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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  Stella accepted the handshake and watched as Aurora, with her left hand, carefully slid the leather bound book into an oversized camel Italian leather handbag, then kicked the entire parcel beneath the settee.

  “Coffee?” Aurora offered as she ushered Stella into an adjacent armchair, upholstered in red silk damask.

  “Please,” Stella eagerly accepted as she eased herself into what she knew was a valuable antique.

  “With Sambuca?”

  “No, thank you. I just came from Chef Durand. And cognac.”

  “Ha ha ha! I have been where you sit right now. Signore Durand does have the ‘heavy hand,’ si?”

  “Like an anvil,” Stella grinned.

  “Eh, it is the way of the French. They drink in quantity, while we Italians drink in quality,” Aurora noted as she passed Stella a demitasse cup balanced on a tiny saucer.

  Not about to become embroiled in an alcohol-based competition of nationalistic pride, Stella accepted the demitasse cup and swiftly changed the subject. “I was wondering, Aurora, if I might have a word with you about Philip Morehouse.”

  Aurora returned to her spot on the settee and promptly invoked the sign of the cross. “Oh poor, poor Philip. What a time for him to go – hours before the Cavalcade that he loved so much and just a few months before his wedding to Meagan. Such a tragedy!”

  “Yes, the timing is both strange and unfortunate.”

  “And then there’s poor Signore Bauersfeld,” she invoked the sign of the cross yet again. “I did not know him well, but to be murdered in his tent? The world has gone mad!”

  “Yes, well… there are some who believe that Bauersfeld’s murder might be linked to Philip Morehouse’s death.”

  Aurora collected her coffee cup from the end table and took a sip. “La polizia? Is that what they think?”

  Stella stared into her coffee cup and pondered her next move. If Aurora found out that Meagan was behind the investigation, it might put an end to their interview right then and there. On the other hand, it could allow Stella to determine the depth and source of Aurora’s hostility toward Meagan.

  “No, the police have yet to address that possibility. Meagan McArdle, however, strongly suspects that both Arthur Bauersfeld and Philip Morehouse were murdered.”

  Aurora was surprisingly calm. “Murdered? Why would anyone want to murder Philip? It doesn’t make the sense.”

  “It may not make sense, but you have to admit that two deaths in one day are a bit much to write off as sheer coincidence.”

  “Si, this is true,” she frowned. “Although I wish it were not.”

  “As do I,” Stella sympathized. “That said, can you shed any light at all on who may have done this?”

  “Me?” She gestured at herself, turning her hand upwards defensively. “Why should I know anything?”

  “I’m not suggesting that you know anything, but you’re an intelligent woman, Aurora. You met Philip Morehouse in Italy, did you not? You’ve been a member of the Cavalcade since then. You’ve had a few years in which to observe the behavior of both Philip and the Cavalcade.”

  Aurora’s defenses weakened slightly. “Si,” she nodded, “I have. I first met Philip at una conferenza… a conference of the science and medicine in Milan. I had just come up with the idea for my clothing fiber opteek and was looking for ways in which it could help people. Philip was there to learn how his tuta robotica could help people too.”

  “So you were on a similar mission.”

  “Si. Philip loved my ideas and he had some thoughts about how I could improve my business, so we met for dinner to discuss them. We – how you say – hit it off immediately? He asked me to be part of the Cavalcade. I agreed and have been part of it ever since.”

  “So your relationship with Philip was strictly professional?”

  “But of course,” Aurora’s dark eyes narrowed. “Why? Has someone been talking about me behind my back?”

  “Well… yes, there has been some talk. Especially since you seemed less-than-pleased with Meagan and Philip’s engagement.”

  “I behaved badly last night,” Aurora admitted, “but not because I was jealous over Philip Morehouse.”

  “Really?”

  “I swear I had no romantic interest in him whatsoever.” For a third time, Aurora invoked the sign of the cross. “I have wanted Philip to be on the board of my company from the day I met him. The answer, it was always no. He said he had no time, but he always had time for everyone else. When I last asked, it was the tuta robotica… the robotic suit… this time, it was the wedding. I shouldn’t have, but I became angry and, si, jealous. But I would never have hurt Philip!”

  “Would you mind telling me your whereabouts last night and this morning?”

  “Mind? No, I don’t mind because I have nothing to hide. I went to bed at the same time as everyone else and woke up when I heard the screaming. Same as you and Signore Neek.”

  “And you heard nothing else all night?”

  “No… wait, I did hear a loud bang soon after I turned off my light.”

  “Yes, that would have been Signore Neek, I mean Nick, wrestling with a wayward window shutter.”

  “A what?”

  “A window shutter. Um, it’s a piece of wood outside the window that you can pull shut in a storm or to keep the sun out of a room.”

  “Ah yes! Finestra di scatto. It was very loud.”

  “Yes, we’re both very sorry about that. I’m afraid it woke the entire household.”

  “I would not say that, Signora Buckley,” Aurora snickered. “If Philip Morehouse was murdered, someone in the house was still awake. And I think I can guess who that someone is.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “Mark Rousseau.”

  “Mark Rousseau? But why? For the inheritance?”

  “Yes, and Mark also hated Philip.”

  “Unfortunately, children often dislike their parents’ second spouse. Rarely does it result in murder.”

  “This was more than what you say. Mark blamed Philip for his mother’s death.”

  “How could Mark possibly hold Philip accountable? Wanda Rousseau-Morehouse died of a degenerative disease.”

  “Che diavolo? No. No, Signora Morehouse did not die from her illness, although that is what Philip wanted everyone to believe. Wanda was ill, yes, but she died by her own hand.”

  Stella felt her jaw drop open; after a few moments passed, she had retained enough composure to continue the questioning. “How do you know this?”

  “Philip himself told me the day we met. We were having dinner and, after a few glasses of the grappa, he told me everything. Wanda had been ill, but Philip was so focused on his business, and on hiring doctors who could find a cure, that Philip paid Wanda – herself, the woman – very little attention. One night, while Philip was at a late meeting, she took the pills for sleeping. She never woke up.”

  “Are you sure it was suicide? I mean, did she leave a note?”

  Aurora nodded. “Si, there was a note. Philip hid it from the polizia.”

  “Why?”

  “Lo scandalo! Philip’s business sold the drugs for the depression, eh?”

  “So, if it came out that Wanda committed suicide, the sales of those drugs would plummet,” Stella filled in the blanks.

  “Di preciso!”

  Stella leaned back in her chair and tried to take in the new information. Something about it seemed askew. “And Philip shared all of this with you when you had only first met?”

  “He had no choice, I think. It was at the end of our dinner together when Mark called Philip on his mobile.”

  “What did Mark want?”

  “Mark was at Università, the school for business, and needed more money. Philip refused. That is when Mark started screaming at Philip. He screamed so loudly over the telefono that I can still hear his voice today. He said, ‘You killed my mother and you will pay.’”

  “Pay money? Or pay for what he had done?”

  Auro
ra snickered. “From the sound of Mark’s voice – both.”

  “Well they must have worked out some of their differences. Mark is now a key part of the Cavalcade.”

  “Si. That is because Philip tried his best to make up for his mistakes. When I met him, he’d just sold the shares to his business and was devoting all his time to his non-profit, the Wanda Rousseau-Morehouse Foundation. That’s when he decided to start an organization devoted to creators.”

  “So, Philip did his penance and now provides Mark with a decent living. Seems hard to believe that Mark still harbors a grudge or is out for vengeance.”

  “Have you lost a parent early in your life, Signora Buckley?”

  “Yes. My father.”

  Aurora took a sip of coffee and slowly shook her head. “Then you know as well as I do that some things in this life cannot be forgotten.”

  “Okay, I confess,” Mark Rousseau stated blandly between taking long, exaggerated drags on an electronic cigarette. “I never liked my step-father. So, after years of waiting, longing, and preparing for the perfect moment, last night I finally snuck into Daddy Dearest’s bedroom after dinner, and wearing a Ted Cruz mask certain to strike horror in his liberal-leaning, non-profit-loving little heart, I jumped around and screamed until he succumbed to a deadly heart attack. Finding my blood lust still unsatisfied, I then crept into Arthur Bauersfeld’s tent and stabbed him to death.”

  Rousseau smirked and drew another long puff before adding, “Oh, and since I’m coming completely clean, you may as well know that I once kicked my step-father’s cat after it decided to use one of my pairs of five thousand dollar Ferragamo shoes as a litter box.”

  Stella swiveled back and forth uncomfortably in her white plastic tulip style chair and eyed the subject of her interview suspiciously. From his skinny jeans to the faux exposed brick walls of his bedroom, Mark Rousseau had cultivated the image of a successful, hip urban professional, but Stella was certain that it, like the artificial loft apartment he had created here at Vue Colline, was all merely a facade. “Are you quite finished, Mr. Rousseau?”

  “I am if you are, Mrs. Buckley,” Rousseau challenged as he folded a chukka-clad foot over one knee and leaned back upon the boxy, gray mid-century-modern styled sofa.

  “Well, if you’re unwilling to cooperate, I suppose I am finished here. Don’t worry, I still have other people to talk to: Ms. B. Ology, Chip Carlson, Kenneth Zolar –”

  “And Aurora Marici,” Rousseau added. “Oh wait. You already spoke with her, didn’t you? That’s why you came knocking on my door like Angela Lansbury without her girdle.”

  With a startled gasp, Stella leapt from her seat. “I did not… a – a – girdle?! And I will have you know that I am much younger than Angela Lansbury or Jessica Fletcher or anyone else on that damn television show.”

  “Maybe, but you’re far too old to be Nancy Drew.”

  Stella was seconds away from storming out the door when she noted the self-satisfied smile on Rousseau’s overly tanned face. No way was he going to force her to leave – at least, not until she acquired the information she sought. “I’m also far too wise,” she quipped as she eased herself back into the white tulip chair. “As for Aurora, yes, I did speak with her. And, yes, she did suggest that I come and see you.”

  “I knew it! That woman has always hated me. She worshipped the old man like Christ almighty, but she always seemed to regard me as a painful bunion on her big toe, a bunion that should be promptly removed.”

  “Funny you should say that. I agree that Aurora held your step-father in extremely high regard, but I don’t think she hates you. If anything, she was extremely understanding of your emotional state following your mother’s suicide.”

  With the word ‘suicide,’ a pall fell over the room. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rousseau said calmly; meanwhile, his hands trembled as he took another draw on his e-cigarette.

  “Really? Hmph, Aurora must have misunderstood when she overheard you tell your step-father that he needed to pay for killing your mother.”

  “What!” Rousseau perched on the edge of his seat. “That’s not true. I never –”

  “It was years ago,” Stella thwarted his denials. “You were in business school, going for your Masters, I believe and Philip was in Milan. More precisely, he was in Milan, having dinner with Aurora when you called your step-father and began screaming at him.”

  After several seconds of silence, Rousseau leaned back and took a long drag on the e-cigarette. “I was a different person then. Younger, partying all the time. My mother’s death hit me hard. I knew it might be imminent, given her illness, but when she chose to shorten what time she had left… I don’t even know how to describe it. I actually may have come close to self-destructing for a while.”

  “Was there anyone else you may have cared to destroy?”

  “You mean Philip, of course. Did I blame him for my mother’s death? Yes, I did at first. However, as time went by I was able to put things into better perspective. When I did, I realized that my mother had her role in the relationship too. She loved this place, Vue Colline, with every fiber of her being. That’s not to say that she didn’t love me, or Philip, but this house held great memories for her. When my father died, it became her obsession to make it a showplace once again. If she felt ignored by Philip, it was because the guy was working non-stop to pay for the remodel while simultaneously trying to find a cure for her illness.”

  “That’s rather generous of you.”

  “It’s not generous. It’s true. My mother had expensive tastes. It required a lot of money to keep them satisfied and my father, although from a wealthy and distinguished family, didn’t have a lot of cash to his name. At least, not enough to keep this place running. No, I don’t envy Philip the job he had. I did, however, take exception to him covering up my mother’s suicide. I still do.”

  Stella played dumb. “Why did he keep it secret? Neither mental illness nor suicide bears the same stigma they once did.”

  “Because Philip owned and ran a pharmaceutical company. It’s how he paid for this place: providing doctors with ‘happy’ pills for the masses. My mother, depressed at the prospect of never conquering the auto-immune disease that consumed her, was prescribed some of those ‘happy’ pills. She was on them when she died.”

  “Thus suggesting that the pills were ineffective. No wonder Philip kept that hidden from the press.”

  “Well, either they were ineffective, or they conflicted with one of the other drugs she was taking. Either would have spelled bad news for Philip’s company, so he covered it up. The local police knew my mother had been ill for quite some time – hell, everyone in town knew – so, it was assumed that she had finally succumbed to her disease. Philip neither said nor did anything to dissuade them.”

  Mark drew another puff on the e-cigarette before continuing. “Part of me understands why Philip did what he did. He had a business to protect, a business that was funding this house, my education, and my mother’s medical bills. The other part is still bothered by the fact that he never came clean about it. Weeks after my mother’s funeral, Philip resigned as CEO. Months later, he sold the entire company to a Swiss pharmaceutical firm. Once the deal was done, there was no danger in telling the truth, if only to a select few so the possibility of a drug conflict could be explored.”

  “One would like to think that any potential conflicts were explored by the FDA prior to the drug’s release,” Stella opined. “But that’s probably me being a Pollyanna.”

  Rousseau chuckled. “No, that’s what the FDA is for, right? Well, supposedly. And that’s precisely the answer Philip gave me when I challenged him about the suicide reveal and the possible ramifications for drug users: ‘The FDA has been through all side effects and conflicts with a fine-toothed comb. The police are convinced that your mother died of complications from her prolonged illness. There’s no need to upset matters with either of them.’”

  “He did have a
point,” Stella noted. “If Philip were to suddenly state that your mother had committed suicide, there would have been an inquest, an exhumation, and an autopsy. You and Philip were grieving for the loss of the woman you both loved; neither of you needed to go through that exercise. Although I do agree that Philip could, and should, have passed along news of a possible drug interaction to the Swiss company. He easily could have voiced his suspicions without mentioning your mother’s name. Are you certain that he didn’t?”

  “I don’t know. I’d like to think he would have told me about it. If he did voice his suspicions, he didn’t mention a word of it to me. And that would have been very Philip-like too,” Mark frowned. “That’s what I’m faced with now that Philip’s gone – not knowing what was going on in that funny little brain of his.”

  Stella swallowed her words and pondered her next reaction. “It’s difficult to say what Philip was thinking or feeling before he passed, but one thing is for certain, in the short time that I’ve been here, he seemed very comfortable and satisfied with your leadership in regards to the Cavalcade. In fact, it seemed to me that, in due time, he had plans for you to take it over from him.”

  “Your assumptions are correct. Philip dreamed that I would, someday, run the Cavalcade in his stead, so that he could devote more of his time to the scientific component of the Foundation. I, however, had absolutely no intention of doing so. Managing the Foundation’s finances is enough of a full time job, never mind trying to keep track of the latest technology while simultaneously dealing with the daily Creator drama. And then, of course, there’s the fact that I’d need to move back into this dreary old place. No thanks.”

  “You’re a Rousseau; Vue Colline is your family home,” Stella pointed out.

  “Mrs. Buckley, Vue Colline may belong to my family, but it is not my home. When I was a small boy, perhaps it did feel a bit like home, but all that changed with my father’s death. At first, it was my mother’s grief that commanded that I not run in the halls or play too noisily on the grounds. Then, as she became consumed with the idea of turning the house into a showplace, I was ordered to leave my shoes outside the front door and to avoid sitting on the antique furniture. As the renovations continued, some rooms of the house were even deemed ‘off limits’ to me and my friends. Finally, as the illness engulfed her body and she required more and more rest, it was expected that I not disturb her. I was not permitted to invite friends to the house. I was not permitted to play loud music or to discuss any topics my mother might find emotionally upsetting,” Mark shook his head ruefully. “Things have changed in recent times, mostly because of Meagan. She’s done much to liven up the place again and even managed to convince Philip to redo some of the guest rooms so that they better reflect the personalities of their occupants, but it’s too little too late. In my mind, Vue Colline is, and always will be, a mausoleum; Philip’s death has only reinforced that feeling. If I had my druthers, I’d like nothing more than to set fire to the place and watch it burn.”