Well-Offed in Vermont: A Pret’ Near Perfect Mystery

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Well-Offed in Vermont: A Pret’ Near Perfect Mystery Page 7

by Amy Patricia Meade


  “I’m not. I’m just trying to get a timeline on Weston’s death.”

  “Don’t you think you should leave that to the police?”

  “Oh, I plan to. But, you see, Nick and I are a bit bored. We had planned to use these few days to unpack and get settled. But now that we’re on hold, well, there’s not much to do except to join in the local gossip.”

  The comment had the desired effect. Alice’s face became more relaxed. “That will definitely keep you busy. Behind maple syrup, lumber, and cheese, gossip is our biggest product.”

  “Yeah, we’ve noticed,” Nick joined in. “Our neighbor knew my name before I even introduced myself.”

  “Your neighbor? Oh, you mean Crazy Maggie. Yeah, news spreads fast. Not always accurately, but fast. I’d say it was like the game of telephone, except that most of the news is usually passed along in person. Church suppers, pig roasts, maple sugar weekends … the highlight of them all is the gossip. Oh, and never stop at Perkins if you’re in a hurry. Clyde will stop whatever he’s doing just to listen to a juicy story. I went there once to pick up ice cream, and by the time he finished talking to Irma from the post office and rang up my order, the whole gallon had just about melted.”

  “So that’s who Clyde is,” Nick said under his breath.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. Since we’re gossiping, I was just wondering what you’ve heard about Weston. I mean, I’m a city boy: jaded and cynical to the extreme. But even in the city, when a guy dies, you’re going to find someone—even if it’s just one person—who has something good to say about him. But from the article in the Herald, it seems the nicest thing anyone can say about Weston is that he was a good businessman.”

  “Because that’s all he was,” Alice stated plainly. “Maybe he meant more than that to someone out there, but I can almost guarantee that person doesn’t live in these parts.”

  “Wow,” Stella remarked with a smile. “Was he as popular as that?”

  “Pretty much—or pret’ near, as a true Vermonter would say. Weston was brusque and arrogant, which doesn’t sit well in a place like this. People here pride themselves on being down-to-earth.”

  “What about other businesspeople? What did they think of him?”

  “Some respected him. Others got rubbed the wrong way.”

  “And you? Did you ever do business with Weston?”

  “Only to take care of your well. I would rather have hired Jake Brunelle, but Mr. Colton, the seller, insisted on calling Weston to do the job. And since he was paying, I wasn’t in a position to argue.”

  “That’s the only time you dealt with him? Weston never used your services as a real-estate agent?”

  “He was more interested in taking over other business than in buying property.”

  “But he must have bought a house when he moved into town. Didn’t he use you to—”

  “He built his house on land he had purchased decades earlier,” Alice interrupted. “I wasn’t an agent then, but if I had been, he’d have been out of luck. It would have been a cold day in hell before I signed any piece of paper that had Allen Weston’s name on it.”

  “That’s a pretty strong sentiment,” Nick noted.

  “Allen Weston wasn’t known for his fairness and honesty,” Alice said bluntly. “I worked hard to build my business. I wouldn’t want his reputation to rub off onto me.”

  “Reputation? So Weston had dealings with other people in town?” asked Nick.

  “Yes, but I’d rather not implicate anyone by mentioning names.”

  “No need. We understand you wishing to protect their privacy.”

  “Although,” Alice’s pale eyes sparkled with new life, “it’s no secret that Weston’s employees didn’t think much of him.”

  “Oh?” Stella leaned back in her chair, confident that her one-syllable response would spur Alice onward.

  “Apparently, he cut their wages—which you might expect in the middle of winter, when the well and septic businesses were slow, but he did this right in the middle of summer. Summer! And then there’s that whole Josh Middleton business.”

  “Josh Middleton?” Nick inserted on cue.

  “He worked for Speedy Septic. Young kid with a criminal background, which is pretty much what you’d expect of someone who pumps out tanks for a living.”

  During the course of her and Nick’s home search, Stella had come to think very highly of Alice. But the narrow-minded remark about Josh Middleton’s criminal background spurred Stella to consider that the real-estate agent might have a darker side. “Are you suggesting that Middleton might have been involved in Weston’s death?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, but I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he was involved somehow. Weston had Middleton arrested a few weeks back for stealing a truck. Middleton’s out on bail now, awaiting trial. If convicted, he’ll get two years in prison for breaking parole.”

  “I could see where Middleton would be angry with Weston, but if he stole the truck—”

  “But he didn’t steal it. At least that’s what he claims. He said Weston let him borrow it in order to meet his parole officer the next morning.”

  “Where was the truck when the police tracked it down?” Nick inquired.

  “Parked outside Middleton’s mother’s trailer. He lives with her.”

  “That’s a pretty stupid thing to do, wouldn’t you say?”

  “What, park a stolen truck outside your house? I wouldn’t do it.”

  “Nor would most moderately intelligent people. So, would you describe Middleton as being none too bright?”

  “No, not at all. If anything, he’s one of the smartest guys Weston had working for him.”

  “Then I’m more inclined to believe Middleton’s story than Weston’s. We’re talking about a septic truck here, not a Corvette. I could see Middleton taking a septic truck out for a joy ride or to play a prank, but if he’s smart—and we’re assuming he is—he would have taken it back to the shop afterward. I mean, what else is he going to do with it? Go trolling for girls?”

  “Eww,” was Stella’s only comment.

  “Exactly. The simple fact that it was parked outside his mother’s house—er, trailer—supports his story. He wouldn’t have brought the truck there; he’d have known that was the first place the cops would look.”

  “Middleton’s mother believes his story too,” Alice told them. “She’s the one who raised the bail money, though I’m not sure how. She barely scrapes by as it is; without her son’s income, I don’t know what she’ll do.”

  “So not only did Weston’s theft charge threaten to send Josh Middleton to prison, but it caused his mother financial hardship,” Stella summarized.

  “Can we say motive, boys and girls?” Nick sang.

  “I know I can,” Stella said. “The question, however, is whether Middleton is the type to commit murder. I know you said he has a criminal background, Alice. What was he arrested for?”

  “I don’t remember—drugs of some kind. Does it matter, really?”

  “Yes, it does. There’s a big difference between being caught with a bag of pot and killing a person in cold blood.”

  “According to you, perhaps. But what about Weston’s truck missing from the murder scene? Sounds like a calling card from Middleton, if you ask me.”

  “You think he killed Weston and took the truck as a”—Stella struggled to find the appropriate words—“thumb-to-the-nose sort of gesture?”

  Alice’s face registered bewilderment.

  “What my wife means,” Nick interpreted, “is that taking Weston’s truck from the scene was Middleton’s way of saying ‘screw you for accusing me of stealing your truck, you filthy rotten—’”

  “Nick!”

  “Yes,” Alice affirmed. “That’s precisely what I think he did.”

  “And you don’t think there could be another explanation?”

  “Maybe, but if it weren’t Middleton, it was another one of Weston’s
employees.” She raised a stubby finger. “Mark my words: whoever bumped off Weston plotted it right under his very nose.”

  Chapter

  7

  APPROXIMATELY A HALF mile away from the white clapboard shops and well-heeled tourists of Main Street stood Teignmouth’s industrial area. Separated from the rest of town by the tracks of the Vermont Rail System, the district consisted of a body shop, a feed store, the town waste disposal site, and Jake Brunelle’s shop. Given the nature of its tenants, the section was more trade-oriented than truly industrial; however, that didn’t prevent the town board from designating the neighborhood as Teignmouth Business Park.

  Farther down the railroad tracks and just beyond “the park”—as the locals called it—stood the Wiley Campgrounds. Prior to the establishment of the park and before the revitalization of Teignmouth’s town center in the 1970s, the campgrounds were a popular stop for road-weary families looking to enjoy Vermont’s fresh air and breathtaking mountain views. Today, the campgrounds had become a mobile home park that acted as home to approximately seventy families and was administered by the Vermont Department of Housing and Community Affairs as part of their low-income housing initiative.

  At the end of one of Wiley’s many dead-end streets, twenty-two- year-old Josh Middleton sat on the wooden steps of a dingy gray trailer that overlooked the town garbage dump. Clad in a green camouflage T-shirt, ripped gray jeans, and a pair of black Chuck Taylor Converse hightops, he drew a long puff from his unfiltered cigarette before flicking the butt onto the patchy brown front lawn. “Are you some kinda detectives?”

  “No,” Nick said. “We just bought the house where Allen Weston’s body was discovered.”

  “Oh yeah? Bet your place is crawling with cops. Probably as sick of them as I am.”

  “Not yet,” Stella replied, “but we’re getting there. It wouldn’t be so bad if they’d just let us move our stuff in and get settled.”

  “They won’t let you move in? Why not?”

  “They’re afraid we’ll muck up—that’s the polite term—potential evidence. The place is off-limits to everyone until they figure out what happened to Weston.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah, it does. The way they’re acting, you’d think we were the ones who shot him,” Nick casually remarked.

  Middleton raised a tattooed arm and scratched the back of his closely shaved head. “Shot? Paper said he was found in a well.”

  “He was, along with the bullet wounds that killed him.”

  “So that’s why you’re here.” Middleton’s brown eyes grew steely. “You think I had somethin’ to do with it.”

  “I don’t think anything at the moment, except that you might have had a very good reason for wanting Weston dead.”

  “Wantin’ him dead ain’t the same as killin’ him.”

  “You’re right, it isn’t. So why don’t you tell us everything that happened?”

  “Yeah, right. So you can go to the cops and say you don’t believe me? Nah, I ain’t telling you nothin’.” Middleton leapt from the makeshift stoop and reached for the screen door of the trailer, inciting the black Labrador chained in the backyard to bark madly. “I don’t know why you think I’d talk to you.”

  “Because we’re not the police. Unlike your friends at the sheriff’s office, we don’t think you stole Weston’s truck.”

  Middleton paused, his hand on the doorknob. “Quiet, Luke,” he shouted to the Lab. With a small whimper, Luke obeyed and lay down in front of his doghouse. “What makes you so sure I didn’t steal that truck? You don’t even know me. Maybe I’m as bad as everyone says.”

  “Maybe you are,” Stella agreed. “But we can tell that you’re not stupid. And that’s what you’d have to be to have stolen that truck.”

  Middleton sat back down and stroked his chin. The reddish- blond goatee beginning to sprout there did little to diminish the youthfulness of his round face. “That’s for sure. Parking it right in front of my mom’s trailer. What kind of idiot do they think I am?”

  “The kind of idiot who would do anything to have some fun at his boss’s expense,” Nick rationalized.

  “I didn’t have to steal a truck to do that. Besides, I liked my job. Mr. Weston could be a real dink at times, but I never saw him unless I stopped by the shop.”

  “And you never thought of getting even with Weston for being a dink?”

  “Hey, I know where Mr. Weston lived. Great big house on a private road and a garage full of cars—expensive ones, too. If I wanted to get even, I could have broken in and taken his TV or stripped one of his cars for parts. Even at the shop, I could have walked outta there with any tool I wanted. Any of those things would’ve made more sense than stealing a truck full of”—his eyes slid toward Stella—“you know. Point is, if I had a mind to, I could have robbed Mr. Weston blind and he’d never have known it were me.”

  “The cops would argue that maybe you wanted him to know it was you.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” Middleton guffawed. “The best part of getting even with Mr. Weston would have been watching him go nuts. I’d have loved to see him pull his hair while he tried to figure out who ripped him off, but, like I said, I liked my job and didn’t want to lose it. Couldn’t afford to, neither.”

  “How long did you work for Weston?”

  “Little over two years. Worked hard for him, too. No one ever had complaints about me.”

  “So it’s safe to say that you were one of his best employees,” Stella put forth.

  “There were other guys who did an okay job, but they weren’t as particular as me. I always made sure things were done right. Not so much for Mr. Weston’s sake, but because my name was on it.”

  “Sounds like you were a valuable asset. Did Weston let you take his vehicles home on a regular basis? As a courtesy for your hard work?”

  “Hell, no. Never needed them. Got my truck right there.” Middleton pointed to the rusty blue-and-white pickup parked on the left-hand side of the front lawn. “Needed a new starter a few weeks back, so my mom drove me to work ’til I could get around to fixing it over the weekend. Had a parole meeting my mom couldn’t take me to, so I asked if I could borrow the truck overnight and bring it back after my meeting Friday mornin’.”

  “And Weston agreed?”

  “Yep, ’til that night, when he changed his mind and sent the cops knockin’ at my door.”

  “I don’t understand,” Nick confessed. “If Weston let you borrow the truck, why did he later report it as stolen?”

  Middleton pulled a cigarette from the pack in his front shirt pocket and lit it. After taking a long drag, he replied, “ ’Cause he wanted to get rid of me.”

  “If you were a good worker, why would he want to get rid of you?” Stella asked. “And if he did want to get rid of you, why didn’t he just fire you?”

  “You don’t get it. He didn’t just want me off the job. He wanted me out of the way and back in jail. That way it would look like I couldn’t be trusted. Like anything I had to say was a lie.”

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause I was gonna testify in the Hank Reid case.”

  Stella recognized the name from Alma’s story. “Hank Reid? Was that the house with the floating septic tank?”

  “Yep. Back in the spring, right after the ground thawed, it rained ’bout five days straight. All that water mixed with the snowmelt to make for some pretty big floods. Me and another guy went out to Hank’s to put in a new tank. Minute we got there, I knew we should wait. Half the yard was under two inches of water, maybe more. I called Mr. Weston from Reid’s house and told him I couldn’t do the job.”

  “How’d he react?” Nick questioned.

  “ ’Bout as good as he usually reacted to those things,” Middleton grinned. “Started cursin’ and swearin’ and yellin’ at me over the phone. Even ol’ man Reid could hear him, and he weren’t anywhere near the phone.”

  “Why would he be so angry?” Stella asked. �
��Didn’t he realize you were trying to save him from a lawsuit?”

  “Didn’t matter. All he worried about was that he’d promised a golf buddy of his that we’d work on his tank the rest of the week. If we pushed Reid’s job back, we’d have to push Mr. Weston’s friend’s job back too, or we’d have to leave in the middle of it to take care of Reid since he couldn’t go much longer with the tank he had.”

  “Don’t tell me: this golf buddy was probably someone wealthy or influential who’d be unhappy if you didn’t show up when scheduled,” Nick guessed.

  “Yep, you got it. I even told Mr. Weston that I’d come back and dig up Hank’s old tank on my own time, but he wanted it done right then and there. Warned us that if we didn’t get the job done, we’d both be fired.

  “Like I said before, I didn’t wanna lose my job,” Middleton continued, “and the guy I was workin’ with, his wife was about ready to have their second kid, so he couldn’t afford to lose his.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Couldn’t do much else except empty the tank and start diggin’. Didn’t take more than a few turns with the backhoe ’fore the hole filled with water and the tank came floatin’ to the top.”

  “What happened then?” Stella prodded.

  “I called Mr. Weston and told him the tank had come up and all the connections most likely needed replacin’. He was madder than all hell. He said to get outta there as quick as we could. I didn’t like leaving ol’ man Reid with that mess, but I figured Mr. Weston was gonna send over another crew or even come over to fix it himself. That’s what I would have done if it were me. I had no idea he’d write it off the way he did.”

  “He didn’t make the repairs?” Nick said in amazement.

  “Nope. Ol’ man Reid had to call in Jake Brunelle to drain the hole, sink the tank, and fix the connectors. Cost him thousands to get the system up and runnin’ again. Jake let him slide as much as he could, but with Mr. Weston at his back, he couldn’t give his time away for nothin’. That’s when Mr. Reid called a lawyer.”

  “Seems logical that he’d sue Weston.”

  “Yep, and I was glad he did ’til …”

 

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