A border of plowed snow lined the lot, which had been empty except for what she assumed was Devon’s compact car. She locked her car and then made her way around to the front of the shop.
The flight of stairs leading to Devon’s apartment was lit by a bright bulb, proof that Claire had contacted the handyman. At the small landing, Hope knocked on the simple wooden door. Footsteps approached from the other side and, after a click of a lock, the door opened.
Devon’s tangle of auburn hair fell below her shoulders, and her face was bare of makeup, allowing its natural brightness to shine. Long lashes framed her emerald-colored eyes, and she smiled.
“Come on in. It’s a lot smaller than the place I had in Phoenix. But it’s all I really need now.”
Devon stepped aside to allow Hope to enter the apartment. In Claire’s real estate lingo, she would have classified the space as cozy. Charming in a minimalist kind of way. The living area consisted of a combined seating and eating space, all in the confines of sad beige walls.
“It’s cozy.”
“Nice spin. The real estate agent who rented me the apartment said the same thing.” Over ripped, baggy jeans, Devon wore an ivory fisherman sweater, and thick gray socks covered her feet. “What’s in the container?”
“Double Chocolate Oatmeal. I baked them yesterday.” Hope handed the container to Devon and returned her gaze to the rectangular, wooden table pressed against the wall. On top, a large bulletin board was propped up and covered with articles, photographs, and notes.
Devon moved to the table and swept a hand over it. “This is where I work, and this is all my research.” On the dark surface were stacks of files, notepads, books, and copies of newspaper articles. Pens were strewn over the workspace, and a closed laptop computer was topped with a file folder. Set on a corner of the table were a microphone and recorder.
“You’re quite thorough.” Hope leaned forward for a closer look at what was tacked to the bulletin board. An article from a larger newspaper about Joyce’s disappearance.
“This case is the number one priority for the Jefferson Police Department,” Detective Jim Voight said in a statement. “At this time, we cannot comment on the progress of our investigation.”
Hope didn’t recognize the article. What she recalled clearly about the incident was the anxiety her mother and her friends had felt, and the days Devon and Felice hadn’t come to school. It had seemed like forever, but they’d returned one week after their mother’s disappearance. While Hope was happy to see her friends in school again, she didn’t understand how they could be at school not knowing what happened to their mom. Hope’s mother had explained that the Markham family needed to get back to their routines, their schedules.
They needed some type of normalcy.
“Searchers are looking for any sign of Joyce Markham in the wooded area near the Markham home,” another article said.
Hope couldn’t fathom how Devon had found any normalcy after people searched the woods for her mother.
“When I select a case to discuss on my podcast, I need to know it inside out.”
“It must be more difficult when it’s your mother.”
“I thought I knew everything about it because I lived it. Turns out, I pushed the memories away for so long, I’ve become fuzzy on some of the details. I needed to go through the articles and other documents. Just like I did for the other missing persons cases I’ve covered.”
“I can’t imagine it’s easy.” Hope skimmed the board again. Was it healthy for Devon to be staring at all those articles and photographs every day?
“No, it’s not easy.”
“This photo.” Hope pointed. “It’s the kitchen from your house on Greenhill Street. Why is it on the board?”
Devon stepped closer to the table. “Something seemed off about the kitchen when I got home from school. I still can’t pinpoint it.” She walked to the sofa and set the container of cookies on the coffee table. There were two mugs of tea already set out. “There’s no doubt in my mind. My mother was abducted and murdered.”
Devon’s bluntness caught Hope off guard. Then again, Devon had been living with the event for twenty years.
“The police never found a suspect or a motive.” Hope draped her jacket and purse on an armchair before joining Devon on the sofa. “Nor did anyone come up with a reason why your mother would simply run off.”
“Exactly! I remember one afternoon the detective who handled the case came to our house. My dad told Felice and me to go upstairs. Felice, always the Goody Two-shoes, went to her room. I, however, stayed downstairs and eavesdropped.” Devon handed Hope a mug. “The detective wasn’t hopeful my mom would come back home. He told my dad he had no leads, no suspects, no reason why someone would want to hurt my mother. He wished he could do more.”
Hope wasn’t sure she heard the last part of what Devon said correctly. “Wished he could do more? It sounds like he was giving up on your mother’s case.”
“I thought the same thing. Eventually, the searches stopped, and my mom’s disappearance moved from the front page to the inside of the newspapers. Then the reporting stopped altogether. Except around Valentine’s Day. It always reminded me of those articles you see online about actors . . . where are they now.” Devon inhaled a deep breath, her green eyes watering. “Instead, the headline was something along the line of ‘still missing, a local woman’s disappearance remains unsolved.’” Tears streamed down Devon’s oval-shaped face.
Hope leaned forward and patted Devon on the knee. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Devon’s head bobbed up and down as she wiped away the tears. “I don’t have a choice. I need to know the truth. I quit my job to do this.”
“You did?”
“Yes. I needed to devote as much time as possible to the podcast. I worked as a staff writer for an equestrian magazine, and now I freelance for them. It gives me flexibility and helps pay the bills. Felice thinks I’m crazy.”
Hope lifted her hand and leaned back. “She’s your sister. She’s worried about you.” Just like Claire was when Hope decided to pursue Hope at Home as a full-time career. From where Claire sat, blogging was an uncertain way to make a living, while working as a magazine editor offered a regular salary and benefits.
“I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. It’s not only my career decisions. She doesn’t understand why I’m back here now, reopening Mom’s case. What I can’t wrap my head around is her reluctance to want to find out the truth.”
“Sometimes the truth is painful.”
“Not knowing is always painful. I can’t let the fact that I may find something I don’t want to know stop me. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” Devon dipped her head, shielding her face. Her hands, resting on her lap, were shaking.
Hope’s insides twisted. A part of her wanted to pull her old friend into a protective hug, while the other part wanted to know what Devon was keeping from her.
“What’s wrong? What is it?” Hope asked.
“I think I know the reason Felice doesn’t want me stirring up the past.” Devon lifted her head and, with her hands, wiped her face dry. “I think she’s trying to protect our father. I’ve come across information he’d been having an affair at the time of my mother’s disappearance.”
Hope took a drink of her tea. She needed a moment to process what she’d just heard. From what she’d seen on the news, it always seemed the husband was the responsible party when a wife disappeared. Had Joyce been another statistic?
“Are you certain?”
Devon’s brows furrowed, causing a deep crease between them. “I wouldn’t have said it if I weren’t.” She stood and went for a tissue. After blowing her nose and discarding the tissue, she returned to Hope. “There’s also something my mom said a few times about Oliver Marchant.”
“Oliver? What about him?”
“He mowed our lawn back then, and Mom said he creeped her out. But she never elaborated on what it was he did.”
“Did she ever tell your father?”
“I think so, because I remember hearing him tell Mom Oliver was affordable and he wouldn’t pay more to have the lawn cut.” Devon shrugged. “I asked her once, and she said it wasn’t important.”
“Did you tell the police after your mom disappeared?”
“Sure. I don’t know what they did with the information.” Devon shifted on the cushion. “Hope, I need your help. I’ve kept up on what’s been going on in town, and I follow you on your blog. I know about your knack for solving murders.”
Hope’s took another drink. She shared none of her sleuthing adventures on her blog or any of her social media platforms. Rather, they’d been written about in newspapers and on celebrity news websites. Her former producer of The Sweet Taste of Success, Corey Lucas, believed any publicity was good publicity. However, her current agent didn’t share the same philosophy. Laurel would have preferred Hope spend less time chasing down killers and more time developing recipes.
“I don’t have a knack. Looking back at those few incidents, I think my curiosity led to the killer making a mistake. If they knew how little information I knew at the time, they certainly wouldn’t have wasted any energy on me.”
“You’re selling yourself short. Your curiosity is an asset, and you have an ability most people don’t. Like the detective who I believe botched my mother’s case. I need your help, Hope. Think about it. Please say you’ll think about it.”
“Yes, I will. Though I can’t promise anything else.” Hope glanced at her watch. She hadn’t realized how late it was and how uncomfortable she was feeling. “I should get going.” She stood and grabbed her jacket and purse.
“Of course.” Devon stood and walked Hope to the door. “Thanks for stopping by and for the cookies.”
“I’ll call you.” Hope stepped out into the hall, but she wasn’t ready to leave yet. She had one more thing to say. “Whatever happens, let’s not wait so long to see each other.”
Devon smiled and it broke out into a laugh. “I promise. Be safe getting home.” She closed the door, and Hope shrugged into her coat before she descended the narrow flight of stairs.
She reached the vestibule and opened the door. Usually, the stillness of this part of the northwest hills was comforting, but tonight the darkness over Jefferson was eerily quiet.
She followed the cleared footpath back to her vehicle.
Looking for any sign of Joyce Markham in the wooded area.
Her imagination was taking over. Visions of volunteers combing the woods for Joyce’s body, dead or alive, played like a movie reel.
Was it possible Joyce had been alive but died from exposure out in the woods? Or was she murdered and her body dumped there? Or Joyce was abducted and taken out of state. Maybe she was living under an assumed name. Perhaps she went into the witness protection program.
A shrill interrupted the darkened silence. Hope’s hand clutched her chest until she realized it was her phone. The ringtone belonged to Corey. She wasn’t sure what his title was these days, but she knew what he was hired to do. His job was to connect Hope and the other bloggers in the agency with brands.
She fumbled for her phone. Her purse had an interior pocket that was the perfect size for her phone, but did she keep it there? No. Her fingers finally grasped the phone, and she tapped it on.
“Good evening, Corey. What’s up?” She’d learned a long time ago small talk was wasted on the hyper New Yorker.
“Just calling with an update.” His nasal voice seemed far away. “Yeah . . . yeah . . . extra soy sauce . . . Sorry, I’m picking up dinner on my way home. Tomorrow I’m having lunch with the people from Mama Mia Pasta. It’s looking good. Also, Frye-Lily is partnering with Allied Home Centers for an autumn campaign, and they’d like to bring you in. You’ll do a few DIY projects for your blog and their website.”
Hope unlocked her Explorer. Whatever Corey’s title was, he was doing a great job at raising her profile among companies.
“I’d love to continue working with Frye-Lily.”
She balanced the DIY projects on her blog by adding recipes to the post. When she wrote about painting the entry of her house, she also shared a recipe for one-bowl brownies. Because after a long day of home reno, you needed a treat.
“Awesome! It’s a great way to get in front of Allied Home. They like working with bloggers.”
Hope squeezed her eyes shut as she smiled. Landing a sponsorship with Allied Home would be huge! She opened her eyes and forced herself to remain calm. One step at a time.
“Call me after you meet with Mama Mia. And keep me updated on Frye-Lily.” She tossed her purse onto the passenger seat and climbed into the SUV.
There was silence on the other end.
“Corey?” Then the sounds of Midtown traffic, horns, sirens, loud voices, reminded Hope of her years living in the city. She glanced around the empty lot. New York was still alive and vibrant, while Jefferson, like her, was getting ready to tuck in for the night.
“Sorry . . . lost you there for a moment. I’ll call you when I have news.”
Before Hope could say good night, the line went silent. Again. Corey had disconnected the call without so much as a goodbye. Nothing new there.
Hope dropped the phone into the console and then started the vehicle. Warm air streamed from the vents, and she eased back into the heated seat.
While her body warmed up, she thought about Devon’s request. In high school, they studied and did their math homework at Hope’s house. They’d breeze through their assignments so they could spend the rest of the time doing other things. Fun things. Hope smiled. She could still see them in her bedroom. Thin as a rail, Devon had her waist-length hair pulled back into a ponytail, and she snapped bubblegum while they decided which songs to add to their mixtape. Hope cringed. What could she say? They were teenagers, and that’s what they did back then. Now, her classmate was all grown up and wanted her help to track down a potential killer.
* * *
During the blogging class two days before, Hope did her best to present all the positives of writing a blog. Her reasoning was simple. Publishing a blog for the long haul was hard and rife with setbacks, obstacles, and a boatload of competition, and she wanted to make sure her students saw the good things and remembered them. Otherwise, when faced with an unpleasant task, they could easily give up.
One of the most tedious yet essential tasks she did regularly was edit her cooking videos. The process from start to finish to upload took hours, and she was now able and willing to hand off the task to her assistant.
Seated at the kitchen table, Hope had her laptop open and her phone next to it. She was on speaker with Josie.
“Great job editing the How to Bake Even Cake Layers video.” Hope closed out of one tab and opened a new one. She wanted to check her views for yesterday’s recipe post.
“Really? I’m so glad you loved it.” Josie’s enthusiasm came across loud and clear. She had a little experience with editing, and she welcomed the challenge of building a new skill. The how-to cake video was short, less than two minutes, and the perfect one for Josie to edit solo, like the Chicken Parmesan video. In no time, she’d be tackling Hope’s more in-depth videos.
“I watched it while having coffee earlier. It’s perfect.”
“I’m excited to do more.”
“Well, you saw the schedule. We have a lot more videos to produce.” Hope leaned forward and tapped her keyboard. Her calendar for the month came up, and there were five video shoots scheduled by the end of February.
Bigelow barked, announcing his arrival in the kitchen. Coming up behind him was Princess. She paused for a nanosecond before continuing to the table, where she jumped up onto a chair. Hope eyed her, wondering if the cat would leap up to the table. Hope didn’t have many rules in her house, but one nonnegotiable rule was that Princess wasn’t allowed on tables and countertops. From the glint in the cat’s eyes, it looked like she was thinking about break
ing that rule.
“Before I let you go, have you seen my charm bracelet?” Hope looked around the kitchen. She remembered wearing the sterling-silver bracelet three days ago, when she was filming her Beef Bourguignon recipe. She’d removed the bracelet when she realized how much noise the charms made when she moved her arm. Now she couldn’t find it.
“You had it on when you made the Beef Bourguignon. You took it off and set it on the counter by the sink.”
“It’s not there now. I thought maybe you moved it someplace safer. It’s been crazy the past few days; I probably moved it. Guess it’ll show up.” The mudroom door opened, and Hope glanced over her shoulder. “Claire’s here. I have to go.”
“Okay. I’ll schedule the cake video to make sure all the social media links are done for it too. Remember, you have to give me the list of the older posts you want me to work on so the links can be updated. I hope you find your bracelet.”
“Me too. I’ll keep looking. It has to be here somewhere.” Hope ended the call and swiped off her phone.
“What can’t you find?” Claire dropped her purse on the counter and unzipped her puffer coat. She walked to the coffee maker and poured a cup. At the refrigerator, she pulled out a carton of milk and added a drop to her coffee. Bigelow trotted over to her and sat by her side, his head tilted up. “Good morning. What do you want?”
“Maybe a pat on the head?” Hope suggested.
“Needy much?” Claire patted the dog on his head, and his tail wagged excitedly. “Oh, he likes this.” She continued to pet him.
“Look at the two of you, getting along.” It was about time. From the first day Hope brought Bigelow home, he and Claire had had a rocky relationship. He liked to jump on humans, while Claire preferred not to be jumped on. Their goals definitely conflicted with each other.
“He might be growing on me,” Claire said reluctantly.
The Corpse Who Knew Too Much Page 7