, alone.

  Devon knew that the success of the play depended on Floyd. He was certainly the draw for the cocktail party. People who’d seen him in his one movie forty years ago and those who’d seen him on Broadway were anxious to make his acquaintance.

  Pulling the Thespians’ minibus down the long driveway, Devon was surprised to see Floyd’s car already there. He’s not due for another half hour, Devon thought. It’s not like him to be early.

  Inside the house he found Floyd glued to the television in the spacious kitchen. Like most everyone on the Cape, he was watching storm coverage.

  “Good morning, Floyd,” Devon said cheerily. “Didn’t expect to see you here this soon.”

  Floyd smiled. “I can’t wait to get started, Devon. This role is something I can sink my teeth into.” His eyes blazed as a growling noise emanated from his throat.

  Whew, Devon thought. He’s in a good mood. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “No.”

  Across the television screen the words BREAKING NEWS appeared in bold red lettering. “We have a very sad story to report,” the male anchor announced. “A woman renting a home on Pond Road in Chatwich has presumably been swept out to sea. We are warning everyone to please stay off the beaches. The currents are—”

  “What a shame,” Floyd said as he turned to Devon, his face bereft. “A story like that fills me with a sadness that I draw on when I act.”

  “How interestin
g,” Devon said, shaking his head meaningfully. “Even though you didn’t know her you’ll be able to use her loss in a performance.”

  Floyd nodded solemnly. “I can’t wait to find out more about her. It will make me even sadder and enrich me.” A moment later he chuckled. “Hey, Devon, hopefully she wasn’t someone who was going to write a big check at our cocktail party tomorrow night. After all, timing is everything!” His booming laugh filled the room.

  This play better make it to Broadway, Devon thought as he pretended to find the joke amusing. I was warned about this guy. Maybe I should have listened.

  But I need him.

  14

  When Regan and Jack turned into the gravel parking lot of Pillow Talk, a cute little shop set back from the road and surrounded by trees, Jack shook his head. “I can’t believe that this is where the shop is.”

  “Why?” Regan asked as Jack steered the car into a parking spot near the entrance. “It seems like a perfect location for a store like this. And the building is so charming—the quintessential Cape Cod cottage.” She paused. “What’s wrong with it?”

  Jack turned off the car. “It is a perfect location. But for shopkeepers there have been problems.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “This place was a tailor shop for more than forty years. The owner died and the family sold the property about five years ago. It seems that every year since, there has been a new tenant. You probably didn’t notice, but last summer it was vacant.”

  “Why so many changeovers?”

  “The owner made life difficult for his tenants. When it was an ice cream store he’d come in and sit there for hours, making suggestions about how they could drum up business, then ask for a free sundae. When it was a dress shop he’d stop by and plop down in the chair reserved for weary husbands. If a woman asked him what he thought of the outfit they were trying on, he’d just shake his head and give it the thumbs-down. No one ever wanted to renew their lease. I guess that’s why it was empty last year. Word gets around.”

  “That guy must be lonely. We should introduce him to Fran and Ginny.” Regan opened the car door. “The new tenants must be optimists or from out of town.”

  Bells on the door tinkled as Regan and Jack walked inside the shop.

  The first thing that caught Regan’s eye was a pillow propped on a shelf that read YOU’RE NOBODY TILL SOMEBODY FIRES YOU. Jack saw it too.

  “An interesting philosophy,” he muttered.

  The room itself, painted a pale yellow, was cheerful. Rows of greeting cards lined one wall. On another wall were shelves of embroidered pillows that made for interesting reading. Another one that caught Regan’s eye was EX MARKS THE SPOT.

  A round table with four chairs covered by a flowered tablecloth was in the corner. Hanging on the wall right by the entrance were several framed newspaper articles. Regan stepped closer to read the headline: Two Best Friends Have Been Turning Lemons into Lemonade Since They Were Ten Years Old.

  A young woman came hurrying out of a back room. “Hello,” she said cheerfully. “My name is Ellen. Can I help you with anything or would you just like to look around?”

  Jack extended his hand. “My name is Jack Reilly and this is my wife, Regan. My parents have a home in Chatwich. We’re here to see if you have any information about a woman who purchased at least a dozen pillows from this store. Her name was Adele Hopkins.”

  Ellen’s face flushed. “Pippy,” she yelled, “get out here!”

  You’d think we were about to rob the place, Regan thought. But she obviously remembers Hopkins.

  Pippy arrived in a flash. She was petite with curly brown hair and a sweet face that at the moment bore a worried frown. “What is it?”

  “These people are asking about Adele Hopkins.”

  “Oh my. We heard about what happened to her on the news. We can’t believe she’s dead!”

  “We’re in shock,” Ellen agreed. “I don’t mean to be rude, but why are you involved?”

  Jack explained what he and Regan did for a living. “But we’d want to help out anyway. My parents have a home next door to the house Mrs. Hopkins was renting. The owners of that house are friends of ours.”

  Pippy gestured to the table in the corner. “Please sit down. Would you like coffee?”

  “No thanks,” Regan and Jack both answered.

  If they’re asking us to sit down, they must know something, Regan thought. As they headed to the table, she said, “We realized your store must be fairly new. How long have you been here?”

  In a whirl, Ellen explained their story. “After that first newspaper article appeared six weeks ago, it spread like wildfire on the internet. We have so many orders for pillows, we can hardly keep up. Our website has gone crazy. So many people have written to us with their stories of being fired, or of people who have done them wrong. Which brings us to Mrs. Hopkins.”

  “What about her?” Jack asked.

  “Well, we first met her in January when she stopped in and asked if we carried stationery. We don’t, so she starting browsing through the cards and checking out the pillows. This was before that first story about us appeared and we started making all the pillows with jokes about being fired and that kind of thing. But at that time some of our pillows had quips about ex-boyfriends and expressions about not letting the bad guys get you down.”

  “We started this store with the purpose of selling pillows and cards that were funny and would cheer people up,” Pippy interrupted. “Our success is great but now that our website has become a place for people to vent, we’re hearing from a few people who are obviously quite angry.”

  “I’m getting to that,” Ellen insisted. “So Mrs. Hopkins was here and looking at the pillows when she turned to me and said that maybe some of these bad guys who’d let people down feel sorry about what they had done but didn’t know how to express themselves. I told her they could send an apology card, and that we had just received our first shipment. It was Pippy’s suggestion that we order them. Mrs. Hopkins asked if she could see them. I brought a few out and she bought four boxes! She could tell I was surprised, then mumbled something about knowing someone who could really use them.”

  “It’s the old ‘I’m buying this for my friend,’” Pippy interjected. “But it made us wonder. Then she asked about custom-made pillows. We said we could embroider anything she wanted. She ordered a dozen pillows, all alike—‘GRUDGE ME, GRUDGE ME NOT’”—and asked if she could pick up one as soon as possible. At that time Ellen and I were making all the pillows ourselves. I said sure, I’ll make it tonight. She picked it up the next day. Then she came by over a month later to pick up the rest of them, the day the first newspaper reporter came in to interview us. Mrs. Hopkins was walking out as the reporter was walking in. I think it made her uncomfortable when the reporter asked her what her pillows said. She just sailed past the reporter and said, “Nothing special.”

  Ellen nodded. “The reporter asked us again after Mrs. Hopkins was gone, but we didn’t tell her because it wouldn’t have been right. She might have tried to find out Mrs. Hopkins’s name, and who wants the world to know that you’re asking tons of people for forgiveness?”

  “I told the reporter she had selected an assortment of pillows,” Pippy added earnestly.

  “And that was the last time we ever saw Mrs. Hopkins,” Ellen said.

  This doesn’t help much, Regan thought. “Did she say anything about—”

  “Wait. I’m not finished,” Ellen blurted.

  “Okay,” Regan said, trying to smile. This woman should meet Ginny.

  “That afternoon we received one of the pillows we had made for her in the mail. It obviously must have been that first one she picked up. It was slashed to ribbons.”

  Regan and Jack both leaned forward.

  “Was there a return address?” Regan asked.

  “Nope. Nothing. The postmark was from Long Branch, a town south of Boston.”

  “Hopkins mustn’t have put a retu
rn address on the package when she sent it out,” Jack said. “How did whoever received it know where to send it back?”

  “All of our pillows have a little tag sewn in the corner with our name and address,” Pippy answered. “I used to work in PR. You can’t be shy about promoting your product.”

  Ellen pushed her hair behind her ear. “We couldn’t get in touch with Mrs. Hopkins because we didn’t have any information about how to reach her. She paid cash and didn’t want to be on our mailing list. When she walked out that day the newspaper reporter was here, that was it. We felt terrible but in a way it was a relief. Can you imagine handing the pillow back to her all slashed to ribbons?”

  “Did you keep it?” Regan asked.

  “Of course. It’s in the back.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Jack said, “I’d like to take it with us.”

  “It’s all yours,” Pippy said quickly. “There’s one more thing.”

  “What?” Jack asked.

  “Last night we received one of those nasty e-mails I told you about. The subject line was ‘Adele Hopkins—the rowing coach from hell.’”

  “Really?” Regan said.

  “Yes. Ellen read it last night. It was from someone who said that her rowing coach, Adele Hopkins, had been the meanest, most horrible woman she’d ever met. Hopkins berated girls on the team who weren’t as good as the star athletes. She made their lives miserable. This person wrote that Hopkins was a five-foot-four-inch tyrant with a pug nose that she’d love to break.”

  “How tall was the Hopkins you’re talking about?” Regan asked delicately.

  “About five-three,” Ellen answered. “She had curly hair and a cute pug nose.”

  “You say whoever wrote this didn’t sign their name?” Jack asked.

  “No, they didn’t,” Pippy affirmed. “Ellen and I heard the news on the radio about Mrs. Hopkins and then she told me about the e-mail. When I read it for myself, I fired back a response and said, ‘You might be interested to know a Mrs. Adele Hopkins who was living on Cape Cod just died in a terrible accident. Hopkins was a lovely woman. You should be ashamed of yourself.’”