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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  The bathroom at the end of the hall was a replica of the one Nick and Stella shared with Zolar and B. Ology. The same white porcelain tile lined the walls, the lotus blossom-shaped white pedestal sink bore a similar brass faucet, and the identical octagonal black and white mosaic tile still made a bold design statement. The only variations between the two rooms were that the positions of the claw foot tub and the lavatory had been switched and the diamond-paned windows opened to a different view.

  Never one to stand idly before the sink while brushing, Stella wandered to the window and took a look.

  Alas, there was little to see aside from a scraggly row of azalea bushes at the base of the house, a five foot wide strip of lawn and, bordering it, a hedge of boxwood. Stella shrugged and went back to the task at hand; as she did so, her eyes took note of something odd.

  There, on the window sill, existed two spots where the white semi-gloss paint had been scratched away. The scratch marks were approximately one half inch in length, positioned roughly two feet apart from each other and were similar in shape and depth. Moreover, the wood beneath them was fresh and clean, meaning that they had been made quite recently.

  Puzzled as to whether or not the scratch marks were even relevant to the case or merely the result of an overworked Mr. Tuttle, Stella gave her mouth one final rinse and followed Nick back into their bedroom.

  As Nick locked the door, Stella shed her robe and crawled beneath the covers. “I feel exhausted, but I’m not sure I can sleep.”

  “It’s been a marathon day, that’s for sure,” Nick yawned and climbed into bed beside her. “On the upside though, at least we don’t have the wind batting things around like we did last night. If a shutter were to fly open again, half of us would wet the bed, the other half would have a heart attack. Well, except for the killer, probably.”

  “That’s it!” Stella sat straight up in bed as a wild idea started to take shape in her brain. “We need to slam that shutter again, Nick.”

  “What? It’s almost midnight, Stella. Everyone is in bed.”

  “That’s precisely why we need to slam it now,” she exclaimed, throwing her bathrobe on over her décolleté black satin chemise.

  “But we’ll wake everyone in the house.”

  “Yes. That’s precisely the point.”

  Nick sat up and scratched his head. “I don’t get it. What are you up to?”

  “I interviewed everyone in this house today and asked them to recount their movements as well as anything they may have seen or heard after they went to bed last night. Each and every one of them mentioned the banging of the shutter – except for one.”

  “Meaning that person wasn’t in the house.”

  “Or was unable to hear it,” Stella added.

  “So, if we bang the shutter again and that person hears it…” he smiled and then quickly frowned. “But what if they don’t?”

  “Then, we’ll have ticked off the entire house, but we’ll be no further behind in the case than before we started.”

  “Sounds like we have nothing to lose,” he noted as he jumped out of bed and ran to the window.

  Quietly sliding open the window sash, Stella and Nick leaned outside and, grabbing the loose shutter and pulling it forward, allowed it to slam back into place. The resulting bang was just as startlingly loud as that of the previous night.

  Stella and Nick grinned at each other as shouts resonated from the hallway and lights flicked on all over the second floor.

  Three rooms down on the right, the silver head of the Salvage Guy appeared out the window. “What in Sam Hill do you two think you’re doing? I thought someone got shot!”

  Mark Rousseau appeared in the window just beyond Dan’s. “Seriously? Have we not been through enough today?”

  Suddenly Chef Durand, the occupant two doors down from Stella and Nick, vocalized his opinion, quite loudly. “Was the noise of the shutter not enough? Why are you two crétins shouting out of windows? I left Paris and Pigalle behind because of such behavior!”

  In the midst of the melee, Stella watched as the head of Kenneth Zolar peeked out of the window next door to investigate the situation and then, with a smirk, withdrew inside, all the while, the white cords of his Apple-issued earbuds luminesced in the glow of the moonlight.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “So that proves it. Zolar wasn’t here last night, otherwise he would have heard the shutter, even if he were wearing his earbuds,” Nick presumed.

  “Well, yes and no.” Stella hesitated to commit, for what she suspected seemed too difficult to believe. “Zolar might have been listening at a higher volume last night than he was just now, or he may have been distracted by the presentation he was working on, or he may not have felt like getting up and checking, or he was simply focused on his television show.”

  “So we haven’t actually proven anything,” Nick said with disgust.

  “No, but we did raise some questions.”

  “Terrific. Because, you know, we don’t have enough of those already.”

  “We do, but there are also answers out there if we know where to look.” She tightened the sash of her robe and headed toward the bedroom door.

  “Where are you going?” Nick asked.

  “To talk to Ms. B. Ology.”

  “What? Now?”

  “Of course now. I need answers; she may have them. Plus, she suffers from insomnia, so I know she’s awake. It’s a perfect fit, really.”

  “I’m starting to think you suffer from insomnia too,” he quipped.

  “Right now, I wouldn’t disagree with you,” Stella conceded with a warm laugh. “I just hope you understand that I cannot let this rest.”

  “I do. Go and knock on Ms. B.’s door. I’ll watch you,” Nick said softly before bestowing a kiss upon his wife’s lips.

  “Thank you,” she whispered and kissed him back.

  “No, thank you,” he whispered in reply before letting her go.

  Straightening her robe once again, Stella tiptoed across the hall and rapped, gently, upon B. Ology’s door.

  “Who is it?” the younger woman asked.

  “It’s Stella Buckley,” she answered in a soft voice.

  B. Ology opened the door just wide enough to observe her caller before allowing her admittance. “Is everything alright? I heard something slam just a little while ago.”

  “Yes, everything’s fine, except that I need to ask you a few questions,” Stella stated as she entered B. Ology’s room. “I mean, if you’re not trying to sleep, that is.”

  “No, I’ve pretty much given up on that tonight.” B. Ology closed the door with a laugh. “When even the Salvage Guy worries that he might not nod off, all bets are off for me. So what did you want to talk about?”

  Stella sat in the same chair she had occupied earlier that afternoon. It seemed a lifetime ago. “I reviewed your account of last night’s events and I realized that there are two people you never mentioned roaming the halls last night, aside from me and Nick of course. The first is Oona Bauersfeld and the second is Kenneth Zolar. Now, Oona’s bedroom is upstairs and on the other side of the house, so I can understand why you may not have seen or heard her, but Zolar is across the hall.”

  B. Ology sat down in the lime green beanbag chair, her face pale and taut. “Oh, didn’t I mention him? I could have sworn I had.”

  “No, you didn’t. And it’s been reported that you knocked on his door last night.” Stella felt guilty about having invaded B. Ology’s privacy, but she knew confession would only serve to put the younger woman on her guard.

  “Yes,” she answered, her voice trembling. “Yes, I did.”

  “Did Mr. Zolar answer?”

  Several seconds elapsed before B. Ology replied. “No. No, he didn’t. But I know he was in there. There was a light under the door and I could hear him typing.”

  “Did you try to contact him again at a later time?”

  “Yes,” B. Ology sighed. “Look, please don’t judge me. Well,
I know it’s stupid to chase after a man who… well, but I texted him. Three times during the course of the night. He never responded.”

  “And you’re sure he was in his room?”

  “Positive. I actually sent one of the texts from right outside my door. Ken was still typing away. Not constantly, of course. Sometimes the typing would get louder or softer, and at other times, he’d stop, as if to think, but he was definitely awake and working. He was working so hard, he probably didn’t even take the time to look at his phone,” she dismissed, but it was clear that the young woman felt injured.

  “You seem to have developed some very strong feelings for Mr. Zolar,” Stella noted. “Exceptionally strong for someone you see but once a year. Unless, of course, you’ve seen him more frequently than you’ve let on.”

  “No. No, I haven’t – I mean – what are you getting at?”

  “I noticed, from using your phone, that you’re from Boston. I believe Mr. Zolar is also from Boston. Coming from New York, I do realize that Boston is an extremely large city and not everyone from Boston necessarily knows each other. I also know that Zolar now works here in Vermont, but I can’t help but wonder if you’ve met up during one of his trips home, perhaps?”

  “You don’t miss a thing, do you?” B. Ology remarked with a mixture of reverence and annoyance. “If you must know, Ken and I were next door neighbors for a time. Ken was eight and I was seven when he and his family moved into the neighborhood. He was shy and an only child – he’s still both those things, actually – and I was outgoing and one of four children. Even though I was younger, I befriended him, took him under my wing, and introduced him to other kids.”

  “So you grew up together,” Stella surmised.

  “Yes, for a while. When Ken was just going on sixteen, his father passed away suddenly. Ken’s mother couldn’t afford the apartment on her own, so she moved the two of them to a smaller place on the other side of town.”

  “Did you keep in touch?”

  “I tried to, yes. I’d call Ken, but he didn’t like speaking on the phone, so I decided to write him. I sent him several letters over the next few months, but he never wrote back. It was a tough time for him, I imagine. Ken and his father had never really gotten along; his father thought he should play football and try out for sports and be more outgoing. He put a lot of pressure on Ken at the start of high school and they fought – loudly and often. After his father died, Ken just kind of crawled into a shell and stayed there.”

  “How did you reconnect?”

  “Here. My first Cavalcade. I saw Ken’s name on the program and was ecstatic. I had just broken up with my boyfriend and here was this gentle old soul back in my life again. It was like fate, kismet, karma, serendipity – all those good things rolled up in one.”

  “And now he’s under your wing again,” Stella remarked.

  “Yes, well, if he’d allow me. Ken needs someone to look after him, to keep him from going too far into himself. He always has. I keep trying to drag him out of his shell, get him to trust in me and our relationship, but he’s pretty stuck.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me all of this before?”

  “Because I feel like an idiotic lovesick school girl. It’s embarrassing for starters, plus I didn’t see how it could possibly have any bearing on the case.”

  “You’re probably right,” Stella allowed. “It probably has no bearing whatsoever, but I do need you to tell me everything you know. Otherwise, I begin to wonder. If you’re withholding one piece of information, what else might you be keeping from me?”

  “Makes sense,” B. Ology nodded. “I’m sorry for not sharing. I should have known you wouldn’t react the way Philip did.”

  “What do you mean?’”

  “Oh, when I told Philip about my feelings for Ken he tried to dissuade me. He told me I shouldn’t cling to the past.”

  “I’m sure Philip wasn’t being negative,” Stella opined. “He was simply trying to look out for your best interests. Kind of his way of keeping you under his wing?”

  “Thank you for that. I needed to hear it, since it bothered me a great deal. It’s nice to have that thought now that… well, it’s nice to focus on the good memories.”

  “It is. And, on that note, I’m going to bed. I’m sure Nick is waiting for me. Good night, B.”

  “Good night.” B. Ology gave Stella a hug before closing the door behind her and locking it.

  Stella, meanwhile, crossed the hall to her own room, her mind ruminating over all she had just learned. After giving Nick a quick debriefing, she picked up her cell phone and fired off a text message to Sheriff Mills.

  Satisfied with her work, she climbed into bed beside her husband and reached over to the adjacent end table to turn off her bedside light. Before her fingers could even feel the switch, the bedroom door moved within its jamb, causing it to make a subtle tapping sound not unlike the ghostly interference B. Ology had described.

  Finding Nick already asleep and snoring away, Stella tiptoed to the door and opened it just enough to peer outside. She was met by a series of insistent meows as a large white and tan Ragdoll cat rubbed its head on the bedroom door in an effort to mark the object as its territory.

  “Hello, Copurrnicus,” Stella whispered. “What are you doing here?”

  She bent down to pet the green eyed creature but, in typical, elusive feline fashion, it trotted off down the hall and toward Philip Morehouse’s quarters where, after pawing at and under the closed door, the cat sprawled out across the threshold and began to bathe itself.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sunday morning dawned bright and frosty. At the sound of his alarm, Nick stretched, yawned and reached an arm around his wife. “Honey, it’s time to get up. Time to get those little gray cells working again and for me to get to the Cavalcade.”

  Stella, having fallen asleep just hours before the alarm went off, grunted, groaned and struggled to wake. “Hmph? What? Oh… yeah. Yeah. I’m good. I’m awa– I’m…” she punctuated the statement with a vociferous snore.

  “Honey,” Nick shook her by the shoulder. “Come on. The game is afoot.”

  Stella opened her eyes to see Nick’s broad smile. Her husband’s cheerful disposition in the mornings often put her in mind of a large, hungry, overfriendly dog pawing and licking its owner awake in search of food and a game of fetch. If she possessed more energy, she would have thumped him in the face with her pillow.

  “I’m up,” Stella insisted as she dragged herself from beneath the covers. “I’m up.”

  “Good morning,” Nick gave her a kiss on the forehead. “I’m going to fit in a quick shave before heading down to breakfast. I think Chef Durand is down there; I smell coffee.”

  Stella snuggled into her slippers and leopard print robe and smiled. “Mmmm. Coffee,” she said groggily.

  “Yeah, I thought you’d like hearing that word. Why don’t you go downstairs and caffeinate yourself,” Nick suggested. “I’ll meet you when I’m done.”

  Stella nodded and trudged her way out of the bedroom and down the hall. Halfway down the stairs, she passed Mr. Tuttle on his way up. “Good morning, Mrs. Buckley. Good to see everyone alive and well!”

  “Good morning, Mr. Tuttle,” Stella plastered on a fake smile.

  Tuttle incorrectly interpreted her greeting as an invitation to chat. “Good to see the sun too. Spent the better part of yesterday morning cleaning up water stains on the steps and floors. None of that today!”

  Stella was jolted awake. “Water stains?”

  “Yeah, like someone had come in from the rain and hadn’t bothered to take off their wet things. Left a trail through the dining room.”

  Stella recalled Oona’s late night entrance with disappointment. That she left water stains in her wake was nothing shocking.

  “I’d just cleaned that up when I discovered another huge trail from the back kitchen door and halfway up the stairs and yet another in the third floor hallway.”

  S
tella’s eyes, which had previously been mere slits, opened wide.

  “But we’ll have none of that today! Now if everyone can just survive,” Tuttle glanced heavenward.

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” Stella rejoined distractedly. Her mind was still focused on the water stains. “Um, did you show the police these water stains you mentioned?”

  “No, I’d cleaned them up before anyone was even out of bed. Had Mr. Morehouse seen ‘em, he’d have had my head. Why? What do they have to do with the price of tea in China?”

  “I don’t know,” Stella shrugged. “My brain is probably still a bit foggy.”

  “Yep, well there’s coffee, tea, and juice waiting down there for ya. Chef Durand can help if you need anything else. I have to go up and fetch Mrs. Bauersfeld’s car keys.”

  “Why? Is she leaving?”

  “Seems like she means to, but Ms. McArdle don’t think it’s wise.”

  “Ms. McArdle’s right; she shouldn’t be going anywhere. Why don’t you let me go up and talk to Mrs. Bauersfeld? I’ll see if I can talk her out of it. If I can’t, I’ll bring her keys to you.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive,” Stella smiled. This time it was genuine.

  “I know Ms. McArdle sure would appreciate that. How about I fetch you some coffee for your troubles?”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Tuttle.”

  “Always do.” The houseman winked at Stella and turned on one heel.

  “Medium light. One sugar,” she instructed before he was out of earshot. “Please!”

  There were, after all, priorities.

  *****

  Oona Bauersfeld lay on top of the covers of the queen sized bed. Her left hand clutched a damp men’s handkerchief bearing black mascara stains; her right held Arthur’s photo. “Are you here to talk me out of leaving?” she sniffed.

  “No, I’m here to talk. Period. However, I will say, for the record, that I think leaving is a bad idea. It’s understandable to want to run away in the face of tragedy, but in this case, doing so will only make matters worse.”