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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  While Nick yawned, stretched, and surveyed the landscape, Stella, seated in one of the Adirondack chairs, continued her stitchery.

  “I saw you get up and work on that last night,” he commented.

  “Yeah, I couldn’t sleep. I was still wound up about Bunny’s death and Alice’s arrest.”

  “Me too, but when I finally crashed, I was out cold.”

  “Same here. The stitching helped.”

  “What are you making?”

  “Oh, just a token for Raymond and Alma for letting us stay at the camp. I figured they could hang it on the wall here once we’ve gone.”

  “That would explain why you’ve included the word ‘beer.’”

  She smiled. “I’ll do something a bit girlier for Alma. Then I’ll frame them both, wrap them both up, and give them to her with a card.”

  “Yeah, a nice Hallmark that reads, ‘Thanks for the free food and use of your shower. We’re sorry your boyfriend was a jerk, that your neighbor was killed, and that we suspected you of being a homicidal maniac. PS: If you see a flashlight in your latrine, don’t ask.’”

  “Would I find that in with the sympathy cards or the thank you’s?”

  “Pretty sure it would be in the ‘thinking of you’ section. Might find it in with the cute kitten cards too, but I don’t know—think a kitten might be over the top?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  The sound of crunching gravel once again heralded the approach of Sheriff Mills, but unlike the previous evening, this morning found him behind the wheel of a blue Chevy pickup. He brought the truck to a halt beside the Smart car and stepped out of the cab.

  “Wow,” Nick remarked. “Look who’s out of uniform. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  Mills, clad in faded jeans, sunglasses, a light green button-down short-sleeve shirt, and a pair of lace-up moccasins, grinned and lifted a tray of coffee from a diner in the next town from the seat beside him. “My civilian wear,” he announced as he sat down on the porch.

  “How’d it go with Alice?” Stella asked.

  “Miserable. Tried to keep it low key, no cuffs and no sirens. But the kids woke up ’cause of her crying, and the neighbors saw me take her out. Feds are coming by tomorrow to take over the mortgage fraud charges.”

  Nick, dressed in a New York Knicks T-shirt and pair of cargo shorts, sat between the sheriff and Stella. “What about the murder case?”

  “Alice and her husband took the kids to a corn maze and then supper at the bar and grill.”

  “So she has an alibi for Bunny’s murder.”

  “Yup. She’s the only one, though. Josh Middleton is still under house arrest for the truck incident, so he was at home watching a Netflix movie—alone—while his mother was at work. Maggie Lawson was out doing who knows what. Jake Brunelle was alone working in his shop. And Betsy Brunelle says she was in Rutland shopping.”

  “And we’re back at square one,” Stella noted as she put down her stitching and distributed the coffee cups.

  “Yup, but it seems you’ve made some progress in your own investigation.”

  “I don’t know about that. We may have unearthed some new things, but I still have more questions than answers.”

  “Well, throw them out there. Let’s see what we can come up with.”

  “Okay.” Stella took a sip of coffee and gathered her thoughts. “First off, why was Weston at our house? And don’t say to work on our well, because we all know Weston never did the work himself.”

  “The only thing I can come up with,” Nick offered, “is that he wanted to handle it himself in order to make a good impression.”

  “We spoke to Hank Reid, honey. Does it sound like Weston was the type to go out of the way for a customer?”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “So what other explanation could there be?”

  “Might have been meeting someone there,” Mills suggested with a shrug.

  “That was my thought too. And a meeting would explain the last-minute change in schedule. However, why our house? We’ve seen his house, and it’s—” Stella caught herself, but it was too late. Mills stopped drinking his coffee in mid-sip.

  “When did you see Weston’s house?”

  “Um, we drove past just to check it out. You know, get a lay of the land,” Nick explained.

  Mills gave a doubtful frown.

  “Anyway,” Stella continued, “Weston lived on the top of a hill at the end of a long, private road. Alma met him there several times and no one ever saw them. If Weston needed privacy, he could have arranged a meeting at his place.”

  “Maybe Weston was at your house to meet with Maggie. She lives nearby.”

  “There are a few flaws with that theory. First, why not just meet Maggie at her house? She’s told anyone who’ll listen about the painting. If anyone saw Weston’s truck in her driveway, they’d assume he was smoothing things over or asking her to leave him alone. Second, why did he need to meet with her at all? According to Maggie, she ran into Weston at the well office and the septic service shop last week. And by your account, Sheriff, she was at his house as recently as the day before his death. If there was something he needed to discuss with her, he could have done it then.”

  “But instead he called the police.”

  “Which raises another interesting question. Why did Weston suddenly feel the need to call the police? Maggie had been stalking him at work for weeks and he hadn’t contacted the authorities.”

  “There’s a big difference between stalking someone at their place of work and stalking them where they live,” Nick said.

  “Call me old fashioned, but stalking is creepy no matter where you do it. If the source of Weston’s fear was Maggie herself, he would have gotten a restraining order weeks ago, but he didn’t. Sooo …”

  Nick and Mills leaned forward in anticipation.

  “… what if what actually frightened Weston was that Maggie got too close to the painting or to something else he was trying to hide?”

  “Great, now you’re quoting Señora Psycho herself.”

  “Because, as crazy as the rest of her story might sound, that part makes sense. Why else would he have such a sudden change of heart?”

  “Guess it might be worth looking into.”

  “Of course it is! Sheriff, do you think we could head over to Weston’s house once we finish? I’d like to give it another look.”

  “Another look? I knew it! I knew you two broke in there.”

  “No, Stella broke in. I walked in the front door.”

  “You broke in?” The sheriff was incredulous. “What did you say you did in New York again?”

  “I didn’t say.”

  “It’s classified,” Nick replied. “Even I’m not allowed to know.”

  Stella rolled her eyes. “What does it matter if I broke in? I didn’t take anything out. What does matter is that when I was there, I took a look at Weston’s closet. It was filled with fancy suits and designer labels.”

  “So?” Mills challenged.

  “So, what was Weston doing in a no-name flannel shirt and bargain-basement jeans?”

  “Flannel shirt was brand new. I can only assume he bought it to work on your well.”

  “Not a man like Weston. Not a man who put creases in his khakis. If Weston needed work clothes, he would have bought them from Orvis or L. L. Bean or, if he were slumming it, from Woolrich. Instead, what he was wearing was strictly Walmart. It makes as much sense as him moving his truck into the woods.”

  “Maybe he was hiding?” Nick offered. “The next closest house belongs to Crazy Maggie. I wouldn’t want that all up in my grill.”

  “Make up your minds! One minute you guys have Weston meeting Maggie; the next, he’s hiding from her. If Weston wanted to hide from Maggie, he would sent one of his guys to our place to do the job. And he definitely wouldn’t have driven past her place in a bright yellow truck with his name on it.”

  “Well, I’m stumped.”

 
“Me too,” Mills echoed. “Every time I think I have one question answered, another question pops up that my answer doesn’t fit.”

  “I know,” Stella agreed. “And we haven’t even gotten to Bunny’s death yet.”

  “What’s so confusing about that? She was killed because she knew something about the murderer. Could be anyone, except for Alice. Oh, and Hank Reid.”

  “I noticed you didn’t mention Reid earlier. Did he have an alibi?”

  “Yep. Bunny’s voice mail and Hank’s phone records support his story.”

  “He lives just five minutes away from Bunny. Those phone calls mean nothing. He could have snuck over there between leaving messages.”

  “Yeah, but he and Bunny were …”

  “Sleeping together?” Nick finished Mills’s thought. “In my opinion, that makes him an even stronger suspect. Not only did the intimate nature of their relationship give Bunny access to Reid’s house and personal belongings—which, for all we know, could have included some damning evidence—but Reid might have made an offhand comment or let something slip during … um … the heat of the moment.”

  “Eww,” Stella said in disgust.

  “I know. I think I just threw up in my mouth.”

  Mills wrinkled his nose. “All right, we’ll add Reid back to the list of suspects.”

  “Good call, ’cause I think he’s guilty. Guess what, honey, I’m riding the Cheney Train again!”

  “The what?”

  “Don’t mind my husband. His good night’s sleep has rendered him completely annoying. Anyway, now that we’re all on the same page regarding suspects, there’s just one nagging question left, and I’m afraid I might be the only one who can answer it—well, me and Perkins, that is.”

  “What question is that?”

  “Nick, you remember how Bunny rushed out of the store that night?”

  “Of course I do. I just about wiped out a shelf of Spam and corned beef hash trying to avoid her crashing into me.”

  “She was talking about something just before she ran off … it was you, Sheriff.”

  “Come on, now,” Mills said sharply. “Haven’t we already been through this?’

  Stella waved a dismissive hand. “No, no, I don’t mean it that way. She was talking about you but looking at something behind me. Something she saw or something she was talking about—or a combination of the two—struck a chord somehow. That’s when she stopped what she was doing and hurried from the store. I’d like to try and re-create that scene if I could, so I can see exactly what she saw at the time.”

  “’Fraid you’ll have to wait ’til tomorrah. Perkins is closed on Sundays.”

  “To most of us, perhaps. But I’m sure the Windsor County Sheriff might be able to finagle a special opening.”

  “Maybe.” Mills downed the remainder of his cup and looked at Nick. “Is she always like this?”

  Nick looked at the sheriff and replied tiredly, “You have no idea.”

  Chapter

  17

  WEDGED INTO THE cab of Sheriff Mills’s pickup, the Buckleys and Mills made a brief stop at the Windsor County Sheriff’s Department before making the drive uphill to Weston’s house.

  Upon reaching the gravel-lined driveway, the trio exited the vehicle and wended their way through the yellow tape to the front door. As he had done the day before, Nick pressed the thumbpiece of the brass front door handle. This time, however, the door would not budge. “It’s locked!”

  “ ’Course it’s locked,” Mills affirmed. “Don’t want the whole town tramping through here.”

  “Yeah, but yesterday it was unlocked.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “I don’t see how that could be. I know I locked this place up Friday night.”

  “And I know I left it unlocked yesterday.”

  “It was unlocked, Sheriff. I even double-checked it,” Stella joined in. “We wanted to make sure we left everything the way we found it.”

  “Then that would mean that someone either broke in …”

  “Or they had a key.” Stella made no mention that only two of their suspects could have had such an object.

  “Looks like we’d better go over this place with a fine-tooth comb. You see anything out of place, you tell me,” the sheriff instructed as he took the house key from his pocket and opened the front door.

  Stella and Nick stepped into the cool whiteness of the main foyer and made their way upstairs. Everything, from Weston’s impressive collection of audio and visual equipment to his medicine cabinet full of restoratives, curatives, and elixirs, appeared to be intact and untouched. After a thorough exploration of the upstairs guest bedrooms produced the same result, Nick and Stella headed back downstairs to report to Mills.

  On the way down, Stella whispered to Nick, “There are only three people who might have a key for this place. Weston’s housekeeper, but no one’s even mentioned her as a suspect, or if she even had one. Mills is the second, most likely Weston’s copy.”

  “And Weston’s girlfriend, i.e., Alma, would have had another. Maybe we should have kept an eye on Mills instead of letting him search alone?”

  “It doesn’t matter now. The killer was already here—whatever he or she was looking for is probably gone.”

  “But we haven’t noticed anything missing.”

  “We’ll check downstairs.”

  They walked into the kitchen, where they found Sheriff Mills rummaging through an island of cherry cupboards topped by a slab of dark gray granite. He stood up as they entered the room. “Find anything?”

  “No,” Nick replied. “Everything seems to be the same as we left it.”

  “Nothing moved, taken away, or added,” Stella clarified. “At least, not that I noticed.”

  “Didn’t see anything down here either. Guess we were wrong about someone having been back here.”

  “Someone was here, Mills,” Nick rationalized. “And they came here for a reason. We might not be able to see what that reason is, but there has to be one.”

  Her suspicion of Mills renewed, Stella tried to throw him off course. “Probably just Crazy Maggie searching for her treasure.”

  Mills raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips together to imply that the Maggie scenario was a distinct possibility. “I’ll go check the cellar, though, just in case.”

  As Mills disappeared through an interior door, Stella walked toward the front of the house.

  Nick ran after her. “Where are you going? Shouldn’t one of us go down there with him?”

  “You go; I’ll be right back. The ladies’ room beckons.”

  As Nick returned to the kitchen, Stella retraced her steps into the foyer, pausing only to turn into the gray and stainless-steel powder room she had broken into less than twenty-four hours earlier. Closing the door behind her, she flipped on the light switch.

  The sight revealed by the soft white glow of the vanity bulbs made Stella freeze in her tracks. “Nick! Sheriff Mills!”

  She heard the sound of running footsteps as the two men scrambled out of the kitchen and through the foyer.

  The door flew open.

  “What is it?” Nick demanded. “Are you okay?”

  Stella pointed at the vanity mirror.

  Mills, gun drawn, was the first to enter. “What about the mirror?”

  “Honey, if this has something to do with you needing a salon appointment—”

  “No, it’s the frame.”

  Mills put the safety on the gun and returned it to its holster. “What about the frame?”

  “It’s completely different than the one that was in here yesterday.”

  “Are you sure?” Nick asked.

  “Positive. The frame in here was Baroque in style, carved wood with silver leaf. Looked to be quite old, too. I took note of it because it was so incongruous with the rest of the room. But this—” She examined the beveled edges and straight lines of the new frame. “This is—”

  “T
wenty-first century crap?”

  “Basically. This crackled silver finish? A veneer, and not a very good one either. And the wood beneath it is so soft I can stick my fingernail in it. I’m going to guess it’s pine. The mirror hasn’t changed; it’s attached separately to the wall. But the frame, which was installed as a finishing piece, is entirely different.”

  Nick stooped down and wiped some plasterboard dust from the floor with his finger. “This house might be new, but it’s not that new. Besides, I think Mr. ‘Crease in the Pants’ Weston would have made sure that was cleaned up.”

  “Why would someone switch the frame on a bathroom mirror?” Mills pondered aloud.

  “And why would they break in to do it?” Nick added.

  “Treasure,” Stella said in a near-whisper as she stared at the mirror frame.

  “You mean that was—?”

  “The painting? No, but that never was the real treasure, was it?”

  Mills gave her a puzzled look. “I don’t follow.”

  “I know you’re not a regular television viewer, Sheriff, but have you ever heard of Antiques Roadshow on PBS?”

  “Oh, you mean those fairs where people bring in junk and have it appraised? Yup, I know about those.”

  “Well, if you’ve ever seen someone bring in an old painting, then you’ll know that very often the frame is worth far more than the item inside it.”

  “You mean …?”

  “Art and frames aren’t my area of expertise, mind you, but I believe the frame I saw in this room yesterday was an original sixteenth-century Rococo.”

  “How much would that be worth?”

  “Given the size, condition, and age, a conservative estimate is anywhere from $15,000 and up. But, again, I’m not an expert.”

  “$15,000 for a frame?” Mills nearly choked.

  “And I low-balled it.” Stella pulled a cell phone from the rear pocket of her pants. “But I know a guy who can give us a more exact number.”

  “You can try and call him, but you’re not getting through to anyone on that from here. Only two spots around here where those phones work—one is the area by your house, the other is the sheriff’s department.”