“I am fine,” Meagan insisted. “I’m sitting in a chair, not competing in a marathon.”
“And sitting up is light years beyond where you were when I left,” Stella agreed. “How are you doing, Oona?”
Oona shrugged as she blinked back the tears.
Stella perched on the edge of the bed and took the woman’s hand. “I am so incredibly sorry. I realize we’ve only just met, but if there’s anything I can do – anything at all – please do not hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you,” Oona replied in a near-whisper.
“That goes for you too, Meagan. I can’t imagine what either of you must be going through right now.”
“You’re already doing plenty,” Meagan gushed. “Listening to what must have sounded like the ramblings of a crazy woman and then choosing to act upon them. I honestly cannot thank you enough.”
Stella flashed a weak smile. “I suggest you save your gratitude until I’m actually able to prove your theory.”
“Oh, but you will be able to prove it. I just know you will,” Meagan declared. “Oona, I’ve haven’t told you yet for fear of causing you any further distress, but I’ve asked Stella to look into both Philip’s and Arthur’s deaths.”
“Look into?” Oona raised a questioning eyebrow. “Isn’t that what the police are doing?”
“They are, but so far, they haven’t considered that there might be a connection between the two.”
“Well, why – how could they? Philip died of a heart attack and my Arthur was…” Oona’s voice trailed off as her eyes, once again, filled with tears.
“I know,” Meagan said softly. “I know that the circumstances surrounding each death are very different, but you must admit the timing is very strange. There were a just a dozen people in the house and less than a handful more on the grounds last night. Yet two in that group of sixteen-odd people died within hours of each other. That has to be more than just coincidence.”
“It is odd,” Oona allowed. “But I still don’t see how they could possibly be connected or how Mrs. Buckley here can possibly help me. As I said, Philip died in his bed, while Arthur was stabbed to death by thugs looking for money or drugs or both.”
“You can’t say for certain what the murderer was after,” Meagan said calmly. “The police are merely speculating.”
“Oh, come on, Meagan,” Oona urged. “Everyone knows our state is in the throes of a heroin epidemic.”
“I, um, I’m not sure quite how to break this to you, Oona,” Stella prefaced, “but I don’t believe your husband was killed by some random thug or desperate drug addict. I have reason to suspect that he was actually murdered by someone in this house.”
“Someone in this house?” Meagan repeated as Oona gasped in disbelief.
“That can’t be! As you witnessed last night, we Creators don’t always see eye to eye,” Ms. B. Ology stated defensively, “but to suggest that one of us would commit murder – well, all I can say is that you’d better have evidence to back your claims.”
“Murder?” Chef Durand asked as he entered the room carrying a porcelain tea service on a silver tray. “What happened while I was gone? What did I miss?”
“Mrs. Buckley was just telling us that she thinks someone here at Vue Colline is responsible for Arthur’s murder,” B. Ology replied.
“She thinks one of us murdered Arthur?” Durand laughed. “Why would anyone want to do that?”
“I don’t know,” Stella admitted. “I’ve yet to pinpoint which of us is the murderer, let alone identify a motive. However, I do know that the knife used to kill Mr. Bauersfeld was designed by none other than Chip Carlson. You may remember it, Meagan. Chip Carlson gave the knife to Philip Morehouse as a gift a few years ago and it’s been on display on a bookshelf in the drawing room ever since.”
“Carlson,” B. Ology exclaimed. “I should have guessed it! No wonder he’s never attended a Cavalcade before – he’s nuts.”
“B.,” Meagan chided. “Mr. Carlson is an extremely busy man. He’s had previous engagements for the previous Cavalcades, but he’s always been generous enough to send along his inventions.”
“Well, has anyone checked with these ‘previous engagements’? Perhaps some dead bodies showed up at those events as well.”
“Mr. Carlson is the preeminent Steampunk artist in the United States. The trail of dead bodies he’d have left in his wake would circumnavigate the world,” Meagan sighed.
Taking a different tack, Stella asked Oona, “Mrs. Bauersfeld, can you think of any motive Mr. Carlson may have had to murder your husband?”
Oona shook her head. “No. Arthur hadn’t even met Mr. Carlson. Arthur had intended to introduce himself at some point over the weekend, but well, that’s not going to happen now.”
“See?” Meagan challenged Ms. B. Ology. “Chip Carlson and Arthur Bauersfeld didn’t even know each other.”
“Okay, okay,” she sighed. “But trust me. That Carlson dude is hiding something. He’s just too… too damned good looking.”
Durand set a snack table in the center of the room with one hand and placed the tray on it with the other. “I once thought I understood what women wanted in a man, but every time you and I talk, Mademoiselle, you continually prove to me that, not only am I old, but I know nothing. Monsieur Carlson is talented, charming, and polite. He also happened to have his eye on you during dinner last night.”
“He did not,” Ms. B. cried as she shot a questioning glance in Meagan’s direction.
“He did,” Meagan nodded.
Durand poured a cup of chamomile tea, added a teaspoon of sugar, and passed it to Meagan. “Here you go, mon petite,” he said to her, aside. “But now Mr. Carlson is too handsome for you. Never in my life have I heard of such a thing.”
“Well, it’s not just that. He’s also an artist,” Ms. B. Ology continued. “I, too, am an artist. Artists and artists don’t mix when it comes to romance.”
“I see, then, that you have it all figured out,” Durand joked as he passed another cup of tea to Oona and then one to Stella.
“Yes, I have, thank you,” B. Ology replied. “I always do think things through. Well, most of the time.”
“Mmm,” Durand remarked with a grin. “However, what you have not figured out is if Carlson is the murderer, he most certainly would not have used his own knife. That would be like me clubbing someone over the head with a cast iron omelet pan.”
“Alright, I get it.” Ms. B. waved her free hand in a gesture that conveyed that she had endured enough of Durand’s teasing. “You know I could argue that, in some cases, using a traceable weapon might be so obvious as to be considered clever, but I’ll save that argument for another time.”
Stella thought about Ms. B. Ology’s words and, although convoluted, there was a ray of truth to them. If a suspect had a rock solid alibi and no apparent motive, using one’s own weapon would, inevitably, lead to the conclusion that the murder was a frame-up. Unfortunately, Chip Carlson’s reaction to the questions presented him did not support this popular detective novel denouement.
It did, however, support one of Ms. B.’s earlier theories: Mr. Carlson had something to hide.
“I don’t think that’s the case here,” Stella opined. “As we already mentioned, Chip Carlson had no motive.”
“But that’s just it,” B. Ology complained. “Arthur Bauersfeld was one of the gentlest souls I’ve ever met. He was quiet, reserved, polite. He built yurts and fought to have them manufactured as shelters for the homeless. Why would anyone want to hurt the man, let alone murder him? Carlson may not have a motive, but I can’t think of anyone else who would either.”
Oona gave a loud cough that nearly sent
her tea cup tumbling from its saucer.
Stella reached over and offered a steadying hand. “Are you okay?”
Oona nodded. “Would you mind very much accompanying me to the ladies’ room?”
“Certainly.” Stella took Oona’s cup and saucer and,
along with her own, placed it on the tray in the center of the room. Taking Oona gently by the arm, she helped her to her feet and then led her out of Meagan’s room and into the hall.
Once they were out of earshot, Oona tugged at Stella’s arm. “May I speak with you in private?” she asked quietly.
“Of course,” Stella agreed and guided Oona to the bedroom she shared with Nick. Upon entering she noticed that someone – Tuttle most likely – had tidied the room, for the bed had been made and there were vacuum tracks on the Persian area rug beneath the bed.
Plumping a pillow on her side of the bed, Stella offered Oona a comfortable resting spot.
“I don’t want to lie down,” Oona refused. “I need to talk to you.”
“Okay.”
“I was listening to Ms. B. Ology just now saying how she can’t imagine why anyone would want to murder my Arthur and I remembered something.”
“What is it?”
“Yesterday, when we first arrived, Arthur stopped by the house to say hello to Philip. It’s something he did every year; the two of them would drink coffee and catch up while I unpacked the yurt and chatted with the other Creators. Anyway, this year when Arthur came back from his coffee klatch, he was not his usual mellow self. He was edgy and preoccupied.”
“I didn’t say anything at first,” Oona continued, “but when his mood didn’t improve, I pressed him as to what was wrong. After some hemming and hawing, Arthur told me that during the course of his meeting with Philip, a folder of paperwork had been accidentally knocked from Philip’s desk. When Arthur bent down to pick up the folder and its contents, he saw proof that Philip was not going to sell that robotic suit of his to clinics and hospitals, but to the Chinese.”
At this bit of news, Stella plopped onto the edge of the mattress. “No. That – that can’t be true. Morehouse told us just last night that he had been talking to Dartmouth-Hitchcock and Johns Hopkins.”
Oona shook her head. “That might have been what he wanted you to believe, but my Arthur found out the truth.”
“And Arthur was positive about what he had seen?”
“Absolutely.”
“Did Philip realize that Arthur saw that paperwork?”
“Not at first. But when Philip got up from his desk at the end of their meeting, he looked down and noticed what file had fallen. Arthur said Philip’s face went white.”
“Did Philip say anything?”
“No. He and Arthur said goodbye to each other and Arthur returned to our site at the Cavalcade. After Arthur told me what he had seen, I urged him to confront Philip about it. Arthur said he would think about it, but that’s as far as he got before…”
“What you’re telling me is, indeed, incredible, Oona,” Stella acknowledged. “But I’m not sure I follow how this would be helpful to the case.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Oona’s face hardened. “Philip Morehouse murdered my husband.”
Chapter Ten
“That simply can’t be true,” Meagan insisted as she flung her head back against the back of her chair in exasperation. Chef Durand and Ms. B. Ology had been dismissed from the room so that Stella could discuss Oona Bauersfeld’s recent allegations.
“Philip was ecstatic to be presenting HALLE to such prestigious medical institutions,” Meagan explained. “It’s all he’s been talking about for months. I think, in some small way, he was even more excited about that presentation than he was about our wedding.”
Stella paced to and fro, all the while her eyes fixed upon the white shag carpet, contemplating her next move. “So you’re positive he wouldn’t have changed his mind – even if selling the suit elsewhere might have garnered him more money?”
Meagan shook her head vehemently. “It wasn’t about the money for him. Wanda, Philip’s wife, died as a result of complications of multiple sclerosis. She spent her last years in a wheelchair. Philip’s main goal in having HALLE created was to help people like Wanda retain their mobility for as long as possible. He wouldn’t have sold that for all the money in the world. You need to explain that to Oona.”
“I would,” Stella sighed, “but she’s downstairs talking to Sheriff Wilkins. Once she told me what Arthur discovered, she insisted that the police be informed.”
Meagan jolted upright. “And you let her talk to them?”
“Short of tackling Oona in the hallway, there was no way to stop her. Besides, I’m already on the sheriff’s bad side; giving her reason to arrest me for obstruction of justice seemed like the last thing I should be doing.”
“Maybe the sheriff won’t believe Oona’s story. I mean, how does she explain the slash in the tent and Philip turning up dead?”
Stella stopped pacing and looked the other woman in the eye. Meagan had been through a great deal of pain in a short period of time, however, she needed to know the truth. “Oona believes that Philip slashed the tent in order to scare her and Arthur away from the Cavalcade. When Oona showed up at the house later in the evening, she theorizes that Philip went into a panic and stabbed Arthur in order to ensure his silence. Philip then returned to the house and went to bed, but the trauma of the event presented too much of a strain and he died shortly afterwards of a heart attack.”
Meagan sat in awed silence for several seconds before speaking again. “Do you think the police will believe her?”
Stella shrugged. “They’ll look into her claims. They’ll check the times of death for both Philip and Arthur to see if they correlate with the theory. While they do that, they’ll search for the paper Arthur saw –”
“But there is no paper,” Meagan insisted. “I tell you there was none.”
Stella began pacing again. “I believe that there was no paper stating that Philip was selling HALLE to the Chinese, the Japanese, or any other government, but Arthur Bauersfeld must have seen something that caused him to react the way he did. Unless, of course, Arthur was a man prone to exaggeration and overreaction.”
“No, he wasn’t. Oona is, but Arthur, never.”
“That’s what I thought. So the police will search for this document… this something that Arthur saw. In the meantime, they’ll also fingerprint the knife. They’ll be checking for all possible prints, but, given Oona’s statement, they’ll also be searching for any trace of Philip’s.”
“They won’t find Philip’s prints because he didn’t do it. I know he didn’t.”
“I’m not doubting Philip’s innocence, Meagan. But the knife was given to him as a gift. Unless someone scoured it clean before placing it in the presentation case, his prints will be there.”
“But he didn’t do it!” Meagan was sobbing now. “At least I think he didn’t.”
“Is there something you’re trying to tell me, Meagan?” Stella prompted.
“No. No. Had you asked me hours ago, I would have been positive Philip didn’t do it. But Arthur seeing documents linking him to the Chinese… I’m just tired. We need to prove Philip didn’t do it. I need to know that. What do we need to do to get the truth?”
Stella paced two more times before passing a box of facial tissue to Meagan and perching on the edge of the chair beside hers. “We look for someone other than Philip who may have had a motive to murder Arthur Bauersfeld.”
“How?” Meagan continued to cry. “It’s like Ms. B. said: who would want to hurt a man who sought to provide housing solutions to the homeless? I’ve thought about it long and hard and I honestly can’t come up with a single soul.”
After helping Meagan back into bed, Stella left the White Room and stealthily made her way to her shoes and the back door. Upon locating her raincoat and boots, she made her way back to the fairgrounds where she found Nick alone in the U.S. Forest Service tent. The rain had picked up considerably and a stiff west wind had forced the Creators to roll down the sides of their tents most vulnerable to the elements.
“How did the vacuuming go?” Nick smirked as Stella, her red hood pulled tightly over her head and looking damp and miserable, approa
ched.
She shrugged and, with arms crossed, plopped into a nearby steel folding chair.
“That good huh? Did you happen to speak with Sheriff Wilkins?” Nick asked.
“No, I avoided her like the plague. Why?”
“Because the fair is now open.”
Stella shook her head. “It’s probably open because the police believe they’ve found their fall guy.”
“They have? Who is it?”
“Philip Morehouse.”
“What? How? Why?”
Stella recounted her experience back at the house.
“That’s crazy,” Nick pronounced. “I mean even if I were to believe that Morehouse murdered Bauersfeld because he found about Morehouse’s secret plan to sell HALLE – which I don’t, by the way – it’s completely inconceivable that Morehouse would do so right here on the Cavalcade grounds. This event was his pride and joy; he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize its success.”
“True. He and Meagan even postponed making wedding plans so that they could focus on this year’s event,” Stella concurred.
“There you go.”
“Yeah, but it still doesn’t help me figure out who killed Arthur Bauersfeld. To hear everyone talk about him, the man should have been declared a saint. It doesn’t quite fit with him being a murder victim.”
Nick shrugged. “Maybe because the only reason he was killed was because he got in the way.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been thinking about his tent. A few years back some Florida policemen got into trouble for slashing the tents of some homeless people who were camped out near a fairly exclusive neighborhood. The police had asked them to leave after receiving complaints from the area residents and they complied – for a while. But when they returned, the cops ensured that this time they would stay away for good.”
“By slashing their tents,” Stella surmised.
“Yep.”
“And you think someone wanted Arthur and Oona Bauersfeld out of the Cavalcade badly enough to take a knife to their tent.”
“Not out of the Cavalcade, just out of their tent,” Nick clarified. “And not permanently either. The tents of the homeless in Florida were slashed to the ground to deter anyone from returning. The Bauersfelds’ tent was slashed and the interior exposed to the storm, but it could, eventually, have been repaired. If you recall, the support rods were still intact.”
Short-Circuited in Charlotte: A Pret' Near Perfect Mystery Page 13
