Chapter Six
Hope and Bigelow arrived at Staged with Style in record time. She usually didn’t speed, but under the circumstances, she made an exception. Even though Claire wasn’t in any danger, Hope’s protective instinct had kicked into high gear. Devon’s angry phone call last night, her apartment door left open, and the place appearing to have been searched. It was all unsettling, and Hope didn’t want Claire there by herself.
“Why did you bring him?” Claire pulled the shop’s door closed behind her. She’d been peering out the shop’s window when Hope arrived.
“Protection.” Hope patted Bigelow’s back. He was small but mighty. Not too long ago, he’d leaped into action when Hope’s life was at risk, and she was grateful he was there at the time. He may not have been large or muscled, but he wouldn’t let anyone hurt her.
She stepped toward the door that opened to the vestibule, and the three of them ascended the staircase. Bigelow’s toenails tapped on the creaky old wooden steps, and when he reached the landing, he lifted his nose and sniffed.
“What’s he doing?” Claire asked.
“Smelling.”
“Like for a dead body?”
Hope shrugged. “Canines have a more acute sense of smell than we do. So who knows what he’s smelling now?”
“God, I hope Devon wasn’t murdered here. Do you have any idea how hard it is to rent or sell a property where there’s been a murder?”
Hope looked over her shoulder. “Actually, I do. Remember that house I was almost killed in? It’s still on the market. And I’d think we should be more concerned about Devon than the rental future of this property.”
“You’re right. Sorry.”
“Did you hear anything this morning?”
“No. Since she moved in, I’ve heard her moving around sometimes, but nothing today.”
The apartment door was ajar, and there was no sound coming from inside the tiny apartment. Hope stretched out her hand and pushed the door open wider. She immediately pulled her hand back. Fingerprints. While she hoped this was all a big misunderstanding, that Devon was safe somewhere, running an errand, she could be stepping into a crime scene.
A messy crime scene.
If someone hadn’t searched the apartment, Devon must have been in a frenzy looking for something. Hope could identify with that. She’d spent last night turning her own house upside down looking for her missing charm bracelet. Anything to avoid having to ask Iva about it.
Sofa cushions and pillows were tossed on the wood floor, the area rug was scrunched up, and the dining chairs were strewn across the small eating area. Even the kitchen cabinets were open, and canned items were on the floor. The other evening, everything had been tidy and orderly. Even the piles of research on the table had had some order to them, though Hope would have preferred neatly arranged filed folders hung in a desktop file container. Now there was nothing to organize. All the research was gone. The bulletin board was empty.
“Devon! Are you home? It’s Hope and Claire!”
Bigelow barked. Hope guessed he didn’t want to be left out.
“No answer, just like before. I have a terrible feeling about this.” Claire had followed her to the table. “Isn’t this breaking and entering?”
“No. It’s just entering. Don’t touch anything.” It was a reminder for herself. Touching the door was a rookie mistake. Hope should have known better. She headed to the bedroom with Bigelow. The bed was made, but Devon wasn’t in there. She returned to the living area.
“What was this for?” Claire was looking at the bulletin board, which now lay flat on the table. The pushpins that held the newspaper articles and photographs were scattered over the board and table. It looked like somebody had ripped those documents away in a hurry.
“Devon’s research. Newspaper articles, photos, police interviews. Devon is thorough.”
Claire fingered the heart charm on her necklace. “I don’t remember the newspaper articles. What I remember is the six o’clock news and a photo of Joyce up on the screen.” She swallowed. “It terrified me. I thought Mom would disappear next.”
Hope wrapped her arm around her sister’s shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. “Me too.” They stood silent for a moment until Hope let go of Claire. “We have to figure out what’s going on here.”
Claire nodded. “If Devon is right about someone abducting her mother and that person is still here in Jefferson, I think he or she wouldn’t want her to be revisiting the past.”
“You’re right. You know, the more I’ve thought about it the past few days, the more I agree with Devon. I don’t think Joyce walked out on her family.”
“But if I remember correctly, there wasn’t any sign of a struggle or a crime at the Markham house. Unlike here.” Claire looked around the apartment.
“It could have been someone Joyce knew and wasn’t afraid of. Maybe that person lured her out of the house under false pretenses.”
“Doesn’t sound like she had anything more concrete than the police had.”
“I know. I think that’s why Devon asked for my help.”
Claire gave Hope their mother’s look. The one when the two girls knew they’d been caught by their mom, who was waiting for an explanation before sentencing them to an unbearable punishment. Hope hated that look.
“Help with what, Hope? Finding the person who probably kidnapped and murdered Devon’s mother? And now she’s . . . we don’t know where she is, but someone ransacked her apartment. Tell me you aren’t considering it.”
Hope lowered her gaze, and that’s when she saw Drew’s business card peeking out from beneath the bulletin board. She pulled out her phone from her purse and called him. He picked up on the third ring.
“Hey, have you talked to Devon recently?” Hope asked.
“Yesterday. We started her interview. I’ve been trying to schedule the rest of it, but she hasn’t returned my call.”
“After you met with her yesterday, do you know where she went?”
“She mentioned her next stop was to talk to the detective who worked Joyce’s case. He’s retired and living in Milford now. What’s going on?”
“Not sure. Thanks.” Hope ended the call. She looked at Claire. “We need to call Ethan. First, let’s get out of here.” The apartment was giving her the willies. She shepherded her sister and Bigelow out to the hall and down the stairs.
The good news was Ethan answered her call. The bad news was, he was on his way into another meeting with the mayor and the town’s attorney. The really bad news was, he sent Detective Sam Reid to check out Devon’s apartment.
Detective Reid wasn’t fond of Hope’s amateur sleuthing adventures. He’d made it abundantly clear she had no business poking her nose into police matters. He also never let the fact that she had a personal relationship with Ethan stop him from threatening to arrest her for interfering with a police investigation. Several times in fact. And now here he was.
Why couldn’t Ethan have sent a patrol officer?
“I can see why you’re concerned.” Detective Reid stepped out of the apartment into the hallway where Hope, Claire, and Bigelow waited. He pulled the door closed. “Mrs. Dixon, did you hear anything this morning from up here?”
“No. Nothing. It looks like someone searched the apartment. Do you think it’s connected to her mother’s disappearance?” Claire asked.
“I’m unable to speculate at this time. For all we know, Ms. Markham could have left early this morning before you opened the shop, and she didn’t securely close the door.” Reid towered over Hope and Claire. His thin frame, courtesy of marathon running, was covered in a black trench coat. The unbuttoned coat revealed a dark gray turtleneck over black trousers and gave a glimpse of his badge attached to his belt.
“What about the mess inside?” Hope stood beside her sister, and Bigelow was seated, pressed against her leg. He’d positioned himself between her and the detective. Few things ignited the dog’s ire, but Reid was one of them.
Reid shrugged. “A simple explanation could be that she’s messy.”
“That’s not messy!” Hope pointed to the apartment door. “I was in there two nights ago, and other than paperwork cluttering the table, there wasn’t any mess. No, Devon didn’t do that. What about all her missing research?”
“She could have taken it with her. Why were you here the other night?” Reid pulled out a small black notepad from his coat’s interior pocket, along with a pen. He flipped the notepad open to a blank sheet of paper.
“To catch up. Devon asked me to come over after my blogging class at the library.” Hope watched the detective jot down what she’d said.
“I heard about the class.” Reid looked up from his notepad.
“It was the first class, and I think it went well. There were a lot of questions, and I think the students were confused when I talked about platforms hosting—”
“I don’t think he’s interested in your class,” Claire said.
“Right. Sorry. Back to Devon.”
“Thank you, Miss Early.” A rare smiled appeared on his lips. His sharp facial features usually didn’t reveal what he was thinking. So, seeing something like a smile was indeed surprising.
“Devon wanted to catch up.” And to ask her to help with her investigation. But she decided not to share that part until her sister poked her in the side with her elbow. “Ouch.” She glared at Claire.
“Tell him or I will.”
“Tell me what?” Reid asked.
Hope gave her sister a I-will-not-forget-this look. “Devon asked for my help with her investigation of her mother’s case.”
“She did, did she?” Reid smirked. “And what was your answer, Ms. Early?”
“I didn’t give her an answer.”
“Why not? It should have been a big, fat no,” Claire said.
“I know what you think.” Hope turned her attention back to the detective.
“Do you? What am I thinking now?” Claire’s tone was aggravated.
Reid cleared his throat, interrupting the squabble.
“Sorry.” Hope glared one more time at Claire. “I called Drew, and he said he met with Devon yesterday. He’s writing a story about her podcast. After their meeting, she told him she would talk to the detective who handled her mother’s case. He’s retired now.”
“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.
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.