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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  Stella approached the front of the carriage house – the last of the Vue Colline estate buildings one encountered before reaching the fairgrounds and, beyond, the working farm – and felt her heart begin to race. It was as if she were walking through a carnival haunted house, with each step anticipating that something or someone sinister was about to leap out of the shadows.

  She drew a deep breath and steeled her nerves. If encountered by Aurora, she could provide more than one plausible explanation for her presence, so why was she so nervous? It wasn’t as if the Italian designer was lurking about the grounds wielding a butcher’s knife… or was she?

  A sudden breeze drifted through the trees, dislodging the whip-poor-wills and sending a sickeningly sweet fragrance swirling into Stella’s nostrils.

  The aroma caused her to stop dead in her tracks. Perfume.

  But Aurora Marici was a mature, sophisticated woman – a designer, an aesthete. Surely, the scent Aurora wore would match the personality of the woman wearing it.

  Stella received her answer in the form of a high-pitched giggle coming from behind the carriage house. A giggle that was growing louder.

  And drawing closer.

  Having noted that the carriage house door was open, Stella dashed inside. Wading through the hay, past the ride-on mower and horses, she took up residence in the building’s only unoccupied horse stall, located at the far right side of the structure.

  The giggling ceased outside the carriage house door. “Just one kiss before I go,” the high-pitched voice implored.

  “Amanda,” a familiar man’s voice replied.

  Stella’s eyes grew wide. Amanda had helped to serve the previous night’s dinner.

  “You shouldn’t be here right now,” he continued. “If security sees you and finds out that you’re not scheduled to work tonight, they’ll call the police.”

  “So what? If they do, I’ll tell them I was here to see you,” she giggled again.

  “You know you can’t do that,” the voice answered firmly.

  “I don’t see why not,” Amanda puffed. “We’re free now. Your step-father is dead –”

  Stella’s eyes grew even wider. Mark Rousseau.

  “– and we’re in love. We want to run away together to New York and leave this God-forsaken place. Seriously? Who wouldn’t understand that?”

  “The police,” Rousseau stated matter-of-factly. “Nor would Meagan at this particular moment, since the Cavalcade would be on her shoulders. Oh, and then there’s that damned irritating amateur detective who’s staying here.”

  Stella’s nose wrinkled. Irritating? Amateur?

  “A detective?” Amanda’s voice trembled. “You didn’t tell me about a detective being here.”

  “I didn’t have time.”

  “When did this happen?” she demanded.

  “Yesterday. She arrived with everyone else. You saw her last night at dinner.”

  “Really? Which one?”

  “Stella Buckley. The forest ranger’s wife. She solved a murder in Teignmouth a few weeks back and now suddenly thinks she’s Miss Marple.”

  Miss Marple? Stella inwardly shrieked.

  “Stella Buckley,” Amanda mused. “Is she the middle-aged blonde?”

  Middle-aged?! Stella clenched her fists and took a step backward, as if preparing to charge, bull-like, out of the stall. Reluctant to reveal her hiding place, she quickly put her temper in check before taking another step forward. Unfortunately, it was already one step too late, for the stacked heel of her boot had pushed through the hay and met with something hard and rigid, generating a sound somewhere between a thud and a crackle.

  Stella held her breath as the couple outside the carriage house fell silent. If she could have found a way to temporarily silence her heartbeat, she would have done that as well.

  “What was that?” Amanda nearly shrieked.

  “Probably just one of the horses,” Rousseau soothed. “Still, you should get going. The police, the security staff – everyone here is on high alert.”

  “Okay,” Amanda agreed plaintively. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know. Depends upon how all this nonsense plays out. I’ll text you in the morning either way.”

  “Sounds good. I love you.”

  Amanda’s declaration met a prolonged silence punctuated by the sound of softly smacking lips. The horses, who had heretofore been quiet, began to neigh as if embarrassed by the display of affection. Stella closed her eyes and prayed that the lovefest would soon finish so that she could stop feeling like a voyeur and get back to her investigation.

  Stella needn’t have worried, for within moments, she heard a whispered exchange of goodbyes and then footsteps retreating along the path.

  After waiting several seconds before making a sound, lest either Rousseau or Amanda returned, Stella switched her phone’s flashlight app to ‘on’ and searched her now-dark surroundings. Shining a light on the substantial stack of hay behind her, she noticed what appeared to be a shiny piece of white plastic hidden beneath the straw.

  Keeping the light steady with her left hand and clearing the hay with her right, she soon uncovered that the heel of her boot had not struck a piece of livery, a displaced garden tool, a wayward wheelbarrow or any of the myriad of objects one might expect to find in an old carriage house, but the HALLE robotic suit.

  Stella stood, her mouth agape, and wondered not only how the suit had come to be positioned here, but why. Not only had Morehouse had spent months presenting HALLE to the medical community in hopes of finding an appropriate home, but the suit itself had been demonstrated to approximately two hundred and fifty school children and was to be continuously exhibited to the general public over the course of the weekend. And yet someone had meticulously covered the suit in a haystack to conceal it from prying eyes.

  Perhaps what stood before her was merely a HALLE prototype. Stella realized that Zolar and Morehouse must have constructed several copies of the suit in various states of completion in order to safeguard against theft, malfunction, and disrepair.

  But if this was a so-called ‘spare’ suit, why keep it in a stall in the carriage house where dirt and dampness might compromise its functionality or curious, yet innocent, fairgoers might wander in and accidentally stumble across it? Certainly there were better, cleaner, safer places to hide such a valuable and delicate piece of equipment, be it in the lab or Vue Colline itself.

  And yet someone had gone through a great deal of time and trouble to make sure that this particular suit had been hidden in a haystack. Why? Why this particular suit and not the others? Was it a newer, improved version? Did someone fear that it would be stolen and decide to conceal it in the least likely spot possible? Or was it hidden here by the showman Morehouse himself as part of the act he had planned for the Cavalcade visitors?

  And what, now that she had found it, was Stella going to do with it?

  So deep in thought was Stella, that the chiming notification of Nick’s latest text made her drop the entire phone into the haystack. Fortunately, the illuminated flashlight function made it easy to retrieve.

  Checking in. You ok? Nick wrote.

  Stella texted in return: I’m great. Stumbled on something.

  Me too, Nick replied. Will search A’s room shortly.

  Heading to A’s tent in a bit.

  Be safe.

  I will. <3 Upon hitting ‘send’ she set about the painstaking task of reburying the HALLE robotic suit. After several minutes’ work, Stella deemed her handiwork as good as – if not better than – the original and set off in search of Aurora.

  Stepping out of the carriage house, Stella found herself beneath an inky moonless sky peppered with a smattering of bright white stars. The sunset serenade of whip-poor-wills had ended, now replaced by the lonesome chirp of crickets in their final paean before the early, long, and harsh Vermont winter. Shining the small beam of her phone light on the gravel path ahead, she followed the trail to the fairground
s. There, surrounded by the warm glow cast by hundreds of strands of festival lights, Stella was able to switch off her flashlight app and move beyond the confines of the small beam of light.

  Recalling that Aurora’s tent was positioned either one row past or one row before that of the U.S. Forest service, she turned down the third row – Row C – past a series of sealed white tents. There, at the end, stood the double-sized marquee that housed Aurora’s inventory of sewing machines, computers, thread, needles, sequins, and fabric. At the rear of the tent, a gas generator chugged away, powering the sliver of light that gleamed from the front tent opening.

  Stella took a slow, cautious step forward and tilted her head so that her right eye could see into the tent interior; the remainder of her body was obscured behind the canvas tent itself. After several seconds had elapsed, during which her vision adjusted to the brightness of the light, Stella was able to distinguish a human form slumped over one of the work tables.

  It was Aurora Marici and, from Stella’s vantage point, it appeared that she might not be breathing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Leaving Stella to pursue Aurora, Nick retraced his steps back to the house. However, upon seeing Chef Durand and Ms. B. Ology through the rear kitchen window and Kenneth Zolar and the Salvage Guy seated in the dining room, he decided to enter Vue Colline, not through the dining room French doors or the side kitchen door where he could easily be seen, but via an alternate entrance.

  Stooping down to conceal himself, Nick followed the line of immaculately trimmed boxwood hedges to the opposite end of the house. Sadly, there was no door. Seeing that this side of the mansion was completely dark, Nick felt emboldened enough to step from behind the bushes to check if one of the windows might be unlatched.

  As he approached what he had determined to be the parlor, Nick noticed an object shimmering in the light of his government-issued miniature flashlight. Reaching beneath a now barren azalea bush, he retrieved a highly polished piece of black plastic or rubber. Approximately one inch in length and cylindrical in shape, it was hollow throughout except for one end, which was flat and textured. Nick imagined that it might have been a protective end cap for a tool handle or a non-slip foot for the leg of a metal chair.

  Placing the item in the pocket of his heavily lined civilian-wear corduroy jacket, he examined the clearing just to the right of the azalea bush and noticed a maze of footprints now frozen into the mud. Whether they had been made during the afternoon’s rain or during the previous night’s storm, Nick could not say, but even by the dim light of his pocket flashlight, he could see quite plainly that they were made by one pair of shoes, shoes belonging to a man. A man who had approached the building and then walked away again.

  Or had left the building and then returned.

  Following this train of thought, he stepped closer to the house and examined the parlor window. It was locked and there were no clear indications of it having been forced open, but Nick realized that meant absolutely nothing. If the murderer had used the window to leave the house and wander to the fairgrounds unseen, he easily could have locked the window upon his return.

  As he thought about Arthur Bauersfeld’s killer, Nick felt a chill run down his spine. What if the killer were creeping around the grounds just as Nick was doing right now?

  He immediately sent Stella a text.

  Upon receiving confirmation that she was safe and sound, Nick drew a deep breath and moved along the hedges toward the facade of the house. The front windows were dark, allowing him to slip, unnoticed, onto the columned portico and through the heavy wooden entryway.

  The lights, voices, laughter, and clinking of dishes emanating from the rear of the mansion signified that Ms. B. Ology, Chef Durand, and other guests were engrossed in dinner preparations.

  Uncertain as to which of his fellow Creators might still be lingering in the guest suites, Nick snuck up the stairs and ducked into his room where he swiftly deposited his jacket and second pair of heavy work boots and slipped into a pair of casual brown loafers. After a quick check of the hallway, he tiptoed to Aurora Marici’s room, let himself in, and quietly shut the door.

  Remembering Stella’s instructions, he set off in search of the black leather bound journal, which was last seen in a camel Italian leather purse. Having no clue as to how Italian leather differed from other leathers and uncertain whether camel was a variation on brown, a derivative of tan, or a hybrid of the two, Nick merely concentrated his efforts on locating a handbag. Any handbag. But preferably one in an earth tone.

  Getting on his hands and knees, he looked beneath the red settee, where Stella had witnessed Aurora concealing it. The bag, however, was no longer there.

  Moving to the desk area, he systematically searched through drawers and shelves. And although he did manage to find several books, none of them were black bound or a journal. One was a biography of Diane von Furstenberg, two discussed the works of Nicolai Tesla, another was a book of poetry written in what appeared to be both Greek and Italian, and the remainder were sketch books.

  Nick shifted his attention to the kitchenette, where he found the cabinets filled with the standard array of glassware, white porcelain dishes, forks, spoons, ground coffee, tea bags, and snacks such as popcorn, dehydrated veggie sticks, and blue corn tortilla chips.

  From there, Nick drew a deep breath and steeled himself for the exploration of the bedroom area. As a Forest Ranger and not a trained police officer, he felt uncomfortable sorting through Aurora’s personal belongings. So uncomfortable, in fact, that he was close to calling off the rest of the search.

  Close, that is, until he remembered that Stella would press him on the matter.

  Fabric… just fabric, he told himself as he opened a dresser drawer and allowed his fingers to feel around for something book-like. The whole time, his eyes were transfixed by his reflection in the mirror to avoid seeing something that could not be unseen.

  Finding nothing of note, he proceeded on to the next drawer and the next and then the next and the next. When complete, he had checked every nightstand and dresser compartment just thoroughly enough to determine that the journal was not hidden within, but not so thoroughly as to take note of the color of Aurora’s undergarments or whether or not her nighties were silk, cotton, or satin.

  It was, for Nick, a personal triumph.

  Failing to find the journal, however, was not. He snuck back down the hall to his and Stella’s room and texted his findings to his wife: Found books. No bag, no journal. See you soon?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Stella was too preoccupied to perceive the ring and vibration of her cell phone notifying her of Nick’s message. She had raced from the entrance of the tent to where Aurora, her posterior resting in a wheeled office chair and her head and upper body collapsed onto the top of a wide wooden work desk, was unresponsive to Stella’s calls.

  “Aurora! Aurora!” Stella placed her first two fingers on the designer’s neck. She detected a pulse – a slow, but strong and steady one – and, from the rise and fall of the woman’s torso, it appeared that she was breathing without difficulty. So why was she unresponsive?

  “Aurora,” Stella again shouted, this time shaking the woman’s shoulders as she did so.

  Aurora moaned as she slowly stirred to life. “Quello che…?” she looked up at Stella with eyes that were red, swollen and questioning. “What happened?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  “Oh, I – I came out here to do the work, to get my mind off of… and I must have fallen asleep.”

  “Asleep? I thought you were unconscious – or worse.”

  “The pills for sleeping that I took last night must have, how do you say, kicked in? Finalmente.” Aurora sat up and stretched her arms, revealing that she had been resting on top of the black leather journal in question.

  “Do you typically take sleeping pills?” Stella asked as she averted her gaze from the closed book, lest she give away her desire to
look within its pages.

  “Me? No. Only during the times of the stress, when I cannot sleep.”

  “And you’re under ‘the stress’ now?”

  “Si, of course. After what happened to Philip and Arthur, we are all under the stress, no?” Aurora shrugged off the question with a nervous laugh.

  “Yes, but you took the sleeping pill last night, when both men were still alive. Unless you knew something the rest of us didn’t.”

  “No!” Aurora insisted. “I knew nothing! I – I was nervous about the Cavalcade. That is all.”

  “Nervous about what?”

  “About being here in this house.” Aurora’s puffy eyes welled with tears. “About the things that go on in my head and in my heart. The things I cannot control…”

  “Is that why you were seen pacing outside Meagan McArdle’s room last night?”

  “What? How do you…?”

  “Two other people saw you. So, were you there because of these things you say you cannot control?”

  Aurora’s body convulsed in violent sobs. “Si,” she choked out, “but I never spoke with Meagan. I was not brave enough.”

  “What did you need to tell her?”

  Aurora shook her head. “I cannot tell you. I can –” her eyes suddenly narrowed and she glared at Stella suspiciously. “Why are you here, Signora Buckley?”

  “Me?” Stella was the picture of innocence. “I came by to see what designs you might have for me.”

  Aurora was a woman transformed. “You did?” she beamed.

  “Yes, you piqued my curiosity with your design ideas last night. Especially when you mentioned that red dress; red is my favorite color! When I spotted you wandering down here, I figured I’d follow and find out what you might have in mind.”

  “Si,” Aurora sprang from her chair and started rifling through some papers on a nearby work table. “I have some drawings. I also worked on something today that you might like.”

  While Aurora searched her files, Stella took an opportunity to look in the black journal book on the table. Pages of narrative written in Italian – which Stella could not interpret – were interspersed with glorious colored pencil sketches of illuminated fabric designs modeled by a woman with a very familiar face.