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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “What if he’s in on it? He could have put Alma up to killing us. He could have stolen the poison from the evidence room at the station. They could be running away together tonight. Could you imagine? Our bodies could be out here for weeks before anyone looks for us.”

  “Dinner had better be amazing, then,” Stella deadpanned before wandering back inside the camp to change out of her pajamas.

  Stella and Nick stood in the middle of Maggie Lawson’s front sitting room and gazed in astonishment at the wild collection of objects that littered the area. To call it a sitting or living room was something of a misnomer, for newspapers, collectibles, paintings, photos, and books had been stuffed into every corner and stacked onto every available surface, thus leaving no space in which a human could sit and very little room for anything, save an insect, to live.

  As Maggie shuffled around the adjacent dining room rearranging random items, Nick leaned in close to his wife and whispered, “Hey, is it just me, or does it feel like we should we be looking for the dude with the glasses and red-and-white-striped shirt?”

  Stella shushed him. “I’m sorry I missed you the other day, Maggie. It was very kind of you to bring over those cupcakes.”

  “I know why you’re here, ya know.”

  “Um, you do?”

  “Yup. You want to know about my husband’s treasure.”

  Nick leaned toward his wife and asked, sotto voce, “You want to board the crazy train first? Or should I do the honors?”

  “I handled Reid; that makes this your party. Besides, if Betsy Brunelle is any indication, you have a way with women.”

  “You just had to go there, didn’t you?” Nick cleared his throat and used his normal voice again. “So, what treasure are you talking about, Maggie?”

  There was a pause from the other room. “The treasure my Mack found and hid under the stairs—the treasure Weston stole from me.”

  “Your husband found this treasure during his carting days?”

  “Yup.”

  “And hid it under the basement stairs?”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

  “Sorry, just wanted to make sure I heard you correctly. It’s not every day that someone finds treasure.”

  “ ’Course not. That’s what makes it valuable.”

  “Well, that and denomination. How much money did Mack find, and where did he find it?”

  “Money! Who said anything ’bout money? This was a genuine antique. Worth fortunes, too.”

  “What was it?”

  “A painting. A painting of Saint John the Baptist.”

  “Who was the painting by?”

  “Don’t remember. Just know that Mack said it was worth a lot of money.”

  “I used to work at a museum,” Stella spoke up. “If you describe the painting to me, I might be able to figure out who the artist was.”

  “Looked like John the Baptist.”

  “Aside from that … what was John wearing? Was there anyone else with him? Was it daytime? Nighttime?”

  “Can’t rightly tell you.”

  “You don’t remember what it looks like?”

  “Never saw it.” Something crashed to the floor as Maggie continued rearranging myriad objects.

  Stella turned to her husband, her mouth the shape of a tiny O.

  “Toot toot,” Nick mimicked a train whistle. “All aboard.”

  “Um, I thought you said it was stored beneath the basement stairs.”

  “It was. Mack put it under the bottom step and then walled the whole thing up. Been using it as a closet for years.”

  “I know this might sound silly, Maggie,” Nick asked carefully, “but if you never saw the painting, how do you know it’s missing?”

  Maggie came to the doorway and stared at Nick as if he were completely daft. “I crawled to the back of that closet, that’s how. Shone a flashlight under the bottom steps, but there weren’t nothing there.”

  “Maybe it got moved and was elsewhere in the closet?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you look?”

  “Yep. Didn’t see it.”

  “How can you be sure you didn’t see it if you don’t know what the painting looks like?”

  “Know it’s of John the Baptist. What else do I need to know?”

  “I think I’m losing it,” Nick said, scratching his head. “That actually made sense.”

  “I think what Nick was trying to say is if you’ve never seen the painting and you never saw Mack hide it, how can you be certain it was even under the steps in the first place? Or that it even existed?”

  “Mack wouldn’t have made up such a story. He spent his whole life picking through trash, and he finally got treasure. Remember it like it was yesterday. He came home grinning like a fox with his pick of the hen house. Said he’d found a treasure would take care of me long after he was gone. Told me he’d put it under the steps for safekeeping and that if he were to pass on before I did, I was to go down there and get it. When Mack died, I did exactly like he told me to, but it weren’t there. If you don’t believe me, go have a look for yourself.”

  Given the state of the front parlor, Stella was fearful of what they might find in the basement. “That’s okay, we believe you. We don’t need to go rummaging through your basement.”

  “No, we do not,” Nick agreed. “However, now that you mentioned searching the basement, I can’t help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—it isn’t possible that Mack moved the painting and forgot to tell you?”

  Maggie pursed her lips together and shook her head back and forth. “Mack wouldn’t have forgotten to tell me something like that. Not something that important.”

  “I’m not saying he would, but—”

  “No buts about it. That painting was here in this house ’til Allen Weston took it.”

  “You mentioned Weston earlier, but I still don’t understand what you mean. If the painting was here, in this house, how did he get ahold of it?”

  “When Mack died, he left this place a mess. Filled from floor to rafters with junk. Weston offered to help cart some of the stuff away for free.”

  “You mean this—what we’re seeing right now—is clean? Wow.”

  Maggie merely glared at him.

  “That was nice of Allen Weston to help you clean up this place,” Stella remarked in an attempt to avert Maggie’s ire. It didn’t work.

  “Nice? Least he could do for stealing my husband’s business and putting him in an early grave!”

  “What do you mean, stole the business? I thought Weston bought it. Legally.”

  “Oh, he bought it, all right. He bought it for not much more than a tired old dime. Mack was sick over it. He passed away four months later.”

  “I’m sorry, Maggie. I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through, but I don’t see where Weston is to blame. If anything, most people would consider Weston’s purchase a smart business move.”

  “I don’t. Weston was a cheat and a liar. He robbed me of my husband, and he robbed me of my treasure.”

  “You say Weston stole the painting when he carted away your”—Nick gestured to the piles of objects surrounding them—“stuff. How would he have known where the painting was or that it even existed?”

  “Mack probably told him. He was a good man, my Mackie, but he never could keep his mouth shut. Especially if he was down at the grill with his hunting buddies.”

  “So you think Weston knew about the painting and offered his carting services as an excuse to get into your home and steal it?”

  “Yep.” Maggie folded her arms across her chest.

  “Did you tell the police about your theory?”

  “Sure did. Mills took the call, but he didn’t do nothing. Didn’t come out here to look around. Didn’t talk to Weston. Nothing.”

  “In Mills’s defense, it’s tough to investigate the theft of something that no one has seen. I don’t mean to be rude, but you reporting your painting as stolen is like telling the police th
at someone kidnapped Bigfoot. Even if they believed it existed, they still have no idea what it looks like.”

  “I may be a fool, but I’m not a damned fool. They knew what it looked like because I told them. I said it’s John the Baptist time and time again. All they had to do was go to Weston’s house or office or car and look for it. But did they? No.”

  “Have you tried talking to Mills about it personally? Outside of the sheriff’s office?”

  “No need. The Lord helps those who help themselves.”

  “So you’ve been looking for it on your own?”

  “You betcha. Weston knew I was looking for it, too. Caught me a few times searching.”

  “On his property?”

  “Yup, spotted me twice at the well shop and the junkyard, and then once at the septic service office.”

  “And he never called the cops?”

  “Nope. Thought he would once or twice, but he didn’t. Then I figured out why: because it ain’t at any of those places.”

  “That’s quite a stretch, don’t you think?”

  “Nope. Galls me that I had to run into him all those times, but seeing him made it all clear. Weston had the painting at his house.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Makes sense, doesn’t it? He wouldn’t keep a thing like that where everyone and his brother could find it. Might get stolen again, right?”

  “Assuming someone knew what it was worth.”

  “Oh, they’d know it was valuable the minute they saw it.”

  “But you never saw it. How would you … ?” Nick scratched his head.

  “If my Mack figured out it was worth something, it wouldn’t take much for someone else to notice it too. Mack was a good man, but he weren’t a genius. That’s why I said it’d be an easy case for the police. All they’d have to do is get a warrant, get into Weston’s house, and take the painting back.”

  “Did you tell the police your suspicions?”

  “Hell, no. Unless I had a Polaroid picture of the thing, they weren’t gonna do nothing. And you know why? I’ll tell you why. Cause they didn’t want to upset Mr. Weston and all his money. Money. Hmph! But now that Mr. Weston’s gone, I can search all I like and he can’t stop me.”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure if I’d go running over to his—”

  Maggie seized a hunting rifle from the corner of the room and stroked it menacingly. “You trying to stop me from finding my treasure?”

  “No! No, of course not,” Nick said quickly. “Not if you feel that strongly about it.”

  “I think Nick was just saying that the police—”

  “The police,” Maggie sneered. “Are they on your side too? You paying them off to protect you the same way Weston did?”

  “No,” Stella said softly. “No, we’re not. We’re on your side.”

  “Yeah, so could you put down the gun, please?”

  Maggie, however, was on a tear. “With all his money, you’d think he’d let an old woman have her treasure. But who got the last laugh? Where’d that money get him, huh? The bottom of your well, that’s where.”

  As Stella and Nick snuck out the door of the Lawson house, they overheard Maggie’s disturbing laugh. “How you like that painting now, Mr. Weston? How you like it now?”

  Chapter

  12

  NICK BACKED OUT of Maggie Lawson’s overgrown gravel driveway and drove, hell bent for leather, back into town.

  “Still wondering why she’s called Crazy Maggie?” Stella asked as she struggled to fasten her seat belt.

  “No, I think I’m good.”

  “I’m glad, because we nearly got ourselves killed.”

  “I know. What’s with this place, anyway? When I hear someone call an old widow crazy, I assume she’s shuffling her feet, collecting cats, and talking to herself. Someone might have warned us that she’s the NRA poster girl.”

  “I think Mills did warn us, didn’t he? When he said not to get her riled up?”

  “Yeah, but I thought he was exaggerating, didn’t you? She brought us cupcakes, for chrissakes! And what does riled up mean, anyway?”

  “We just saw what it meant.”

  “That wasn’t riled up, that was trigger-happy.”

  “Well, apart from learning that Mills has a tendency to understate things, if anything came from that encounter, it’s the realization that Maggie is a very viable suspect.”

  “That and we never want to go over there to borrow a cup of sugar.”

  “You can’t borrow sugar from someone in jail. Think about it, Nick. Maggie fits the killer profile perfectly. She owns a hunting rifle, harbored a grudge against Weston, and only had to look out her window to see him pull into our driveway.”

  “It’s only a half-mile walk from her house, too.”

  “Uh-huh. Close enough for her to march over there and shoot Weston, yet far enough for her to want to buy herself time to walk back—which would explain Weston’s truck being parked in the woods.”

  Nick thought for a second. “You don’t think Weston might have parked it there himself? I mean, Weston was working at our house alone and just a half mile away from a crazy woman who obviously had it in for him.”

  “Maggie told us that despite all her sneaking around, Weston never once called the cops on her. It’s obvious that he didn’t see her as a serious threat. If Weston himself parked the truck in the woods, it was because he didn’t want to be bothered by her, not because he was afraid.”

  “Really? Because, personally, the woman scares the hell out of me.”

  “Me too, but it seems as though he was far too arrogant to be afraid of someone like Maggie Lawson. Anyone who steals a painting from someone’s home in broad daylight while that person is at home has nerves of steel,” Stella remarked.

  “You don’t honestly believe the painting is real, do you?”

  “I don’t know. Maggie seems to be convinced that it is, and she knew Mack better than anyone.”

  “Yeah, but Maggie also threatened to shoot us, remember?”

  “Technically, she never really threatened. She just brandished.”

  “Good enough for me.”

  “So you don’t think there’s a painting?”

  “Nope. I think Maggie and Mack were perfectly and crazily matched. Whatever one said, the other swore was true.”

  “Just like you and me,” Stella teased.

  “Oh yeah, I know I can always count on you to have my back. Just like this morning, when I said Betsy Brunelle hit on me.”

  “I believed you. I just thought you might have embellished the story a bit.”

  “Uh-huh. Anyway, my theory? Weston wasn’t afraid of Maggie because he didn’t steal the painting. Why? Because it never existed in the first place.”

  “I suppose you could be right. That would also explain why the police never responded to Maggie’s call. But either way, I can’t help but laugh at the irony.”

  Nick’s face registered confusion. “What irony?”

  “That I left my job as a museum curator only to wind up looking for the head of John the Baptist in modern-day Vermont.”

  After a stop at Alma’s doublewide to shower and change into clean clothes, Stella and Nick arrived at Vermont Valley Real Estate a few minutes before noon.

  Alice Broadman, dressed in the weekend mom uniform of baggy jeans and oversized sweatshirt, was hunched over her desk, poring over pages of spreadsheets. A pair of red reading glasses, strikingly bright against her pale complexion, perched precariously on the tip of her nose.

  “Alone, I see?” Stella noted as she stepped into the unlit office.

  Alice looked up and, in an uncharacteristic indication of vanity, removed her glasses and stuffed them into a desk drawer. “Oh, hey. Yeah. Hard to believe, but during the housing boom I actually had to hire a weekend staff to answer the phones and handle walk-ins. Now? Bunny has weekends off and I”—she stood up to model her casual attire—“I’ve given up hope of anyone walking in off the s
treet looking for anything but directions.”

  “Even during fall foliage?”

  “Even during fall foliage. Gone are the days when tourists would come up here for a weekend, fall in love with the scenery, and immediately rush to find a vacation home. People are more cautious with their money now. They check the listings on the Internet, research the area, approximate taxes, look into caretaking fees … the only thing they need me for is to tour the property and finish the deal. But most of them break off their Vermont romance before they even reach that point.”

  “Is that what happened with the property in New Jersey?” Nick spoke up. “Did someone break off the romance?”

  Alice’s peaches-and-cream complexion turned an unhealthy shade of gray. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do. Search your memory. Little place in Hackensack. Allen Weston put you up to the deal.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  He eased into one of the two metal-framed chairs facing Alice’s desk. “Doesn’t matter how we know. What matters is that you lied yesterday.”

  “I didn’t! I didn’t tell you about the New Jersey property, but I didn’t lie!”

  “That sounds like an excuse your kids would use.”

  Stella sat beside her husband and, as they had discussed during the ride from Alma’s, assumed the role of good cop. “Now, Nick,” she said gently, “let’s cut Alice some slack. She never actually denied doing business with Weston. What she said is that she never signed anything with Weston’s name on it. Considering how the deal turned out, I believe that’s probably quite true.”

  “Hmph. Care to tell us about it?”

  Alice sat down slowly. “It’s a condo building. Weston came to me last year, right around the time that the economy was at its worst. He wanted to buy the condo on short sale, fix it up, and then sell the units at a profit.”

  “What’s a short sale?”

  “It’s the step prior to foreclosure. Buyers make their best offer to the seller, who, in turn, picks the highest offer and submits it to the mortgage-holding bank for approval. The bank decides whether or not they’ll accept. If they do, the seller’s debt is wiped clean and both he and the bank have avoided foreclosing costs and bankruptcy hearings.”