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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  Lining the wall behind the cash register were the age-restricted items: rolls of lottery tickets, stacks of cigarette cartons, and boxes of ammo to fit nearly every caliber hunting rifle known to man. And, for those who would rather try their hand at catching (and then releasing) the local supply of brown, rainbow, brook, and lake trout—in addition to the typical eggs, milk, soda, and beer—glass refrigerator cases held plastic containers of nightcrawlers and other live bait. Alongside the cases, a display of nymphs, emergers, and buggers appealed to anglers.

  Indeed, even the front porch of the store presented consumers with buying opportunities. Having been transformed into a seasonal outdoor supply section, the rickety floorboards were stocked with flower bulbs, rakes, locally grown pots of chrysanthemums, and bags of autumn fertilizer.

  But possibly the most unique facets of the store were a back room filled to the rafters with the finest wines and spirits (including a few bottles of twenty-five-year-old Macallan Scotch priced at ninety dollars each) and a delicatessen counter whose blackboard listed the Hunter’s Special of the Day as roasted turkey breast, arugula, and smoked mozzarella on rosemary and sun-dried tomato foccacia.

  Doubtful that such a recipe would ever grace the pages of Field & Stream magazine, Stella could only assume that the Hunter’s Special had been designed to please the thrill-seeking cliff-dwellers and suburbanites who arrived each autumn in their shiny Land Rovers with the latest L. L. Bean hunting gear.

  As she and Nick perused the aisles for their bed, Stella found herself grinning at the idea of camo-clad grown men sitting cross-legged on red-and-white-checked blankets, sipping chardonnay, and nibbling, pinkies suspended in midair, on panini. When she imagined those same well-heeled Orvis-shopping sportsmen being forced to spend the night in Ray Johnson’s hunting camp, she nearly laughed out loud.

  Laughed out loud, that is, until she literally came face to face— or, more accurately, mouth to forehead—with a hobbitlike woman somewhere in her sixties. Standing just under five feet tall, she wore a pair of ill-fitting corduroy pants and a nubby, multicolored Fair Isle sweater that only served to accentuate her saggy bosom. Her straight, slightly stringy, long white hair not only gave her the appearance of being quite ancient but failed to bring balance to a face permeated by an extremely large nose.

  Stifling a scream, Stella reared back in surprise.

  “Mrs. Buckley,” the woman stated.

  “Um, yes?” Stella replied, all the while wondering how this woman knew her name.

  “I saw you with Alice today.”

  “Alice. Alice? Oh, you’re the receptionist at the real-estate office! Yes … I knew that. It’s just that seeing you with your hair down and so … so close up … threw me for a second there.” Stella hoped that her “close up” comment would be a sufficient cue to make the woman step back a few paces. Instead, she leaned in closer.

  “Mrs. Buckley, I need to talk to you.”

  “G-go ahead.” Stella leaned back.

  “In private.”

  “Um … what—what’s your name again?”

  “Bunny.”

  Stella felt her mouth gape open. She had never before met anyone named Bunny, but if she had, this was not how she imagined the woman would have looked. “Um, Bunny, I—I don’t think we need to go anywhere. You’re close enough that no one else in the store could possibly hear you.”

  Again, Bunny missed her cue to back up. Glancing surreptitiously from side to side, she announced in a whisper, “Alice is lying.”

  “Lying about what? You listening at doors?” Stella replied in her normal speaking voice. “Don’t worry about it. I never even gave it a second thought.”

  “Shh!” Bunny’s eyes furtively danced about the store in search of an eavesdropper. “I mean she lied about Weston.”

  Stella lowered her voice. “What about him?”

  “About doing business with him.”

  “Go on.”

  “There’s a property down in Jersey. I’m not sure of all the details, but Alice invested in it. With Weston.”

  “The two of them? Together?”

  Bunny nodded. “Lost money on the deal, too. Wasn’t a problem for Weston, but for her …”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know the numbers, but I can tell you that she laid off the rest of the office as a result.”

  “I thought she did that because of the slow economy.”

  “There were two rounds of layoffs. The first one was because business had slowed down. That was just a few people, though. You know, the ones who were on salary but never earned a dime in commission. Got rid of the secretaries too. Trimming the fat, they call it. That’s when she hired me.”

  “So you were there for the second layoff.”

  Bunny gave a single nod.

  “And you saw papers stating that Alice and Weston were in business together.”

  This time, Bunny turned her head slowly from side to side. “No, I’ve looked, but I never found them.”

  “Then how do you know about this?”

  The older woman arched an eyebrow. “How do you think?”

  The corners of Stella’s mouth turned up slightly. If Alice’s statement about never doing business with Weston had been a lie, her assertion about Bunny listening at keyholes obviously wasn’t. “What did you overhear?”

  “Weston came to the office last week. Alice took him into the conference room and asked him for money.”

  “A loan?”

  “No, more like paying her back. She told him he owed her for getting her into the mess she was in. Said she would never have gotten involved if he hadn’t put up his money in the first place.”

  “Those were her exact words?”

  “Not exact but pret’ near.”

  “And how did Weston react?”

  “He told her that she was a businesswoman and she should have known the risks before going into the deal. He then reminded her that he had lost money too. Alice didn’t take to that very kindly. She went into a rage—yelling at him, swearing, you name it.”

  “Did she say anything specific during her outburst?”

  “Yup. She said that she was still paying for her mistake.”

  “Still paying? What did she mean by that?”

  “At the time, I figured she was being a drama queen. But a few days later, I went to pick up the office mail and saw a monthly statement from a mortgage company in Boston. It was addressed to Alice’s home, but the post office had put it in the business box by mistake. Naturally, I peeked inside.”

  “Naturally.”

  “The address of the mortgaged property was in Hackensack, New Jersey, and the monthly payment was over $5,000.”

  “Do you still have the statement?”

  “No. I sealed it back up and put it on Alice’s desk. Why?”

  “Because it would come in handy when you tell your story to the police.”

  “I’m not telling the police anything. I don’t want to get Alice in trouble. I—I could lose my job.”

  Stella might have pointed out that the routine activities of listening through keyholes and opening the boss’s mail were equally deserving of termination. However, given the crazed expression on Bunny’s face, she decided that some subjects were best left unexplored. “Then why are you telling me about it?”

  “I needed to tell someone. What if Alice killed that man? I couldn’t let her get away with it.”

  “See? Generally, that’s when most people would call the police with an anonymous tip.”

  “I didn’t know it could be anonymous. And since you seemed to be nosing around—”

  “I wasn’t ‘nosing.’”

  “I thought I’d tell you what I knew and let you do what you want with the information.”

  “I see. So you don’t want to get Alice in trouble, but you don’t mind if I do.” Stella’s voice rose in annoyance.

  “Shh!” Bunny looked around nervously. “No, that’s not it at all. I just d
idn’t know if it was important or not.”

  “Let’s see. Alice was financially ruined because of a business deal she made with Weston. You didn’t think that was important?”

  “Of course I did. I’m telling you, aren’t I? But … all right … I’ll say it plain: if Alice killed Weston, who’s to say she wouldn’t do the same thing to me for ratting on her?”

  “That’s what you’re really afraid of, isn’t it? Be honest. You’ve worked for Alice for a little while. Do you think she could have shot Weston?”

  “After hearing how angry she was, yes. Yes, I do.”

  “Then all the more reason for you to tell your story to the police. They can do a far better job at protecting you than I can.”

  “Protect me? Sheriff Mills?” Bunny scoffed. “Why, he’d be more apt to give the killer a big old pardon and a slap on the back for doing him a favor.”

  Stella’s eyes opened wide. She knew there was a story behind Mills’s comment that morning. “Why would Mills view Weston’s death as a positive event?”

  “ ’Cause of Alma, of course. Mills has been sweet on her for years. Whole town knows it. Heck, if you’ve been down to the Sweet Shop, you’ve probably seen it yourself.”

  “Yes, I noticed that he seems interested in her—romantically.”

  “Yeah, well, so was Weston.”

  “Weston and Alma?”

  “Uh-huh. I’d seen Weston sniffing around Alma quite a few times in the past several months. Never saw him at her house—I live next door—so I can’t say if there was something to it or not. And Alma’s tightlipped when she wants to be, so I don’t know if she returned the feelings, but if Mills noticed them flirting … well, let’s just say that with Weston out of the way, he has a clear path to Alma.”

  “First it was Alice. Now you’re trying to say that Sheriff Mills—”

  “No! No, I’m not sure I’d go so far as to say that …”

  “What are you saying, then?”

  “Nothing. Nothing, except that some men will stop at nothing to impress a—” Bunny, her face registering a combination of shock and recollection, stopped what she was doing and stared at a spot somewhere above and past Stella’s head.

  Stella turned around but was unable to identify the cause of Bunny’s sudden near-catatonic state. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I … I, um … I have to go.”

  “What? Now? But you were telling me—”

  “There’s nothing else to tell,” Bunny snapped and rushed out of the store, bumping into Nick on the way.

  “What’s with Edna Winter? And where’s she going in such a hurry?”

  “That was Alice’s receptionist. Her name’s Bunny.”

  “Yeah, I know who she was. I was ju—” Nick began to explain before the meaning of his wife’s words hit him. “Wait a minute, did you say Bunny? That woman was named Bunny ?”

  “I didn’t believe it at first either.”

  “Yeah, wow. Either there was a point in her life when she was actually cute or the universe is playing a very cruel joke on her. Seriously, if all bunnies looked like that, no one would ever have put the words Easter or Playboy in front of them.”

  “Nick,” Stella scolded.

  “Sorry, it had to be said. She sure had your ear a long time, though. What did she want?”

  “Lots of things. I’ll tell you back at the camp.” She nodded toward the stack of items Nick held in his arms. “Did you find everything?”

  “Yeah. Some chocolate for my sweetie, a flashlight to replace the one you ‘lost,’ a bottle of wine to make up for yesterday’s champagne,” he said with a raise of his eyebrows, “and the air mattress.”

  “Oh, yes, the air mattress. Never in my life would I have imagined finding an inflatable bed so appealing.”

  “I probably liked them as a kid. But now?” Nick straightened his posture. “What do you say we get out of here?”

  “I’d love it,” Stella replied as she removed the chocolate bar from Nick’s arms.

  “Thanks, honey. That really lightened the load.”

  “Just doing my part.” She followed him to the counter, where a somewhat elderly clerk was chitchatting with a woman who looked to be in her early forties.

  The clerk gave Nick a brief glance before returning to his conversation.

  The Buckleys waited in patient silence, but after several seconds had elapsed it became apparent that the clerk had no intention of ending his social hour prematurely. Was this the infamous Clyde that Alice had warned them about? Surely it must be, for Stella refused to believe that two men in the same town were capable of delivering such abysmal customer service.

  Nick cleared his throat noisily.

  The clerk showed no reaction.

  “Did he hear you?” Stella whispered in her husband’s ear.

  Nick shrugged and then dumped his items beside the till. “Excuse me, sir.”

  The action brought about the desired effect. The clerk ceased talking and approached the cash register, but not before taking a long look out the store window at the Buckleys’ vehicle. “Hmph,” was his only remark upon seeing the license plate.

  Nick’s eyes slid to Stella, who was shaking her head in disbelief.

  “I’m gonna need to see some ID,” the clerk announced.

  “For what?”

  “The wine.”

  “I don’t look over twenty-one to you?” Nick asked as he extracted his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans.

  “Don’t know what you look like. Only know I need a date for this here machine,” he said, pointing to the cash register. “State law.”

  Nick flashed his wallet, which was opened to the clear plastic pocket that contained his New York State driver’s license.

  “Hmph,” the clerk remarked as he peered over the top of his glasses. “You’re the fella who bought the old Colton place, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  If the Buckleys had anticipated the clerk’s question to be a springboard for further discussion, they were sorely mistaken. Instead, he rang up the final item and silently hiked a thumb toward the total on the register to indicate that payment was due.

  His wallet still in hand, Nick pulled out a dark blue debit card and searched the counter for the familiar keypad and card-swiping mechanism.

  “We don’t accept debit cards. Credit or cash only.”

  “I don’t have cash.”

  The clerk pointed to the back of the store, where a bright red neon sign identified the gray mechanical device beneath it as an ATM.

  Nick rolled his eyes at the blatant money-making scheme. “Can you run it as a credit card?”

  “Won’t post to your account ’til Monday.”

  “Yeah, that’s okay.”

  “Suit yourself.” The older man complied and, a few moments later, produced the same card, a pen, and a cash register receipt. The items on the counter remained loose beside the till.

  “Do you think I could get a bag?” Nick asked as he signed the receipt.

  The clerk heaved a heavy sigh, pulled a tall, thin brown paper bag from beneath the counter, and slid the wine bottle into it. Everything else he left.

  “Gee, thanks. Thanks a lot,” Nick said sarcastically. As he replaced his wallet in his back pocket and gathered up the air mattress and flashlight, Stella grabbed the wine and the chocolate and led the way to the shop door.

  Once they and their purchases were safely ensconced in the Smart car, Nick looked at his wife and said, “You know, I can’t wait to see Crazy Maggie again.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Nick looked over his shoulder and backed out of the Perkins parking lot. “Because after meeting some of the yahoos in this town, I can’t help but wonder how Maggie got the crazy label and no one else did.”

  “Hey, at least you didn’t have Barbara Bush’s ugly stepsister giving you the hairy eyeball.”

  “Yeah, really—what was that all about, anyway?”<
br />
  Stella recounted Bunny’s allegations against Alice. By the time she finished, they had arrived back at camp. Nick stepped from behind the driver’s wheel and removed the air mattress and flashlight from the back hatch. “Do you think Bunny’s telling the truth?”

  Stella grabbed the wine; the chocolate bar had already made its way into her oversized leather handbag. “Yeah, I do, actually. She might have exaggerated a few of the details, but, fundamentally, I think her story’s accurate.”

  “You’re positive she’s not just trying to get her boss into trouble? Because it seems strange to me that she’d tell you all of this and not the police.”

  “It seemed strange to me too. So I asked her.”

  With the car’s headlights shining upon the front of the camp, Nick opened the front door, placed the air mattress and flashlight on the kitchen table, and proceeded to light the gas lamps. “And?”

  “Well, there are two things standing in her way. First, she’s afraid that she’ll lose her job.”

  “She could give the police an anonymous tip.”

  “Second, she’s afraid Alice will come after her next.”

  “Again, an anonymous tip would solve that problem. Likewise, I hope you explained that if Alice is the killer, we’re all safer with her behind bars. Even if it got to the point where Bunny needed to testify in court, the police would make sure she was protected.”

  Stella threw her bag on the sofabed, placed the wine on the coffee table, and kicked off her high-heeled boots. “That leads us to the second part of the conversation. Apparently Bunny doesn’t trust Sheriff Mills. It seems Weston had been frequenting the Sweet Shop as of late and apparently had his eye on Alma.”

  “So our hunch about their comments this morning was right: they did know Weston better than they let on. Well, at least Alma did, but that puts Mills in the role of the jealous …” Nick struggled to find the right word.