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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “And the buyer gets a great deal without a lot of red tape.”

  “That’s the idea, but it’s not a sure thing. I certainly wouldn’t suggest it to anyone who needs to close by a certain date, since the bank can always refuse your offer. The condo in Hackensack, however, was a business deal, so there was no rush. And the whole plan was incredible … or at least that’s how Weston presented it.”

  “What happened?”

  “Weston had a sizeable down payment to buy the building in Hackensack, but he couldn’t get a loan because his most recent business acquisitions had overextended his credit. His partner in New Jersey, a man named Walker, ran a construction company that could fix the units at cost, but, like Weston, the economic downturn had made it impossible for him to secure a loan.”

  “So you have two partners with plenty of cash but zero credit.”

  “Exactly. So Weston came to me with an offer. He would make the down payment and pay me a $10,000 cash incentive if I would take the mortgage out in my name, with Walker as a cosigner. Once the sale was complete, I would then quitclaim the title to Walker so that he could get all the necessary permits and other items needed for the renovations without having to ask for my signature, and, in the end, we’d all split the profits from the sale of the units.”

  “In other words, he asked you to be a straw buyer,” Stella interpreted.

  Nick added, “I’m starting to think I need a real-estate license for this conversation. What’s a straw buyer?”

  “It’s someone who uses their credit to get a mortgage for someone else,” Stella replied. “I don’t understand why would you agree to such a thing, Alice. Didn’t you realize you were committing mortgage fraud?”

  “Of course I realized that. But Weston had come to me right after the first layoff and, I’ll admit it, his offer seemed like the miracle I had been praying for. The $10,000 was exactly what I needed to help the business stay afloat a little while longer, but the true temptation was the resale once the construction was finished. Naturally, I had my doubts about getting involved, but everything presented to me seemed to be on the up-and-up. Weston was fronting his own money for the down payment, and his friend in New Jersey sent me drawings, plans, and artists’ renderings depicting what the units would look like after construction. The guy even sent me a copy of an invoice for an architect.”

  “So what went wrong?”

  “Nothing—at first. The bank accepted our first offer even though it was unbelievably low. I got the loan, Weston’s friend got the title, and work on the first few units was to be completed in three months so that we could start selling.”

  “Who was responsible for the mortgage payments during those first three months?”

  “Weston put up the first month at closing. I paid the next two, but when the three months stretched into four, five, and six, I started to wonder what was going on. So I went to Weston to find out if he had heard from Walker. He said he hadn’t but that he’d try to track him down.”

  Alice drew a deep breath. “Another month went by, and Weston still hadn’t been able to reach Walker, so I decided to search for him myself.”

  “A private investigator?” Nick posited.

  “No, I had a mortgage-broker friend of mine do a check on the title. The building had been resold ninety days after I had signed the quitclaim, at a price $300,000 more than what we had paid. The entire thing, the whole blasted plan, was a flopping scheme.”

  “Okay, again, in English.”

  “Flopping is like flipping, except you’re ripping off the bank and your investors by buying below market value and then reselling for way more. And Weston was in on the flop from the beginning. He and Walker probably split the proceeds of the sale.”

  “Do you have proof Weston was in on it?”

  “No, and I couldn’t think of a way to get any either. But it’s the only way the whole thing makes sense. Why else would he have been so willing to front his own money? And why was he so reluctant to track down Walker?” Alice blinked back the tears. “Weston had me as their mark from the beginning.”

  “Did you contact the police about your suspicions?”

  “How can I?” Alice’s tears broke free and streamed down her round, pink face. “Not only don’t I have proof, but I’m guilty of mortgage fraud. Aside from losing my business and my broker’s license, I could … I could go to jail. Weston knew it. He knew that even with the proper evidence, I couldn’t blow the whistle.”

  “Did he tell you that when you asked him for money?”

  Alice’s tears dried and her pink face grew bright red with rage. “How did you—? That bitch Bunny told you, didn’t she? She listened in during my meeting. I knew it! That nosy old bag! Why, I could—”

  “It wasn’t Bunny,” Stella lied to diffuse the situation. “Weston wrote the meeting on his calendar.”

  Alice quieted down but was still highly skeptical. “And you just assumed I asked for money?”

  “Given the circumstances you described, why else would you meet with him?”

  “Okay, you’re right: I did ask him for money. He refused. He said he didn’t owe me anything and then started crying poverty because he had lost his down payment. When I told him I thought that he had been in on the scheme, he smiled. Can you believe it? The son of a bitch smiled and said that I was a businesswoman who should have known the risks.”

  “How did you react?” Nick asked.

  “How do you think I reacted? I lost it. I started screaming, crying … I may even have hit Weston. I don’t remember. All I know is that if Bunny weren’t already listening at the door, she would have heard me, along with half the town.”

  “And Weston? What did he do when you starting yelling?”

  “He was smooth, cool, as usual. He didn’t lose his temper or shout back, he just laughed.” Alice began to cry again. “The bastard laughed, asked me if my husband knew about our business arrangement, and then left.”

  “Did your husband know about the condo deal?”

  “No, he would have talked me out of it, and I was … I was desperate to keep my agents working. I probably should have told him, but at the time I didn’t think he needed to know. I hadn’t used any of the household money, and I hadn’t gambled our home. I figured if things went well, I could tell him when the money came rolling in. God, what a fool I was.”

  “And if Weston were to have told him about you committing mortgage fraud?”

  “I don’t know what he’d do. Him finding out was my worst fear. It still is. To have lost most of my business and my self-respect is one thing, but to lose him, the kids …”Alice ran a hand over her face. “When Weston left here that day, I was in a panic. I was so afraid he’d tell my husband what happened, I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep.”

  “Did you talk to Weston when he was working at our house?”

  “Yes, I did. How did—?”

  “Your timeline doesn’t quite work out,” Stella explained. “If you had left our house when you claim, you would have had plenty of time to make our closing. But instead you were late, out of breath, and more than a little bit frazzled.”

  “When I learned that Weston would be working on your well, I saw my chance to talk to him again. I begged him not to tell my husband, Tim, about the flop scheme, and then I asked him what it would take for him to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Is that why our appointment was rescheduled?” Nick asked. “So that you could meet up with him?”

  “No, that was Weston’s doing. If anything, I had more time to talk to him on Wednesday than on the day of your closing.”

  “But you still managed to find some time to talk to him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I had to.”

  “And how did it go?”

  “How do you think? Weston didn’t care that I could lose everything. He just didn’t care. I was so mad, I could have—” Alice’s testimony was interrupted by the loud ring of a telephone.

  “Vermont Valley Real E
state,” she answered in a perfect telephone voice. “Oh, yes … yes … no, I’m not busy. Just let me finish up with my secretary, will you? Thanks. Hold a moment, and I’ll be right back.”

  Alice pushed a red button and covered the receiver. “This is an important call. I have to take it.”

  Nick looked at Stella and then rose from his chair. “We understand. I think we’re pretty much done anyway.”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell Mills everything I told you.”

  “I’m afraid we have to, Alice,” Stella frowned.

  “I didn’t kill him. I swear I didn’t.”

  “That’s up to the sheriff’s office to decide.”

  Alice nodded somberly. “I’ll be here waiting for them. It’s funny—as hard as I tried to keep Tim from finding out what happened, now that I’m here, on the verge of everyone finding out the truth, I’m relieved.”

  Nick smiled weakly. “I guess, deep down, part of you is tired of lying.”

  “I guess so. But that doesn’t mean all is forgiven.”

  “What … ?”

  “If you see Bunny this weekend, let her know she’s fired.” Alice, her eyes an icy blue color, let her finger hover over the red hold button. “Oh, and tell her to watch her back.”

  Chapter

  13

  STELLA GOT INTO the passenger seat of the Smart car and, despite the seventy-degree weather, began to shiver.

  Nick slid into the driver’s seat and put an arm around his wife. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s just … that woman’s life is ruined. And it’s all because we had to get involved.”

  “We might have helped to bring things out into the open, but the only one who ruined Alice’s life is Alice.”

  “I know she’s responsible for her own decisions, but she might have taken those secrets to her grave if we hadn’t outed them. Now her husband might leave when he finds out, and she might go to jail, and her kids … oh, her kids.”

  “She couldn’t have kept it all a secret forever, hon. But this is exactly why I suggested we take a hike this afternoon. I had a feeling when we went to see Alice that the ending wouldn’t be a happy one.” He pulled his cell phone from inside his jacket and began pressing buttons.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Calling Mills to tell him to send his men over here.”

  “Oh, no, Nick! Don’t call him now.”

  “Why not? Once he talks to Alice, we’re free to go back to camp, go on our hike, and have a leisurely dinner with Alma. Isn’t that what you wanted—to move into our house and put this mess behind us?”

  “I did. I do, but …”

  He pressed a few more buttons before flinging the phone into the center console in disgust. “You’re in luck. I can’t get a signal.”

  “See? Divine intervention. Let’s just go see the Brunelles, and then we can call Mills afterward with all our findings.”

  “You want me to wait? And let Alice pack up her kids and skip town?”

  “You heard her. She’s not going anywhere.”

  “And you believed her? Hon, she lied to a mortgage company, her husband, her kids, and the whole community. Oh, and—hello—she’s a murderer.”

  “I don’t think she is.”

  “Why? Because she says she isn’t? Newsflash: prison is full of people who claim they’re innocent.”

  “I know that. I’m not naïve. But Alice being the murderer doesn’t quite fit. It leaves too many unanswered questions.”

  “Like?”

  “Like why was Weston’s truck parked in the woods? Alice knew when our closing was going to take place, and she also knew that we weren’t stopping by the house beforehand.”

  “So?”

  “So, if Alice was the killer, she didn’t need to delay discovery of the body while she made her getaway. No one was going to the house until the closing was finished, and, if someone did, they would no doubt call ahead, since Alice was the only one who held the key.”

  “Then Weston hid the truck himself.”

  “If so, it wasn’t to hide from Alice Broadman. Weston’s secretary called Alice personally to confirm his arrival at the house that morning. He could have parked his truck in Utah and Alice still would have known he was at the house. No, if Weston hid his truck, it’s because there was someone out there—someone other than Alice Broadman—that he didn’t want to see. And I suspect that person is the killer.”

  “I don’t know, Stella. I think you’re putting too much emphasis on the truck. Alice as the killer just seems right me. What about that threat she made toward Bunny?”

  “Alice’s life is falling apart, Nick. She’s going to lash out, and since Bunny is the one who ratted her out, she’s an obvious target.”

  Nick shook his head slowly. “I don’t know …”

  “Okay, maybe I’m wrong about Alice, but I think we should at the very least talk to everyone in town and explore all the possibilities before we send the police breathing down her neck.”

  After a long pause, Nick pulled a face and started the car. “Which way to Jake Brunelle’s shop?”

  “Other side of town, by the trailer park.”

  He nodded and pulled onto Main Street. “So, just to check: Alice is still guilty of mortgage fraud, right?”

  “Yes, Nick,” Stella chuckled. “Yes, she is.”

  Jake Brunelle’s shop occupied a former train maintenance depot on the edge of town near the park. Bearing no address, signs, or other markings to distinguish the building, Nick pushed open the shabby, weather-beaten front door, allowing Stella to poke her head inside.

  Betsy Brunelle, wearing a tight black sweater dress, red lipstick, and several coats of mascara, sat at a desk fashioned from an old door and two sawhorses. At the creak of the front door, Betsy turned away from her computer screen and peered over her shoulder. “If you’re looking for Brunelle Construction, you’re in the right place.”

  “Thanks, we weren’t sure,” Stella explained.

  “You’re not the first. We’ve been meaning to put up the sign,” she motioned to a cardboard box the size of a queen mattress that stood against the wall behind her. “Something else always comes up, though.”

  The couple stepped inside and closed the door behind them.

  “Hey, you’re that guy I bumped into this morning!”

  Nick flashed his wife an I-told-you-so smirk before leaning forward to shake Betsy’s hand. “Yes, I am. Nick Buckley, and this is my wife, Stella.”

  Betsy combed her shoulder-length chestnut-brown hair with her fingers before reaching a bangle-braceleted arm over her makeshift desk in greeting. “I’m Betsy Brunelle, Jake’s wife.”

  “We know. Alma and Sheriff Mills told us your name when you stopped into the Sweet Shop yesterday morning.”

  “You were there yesterday? No, you couldn’t have been. I would have noticed someone like you.”

  Stella cleared her throat and fought the urge to gag.

  “I was there, sitting at the counter. You weren’t in for very long, though—something about an estimate.”

  “That’s right. If I hadn’t wrestled Jake away from Sheriff Mills, we would have missed it, too. So you were at the counter, huh? I can’t believe I didn’t see you. I must have been in a terrible hurry not to notice a handsome new man in town.”

  Stella once again cleared her throat. “Sorry, something keeps tickling me.”

  “Would you like some water? I can—” She stopped what she was doing. “Wait one minute: water … well … .you own the place where they found Allen Weston’s body, don’t you?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Oh, that poor man. I swear this state needs stiffer gun laws. When anyone with a driver’s license can get themselves a handgun, well, I can’t believe we all aren’t being murdered in our sleep.”

  “Weston was actually shot with a hunting rifle,” Nick corrected.

  “Really? Well, I don’t think much of that either. Jake grew up h
ere. He goes out every weekend during deer season, but I don’t see what the attraction is.” Betsy looked at Stella. “I grew up outside Boston, so when I want to unwind, I hit the mall for shopping therapy, if you know what I mean.”

  Stella laughed politely. “Tough to do that around here, though.”

  “Oh, I drive to Rutland, or if I’m really ambitious, over the border to New Hampshire. I refuse to resort to wearing flannel and rubber shoes.”

  “I think I’d have a tough time with that, too.”

  “So,” Betsy sat back down. “Don’t tell me: you’re here because you need someone to finish that well work Weston started.”

  “Yep, you, um, you guessed it.”

  Betsy opened up the calendar on her computer and started looking at dates. “I might be able to squeeze you in next week.”

  From where Stella stood, prior to the coming Monday, the Brunelles’ calendar had been relatively empty. The remainder of the calendar, however, had filled in nicely. A result of Weston’s premature demise?

  “I’m not sure that would work,” Nick responded. “The whole property is cordoned off—even to us—and I’m not sure when we’ll be able to get back in.”

  Betsy took her hand off the mouse and placed it on Nick’s. “Really? You mean you came all the way up and haven’t been able to move in or to carry your lovely bride over the threshold?”

  “Nope. Didn’t even get to unload the moving van.”

  “That’s terrible. And all because of a silly hunting accident?”

  “The police aren’t totally convinced it was an accident.”

  Betsy suddenly removed her hand from Nick’s. “But you said Weston was shot with a hunting rifle.”

  “He was.”

  “What? They think it might be suicide?”

  “No, more like murder.”

  “That’s impossible. This is a small town. No one even bothers to lock their doors at night. Who would even think to do such a thing?”

  “Don’t know, but from what we’ve heard, Weston had plenty of enemies in this town. Even—no, I shouldn’t say it …” Nick scratched his head and looked down at his feet.