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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  Betsy’s brown eyes grew wide with curiosity. “Say what?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Go ahead and say it.”

  “Well, you and Jake were mentioned as possible suspects. Seems people think you both had an axe to grind with Weston for taking business away from you.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Sure, he was our competitor, but our business is still doing very well. This is Vermont. Around here, most contractors don’t even return your phone call. If you show up for the estimate and start on time, you’re halfway to success.”

  Stella watched as Betsy’s ancient computer monitor launched into a screensaver of handsome cowboys engaging in a variety of rodeo activities. “According to Hank Reid, Weston was pretty good at keeping his appointments. What’s more, Weston advertised that he had the manpower to get the job done quickly. If a man like Hank Reid fell for Weston’s fancy ads and promises of fast service, I’m sure others must have, too.”

  “Maybe, but they’ll all wind up like Hank Reid: in court with Weston but back doing business with us. The fact is, Weston was a liar and a cheat. People may have fallen for his lines at first, but they eventually wised up.”

  “It doesn’t matter any longer whether they wise up or not now, does it?”

  “Well, I—I guess not. But if Weston were still alive, the customers who switched to him would figure out the truth behind his promises and realize what they had with us.”

  “So you admit that you lost other customers,” Nick said with a smile.

  Betsy leveled a stare that could have burned a hole through his chest. “Okay, yeah, we lost some customers to Weston. But the ones who switched weren’t our best customers anyway. They were the ones who always tried to nickel-and-dime us and drive our prices down. The good ones—the ones who know that good work takes time—remained loyal.”

  “Still, even losing your ‘lesser’ customers must have hurt your bottom line. Why else would you have closed up all winter?”

  “How did you—? Wait, Hank probably told you that, too.”

  “Does it matter? We could have found out from anyone.”

  “Fine. Yes, we did close for business this past winter, but spring and summer put us back on track. In fact, we were so busy that I hired Elizabeth Randall to help me in the office on weekends.”

  “You had that much business?”

  “A couple of bigger jobs, yes. She managed the phones and did some filing, which gave me some time away from this place.” Betsy eyed the walls with disgust and then leaned across her desk. “Do you two work together?”

  Nick and Stella shook their heads.

  “Then you wouldn’t understand, but Jake and I live in the apartment upstairs. Living and working in the same place and with the same person? It gets old—fast. I don’t care how great your marriage is, it takes its toll.”

  “I can’t imagine how difficult that would be,” Stella sympathized. “If I saw Nick every moment of every day, I’d go crazy!”

  Nick gave her a hurt look before jumping back into the questioning. “Why isn’t Ms. Randall here now? It’s a Saturday.”

  “I had to let her go.”

  “Because business slowed down?”

  “Um, well, our big jobs drew to a close, yes. But it wasn’t all about the money, you know. She had some … rotten habits. Want another piece of advice? Don’t work with friends, either. The things your girlfriend does that normally make you laugh can cause you headaches in the office.”

  “Duly noted,” Stella remarked.

  “So, not to be insensitive, but now that your big jobs have finished up, Weston’s death is sure to come in handy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you’ve probably already gotten some calls from Weston’s customers.”

  “We’ve gotten a few bookings, yes,” Betsy acknowledged.

  “A few? Come on. You’re the only other contractor in town. Even though Weston’s guys could probably handle the work on their own, without a signature to put on their paychecks, I doubt any of them are going to break a sweat. Likewise, I don’t think the homeowners who booked Weston would want to go ahead with their plans either. God forbid something goes wrong—like a floating septic tank, for example. Who are they going to sue? A dead man?”

  “Hold on tight to this one, Stella. He’s as smart as he is cute,” Betsy said with a wink in Nick’s direction.

  Not all the time, thought Stella as she watched Nick being sucked into Betsy Brunelle’s web of flattery.

  “All right, if you must know, we have gotten some calls from Weston’s customers. And we’re running an ad in tomorrow’s paper … you know, offering to honor his contracts. It might not feel like it today, but we’re coming into winter. People want their projects done before the holidays and prior to the ground freezing. They’re not going to wait around and see what happens with Weston’s businesses.”

  “That’s a great marketing angle. Whose idea was it?”

  “Mine, of course. Jake never—” She was interrupted by the sound of a car door in the parking lot. “Oh, here he is now.”

  Stella and Nick stepped away from the door to allow Jake Brunelle admittance.

  “Hey” was his single-word greeting.

  “Hey, baby,” Betsy welcomed. “These are the Buckleys.”

  “Hi. We actually saw you at Alma’s the other morning. I’m Nick,” said Nick, offering his hand.

  Jake stared at it with an expression somewhere between amusement and contempt and continued to walk into the back shop area. “Weston get to fixing your well before he bit it?”

  “No, of course he didn’t,” Betsy said nervously. “That’s why Nick and his wife, Stella, are here.”

  “Hmph. Did you set up an appointment?”

  “We were just doing that when you walked in.”

  “Yes,” Stella confirmed. “I’m not sure when to schedule you to do the work, though, since we’re locked out until the police find Weston’s murderer.”

  Jake Brunelle stopped cold in his tracks. “Murder, huh? Willing to lay money on it being a hunting accident.”

  “You and the rest of the town,” Nick quipped.

  “Guess that’s what happens when you own a big house up on Windsor Hill. People kill you to try and get your money.”

  “Or even your business.”

  “I don’t think I like what you’re suggesting there, Nick.”

  “Who’s suggesting? I’ll say it outright: Weston’s death is good for your business. End of story.”

  “I come in here to find you eyeing up my wife, and you have the nerve to insult me?”

  “Eyeing up your wife? Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “Well, you were kinda flirting, Nick,” Stella pointed out.

  “Not helping, honey. Look, even if I had been flirting with your wife, my wife is standing right next to me.”

  “Didn’t say you were smart.”

  As Nick stewed, Betsy moved to her husband’s side and rubbed his back soothingly. “Jake, baby, you know when you lose your temper, no good comes of it. Mr. Buckley wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was being very polite and friendly.”

  “Yeah, it was your wife who—” Stella was about reveal that it was Betsy who had been doing the ogling but thought better of it. “You know what? I think we’ll just be going.”

  “I’d listen to your wife there, Nick. She’s right, you’d best be going. And if I catch you drooling over my wife again, you’ll be sorry,” Jake threatened before marching to the back of the shop.

  Nick opened his mouth to reply, but Stella shook her head in warning. “Don’t, Nick. Let’s just go.”

  He backed down and followed his wife to the door, where Betsy gave them each a business card in parting. “I know he can be rude, but he does really good work. If you can’t find someone to fix your well, just give us a call. I’ll take 15 percent off the price, and I won’t tell him it’s you.”

  Stella could not believe her ears. “Umm
m … thanks.” She made the statement sound more like a question.

  Nick, however, refrained from comment until, having tossed his keys to his wife, he was safely settled in the passenger seat of the Smart car, whereupon he held his business card aloft. “Look, honey: 15 percent off. Just think, when Stable Mable in there finishes with our well, we can use the money we saved to hire Mel Gibson to paint our living room. We’ll call it Crazy Contractor Week at the Buckleys’.”

  “Sounds like an HGTV special.”

  The summerlike temperatures, combined with the strong sunshine, had rendered the automobile uncomfortably warm. Stella rolled down the driver’s-side window with a sigh. “Whew!”

  Nick followed suit. “Hey, I’ll take the heat over talking to crazies any day. I don’t know which was more uncomfortable—Maggie waving a gun at us or Jake Brunelle accusing me of making a move on his wife.”

  “Personally, watching Betsy give you a full-body massage with her eyeballs was even more disconcerting than being held at gunpoint.” Stella pulled out of the Brunelles’ parking lot and made a right-hand turn.

  “I told you she hit on me this morning.”

  “You did, and you were right. I’m sorry. Hitting on you while you were at Alma’s is one thing, but you think she might have scaled it back a bit just now—you know, considering I was actually in the same room this time.”

  “Yeah, that was …”

  “Crazy?”

  “Crazy as in Maggie Lawson’s trigger-happy crazy?”

  “No, more like Fatal Attraction crazy.”

  “Hey, just because a woman thinks I’m hot doesn’t make her crazy. Look at you.”

  “Honey, your mother and brother told me about your ex-girlfriends; I’d say I’m the exception to the rule. But Betsy Brunelle? She tops even your ex-girlfriends. She’s a different kind of crazy altogether. I can’t figure it out … it was almost as if she was trying to get a reaction.”

  “Well, she got one. Jake Brunelle was ready to beat the living daylights out of me.”

  “Eh, you could have taken him.”

  “That’s right. Unless, of course, he brought his dwarf axe with him.”

  “In Jake’s defense, he probably acts that way because he knows what his wife is like. It’s easier for him to lash out at other men than to lose his wife’s affection.”

  “I don’t know. If you did that to me, I’d have no problem letting you know I was unhappy.”

  “Yes, but they have a different dynamic than we do. It’s apparent that Gimli—er, Jake—relies on Betsy to run his business.”

  “Really? It seemed to me as if she was scared of him, what with the way she greeted him.”

  Stella shook her head. “She’s scared of his outbursts and what he might do when he loses his temper, but she’s not scared of him. She has too much control.”

  “Control? Really? I didn’t get that.”

  “Sure. Betsy takes care of the office, devises the marketing campaigns, runs the ads, acts as spokesperson, and even makes sure Jake gets to his estimates on time. Jake does the work, but she drives the business. We were on our way out the door and she was still trying to get us to sign them to do our well work.”

  “And what does Betsy get out of the deal?”

  “Same thing my mother did: money, shopping sprees, financial security …”

  “And the flirting? What’s up with that?”

  “She’s probably bored. Not only is her husband rough around the edges, but she gets to see that roughness every day, nearly all day.”

  “Hmmm. You think you’ll ever get bored of me?”

  “So long as every woman you meet is undressing you with their eyes, I don’t see how I possibly could.”

  Nick grinned. “Betsy was driving you nuts back there, wasn’t she?”

  “Only every single time she looked, touched, or spoke to you,” Stella replied with mock cheerfulness.

  “Yeah, I thought so; you don’t exactly have a poker face. The question is, did Betsy drive Jake nuts too? If what you’re saying is true—that she’s the driving force behind the business—she might have been pushing Jake to do something about Weston.”

  “We saw for ourselves that it doesn’t take much to move him to violence. I wonder how far he’d go if Betsy left him unchecked.”

  “Or if Betsy had put the bug in his ear to begin with.”

  Stella made a sudden turn onto Main Street.

  “Um, honey?” Nick said. “You’re going the wrong way. You should have made a left.”

  “I know where I’m going.”

  “Not if we’re heading to Perkins, you don’t.”

  “Who said we were heading to Perkins?” Stella asked.

  “We did. This morning. To see if they have an AC adapter for the mattress, remember?”

  “Of course I do, but there’s something we need to do first.”

  Nick groaned. “Oh, no. The last time you said that, we wound up in Guadalajara.”

  “Where else was I going to find an authentic mariachi costume? Certainly not in Acapulco.”

  “Our cruise ship left without us.”

  “But we had a good time waiting for the next one.”

  “I guess … so, what do we need to do this time?”

  Stella paused for effect. “Check out Weston’s house.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Why?”

  “A few reasons. First, I want to see for myself if Maggie’s painting is there.”

  “Not that again. Didn’t we both agree that it was useless to search for something that may or may not exist?”

  “We did, but Maggie was so convinced—not only that the painting existed, but that Weston stole it. I think she deserves to have someone at least look into it.”

  “It’s not our fault no one looked into it. When you’re named Crazy Maggie, people just don’t put much stock in your claims.”

  “She didn’t give herself that name,” Stella mentioned.

  “Yes, she did. She got it the minute she started waving guns around.”

  “Maybe she just waves guns around because she’s frustrated. She obviously misses her husband, and the police don’t believe her treasure story—I’d be frustrated, too.”

  “There are better, safer ways to deal with frustration—like yoga, for instance. But, moving on, what are your other reasons for wanting to see Weston’s place?”

  “I’d like to get some better insight into the man himself.”

  “You mean aside from the fact that he was a grade-A jerk?”

  “Yes. It’s a rather one-dimensional view, don’t you think?”

  “Not if it fits.”

  “You’re right, maybe that’s all Weston was: a jerk. But on the off chance he had a family, donated to charities, or had some other secret component to his life, I’d like to find out what it was.”

  “Uh-huh, because a guy who commits mortgage fraud might be a benefactor to a school for orphaned boys.”

  “No, but there had to be something he cared about—something that drove him to do the things he did.”

  “Stella, I know you like to think the best of people, but Weston seems like the sort of guy who didn’t need a reason, apart from money, to do the things he did. He hurt people in order to get ahead and line his own pockets.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Well, not necessarily; I just know the type. But if you feel you need to dig deeper and find out what made this guy tick, you know I’ll go with you.”

  “Even if it means breaking and entering?”

  “You had to go there, didn’t you?” Nick sighed. “Yes, even if it means breaking and entering. My god, I can’t believe I just said that. That’s exactly what I said when you talked me into going to Guadalajara. What the hell is wrong with me?”

  “You’re standing by your wife. I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  Ste
lla merely shrugged.

  “Have you happened to give any thought as to how you’re going to find Weston’s house?”

  “Josh Middleton said that Weston lived on Windsor Hill. There’s only seven or eight roads in this whole town. I figure if we pick the one that leads to Windsor Hill, we’ll—aha!”

  Nick looked up to see a street sign that read Windsor Hill Road. “Unbelievable. If I had tried that, we’d be driving for hours.”

  “That’s because you don’t have the skills,” she teased as she navigated the Smart car onto the narrow dirt road and followed it uphill.

  After approximately a mile of twists and turns, they encountered a driveway marked with a white rock upon which Weston had been stenciled in bold, black letters. Given the descriptions of the Weston residence, one would have thought he had built himself a 4,000-square-foot mansion. At the end of the driveway, however, stood a brand-new, vinyl-shingled, two-story home built in the Colonial style. Surrounding it stood acre upon acre of pristine forest.

  Although not large from a New York City perspective, it was quite lavish by Vermont standards. In addition to neoclassical columns that flanked either side of the front door and rose to support the roof of a wide portico, and beyond the verdant front lawn outlined with shrubs and trees of varying heights, colors, and textures, the most impractical feature of the Weston residence, by local standards, was that its cathedral ceilings would have required a good deal of oil or firewood in order to retain heat during the long New England winters.

  Stella parked the car outside the two-door garage and, with Nick at her side, walked along the marble-lined path to the front door. Like their farmhouse well, it had been cordoned off with yellow police tape.

  “What now, Columbo?” Nick posed.

  “There must be a window we can jimmy open.”

  “Okay, hold on. You’re talking about breaking and entering again.”

  “Yes, why? Do you have a better idea?”

  “Uh, yeah. How about we stand outside and look through the windows?”

  Stella sighed in exasperation. “We’ll never find anything useful that way. I’ll just see if I can find a way in. If not, we’ll leave, and I’ll forget about the whole idea.”