A man with a long list of enemies had had his life snuffed out right there in the parking lot. Wait. Her breath caught. Was the bloodstain on his shirt spreading wider? She elongated her neck to get a closer look. Was there a chance he was still alive?
She looked at Drew. He’d shifted into journalist mode without missing a beat. The shock of discovering Lionel was replaced with confidence and professionalism. He’d lowered next to Lionel and checked his carotid pulse.
“He’s dead all right.” Drew stood.
With her trembling hand, Hope pulled her purse forward on her body and reached inside for her cell phone. She needed to call the police. Report a murder. Again.
She was becoming a frequent caller to 9-1-1.
Before she could punch in the three numbers to get help, voices approached, and she looked over her shoulder. No doubt Claire’s scream and the small crowd at the Jaguar had alerted everyone outside the restaurant to something being wrong.
Something terribly wrong.
Meg rushed toward them. Her chin-length, dark blond hair bobbed, and a flash of annoyance crossed her face. Hope guessed Meg thought they were pulling some stunt to distract other teams from the hunt.
“We need to keep back. We can’t contaminate the crime scene.” Hope stepped away from Lionel’s body to create a barrier between him and everyone else.
“Crime scene? What on earth has happened?” Meg tried to peer around Hope and see what the problem was.
“Yep, we need to keep back.” Drew echoed Hope.
Hope glanced over at Drew. Now standing, he tapped on the keyboard on his phone.
“What are you doing?” Hope asked.
He didn’t look up. He just kept typing. “My job.”
“Hope’s right. We need to keep this area cleared for the police to do their job.” Jane moved away from the Jaguar.
“He’s been shot! Look at all the blood! And the hole! I’m going to be sick.” Claire clamped a hand over her mouth, spun around, and ran toward the restaurant.
“What’s going on? Hope, what are you . . .” Meg stopped talking once she noticed Lionel’s body.
Another scream pierced the shocked silence, and all heads turned to Elaine, who’d approached. No one had seen her until her scream. Standing a few feet away from her now-dead husband, she froze in place in her studded sandals as her face crumpled into despair and disbelief.
“Elaine, you shouldn’t be here.” Hope’s heart broke for the woman. The sight of Lionel’s lifeless, bloodied body was unsettling to her, so she couldn’t imagine the impact it was having on his wife.
“Lionel! Oh my God! Lionel!” Elaine lunged forward, but Meg grabbed her arm.
“No. You can’t go to him right now.” Meg’s hold tightened as Elaine struggled. “I could use help here!”
Hope rushed to Meg and helped keep Elaine from charging toward her husband. “Someone needs to call the police and we should go into the restaurant. There’s nothing we can do for him now.”
“What did you do?” Meg’s voice was tight with accusation as she shifted her hold from Elaine to an embrace to comfort the crying woman.
“What? Me? Nothing. I found him.” Now wasn’t the time for their stupid feud to flare up again. Hope wanted to get Elaine away from her husband’s body.
But Meg wasn’t budging. “You just had to find another body, didn’t you?”
“This isn’t my fault.”
Elaine yanked herself free from Meg. She huffed. Her grief-stricken face morphed into anger, and her voice raised to a level Hope had never heard before. “My husband is dead. Someone murdered him and you two are bickering? Seriously?” She huffed again as she tucked a lock of her bleached-blond hair behind an ear. To trek around town looking for treasures, she’d chosen a sleeveless, body-hugging, denim jumpsuit with a V-neckline that looked like it was stretched to its brink, thanks to Elaine’s ample chest.
Elaine’s momentary break from grieving shocked Hope and, by the look of surprise on Meg’s face, she was shocked too.
“When was the last time you saw your husband?” Drew approached with his cell phone.
Hope had seen him in action before. He’d have his handy-dandy recording app queued up for the exclusive interview.
Both Hope and Meg glared at Drew for his insensitivity, while Elaine dissolved into deep sobs.
“Drew, now’s not the time,” Hope scolded.
Drew ignored Hope. “Has your husband been threatened recently?”
Elaine shook her head; her tassel earrings dangled. She blinked several times and, within a moment, she’d composed herself enough to answer Drew’s questions.
“Rupert. They had a huge fight.” Elaine’s voice hardened. “He threatened to kill my husband.”
Drew inched closer to the widow. “Rupert Donnelly, his business partner?”
“Drew, Elaine’s had a traumatic shock.” Hope was certain her suggestion was falling on deaf ears because Drew didn’t reply.
He didn’t even look at her. She couldn’t blame him for doing his job. He was the first reporter on the scene. But could he rely on the outbursts of a woman who was staring at her husband’s dead body?
“Do you know why your husband was here tonight?” Norrie Jennings wormed her way into the fray, perched and ready to steal Drew’s exclusive.
“This is my story.” Drew tossed a quick, sharp look at his rival.
“We’ll see.” Norrie thrust her phone toward Elaine to record the interview. “Mrs. Whitcomb, were you planning to meet your husband here tonight?”
“Oh. My. God! Lionel! My husband is dead!”
The new outburst had all heads turning toward Miranda Whitcomb. Her fast walk turned into a full-on sprint toward the group. Matt Roydon, who was right behind, intercepted her.
“Let go of me! He’s my husband! What happened?” Miranda cried out while struggling to break free of Matt’s hold.
Hope felt for the woman, but it was best to keep her from the body. Matt worked out. He was strong, and keeping Miranda away from the scene didn’t appear to be a challenge for him.
“Your husband? What’s she talking about?” Elaine looked confused, despite her Botox injections.
“She’s Miranda Whitcomb,” Hope said.
“And you know how?” Meg raised a questioning brow as she rested a hand on her hip, waiting for an answer.
“She’s a guest at the inn,” Jane added.
“Hope, has anyone called the police yet?” Matt still restrained Miranda from rushing forward. A former police officer and now a practicing criminal defense attorney, he understood the importance of keeping a crime scene from becoming contaminating.
Though, Hope was certain, some contamination had already occurred.
She shook her head. She hadn’t had the chance to complete the call. Lionel’s murder was turning into a three-ring circus. “Could you?”
“What in the world is going on out here?” Rona Whitcomb came up to the group as a curious bystander, but when her gaze shifted from everyone around her to Lionel’s body, she heaved a deep sob. “Lionel? Is he . . . dead?”
“Who are you?” Meg cast a suspicious look at Rona.
“His wife, Rona Whitcomb.” She wiped away the flood of tears streaming down her face.
Hope and Drew and Jane shared a glance.
Three widows?
“This is insane. He’s my husband. My husband is dead. You two are trying to pull some kind of scam. Well, it ain’t going to work.” Elaine wagged a manicured finger at the two interlopers.
Miranda squared her shoulders and stared daggers at Elaine. “I’m his legal wife. Our divorce wasn’t finalized. I came here to settle things with him.”
“Settle things? Like, murder him?” Elaine challenged.
“I did no such thing.” Miranda lifted her hand and pointed a finger at Elaine. “You probably killed him because he lied to you.”
Jane sidled up to Hope and whispered, “This should prove very interesting
.”
* * *
“Have a seat, Miss Early.” Detective Sam Reid gestured to the chairs in front of the restaurant manager’s desk and then closed the office door.
Within minutes of Matt calling 9-1-1, the first of the police vehicles arrived on the scene, and then Reid pulled up in his unmarked car. A uniformed officer situated the witnesses in one of the private dining rooms and stood with them to make sure they didn’t discuss the incident.
Incident.
So clinical. So antiseptic. So much more pleasant than the word murder.
One by one, the witnesses entered the restaurant manager’s office for an interview with Reid.
“Routine,” one officer said.
“Standard procedure,” another officer said.
“Déjà vu,” Hope said.
She eased onto a chair in front of the desk, which was disheveled. Probably because the detective had commandeered it. A wire tray held papers and files haphazardly arranged, as if they’d been tossed in there in a hurry.
Beside the tray was a triple photograph frame, and it looked askew. The frame probably had been shifted from its original position when Reid settled at the desk. She leaned forward and adjusted the frame, angling it to where it made the most sense—in full view of the person seated at the desk.
That was when she noticed the small black notepad opened to a clean sheet of paper on the desk.
Hope was familiar with that notepad.
Reid had taken a few statements from her over the past several months. She wondered how many notepads he’d gone through since the first interview she’d had with him. Did he use one per case?
She gave herself a mental shake. What difference did it make? None. No difference. It was her mind trying to think about anything other than Lionel’s dead body with a bullet wound and all the blood.
With her self-realization complete, she leaned into the chair. Reid walked to the desk and sat. She caught a gleam of amusement in his eyes. She had no idea her slight OCD tendencies amused him.
“I gave my statement to the first responding officer.”
Reid pulled out a pen from the breast pocket of his navy blazer. He had an extreme runner’s body, the type that bordered the fine line between healthy and obsessed. The structure of his blazer gave him some extra bulk and also concealed the Glock that could level the playing field against anyone bigger and stronger.
After he clicked his pen, he jotted down a note and then looked at Hope.
The gleam of amusement she’d seen in his eyes moments before had vanished and been replaced with empathy. Without saying a word, he made it clear he understood how difficult the evening had been for her.
Tension released from her neck and she felt like she could breathe again. This time sitting across from Reid was a different feeling than the others. He appeared to be more compassionate—in his own way. And she wanted to help the detective catch the killer anyway she could. If repeating the horrific experience of finding Lionel’s body could help him, she’d gladly tell the story over again. And again, if necessary.
“You and your team had gotten out of your vehicle and all four of you headed toward the restaurant, correct?” he asked, getting back to business.
“Yes. We came here to get a napkin.”
“The restaurant was okay with you taking a napkin?”
Hope nodded. “We’d return it tomorrow. The restaurant supports community events. They even donated a prize for the winning team.”
Reid jotted down more notes. About the napkin? How was that pertinent to Lionel’s murder investigation? Curious about what he was writing, she was tempted to lean forward and sneak a peek, but she didn’t have the energy to attempt reading his scribbled notes upside down. If he wanted to write about napkins, who was she to question him?
Reid looked up. His expression was blank. Not blank in a clueless kind of way. Blank as in not giving any hint about what he was thinking kind of way. Though Hope had an idea of what the detective was thinking.
This wasn’t the first time she had been questioned by him in a murder investigation. In fact, it was becoming a habit. One she needed to break.
“I see. Your team heads toward the entrance while you head toward Mr. Whitcomb’s car. Why did you approach the car?”
Hope shrugged. “At first, I didn’t know it was Lionel’s car, though it looked familiar. Something seemed off. The car was parked up in the rear lot when there were plenty of spaces in the main parking lot. The driver’s door was open, too. I guess I was curious.”
Reid jotted down more notes. “You approached the vehicle and found Mr. Whitcomb on the ground, shot once and deceased.”
Hope winced at the memory. Hearing Reid recap the events so efficiently unsettled her. And also made her want to add how her heart had slammed so hard against her chest, she considered it a miracle it still was inside her after she discovered Lionel’s body. But all she could manage to say was, “Yes.”
“Your team then joined you, and then the other teams, followed by Miranda Whitcomb and Rona Whitcomb?”
“Don’t forget Elaine,” Hope added.
“No, I haven’t.” He nodded and then jotted down more notes.
“Do you know why Miranda Whitcomb and Rona Whitcomb were at the restaurant?”
“No. Now that I think about it, it seems very convenient.” What were the odds all three of Lionel’s wives just happened to be at the restaurant when he was killed?
“I’m looking into the matter as a part of this investigation, Miss Early.”
Hope shifted in her seat. She was getting antsy. She wanted to leave the restaurant and go home. There, she’d slip into her pajamas, grab the carton of chocolate chip ice cream out of the freezer, and snuggle with Bigelow. She wasn’t sure if Princess would be willing to offer any comfort, and, not having owned a cat before, Hope wasn’t sure if she could rely on the feline for sympathy. But she had things to wrap up at the Community Center. When she’d committed to helping, she hadn’t expected the night to end with murder.
“Yesterday I ran into Miranda when I came out of The Coffee Clique. She was texting, not paying attention to where she was going, and walked right into me. After she apologized, we chatted a little. She said she was here on family business. Then she took a call. She stepped away, but I heard what she said.”
“What did you hear?”
“She told the person they had to meet, and she wouldn’t be put off any longer. Something about waiting thirty years. Then she said ‘Friday,’ and that she was dead serious.”
Reid dipped his head and made more notes. “Did Ms. Whitcomb say anything else?”
Hope shook her head. “No. She walked away. Then, this morning, I met Rona Whitcomb.”
“You meet a lot of people,” Reid said.
“I do. Rona was out for a morning walk and ended up at the Olsen property. She said she was lost, so I directed her back to Main Street.”
“Did she say why she’s here in Jefferson?”
“Family business. We didn’t talk for long. I had to leave for the magazine and she headed back to the inn.”
Reid closed his notepad. “Did you see anyone in the rear parking lot as you approached the car? Around the building perhaps?”
Hope thought for a moment, replaying the events to just before finding Lionel’s body. Her walk from her car, negotiating the potholes, the glow of the light by the closed kitchen door, and Lionel’s car. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
“No. The door to the kitchen was closed. It was only Lionel. Do you think his death has something to do with the charges he was facing?”
“Thank you for your statement, Miss Early. Please don’t forget this is an official police matter and your help isn’t needed with the investigation.”
Reid was chastising her, and she’d done nothing wrong. Except, she’d allowed her curiosity to lead her to a dead body. Reid might have had a point. Not too long ago, on two separate occasions, her inquisitiveness had led her
into the crosshairs of two killers. Perhaps Reid’s preemptive lecture was a good thing. Maybe she’d listen this time.
“I understand. Hopefully, you’ll find the person responsible soon. Oh, sorry, I did forget to mention one thing.”
Reid nodded for her to continue.
“Elaine said Rupert Donnelly threatened to kill Lionel.”
“When did she say that?”
“Right after we found Lionel.”
Reid jotted down the nugget of information. “Did she say anything else?”
“No. She was very upset, as you can imagine.” Hope shimmied to the edge of her chair. “Can I go now?”
“Yes. If I have any further questions, I’ll be in touch.”
“I’m always happy to help.” Hope stood and walked to the closed door. “One more thing.” Hope looked over her shoulder. “The key was still in the ignition.”
“So?”
Hope lifted her shoulders. “Nothing, I guess. Wasn’t Lionel planning on coming into the restaurant? Why else would he have come here? But he drove to the far section of the parking lot, left the keys in the ignition, got out of his car, and then was shot. Sounds like he had a meeting set up with the killer.”
“Remember what I said, Miss Early, about interfering in my investigation. Good night.” With a firm nod, he lowered his head and checked his cell phone.
Hope pulled open the door and stepped out into the narrow hallway. It held several closed doors and the opening to the restrooms. A man’s voice drew her attention and she stopped, glancing down the short hallway between the two bathrooms.
All Hope could see was his back. His face was turned away. Though his stature, tall and beefy, and his salt-and-pepper hair looked familiar. He held a cell phone close to his ear.
“Shot. How the frig did this happen? No. Listen. We can’t let anyone find out. Understand?” His voice was familiar too.
Rupert Donnelly!
“Is there a problem, Miss Early?” Detective Reid called out from the office doorway.
Hope snapped around toward the detective and then glanced back to Rupert Donnelly, who’d looked over his shoulder at Hope.
Three Widows and a Corpse Page 5