Well-Offed in Vermont: A Pret’ Near Perfect Mystery

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “Not in winter, you’re not. You’d have a better chance of pushing a mule a mile uphill than getting that thing in your driveway.”

  “I’m planning on getting a truck,” Nick explained. “A big truck. Might even be able to get one from the job.”

  “Good thinking. Hey, since you folks don’t have nothing but a camp stove, you might want to head down to the Windsor Bar and Grill later for burger night. Five bucks gets you a big, juicy burger with fries and the fixin’s. It’s a local hangout, so no leaf peepers or yellow plates, and they don’t skimp on the meat either.”

  “Yellow plates?”

  “New Jersey folk.” Mills realized his error. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “That’s okay. I get it. Flatlanders aren’t allowed.”

  “Well, if they happen to know the sheriff, they are.”

  “Sounds good. We might just have to check into that.”

  “I’ll see you there,” Mills said with a wave before heading off for the white-and-red squad car.

  As Nick approached the car, the keyless entry system unlocked both doors, allowing himself and Stella to climb inside.

  “So? What do you think?” she posed as soon as she had fastened the passenger-side seat belt.

  “Five-dollar burgers? Hey, I’ll give it a shot. Sounds like the sheriff wants to meet us there, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. He seems like a decent guy and—who knows?—maybe he’ll have some good news for us by then.”

  “I wasn’t talking about burger night. I was referring to the conversation prior to that.”

  “What, the car? I don’t know. If we can get snow tires for this thing, I’m sure it’ll be fine in the driveway. Our property’s pretty flat. I still want to try and get a truck through work. It’ll come in handy for hauling lumber and house stuff. Besides, it would be nice for each of us to have a vehicle during the day.”

  Stella slapped her hand to her forehead and sighed noisily. “All right, not the previous conversation but the previous previous conversation. The one about Weston.”

  Nick raised his eyebrows. “Oh yeah, that whole Alma speech about Weston being cold was kinda weird. I mean, she hired the guy to work on her house. How would she know he was cold, and why would she care?”

  “Particularly when he wasn’t even around to do the work.”

  “That’s right. Alma said yesterday that his guys performed all the labor. Apart from the sale, when did she have the chance to interact with him?”

  “Uh-huh. Makes you wonder if he pumped more than her septic tank, doesn’t it?”

  “Pumped her septic tank? Jeez, and to think I kiss that mouth before I go to sleep each night.”

  “Oh, you love it.”

  Nick pulled a face and nodded slowly. “Yeah, I kinda do.”

  Stella glanced at the side-view mirror. “Mills is still parked behind us. Maybe we should get going?”

  Nick complied by putting the key into the ignition and turning it. The sound of the three-cylinder engine was barely audible. “Why? Are you worried he’ll give us a ticket for loitering?”

  “No, I just don’t want him to see us talking.”

  “Couples talk all the time.”

  “They do. But Mills’s comment about Weston taking what he wanted didn’t sit well with me either.”

  “Yeah, that was kinda creepy.”

  “Turn right at the next light,” Stella directed. “Yeah, it was creepy, but what really bothers me is his insistence that Weston’s death might have been the result of a hunting accident. Even though Mills asked Jake Brunelle for an alibi, it seemed somewhat forced, didn’t it? Like he didn’t actually believe he needed to ask.”

  “Mills is probably being conservative. He’s not going to make a big deal about it until he receives the coroner’s report. Besides, the guy’s been around a while. He must have seen other accidental shootings. Maybe this matches up to what he’s seen before.”

  “Okay. If this was an accident, where’s Weston’s truck?”

  Nick made the designated turn and, having witnessed Mills driving past their turnoff, pulled the Smart car onto the shoulder of the road. “It should have been at the house, where he was killed.”

  “But it wasn’t. Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe someone drove off with it, or—”

  “Or Weston was shot elsewhere, and his body was thrown down the well,” Stella stated.

  “But either scenario would suggest that the shooter was covering his tracks.”

  “Exactly,” said Stella. “Which doesn’t really fit with the stray bullet theory, now, does it?”

  “Do you suspect the sheriff of something?”

  “So far, nothing aside from loving Alma Deville.”

  “The sheriff? And Alma?” Nick uttered in disbelief.

  “I’m not saying they’re an item. I don’t think Alma even has an inkling of Sheriff Mills’s feelings, let alone reciprocates them.”

  “How can you be so sure he has feelings for her? He seems to treat her like anyone else.”

  “Oh, come on. Did you see him suck in his gut yesterday? And that whole ‘being the first to drink Alma’s coffee’ excuse was pretty lame. He goes there every morning, before anyone else arrives, to see her. The guy’s got it bad.”

  “Can’t say I blame him. She is an attractive woman. But what, if anything, does that have to do with Weston’s death?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Or maybe she’s the reason he keeps insisting this is an accident.”

  “First Mills has the hots for Alma. Now he’s covering up for the fact that she murdered Weston. Don’t you think you’re jumping the gun?”

  “Absolutely,” said Stella. “That’s why I think we should talk to some of the townspeople and get their perspective on things.”

  “Uh-huh. So why the sudden Nancy Drew routine?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about you noticing men sucking in their guts, questioning our new neighbors—oh, and investigating an accidental shooting you believe to be murder.”

  “I’m not playing Nancy Drew. Part of a curator’s job is solving mysteries. Not only do I figure out the background of a tapestry, what it depicts, and how it fits into history, but when restoration is required, I need to determine what pieces are missing and how to re-create them. I need to fill in the blanks.”

  Nick paused. “And that’s why you feel the need to fill in the blanks surrounding Weston—because you’re a curator?”

  “That’s part of it, but the main reason is that the sooner we can fill them in, the sooner we can get back into our house and on with our lives.”

  “I want to move in as badly as you do, Stella, but I’m not sure we should be getting involved in police business.”

  “We’re not getting involved, we’re just talking. Besides, what else are we supposed to do with our day?”

  “I don’t know. Take in the scenery, catch up on some reading, and if you feel like filling in blanks, we can try to find a needlepoint shop. You can make something for the new place,” he suggested.

  “I have canvas and supplies in my suitcase; I plan on starting a new project tonight. But needlepoint is a hobby. It’s meant to help me unwind at the end of the day; it’s not supposed to help me fill it. That’s what a job is for.”

  “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?” Nick shifted the car into park and placed a comforting hand on his wife’s shoulder. “I know you’re worried about the job hunt, but don’t lose faith, okay? Finding Weston was upsetting at best, but like I said yesterday, that doesn’t mean that our luck has changed or that the rest of this move is doomed. You still haven’t heard from Shelburne. They could call any day now to say that you have the job.”

  “They already did call.”

  “What? When?”

  “Before closing. On the ride up here.” Her eyes welled with tears. “They gave the position to someone else.”

>   “Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” He leaned across the center console and took her in his arms. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want to ruin the day,” she replied between soft sobs. “You were so … you were so looking forward to this.”

  “I still am. This is just a stumbling block.”

  “It feels like more than that. It feels like the bottom just dropped out of everything. We have no idea of when we’ll be able to move into our house. And the job … I put so much stock into that position, but I guess I just don’t have what it takes.”

  Nick put his hand under her chin and tilted her head back so that their eyes met. “That’s really why you’re snooping, isn’t it? Not only are you looking for a distraction, but you’re trying to prove to yourself that you have what it takes.”

  “I also feel as though there’s a whole part of me that I haven’t had a chance to explore. Although I love being a curator, I only became one because my mother pushed me toward the arts. What if I’m not supposed to be one? What if the Shelburne job is a sign that I’m meant to be doing something else?”

  “So you’re wondering if you’re supposed to be a detective like your father?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I seem to be questioning everything right now, and, although it sounds ridiculous, I just can’t help but think that by making sense out of this whole Allen Weston thing, everything else will fall into place.”

  Nick drew a deep breath and waited several seconds before speaking again. “So, where first?”

  Stella wiped her tears and grinned broadly. “You mean it? You’ll help me?”

  “Someone has to make sure you don’t get mistaken for a black bear, and who better for the job than a US Forest Service employee? Besides, while you were talking, I realized something.”

  “What?”

  “That all the books I’ve been meaning to read are boxed up and sitting at the back of the moving truck. That leaves my day pretty much open, so I’ll ask again: where first?”

  “I’d like to pay a visit to Alice. After we shower, of course.”

  “Yeah, I could use some cleaning up,” he agreed and pulled the car back onto the road. “I can’t believe we slept in a hunting camp, are going to shower in a trailer, and are going to be investigating a dead body in our well. The whole thing just seems surreal.”

  “I know. Here we thought we’d be moving to some quiet little Vermont hamlet where people die of boredom. But instead …” Stella placed a hand on Nick’s knee and started to laugh.

  “What is it?”

  “Remember in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil when John Kelso describes Savannah as Gone with the Wind on mescaline? I’m beginning to think that this place is Peyton Place on Wild Turkey and maple syrup.”

  Chapter

  6

  LOCATED IN AN old Victorian home on the edge of town, Vermont Valley Real Estate had suffered greatly during the recent housing crisis. In 2004, when the market was at its peak, the two-story building accommodated six agents, two secretaries, and a receptionist. Today, the second floor had been rented out as an apartment, and the only individuals working on the main floor were an aged, somewhat cantankerous receptionist and Alice Broadman, the agency’s owner.

  “Why, if it isn’t the new kids in town,” Alice exclaimed as she rose from one of four desks in the room. Short and squat in stature, Alice’s makeupless face, mousy brown hair pulled tightly into a bun, and wardrobe of ill-fitting pantsuits and sensible shoes made her appear far older than her thirty-six years. “How’s the house?”

  “We’ll let you know as soon as we’re able to move in,” Nick quipped.

  Alice brought her left hand to her mouth, revealing a plain gold wedding band. “It was your place! Tim, my husband, heard the story on VPR this morning and asked if that’s where Weston was found. I said it might be. Most houses these days have new wells just a few inches wide. Can’t fit a dead body down them, unless it was eaten by a python,” she giggled.

  “What’s VPR?” Stella asked.

  “Vermont Public Radio. They broadcast news in the morning and then switch to classical music for the rest of the day.” Upon noticing that the gray-haired receptionist was watching them intently, she quietly waved Nick and Stella into a nearby conference room.

  “I hate that old nosebag,” Alice asserted as she shut the door behind her. “She’s always listening in on my conversations. I should probably fire her, but even in this economy, I’d never find anyone else willing to work for what I pay her.”

  Pulling a padded Windsor chair away from the large maple table, Alice sat down and gestured for her guests to do the same. “So, where did you guys stay last night if you weren’t allowed in the house? I can’t imagine you got a room here in town—not during foliage season.”

  “Ray Johnson’s hunting camp,” Stella replied as she positioned herself across the table from Alice and alongside Nick. “Alma set us up.”

  “Oh, I love Alma’s! Did you eat there this morning? Her cinnamon rolls are wicked good.”

  “We didn’t have the cinnamon rolls. We’ll have to try them tomorrow. Right, honey?” Stella turned to Nick and smiled; Alice had provided the perfect segue to discuss the murder.

  “Sure, although that breakfast sandwich I had was pretty tasty.

  I might—”

  Stella kicked him in the shin. They hadn’t come here to discuss breakfast foods, but the scent of Alma’s baking still resonated. “Tomorrow we’ll try the cinnamon rolls. You can have your breakfast sandwich another day. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunity since it doesn’t look as if we’ll be having breakfast in the new place for a while.”

  Thankfully, Alice took the bait. “Why won’t you be having breakfast in the new place? Surely you must be allowed back in by now.”

  “Actually, no, we’re not. Not until Sheriff Mills gets this case wrapped up.”

  “What’s there to wrap up? Allen Weston fell into the well. It was an accident, right?”

  Stella debated the proper course of action. The papers and the radio hadn’t mentioned Weston’s gunshot wounds, but that was in all likelihood due to the lack of a coroner’s report. Once the official findings were released, everyone in the state would know that Weston hadn’t died of a broken neck. Assuming, of course, that they hadn’t already heard the news from Jake and Betsy Brunelle.

  Seeing no point in delaying the inevitable, Stella decided to tell Alice the truth. “It may have been an accident, but it wasn’t the fall that killed him. Weston was shot.”

  If Stella had anticipated a reaction from Alice, she was sorely disappointed, for the woman exhibited not a shred of emotion. Nick, on the other hand, stared at his wife as if she had lost her mind.

  Stella narrowed her eyes at him to signal that she knew what she was doing. “You don’t look very surprised, Alice.”

  “Well, that sort of thing happens all the time around here. It’s fall, isn’t it? Seems every year someone gets himself mistaken as a bear or a turkey or a deer. And it’s usually because somebody’s been drinking. There’s a reason deer camp is sometimes called beer camp.”

  Stella recalled Alma’s words from the previous day: fatal hunting accidents don’t happen as often as you’d think. And yet both Alice Broadman and Jake Brunelle automatically assumed that Weston’s shooting had been accidental.

  As Stella pondered the possible significance of Alma’s words, Nick continued the conversation. “Beer camp … I like that. The only problem is that Weston wasn’t hunting when he was shot. He was working on our well.”

  “I know. I made the appointment. But you do realize that your farmhouse is surrounded by woods, don’t you? Someone could have been hunting close to your property line and have hit Weston with a stray bullet.”

  “First of all, it would have been nice of you to mention the risk of getting shot by hunting crossfire before we bought the house.”

  Alice’s pale cheeks turned bright crimson.


  “Second, we already thought of the stray bullet theory. However, Weston wasn’t shot once; he was shot three times. I’m no hunter, but I’m willing to wager that even Mister Magoo would have landed at least one of those bullets into his target—unless, of course, that target was Weston.”

  It was Stella’s turn to be surprised. For someone who seemed eager to play things close to the vest, Nick was showing all his cards.

  “Then there’s the matter of Weston’s truck.”

  “What about his truck?”

  “It wasn’t at the farmhouse when we discovered Weston’s body.”

  “It wasn’t? It was there when I dropped off the air mattress and champagne.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. The well service trucks are bright yellow; Weston chose that color so that they’d stand out from the other contractor trucks in the area. One of his genius marketing schemes.”

  “Did you see him or just the truck?” Stella quizzed.

  “No, he was there. I didn’t speak to him though,” Alice added hastily. “He was outside talking on his cell phone.”

  “Outside? Is that because the house was locked?” Nick spoke up.

  “No. I know most contractors start work at eight o’clock, so I stopped by a little before then to unlock it. Don’t think I had to, though. Weston didn’t even have the cap off the well when I got there.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Oh, ten thirty or so.”

  Stella remembered how Alice, flustered and frantic, had arrived late to their twelve-thirty closing. “What time did you leave the farmhouse?”

  “By the time I inflated the air mattress, probably about a quarter after eleven.”

  “And Weston was still on his phone when you left?”

  “N-no, but I was in a rush. I had some phone calls to make before your closing, so I left without talking to him.” The color once again rose in Alice’s cheeks. “W-why are you so interested in my whereabouts?”