“Really? She doesn’t strike me as a Suzy Homemaker type.”
“Guess we all have sides of ourselves others rarely see.” Hope scraped the jar with her spoon to get the very last of the yogurt-granola mix.
“I really hate to bring this up, but are you going to Peaches’ funeral?” Audrey wiped her hands on a napkin.
Hope nodded. “I feel like I should pay my respects. How about you?”
“I’m going, but I’m not going to Maretta’s for the reception. It’s so sad that Peaches didn’t have any family. Thank goodness the Kingstons stepped forward to take care of the arrangements.” Audrey glanced at her watch. “I should get going. We both have to get ready for the service. I’m glad you’re feeling better. I was so worried.”
“I appreciate that you stopped by to check on me.” Hope walked Audrey and Bigelow to the front door.
“That’s what friends do.” Audrey hugged Hope. “Please be careful,” she whispered.
Hope nodded, then let go of her friend. She stepped back into her house and closed and locked the door after Audrey and Bigelow had descended the porch steps.
She would be careful as she continued searching for the killer.
* * *
There were only three things that got Claire to church—weddings, funerals, and Christmas service and only because they were fashion events. By the end, she’d have a list of the top-ten best-dressed and a list of the top-ten “should go out and buy a mirror.” That was the reason Hope did all she could to avoid going to church with her sister.
But for Peaches’ funeral, Hope needed the ride.
She also needed her sister to zip up her black sheath dress. While Hope struggled to look decent enough to appear in public, Claire looked mourning perfect in a black trench coat, her blond hair swept back into a sleek bun and a stylish clutch in her hand. But Hope had had the foresight to wear a pair of wedge pumps, which made navigating the terrain at the cemetery effortless, while Claire found her stiletto heels sinking into the moist soil as she walked to Peaches’ grave.
The burial was somber and chilly. Only a handful of mourners drove out to the cemetery to say their final farewells. As Peaches had no family, Alfred and Maretta had taken on the responsibility of burying the thirty-five-year-old. Hope knew Alfred felt it was the least he could do while Maretta strove to do the least she could for a woman she disliked. She’d chosen the no-frills coffin and the simplest floral arrangements.
The cool March air nipped through Hope’s trench coat. She craved a hot cup of something. Even a cup of tea would have been welcomed. When the priest finished the service, she walked back to Claire’s luxury sedan, along with Jane and Sally, mostly because they moved at her speed—slow.
“You need to speak with Rusty Collins,” Jane said as the three of them walked across the lawn.
“Why?”
“He owns the house Peaches rented. I’m sure he’d let you look around,” Jane said.
Hope doubted Rusty would let her inside the house. For that to happen, he’d actually have to do a favor. He was a curmudgeon of a man, short on patience and long on grudges. As far as she knew, Rusty didn’t do favors. For anyone.
“The police have removed their crime scene tape,” Sally added.
“How do you know that?” Hope approached a few bumpy patches. Luckily, she didn’t lose her balance and managed to stay upright.
“We drove by there this morning, on the way back from the market,” Sally said.
Hope winced. She’d definitely overdone it. She should have passed on the burial. She never thought she’d see the day she couldn’t keep up with the Merrifields. Her struggle didn’t go unnoticed by Jane, who slowed down a bit, no doubt to give a lecture.
“You really should be home. You’re not fully recovered,” Jane said.
Sally waved a dismissive hand. “Stop mothering her. She’s a grown woman, and if she wants to be out hunting down a murderer, then we can’t stop her.”
“I’m not exactly hunting. I’m barely walking.” Hope muttered. She made it to her sister’s car, and the Merrifields continued to their car. She slid into the passenger seat, and Claire started the ignition. Hope reached into her purse for her cell phone. She looked up Rusty’s phone number. If everything went well, she’d have access to Peaches’ home by the end of the day.
“What are you doing?” Claire asked.
“Looking for a number. Rusty Collins.” Hope typed in the search field.
“Why?”
“He owns the house Peaches lived in. I want to see if I can look around.”
“Why?”
“To look for clues.”
“You’re now a target. Don’t you think you should stop this sleuthing thing?”
Hope glanced at her sister. “No. If anything, I need to do more.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does to me.” Hope looked at her phone. “He’s not listed. I guess we’ll drive over to the gas station.”
“No,” Claire said sharply and a little too quickly.
Hope’s head swung around and was surprised with Claire’s look. “You got banned, didn’t you?” Rusty was a legend in Jefferson for his banning customers at his gas station for minor infractions, such as pulling into a bay in the wrong direction. He was a stickler for traffic control. And he chased off banned customers who dared to buy gas. Hope wondered how he’d managed to stay in business for as long as he had.
Claire shook her head. “Never mind about the gas station. I have his number because he lists his house through our agency.”
A tapping at the car window startled Hope. She dropped the phone into her purse and glanced over to the window.
Detective Reid.
She lowered the window. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“I just wanted to see how you’re feeling.” His face was closed. He had that unexpressive cop look going so it was hard to tell if he was truly concerned about her.
“That’s very considerate of you. Do you still think my sister tried to kill me?”
“I cannot comment on an ongoing investigation.”
“Of course.” With her index finger, Hope pressed the window control button and the window rapidly rose, putting a barrier between her and the detective. If only that button worked on everything in her life. Now that would be a really good thing.
Chapter Twenty
“Are you sure you want to go in there? I can take you home,” Claire said as she pulled into a space outside Maretta’s home for the funeral reception.
“I’m sure. It’s the right thing to do. Right?” A sliver of doubt wriggled its way into Hope’s head. The last time she was in the Kingston house, it wasn’t pleasant. Maretta had accused Hope of skulking around as if she were a criminal.
When they entered the house, Hope looked around for Maretta. Her quick scan turned up a small cluster of mourners in the living room, while a few others milled around what she expected to be an uninspired buffet set up in the dining room.
Drew strode out of the dining room with a cup of coffee. “Slim pickings.”
“What did you expect?” Hope slung her purse over her shoulder.
Claire caught up with Hope. “I’m going to call Rusty and see if we can stop over at Peaches’ house on the way home.”
“Have you seen Maretta?” Hope asked Drew.
“There she is.” Drew pointed to the staircase. “I’d hate to be in her shoes.”
“Some people like sensible shoes, Drew.”
The older woman stepped off the staircase and disappeared into the living room.
“I’m talking about having to host a wake for a woman you despise.”
“Oh. I don’t think she despised Peaches.” Hope glanced back to the dining room and spotted Meg Griffin at the buffet table. Should she or shouldn’t she approach Meg? The last few times hadn’t turned out so well. But they lived in the same small town now and they needed to find a way to coexist peacefully. It pr
obably would have helped if Hope didn’t suspect her of murder, but then again no friendship was without its ups and downs, right?
“Be right back.” Hope broke away from Drew to walk into the dining room. She approached the dining table that had been set up as a makeshift buffet. “Navigating a buffet can be challenging,” she said in a light, casual tone and hoped for the best.
“Tell me about it.” Meg scooped up some baked ziti. “Everything is so calorie laden. Look at this ziti.”
Hope tried not to. Processed mozzarella clumped over bland, watery sauce and soggy penne.
“The salad looks pretty safe. I mean, not too high in calories.”
“I heard about the accident and what happened at your house yesterday. But since you’re sticking your nose into matters that don’t concern you, you can’t be surprised by the turn of events, can you?” Meg dropped the serving spoon back onto the tray and set her plate on the table. She turned and marched away.
That didn’t go well. Lots of ups and downs.
Somber guests begun to stir around the buffet, and Hope decided it was time to make herself scarce. She grabbed Meg’s discarded plate and weaved through the small group to reach the kitchen, where she tossed the heavy-duty paper plate into the trash. She moved over to the sink, turned on the faucet, and washed her hands.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Maretta approach. Even if she hadn’t spotted the woman, she would have sensed an extra gloomy cloud hovering nearby.
“You certainly have been a busy bee these days,” Maretta said.
“Hello, Maretta.” Hope wiped her hand on a paper towel.
“A blog, radio interviews, remodeling a house, and investigating a murder. How do you find the time?”
“I did write a post a couple weeks ago on time management.”
“Don’t be flippant with me, Hope Elizabeth Early.”
Ouch. Hope’s full name. Maretta was unquestionably angry.
“I’m just asking a few questions.”
“You’re asking a lot of questions.”
“There’s no law against that.”
“There should be. Just like there’s a law against trespassing.”
Maretta wasn’t going to let it go. Ten years from now, Maretta would still be bringing up the night Hope found Vanessa’s dead body, but the crime she would emphasize would be trespassing and not the murder. “Vanessa invited me the other night. And I was invited here today, just like everybody else.”
Maretta moved closer to Hope. “Trying to get justice is an admirable thing.”
A compliment? Had Hope heard right?
“However, snooping is not. I have guests to attend to, and I’m sure you can show yourself out.” Maretta swung around and walked out of her kitchen.
How was it possible Hope was welcomed into thousands of homes every day, thanks to her blog, but she was quickly becoming persona non grata to the people she’d known for years? She shouldn’t wait to be asked a second time to leave. She tossed the paper towel into the trash when movement out the window over the sink caught her attention.
She moved closer to the window and peered out. There was a woman stacking boxes on the small front porch of the carriage house. Was she Vanessa’s sister? She also recalled someone saying her sister would be arriving to take care of the funeral arrangements. A pang of sorrow cut through Hope’s heart. How awful for the woman to have to bury her sister. Chills skittered up Hope’s body at the brief thought of having to make such arrangements for Claire.
Hope only caught a glimpse of the woman, dressed in a pair of dark leggings and a beige crochet tunic, before she turned and walked back into the house. Hope closed her eyes to try to recall her name. Vera.
She considered whether or not to go out to the carriage house and decided to go. Vera shouldn’t be alone during the process of packing up her sister’s life. Pulling open the back door, she stepped outside. Apprehension stopped her. What if the woman wasn’t Vera? She shook off the silly thought because the killer wouldn’t be packing Vanessa’s belongings, nor would she be there during the day with a main house full of people.
Hope walked along the bluestone path to the cottage, which was built for Alfred’s mother with an emphasis on large windows to let the sunshine in and to have a view of the beautiful garden Maretta tended to. The late Mrs. Kingston loved gardening and that was, other than Alfred himself, the only thing Maretta and her mother-in-law had in common. Hope glanced around and saw that, like every other garden in town, it was waking slowly from its dormant winter state. Daffodils dotted the garden beds, and Hope noticed there was one large clump in the perfect viewing location from the front porch. No doubt Mrs. Kingston had enjoyed a morning cup of tea in the kitchen nook, which was bumped out onto the porch, staring at the perky, yellow flowers.
Hope climbed the two steps of the porch and, at the threshold of the front door, she pushed the door open and leaned in. Her breath caught.
Vanessa?
Hope did a quick mental regrouping. The resemblance was remarkable. The woman wasn’t Vanessa. She was her sister.
“May I help you?”
“I . . . I’m sorry. You must be Vera,” Hope said.
The woman nodded. “Yes. And you are Hope Early. I recognize you from The Sweet Taste of Success. You should have won,” Vera approached and extended a hand.
Hope shook Vera’s hand.
Vera was a couple of inches taller than her sister but had the same heart-shaped face with big brown eyes.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I was told you were the person who found her.” Vera moved back to a large box she was packing with pillows and throws. Vanessa did love accessories and cozy throws to curl up with at night on the sofa.
Hope cast her eyes downward for a moment. She wasn’t prepared to relive that night over again, and she didn’t think Vera wanted to hear the details.
“I also heard you found the other woman. How awful. Vanessa said Jefferson was a nice place to live.” She placed a heavy emphasis on the word “was.”
Hope lifted her gaze to Vera. “It is. What’s happened is very out of character for our town. Are you packing up Vanessa’s belongings by yourself?”
Vera nodded. “Luckily, Van wasn’t a pack rat.”
“She was very organized.” Hope glanced around the living space, which consisted of the living room and eat-in kitchen. Prior to the moving boxes scattered around, the space had been tidy. As a renter, Vanessa couldn’t add too many personal touches, but everything had a place and she had kept a spotless home.
“We got that from our mother. She was an accountant.”
“That explains Vanessa’s love of spreadsheets.”
“And mine, too. Though, it’s not helping me much finding a new job. But right now I can’t think about that. I told Mrs. Kingston I would have everything cleared out by the end of the week.”
“That’s not a lot of time. I’m happy to help. You shouldn’t be doing this by yourself. I have a sister. I can’t imagine having to do this.”
Vera’s lip quivered. She appeared to have it all together but Hope expected that inside she was on the verge of falling apart.
“Thank you. I rented a storage unit to store Vanessa’s things because I really can’t go through the stuff. Not yet.” Vera’s strong façade broke. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she tried to wipe them away with her hands. But there were too many tears.
Hope dashed over to the fireplace and snatched a box of tissues off the mantel. She extended the box to Vera, who pulled out a couple of tissues.
Vera wiped her face dry and drew in a shaky breath to steady herself. She appeared embarrassed by her show of emotion. She stepped over to the desk, which was set against the bedroom wall, and deposited the used tissues in the small trash basket. A large box sat on top of the desk, and there was a spread of files next to it.
“Did Vanessa leave her laptop at your house?”
“No. Why do you ask?” Hope
peeked inside of the box of pillows and throws. The throws were scrunched up and just tossed in on top of the pillows. Vera was grieving and not thinking clearly about small things. She had far more important things to focus on than pillows and throws.
Vera looked over her shoulder. “Because I can’t find hers. I’ve looked everywhere. It’s strange.”
Hope glanced up. Somehow she’d resist repacking the box. She stepped away, putting distance between herself and the temptation. She joined Vera at the desk.
What could have happened to Vanessa’s bright pink laptop? She always carried it with her when she came to work at Hope’s house. She had a sleek leather bag she toted the laptop around in.
“Did you find the laptop bag?”
“Yes.” Vera pointed to the floor by the desk.
Hope picked up the bag and unzipped it. Inside were the mouse and a packet of computer wipes. Where on earth was the laptop? Did the murderer take the computer? If so, why? How were Vanessa and her computer connected to Peaches’ murder?
“Did Vanessa ever mention Peaches McCoy to you?”
“Not really. She may have said something because the name is familiar to me, but I don’t remember what Vanessa said. She mostly talked about you and Audrey Bloom.” Vera dropped the files into the box and then reached for the round pen holder of markers, pens, and pencils.
“Wait, you don’t want any ink leaks.” Hope scooted over to the small but efficient kitchen and searched for sealable plastic bags. With the box in hand, she returned to Vera and dumped the contents of the pen holder into a Baggie and sealed it.
Vera smiled. She looked relieved someone else was taking control. “Thank you.”
“Let’s get some work done.”
Together, they continued to pack up the desk and corner bookshelf. Even with her love of technology, Vanessa had preferred print books and indulged in hardcover editions because she loved how they felt in her hands when she settled down to read. Three more boxes were filled, and Vera decided to call it a day. She wanted to take the boxes to the storage unit and head back to her room at the Merrifield Inn.
The Uninvited Corpse Page 17