“Sounds like you’re investigating,” Reid observed.
“Exactly!” Claire threw her arms up in the air.
“All I did was call Drew. Look, we should be concerned about Devon right now,” Hope said. “Last night, Claire overheard Devon talking on the phone.”
“She sounded upset. I heard her say she wasn’t leaving Jefferson until she found out what happened to her mother,” Claire said.
Reid jotted down more notes. His dark eyebrows drew together, and he closed his notepad. “Given the situation, I will file a missing persons report because it appears someone has searched the apartment.”
“A report?” Claire propped her hand on her hip. “Can’t you do more?”
“In all honesty, filing the report at this stage is all we can do until we’re certain whether Ms. Markham is missing or not. I’ll contact her sister to see if she knows where Ms. Markham could be.” Reid took a step forward, and Bigelow stood up on all fours.
Hope patted her dog on the head as the detective passed by and walked down the stairs.
“What good is a report going to do?” Claire turned and tramped down the staircase. Her steps were heavy with frustration, and Hope sighed. She didn’t like the outcome either. She’d hoped for more, but Devon was an adult who could be anywhere doing anything and not in any danger.
Perhaps they were overreacting. Then again, did Devon, her family, and the police think they were overreacting when Joyce was first discovered to be missing? Did they all think she was an adult who could be anywhere doing anything and not in any danger?
Hope led Bigelow down the stairs. It wasn’t unreasonable to think Devon went out first thing in the morning as Reid had suggested. In fact, most likely that was what happened and Devon would return home at some point. If that were the case, why did the hairs on the back of Hope’s neck prick up?
* * *
The warmth of the inn’s lobby prompted Hope to unzip her jacket. She found Jane busy at the reception desk, a fixture in the inn since the once private house was turned into a charming bed-and-breakfast. The couple Jane was speaking to was asking about skiing in the area. Jane handed them two brochures and then explained the differences between the two ski destinations. The couple smiled and thanked Jane for her advice and, on their way out of the inn, patted Bigelow on the head.
“I’m sorry to interrupt.” Hope guided Bigelow to the reception desk.
Jane waved away the silly notion. “No worries at all, dear. I was just about to take a break. And it’s wonderful to see the little guy.” She whisked Hope and Bigelow into the back parlor.
The room was a private space where Jane and Sally retreated from their guests.
Jane’s husband, Sally’s older brother, had died a decade ago, leaving her alone in their big house. Sally had been living in her house north of Main Street but spent most of her time at the inn. One day, they came up with the idea of moving in together at the inn. It made sense. Both of them were already spending a lot of time there, and they’d save money by not maintaining separate homes.
Jane set Hope on the deep-cushioned sofa before shuffling out of the room to prepare a pot of tea. The hot beverage was Jane’s cure-all for everything from physical ailments to broken hearts. Hope preferred coffee. But she wasn’t about to argue with Jane. She’d have a nice cup of steaming-hot black tea, hopefully English breakfast tea, with a little milk and maybe one of Jane’s muffins.
Bigelow lay down beside the sofa and rested his head on his front legs. He looked like he’d made himself quite comfortable on the area rug. In subtle tones of green, brown, beige, and cream, the intricate pattern grounded the dark furnishings.
While she waited for Jane to come back, Hope eased back and relaxed into the jewel-toned sofa. A bookcase lined the wall opposite the fireplace. Sally and Jane crammed the shelves with books, many first editions, and Jane’s novels were also displayed.
Over the firebox, where a crackling fire burned, was a carved mantel covered with knickknacks passed down from generation to generation in the Merrifield family. They weren’t the only family with deep roots in the town. Devon’s family was also deeply rooted in Jefferson. The Markham family tree didn’t go back to the eighteenth century, but it went far enough to have made Greg Markham a prominent member of the town and Joyce one of the busiest volunteers during her marriage.
Jane returned, expertly balancing the tray of tea. “Here we go. A fresh pot of chamomile tea.”
Hope did her best not to wrinkle her nose at the choice of beverage.
“This will do you a world of good.” Jane set the tray on the oval-shaped coffee table. She glanced up at Hope and smiled. She wore her signature lipstick. Hope would never have the guts to wear such a bold pink color; matte nudes were her preference. “I also have a little something for Bigelow. We don’t want him to feel left out.”
Hope scanned the tray. There was one dog biscuit, but no muffins. However, there was lemon cake. Okay, she could endure the chamomile tea if it came with cake. Her mood brightened.
“Here you go.” Jane handed Bigelow the treat, and he chomped hard, breaking it in half. “Now, tell me, what’s going on? You have a worried look on your face.”
Jane knew Hope all too well. When Hope was a teenager, she’d been a member of the mystery book club Jane organized at the library. So, it wasn’t a surprise she could read Hope so easily. After Hope left Devon’s apartment, she walked in the direction of the inn. Where she needed to be was home and back at work, but what she wanted was a little comfort and reassurance.
“Claire called me a little while ago. Something is wrong with Devon.”
“This sounds serious. Good thing you came over. I sliced you a piece of lemon pound cake. My niece, Elnora, lives in California and sends me a big box of lemons every year from her trees. I squeeze the juice and freeze it so I can bake and cook with it later.” Jane handed Hope a cup and saucer. “Drink up, dear.”
Hope took the cup and saucer. She wasn’t sure about Jane’s claims about the tea, but she was dying to dive into the slice of lemon cake on the tray.
She sipped the tea and then told Jane what had happened at the apartment. From Devon’s call, to finding the apartment a mess this morning, to Detective Reid filing a missing person report.
“My mind keeps bouncing back and forth between Devon being perfectly fine and busy chasing down leads, to her spending the day at the mall, to her being left for dead in the woods. See, I’m all over the place. So far, she hasn’t replied to any of our voice mails.”
“This is some predicament. It’s understandable for our minds to instantly jump to the worst-case scenario, given the circumstances around Devon’s return to Jefferson.” Jane sipped her tea and then leaned into the upholstered chair. Her winter white sweater dress looked comfy and warm, as did her suede loafers.
“I wish we knew exactly what her plans were for today. Drew told me she planned on visiting the detective who was assigned to her mother’s case.” Hope eyed the cake. Would it be rude to help herself?
“There was one case Barbara Neal became entangled in where a classmate didn’t want any help. She insisted she could handle the situation all on her own.”
Sipping her tea, Hope looked over the rim of the cup. She knew what was coming next. Jane was about to draw another comparison between her fictional sleuth and Hope. She had a habit of doing that. But as long as Jane understood Hope wasn’t her imaginary creation, she guessed all was good.
“Barbara didn’t know what to do. She wanted to help her friend, yet she wanted to respect her friend’s wishes.”
Hope set her tea on the tray. “Devon wanted my help.”
Jane nodded. “You’re thinking if you agreed to help her, she wouldn’t be missing now.”
“What did Barbara do?” Hope couldn’t believe she was asking the question.
“She helped, of course.”
Of course Barbara did, otherwise the book would have been very short.
&nb
sp; Jane reached forward, set her cup on the tray, and then handed Hope a plate with a slice of cake and a fork. She then took her own plate.
Hope broke off a piece and chewed. The texture was moist and light, and the burst of brightness from the lemons elevated her mood. She ate another piece and allowed her body and mind to relax. There was no reason at this point to suspect foul play. Devon was just out for the day and not checking her voice mails.
The door opened, and Bigelow lifted his head. Sally entered carrying a basket filled with cleaning supplies. The inn had a staff, but Sally liked to take care of the parlor herself. She said it kept her busy, especially in the winter months, when her gardening was limited to the houseplants.
Her face was weathered, and her body was toned from a lifetime of gardening. Though her hands were showing signs of arthritis, and every so often Hope saw a flicker of irritation in Sally’s eyes from the joint pain. She wasn’t a woman who liked to slow down. So any physical limitation was a source of contention for her.
“Good to see you, Hope.” Sally topped a pair of jeans and sneakers with a yellow sweater. She set her basket on top of a cabinet and pulled out her dusting cloth. She reached down and gave Bigelow a pat on the head. “Hello, little fellow. What brings you two out for a visit?”
Jane answered for Hope, leaving her to finish her cake. Sally listened as she wiped the lamp on the end table.
“Sounds like both of your imaginations are off and running. Devon probably forgot to charge her phone.”
“I want to believe she’s okay, but you didn’t see the apartment. It really looked like someone searched it,” Hope said.
Jane’s brow arched. Intrigue was written all over her face. “What’s missing?”
“All the research I saw the other night.” Hope finished the last piece of her cake. Now she was sad. Sad and worried.
“I’ve been listening to Devon’s podcast. I’ve gotten to the episode where Devon revealed she believed her father was having an affair at the time of Joyce’s disappearance,” Jane said.
“She told me she didn’t know who the woman might have been. Was there any gossip of an affair back then?” Hope looked to both women. For as long as she could remember, the Merrifield women had had their pulse on everything that happened in Jefferson.
Both women shook their heads.
“Never heard a peep about it.” Sally put down her dusting cloth and walked to the sofa and sat. “Joyce always seemed happy when she came into the library. She’d stay and chat for a bit.”
“Chat about what?” Hope asked.
“The usual stuff. Weather, her girls, and school. She usually stopped by on her way to work at Alfred’s agency.”
“Joyce worked for him?” Hope had forgotten which real estate agency Joyce worked for. Oh, boy. Not only would Maretta be up in arms about a podcast showcasing a twenty-year-old unsolved disappearance in town, but now her husband’s company would be connected.
“She’d worked there only a few months before she disappeared.” Jane’s blue eyes glimmered. “Do you think someone at Alfred’s company had something to do with Joyce’s disappearance?”
Hope knew that glimmer she was seeing all too well. It meant Jane’s mind was concocting a theory.
“A jilted lover perhaps? A scorned admirer who was rejected by Joyce? Or maybe it was work-related. Real estate is a cutthroat business, as we all know.” Jane took a triumphant bite of her cake.
Hope figured Jane’s reference was related to the murder of a real estate agent last year. She’d been a newcomer to town and an agent with a reputation of being a shark when it came to deals.
“Joyce was a secretary. I’m not sure she would have gotten involved in any of the transactions.” Hope wondered if Devon had reached out to Alfred Kingston yet. If she had, what had she learned about her mother’s employment record?
“I’d better get back to my cleaning.” Sally patted Hope’s knee and then stood. She walked to her basket and pulled out a spray bottle and spritzed the mirror over the console.
Hope glanced at her watch. It was getting late, and she had work to do.
“Thank you for the tea, Jane.” Hope reached for Bigelow’s leash and stood.
“Any time, dear. Be sure to let me know when you hear anything about Devon. I’m very concerned.”
“She’ll be fine. Like always, you two always jump to the wildest theories.” Sally stretched to wipe the mirror from top to bottom.
“We’ve had good reason in the past, haven’t we, Hope?” Jane stood and walked to the door. “In fact, because of our so-called overactive imaginations, murderers have been brought to justice.”
“I think Maretta would disagree. She’d probably say it’s your busybody tendencies that were involved.” Sally chuckled.
“Don’t pay her any mind. We’re not busybodies. We’re concerned citizens.” Jane opened the door.
“I’ll call you when I hear something.” Hope and Bigelow exited the parlor and made their way through the lobby to the front door. As they left the inn, they passed another young couple on their way inside. Seeing them reminded Hope she had to decide what to pack for her weekend getaway with Ethan. A buzzing from her phone alerted her to an incoming text; it was from Josie. A gentle reminder she had class tonight. Hope picked up their pace to get home. She was so far behind.
Chapter Seven
Hope spent the rest of the day on pins and needles, waiting to hear something, anything, about Devon. Because there were no incoming calls about her friend, she made some of her own.
Her first call was to Detective Reid. Nothing new there. The next call was to Devon’s sister. Felice sounded upset and worried. She hadn’t heard from her sister since move-in day. After Hope hung up, she had one more question added to her long list: if Felice hadn’t spoken to her sister in two days, who had Devon been arguing with on the phone last night? Hope’s final call before she dashed out to the library was to Claire to check if Devon had returned home. She hadn’t.
Hope arrived at the library fifteen minutes before class was supposed to start. She used the time to set up and mentally prepare. All thoughts of Devon needed to be put on the back burner. At least until after class.
Her students arrived and took their seats.
She did a quick head count. They all came back.
Plus one.
What on earth was she doing there?
Elaine strutted to the front of the class in her knee-high boots. How she had navigated the slick patches of ice in those four-inch heels baffled Hope. Didn’t the woman own any sensible winter shoes? Hope glanced at her sturdy black ankle boots designed for real life, not runways.
“What are you doing here?” Hope asked, dragging her gaze upward.
Elaine unbuttoned her faux fur jacket and revealed her form-fitting red sweater. The woman had curves, and she knew how to use them to her full advantage. Hence, her four husbands.
“I figured because I had to cut my vacation short, I might as well learn about blogging.” She scanned the two tables where the other students had settled. “Where should I sit?”
“Registration is full,” Hope said.
Elaine blinked, giving Hope full view of her expertly applied eye makeup. From the skilled application of winged eyeliner, to the depths of a smoky eye, to lush false lashes, Hope couldn’t fathom the time spent. She barely had time to apply one coat of mascara.
“No worries. I worked it out with Angela. I’m auditing the class.”
“Auditing? This isn’t a college course.”
“Of course not, silly. Ooh, there’s a seat.” Elaine sashayed away to a seat next to Phillip Rafferty, who looked pleased to have her next to him. But his look quickly changed when she gave him a cold glare that had back-off written all over it.
Elaine took off her jacket and draped it over the back of her chair. Next, she pulled out a notebook from her designer bag.
“Don’t you like to start class on time?” Elaine tapped her blinged-
out watch.
Hope heaved a heavy sigh. It would be a long class.
“The assignments you all turned in were great.” Hope moved back to her laptop. Before the class, each student had emailed their completed assignment for her to review. She wasn’t grading; there were no passes or fails. Though she did provide feedback to them.
She forced herself to stop staring at the newest edition to the class and dwelling on how long class would be. When her gaze moved from Elaine, she saw Laila beaming. Her assignment had been the most thorough. It was clear that Laila wanted more out of life than whipping up cappuccinos every morning for tired customers. Hope continued scanning the class. Gail’s chapped lips curved up into a satisfied smile. Her assignment was light on detail, but Hope could see her student had a clear vision of her blog. Two seats over was Shirley. She didn’t look pleased. Hope was puzzled because Shirley had turned in a solid assignment.
Hope absorbed the excitement that bounced off her students. As any long-time blogger would tell you, it was easy to get caught up in all the minutiae and lose sight of what first attracted them to blogging. Seeing the activity through the eyes of newbies was invigorating. Their enthusiasm was refreshing.
“Tonight we’ll cover how to design your blog. For this, we’ll be working on the back end. I expect this will be our most intense class. But trust me when I say it’s important for you to understand how it works behind the scenes.”
Elaine raised her hand. “Do you think I could get a private lesson to cover what I’ve missed so far?”
Hope cleared her throat. “We can work something out. Now, back to what I was saying about designing your blog.” She wasn’t a website designer, but she believed for any blogger to be successful, she should be able to do simple tasks on her blog without having to pay a designer.
She tapped a key on her laptop’s keyboard and an image of the website’s dashboard came up on the screen, and as she expected, confused looks appeared on everyone’s face.
“This is the dashboard. It’s not as scary as it looks.” She scanned the class. Her words had fallen on deaf ears from the collective puzzled looks on their faces. She was losing them.
The Corpse Who Knew Too Much Page 9