“No! No, not at all. She’s anything but hysterical. She lost her fiancé quite literally overnight; that’s a tremendous event to have to process, both emotionally and psychologically. I simply think she’s trying to find meaning in it all. Saying that Philip was murdered by person or persons unknown, albeit disturbing, provides reason, whereas thinking that he died in his sleep will leave her wondering ‘why?’ – quite possibly for the rest of her life.”
“I agree that Meagan is in a very vulnerable state. However, as a man of science and logic, you must admit that Morehouse being found dead within hours of finding Arthur Bauersfeld savagely murdered is a bit too coincidental.”
“The timing is both strange and tragic,” Zolar conceded, “but if you know anything about history, you’d realize that coincidences occur more frequently than one would think. Thomas Jefferson and John Adams died within hours of each other on Independence Day, the American Civil War started in one man’s backyard and ended in his front parlor, the numerous connections between Abraham Lincoln and his assassin, John Wilkes Booth, and the numerous similarities between Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy.”
“I’m aware of the coincidences you’ve cited. However, I’m also aware that the odds of this being a coincidence are, statistically, quite slim.”
“From a mathematical perspective, perhaps, but from a logical one, I can’t see how it could be any other way. Who could possibly want to kill Philip? Why? And, just as importantly, how? Arthur was stabbed to death, and Philip… well, we don’t know much about how he died, but we do know he wasn’t stabbed, which doesn’t at all fit with the M.O. of Arthur’s killer.”
“I know. It’s more than a bit frustrating, but I hope to have it all figured out by the time the weekend is over.”
Zolar picked up his phone and resumed punching at the miniature keyboard. “You’re certainly a better sport than I am to be spending your time on a wild goose chase.”
“You call it a wild goose chase. I call it a worthy cause. Meagan needs to know the truth about what happened to Philip,” Stella continued, “so that she can find some closure or, as you put it, some meaning in the whole thing.”
“And what, exactly, do you need from me?”
“Need?”
“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?”
“Information.”
“I don’t see what information I could possibly give you.”
“You and Philip saw each other every day. Do you know if he had any health problems?”
“I don’t know... he had a doctor’s appointment not too long ago,” Zolar looked up briefly from his phone. “Nothing serious, as far as I could gather. Just a routine check up.”
“Did he take any medication on a regular basis?”
“He did, actually, now that you mention it. He set the alarm on his phone as a reminder. I don’t remember exactly what it was for – high blood pressure or high cholesterol. Whatever it was, it was nothing unusual for a man his age.”
“Did he ever mention anything to you about having enemies?”
“Enemies? No, but he wouldn’t have confided that to me. When we talked, it was about HALLE, the Cavalcade, or some piece of news in the trade magazines. We seldom discussed our personal lives.”
Zolar’s statement rang true to Stella; he appeared to be neither the sort of man to engage in small talk, nor the sort of associate to whom one would readily relinquish their secrets. “Where were you last night between the time you left the dining room and Meagan’s discovery of Philip this morning?”
“I was here, on this futon, working on the spectacle – I mean, presentation – Philip had planned for this weekend on one laptop and streaming the latest episode of Game of Thrones on another.”
“Even when we lost power?”
“Battery back-up is a beautiful thing. The way storms roll through this valley, I’d get nothing done without it. But it wound up that the power wasn’t off for long anyway.”
“So you worked here in your room and never stepped out for anything?”
“Nope. No reason to; I had Mountain Dew in the mini-fridge and a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. I was pretty much set for the night.” Zolar suddenly pulled a face, “You know what? Come to think of it, I did leave my room once to use the bathroom. And then I went to bed late. Very late – almost morning.”
“Which bathroom did you use?” Stella asked, in hopes that she may have identified the mysterious occupant of the lavatory down the hall.
“The one across the way. Just next to Ms. B.’s room.”
Her hopes had been dashed. “And what time was that?”
“You would ask that wouldn’t you? Jeeze, maybe midnight or a little after. I couldn’t say with any certainty; I really lose myself in my work at times.”
“I understand. Did you hear or see anyone during the course of the night? Such as during your trip to the bathroom?”
Zolar shook his head vigorously. “Not hide nor hair of anyone. But, then again, I was listening to my show using earbuds. I wouldn’t have heard most noises around the house.”
“From Ms. B.’s account of things, you would have needed earbuds or plugs to block out the traffic scuttling past our bedroom doors last night,” Stella smiled.
“Really? Hard to believe I missed it.”
“Oh, don’t feel badly. I did too. Ms. B. Ology is a light sleeper so, in her view, the hallway was a veritable speedway. Chef Durand, the Salvage Guy, Mark Rousseau, Oona Bauersfeld –”
“Wait,” Zolar interrupted. “Oona was here?”
“Oh, that’s right, you had already gone up to your room when she showed up at the dining room door. It was just before the lights went out. Someone had sliced a hole in the Bauersfelds’ tent and she asked if she could stay here at the house. Meagan gave her a room on the third floor.”
“Hmm, I thought she was here this morning because she had just shown up for breakfast,” Zolar stared off into the space behind Stella’s chair.
Stella waited for him to share his next thought, but after several seconds, he was still lost in thought. “You seem concerned.”
“Concerned? No,” Zolar replied, snapping from his reverie. “Merely confused. You see, if I had to put my money on which one of us was Bauersfeld’s killer, I’d have put it on Oona.”
“Really? Is that opinion based upon domestic violence statistics or the fact that seventy-five percent of murder victims know their killer?”
“Nothing so scientific, I’m afraid. My suspicions are based purely upon observation.”
“And that observation is?”
“Oona Bauersfeld was tired of her husband. She may be crying now, but she’s been wanting to lead the single life for quite a while.”
Stella recalled the obvious pleasure Oona exhibited at the prospect of an evening away from the yurt and her husband’s simple ways. “That’s a pretty hefty allegation, Mr. Zolar.”
“It’s also a highly accurate one. Ever since I met her, Oona has been on the prowl. She’s made a move on every man here – except Mark Rousseau. I think he’s a little too ‘fancy’ for her taste,” Zolar chuckled.
“And are you included in the list of men Oona Bauersfeld made a move on?”
“Believe it or not, I am.” Zolar removed his thick glasses and polished them on the hem of his vintage t-shirt. Squinting to see if the lenses were thoroughly clean made his small brown eyes appear even beadier. “And before you ask me if I’m certain she made a move and whether or not I may have misinterpreted her actions, I didn’t.”
“What happened?”
“She visited the lab while everyone was at lunch. She was alone and in town and thought she might stop in to say ‘hello’ while doing some shopping. I was sitting on a tall stool at one of the laboratory tables entering data into some report for Philip. I told her that I was busy and that Philip wouldn’t be back for several hours as he had a meeting that afternoon. She said she preferred the lab when it was quiet and continued to ask questions about HALLE. I a
nswered them best I could, but I felt uneasy. With every answer I gave, she moved closer until… well, I don’t have a ton of experience with the opposite sex, but unless she’s my mother or grandmother, when a woman puts her hand on my thigh it has a certain connotation.”
“I can’t say that I disagree,” Stella answered, all the while recalling the incident between Oona and Nick outside the bathroom. “What did you do?”
“I pushed her away – gently, but firmly – jumped to my feet, and told her I had work to do before moving to another part of the lab.”
“What did she do then?”
“She left without saying a word. Although, I didn’t give her opportunity to do much else. I’d seen her interactions with Philip and knew that the only way to get rid of her was to take a hard line.”
“So Oona had made a move on Morehouse as well?”
“Yes, many times. I never noticed her being as forward with Philip as she was with me – probably because I was always in the room – but she was definitely flirty.”
“Flirty? How so?”
“Oh, it started the moment she entered the room. The Oona you see here at the Cavalcade wearing Birkenstocks and socks? Yeah, that’s not the Oona who would visit Philip and me at the lab. That Oona wore skinny jeans, heels, full makeup, sparkling earrings down to here,” Zolar gestured to his shoulders with both hands, “and perfume. My God, the perfume; it was as if she had ripped out all the fragrance ads from the latest Cosmopolitan and rubbed them all over her body.”
Zolar continued, “After accosting us with a wall of scent, Oona would then go in for the hug. She never hugged me, thank goodness, but Philip, poor Philip, was constantly the recipient of an embrace that was too close, too tight, and went on far too long to be deemed as ‘friendly.’”
“How would Philip respond?”
“If I happened to be in his line of sight during one of these embraces, he’d shake his head or roll his eyes at me and we’d have a laugh afterwards. Whether I was visible or not, he’d always do his best to untangle himself from Oona both quickly and politely.”
“Did he usually succeed?”
“In untangling himself from Oona’s embrace, yes. In discouraging her, no. She’d go on to explain to Philip the purpose of her visit – which was dubious, at best – all the while giggling like a schoolgirl and pawing away at her prey.”
“Pawing?” Stella questioned.
“Oh, you know, resting an arm on his shoulder, patting his hand with hers, touching his face under the pretense that he had something in his eye. The typical stuff.”
“Did it ever go any farther than that?”
“I’ve no idea. As I said, it never appeared to until…”
“Until when?”
“Oona stopped by the lab just this past Tuesday; she said she wanted to know if she could help set up for the Cavalcade, but it was the typical Oona song and dance. Well, I was up to my eyeballs making the final tweaks on HALLE, so Philip, so as not to disturb me, met with Oona in one of the side offices. I’m not precisely sure what transpired, but less than two minutes later, she came barreling out the door in tears.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing. She ran across the lab and out the door, blubbering all the way.”
“And Philip? Did he give you any explanation?”
“Philip said he had felt the need to – how did he say it exactly? – ‘put an end to Oona’s nonsense.’ He explained to her that she was a married woman and he was soon to become a married man and, as such, her behavior was unacceptable.”
Stella frowned. “Mr. Zolar, do you think it’s possible that Philip Morehouse might have encouraged Oona? Or that he maybe even took her up on her offer?”
“What? You think Philip and Oona might have been having an affair?” Zolar laughed.
“I only ask because Oona’s reaction sounds very close to that of a spurned lover.”
Zolar quickly regained his composure. “I hear what you’re saying and I understand how someone might interpret Oona’s reaction that way, but no, definitely not. Philip had two great passions in his life: the Cavalcade and Meagan. Having an affair with Oona would have jeopardized his position with both. The only reason I think Philip tolerated Oona for so long is because he held great respect for her husband’s work. If Arthur had caught wind of what Oona had been up to, he most likely would have dropped out of the Cavalcade.”
“Then why make waves now? Why put an end to Oona’s behavior less than a week before the event itself?”
“Philip, as I’ve already mentioned, had high standards. In his mind, being lenient with Oona would have been on par with being unfaithful to Meagan. That, and I truly believe that Philip had had his fill of Oona’s coquettish antics.” Zolar’s face grew pensive. “What troubles me is Oona’s response.”
“You think she overreacted?”
“No, I know better than anyone how cutting Philip’s remarks could be. What worries me is her face as she ran out the door. The light I saw in her eyes wasn’t caused by hurt, rejection, or pain, it was there because of anger.”
Chapter Sixteen
Stella excused herself from Kenneth Zolar’s room and went directly next door to the bedroom she shared with Nick. Upon entering, she recognized the familiar brown quilting of her husband’s U.S. Forest Service jacket as it hung from the curtain rod to dry, but the man who wore it was nowhere to be found.
Assuming Nick had made a visit to the bathroom, Stella drew off her black heeled leather booties and stretched out on the bed to collect her thoughts and possibly catch a brief nap before dinner time. The loud chime of the cell phone she had extracted from her back jeans pocket, however, announced that she would soon have different plans.
It was a text from Nick: Outside back of house. Meet me when you can.
She sat up in bed and was about to reply when she received further instruction: Be quiet about it.
Stella picked her boots up off the floor, extracted a down puffer jacket from her suitcase, and slowly cracked open her bedroom door. Determining that the coast was clear, she quietly shut the door behind her, tiptoed down the hall, and carefully descended the main staircase in her stocking feet.
Upon reaching the bottom, she again scoped the area for the presence of other houseguests. Detecting rustling noises in the parlor originating from person or persons unseen, she crept across the hallway floorboards and into the dining room. There, to the sounds of furious chopping and talking radiating through the adjoining kitchen wall, Stella pulled on her boots and jacket and slipped out one of the rear French doors.
Pulling the hood of her black jacket over her head in order to conceal her blonde hair, Stella stepped out into the gathering twilight and picked her away along the dirt path that led to the fairgrounds. As she passed a copse of blackberry bushes, a familiar voice whispered her name.
“Stella!” Nick, crouched behind one of the thorny shrubs, a pair of government-issued binoculars held to his face, beckoned.
“What’s going on?” Stella inquired as she crouched beside him, taking great care to leave space between her down jacket and the barbed growth.
“It’s Aurora Marici. She snuck out of the house and just entered her tent.”
Stella recalled the interview in Aurora’s room and how she deftly hid the journal in which she had been writing. “Was she carrying a bag?”
“A bag?”
“Yes, a large handbag. Italian leather in camel.”
“No idea. I didn’t notice her carrying anything, but I was also having a tough enough time trying to identify her.”
“How did you happen to spot her?”
“I was upstairs in our room, changing out of my wet clothes. I sat down on the window seat to switch my socks and, out of the corner of my eye, caught a glimpse of a figure sneaking around the back of the house. I came out here to get a better look, just in case it was an intruder. Once I looked through the binoculars though, I realized it was Aurora. She was dress
ed in a cape or a loose coat; whether she’s hiding a bag beneath that is anyone’s guess.”
“Nice work,” Stella congratulated her husband. “I wonder what she’s doing at her tent.”
“She could be preparing for tomorrow’s classes,” Nick offered. “But then why did she seem to be acting so suspiciously?”
“She had all day to prepare for tomorrow. Rousseau cancelled her classes for today, remember?”
“Maybe she forgot something?”
“Possible, but why not just wait until tomorrow morning? No,” Stella decided, “something’s up and I’m going to find out what it is.”
“Wait. Where do you think you’re going?” Nick demanded as Stella moved toward the trail.
“Getting a closer look at what Aurora’s doing.”
“I’ll go with you.” Nick followed.
“No, you’re going to check out Aurora’s room and see if you can find her journal. I interrupted her while she was writing in it this afternoon and she seemed quite eager that I shouldn’t see it.”
“Is that why you asked me about the bag?”
“Yes, she placed the journal in a handbag and shoved the whole thing under the settee for the duration of my visit. I think she knows that I saw her do it, and perhaps she got the idea of hiding it in her tent, thinking it’s safer there. But she just as easily could have trotted out here to throw me off the scent and the journal is still in her room.”
Nick nodded. “I’ll go check. Text me if you see her heading back to the house.”
“I will.”
“And be careful.”
“Always,” she grinned.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of,” Nick quipped before turning on one heel and heading back to Vue Colline.
The afternoon rain and wind had dissipated, leaving behind a calm, clear, but chilly evening. Stella zipped her jacket and continued on the path toward the fairgrounds, all the while her eyes and ears alert to any sign of Aurora Marici.
So far all she had heard was the haunting cry of the whip-poor-wills across the valley; one final lament for the heady, warm days of summer.
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