A Corpse at the Witching Hour

By Debra Sennefelder

When her best friend’s Aunt Issy falls ill, food blogger Hope Early agrees to help him hand out Halloween candy at his aunt’s house, which is rumored to be cursed. A murder-suicide took place there a century ago, and legend has it that a woman has died there every twenty years since—on Halloween. Hope doesn’t really believe in curses or ghosts, but when all the trick-or-treaters are gone and she discovers a woman’s dead body on the front lawn, she wonders if the curse might be real after all.

Then Hope and her friend discover a cache of love letters linking the dead woman to Aunt Issy’s husband years ago, and Hope is certain they’ve uncovered the motive for murder—and the police are certain Aunt Issy is their main suspect. Determined to prove Issy’s innocence and nab the real culprit, Hope starts shaking other branches of the family tree. But she forgets that Halloween isn’t the only day people hide behind masks, and if she’s not careful, Hope will come face-to-face with a ghoulish fiend who’s not afraid to kill again . . .

Includes two tasty recipes!

About the Author:

Debra Sennefelder is the acclaimed author of the Food Blogger Mysteries, the Resale Boutique Mysteries, and the Cookie Shop Mysteries. An avid reader who reads across a range of genres, mystery fiction is her obsession. Her interest in people and relationships is channeled into her novels against a backdrop of crime and mystery. She’s worked in retail and publishing before becoming a full-time author. Her writing companion is her adorable and slightly spoiled Shih-Tzu, Connie.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beyond the Page Publishing
• Release date: Oct 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781960511386

Debra Sennefelder

Debra Sennefelder is an author of cozy mysteries, including the Food Blogger Mystery series and the Resale Boutique Mystery series. When she’s not writing, she’s either baking or reading. She lives with her family and slightly spoiled Shih Tzu in Connecticut.

Book preview

A Corpse at the Witching Hour

When her best friend’s Aunt Issy falls ill, food blogger Hope Early agrees to help him hand out Halloween candy at his aunt’s house, which is rumored to be cursed. A murder-suicide took place there a century ago, and legend has it that a woman has died there every twenty years since—on Halloween. Hope doesn’t really believe in curses or ghosts, but when all the trick-or-treaters are gone and she discovers a woman’s dead body on the front lawn, she wonders if the curse might be real after all.

Then Hope and her friend discover a cache of love letters linking the dead woman to Aunt Issy’s husband years ago, and Hope is certain they’ve uncovered the motive for murder—and the police are certain Aunt Issy is their main suspect. Determined to prove Issy’s innocence and nab the real culprit, Hope starts shaking other branches of the family tree. But she forgets that Halloween isn’t the only day people hide behind masks, and if she’s not careful, Hope will come face-to-face with a ghoulish fiend who’s not afraid to kill again . . .

Title Page

Copyright

A Corpse at the Witching Hour

Debra Sennefelder

Copyright © 2023 by Debra Sennefelder

Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

Published by Beyond the Page at Smashwords

Beyond the Page Books

are published by

Beyond the Page Publishing

www.beyondthepagepub.com

ISBN: 978-1-960511-38-6

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Recipes

Books by Debra Sennefelder

About the Author

Chapter One

Hope Early blew out a breath as she stared at the plans spread across her kitchen table. She’d been studying them for days. At this point, she wasn’t sure what she was looking for. Maybe a sign she was doing the right thing? The project both excited and terrified her. Well, it mostly terrified her. Investing so much into creating a studio kitchen in her barn for her blog, Hope at Home, was an enormous leap of faith. Maybe she should wait until she was more financially sound. She pressed her lips together. When exactly would that be? Five days? Five months? Five years? She blew out another breath and resolved there would never be a right time.

She picked up her coffee mug, took a sip, and grimaced. Lukewarm. Time for a fresh cup. She spun around, her movement alerting her dog, Bigelow, that something was up. Unfortunately, what was up was her need for a caffeine infusion. Between recipe development, volunteering for the Autumn Arts Festival, and pitching in to help her boyfriend, Ethan, care for his two daughters, she’d been going nonstop. Having it all obviously didn’t include sleep.

Now fully awake from his after-breakfast snooze, Bigelow, medium-sized with brown-and-white fur and floppy ears, followed Hope to the counter. Tucked near the coffee maker was his treat canister. After pouring her old coffee into the sink, she refilled the mug and grabbed a homemade peanut butter cookie for her best pup. Next, she looked around for her cat, Princess. The white fluff ball was nowhere in sight, and Hope guessed the persnickety feline had found a hiding spot and would appear when she wanted food.

Sit. Hope held the cookie over Bigelow’s head and waited for him to obey. Since rescuing him, she’d been trying to teach him manners. It’d been a challenge, but they were finally making progress. When he sat, she lowered the cookie and cooed, Good boy.

Why, thank you. Her best friend, Drew Adams, had entered the kitchen from the mudroom. I try, he said with a chuckle.

Hope hadn’t heard his car pull into her driveway, even though she’d been expecting him. Today was a big day in his life and he couldn’t wait to share his excitement.

You really don’t. Hope laughed as she picked up her mug, took a sip of the fresh coffee, and smiled. Meanwhile, Bigelow scampered over to Drew.

Drew gave Hope a half shrug as he lavished pats on Bigelow. When they finished greeting each other, Drew joined Hope at the coffee maker. He retrieved a mug from the upper cabinet and filled it to the brim.

I got big news! He beamed. Big, big news.

Hope knew what the big news was. It had been all he’d talked about for weeks. But she didn’t want to burst his bubble. No, she wanted him to enjoy every minute of his major accomplishment. He’d worked hard as a reporter for the Gazette, taking on the additional responsibilities for the newspaper’s special editions, and had been financially responsible, saving for his first home. A home he’d been dreaming of owning since childhood. Now he finally had the down payment and his aunt’s blessing to buy the family home.

I’m a homeowner! He set his mug on the counter, then swept Hope up in a hug, her coffee sloshing. Bigelow perked up again and joined in the celebration, his sharp claws scratching Hope’s thigh as he jumped on her. Fenn House is all mine! After he released Hope, he clapped his hands together. I can’t wait to show you the house before I do the remodel.

Hope shooed Bigelow away and he trotted to his comfy bed.

One of the first things she tackled when she purchased the old farmhouse was to tear down the wall between the kitchen and family room. She combined the two rooms into one and brought in the comfort of modern-day living with upgraded appliances, fixtures, and furnishings, all while keeping the home’s history front and center. She loved the cooking hearth, original to the house, which stood solid in the family room. The twelve-over-twelve paned windows that lined the south side of the room had been stripped and given a new coat of paint. They gave her a view of her expansive garden beds and her classic red barn. She reached for a towel and wiped her hands dry while Drew still grinned from ear to ear.

I’m looking forward to seeing it. She dropped the towel on the granite countertop. She’d lived through an extensive remodel and worried about Drew’s preparedness for taking on the enormous task ahead of him. After all, Fenn House was much older than Hope’s farmhouse, and he didn’t know the difference between a flathead and a Phillips head screwdriver. But since she hadn’t wanted to dampen his enthusiasm, she kept the concern to herself. At least for now. I can’t remember the last time I was there. I think we were kids.

The Cape Cod home had been built in the late seventeenth century when the town was founded. A few of the founding families still lived in Jefferson, including the Merrifields, the Blanchards, and the Fenns—Drew’s family. While Hope couldn’t trace her family tree back as far as Drew could, she was proud to be a Jeffersonian nonetheless.

Drew’s chin tilted and he sniffed. Ooh, you’re baking brownies. How’d I miss that when I came in?

Hope’s nose wriggled at the delectable aroma of chocolate in the air. She glanced over her shoulder at her double wall ovens. The bottom one contained two pans of brownies baking.

You were preoccupied when you came in, remember? You had big news.

They’re almost ready, right?

Hope’s attention returned to Drew. A shot of envy zipped through her. He didn’t have to count how many brownies he would consume, while she had to curb her desire to inhale every single one. That was the downside to having a food blog. There was never a shortage of yummy food to eat. But there always seemed to be a shortage of exercise time. Go figure.

Drew carried his coffee to the table and pulled out a chair. From that spot, he would have a clear view of the patio through the bank of windows. But, instead of admiring the late-autumn beauty outside, he tapped the drawing on top of the table. He took a sip of coffee before saying, You know you need to sign off on this, right?

I know. I know. It’s just that I’m in the middle of too many things. Hope gulped her coffee just as the oven timer dinged. She swapped her mug for pot holders and retrieved both brownie pans from the oven. After setting them on cooling racks, she closed the oven door and mentally checked off the baking task from her to-do list.

"You’ve been in the middle of these drawings for days. My dad needs an answer soon."

Hope propped her hands on her hips and sighed. Drew’s dad, Greyson Adams, was the best architect in Jefferson. She’d hired him to reimagine her barn as a workspace for cooking and photography.

I thought you came over to tell me about your big news, not to nag me about my indecisiveness. As much as she hated to, she was vacillating, which wasn’t like her. The decision to move forward with the barn project should have been simple—she needed a bigger space. Not only did she need the room for recipe development, but also for video production and photography. The blog she started in the kitchen of her New York City apartment had grown to include an online video channel and several recipe e-books. So why couldn’t she commit?

Drew shrugged before taking a gulp of coffee. Gosh, I sound like my mother, don’t I?

Diana Adams had a strong personality with no filter and a chop-chop attitude. Rigid would have been an understatement when describing her. Somehow, Drew had managed to not inherit those chop-chop genes.

Hope raised her hand to hold her thumb and index finger close together, with the slightest bit of space between them. Not going to lie. You sound a little like her right now.

He visibly shivered. Sorry. Anyway, my dad is working on plans for Fenn House. We’re thinking about reconfiguring the addition that was put on when Aunt Issy’s grandparents owned the house. It’s going to be my home office.

Does your aunt know you’ll be tearing down walls? Hope approached the table and rolled up the drawings. Isidora Leopold was Drew’s mother’s older sister and, until the sale that morning, had been the owner of Fenn House for over thirty years. After her husband’s death, she’d moved out but kept it as a rental property.

We talked about all the upgrades and improvements I want to make to the house. She’s fully on board. Speaking of Aunt Issy—Drew clasped his hands together—since the girls are spending Halloween with their mom . . .

Hope’s shoulders sagged at the reminder that her plans had blown up. She’d been looking forward to taking Ethan’s daughters, Becca and Molly, trick-or-treating. She also had a container of beef stew in the refrigerator waiting to be reheated and served from a pumpkin-shaped tureen before they all ventured out in the dark, chilly night to go door to door in the neighborhood and then on Main Street. But Ethan’s ex-wife, who was now out of rehab, had other plans, and they included Becca and Molly.

I’m wondering if you’d like to help me hand out candy at Osbon House? Aunt Issy hasn’t been feeling well this week, and this morning her doctor put her on bed rest for a few days. How about it? Are you in? He pressed his palms together and gave her a pleading look. I could use the help.

Hmm . . . handing out candy on Halloween in a haunted house? A smile stretched across Hope’s face at the prospect, even though she didn’t believe in ghosts. It would be fun scaring the bejeebers out of the little trick-or-treaters. Heck, yeah, I’m in!

Thank you, thank you, thank you. He clapped his hands in victory. My mom is going to a séance—

Your mother? A séance? Hope wasn’t sure if she had heard correctly.

I’m not even asking her why. Heaven help the ghost who gets summoned. Anyway, my cousins have plans so they can’t pitch in. We’ll be going nonstop once the sun sets.

Hope didn’t doubt that claim. Since moving out of Fenn House, Issy’s home for decades had been a stately Victorian set at the edge of Main Street. Its spooky reputation stemmed from a murder-suicide a century ago. Each decade, the tale grew bigger and drew curiosity seekers hoping for a paranormal encounter, especially on Halloween.

Hope returned to the island and removed the brownies from both pans. She’d planned on sharing one pan with Becca and Molly after their afternoon bike ride through the neighborhood. The other was a thank-you gift for Marcus Sloan. He’d helped her research Jefferson history for her blog. After retrieving a serrated knife from the butcher’s block, she cut the brownies into squares. They were perfect. Crispy edges. Fudgy middles. Their rich chocolate flavor would pair perfectly with a cold glass of milk.

How many would you like? One or two? Hope couldn’t wait to take a bite, but she’d be patient. She wiped the blade and made another slice through the brownies. When Drew didn’t answer, she glanced at him and saw him flick his wrist. His eyebrows shot up as he looked at his smartwatch.

Something wrong? She set the knife down.

Shoot. I forgot about a meeting. I’m going to be late. He popped up from his chair. Can I get two brownies to go?

No problem. Hope moved to another section of her island, pulled open a drawer, and plucked out a reusable container and lid from the organized compartment. She packaged not two but three brownies for Drew. She knew he loved them, and two wouldn’t be enough. Plus, it would be one less she’d eat.

By the time he reached the mudroom, she had caught up with him, the container in her hand. After handing it off, she grabbed her fleece jacket from the hook. This room was one of her favorite projects she’d tackled in the century-old farmhouse. With the clever use of paint, Ethan’s handiwork, and flea market finds, she’d converted the tired old space into a warm, friendly welcome for visitors. Plus, it was the perfect spot to take off muddy boots.

She stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind her. The crisp, chilly air contrasted with the warmth of her kitchen. She zipped her fleece jacket as she followed Drew to his sassy red convertible parked behind her dependable Explorer. Their vehicles were definitely symbols of their lifestyles.

I’ll text you with a time for tomorrow. Drew aimed his key fob at his vehicle. It’s going to be so much fun. Maybe we can watch a movie, like one of those campy 1950s horror movies.

All we’re missing is a sleepover in the haunted house, Hope quipped.

Drew chuckled. Knowing my aunt, she’d love nothing more than to have us stay over. I know she’s lonely in that big house.

I bet she is. I never understood why she moved out of Fenn House. Hope tucked her hands in her pockets as she walked through a fresh layer of fallen leaves. A windy night had shaken the towering oak tree and rattled her farmhouse’s windows well into the early morning hours. When she stopped at the convertible, she noticed an unfamiliar sedan parked at the curb.

She says there are too many sad memories there. A heavy look settled on Drew’s face as he opened the driver’s side door. Mom once said Aunt Issy believed she and Uncle Harry would live there forever.

Then he died. I think I get it. Hope recalled the account of the tragic car accident that had killed Harry Leopold. He and Issy had just celebrated their fourth wedding anniversary the day before. Then, in the blink of an eye, she was a widow. Hope crossed her arms to provide a barrier to the biting chill of the morning. Realizing their conversation had taken a depressing turn, she changed the subject. I’ll bring the beef stew tomorrow night for supper. So don’t eat anything. Tell your aunt not to, either.

Got it. Drew slid into the driver’s seat and closed the door. He turned on the ignition, then backed out of the driveway.

Hope waved goodbye, and as she lowered her hand, she noticed the sedan pulling away from the curb and following Drew’s car. She got a quick glance at the driver—an older woman with shoulder-length gray hair.

There wasn’t much traffic on Fieldstone Road. Mostly residents and visitors like Drew. She did a one-eighty, looking for anyone else around. No one. Why was the car parked in front of her house? Hope tamped down her paranoia. There was probably a good reason why the woman had parked there and taken off after Drew drove away. So why did her mind gravitate back to the few times when people with sinister intentions had visited Fieldstone Road? She shook her head, attempting to dislodge those thoughts. Yet they remained fixed in place. Perhaps because the last incident had not been so far in the past and was still raw.

Last spring, she’d gotten caught up in a murder case that almost ended with her in handcuffs. Reeling from being a murder suspect and coming face-to-face with the killer, she’d promised to stay out of any future police investigations. After all, she was a blogger, not a detective. And that pledge also included not becoming the neighborhood watch.

• • •

Halloween morning, Hope began her day with a generous slice of leftover apple galette from recipe testing. After she cleared the table, she headed to the chicken coop. Her flock had grown since she brought home the first group of chicks. While she’d been looking forward to fresh eggs for her cooking and baking, she had no idea how attached she’d become to the feathery creatures. Each had their own personality, but two were definitely characters. Helga, a Hamburg hen, was the alpha chick and kept all the other birds in line, while Poppy, a Rhode Island Red, was gentle and affectionate. Poppy preferred to stay close to Hope’s house rather than free-range with the other chickens during the day.

Once the feeding was done and fresh water set out, Hope examined each bird to check for any signs of disease. Being proactive was the key to a happy, healthy flock.

When she finished checking each bird, she set them out to free-range on her three acres of property. They’d spend as long as they wanted outside, and at dinnertime she’d bring in the ones who hadn’t returned to the coop on their own. With all the chickens outside, she wiped down the worktable and double-checked the feed bucket’s lid to ensure it was secure.

Bigelow barked and she flashed him a smile. He accompanied her every morning to the coop, then hung out in the yard for a bit, keeping an eye on the chickens while she warmed up inside. October had come in swinging with a blast of cold weather and even a snow event, as a meteorologist had called it, within the first week of the month. Thankfully, there was no snow in the forecast for tonight, Halloween.

Bigelow let out another bark, and Hope recognized the tone as he scooted past her with his tail wagging toward the road.

And she waited.

One. Two. Three. And there it was.

Good morning, Hope.

She turned at the sound of Gilbert Madison’s cheerful voice. He and his wife, Mitzi, lived across the street. Retired, he walked his golden retriever three miles every morning, and by the looks of them both, it appeared their walk was just beginning. Buddy tugged on his lead as Bigelow reached the curb. The pups greeted each other with sniffs and tail wags. They’d been besties since Hope adopted Bigelow.

Happy Halloween. Gilbert patted Bigelow on the head. He was bundled up for the walk in a parka and wool hat pulled over his white hair. It’s going to be a chilly one tonight. Do you have any plans?

As a matter of fact, I do. Hope walked toward the curb but stopped at the end of her driveway. I’ll be handing out candy with Drew at his Aunt Issy’s house.

Osbon House. He let out a low whistle. I’ve heard stories about that place. You better be careful. Who knows what the spirit who haunts that house will be up to tonight.

Hope chuckled, but it was cut short as goose bumps broke out on her arms. She knew all the talk about the ghost was just that—talk. But there was always something sinister about that house she couldn’t explain. She often wondered why Issy purchased it when she could have bought any other home in Jefferson.

With the number of kids who visit the house, I doubt the ghost will have time to be mischievous, Hope said.

Fair point, Gilbert conceded with a nod. Mitzi and I are going to stay in and hand out candy. Too bad we won’t get to see Becca and Molly in their costumes. But I’m sure you’ll share a photo with us.

Of course. I probably should get inside. There are a few things I need to get done before I run errands. Hope glanced back at her house. She hoped the cue would move Gilbert along. He loved to