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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  Rousseau took the box from her hands with a heavy sigh. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Buckley?”

  “Yes, actually, if you don’t mind.”

  “For you, of course,” he answered facetiously. “Anything.”

  “You had mentioned that Kenneth Zolar’s room had been switched with the Salvage Guy’s. Do you happen to know when Meagan made that decision?”

  “I most certainly do. She didn’t,” he grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Meagan had no idea that decision had been made. Dan and I arrived within minutes of each other on Thursday evening. Meagan greeted us and told us to bed down in the usual spots. It was Tuttle who approached us in the hall and informed Dan that a change had been made. As for who directed him to do so and why, you’ll have to ask Mr. Tuttle.”

  “You know, it’s funny you ask about the room switch,” Tuttle commented as he ran an old fashioned, non-motorized carpet sweeper over the front parlor rug. “I found it strange at the time, but Mr. Morehouse sometimes did spontaneous things like that.”

  “So it was Mr. Morehouse who requested the change of rooms?” Stella confirmed.

  “Yup, sure was. He said to me, ‘Tuttle, what do you say we have some fun?’ It weren’t my idea of fun, but the idea of the switch seemed to tickle him, and I wasn’t about to say ‘no’ to him for anything. Not after years of a steady paycheck.”

  “Wasn’t Ms. McArdle usually the one who handled guest accommodations and hospitality?”

  “Yup, she were,” Tuttle stopped sweeping. “Does a good job at it too. That’s why it threw me for a loop at the time, that Mr. Morehouse didn’t include her in his joke. I mean, they were,” he waved his hands, tossed his head from side to side, and grinned.

  “Lovers?” Stella stated, much to Mr. Tuttle’s chagrin.

  “Shh! You don’t need to say it so loud.”

  “Sorry,” Stella mumbled.

  “Anyhow, it didn’t sit right with me, following Mr. Dan the Junk-Playing-Man upstairs to tell him to switch rooms, right after Ms. McArdle told him something different. It felt a bit sneaky and disrespectful to Ms. McArdle.”

  Stella nodded in empathy. “I also wanted to ask you about something else. Mr. Morehouse’s cat – I’ve seen him wandering the halls.”

  “Ah, you’ve seen Copurrnicus? I’ve been trying to chase down the old tom since Mr. Morehouse’s passing. I put food out but he hasn’t eaten a bite. Guess he’s in mournin’ too.”

  “So Mr. Morehouse was Copurrnicus’s ‘person’ so to speak?”

  “Yup, followed him everywhere. Sat on his desk when he worked. Slept in his room at night.”

  “Did he ever let Copurrnicus out to roam the house in the middle of the night?” she asked, recalling that both Rousseau and B. Ology had experienced pre-dawn Copurrnicus encounters.

  “Never. Every morning around seven o’clock, Mr. Morehouse would come downstairs and fix Copurrnicus’s breakfast. The cat was always right at his heels.”

  “Interesting,” she muttered to herself. “I have just one more thing to discuss with you. Do you have another minute to spare, Mr. Tuttle? I need to show you something.”

  “Certainly,” Tuttle replied with an air of importance. “Always happy to help.”

  Still dressed in her robe and slippers, Stella led the Vue Colline caretaker upstairs to the bathroom at the end of the hall. Once inside, she pointed to the window over the bathtub. “There are two marks on the sill that look as though they were recently made. I was wondering if you had any clue as to how they may have gotten there.”

  Tuttle stooped down to examine the gouges in the wooden sill. Running his hand over them, he stated, “I cleaned this here window just before the Cavalcade. These marks weren’t here then. If they had been, I’d have painted over ‘em before Mr. Morehouse caught sight.”

  “Yes, I noticed the exposed wood looks fresh.”

  “Mmm, I’ve seen marks like these elsewhere in the house.”

  “You have?”

  “Yup, not new. Older, but the same. Now if only this old brain of mine could remember where I’ve seen ‘em,” he chuckled, but the expression on his face could only be described as pensive.

  Appreciating that standing over the old man’s shoulder might be placing undue pressure on him, Stella excused herself from the room. “Take your time, Mr. Tuttle. I’m going to my room to shower and change before I head down to the fairgrounds. If something comes to you, just let me know.”

  The gentle tone of Stella’s voice belied the growing sense of urgency she felt.

  “Hmm?” Tuttle replied, still lost in thought. “Oh, yup. Yup, I’ll come lookin’ for ya. Don’t worry. Tuttle’s on the case.”

  On the way back to her bedroom, Stella popped her head into Rousseau’s room. The young man had changed his clothes and was reading a magazine.

  “Mr. Rousseau, a quick question?”

  “Oh, not you again.” Rousseau rolled his eyes. “What do you want now?”

  “Copurrnicus, your step-father’s cat. Did you really see him on the night of your step-father’s death?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Could you tell me what time that was?”

  “Oh, um, maybe two o’clock, two thirty. Certainly no later than that. Why?”

  Stella did not explain. “Thank you,” she sang before heading back down the hall. Feeling the clouds in her mind beginning to part, she returned to the room she shared with Nick and, seeing the bathroom across the hall was unoccupied, grabbed her clothes and toiletry case and took the opportunity to enjoy a quick rinse in the shower before getting dressed. Emerging from the room minutes later, she scurried across the hall and back to her own bedroom, where Nick was perched on the window seat in the act of lacing up his boots.

  “Cavalcade time?” she guessed.

  “The show must go on,” Nick sighed.

  “How’s Amanda?”

  “B. Ology and I escorted her to her car and she went back to her dorm. Meagan wanted to call security who, in turn, would have called the police. The kid doesn’t need the school to hear about all this. She’s been through enough. Fortunately, I was able to get cooler heads to prevail. How’s your morning going?”

  She filled him in on her discussions with Oona and Rousseau.

  “So Rousseau saw someone moving around in the hedges at the end of the house?” Nick repeated. “That’s funny, because I noticed footprints there yesterday. I’m sorry, but in all the chaos of the evening, I forgot to tell you.”

  “I’m surprised we both haven’t completely lost our minds yet,” she dismissed with a shake of her head. “I’ll make sure I take a look at those footprints before I head down to the Cavalcade.”

  “Good. And you’ve got this. I know you do,” he reassured.

  “I think I do too, but there are some things I just can’t work out.”

  “Like?”

  “Like how someone can be at two places at the same time,” she replied cryptically.

  “That’s an easy one. They weren’t.” He gave her a kiss before walking out the door.

  “They weren’t,” she mimicked when he was out of earshot. It was one thing to say it; it was a different matter entirely to prove it.

  Just then, she heard her cell phone chime. Retrieving it from its spot on the bedside table, she read Sheriff Mills’ reply to her questions:

  Bauersfeld time of death: 0300 to 0400 hrs.

  K Zolar’s father died of cardiac arrest. Failed defibrillator.

  Be careful. - M

  Frantic and excited, Stella dropped the phone to the floor and started pulling on her boots while standing, as if sitting down on the edge of the bed would slow her down. She was interrupted by a tap on the still-ajar door.

  Stella looked up and nearly lost her balance. “Yes?”

  Mr. Tuttle stood in the doorway, looking quite pleased with himself. “Mrs. Buckley, I found those marks I was lookin’ for and I know what made ‘em too.” Using his index finger
, Tuttle beckoned her to follow.

  “Tuttle on the case, indeed.” Stella smiled broadly as he led her up the main staircase to the third floor.

  “When Mr. Morehouse renovated this house and made it the headquarters for the Foundation, he was hassled by every insurance company under the sun. There are different laws for private homes and businesses, I guess. So he put in in a sprinkler system, smoke alarms, the works. He also had to hold fire drills.” Tuttle pointed to a tall window at the end of the hall beneath which rested a large hinge-topped wooden chest.

  Stella knelt down; etched into the stained and shellacked wooden sill were two gashes, similar in size and shape to the ones in the downstairs bathroom. “Are these from a fire escape? A ladder?”

  Tuttle grinned and pointed to the chest at Stella’s knees. Her eyes wide, Stella flipped open the lid, only to find that the chest was empty. “What? But it’s –”

  Tuttle said nothing, but pointed down the hall to Oona’s room. “Go in and see what I found in her closet while vacuuming.”

  Stella abided by Tuttle’s instructions and entered the room. Oona’s car keys were on the bed, indicating that she had decided to stay on at Vue Colline, but Oona herself was gone.

  Pulling open the closet door, Stella gazed down at the hardwood floor. There, lying in a tangled heap of metal, elastic straps, and plastic, was the missing emergency ladder.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Stella sprinted down the path from Vue Colline and onto the fairgrounds to share her findings with Nick. She had been sorely tempted to call the police to report all she knew, but there was still one important piece of the puzzle that was missing. That missing component could make the difference between Sheriff Wilkins believing Stella’s story and laughing in her face.

  Weaving and dodging her way through the crowds of families enjoying the clear, crisp morning and the dazzle of future technology, Stella finally came upon the U.S. Forest Service tent. “Nick!” she cried. “Nick!”

  Sensing the exigency in his wife’s voice, Nick politely excused himself from a family of three who were asking advice about local hiking trails. “What is it?” he asked as Stella drew near.

  “I think I have it! Zolar,” she panted, “Zolar is the killer!”

  Suddenly, the amplifiers in the Salvage Guy’s tent shot a series of syncopated drum beats into the late autumn air.

  The sound caused both Stella and Nick to literally jump in place.

  “The only problem is that he was heard in his room typing at the time of Arthur Bauersfeld’s murder. It just doesn’t make sense!” Stella attempted to shout over the music.

  Nick, unable to hear his wife’s words, held a hand in the air to buy her silence. He then signaled to the Salvage Guy.

  Upon seeing Nick’s wave, the Salvage Guy approached the couple. “I’m just doing a sound check,” he shouted over the music.

  “What?” Nick asked the Salvage Guy to repeat himself.

  “I’m doing a –” tired of shouting, the Salvage Guy pressed the button on a tiny white remote control device. Within seconds, the music stopped. “Sorry. I’m just doing a sound check. I won’t be much longer.”

  Stella, meanwhile, grabbed at the Salvage Guy’s remote like a madwoman. “Let me see that. How does that work?”

  “Oh, it’s a remote that operates the backing track that’s loaded onto my computer. I can stop and start whenever I want, adjust volume, replay sections… I have it set up so the sound is channeled through the amps, but otherwise, it would just play through the computer speakers.”

  “How far does the signal travel?”

  “Oh, this one is good for several hundred feet, but there are ones on the market that can control a computer remotely from miles away. It works on wifi signals.”

  Stella’s jaw dropped open. “So that’s how he did it! Nick, call the police!”

  “What? Where are you going?” he shouted as Stella ran off through the crowd.

  “To the carriage house. I need to stop Zolar from selling the suit.”

  Nick was torn between following his wife to ensure her safety and following her orders to call the police. Fortunately, the Salvage Guy was there to step in. “Go after her,” he urged. “I’ll call the police and follow you. Should I bring a weapon?”

  “Sure. What’s the biggest piece of junk you have?”

  The Salvage Guy pointed to the front car fender that was attached to his rack of instruments.

  Nick gave a thumbs up. “Perfect.”

  Navigating on foot through the throngs of families now descending upon the Cavalcade was a more daunting task than Stella could have imagined. “Excuse me. Pardon me. Coming through,” she shouted repeatedly as she bumped elbows, shoulders, and other random body parts with visitors who either didn’t hear Stella or didn’t feel particularly motivated to move out of her way.

  Growing increasingly exasperated with each step, Stella determined that there had to be a faster way to reach the carriage house. As if fate had listened to her plea, she came upon an extra-large marquis operated by the local university and, beneath it, seven makeshift automobiles of varying size, style, and design.

  Stella made a mad dash for the car parked closest to the front of the tent and hopped into the driver’s seat. Before she could even figure out how to start the vehicle, a young man approximately nineteen to twenty years of age approached her. “Good morning, ma’am. I see you’re interested in my vehicle of the future. If you’d like, I can show you how the engine I’ve designed uses cooking oil as a clean burning, inexpensive, and easily accessible alternative to fossil fuels.”

  “That’d be great, but right now, let’s take her out for a spin.” Stella fumbled around the dashboard in search of the ignition.

  “Oh, I’m afraid our insurance won’t allow visitors to ride in the vehicles, but if you’re interested in watching her run, we’ll be parading them around the fairgrounds this afternoon.”

  Stella’s finger stumbled upon a button and the car jolted to life.

  “Ma’am,” the young man cried over the sputtering idle of the car’s motor in an effort to control the situation. “Ma’am, please. You can’t drive the car!”

  “Look, I need to get to the carriage house – stat. After that, this baby’s all yours again, so either hop in or let me go.”

  The young man looked left and right, as if searching for help, before climbing reluctantly into the passenger seat. He hadn’t even gotten his door closed when Stella hit the accelerator, causing the vehicle to lurch forward and then stall. “Standard transmission?” she questioned, her voice raised in frustration.

  “Standard transmission lends a better experience to the driver wherein the automobile and driver are – whooooooo!”

  Before he could finish his lecture on the virtues of fahrvergnügen, Stella had restarted the engine and shifted into first gear, launching the vehicle into the pedestrian aisle just outside the tent.

  The panicked young man reached over to the dash and blew a bicycle horn repeatedly. “You know you really can’t be doing this!”

  “Watch me,” Stella challenged as she navigated through the crowd.

  Meanwhile, the student designers of the other automobiles watched in horror as Stella drove away. “Hey! Hey, someone’s stealing Lance’s car!” someone cried. “Let’s go after them!” another voice could be heard shouting.

  In Keystone Cop fashion, the designers climbed into their vehicles and lined up, in single file, to pursue the commandeered car.

  Stella, her derriere bouncing up and down in its seat due to rough shifting and equally tough fairground terrain, noted the string of cars following them. “Would you mind calling off the hounds?” she asked of her passenger.

  “Why should I? You’ve stolen my car and you’re going to burn out the clutch.”

  “I am not burning – God, you sound like my husband.” Stella drew a deep breath, all the while accelerating. “I am borrowing your car. Philip Morehouse’s killer
is at the carriage house. We need to stop him.”

  “Philip Morehouse? You mean the founder of the Cavalcade?”

  “Yes, his killer is going to sell the HALLE suit to a foreign power – most likely North Korea.”

  “The fiend!” Lance exclaimed and drew his cell phone from the front pocket of his button-down shirt. “Hello? Hello, Monica? It’s Lance, I’m fine. We’re heading to the carriage house to stop a murderer. Pass the word along! We need to avenge Mr. Morehouse.”

  Lance disconnected and, within minutes, a rally cry and a series of horn honks went up behind them. As Stella drove by, Creators cheered and left their tents to join the procession. Visitors, convinced they were being treated to an impromptu parade, watched with glee before tagging along at the end of line, in case there was to be a spectacular display once the parade reached its destination.

  Stella cued Lance to honk the horn as they came upon the sight of Nick, fighting his way through the swarms of people now clamoring to join what now resembled the angry villager scene from Frankenstein.

  At the sound of the horn, Nick stopped, shook his head in disbelief, and climbed onto the car behind them. Stella asked Lance to telephone their followers and request silence as they neared the carriage house. She also outlined their plan.

  With the bulk of the procession idling on the edge of the fairgrounds, Stella and the car carrying Nick pulled to a halt just a few yards away from the carriage house. Dan, carrying a large white car fender, Meagan, Oona, Durand, Ms. B. Ology, and Rousseau, his bandaged head covered by a knit toque, emerged from the crowd and stood near the idling cars.

  On a silent count of three, Nick swung open the carriage house doors. A beam of brilliant sunlight fell upon Zolar, who was in the process of passing a feed bag and a memory card to an Asian man in a blue pinstriped suit carrying a small suitcase.

  “We’ve caught you, Zolar,” Stella shouted. “Every Creator at the Cavalcade is waiting outside this barn. You can’t escape. Give HALLE and the plans to me.”