“Are you serious?” Nick exclaimed. “No wonder I couldn’t get a signal outside Alice’s.”
Stella exhaled noisily. “Well, considering it’s Sunday, I’d probably be waiting until tomorrow for a call back anyway.”
“Prolly,” Mills agreed. “But you don’t have to wait to get into Perkins.”
“I don’t?”
“Nope. While I was at headquarters, I called Clyde and—how do you put it?—hooked you up.”
“Sheriff,” Nick said with a pat to Mills’s back, “this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
Standing in the same spot Bunny had occupied two nights earlier, Stella stared silently at the far wall of the Perkins Family Store and tried to make a connection between the woman’s strange reaction and the assortment of items gathered there.
The elderly clerk, whom Mills identified as Clyde Perkins, the store’s owner, watched the scene with skepticism. “You had me come down here on a Sunday so that she could stare at a wall?”
“I told you it’s police business,” Sheriff Mills assured him.
Nick moved beside his wife. “Do you see anything?”
“I see lots of things, but nothing that makes sense.” Her eyes darted from the rack of newspapers and magazines to the shelves of pain medications and first-aid items and then the vintage advertisements for Coca-Cola and Jarrett Rifles that hung above them.
“A picture will last longer,” Clyde taunted.
“So will we if you’re not quiet,” Nick retorted.
“Come on, Clyde,” Mills interjected. “Just let the lady do what she needs to do, and then you can go home.”
“Don’t listen to the old man, honey. Just take your time.”
Heeding Nick’s advice, Stella let her gaze linger on the magazine rack. Bearing periodicals of every sort, the pocket-style stand blocked the cover art of each issue, leaving only their titles visible. She read the name of each publication intently, but inwardly doubted that Sports Illustrated, Good Housekeeping, Yankee, or Country Living would prove of much value to the case.
Moving her focus to the first-aid and toiletries area, she realized that distance prohibited her from actually reading any of the labels. Only through the use of brand recognition was she able to determine the aspirin from the Tylenol and the Crest from the Aquafresh. Even then, she failed to see how adhesive bandages, Pepto Bismol, or Aqua Net hairspray might have incited Bunny to leave as quickly as she did.
Feeling defeated, she shifted her attention to the pair of vintage Coca-Cola advertisements that hung on the wall above. Bearing the traditional images of pretty, smiling young women drinking brown carbonated beverages, the first print featured a brunette in a white jacket and purple skirt. Seated at a chrome-trimmed lunch counter, the girl was turned slightly toward the viewer, the seat beside her conveniently empty as if to invite thirsty spectators into the scene. The second ad figured a Marilyn Monroe-esque blond in a white cowboy hat and yellow kerchief posed against a backdrop of mountains and horses. The vignette had been lassoed by a white rope that led to the Coca-Cola logo and the words Play Refreshed.
Juxtaposed against these post–World War II symbols of wholesome femininity hung a retro-style ad for Jarrett Rifles depicting two hunters—one in a suede Western shirt, a blue bandana, and jeans, the other in a green plaid shirt and tan pants—lying in the snow, attempting to shoot a buck in the distance.
Stella, deep in thought, frowned. Was this what Bunny had seen? An ad for Jarrett Rifles?
Nick noticed the change in Stella’s facial expression. “What is it?”
“The only thing I can think of is that Bunny saw those ads.”
Mills stepped forward. “Both she and Weston were killed with a hunting rifle. Don’t know if—”
The three turned around to see Clyde hanging on their every word.
“I think we’re done here,” Stella announced. “Maybe we should go somewhere to talk—in private.”
“Yeah, thanks, Clyde,” Mills politely added.
“Welcome,” the storeowner replied. “Did I hear you say you think the killer used a Jarrett?”
“Don’t know. Why?”
“Hank Reid owns one. He was in here last week telling me how he was going to take his out bear hunting this weekend.”
“Jarretts—they’re custom jobs, aren’t they?”
“Yup. Expensive too. Not likely to see many of them.”
“Hmph.” Mills led the way out of the store. “Well, thanks again, Clyde. See ya.”
Clyde followed them outside and locked the store behind him before driving away in a dilapidated white van.
When he had gone, Nick gave a triumphant laugh. “Ha! I knew it was Reid!”
“Careful now,” Mills warned. “We don’t know that for sure. We’d need to match Reid’s rifle to the bullet wounds.”
“Yeah, but come on. Bunny looks up and sees her boyfriend’s favorite hunting rifle advertised on the wall. She realizes he might have killed Weston and runs out of the store. Stel”—Nick always shortened his wife’s name in moments of excitement—“do you remember what she was saying before she freaked out?”
“She was talking about how men will do anything to impress a—”
“A what?”
“She ran off before she finished the sentence. But considering she was talking about Sheriff Mills and Alma, I’m assuming she was going to say ‘woman.’”
“See? Even that fits how Reid won over his wife by shooting her boyfriend.”
“What it doesn’t fit is why Weston was dressed the way he was and why he moved his truck into the woods.”
“Easy. He was hiding from Reid. I’d hide from that old coot too if I were Weston.”
“Why was Weston at our house in the first place?”
“To work on our well. Sometimes the obvious answer is the right one.” Nick held his arms aloft and wiggled his knees back and forth.
“What is he doing?” Mills asked Stella.
“That’s his victory dance,” she said with a roll of her eyes.
“I solved it,” Nick shouted. “I said it was Reid from the beginning, and I was right. Who’s number one? Who’s number one?”
“We won’t know he did it until we check his rifle,” Mills re-minded him.
“Yeah, Nick, so keep it under your hat for now. Because if the ballistics don’t match, you’ll go from number one to looking like number two.”
“Oh, they’ll match, all right,” Nick boasted as he climbed into Mills’s pickup. “And do you know why?”
He pointed to his chest. “Because I’m number one,” he silently mouthed.
Chapter
18
CUTTING HIS SUNDAY short in order to report his findings, Charlie Mills returned to the sheriff’s department, dropping Stella and Nick back at the camp along the way.
Stella kicked off her black flats and sat cross-legged on the air mattress while she resumed her stitching.
“Since I’ve solved our crime, how about we take this evening off to celebrate? We can go outside and watch the sun set over the Green Mountains and then have an early dinner. I’ll grill up those steaks Alma brought over, and there’s still some wine and beer in the cooler. What do you think?” Nick sat beside his wife and wrapped a muscular arm around her shoulders.
“I think that a woman couldn’t possibly have lifted that frame by herself.”
With a heavy sigh, Nick flopped backward onto the bed. “What part of the case is solved and let’s take tonight off confused you?”
“I’m sorry, I just can’t get it out of my head. I know Mills thinks Maggie’s behind the break-in at Weston’s house, but I disagree. First of all, that frame is enormous and very heavy, I’m sure. It would take some strength and skill to get it off the wall, let alone carry it back home.”
“Yeah, it’s about the size of a plate-glass window, isn’t it? And Maggie walks everywhere.”
“Exactly. Can you imagine her bringing that
through the woods? Secondly, Maggie referred to the painting as the treasure. I don’t think she has any idea that the frame might be the valuable piece.”
“You think it’s the valuable piece, but you haven’t confirmed that yet,” Nick sat back up. “For all you know, Weston sold the painting and kept the frame as a souvenir. But it’s all conjecture right now. As Mills said, we can’t do anything about this until tomorrow.”
“I know. I just can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Maybe you need a distraction,” Nick reached over and grabbed the cross-stitch fabric from his wife’s hands before reaching around her waist and kissing her.
“Keep that up and I might forget about the case altogether,” she said with a seductive smile. “And I don’t think I want to do that … yet.”
“I can wear a Sherlock Holmes deerstalker hat if it will help remind you.” He kissed her again, only to have her rear back.
“Wait! Oh my god, that’s it!”
“What? What did I say? What did I do?”
“The deerstalker hat.”
“Really? Jeez, had I known you found that such a turn-on, I’d have bought one years ago.”
“No, no, no, I’m excited, but not excited that way.”
“Shocking.” Nick let his arms fall from around her waist.
“I’m excited because Weston’s clothes were like your deerstalker hat.”
“You do realize I’m not actually wearing one, don’t you?”
“Yes, will you listen to me?” With a loud sigh, she stood up. “I’m saying that Weston’s clothes weren’t a disguise, they were a costume.”
“Hallow—”
“I know, Nick, Halloween is three weeks away. It wasn’t that type of costume. According to Alma, Bunny, and Mills, Weston was seeing a woman—someone other than Alma. Someone so desperate to remain unseen that she ducked down in the passenger seat of Weston’s car.”
“Right. What’s your point? That everyone in this town is getting it on except for us? Because I’m already aware of that.”
“Stop thinking of sex for a minute, will you? At least, stop thinking about sex between us—for the moment. Let’s assume that Weston wants to meet up with this mystery woman. Where do they go? Between Alma’s visits and Crazy Maggie lurking around, they can’t go to Weston’s house. It’s too risky. And they’ve already been spotted traveling out of town together. Suddenly, the phone rings—it’s Alice Broadman asking if Weston’s company will service the old Colton house.”
“That’s our place.”
“Yes, good, you’re following. Weston knows the house is empty and somewhat secluded, so he offers to service the house”—“And his girlfriend,” Nick inserted—“personally. He has his secretary schedule the appointment for that Wednesday and then proceeds to call his lover—”
“Wednesday? Our well was serviced on a Thursday.”
“Weston’s lover agrees to meet him at our house on Wednesday until, at the last minute, she can’t break away. She calls Weston, Weston has his secretary call Alice, and the rendezvous is rescheduled for the next day, which is Thursday.”
“Okay. I’m with you so far, but what about the clothes?”
“Either at his girlfriend’s request, or because he knows she likes the rugged type, Weston decides to play up the whole construction angle. He buys a plaid shirt and jeans—inexpensive, of course, because he never intends on wearing them in public or for very long and, well, they fit the part—and calls her when he arrives at the house.”
“So that’s who he was on the phone with when Alice arrived.”
Stella nodded. “Knowing he’ll have to actually work on the well after his assignation, Weston unloads the truck and then, so that no one will know he’s there and possibly interrupt their afternoon delight, he moves the truck into the woods and walks back to the house, where his sweetie is waiting for him.”
“On our air mattress. Good thing we got a new one.”
“I hadn’t even thought of that. Wow, that makes me glad we didn’t …”
“Yeah, me too,” Nick agreed. “So, who killed Weston? The girlfriend? That doesn’t make sense.”
Stella shook her head. “Despite Weston’s best efforts, he was outsmarted. Whether he followed one of them there or overheard their phone conversation, the girlfriend’s husband shows up later and shoots Weston in the chest.”
“So all we need to do is find out who Weston was seeing, and the case is solved.”
“I know who Weston was seeing. So did Bunny; that’s why she was killed.”
“Who was it?”
“Betsy Brunelle. Bunny figured it out that night at Perkins.”
Nick knitted his eyebrows together. “How? From what?”
“The ads. Not just one, but the combination of them: a woman waiting for someone to join her, the cowgirl, and the hunters, one of whom looked very much like a cowboy, the other dressed in similar clothes to Weston.”
“I still don’t see the connection between the cowboys and Betsy.”
“Didn’t you notice her screensaver at the office? A slideshow of beefy cowboys—all with beards.”
“Oh yeah. I thought it was weird for a married woman to have that on her computer, especially when her husband was right in the office. But given who she was married to …”
“Not only is Jake not very good looking, but he had been steadily losing business, whereas Weston was fairly wealthy. Remember, Betsy said her favorite pastime is shopping.”
“And men. Don’t forget the men. I know she didn’t verbalize that, but she said it in other ways, and it substantiates your theory. My only question is, how would Bunny have seen that screensaver?”
Deep in thought, Stella lay back on the mattress. Several minutes elapsed before she spoke again. “Did Mills bring a newspaper with our coffee?”
“Yeah, it’s on the front porch. Why?”
“I need to check something,” she explained as she rose from the bed and ran out the front door with Nick in tow.
Retrieving the paper from its spot atop Alma’s cooler, Stella perused a few lines and began to smile. “Here, look at that.”
Nick took the publication from her hand and began to read out loud. “A sixty-two-year-old Windsor County woman was found dead in her home last night. Police report that Elizabeth ‘Bunny’ Randall died as a result of two bullet wounds to the chest.” He looked up. “Elizabeth Randall?”
“That’s right. The office clerk the Brunelles hired and subsequently fired.”
“Betsy said she fired Bunny because of some rotten habit. Did she mean snooping or gossiping?”
“Probably both. Betsy might not like being in the office alone all day, but if she were having an affair with Weston, having a ‘nosebag’ like Bunny around was even worse. By the time she was fired, I’m sure Bunny was aware that Betsy was seeing someone. Perhaps she even suspected it was Weston, but it took that night at Perkins for her to suspect the affair and Weston’s death might be linked.”
“But why not say something to you or the police? Why rush out of the store the way she did?”
“She and Betsy were friends, remember? Even though Betsy had fired Bunny, there still had to be some sense of loyalty. Bunny wouldn’t want to reveal the affair to me or accuse Jake of murder without talking to her friend first.”
“But Jake had an alibi for Weston’s murder, didn’t he?”
“How airtight is that alibi? Brunelle works alone; if the home-owners were out at the time of the installation, he could have left the property at any time. Likewise, when there’s no traffic—and there wasn’t any on Thursday morning—it only takes fifteen minutes to cut across town.”
“But how would Brunelle have known Bunny was on to him?”
“I can only guess that Bunny left the store and hightailed it to the Brunelles’ shop. Whether Jake overheard her conversation with Betsy or somehow ran into her and got suspicious is anyone’s guess, but make no mistake: Bunny was murdered because s
he knew too much.”
“And the frame?”
“Unrelated to the murder,” she shrugged. “Either Maggie found a way to engineer the heist, or someone, like a maid or a housekeeper, realized what it was worth and took it.”
“Someone who can recognize a Baroque silver-leaf picture frame?”
“Maybe there’s another explanation, but I don’t see how it could have anything to do with Weston’s death.”
“Me neither. So what do we do about Jake Brunelle? I know we have no solid evidence, but if the guy killed Bunny because she might turn him in, wouldn’t he do the same thing to his wife if he thought she suspected him?”
“I was just thinking the same thing. We have to get Mills over there, and quick.”
She pulled the cell phone from her back pocket and began to dial before noticing that she had no signal. “Grrr … outhouses, no cell phone service, no electricity, and a killer on the loose. Where the hell did we move to, Nick?”
“I don’t know, but we’d better take the car and try to call Mills from the road before it’s too late.”
Chapter
19
NICK DROVE AS fast as safely possible down Route 4 while Stella monitored her cell phone for the slightest hint of reception. “I thought Mills said we got service on this road,” she complained.
“He meant the road outside our house, not the camp,” he corrected as he stepped on the brakes. “We’re stopping. Why are we stopping? What the hell is this?”
Ahead, a coach bus marked as being part of Happy Trail Bus Tours turned on its yellow flashers and crept along the two-way highway.
“Can you go around them?”
“I can’t see what’s coming, and it’s a double-lined road.”
A set of red lights came aglow as the bus ground to a halt in the middle of the traffic lane.
“What the—? Oh, come on! Why are you stopping?”
“Oh, Nick, we have to go around them somehow!”
“Don’t worry, I’m on it.” He swerved onto the shoulder of the road and began to accelerate in an attempt to overtake the bus from the right-hand side.
As the front bumper of the Smart car reached the back of the bus, the larger vehicle opened its doors, issuing forth an army of camera-toting senior citizens onto the dusty shoulder and outward into an adjacent field.
Well-Offed in Vermont: A Pret’ Near Perfect Mystery Page 19
