Short-Circuited in Charlotte: A Pret' Near Perfect Mystery

by Amy Patricia Meade

“It’s no trouble at all. In the meantime, here are the credentials we have for you.” She handed Nick a large manila envelope. “You’ll find a badge for you and one for your wife so that she can have access to the exhibitors’ concessions and restrooms. I also included a map of the property, so you can find your way around, as well as a list of your fellow exhibitors by name, so that you can mingle a bit easier. I highlighted the names of those staying in the house with you this weekend in yellow – I thought it might help ease conversation at dinner this evening. Now, if you’ll just come inside, I’ll show you to your room.”

  “Let me get our bags,” Nick suggested.

  “No need. I already radioed our caretaker. He’ll be here any minute.”

  Stella studied their hostess. With her long russet hair and soft chocolate eyes, Meagan McArdle was, without doubt, physically attractive, but perhaps more appealing was her air of quiet confidence and efficiency. There was little wonder why a man like Philip Morehouse would trust her with the day-to-day operations of managing his empire.

  They followed her through Vue Colline’s arched wooden doors and into a stunning foyer replete with custom woodwork rendered in quarter-sawn oak: paneling, floors, and a massive double stairway. The top parts of the walls were papered in rich burgundy damask, while an arch positioned adjacent to the staircase led to a dining room which, at the moment, was only partly visible through a set of pocket doors. To the left and right of the main entryway, at either end of the foyer, wood trimmed arches opened to a drawing room and a billiard room, respectively.

  Meagan gestured to her left, “This is the drawing room. At seven o’clock, we’ll be meeting here for drinks. At seven thirty, we’ll move into the dining room for dinner, but do feel free to use any of the rooms down here whenever you find yourself with some spare time. There’s also a Keurig coffee machine and some board games in the billiard room – in addition to the billiard table, of course – should you wish to take a break and relax. Oh, and I believe somewhere in those emails I sent to Walt I mentioned this afternoon’s preview.”

  “You mean about the fair being open between three and five today?” Nick guessed.

  “Yes, I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience for you to be set up by then.”

  Nick shook his head. “Shouldn’t be. I just need to hang some signs and banners and unpack the printed material I brought along.”

  “Good, because, in addition to allowing weekend ticket-holders to get a sneak peek at the exhibits, we’ve opened the event to after-school groups, scout troops, and other community youth organizations. We thought it would give children who would not otherwise attend the fair an opportunity to experience the science and technology firsthand. Of course, if those children go home tonight and ask their parents to bring them here this weekend, we’ll be happy to sell them tickets, but our goal is to put science in the hands of every child – including those who can’t afford to attend.”

  “That’s quite admirable,” Stella commented.

  “Well, one of the core beliefs of our Foundation is that knowledge provides power to control one’s destiny,” Meagan replied as she led the Buckleys to the staircase to the right of the dining room arch. “Now if you’ll follow me, we’ll get you settled in your room.”

  They followed her up two flights of stairs to the second floor and then turned left down a long wood paneled corridor.

  “Big place,” Nick remarked.

  “There are seven guest rooms in the north wing of the second floor; the south wing contains Mr. Morehouse’s quarters: his office, library, bedroom, dressing room and bath. There are three more bedrooms, as well as the original servants’ quarters on the third floor. We won’t be using them this weekend but you’re welcome to take a look at them if you’d like. We broke down some of the walls to make the rooms more accommodating for modern guests. It’s hard to believe that they once housed two servants each.”

  “When was the house built?” Stella asked.

  “The main house was built in 1880. The outbuildings such as the barns and cottages were built between 1880 and 1910. Mr. Morehouse and the late Mrs. Morehouse were sticklers for details; when they restored the property in 1990, they updated the electric and heating systems so that they were up to code, but kept everything else authentic to the period in which the house was built.” She stopped at the second-to-last door on the left and, with an old-fashioned looking key, opened it. “Here we are: the Green Room.”

  Living up to its name, the Green Room evoked the feel of an outdoor conservatory. Topped with floral, garden-inspired draperies, a bank of mullioned windows illuminated the room with an abundance of natural sunlight, while the delicately carved, whitewashed furnishings prevented the room from appearing too crowded. Gently tumbled river rocks surrounded the fireplace and the bed canopy and walls were covered in a pale green fabric that bore just a hint of pattern.

  “The wallpaper is watered silk,” Meagan explained. “It is a reproduction of the original wall treatment. The canopy bed and the vanity table belonged to Mrs. Morehouse’s grandmother.”

  “It’s lovely,” Stella murmured as she made her way to the windows and watched as the front driveway gave way to a vista of meadows and mountains beyond the diamond-shaped panes.

  “I’m glad you like it,” Meagan smiled. “You can close the drapes at night for privacy and to keep the heat in. There are extra pillows and blankets in the closet and should you want to light a fire, just let me know and I’ll have our caretaker, Mr. Tuttle, come up and start it for you. I realize that you of all people are more than capable of starting a fire, Mr. Buckley, but I’m afraid that insurance…” Her voice trailed off as she pulled a face.

  “No problem. I understand,” Nick allowed. “If we want a fire we’ll let you or Mr. Tuttle know.”

  As if on cue, a diminutive man in his mid to late sixties appeared in the doorway, carrying Stella and Nick’s bags. “You using my name in vain again, Ms. McArdle?” he asked with a smile.

  “Now, Mr. Tuttle, you know me better than that,” she joked in return. “This is Nick Buckley and his wife, Stella. Nick is here with the U.S. Forest Service.”

  “Afternoon.” Mr. Tuttle tipped his camouflage trucker hat in greeting. “The Forest Service, eh? Any good hunting advice you could offer up, Nick?”

  “Apart from ‘Don’t shoot yourself,’ ‘Never shoot a non-antlered deer’ and ‘Only you can prevent forest fires,’ all I can say is ‘Good luck.’”

  Tuttle chuckled in response. “Where you from?”

  “Teignmouth. Over in Windsor County.”

  “Hmph. Don’t sound like you’re from Windsor County.”

  “That’s because I’m originally from the South.”

  “The South? South where?”

  “South Newark, sir,” Nick replied with a cheeky grin.

  “Newark?” Tuttle scratched his chin. “As in Jersey?”

  “One and the same.”

  “What’s a Jersey boy doing in the Forest Service?”

  “Disappointing my parents,” Nick quipped.

  “Hardly,” Stella dismissed Nick’s remark with a roll of her eyes.

  “Welp, I’ll be stopping by your booth anyways. There’s this twelve point buck I’ve been trying to get for months. Never know… maybe something you brought along will help me kick up my game.” With a tip of his hat, he set off down the corridor. “See ya round.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tuttle,” Meagan called after him. “Now then, follow me and I’ll show you the bathroom.”

  “So, the bathroom is not in the room?” Nick asked.

  “No, it’s just down the hall here, to your right. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  “No inconvenience at all,” Stella excused. “Reminds me of a few of the inns we stayed in when we traveled to Europe.”

  “I’m glad you’re fine with it, because we do get guests who are less than pleased with the arrangement. The Morehouses, however, did not feel that they should reconfig
ure the layout of house simply to provide a private bathroom for every guest. They believed strongly that the integrity of the home needed to remain intact. That’s why everything – the windows, the moldings, the wallpaper, the woodwork, even the door hinges – all of it has been restored. The only exceptions are the electrical wiring, which has been upgraded to provide 220 amp service, the kitchen, where a refrigerator, a dishwasher, and a modern gas range have been installed, and the bathrooms, where some of the toilets and plumbing have been replaced.”

  The restoration of Vue Colline had, indeed, been a meticulous one, for as soon as Meagan opened the heavy wood paneled bathroom door, Stella felt as if she had been transported to another time. Measuring approximately thirteen feet by ten feet, the bathroom and its blend of floor-to-ceiling white porcelain tile, claw foot tub, diamond-paned windows, pedestal sink, and octagonal black and white mosaic flooring, was a gleaming white portal to the past.

  “I feel like I’m at Downton Abbey,” Stella quipped.

  Meagan chuckled. “It is a trip, isn’t it? There are a couple of concessions to twenty-first century life, however. There are ground fault outlets by the sink in case you’ve brought an electric razor or hair dryer. And there’s a rainforest shower head in the tub.”

  “Sounds great,” Nick nodded in approval.

  “Oh, and you’ll be sharing with our robotics expert, Kenneth Zolar – he’s in the room next to yours – and our glass blower – she’s staying across the hall from you.”

  “A glass blower, huh? Will she be demonstrating how the process works?”

  “Yes, she will. She has a portable furnace that runs off of our generators. I don’t know all the details – I let our grounds people handle that.”

  “Sounds interesting,” Stella chimed in. “I’ll have to check it out.”

  “I suggest you do,” Meagan said with a smile. “Because this isn’t your typical vase, ashtray, and trinket demonstration. This lady blows glass into organs.”

  Nick’s jaw opened as if he were about to speak, but fearful of what off-color remark her husband might utter, Stella quickly jumped in: “You mean like glass pipes for church organs?”

  “I mean human organs. She goes by the name of B., as in the letter ‘B,’ Ology, and she creates life size, anatomical sculptures of the human body entirely made from glass. She had an installation at our local art museum and she brings some of her works into the schools to help teach…” Meagan smirked, “well… biology.”

  “A corpse of glass,” Stella mused. “Now there’s a different take on the old Blondie song.”

  Nick was still incredulous. “An entire human body made of glass? Every single organ?

  “Nick!” Stella scolded, once again fearful of where her husband’s questions might lead.

  “Yes,” Meagan replied. “Apparently, they’ve been physician verified as being one hundred percent accurate.”

  “Even the spleen?”

  “Yes, from what I can gather, the sculptures are absolutely complete and color coded for easy identification.”

  “Wow, that’s crazy,” Nick shook his head. “I mean, who even knows what a spleen looks like? Never mind trying to create one from glass.”

  “Ms. Ology is certainly a unique artist,” Meagan remarked. “But she’s also a very intelligent and personable young woman. I’m sure she won’t mind identifying the spleen or answering any other questions you may have. And now, if you’re all settled in, I had better get back to my desk. I’m sure I already have several festival-related voice mails waiting for me.”

  “Of course,” Stella allowed. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Not a problem. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask me or Mr. Tuttle.” With that, Meagan retraced her steps out of the bathroom and back down the hallway, toward the stairs.

  “Glass spleen?” Stella repeated when their hostess was out of earshot.

  “Hey, it was a valid question. Everyone recognizes the heart and the brain, but the spleen is the unsung hero of the human body. I’m pretty sure you can’t live without it.”

  “Oh? What does it do?” Stella challenged as she crossed her arms across her chest.

  Nick hesitated before answering. “I don’t know, but I know it’s something important. I’ll have to ask Ms. Ology.”

  “Yes, perhaps the two of you can discuss it tonight at dinner, over ‘fava beans and a nice chianti,’” she smirked.

  “You’re misquoting. That wasn’t a spleen. It was a liver,” Nick shouted after his wife as she walked back to their room. “Liver!”

  Chapter Two

  After unpacking a few items from their bags and freshening up from their long drive, Stella and Nick grabbed the lidded plastic bin of Forest Service marketing materials and headed for the festival grounds. Given the unseasonably mild autumn weather, they opted to leave the Forest Service truck in the mansion parking lot and walk to the site of the event.

  Following the half-mile road that led from Vue Colline’s front door, they strolled along the gently sloping terrain until they reached the majestic carriage house. A single story tall, whitewashed, and built around an open-air, cobblestone courtyard, it featured the same mansard roofline, tall chimneys, and mullioned windows as Vue Colline itself.

  “That’s one hell of a corral,” Nick marveled.

  “Clearly it was far better to be a horse at the old Vue Colline than a servant,” Stella observed. “Well, until you were shot and made into glue, that is.”

  “Makes you wonder the henhouse looks like.”

  “Mmm… you did always want to own a vacation home someday, didn’t you, honey? I wonder how much rent Morehouse would charge us.”

  Nick cast a boyish grin over his shoulder. “I’m sure we could get it for chicken feed.”

  Stella groaned loudly. “Do the fair a favor and lay off the jokes this weekend. The Creator’s Cavalcade people might need to take out additional liability insurance.”

  “Ouch!” Nick feigned emotional injury, despite the large grin on his face.

  Approximately seven hundred feet past the carriage house, they reached a flat area where a multitude of white party tents had been erected, the foremost of which had been decorated with multicolored flags and bore the sign “Registration.”

  Nick stepped to the table beneath the tent and gave his name. “Nick… erem, Graham Buckley. U.S. Forest Service. This is my wife, Stella.”

  The middle-aged woman in the green Creator’s Cavalcade t-shirt donned her reading glasses and thumbed to the ‘B’ section of a three-ringed binder. “Buckley… Buckley… ah yes, you’re in tent 14D.” She took a red pen and circled the tent’s location on an event map. “Go straight back from here, four rows in, turn right at the geodesic dome home, and you’re the fourth tent on your left. Two doors down from the alternative fuel vehicle team and next door to the Salvage Symphonies guy.”

  “Salvage Symphonies?”

  “Yep. Makes music from all manner of junk. I saw – and heard – him unpack his gear. I hope you two weren’t looking forward to a quiet weekend,” she giggled.

  “Quiet’s overrated,” Nick shrugged.

  “That’s the spirit! So, here’s your map of the fairgrounds.” She thrust a piece of paper across the table at Stella. “There are refreshments and restrooms in the hospitality tent at the rear of the fairgrounds, about three rows behind your tent. The hospitality tent also possesses a bin full of pins, clips, paper, pens, and anything else you may need to hang banners and other display materials. Our guys will be making the rounds setting up generators; should you need one, just wave one of them over. They’ll be wearing red Creator’s Cavalcade tees and jackets. I think that covers it. Do you have any questions?”

  “No, I think that does it.”

  “Good. The gates open at three thirty p.m. for the preview and then close again at five thirty this evening. We’re expecting a few busloads of kids, so try to have your tent set up by then. And, if you need anything else,
just swing by and see me or ask one of the Creator’s Cavalcade folks wandering the grounds. We’re all dressed in blue.”

  “Will do. Thanks.” Nick grabbed his container of marketing materials from the table and, with Stella following behind, set off to find the U.S. Forest Service pavilion. Row after row of twenty foot by twenty foot white festival tents – eighty of them in total – spaced approximately four feet apart dotted the festival grounds.

  Traveling four rows back to row ‘D,’ Nick and Stella were met by the bamboo skeleton of a sizable dome, onto which a man was busy attaching sheets of gray lightweight nylon.

  Balding, bearded, Birkenstocked, and dressed in a blue and green plaid flannel shirt and a pair of dirty dark brown work pants, he looked up briefly from his labors and issued a brief wave in Stella and Nick’s direction.

  His arms full, Nick replied with a friendly “hello” and, per instructions, made a right turn down the aisle and began counting tents. As they drew closer to the spot reserved for the U.S. Forest Service, they were hit with a wall of sound that could best be described as an explosion in a cookware factory. Metallic clangs, clanks, and bangs of every tone, pitch, and timbre came together in a deafening, teeth-rattling, head-splitting cacophony.

  Stella and Nick stopped dead in their tracks and, instinctually, dropped whatever they were carrying to cover their ears with their hands. When the din of the crash had subsided and the cries of the startled Creator’s Cavalcade attendees had settled to a quiet murmur, Nick knelt down to collect the contents of the box he was carrying, which had, in his distress, been spilled onto the ground.

  Stella, having recovered her handbag and festival map from the carriage house lawn, surveyed the area to determine the source of the racket. A tall, thin man with silver hair instantly joined him.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about that,” the man apologized as he helped pick up the pamphlets, business cards, crayons, and children’s coloring pages that were strewn around them. “I was assembling my rack when, all of a sudden, the whole thing tipped over and all hell broke loose.”