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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “I don’t know. In a town this small, it’s tough to tell. They could have had a run-in with Weston, they could be reacting to something they heard, or we could just be reading too much into it,” she admitted. “However, I do think that if Alma was the one with the ax to grind, Mills would go to her defense in a heartbeat.”

  “Well, if he’s trying to get into her—”

  Stella shot him a warning glance. “Good graces? Please tell me you were going to say ‘good graces.’”

  “Um, if he’s trying to hook up with Alma, rescuing her at her time of need would be the logical way to do it.”

  “It would. But, again, this is all conjecture. The only thing we know for certain is that Weston was shot and his body found stuck in our well.”

  “That’s not all. We also know that Weston’s truck was missing from the scene.”

  “You’re right. That truck is a real puzzle. Why would it have been at the house while Alice was there in the morning and then disappear later in the day? And where is it now?”

  “I have no idea,” Nick gazed over Stella’s head, toward the bar area. “But here comes Sheriff Mills. Maybe he has some news.”

  Mills, still in uniform, approached the table with a frosty glass mug in hand. “Evening. See you took my advice about burger night.”

  “We figured anyone who goes to Alma’s every morning must appreciate good food.”

  Stella’s mention of Alma’s name caused the sheriff to clear his throat and stare uncomfortably at his shoes. “Well, it ain’t a fancy place, but the people are friendly. Food’s basic but good, and you get a lot of it.”

  “Yeah, it seems great,” Nick remarked. “Hey, did you eat yet?”

  “Nope, only just started to whet my whistle.” Mills held his beer aloft with a grin.

  “Then come and join us. We only just ordered, and we’ve yet to whet our whistles.” Nick slid from his side of the booth and took a seat beside his wife.

  “I don’t want to intrude,” Mills said slowly. However, his body language made it clear that he was happy for the invitation.

  “You’re not,” Stella assured.

  Mills slid into the spot recently vacated by Nick. “Thanks. Oh, and don’t worry about the beer. Might be in uniform, but I’m off-duty.”

  “Whew! I know that’s a load off my mind. The moment I saw you with that beer, I said to myself, ‘Gee, I hope our law enforcement officers don’t drink on the job.’”

  Mills chuckled quietly and leaned across the table. “Between you and me, Mrs. Buckley, you might be better off if a few of them did.”

  As the trio laughed, the waitress returned with the Buckleys’ beers.

  “Oh, hey there, Suzanne,” Mills addressed the waitress. “These folks are my guests tonight. Make sure everything goes on my tab, okay?”

  “You got it,” Suzanne replied over the Buckleys’ protests. “Just promise me you won’t chew their ears off or get too rowdy.”

  Mills blushed crimson. “Do my best.”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Nick admonished.

  “Yeah, I did. Least I can do for keeping you outta your home.”

  “That’s not your fault. It’s police business.”

  “I know. Can’t help feeling kinda bad about it, though. I’ve been to Ray Johnson’s camp before. Seen Sally Ann’s with better furniture in them.”

  “It’s not that bad. Still better than trying to sleep in the car.”

  “It would be better if we had our air mattress, though,” Stella added.

  “Funny you said that, Mrs. Buckley. After we left Alma’s this morning, I gave a call over to Clyde Perkins. You can get one at his store.”

  “So, I finally get to meet this Clyde character. After everything I’ve heard, I feel as though I know him,” Nick commented. “Where is Perkins, anyway?”

  “Just down the street from here. Open ’til eight, so stop in after dinner.”

  “We’ll do that. Maybe they have a flashlight too.”

  “What happened to your flashlight?”

  “Long story,” Stella sighed.

  “Oh. So, um, what did you want to ask me?”

  “Huh?”

  “When I was on my way over here, I overheard you saying you needed to ask me something.”

  “Oh, I was wondering if you had any news on Weston.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Care to share with us?”

  Mills drew a heavy sigh.

  “Come on,” Stella urged. “You know you can’t keep it a secret from us; not in this town, anyway. If it doesn’t wind up in tomorrow’s paper, someone will eventually blab about it to us—it’s inevitable.”

  “I got the coroner’s report,” Mills capitulated. “Weston was shot three times in the chest with a .30-06 hunting rifle.”

  “Does that mean you were right? That it was a hunting accident?”

  Mills shook his head. “He was shot from a range of approximately forty to fifty feet. I drew a circle with a fifty-foot radius around your well, and it didn’t even come close to making it to the woods. Nope, wherever the shooter was standing, he—or she—had to have seen Weston.”

  “So the shooter was standing somewhere in the yard or driveway.”

  “Or inside the house. Part of that circle goes right through your kitchen.”

  “Meaning that someone—someone who knew Weston would be working on our well—could have been inside the house, waiting. Waiting to kill him.”

  “That’s right.”

  Stella envisioned a shadowy figure leaning out the kitchen window, hunting rifle cocked and at the ready. “Wait one minute; if someone shot him from inside, that means … oh, no. Don’t tell me.”

  “Yup, it means that you probably won’t be able to return to your house for quite a while.”

  “Is that why you checked on the air mattress for us?”

  “Nope, that was just me being neighborly. Didn’t get the coroner’s report until long after I checked into Perkins, but it is why I’m buying dinner,” he added with a quick grin.

  “Three bullets at close range,” Nick thought aloud. “No wonder there was so much blood.”

  “Weston bled out, all right, but not all that red water you saw was blood.”

  “What was it?”

  “Neutrichrome red.”

  “Care to phrase that in non-Mr. Wizard terms?”

  “Red fabric dye.”

  “So what? Weston was wearing a new shirt. How is that important?”

  “Didn’t say it was important. It might be, but it might not. Found it interesting, that’s all.”

  “If Weston was shot at close range, does that mean he died fairly quickly?” Stella jumped in. “Because that would affect the time of death, right?”

  Mills took a swig of beer and nodded. “Coroner puts Weston’s death somewhere between ten am and noon.”

  “Hmmm. And what about Weston’s truck?”

  “Oh, we found that this morning.”

  “Really? Where was it?”

  “Couple of hikers found it parked on a trail in the woods ’bout an eighth of a mile behind your house. The keys were in the ignition.”

  “How strange.”

  “Most folks leave their keys in the ignition ’round here, but I agree with the spot being strange. A man working on your house would want his truck—and, most of all, his tools—nearby.”

  “Alice said that Weston’s truck was at the house when she got there,” Nick recounted. “Maybe that’s when he unloaded his tools.”

  “Could be,” Stella allowed. “She said he hadn’t started work yet when she stopped by.”

  “Right. But does that mean Weston moved the truck after unloading it? I mean, why would he do that? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Alice?” Mills asked, his face a question. “You talked to your real- estate agent today?”

  “Y-yes,” Stella stammered. “You know how you get a brief warranty time when you f
irst move into a house? We wanted to see if we could get ours extended since we’re not actually living there.”

  “And that somehow led to you telling her about the Weston case, did it?”

  “Yes. How could it not? After all, that’s what’s preventing us from moving in.”

  “Doesn’t mean you should have told her about the truck though, now, does it?”

  Stella blushed bright scarlet.

  “Oh, go on. You were saying that Alice saw Weston’s truck at the house when she stopped by.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Between ten thirty and eleven o’clock.”

  “Interesting.”

  The waitress interrupted briefly to deliver their food.

  “It is interesting,” Stella continued once the waitress was gone. “Especially given the time of death you just presented. The only thing we can’t explain is what motive Alice Broadman would have for wanting Allen Weston dead.”

  “I’ve lived here my whole life, and I can’t think of any. She didn’t mention or hint at anything to you?”

  Stella didn’t want to put Sheriff Mills on Alice’s trail until she had explored her suspicions. “No, not a word. But even if she had, it still wouldn’t explain why Weston’s truck was parked in the woods. Have you come up with any explanation for it?”

  Mills lifted the bun from his burger and applied a generous dollop of ketchup. “I can think of a reason or two, but they’re only guesses at this point.”

  “Care to share?”

  “Sure would, but the State of Vermont wouldn’t be too happy if I did. They’re none too keen on us throwing around wild theories.” Mills slid the ketchup bottle to Stella.

  “No matter. We can probably figure it out.” Stella poured the ketchup onto the side of her plate and passed the bottle along to Nick.

  “We can? I’m not even sure I know where to begin,” Nick said as he doused his burger and fries.

  Mills chuckled and dove into his burger.

  “At the beginning.” Stella bisected her burger and dipped half of it in the ketchup. The sight of the oozing red substance triggered a question. “Sheriff Mills, you didn’t mention it, but was there any blood in the truck?”

  “Mrs. Buckley, I shouldn’t … oh, hell. You’ll just wheedle it out of someone else, won’t you? No, there was no blood.”

  “Then we can rule out that Weston was shot there and his body moved to the well later.”

  “Hmm … you’re pretty good at this. You a fan of those TV detective shows?”

  “Not really. But my job in New York required analytical thinking at times.”

  “Oh yeah? What’d you do?”

  Stella knew from experience that explaining the duties of a tapestry curator would either bore the sheriff or launch them onto another topic entirely. “I’ll, um, I’ll tell you some other time.”

  “So if there was no blood in the truck,” Nick said between chews, “we can assume that Weston moved it there himself. Right?”

  “Weston or his killer,” said Mills. “The fact that it was found only an eighth of a mile away from the house would indicate that the driver wanted to hide that truck but still be within walking distance of the house.”

  “Okay, but why would his killer move it?” asked Nick.

  “To buy some time,” Stella guessed. “If we had pulled up and seen Weston’s truck, we would have discovered his body much earlier than we did. Moving the truck to the woods—to where it couldn’t be seen by someone approaching the house—would have ensured the killer a safe getaway. Now, if Weston moved it …” Stella took a bite of burger and pondered what possible reason a man would have to park his truck in the woods.

  “Go on,” Mills encouraged with a twinkle in his eye. “You’ve done a good job so far.”

  “Well, the only reason I can think of is that he was trying to hide from someone. But that doesn’t make sense, does it? He was working outside for all the world to see.”

  “But he had access to your house, didn’t he? And you can hear a car coming down your driveway before you even see it, can’t you?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been in the house long enough to test that.”

  It was a thinly veiled jibe, but Mills paid no attention. “So if Weston heard a car coming, all he’d have to do is go inside the house. Without his truck around, it would appear that he had left to go back to the shop or to get a bite to eat.”

  “I suppose. But how many people could have known he was going to be at our house?”

  “I spoke to Weston’s secretary about that. She said the only ones who knew he was working on your job were herself, Weston, Alice, and the two of you, of course. But when I was at the office, I noticed a schedule on the wall—a big, erasable whiteboard listing jobs, dates, and names of service people. Your job and Weston’s name were on it. Anyone who came into the office could have seen it.”

  “The problem with that theory is our job was rescheduled from Wednesday, meaning that the correct date was only visible during the twelve to eighteen hours prior to the murder. That’s a pretty tight window.”

  “Did Weston’s secretary say why the appointment was changed?” Nick inquired.

  “She had no idea why. Weston called her from his house Wednesday morning and simply said that it needed to be moved to the next day. Weston wasn’t the type of man you questioned, so she kept her mouth shut and made the necessary changes. However, she did confirm Alma’s statement about Weston never working on job sites. In the five years she’s worked for the well company, yours is the first job he handled himself.”

  “That limits our suspects, doesn’t it?” Stella noted. “If Weston never worked at job sites, the killer wouldn’t think to look for his name on that board. That means the killer must have been told about Weston’s movements by Weston’s secretary or by Weston himself.”

  “Or they were a lucky son-of-a-so-and-so and just happened to spot Weston’s name on the board while they were in the office.”

  “Yeah, but it’s like we said to Alice this morning,” Nick spoke up. “The well service trucks were bright yellow. You wouldn’t need a military special-ops background to track the dude to our place.”

  “Those trucks are god-awful bright,” Mills agreed. “You can see ’em for miles, even during a whiteout. Be easy to follow. Question is, who would do that? Sure, Weston ruffled a few feathers around town, but to lie in wait and then follow him—”

  “Who said anything about lying in wait? The killer could have spotted Weston on the road, followed him to our house to talk to him, and things just got out of hand. It’s hunting season. Riding around with a rifle in your vehicle wouldn’t be unusual.”

  “As for who would do this—you’re joking, right? I mean, as much as I hate to say it, Josh Middleton does have a motive, doesn’t he?” Stella posed.

  “Yeah. And what about Colonel Kurtz?”

  Mills’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  “Hank Reid. Old guy. Big hunter. Uber-conservative. If he wasn’t already bald, he’d still be sporting a flattop.”

  “I can see you two were busy today. You paid a visit to Middleton and Reid too, did you?”

  Stella tried to deny it. “Ummm …”

  Nick, however, came clean. “Yeah, we did. Middleton is your typical angry kid, but Reid is a total head case.”

  “Hank’s an odd duck, at that.”

  “Odd? He shot his future wife’s boyfriend in the shoulder.”

  “Told you that story, did he?” Mills chuckled.

  “You’re laughing. Does that mean it’s not true?”

  “Oh, it’s true all right. Just laughing at how rattled you are by it.”

  “Yeah, well, call me a silly flatlander, but I’m not used to people using turkey hunting as a pretext to shooting each other.”

  “No different than city people claiming self-defense or insanity.”

  “Nope, it probably isn’t. And once I s
hed my flatlander mindset, I’m sure I’ll be as accustomed to it as you are, but for now, I find it a little bit unnerving.”

  “You can lose the mindset, but you’ll never lose the name. Could live here the rest of your life, you’ll still be a flatlander. Your children and your children’s children too. Some say a family has to be here at least four generations ’til they’re considered true Vermonters; some say more. It’s open for debate.”

  “So we’ll always be flatlanders like Weston.”

  “Yup. No one will call you that outright, of course, unless you tick ’em off. It’s like Alma said. Weston didn’t show respect. Came here, bought everything out, and aimed to build everything up. People here like things the way they are; they don’t want a Walmart on the next corner. So long as you don’t act as though you’re better than most and try to change things, you’ll do fine.”

  “We’d never do that,” Stella assured.

  Mills, having finished his meal, stood up and donned his hat. “That a fact? ’Cause changing things includes nosing around murder cases and possibly putting people in jail.”

  Stella blushed.

  “I understand you’re eager to get the bottom of this thing and move into that house of yours, but what you should be doing, Mrs. Buckley, is making friends. You need to convince folks you’re one of them. Try dressing down a bit like the other ladies.”

  Stella surveyed her ensemble of dark indigo boot-cut jeans, black stiletto heel boots, and fitted V-neck knit top accessorized with a silk scarf, bangle bracelets, and a pair of silver hoop earrings in confusion. Was Mills suggesting she wear a hand-knit sweater? Or, worse yet, flannel?

  “And get yourselves a truck. You need to fit in and blend—at least, that’s what I’d be doing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d best be going. I have to get home and feed my cats. Mr. Roscoe and Mr. Rufus get ornery if they don’t get dinner by nine o’clock. ”

  As Mills walked to the bar to settle the tab, Nick turned to Stella. “Mr. Roscoe and Mr. Rufus? Oh yeah, he blends.”

  Chapter

  10

  STELLA AND NICK left the Windsor Bar and Grill and drove the two blocks to the Perkins Family Store. Once inside, they realized that Perkins was not so much a convenience store as a purveyor of products guaranteed to satisfy every facet of Vermont country living. Shelves lined with patterned contact paper that would have seemed at home in Hank Reid’s kitchen cabinets offered customers the usual suspects: breads, cereals, snacks, and an eclectic mix of canned and packaged foods. However, tucked alongside the pantry staples were such oddities as hand-carved turkey calls, bright orange rain ponchos, squirrel-proof bird feeders, home-baked organic dog treats, and souvenir bottles of maple syrup.