Short-Circuited
in
Charlotte
A Pret’ Near Perfect Mystery
Forthcoming by
amy patricia meade:
Tish Tarragon’s Culinary Mysteries
Short-Circuited
in
Charlotte
A Pret’ Near Perfect Mystery
Amy Patricia Meade
Short-Circuited in Charlotte © 2017 by Amy Patricia Meade. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover design and cover image by Dar Dixon
Editing by Stephanie Manuzak
ISBN-13: 978-1542363235
ISBN-10: 1542363233
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017900428
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, North Charleston, SC
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Chapter One
Stella Thornton Buckley clutched her red travel coffee mug firmly in one hand while wheeling a sizeable black suitcase down the gravel-lined driveway with the other.
“Is there anything left in your closet?” quipped her husband, Nick, as he loaded the piece of luggage into the back of his white United States Forest Service issued Dodge Ram pickup truck.
“Very funny. We’re heading to northern Vermont at the end of October. I’ve done my research: during the course of this weekend, we could experience rain, frost, summer’s heat, and even an overnight snow flurry. I want to be prepared.”
“And a smaller, carry-on sized bag wouldn’t have accomplished that?”
“I was raised on Long Island, Nick. This is my overnight bag. Besides, it’s eight o’clock on Friday morning; we don’t get home until Sunday. That’s way longer than overnight.” With that, she turned on one heel and headed back to the farmhouse she and Nick had purchased just three weeks earlier.
“Where are you going? We need to hit the road soon if we’re going to have enough time to check in and set up.”
“I’ll just be a minute,” she shouted before dashing down the drive and through the kitchen door. She emerged a few seconds later, carrying a large red leather tote as well as her usual oversized handbag. “Sorry about that. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t leave the toaster plugged in or the stove on. Oh, and I wanted make sure the motion sensor light by the barn was switched on.”
“Okay, but we could have asked Alma or Mills to check on the place while we’re away. Ummm… what are those?” Nick’s dark brow furrowed as he motioned toward the bags.
Stella flicked her shoulder length, dark blonde hair casually over her shoulder. “These? One is my purse. The other is a shoe bag.”
“Your shoe bag?” he replied incredulously.
“Yes, my shoe bag. And, trust me, not an inch of it is wasted. It’s just large enough to hold what I need for the weekend.”
“What’s wrong with the shoes you’re wearing?”
Stella raised her leg high enough to arch a leopard print loafer-clad foot. “Well, these are fine for warm, dry days like today. But if it gets colder, I’ll need my fur-lined lace-up booties. If it rains, I have my fun, red-dotted wellingtons. If it’s damp and cold, I have my knee-high riding boots. Oh, and I also have a pair of sneakers in case I want to fit in a long walk and a nice pair of dress shoes in case we go out to dinner.”
“I think our host has dinner covered, but… whatever. We’ll talk more on the way. Hop in,” he urged.
After tossing the red shoe tote over the tailgate, Stella hoisted herself into the passenger seat, closed the door behind her, and, after placing her Coach handbag onto the floor, promptly fastened the belt. “So, who is our host anyway?”
Nick eased the Ram down the long gravel driveway. “Some heavy hitter from Boston. I don’t remember his name, but the paperwork is all right there.” He moved his right hand from the gearshift and pointed down toward the center console storage unit.
Stella lifted the lid of the console and extracted a stack of white printer paper, which had been neatly folded in half. “Philip Morehouse,” she read aloud as she unfolded the papers and scanned the first page. “Businessman, philanthropist, and founder of the Wanda Rousseau-Morehouse Foundation, a non-profit organization dedicated to creating a State of Vermont where science, art, technology, and the environment can coexist and thrive.’”
Having reached the end of the driveway, Nick made a left past the house belonging to their colorful neighbor, Crazy Maggie Lawson, and onto the main road. “Yeah, that’s what this festival is all about: using art and technology to enhance creativity and improve people’s lives, while being conscious of the environment in the process.”
“Since 2009,” Stella continued reading, “the Wanda Rousseau-Morehouse Foundation has sponsored Creator’s Cavalcade, an art and technology festival that takes place each fall on the grounds of Vue Colline, Philip Morehouse’s thirty-two acre estate set against the backdrop of Vermont’s Green Mountains in the picturesque town of Charlotte.”
Stella had pronounced ‘Charlotte’ as one might pronounce the girl’s name, but Nick was quick to correct her. “It’s Char-LOT.” He placed the emphasis on the second syllable.
“Are you serious?”
“Yep. That’s how the guys at the ranger station pronounced it. Vue Colline in Char-LOT. Oh, by the way, that’s also where we’ll be staying: Vue Colline.”
“Oh, the guest house, probably. Right?”
“I don’t think so,” Nick argued. “Somewhere in there – page two or three maybe – it says that we’re to check in at the main house and drop off our luggage before setting up for the festival. We’re supposed to meet Morehouse’s secretary or something.”
“Um, yeah, his assistant,” Stella corroborated as she skimmed through page two. “Meagan McArdle. There’s also a list here of the people participating in the fair: robot experts, a fiber artist, a glass blower, some guy who makes music from junk, several teams of hybrid engine developers… there’s no way all these people are staying under one roof.”
“They’re not. Most everyone participating lives nearby – there’s just a handful of us who are coming from other parts of the state or country.”
“Or world,” Stella added. “The fiber artist is Italian and the Master of Molecular Gastronomy is French. It’s an interesting cast of characters. Makes me wonder who will join us for dinner tonight and how your work fits in.”
“I’ll be discussing the Forest Service’s new conservation efforts, especially regarding our new wind power initiative and forest management and water conservation along the Appalachian Trail – which starts in Maine and travels through Vermont. Of course, I’ll also be trying to raise the environmental awareness of the next generation, so I’ll be promoting the junior ranger program too.”
“Well, I think it’s quite kind of your boss to let both of us attend this function. Between the move and the Allen Weston case, I feel as though we’ve been living in the eye of a hurricane. It will be nice to get away, even if it’s for a few short days.”
Nick frowned. The discovery of a body in the well of their newly purchased farmhouse had made the relocation to Vermont more stressful than one could imagine, but now that the murderer had been caught and the
case closed, he was looking forward to his and Stella’s life getting back to normal. “Yeah, I’m not so sure that my boss was being altruistic when he asked me to go – he’s a quiet guy and a native Vermonter, so spending a weekend talking to strangers really isn’t his thing – but no doubt, the change of scenery will do us both some good.”
“And we get to spend the weekend together. That doesn’t happen very often; usually you’re working.”
“I still am working, Stella. Remember?”
“I know, but it’s not like you’re off patrolling the woods. You’re here in civilization where I can help you set up and, if you debrief me on what to say, I can fill in for you when you need a break. Oh, and we can even have lunch together.”
“Yes, we can. And I love the fact that you’re nearby.” Nick reached over and grabbed his wife’s hand. “But, truth be told, I don’t think we’re going to be that busy – at least not my table. I think the robots and hybrid engines will probably get more traffic. I just don’t want you to get bored, Stella. If you need to go, then please feel free to do whatever you want.”
“Me? Bored? I enjoy people watching. Besides, I brought some things with me: a book, some magazines I subscribed to and have yet to read, and some stitching projects. Since Alma hung up that cross stitch sampler of mine in the Sweet Shop, I’ve gotten three more orders.”
Prior to moving to Vermont, she and Nick lived in New York City, where Stella had worked as a textile curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The move to a rural area meant a change from a desk job with the Forest Service to a much-coveted field position for Nick. For Stella, however, it meant unemployment – a situation that she hoped would soon change, but until it did, she filled her time by decorating her new home and creating sassy, oftentimes surly, cross stitch pieces, one of which was displayed upon the wall of Alma Deville’s coffee shop.
“Three? Wow, you’re getting quite the business going.” Nick’s hazel eyes grew large. “What are they this time?”
“One is for a copy of Alma’s ‘Bitch in Kitchen.’ The other two are custom orders: ‘Shut Your Pie Hole,’ which I’ll probably accent with an image of –”
“A slice of pie?” Nick guessed.
“Uh huh. The other custom order is ‘Adios Bitchados.’ Apparently one of Alma’s friends is quitting her job. Why she would want to spend good money on an ornery parting gift for her former employer is beyond me, but I wasn’t about to talk the woman out of a sale. However, I still have no idea what the design is going to look like. A guy in a sombrero maybe?”
“If she’s leaving on bad terms, a middle finger might be more appropriate.”
“Um, she’s a church secretary,” Stella explained.
“Sombrero it is,” Nick declared.
“Uh, yeah. Anyway, my point is that I won’t be bored. I have my stitching stuff and graph paper with me; I have thirty-two acres of walking space and a mansion – hello, a mansion! – at my disposal, and if I get tired of the country life, I can go into Charlotte and check out the shops.”
“You’re on a huge estate in the country, hon. How are getting to town?”
“The truck, of course. Once you’re set up at the fair, you won’t need it again until we leave. Unless, of course, we decide to go off on our own one night.”
“This is a government-issued vehicle, Stella.”
“Meaning it’s to be used by government employees only,” she surmised.
“That and I don’t want to have to tell my boss that the clutch is shot after just two weeks of driving it.”
“You’re afraid I’ll burn out the clutch? Seriously?” Her green eyes flashed. “I’ll have you know that I’ve driven a car with standard transmission before.”
“Really? When? 1986?”
“Funny. You know I wasn’t old enough to drive then. No, it was actually back in my driver’s ed class; our regular car was in for service and the only available replacement had a clutch. I did very well, actually. I was one of only three people in my class who was able to keep the car from rolling backward when stopped on top of a hill.”
“You realize that was well over twenty years ago, don’t you?” Nick challenged.
“Yeah, so? Some things you don’t forget. It’s like riding a bike. I might be a little rusty at first, but I’m sure it would all come back to me.”
“Uh huh. Well, until you’ve worked out whatever rust might be rattling around in your memory, I’d prefer you practice on a different bicycle than this one.”
Stella clicked her tongue. “You’d think you’d have more faith in your wife’s skills.”
“I do,” Nick replied with a smirk, “just not when she’s driving federal property.”
Several hours and a brief lunch stop later, Nick brought the Dodge Ram to a halt before a pair of imposingly majestic black wrought iron gates which, amid their intricate scrollwork, bore an enormous letter ‘R.’ For the sake of convenience, the right side of the gate had been propped open.
A paunchy uniformed security guard with sandy colored hair that was slightly graying at the temples emerged from the nearby white-shingled gatehouse.
Nick immediately rolled down the driver’s side window. “Hi.”
“Afternoon.”
“I’m here for Creator’s Cavalcade. I’m with the U.S. Forest Service.”
The guard nodded and looked at his clipboard. “Name?”
“Last name’s Buckley. Nick Buckley.”
The guard frowned. “No Nick here. Only Buckley I have is Graham.”
“Yep, that’s me,” Nick explained as he sat up and extracted his wallet from his back jeans pocket. Upon discovering, on numerous occasions, that Graham was not a safe name to be sporting on a Hackensack, New Jersey playground, he had, at age twelve, decided to go by his middle name instead. Nicolas, or Nick, was a moniker far better suited to a young man who played football, aspired to a career in forestry, and was well on his way to reaching his current height of six feet two inches.
The guard took Nick’s license and, after a quick perusal, nodded and handed it back. “Go through the gates, up the hill, and stay to your right. There will be lots of chances to turn left, but just keep to your right and in three miles you’ll be right there by the front door of the main house. I’ll radio Ms. McArdle and let her know to expect you.”
Nick thanked the guard and returned the license to his wallet with a shake of his head. “Damn, Walter.”
Stella recognized Walter as the name of Nick’s boss; she also recognized Nick’s frustration. “Graham is the name on your I.D., hon. Walter didn’t have much choice.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Nick sighed under his breath. Following the guard’s directions, he drove the truck through the gate and up a privet-lined driveway. About a half-mile along the route, the privets disappeared, replaced with a view of rolling hills, a great brownish gold meadow, and acre upon acre of barren farmland that, only a few months earlier, must have been incredibly lush and verdant.
The couple rode in silence as the landscape around them unfolded: the stark gray of empty branches studded by the occasional resilient patch of orange, red, or brown foliage, a pasture of grazing sheep, a rock-lined brook, a brightly-painted barn, and then, at three miles, Vue Colline itself.
An exquisite example of Tudor-style architecture, the turn-of-the-twentieth-century mansion featured exquisite details: steeply pitched roofs, herringbone brickwork, tall mullioned windows, and incredibly tall chimneys.
“Honey, we’re home,” Nick sang.
“Um, remember when I said I’d never move from our new house? I may have been a little hasty,” Stella quipped.
“Down girl. Those thirty-two acres sound like a hell of a mowing headache.”
“Sheep, baby, sheep. And, given the size of that mansion, a fleet of servants, a few maids, and… a huge mortgage.”
“Yeah, I’ll get right on that. Is there anything else you’d like while I’m at it? A platinum mine or a replica of the Great Pyra
mid maybe?”
Stella reached across the truck’s center console and placed a loving hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Of course not, sweetie. You should know by now that all I want is you.”
“Same here, honey.” Nick removed his right hand from the gearshift and patted his wife’s knee. “Well, and maybe a plasma TV to hang above the den fireplace.”
“Spoken like a true romantic,” she said drily.
Nick brought the truck to a halt before Vue Colline’s arched front doorway, where a slender thirty-something woman sporting a headset and a blue fleece jacket embroidered with the Creator’s Cavalcade logo awaited their arrival.
“Hi, you must be the Buckleys,” she greeted as Stella and Nick alighted from the cab of the truck.
“Yes. I’m Nick.” He stepped forward and extended his right hand.
“Meagan McArdle,” the brunette introduced herself as she grasped Nick’s hand in hers and gave a polite shake. “I’m Mr. Morehouse’s personal assistant.”
“Nice to meet you, Meagan,” he acknowledged with a nod of the head and a slight bow. He relinquished the woman’s hand and gestured to his left. “This is my wife, Stella.”
Stella offered her hand and the two women exchanged pleasantries.
“I’m a bit confused, Mr. Buckley. On our registration forms, your name was given as ‘Graham’ but you introduced yourself to our gate attendant, and now to me, as ‘Nick.’ Did we get our wires crossed somehow?”
“No, my first name is actually Graham. I just prefer to use my middle name.”
“Oh,” Meagan frowned. “All your credentials for the fair are under your first name. I’ll see if we have some extra blank badges. It won’t look as nice but you can write your name in permanent marker.”
“Thanks,” Nick said appreciatively. “But you really don’t need to go to extra trouble.”
Short-Circuited in Charlotte: A Pret' Near Perfect Mystery Page 1
