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Synopsis
Food blogging is turning Hope Early into a household name. But the dead body down the block makes her a #1 suspect . . .
It seems everyone loves Hope’s blog these days, and she’s busier than ever volunteering to help other women create their own paths to success. So she’s shocked when a neighbor petitions to run Hope right out of her small Connecticut town! Set in her ways, apparently Birdie Donovan doesn’t like the chaos Hope’s sleuthing creates, the police activity and crime scenes, and it’s happening way too often lately. Eager to make amends, Hope bakes Birdie a batch of her best muffins. The delicious treats might have smoothed things over—until Hope discovers Birdie dead in her gazebo the very next day . . .
Now instead of worrying about holding on to her beloved home, Hope is trying to stay out of jail. Because suddenly she’s the lead suspect in the case. Not even her boyfriend, Police Chief Ethan Cahill, is promising he can clear her name, much less discuss the investigation with her. It’s up to Hope to get to bake new ground on the case before the lifestyle brand she’s created—and her whole life—crumbles . . .
Includes Recipes from Hope’s Kitchen!
Praise for THE UNINVITED CORPSE
“Fans of Krista Davis’s Domestic Diva mysteries will appreciate another detective who specializes in cooking and lifestyle suggestions.”
—Library Journal
It seems everyone loves Hope’s blog these days, and she’s busier than ever volunteering to help other women create their own paths to success. So she’s shocked when a neighbor petitions to run Hope right out of her small Connecticut town! Set in her ways, apparently Birdie Donovan doesn’t like the chaos Hope’s sleuthing creates, the police activity and crime scenes, and it’s happening way too often lately. Eager to make amends, Hope bakes Birdie a batch of her best muffins. The delicious treats might have smoothed things over—until Hope discovers Birdie dead in her gazebo the very next day . . .
Now instead of worrying about holding on to her beloved home, Hope is trying to stay out of jail. Because suddenly she’s the lead suspect in the case. Not even her boyfriend, Police Chief Ethan Cahill, is promising he can clear her name, much less discuss the investigation with her. It’s up to Hope to get to bake new ground on the case before the lifestyle brand she’s created—and her whole life—crumbles . . .
Includes Recipes from Hope’s Kitchen!
Praise for THE UNINVITED CORPSE
“Fans of Krista Davis’s Domestic Diva mysteries will appreciate another detective who specializes in cooking and lifestyle suggestions.”
—Library Journal
Release date: September 28, 2021
Publisher: Kensington Cozies
Print pages: 215
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The Corpse in the Gazebo
Debra Sennefelder
Hope Early had her Explorer’s windows rolled down and the sunroof open so she could inhale the sweetness of spring blooms and feel the gentle breezes that rolled through swaying trees on her drive to Cleo Sloane’s house.
Clusters of daffodils stretched along the side of the road as far as she could see. The bright orange flowers were a definite sign that spring had arrived, and summer wasn’t too far off. Everywhere she looked, Hope saw the stirrings of homeowners as they emerged from winter hibernation. Winter wreaths were traded out for spring florals, hanging planters were added to porches, and lawns had their first cuttings.
Spring has always been a season of transformation, and for Hope it was more so than ever before. Life had taken some unexpected turns over the past year. Some were welcomed, while others had been interlopers in her life. But she chose not to dwell on the past. No, she embraced the season of optimism.
At an intersection, she eased to a stop. To her left was a fenced field of Jersey cows, and to her right was a rambling ranch-style house with a flower stand set up on the property line. There she spotted Cleo loading potted plants into a cart. The president of the Jefferson Garden Club had been selling her cuttings to help offset her daughter’s college tuition.
Hope flicked her blinker on and eased her vehicle onto the edge of the Sloane property. After shutting off the ignition, she got out and walked toward Cleo.
She surveyed the flower stand, a simple wood table with a price list for the gallon-sized containers.
“Hey there, Hope. Good to see you.” Cleo dropped a pot onto the cart and then removed her work gloves. She was a thick-set middle-aged woman who always had dirt under her nails and a random fact about insect control on the tip of her tongue. “Beauty of a day, isn’t it?”
“Speaking of beauty . . . this hosta is stunning.” Hope moved to the cart for a closer inspection. The plant’s green leaves were highlighted by a creamy central pattern that made for a striking two-tone design.
“Angel Falls. She prefers light shade. Did you know grasshoppers enjoy dining on hostas? It’s important to inspect their leaves for holes, gaps, and tears at the edges. Early detection is crucial.”
“I have so much to learn about gardening.” Hope could bake a soufflé blindfolded, but garden? It was a talent and skill she didn’t possess. Not like Cleo. She was an expert. “Are you closing for the day?”
“Actually, I’m closing down for good.” Cleo trudged to the table and grabbed the sign. “I can’t even have a going out of business sale.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Birdie Donovan. That’s what happened. She reported me to the town, and since I don’t have any permits, I can’t sell my plants. Turns out, my little nursery is illegal. Go figure.” Cleo set the sign on the cart.
“Why did Birdie report you?” The moment Hope asked, she realized how silly it sounded. Everyone knew Birdie liked to stir the pot and was the perpetual squeaky wheel.
“Got me! All I can figure out is that she is still angry with me for the disagreement over last year’s Mother’s Day Flower Sale. Remember, we sold bouquets of flowers and gallon pots of perennials?”
Hope nodded. What she remembered was dropping a lot of money that weekend. When she bought her farmhouse, not only had the home been neglected, but so had the gardens. Her garden beds had desperately needed perennials.
“There was a disagreement? About what?” Hope browsed the pots remaining on the flower stand, awed by the healthy and flowering plants.
“She wanted us to buy the plants from a greenhouse she’d dealt with but we’d already agreed to get our plants from Timmy’s Garden Supply out on Old Saw Mill Road like we’d done for years. A big brush-up ensued, and she left the club. Well, I said, good riddance. She’s been nothing but trouble. And now this.” Cleo gestured to her almost empty flower stand.
“Have you explored getting a permit?” Hope knew little about business permits and what restrictions there were to running a retail business from home. Her blog didn’t require any such things.
“Even if I could get one, it would be expensive. The whole point of selling my cuttings was to earn some extra cash to help pay for the expenses not covered by Julia’s scholarship. But it turns out, according to zoning, I’m not supposed to be operating a retail business in this area.”
“I’m so sorry this happened.”
“Thanks . . . I’m sure I’ll figure something out. Maybe I can scrape enough money to get a booth at a flea market.” Cleo put her gloves back on and then lifted the Angel Falls Hosta off the cart. “Take this. It’ll look real nice in your garden.”
Hope raised her hands to protest. “That’s so nice of you. Let me pay you.”
“Nope. I can’t take any money because I need to keep this all legal. It’s a gift. Take good care of her.” Cleo thrust the pot into Hope’s hands. “Consider it my thank you for that delicious monkey bread recipe you shared last week on your blog.”
“You’re welcome. And thank you for this plant. I promise to take care of her.”
“You do that. And I’m going to get these back to my greenhouse.” Cleo grabbed the handle of the cart. “Let me tell you, I’m doing my best not to hold on to my anger against Birdie, but it’s hard to do. One day, she will come face to face with karma, and it won’t be pretty. Mark my words. She’ll get what’s coming to her.” She turned and pulled the cart behind her as she crossed the lawn toward her backyard.
Cleo’s warning concerned Hope, yet she understood the sentiment. She carried her new plant back to her Explorer. She pointed her key fob at the back cargo door, and when it opened, she set the plant inside. After the door closed, she took a final look at the dismantled flower stand. She wished she understood Birdie’s motivation for causing trouble for people. But more so, she hoped Cleo did nothing in retaliation that she’d be sorry for.
The SUV jolted as it hit a pothole as Hope turned onto Main Street. Her grip tightened on the steering wheel. The remnants of a harsh winter had finally vanished, but it left behind a minefield of potholes. She spied a parking space in front of her sister’s shop, Staged with Style, and pulled in to check her tire and rim. Both looked good. But how long would her luck hold out? The last thing she and her tight budget needed was a bill for a new tire.
Remembering her choice to embrace optimism, she straightened up and glanced around Jefferson’s primary hub. Customers came and went from the many shops that lined the charming street. Jefferson, known throughout the northeast as an antique mecca, drew tourists all year long. Collectors descended upon the town looking for their next find, from the most expensive and refined antiques to diamonds-in-the-rough.
Hope spotted a cluster of seniors leaving Ellie’s Cafe with to-go cups and heading toward the library. Next, she saw Mrs. Teager outside the Jefferson Historical Society.
The spry octogenarian was fussing with a planter of flowers but waved when she noticed Hope. Hope returned the wave and continued around her vehicle to the sidewalk.
Nate Batchelor was sweeping outside his antique shop as Jeffrey, the postal carrier, passed. She waved to both men and then turned her attention to her sister’s shop.
The quaint red clapboard house was a town landmark. Downstairs had been the first general store, and upstairs the town’s first mayor had lived. In recent years, antique businesses had come and gone, and now it was Claire’s home accessory shop.
She had made the risky decision to open a retail store after walking away from a successful career as a real estate agent.
Claire Dixon stood in front of the large window with her arms crossed and her lips pursed. A lace headband pulled her blonde hair off her face. The ankle-length turquoise pants she wore had a delicate lace edging and her eyelet top completed the fresh and springy look. Hope frowned as she glanced to her dark jeans and dark green tank. Claire looked like a flower in a spring garden, while Hope definitely looked more like a weed.
“What are you doing out here?” Hope’s gaze drifted from her sister to the window back to her sister.
Claire’s head turned at her sister’s voice; her face pinched with annoyance.
“Lola and I have been trying to figure out this display all morning.” Claire threw her arms up in the air. “Nothing looks right.”
Hope inched closer and studied the display.
Claire and her sales associate, Lola Granger, had set a vintage three-drawer chest in the window. They topped the cream-colored dresser with a vase and propped up a silver-tone picture frame.
“Maybe some texture? Like a throw or pillow?”
“You think? I guess we can add a chair.” Claire clapped her hands together. “Ooh, I can bring up the tufted chair we got in last week. And then drape a throw over it. I can use the lavender throw. You’re a genius!”
Hope tucked a lock of her shoulder-length brunette hair behind her ear. Maybe she should try a headband. “I’m glad I could help.”
When Claire had first shared that she’d be starting a second career, Hope had had serious concerns. Retail was a fickle business that demanded a lot of time and energy. Now, a few months later, she realized she had been right and wrong. Claire had a lot to juggle because of being tethered to a brick-and-mortar store. But she also realized Claire was right because she had followed her heart and was happy being her own boss.
“How was the workshop at Emily’s House?” Claire propped her hands on her slender hips and looked at her sister. She made it a point to go to Jefferson’s only gym, The Fix, at least four mornings a week before the shop opened. The other mornings she favored yoga at a studio down the street.
“Good. The gals are great, and they’re so excited to learn about online businesses.” Hope adjusted the handle of her overstuffed brown leather tote on her shoulder.
She had been recruited by her friend Erin Thomson to teach a workshop at the nonprofit. Emily’s House aided women coming out of troublesome situations. Over the winter, she brainstormed ideas and came up with one about starting an online business. Her experience with creating her food blog, Hope at Home, made her a natural to teach the curriculum. She’d taken her hobby, started in her two-bedroom New York City condo, to a full-time career.
“On my way back, I stopped by Cleo’s house. She was taking down her flower stand. Did you hear Birdie Donovan reported her?”
Claire tilted her head. She had a funny look on her face that couldn’t be read. Before Hope could ask what was going on, the shop door swung open, and Lola bounded out. She hurried to Claire’s side and studied the window.
“So what do you think?” Hired before Christmas, which made her Claire’s longest employee to date, Lola had become indispensable thanks to her solid work ethic. The other hires had survived a max of two weeks because of Claire’s lofty standards. She wasn’t the most easygoing person to work for. Hope was forever grateful to their parents for making sure their daughters always had separate bedrooms.
“Hope suggested we add some texture.” Claire’s expression returned to normal.
“Splendid idea, Hope.” Lola’s expression then mirrored the one that had been on Claire’s face only a moment ago.
What was going on? Self-consciously, Hope touched her cheek. Did she have something on her face? Had her new mascara given her raccoon eyes?
“Thanks.” Hope glanced at her watch and was glad to see the time. It was getting weird with her sister and Lola, and she still had a bunch of work to finish up before she could clock out. “I should get going.”
Lola leaned into Claire. “Did you tell her?”
Claire shook her head, and her expression faltered for a split second.
Hope clutched her tote’s strap. “Tell me what?”
“There’s something you should know.” Claire lowered her eyelids, and Hope’s belly quivered. She recognized the mannerism and combined with the funny look Claire had on her face moments ago, Hope knew her sister had something to confess. Like when Claire took her favorite pair of jeans—back then, they wore the same size—and wore them to paint signs for the cheer team’s car wash event. A rainbow of paint colors smudged the jeans, and no amount of stain remover helped remove the paint. Hope still didn’t know why Claire took her jeans while she had a drawer full of them. The only explanation that made sense was Claire hadn’t wanted to ruin a pair of her own.
“One of your neighbors came in earlier and mentioned something that’s happening on your street,” Claire said.
Hope searched her memory. She couldn’t recall anything special going on in her neighborhood. Shoot. She’d left her planner in her car. If anything was happening, she jotted it down in there. She did remember that the Gilberts were planning on their annual barbecue in a few weeks. Other than that, she couldn’t come up with any other event.
“It has to do with Birdie Donovan,” Lola said.
Hope groaned.
Whenever Birdie’s name was mentioned, what followed was seldom positive. The woman was persnickety, blunt, and of the mindset that she was always right. Thankfully, Hope had few interactions with her. Fingers crossed, it would stay that way.
“What happened now?” Hope asked, though the question should have been who had the unpleasant experience of being Birdie’s next victim?
Claire and Lola exchanged a look, and then Lola’s gaze quickly diverted toward a passing pickup truck.
Claire’s lips twisted. Clearly, she realized she’d been stuck with telling Hope whatever the news was.
“Birdie is circulating a petition among your neighbors to encourage . . . you to move.” Claire rushed her words as if she were pulling off a bandage. Then her face scrunched up, waiting for her sister’s reply.
Hope opened her mouth and then closed it. She couldn’t believe she heard Claire correctly. “What . . . Are you serious? A petition to get me to move. Why on earth? My neighbors love me!”
On her first day in her new residence, Hope baked muffins and delivered them to her neighbors. She introduced herself to the ones she hadn’t known and reconnected with old acquaintances. That’s when she met Ted Donovan for the first time, but his wife hadn’t joined him at the door. He told Hope about his work at Emily’s House and about Birdie’s passion for gardening. He even mentioned she was writing a book on the subject. As she continued passing out her muffins, she collected names, phone numbers, and recommendations for workers to help get her old house into shape.
None of them would have signed such a ridiculous petition.
“They do love you!” Lola jumped back into the conversation after her boss delivered the unpleasant news. “And Caroline Reynolds told us she refused to sign the petition. But Birdie is determined. She intends to present it to you and to Maretta. She’s hoping the town can do something.”
“What?” Hope’s voice raised an octave, and she quickly checked herself when a passerby did a double take. “What does she think Maretta could do?”
Maretta Kingston had become the town’s mayor after a special election last summer, beating Claire. A shiver worked its way through Hope’s body at the memory because the aftermath wasn’t pretty. Claire had resorted to sloppy clothes, Crocs, and eating carbs. Scary times indeed.
Hope knew the win was because Maretta’s connections and roots ran deep in town. Plus, her husband owned the real estate agency. Those two things made it easy for Maretta to get votes. She was also best friends with Birdie. They were like two peas in a pod.
Claire shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s probably nothing Maretta or the Town Council can do.”
“Town Council? Oh, my goodness. This is getting out of hand. What’s the reason why Birdie wants me to move? Is it about the chickens?”
One of the first things Hope did after settling into her home was to buy chicks. She’d converted a stall of her barn into a chicken coop for the flock. Growing up, she’d always wanted chickens, but her parents always found a reason to say no. So when she was house hunting, she made sure there would be enough property to have chickens. There were also a few other must-haves on her list: a large kitchen for recipe testing and a generously sized family room. She also wanted space for a vegetable garden. Now, as the homeowner, she could have all the chickens she wanted, but Birdie thought otherwise. She had complained to Hope and then to the Zoning Department about the birds, even though having them was well within the zoning laws.
“Birdie said that since you moved into the neighborhood, there has been too much chaos.” Claire fingered her necklace, a sign Hope recognized that she was feeling uncomfortable.
Hope opened her mouth to protest, but she couldn’t in all fairness. There had been a few situations involving the police at her home over the past year. Then there was the fire at a neighbor’s house, though that wasn’t her fault.
“It’s no longer the quiet enclave it used to be . . .” Claire continued.
“Enclave? She really said that?” Hope’s head was spinning. How could this be happening?
Claire nodded. “And she’s concerned about her property value.”
Hope sighed. “This is crazy. Absolutely crazy. I have no intention of moving. I love my house. I’ve done a lot of work on it.”
“And it’s beautiful.” Lola patted Hope on the shoulder as she walked to the shop’s door. “Don’t let her bully you.”
“Oh, believe me, I have no intention of allowing her to do that or run me out of my home.” Hope glanced at her watch again. Her to-do list needed to be tackled, but there was something more important to take care of.
“Good for you.” Lola gave a firm nod and then broke away to return inside the shop.
“Well, don’t do anything rash. Remember what mom used to say, kindness starts with one person.” Claire pressed her forefinger on her sister’s chest, over her heart. It was a gesture their mom did when she reminded them that kindness was essential to give in the most difficult situations.
Hope covered Claire’s hand with hers and squeezed. “I’ll do my best.”
“Do better.” Claire took back her hand. “I have to get back to work.”
Hope considered her sister’s suggestion and wanted to take their mother’s advice. But it hadn’t done a lick of good in previous dealings with Birdie. Kindness seemed to roll off her like rain off a duck.
Hope pushed off after Claire entered the shop and headed for the library. Her steps quickened as her nostrils flared, and her blood boiled the more she thought about the petition. Each step closer to the library, her anger ratcheted up a notch.
The gall of that woman.
What possessed Birdie to believe for one moment she could force Hope to move? Why didn’t she move if she was so miserable living on their road? Pack up her gardening tools and her life to move somewhere she wouldn’t have neighbors like Hope.
Hope dashed across the street, ignoring the crosswalk, and stomped up onto the curb. She continued along the sidewalk, and the sturdy two-story brick building came into view. The library had come a long way since Frieda Bishop started it over a century ago. She lent books to her friends and neighbors from her house on Main Street until the money was raised by the town to build a permanent library.
Hope slowed her pace and willed herself to calm down. The last thing she needed was to barge into the beloved sanctuary all hot under the collar.
Her calm down lasted only seconds, and she huffed out an aggravated breath as she stared at the library’s main door. Two women emerged and descended the front steps to the walkway. Hope recognized them both.
Jane Merrifield was talking and gesturing with one hand as she held onto the railing with the other. The seventy-something-year-old always seemed in good spirits. And as a retired mystery author, she always seemed to be looking for a mystery to solve. On that warm afternoon, she wore a navy floral dress and low-heeled blue pumps. Her white hair was styled with wispy bangs, and she wore her trademark pink lipstick.
Walking beside her was the person Hope was looking for. Birdie Donovan. She descended the steps as if she hadn’t a care in the world, with a canvas tote bag slung over her shoulder. It appeared to be weighed down by books. Like she wasn’t worried one iota about the wreckage she left behind as she targeted neighbors and acquaintances. When she reached the bottom of the steps, Hope noticed she cradled three thick books in her arms.
Hope made a scant distance of the space between them.
“Good afternoon, dear.” Jane smiled, her blue eyes twinkling as she came to a stop. “I was just telling Birdie about the new nursery I visited last week in Litchfield.” She loved her day trips because they provided her with tourism information she could share with the guests at her family’s inn.
Birdie halted but said nothing. Her heart-shaped face was expressionless as if she couldn’t be bothered with greeting Hope.
Couldn’t the woman at least say hello? Hope’s fingers itched to ball into fists, but she resisted. They’d have a civil conversation.
“Actually, Jane, I’d like to speak to Birdie.” Hope’s body tensed, and her belly bubbled with irritation and frustration.
“I don’t have time,” Birdie said briskly as she passed Hope without a goodbye to Jane.
“Make time!” Hope swung around to face Birdie’s back.
“Hope!” Jane admonished as she shuffled next to her. “What’s the matter?”
Birdie slowly turned back around. “So you’ve heard?”
“Heard what?” Jane looked puzzled as her gaze bounced between both women.
“She started a petition to force me to move from my home. How dare you!” Hope pointed her finger at Birdie.
“Is that true?” Jane looked at Birdie. “Why would you do that?”
Birdie rolled her eyes. “It’s been a circus since you’ve moved onto the street. Police cars, ambulances, graffiti, arson, murder! You’ve ruined our lovely neighborhood, and you have to go!”
“You can’t force her to leave her home, Birdie.” Jane tsked.
“Well, she thinks she can since she got Cleo to close up her flower stand. How could you do that to her? She wasn’t hurting anyone. She just needed a little extra money.”
“She was breaking the law. Someone has to enforce them,” Birdie said.
“And that someone is you? Well, you can take your petition and shove it! I’m not going anywhere.”
Hope’s fists balled up, and her lips formed a thin line. So much for a civil discussion. She knew she was acting poorly, but she couldn’t help herself. And that infuriated her more than Birdie.
“We’ll just see about that. By the time I finish with you, you will be moving. I’m getting my street back.” Birdie smirked.
“Oh . . . you keep it up, and . . . you’ll be the one moving!” Hope stumbled over her response, her anger getting the better of her as she struggled to come up with a stinging reply.
“Over my dead body.” Birdie swung around and stormed off toward the parking lot.
“I’m guessing that didn’t go as you’d planned, did it dear?” Jane looked up at Hope.
Hope shook her head as remorse filled her. “No. Not at all.”
Hope pushed open the mudroom door and entered her house. Once over the threshold, she let out a deep sigh of relief. It felt good to be home.
She dropped her keys on the countertop of her charging station.
One of the first projects she had tackled when she moved into the o. . .
Clusters of daffodils stretched along the side of the road as far as she could see. The bright orange flowers were a definite sign that spring had arrived, and summer wasn’t too far off. Everywhere she looked, Hope saw the stirrings of homeowners as they emerged from winter hibernation. Winter wreaths were traded out for spring florals, hanging planters were added to porches, and lawns had their first cuttings.
Spring has always been a season of transformation, and for Hope it was more so than ever before. Life had taken some unexpected turns over the past year. Some were welcomed, while others had been interlopers in her life. But she chose not to dwell on the past. No, she embraced the season of optimism.
At an intersection, she eased to a stop. To her left was a fenced field of Jersey cows, and to her right was a rambling ranch-style house with a flower stand set up on the property line. There she spotted Cleo loading potted plants into a cart. The president of the Jefferson Garden Club had been selling her cuttings to help offset her daughter’s college tuition.
Hope flicked her blinker on and eased her vehicle onto the edge of the Sloane property. After shutting off the ignition, she got out and walked toward Cleo.
She surveyed the flower stand, a simple wood table with a price list for the gallon-sized containers.
“Hey there, Hope. Good to see you.” Cleo dropped a pot onto the cart and then removed her work gloves. She was a thick-set middle-aged woman who always had dirt under her nails and a random fact about insect control on the tip of her tongue. “Beauty of a day, isn’t it?”
“Speaking of beauty . . . this hosta is stunning.” Hope moved to the cart for a closer inspection. The plant’s green leaves were highlighted by a creamy central pattern that made for a striking two-tone design.
“Angel Falls. She prefers light shade. Did you know grasshoppers enjoy dining on hostas? It’s important to inspect their leaves for holes, gaps, and tears at the edges. Early detection is crucial.”
“I have so much to learn about gardening.” Hope could bake a soufflé blindfolded, but garden? It was a talent and skill she didn’t possess. Not like Cleo. She was an expert. “Are you closing for the day?”
“Actually, I’m closing down for good.” Cleo trudged to the table and grabbed the sign. “I can’t even have a going out of business sale.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Birdie Donovan. That’s what happened. She reported me to the town, and since I don’t have any permits, I can’t sell my plants. Turns out, my little nursery is illegal. Go figure.” Cleo set the sign on the cart.
“Why did Birdie report you?” The moment Hope asked, she realized how silly it sounded. Everyone knew Birdie liked to stir the pot and was the perpetual squeaky wheel.
“Got me! All I can figure out is that she is still angry with me for the disagreement over last year’s Mother’s Day Flower Sale. Remember, we sold bouquets of flowers and gallon pots of perennials?”
Hope nodded. What she remembered was dropping a lot of money that weekend. When she bought her farmhouse, not only had the home been neglected, but so had the gardens. Her garden beds had desperately needed perennials.
“There was a disagreement? About what?” Hope browsed the pots remaining on the flower stand, awed by the healthy and flowering plants.
“She wanted us to buy the plants from a greenhouse she’d dealt with but we’d already agreed to get our plants from Timmy’s Garden Supply out on Old Saw Mill Road like we’d done for years. A big brush-up ensued, and she left the club. Well, I said, good riddance. She’s been nothing but trouble. And now this.” Cleo gestured to her almost empty flower stand.
“Have you explored getting a permit?” Hope knew little about business permits and what restrictions there were to running a retail business from home. Her blog didn’t require any such things.
“Even if I could get one, it would be expensive. The whole point of selling my cuttings was to earn some extra cash to help pay for the expenses not covered by Julia’s scholarship. But it turns out, according to zoning, I’m not supposed to be operating a retail business in this area.”
“I’m so sorry this happened.”
“Thanks . . . I’m sure I’ll figure something out. Maybe I can scrape enough money to get a booth at a flea market.” Cleo put her gloves back on and then lifted the Angel Falls Hosta off the cart. “Take this. It’ll look real nice in your garden.”
Hope raised her hands to protest. “That’s so nice of you. Let me pay you.”
“Nope. I can’t take any money because I need to keep this all legal. It’s a gift. Take good care of her.” Cleo thrust the pot into Hope’s hands. “Consider it my thank you for that delicious monkey bread recipe you shared last week on your blog.”
“You’re welcome. And thank you for this plant. I promise to take care of her.”
“You do that. And I’m going to get these back to my greenhouse.” Cleo grabbed the handle of the cart. “Let me tell you, I’m doing my best not to hold on to my anger against Birdie, but it’s hard to do. One day, she will come face to face with karma, and it won’t be pretty. Mark my words. She’ll get what’s coming to her.” She turned and pulled the cart behind her as she crossed the lawn toward her backyard.
Cleo’s warning concerned Hope, yet she understood the sentiment. She carried her new plant back to her Explorer. She pointed her key fob at the back cargo door, and when it opened, she set the plant inside. After the door closed, she took a final look at the dismantled flower stand. She wished she understood Birdie’s motivation for causing trouble for people. But more so, she hoped Cleo did nothing in retaliation that she’d be sorry for.
The SUV jolted as it hit a pothole as Hope turned onto Main Street. Her grip tightened on the steering wheel. The remnants of a harsh winter had finally vanished, but it left behind a minefield of potholes. She spied a parking space in front of her sister’s shop, Staged with Style, and pulled in to check her tire and rim. Both looked good. But how long would her luck hold out? The last thing she and her tight budget needed was a bill for a new tire.
Remembering her choice to embrace optimism, she straightened up and glanced around Jefferson’s primary hub. Customers came and went from the many shops that lined the charming street. Jefferson, known throughout the northeast as an antique mecca, drew tourists all year long. Collectors descended upon the town looking for their next find, from the most expensive and refined antiques to diamonds-in-the-rough.
Hope spotted a cluster of seniors leaving Ellie’s Cafe with to-go cups and heading toward the library. Next, she saw Mrs. Teager outside the Jefferson Historical Society.
The spry octogenarian was fussing with a planter of flowers but waved when she noticed Hope. Hope returned the wave and continued around her vehicle to the sidewalk.
Nate Batchelor was sweeping outside his antique shop as Jeffrey, the postal carrier, passed. She waved to both men and then turned her attention to her sister’s shop.
The quaint red clapboard house was a town landmark. Downstairs had been the first general store, and upstairs the town’s first mayor had lived. In recent years, antique businesses had come and gone, and now it was Claire’s home accessory shop.
She had made the risky decision to open a retail store after walking away from a successful career as a real estate agent.
Claire Dixon stood in front of the large window with her arms crossed and her lips pursed. A lace headband pulled her blonde hair off her face. The ankle-length turquoise pants she wore had a delicate lace edging and her eyelet top completed the fresh and springy look. Hope frowned as she glanced to her dark jeans and dark green tank. Claire looked like a flower in a spring garden, while Hope definitely looked more like a weed.
“What are you doing out here?” Hope’s gaze drifted from her sister to the window back to her sister.
Claire’s head turned at her sister’s voice; her face pinched with annoyance.
“Lola and I have been trying to figure out this display all morning.” Claire threw her arms up in the air. “Nothing looks right.”
Hope inched closer and studied the display.
Claire and her sales associate, Lola Granger, had set a vintage three-drawer chest in the window. They topped the cream-colored dresser with a vase and propped up a silver-tone picture frame.
“Maybe some texture? Like a throw or pillow?”
“You think? I guess we can add a chair.” Claire clapped her hands together. “Ooh, I can bring up the tufted chair we got in last week. And then drape a throw over it. I can use the lavender throw. You’re a genius!”
Hope tucked a lock of her shoulder-length brunette hair behind her ear. Maybe she should try a headband. “I’m glad I could help.”
When Claire had first shared that she’d be starting a second career, Hope had had serious concerns. Retail was a fickle business that demanded a lot of time and energy. Now, a few months later, she realized she had been right and wrong. Claire had a lot to juggle because of being tethered to a brick-and-mortar store. But she also realized Claire was right because she had followed her heart and was happy being her own boss.
“How was the workshop at Emily’s House?” Claire propped her hands on her slender hips and looked at her sister. She made it a point to go to Jefferson’s only gym, The Fix, at least four mornings a week before the shop opened. The other mornings she favored yoga at a studio down the street.
“Good. The gals are great, and they’re so excited to learn about online businesses.” Hope adjusted the handle of her overstuffed brown leather tote on her shoulder.
She had been recruited by her friend Erin Thomson to teach a workshop at the nonprofit. Emily’s House aided women coming out of troublesome situations. Over the winter, she brainstormed ideas and came up with one about starting an online business. Her experience with creating her food blog, Hope at Home, made her a natural to teach the curriculum. She’d taken her hobby, started in her two-bedroom New York City condo, to a full-time career.
“On my way back, I stopped by Cleo’s house. She was taking down her flower stand. Did you hear Birdie Donovan reported her?”
Claire tilted her head. She had a funny look on her face that couldn’t be read. Before Hope could ask what was going on, the shop door swung open, and Lola bounded out. She hurried to Claire’s side and studied the window.
“So what do you think?” Hired before Christmas, which made her Claire’s longest employee to date, Lola had become indispensable thanks to her solid work ethic. The other hires had survived a max of two weeks because of Claire’s lofty standards. She wasn’t the most easygoing person to work for. Hope was forever grateful to their parents for making sure their daughters always had separate bedrooms.
“Hope suggested we add some texture.” Claire’s expression returned to normal.
“Splendid idea, Hope.” Lola’s expression then mirrored the one that had been on Claire’s face only a moment ago.
What was going on? Self-consciously, Hope touched her cheek. Did she have something on her face? Had her new mascara given her raccoon eyes?
“Thanks.” Hope glanced at her watch and was glad to see the time. It was getting weird with her sister and Lola, and she still had a bunch of work to finish up before she could clock out. “I should get going.”
Lola leaned into Claire. “Did you tell her?”
Claire shook her head, and her expression faltered for a split second.
Hope clutched her tote’s strap. “Tell me what?”
“There’s something you should know.” Claire lowered her eyelids, and Hope’s belly quivered. She recognized the mannerism and combined with the funny look Claire had on her face moments ago, Hope knew her sister had something to confess. Like when Claire took her favorite pair of jeans—back then, they wore the same size—and wore them to paint signs for the cheer team’s car wash event. A rainbow of paint colors smudged the jeans, and no amount of stain remover helped remove the paint. Hope still didn’t know why Claire took her jeans while she had a drawer full of them. The only explanation that made sense was Claire hadn’t wanted to ruin a pair of her own.
“One of your neighbors came in earlier and mentioned something that’s happening on your street,” Claire said.
Hope searched her memory. She couldn’t recall anything special going on in her neighborhood. Shoot. She’d left her planner in her car. If anything was happening, she jotted it down in there. She did remember that the Gilberts were planning on their annual barbecue in a few weeks. Other than that, she couldn’t come up with any other event.
“It has to do with Birdie Donovan,” Lola said.
Hope groaned.
Whenever Birdie’s name was mentioned, what followed was seldom positive. The woman was persnickety, blunt, and of the mindset that she was always right. Thankfully, Hope had few interactions with her. Fingers crossed, it would stay that way.
“What happened now?” Hope asked, though the question should have been who had the unpleasant experience of being Birdie’s next victim?
Claire and Lola exchanged a look, and then Lola’s gaze quickly diverted toward a passing pickup truck.
Claire’s lips twisted. Clearly, she realized she’d been stuck with telling Hope whatever the news was.
“Birdie is circulating a petition among your neighbors to encourage . . . you to move.” Claire rushed her words as if she were pulling off a bandage. Then her face scrunched up, waiting for her sister’s reply.
Hope opened her mouth and then closed it. She couldn’t believe she heard Claire correctly. “What . . . Are you serious? A petition to get me to move. Why on earth? My neighbors love me!”
On her first day in her new residence, Hope baked muffins and delivered them to her neighbors. She introduced herself to the ones she hadn’t known and reconnected with old acquaintances. That’s when she met Ted Donovan for the first time, but his wife hadn’t joined him at the door. He told Hope about his work at Emily’s House and about Birdie’s passion for gardening. He even mentioned she was writing a book on the subject. As she continued passing out her muffins, she collected names, phone numbers, and recommendations for workers to help get her old house into shape.
None of them would have signed such a ridiculous petition.
“They do love you!” Lola jumped back into the conversation after her boss delivered the unpleasant news. “And Caroline Reynolds told us she refused to sign the petition. But Birdie is determined. She intends to present it to you and to Maretta. She’s hoping the town can do something.”
“What?” Hope’s voice raised an octave, and she quickly checked herself when a passerby did a double take. “What does she think Maretta could do?”
Maretta Kingston had become the town’s mayor after a special election last summer, beating Claire. A shiver worked its way through Hope’s body at the memory because the aftermath wasn’t pretty. Claire had resorted to sloppy clothes, Crocs, and eating carbs. Scary times indeed.
Hope knew the win was because Maretta’s connections and roots ran deep in town. Plus, her husband owned the real estate agency. Those two things made it easy for Maretta to get votes. She was also best friends with Birdie. They were like two peas in a pod.
Claire shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s probably nothing Maretta or the Town Council can do.”
“Town Council? Oh, my goodness. This is getting out of hand. What’s the reason why Birdie wants me to move? Is it about the chickens?”
One of the first things Hope did after settling into her home was to buy chicks. She’d converted a stall of her barn into a chicken coop for the flock. Growing up, she’d always wanted chickens, but her parents always found a reason to say no. So when she was house hunting, she made sure there would be enough property to have chickens. There were also a few other must-haves on her list: a large kitchen for recipe testing and a generously sized family room. She also wanted space for a vegetable garden. Now, as the homeowner, she could have all the chickens she wanted, but Birdie thought otherwise. She had complained to Hope and then to the Zoning Department about the birds, even though having them was well within the zoning laws.
“Birdie said that since you moved into the neighborhood, there has been too much chaos.” Claire fingered her necklace, a sign Hope recognized that she was feeling uncomfortable.
Hope opened her mouth to protest, but she couldn’t in all fairness. There had been a few situations involving the police at her home over the past year. Then there was the fire at a neighbor’s house, though that wasn’t her fault.
“It’s no longer the quiet enclave it used to be . . .” Claire continued.
“Enclave? She really said that?” Hope’s head was spinning. How could this be happening?
Claire nodded. “And she’s concerned about her property value.”
Hope sighed. “This is crazy. Absolutely crazy. I have no intention of moving. I love my house. I’ve done a lot of work on it.”
“And it’s beautiful.” Lola patted Hope on the shoulder as she walked to the shop’s door. “Don’t let her bully you.”
“Oh, believe me, I have no intention of allowing her to do that or run me out of my home.” Hope glanced at her watch again. Her to-do list needed to be tackled, but there was something more important to take care of.
“Good for you.” Lola gave a firm nod and then broke away to return inside the shop.
“Well, don’t do anything rash. Remember what mom used to say, kindness starts with one person.” Claire pressed her forefinger on her sister’s chest, over her heart. It was a gesture their mom did when she reminded them that kindness was essential to give in the most difficult situations.
Hope covered Claire’s hand with hers and squeezed. “I’ll do my best.”
“Do better.” Claire took back her hand. “I have to get back to work.”
Hope considered her sister’s suggestion and wanted to take their mother’s advice. But it hadn’t done a lick of good in previous dealings with Birdie. Kindness seemed to roll off her like rain off a duck.
Hope pushed off after Claire entered the shop and headed for the library. Her steps quickened as her nostrils flared, and her blood boiled the more she thought about the petition. Each step closer to the library, her anger ratcheted up a notch.
The gall of that woman.
What possessed Birdie to believe for one moment she could force Hope to move? Why didn’t she move if she was so miserable living on their road? Pack up her gardening tools and her life to move somewhere she wouldn’t have neighbors like Hope.
Hope dashed across the street, ignoring the crosswalk, and stomped up onto the curb. She continued along the sidewalk, and the sturdy two-story brick building came into view. The library had come a long way since Frieda Bishop started it over a century ago. She lent books to her friends and neighbors from her house on Main Street until the money was raised by the town to build a permanent library.
Hope slowed her pace and willed herself to calm down. The last thing she needed was to barge into the beloved sanctuary all hot under the collar.
Her calm down lasted only seconds, and she huffed out an aggravated breath as she stared at the library’s main door. Two women emerged and descended the front steps to the walkway. Hope recognized them both.
Jane Merrifield was talking and gesturing with one hand as she held onto the railing with the other. The seventy-something-year-old always seemed in good spirits. And as a retired mystery author, she always seemed to be looking for a mystery to solve. On that warm afternoon, she wore a navy floral dress and low-heeled blue pumps. Her white hair was styled with wispy bangs, and she wore her trademark pink lipstick.
Walking beside her was the person Hope was looking for. Birdie Donovan. She descended the steps as if she hadn’t a care in the world, with a canvas tote bag slung over her shoulder. It appeared to be weighed down by books. Like she wasn’t worried one iota about the wreckage she left behind as she targeted neighbors and acquaintances. When she reached the bottom of the steps, Hope noticed she cradled three thick books in her arms.
Hope made a scant distance of the space between them.
“Good afternoon, dear.” Jane smiled, her blue eyes twinkling as she came to a stop. “I was just telling Birdie about the new nursery I visited last week in Litchfield.” She loved her day trips because they provided her with tourism information she could share with the guests at her family’s inn.
Birdie halted but said nothing. Her heart-shaped face was expressionless as if she couldn’t be bothered with greeting Hope.
Couldn’t the woman at least say hello? Hope’s fingers itched to ball into fists, but she resisted. They’d have a civil conversation.
“Actually, Jane, I’d like to speak to Birdie.” Hope’s body tensed, and her belly bubbled with irritation and frustration.
“I don’t have time,” Birdie said briskly as she passed Hope without a goodbye to Jane.
“Make time!” Hope swung around to face Birdie’s back.
“Hope!” Jane admonished as she shuffled next to her. “What’s the matter?”
Birdie slowly turned back around. “So you’ve heard?”
“Heard what?” Jane looked puzzled as her gaze bounced between both women.
“She started a petition to force me to move from my home. How dare you!” Hope pointed her finger at Birdie.
“Is that true?” Jane looked at Birdie. “Why would you do that?”
Birdie rolled her eyes. “It’s been a circus since you’ve moved onto the street. Police cars, ambulances, graffiti, arson, murder! You’ve ruined our lovely neighborhood, and you have to go!”
“You can’t force her to leave her home, Birdie.” Jane tsked.
“Well, she thinks she can since she got Cleo to close up her flower stand. How could you do that to her? She wasn’t hurting anyone. She just needed a little extra money.”
“She was breaking the law. Someone has to enforce them,” Birdie said.
“And that someone is you? Well, you can take your petition and shove it! I’m not going anywhere.”
Hope’s fists balled up, and her lips formed a thin line. So much for a civil discussion. She knew she was acting poorly, but she couldn’t help herself. And that infuriated her more than Birdie.
“We’ll just see about that. By the time I finish with you, you will be moving. I’m getting my street back.” Birdie smirked.
“Oh . . . you keep it up, and . . . you’ll be the one moving!” Hope stumbled over her response, her anger getting the better of her as she struggled to come up with a stinging reply.
“Over my dead body.” Birdie swung around and stormed off toward the parking lot.
“I’m guessing that didn’t go as you’d planned, did it dear?” Jane looked up at Hope.
Hope shook her head as remorse filled her. “No. Not at all.”
Hope pushed open the mudroom door and entered her house. Once over the threshold, she let out a deep sigh of relief. It felt good to be home.
She dropped her keys on the countertop of her charging station.
One of the first projects she had tackled when she moved into the o. . .
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The Corpse in the Gazebo
Debra Sennefelder
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