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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  Ramsey nodded. “I hear ya. Do you think this Amanda could have been behind the attack?”

  “No. She’s giggly, giddy, and smitten. She’d run off and marry Rousseau if he’d have her. If he didn’t have her, that’d be a different story.”

  “Any indication that he’s given her the boot?”

  “No, he was going to text her if he’s free tomorrow, so it’s definitely still ‘on.’ If anything, their relationship gives Mark Rousseau an even stronger motive for wanting Philip Morehouse out of the way. So long as the old man was alive, Mark was tied to the Cavalcade, the Foundation, and Vue Colline. Speaking of which, do we have a final cause of death for Philip Morehouse yet?”

  A woman’s voice replied from behind Stella’s back. “Yes, we do.”

  Stella whirled about to find Sheriff Wilkins, a complacent grin upon her face. “Unfortunately, that information is classified. Now, you’re not trying to coerce Officer Ramsey into giving you classified information are you?”

  “Of course not. I didn’t realize it was classified, especially since we’re on the same side.”

  Wilkins excused Officer Ramsey before Stella could tell him about finding HALLE in the stalls of the carriage house. Although she could still tell Wilkins of her findings, Stella doubted that the Sheriff would do anything to act upon them. A feeling borne out by Wilkins’ response.

  “Same side? Don’t give me that ‘we girls need to stick together’ nonsense. I became the first female Sheriff of Chittenden County by being smarter than a man and blowing the other women in the academy out of the water.”

  “I meant that we’re working on the same side,” Stella clarified. “We both want to find whomever is responsible for this.”

  “You’re right, we do. But you solve this crime and then you’ll go back home and never give this place a second thought. I’m doing it because it’s my job and I have to live in this town and face these people every single day for possibly the rest of my life.”

  “I’m not trying to usurp your authority, Sheriff. If it seems that way to you, I sincerely apologize. I can’t imagine how hard it’s been for you to be a female law enforcement officer here in Vermont, or anywhere in this country, for that matter. I’m an art curator and law enforcement is not my thing. However, in less than twenty-four hours, two men are dead and a third has been beaten over the back of the head. If Morehouse had killed Arthur Bauersfeld as Oona Bauersfeld would have you believe, Mark Rousseau would not be in an ambulance right now. I don’t care about photo ops and news articles or what’s proper protocol or where we’re both been in our lives or where we’d like to go. All I know is that someone is picking off Cavalcade members one by one, and I’d like to know who and why. I was under the impression that you and I combining forces might help us to find the answer sooner rather than later. Apparently, I was wrong.”

  With a clench of her fists and a final shake of the head, Stella turned on one heel and marched back to the main house, her sweatshirt flashing with each swing of her arms.

  Stella took several minutes on the front doorstep of Vue Colline to regain her composure. She hadn’t expected Sheriff Wilkins to simply fall in line with her requests, but she hadn’t anticipated her to be so headstrong either. Still, there was more than one way to get the information she needed.

  With a deep breath, Stella opened the great arched wooden doors and stepped inside. She was immediately greeted by the glow of soft lights and candles, a fire in the main hall hearth, and Chef Durand, bearing a glass of red wine.

  “I thought you could use this. And to prove that I didn’t poison it,” Durand took a sip.

  B. Ology came in from the dining room and gave Durand’s arm a playful smack. “That’s enough.”

  “Well, sometimes these things sink to the bottom, you know,” he teased.

  “Yeah, yeah. You’d sample that even if there were no chance of poison.”

  “True,” Durand conceded as he passed the glass to Stella, who readily accepted the glass and took a sip.

  “Merci, Chef. That’s very kind of you.”

  “After finding Monsieur Rousseau the way you did, I thought you might need a little something to settle the nerves,” Durand stated.

  “Or at the very least warm you up from the cold – and the shock,” B. Ology added.

  “Yes, it was quite a surprise coming upon him that way,” Stella confessed with a shiver.

  “It must have been very upsetting,” Chef Durand said with sympathy. “However, Mademoiselle B. and I have created a tasty, comforting meal for everyone that, I hope, will take our collective minds off of things.”

  “We’re setting it up buffet style,” B. Ology noted with a wink. “So that we’re all eating the same food and serving ourselves.”

  “Clever,” Stella remarked. “So were the two of you together the entire time Rousseau was attacked?”

  “Oui,” Durand affirmed. “If he was attacked within the past thirty to forty minutes, as the police have suggested.”

  “Yeah, we’ve been down here the past hour and a half or so.”

  “And did either of you see anyone head from the house to the fairgrounds?”

  “No,” Durand denied, “but my eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”

  “I saw Aurora – well, briefly, that is,” B. Ology quantified. “She was booking it on down to the fairgrounds. Kinda secretively too. Zolar and Dan were in the dining room the entire time working; I saw them several times as I took dishes in and out of there. As for anyone else, I really wasn’t paying attention. I was too busy cooking. And cleaning up after the Chef.”

  “That is part of your training. Any chef worth their Michelin stars starts off doing dishes.”

  “Hence, why I’m a glass blower. Listen, I know Nick isn’t here. If you want, you can make a plate for him and put it in the fridge for later. When he gets back he can microwave it.”

  “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that. Thanks.”

  “I’m going to set the table for dinner and check on the things in the oven. Can I get you anything else?”

  “Actually, yes. Do you happen to have a phone charger I can borrow? My phone is dead and I just realized that I left the charger in Nick’s truck.”

  “Sure, I have one right here,” B. Ology wandered into the parlor and returned with a cell phone covered by a stained glass-look plastic case and a black electrical cord. “Here’s the charger. And here’s my phone; feel free to use it while yours is charging.”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine. I mean, I do need to make a call, but it can wait until my phone is charged.”

  “Don’t be silly! Just use mine.”

  “Are you sure? I’m calling here in Vermont; I’m not sure if your plan covers that.”

  “What, you think we don’t have nationwide calling plans in Boston?” B. Ology teased. “I’m covered for all fifty states, Canada, and Mexico, so please, feel free. I know you’ll probably want to check in with Nick at some point, too.”

  “Yes, I should, lest he try my number and think something’s wrong. Thanks, B.”

  “No problem,” she smiled before heading off to the dining room.

  “I should probably oversee things in the kitchen,” Chef Durand prepared to make his leave. “May I top off your glass of wine?”

  Stella eyed the half-empty glass. “Oh, I don’t know…”

  “I will gladly take a sip of the new wine so that you know that I am not poisoning you.”

  “The way our conversation left off earlier, I’m far more concerned that you may have spit in my glass,” Stella laughed.

  “Never! I like you, Madame Buckley, and I respect the wine far too much. However, if my taste test would put your fears to rest, I’d be happy to kill the proverbial two birds with one stone,” Durand noted.

  “When you put it that way, how can I possibly refuse a refill?”

  “Your wish is my command,” he took her glass with a bow. “Before I do, I wish to apologize if I was a bit testy
with you this afternoon. It is not often that I am depicted as the possible villain in a story, but now that I’ve had time to think things over, I rather enjoy the image of the jealous romantic leading man you have painted for me. It is not true, of course – my romantic days are over – but it is fun to dream.”

  “I wouldn’t say those days are behind you. That belief is what resulted in Meagan ending up with Philip Morehouse instead of you, remember?”

  “Oui, and now Philip is gone. Meagan is grieving and I am mourning an old friend.”

  “And the grief and mourning will someday subside. Who knows what life has in store for you then.”

  “You are young and optimistic,” Durand smiled. “And very kind. For your kindness, Madame, I will keep your glass filled all evening and provide, not one, but two sips as a taste test.”

  With a wink of his eye, Durand went off to the kitchen. He returned a few moments later with the promised glass of wine, from which he took two sips, deemed the liquid eminently quaffable, and returned to his kitchen duties.

  Finding herself alone in the main hall, but with a clear view of the dining room’s coming and goings, Stella thought it the ideal location in which to place a private phone call. She pressed the top power button of B. Ology’s Android phone and the display immediately buzzed to life.

  However, instead of the normal array of apps appearing on the tiny screen, Stella was met with a recent text message. It was sent at a few minutes after four in the afternoon by Kenneth Zolar.

  Stella looked over her shoulder self-consciously. Seeing no one nearby to judge her actions, she went on to read Zolar’s note:

  Just saw your texts. Sorry, didn’t answer. Busy with presentation.

  Scrolling back, Stella saw that Ms. B. Ology had texted Zolar not once, not twice, but three times on the previous night. Had any of those texts been accompanied by a knock on Zolar’s door?

  Thinking it might be easier to feign ignorance over a lost text than to explain one that had, quite obviously, been read, Stella deleted Zolar’s reply. As she did so, she noticed that Zolar’s phone number also bore the same Boston 617 area code.

  Closing the text window and moving to the phone app, she dialed a number back in her newly adopted home of Windsor County. A female voice, familiar to Stella but sultrier in tone than usual, purred through the speaker, “Hellooo.”

  “Hello, Alma?”

  “Stella?” Alma Deville, owner of the bakery/café in Nick and Stella’s new neighborhood, replied in her usual voice. “What are you doing in Boston? I thought you and Nick were just on the other side of the state.”

  “We are just on the other side of the state. My phone is dead and I’m borrowing someone else’s.”

  “Why are you borrowing some Beaner’s phone? You both okay?”

  “Yeah… yeah, apart from feeling like we’re staying on the set of And Then There Were None, we’re absolutely perfect.”

  “Huh? Well, at least you’re okay. You had me worried there for a minute.”

  “No, we’re both fine. Don’t worry,” Stella assured her new-found friend. “And as much as I’d love to tell you everything going on here, I’m afraid I called your number by mistake. I was trying to reach Sheriff Mills.”

  “You did call Mills’ number,” Alma let out a hoot. “Charlie’s in the shower right now, so I answered his phone.”

  Stella pulled the phone away from her ear for a moment to contemplate the meaning of Alma’s statement. Sheriff Mills had been sweet on Alma for most of his adult life, a fact revealed to Alma just a few short weeks ago. “Oh… oh, I’m sorry! Um, just tell Mills that I called –”

  “Stella, settle down, hon. I didn’t mean it that way. Charlie worked later than expected. He’s in the shower, cleaning up before we go over to the Windsor Grill for burgers.”

  “Oh, okay. I didn’t mean to imply… well, maybe I did… I don’t know anymore. So, how are things going with you guys?”

  “Good. Real good. I’m not sure if it’s because Charlie and I have known each other so long or because we’re both older, but we’re finding the dating thing kinda easy. I don’t stress if I have a piece of parsley stuck between my teeth and Charlie doesn’t mind if I tell him his fly’s undone. It’s comfortable… and nice. Like a pair of good shoes. So what’s up with you? You sound as nervous as a cat in a room of rocking chairs.”

  “Well, our host here is dead of cardiac arrest and so is another man who was exhibiting at the fair. And tonight, yet another man was rushed to the hospital after having been beaten over the back of the head with a blunt instrument.”

  “Girlfriend, if I’m ever invited to spend a weekend away with you, remind me to just say ‘no.’ What is it with you and corpses anyway? You’re like that TV show about the writer and wherever she goes, someone dies.”

  Stella cast an exasperated eye heavenward. “Murder She Wrote?” she sighed.

  “Yeah, that’s the one. I always said she was the murderer, the way all those dead bodies kept turning up. Oh, here’s Charlie. You and Nick be careful, would ya?”

  “We will.”

  There followed a brief period of background noise as the phone exchanged hands. “Mills here,” came the laconic voice of the Sheriff.

  “Hi, Sheriff, it’s Stella Buckley.”

  “Hey, Stella,” Mills’ tone immediately became warmer. “How are you and Nick doin’? I thought you folks were out of town.”

  “We are. We’re over in Chittenden County, at Vue Colline, the Morehouse estate –”

  “As in Philip Morehouse?” Mills interrupted before letting loose a long whistle. “I saw you had some fuss over there today.”

  “Some fuss is putting it mildly. One man found dead in his bed, another man stabbed to death, and a third one assaulted just a short while ago.”

  Mills cut to the chase. “What do ya need from me?”

  “Well, I’ve been investigating the case-”

  “Of course.”

  “– and the police have ascertained the cause of Morehouse’s death, but they won’t share it with me.”

  “Didn’t you tell them that you work for the Federal government as an undercover agent?” Mills quipped, citing the reason Nick had given him for including Stella in the Allen Weston investigation just weeks earlier.

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t share my husband’s sense of bravado.”

  “It’s prolly a good thing you don’t,” Mills chuckled. “So who’s the Sherriff over there in Chittenden?”

  “Sheriff Wilkins.”

  “Sheriff Naomi Wilkins?”

  “I don’t know her first name, but I imagine they’re one in the same. How many sheriffs in Vermont could be named Wilkins?”

  “Ugh… no matter. Ya ain’t getting anything out of her then,” Mills remarked. “Ya didn’t happen to mention my name did you?”

  “I did, but it was of no help.”

  “No, it wouldn’t be. Ya see, she and I dated back when we were in the Academy.”

  Stella heard Alma’s voice in the background, “I don’t care who ya dated, Charlie. The past’s the past.”

  “Thank you, Alma,” Mills replied away from the phone.

  “So, did you dump her or something?” Stella asked, in an effort to bring the conversation back into focus.

  “No, as a matter of fact, Naomi dumped me. She said I weren’t forceful enough for her.”

  “Hmm, she did insinuate you were something of a pushover.” Stella recalled the word ‘buttercup’ had been used, but thought the better of repeating it.

  “She did?” Mills sounded genuinely offended. “Well she’s… oh, nevermind. If ya met her, ya already know.”

  “Indeed, I do. So will you help me out?”

  “As much as I’d like to, I can’t, Stella. I’d be in serious trouble if she were to find out.”

  “But no one would find out. I certainly wouldn’t tell anyone. I just need to be able to confirm whether foul play was involved in Morehouse’s de
ath or rule it out entirely.”

  The phone fell silent.

  “Hello?” Stella asked, fearing the connection had been dropped.

  “Yep, I’m here,” Mills answered wearily.

  “Look, Mills, I hate to push you on this, but we’re dropping like flies over here and Wilkins’ best solution to date is that Morehouse stabbed the other dead guy and then died from the shock of it all. How she’ll change that hypothesis to explain Morehouse’s step-son getting his head bashed in tonight is beyond me, but at the rate she’s going, she’ll have come up with the plot of the next M. Night Shyamalan movie.”

  “Okay,” Mills sighed. “I’ll let ya know the findings.”

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Stella gushed. “Just do me a favor and text those findings to my phone. It should be charged by then and I don’t want to take the chance of someone overhearing.”

  “Sure,” Mills agreed and the two bid each other goodnight. As soon as she had disconnected from Mills, Stella dialed Nick to check on the status of Rousseau and to let him know that her phone was momentarily offline. Upon finding that Rousseau was still conscious and doing well, but hours away from release, she grabbed her glass of wine and made her way into the dining room.

  Meagan was seated at the head of the table, looking tired, anxious, yet dignified. “Any word on Mark?” she asked eagerly.

  “He’s doing well. The hospital will most likely release him in a couple of hours,” Stella informed her hostess.

  “Thank goodness. I couldn’t imagine if something had happened...” her voice trailed off.

  Aurora came by and patted Meagan’s hand. “You do not worry about that. Mark is strong and smart.”

  “If he were truly smart, he’d get himself admitted,” Carlson could be heard muttering to no one in particular. “It’s safer.”

  Meagan ignored him. “Thank you, Aurora. I appreciate your support.”