Three Widows and a Corpse

by Debra Sennefelder

Need to talk to you about Lionel’s funeral.

  Chapter Eight

  Hope snipped a handful of flat-leaf parsley from her plant. She inhaled the fragrance and, for a moment, was transported back to her mom’s kitchen garden. Elizabeth Early maintained a small garden off her kitchen, where she planted a variety of herbs. Parsley, basil, and thyme were the stars of the garden because, as she would say, they were the workhorses in the kitchen. From the time Hope was allowed to use scissors, she loved nothing more than to grab the large enamelware bowl her mom used and putter in the garden to collect herbs. Sometimes she took the risk and selected a new herb for her mom’s recipe. Her mother would always smile and happily toss in the new addition to her recipe.

  A chorus of chicken chatter brought Hope out of her thoughts and she glanced at Poppy, who was perched on a chair. She dropped the clump of parsley into her bowl. While she had her mom’s set of three nesting bowls, she didn’t have her kitchen garden just yet. What she had were two metal stands on her patio covered with an abundance of potted herbs.

  Not exactly what she’d envisioned when she bought her house. Thanks to unexpected repairs to the house after the fire, the vegetable and herb gardens had to be postponed to next year. While the setup wasn’t ideal, it was far better than the skimpy herb garden on her windowsill back in the city.

  Poppy was still chattering as Hope added another heap of parsley into the bowl. The sound of her favorite hen soothed her after a hectic day.

  While she was at the magazine, the test kitchen had been busy with a cover photo shoot, recipe testing for the January issue and a special bread issue, and then a tasting in midafternoon. Hope made three recipes, including her Flourless Chocolate Cake recipe. The cake was the only one of the three recipes included in the tasting, and it received positive feedback and the approval to be included in the article. Though the mood in the test kitchen had changed little over the course of the day, thanks to May’s sour mood.

  If that weren’t bad enough, the text message she’d received from Elaine led to a lengthy phone call about the reception following Lionel’s burial. Somehow, at the end of the conversation, Hope had found herself the caterer for the reception.

  During the drive home from the magazine, she replayed the conversation in her mind a few times, trying to pinpoint the moment the job of providing food for thirty guests became hers.

  Between the sobs and the sniffles and the why-me cries, Hope offered to help in any way she could and then, bam, Elaine composed herself and thanked Hope for offering to provide the food. Of course, Elaine would reimburse her for the cost.

  “Can you believe it? By the end of the call, I was the caterer,” Hope said to Poppy.

  Poppy clucked.

  “Thirty people. In two days. Talk about short notice.”

  Poppy stretched her body, wings spreading out, and then she settled back down.

  “Give the woman an inch and she . . .” It was no use complaining. Hope had offered to help. She snipped off another bunch of parsley. “I realize she’s going through a rough time.”

  “Do you always talk to your chickens?”

  Hope stopped in midsnip of the oregano plant and laughed. Lost in her venting, she hadn’t heard Amy’s car pull up in the driveway.

  “She’s a great listener.” Hope set down her scissors on the plant stand and lifted the bowl.

  She carried it over to the table, where she’d set out a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses in anticipation of Amy’s visit.

  Before she’d left Cooking Now to head home, Amy Phelan had called to let her know Town Hall had approved the Labor Day Parade schedule and she’d drop it off on her way home from work. Hope had told her to come around back because she’d be outside working.

  Amy walked to the table and set down a folder. Her wavy blond hair framed her oval-shaped face. She pushed her gold-toned sunglasses onto her head, revealing tired brown eyes.

  “Long day?” Hope filled both glasses with lemonade and handed one to Amy.

  “That obvious? It’s been exhausting lately at the office, and Alfred has been uncharacteristically grumpy.”

  Hope sat and gestured to a chair opposite her. She wanted to hear more about Alfred’s bad mood and, apparently, so did Poppy because she hadn’t moved.

  Amy had been the secretary at Alfred Kingston’s real estate office for years. She was probably the only other person in Jefferson who rivaled Claire for information about who was selling, who was buying, how much they paid or how much they lost.

  “He looked frazzled last week when I ran into him outside the office. It was the day Lionel and Rupert Donnelly had a meeting there.”

  Amy rolled her eyes. “Talk about a meeting from hell. From the moment they arrived, I knew it would end poorly.”

  “How so?” Hope sipped her lemonade and waited for Amy to continue.

  Amy’s forehead wrinkled and her shoulders rounded. “Their vibe. The looks they gave each other. Mr. Donnelly barely said a word. Then he started yelling at Lionel and stormed out. Alfred was wasting his time. Mr. Donnelly wouldn’t invest in the horse farm.”

  “What horse farm? I thought the meeting was about the medical office development.” Hope inched forward, setting down her drink.

  Amy raised her hand to push her hair out of her face. “No, it’s been stalled since it got caught up in Lionel’s legal problems. No way was he going to get permission to move forward on it. Alfred called him in to discuss the old Parson horse farm.”

  Hope leaned back. Alfred had led her to believe the meeting was about the medical office project. Why hadn’t he mentioned the horse farm? Probably because he was a smart businessman and wanted to keep the project quiet until he had a deal with the Parsons. If he was so smart, why would he want to go into business with someone who was facing possible jail time?

  “Alfred wants to develop the thirty-six acres into a condo development and, somehow, Lionel got involved, but he was having a problem with cash flow, so he tried to bring in Rupert.”

  Hope had taken riding lessons at Parson’s when she was a kid. She remembered the three Parsons—Dorinda, Hildy, and Bart. Dorinda, the eldest of the three siblings, taught the classes, while Hildy managed the business and Bart maintained the barns and property. Hope recalled Dorinda had passed away a few years ago. Since then, the farm had continued its descent into disrepair and closed down.

  “Wait, why would Alfred go into business with Lionel when he was waiting to go to trial?”

  Amy shrugged. “My best guess is money. Lionel was a lot of things, including a good salesman. I’m sure he convinced Alfred he would beat the charges.”

  “By chance, did you overhear any of their discussion during the meeting?”

  “Like did I eavesdrop?” Amy took a drink of her lemonade.

  Hope winced. She had pretty much asked Amy if she snooped on her boss. Not cool.

  Amy giggled. “I tried. But I didn’t hear much.”

  Hope reached for her glass and took a sip, feeling a little better knowing she hadn’t insulted Amy.

  “All I know is Hildy and Bart Parson are divided on selling the property. And Rupert wanted no part. It disappointed Alfred, but he’s determined. In fact, Hildy and Bart came into the office to meet with Alfred this morning.”

  Hope’s eyes widened. Based on what Amy said, Bart Parson had a motive to kill Lionel if he believed his death would stop the development.

  “What’s going on, Hope? What are you thinking?” Amy’s voice deepened with concern.

  Hope didn’t want to alarm Amy with the possibility Bart Parson could’ve killed Lionel and that Alfred could be in danger if he proceeded with the development. She had no proof, only a theory based on a hunch.

  “It’s nothing.” Hope leaned forward. “Do you think Alfred will be able to get financing for the development?”

  “I don’t know. I kind of hope he doesn’t. I’d hate to lose all that land to condos, you know?” Amy finished her lemonade and Hope chang
ed the conversation to the parade. They were weeks away from the big day and there was a ton of work to do.

  For the next thirty minutes, they covered a lot of ground regarding the parade. They both had their checklists updated and a date set for the next committee meeting. Amy left, and Hope gathered up the pitcher and glasses and went inside, leaving Poppy to fly off the chair and catch up with the other hens. Hope’s plans for the evening included cooking for the reception in two days. After her call with Elaine, she had brainstormed a simple menu and had enough ingredients in her pantry to start preparing food. She also wanted to think through what she’d learned about Alfred and the Parsons.

  Closing the French doors behind her, Hope’s thoughts wandered back to Bart Parson. A tall, brooding man who preferred the company of horses to people. How far would he go to protect his family’s legacy from being bulldozed and turned into condos?

  * * *

  Two days later, with no breaking news on the murder, Hope hurried through the hallway in Town Hall to catch the press conference. Would any new facts be revealed? A quick check of her watch told her the briefing had already started. Shoot. Thanks to road repair, she was caught in traffic on the drive back from the magazine.

  She arrived at the open doorway of the first-floor meeting room and stepped inside. Reporters from newspapers and other media outlets crammed into the room to get an update on Lionel’s murder investigation. Positioned in front of an oil painting of a long-deceased mayor of Jefferson, Ethan stood at the podium with Detective Reid beside him.

  “Yes, Karina, we have leads, but at this time in the investigation, I’m not at liberty to expand any further.” Moving his gaze across the row, he pointed to another reporter for the next question.

  Dressed in his uniform, Ethan stood solid and unshakable. His professional manner instilled confidence that the Jefferson Police Department had everything under control.

  Detective Reid, dressed in a gray suit, stood stoic and alert. His gaze scanned the room like a hawk looking for his next meal.

  She inched farther into the room and wondered what she’d missed. Had there been a break in the case? If so, Drew would be a very unhappy camper.

  He’d called as she was leaving Cooking Now to attend the press conference and complained his editor assigned him to interview the owner of Bark Boutique, Jefferson’s new pet supply shop.

  “When do you think you’ll make an arrest, Chief?” a reporter asked.

  A tap on her shoulder had Hope looking behind her and missing Ethan’s answer. She was surprised to see Maretta. Why wasn’t she up at the podium with Ethan and Reid?

  “I hope you’re happy.”

  “Are you still trying to blame me for the murder?”

  Maretta reached into the pocket of her cardigan and her bony hand pulled out a cell phone. After she swiped it on, she held it up to Hope.

  Hope craned her neck to read the screen.

  Hope Early, the food blogger behind Hope at Home, finds another body. It seems the quaint town of Jefferson, Connecticut, is becoming more known for its murders than for its antique shops. Perhaps Ms. Early should blog about how to solve a murder rather than about how to bake cookies.

  Hope groaned. Her eyes squinted to read the website’s address, hoping it was a small one with little traffic. No such luck. The post was on one of the biggest websites on the internet. It was where people went for news, entertainment, sports, and now about Hope’s proclivity for finding murdered people.

  “You just had to find another body, didn’t you?” Maretta lowered the phone and shoved it back into her pocket. “And your beau has made no headway in the case.”

  Hope opened her mouth to defend herself as Ethan appeared at her side. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Oh, hi. Is the press conference over?” Hope looked around the room and saw reporters busy on their phones while the town employees filed out of the room. Yes, it was over.

  “We were just talking about you, Chief.” Maretta stiffened, though Hope didn’t understand how she could become any stiffer. “I’m not happy with the lack of progress so far.”

  “Neither am I. Short of the murderer coming in and confessing, we have to work the leads and evidence. That takes time,” Ethan said.

  “I expect to be briefed every day on your progress, or lack of it.” She gave a curt nod before walking away to join a cluster of reporters to answer questions.

  Ethan leaned toward Hope and whispered, “I wish Claire would’ve won the election.”

  Hope held back a smile. The sentiment seemed to be a common one. “Can you sneak away for coffee?”

  “Sorry. I have to get back to the PD. I’ll call you later about dinner, okay? I’ll make it up to you. Promise.” He squeezed her arm before breaking away to catch up with one of his officers, who was heading out of the meeting room.

  The reporters were packing up and Maretta slipped out a side door. A part of Hope felt sorry for the older woman. She’d been on the job only a few weeks and there was a murder in town to deal with. Then again, it wasn’t a secret the mayor had to deal with unpleasant things from time to time. Maretta was unlucky in the fact that the first unpleasant thing she had to deal with was murder.

  “Hope!” Norrie Jennings called out from a few feet away and hurried over to her. “I need to talk to you.”

  “About what?” Hope’s spine straightened as she braced herself for another unpleasant conversation.

  Norrie smiled and, to Hope’s surprise, it wasn’t a conniving smile. Actually, her smile was pretty. A polka-dot headband that coordinated with her ballet flats held her auburn hair off her face. If Hope didn’t know better, she could easily make the mistake of trusting the reporter.

  “I’d like to ask you a favor.”

  “A favor?” Hope eyed the twentysomething reporter suspiciously.

  “You don’t owe me anything. It’s me who owes you an apology, and I should’ve given you one sooner. During the Lily Barnhart investigation, I got overzealous. I promise it won’t happen again.”

  An apology from Norrie? Hope never saw that coming.

  “Thank you.” Hope couldn’t help the hesitation in her voice. After all, she was talking to Norrie Jennings, a cutthroat reporter who displayed no shame in how she got front-page bylines. “What’s the favor?”

  “I want to interview Elaine. Get her side of the story about her late husband’s other two wives.”

  Hope raised a hand to stop Norrie from continuing. “I can’t help you.”

  “I’m not looking to do a hatchet job. I’m looking to tell her side of the story.”

  Hope figured Norrie wanted to get Elaine’s side of the story because Drew got Miranda’s yesterday. Norrie sounded sincere, but Hope doubted her sincerity ran very deep.

  “Goodbye.” Hope walked away, but she didn’t get very far.

  “Isn’t it interesting that suddenly Elaine is at your house asking you for favors, like helping with her husband’s funeral reception this afternoon? I bet she’s even asked you for help in clearing her as a suspect. After all, you’re dating the chief of police.”

  Hope stopped. How did Norrie know about the reception? She turned around, all the while chiding herself. She should’ve known better and kept up her guard. Norrie was singing a new tune, but she was the same competitive reporter she was when she invaded Hope’s privacy during the last murder in Jefferson. “What does my relationship with Ethan have to do with the murder investigation?”

  Norrie shrugged and stepped forward. “Tell me, do those sweet nothings you whisper into the chief’s ear at night include your belief Elaine couldn’t have possibly killed her husband? Is that what you and Elaine are doing? Manipulating the police?”

  “What’s wrong with you? How dare you ask me those questions?”

  “I’m not the only one who’s asking those questions. It’s hard to believe it’s a coincidence you and Elaine have become best friends just when she needs an ally to keep her out of jai
l.”

  “You have a lot of nerve.”

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  Hope barked a laugh. “You have a funny way of doing so.”

  “Elaine is using you.” Norrie gave Hope a concerned look. Her deep-set amber eyes softened, and she sighed. “She’s using you just like she used her husbands. Lionel isn’t her first dead husband. And you’re not her first friend involved with a local cop.”

  “Norrie, stop. I’m not being used, because I have no influence over what the police do. None.” Hope turned and hurried out of the meeting room. Her feet moved as fast as they could, heading for the exit. Outside, the humid air seized her, and her breath caught.

  Could what Norrie said be true?

  Was Elaine using her because of her relationship with Ethan? Could she be lending a shoulder to lean on to a murderer?

  “Hey, Hope!” Drew’s voice grabbed Hope’s attention, and she turned.

  Her gaze fixed on the tray of iced coffees he carried. Bless him. She needed a drink of something after her two unpleasant encounters. Why on earth had she decided to go to the press conference?

  “I missed it, didn’t I?” Without waiting for a reply, Drew handed Hope her coffee. “Stupid business profile.”

  His messenger bag was slung crossbody, and he’d donned his favorite aviator sunglasses. He lifted his cup from the tray and took a drink. “What’s wrong? You have a funny look on your face. Well, not ha ha funny. Weird. OMG. I missed something big, didn’t I? They announced who the killer was while I was interviewing the Bark Boutique’s owner.”

  “No. They don’t know who the killer is.”

  “Then what’s wrong?” Drew took another drink of his iced coffee and looked at Hope in confusion.

  “I talked to Norrie.” Hope gulped her iced coffee. Between the August heat and the run-in with Norrie, she was hot. Very hot.

  “Ahh . . . explains the weird look on your face. I’d love to commiserate with you about Norrie, but I have to file this story. My editor is in a full-on, take-no-prisoners mode these days. Something’s up at the paper.”