Short-Circuited in Charlotte: A Pret' Near Perfect Mystery

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “That’s right. So someone did their best to make sure that Oona and Arthur were gone for the evening,” Stella surmised.

  “Yes, but their plan failed. Oona came up to the house, but, unbeknownst to the killer, Arthur remained behind.”

  “And surprised this person when he or she finally returned to the tent.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But why, Nick? Why was it necessary to drive the Bauersfelds out of their tent? What was this person doing? What were they looking for?”

  “I wondered the same thing. That’s why I inventoried the Bauersfelds’ tent.”

  “Inventory? Did you suddenly develop a photographic memory? We were only in that tent a minute or two before Sheriff Wilkins evicted us.”

  “Oh no, I didn’t make the list then. I went back while you were up at the house,” Nick explained.

  “How did you get in?”

  “You know that yellow crime scene tape surrounding the area?”

  “Yes.”

  “I walked under it,” Nick answered with a broad grin.

  Stella grimaced. “Oh come on! There was a policeman standing guard when I passed there just now.”

  “Yeah, and, using my bird watching binoculars, I kept surveillance until he finally took a break. I’m pretty sure he was supposed to call for back-up, but hey, when mother nature calls, sometimes you need to answer right away.”

  “You snuck in while the cop was using the bathroom?”

  “Oh, I really don’t know where he went, but the moment he left, I hotfooted it over there, took some photos on my phone, and then beat it back here. Then,” he withdrew a small journal from the top pocket of his raincoat and opened it, “using the photos and my memory, I made an inventory.”

  Stella rose from her chair and peered over Nick’s shoulder at the leather-bound notebook. The list, neatly inscribed in blue ink, numbered every item in the Bauersfelds’ tent, from the air mattress and its linens right down to the half-drunk bottle of Vitamin Water that rested beside Arthur’s Zero Gravity chair.

  “Wow,” she remarked. “This list is extremely detailed. Extremely detailed.”

  “I did good, huh?”

  “Indeed you did. I mean, I don’t see anything on the list that might prompt someone to commit murder, but you’ve certainly called my attention to some things I hadn’t time to notice earlier. For instance, I didn’t realize Arthur’s blanket was actually a quilt.”

  “Yeah, I zoomed in on the photo and saw the stitching. Pretty posh camping gear, huh?”

  “Not only posh,” Stella remarked, her eyes still fixed on the inventory, “but incredibly heavy when wet.”

  “Huh? Oh, I see what you mean. Well, it obviously wasn’t raining when Arthur positioned his chair.”

  “Mm, possibly… Oh, wait a minute. There were traces of pink lipstick on the wine glass by the bed?”

  “There were. I zoomed in on the photo. Wanna see?” Nick reached into his jacket pocket again.

  “No… no. That’s okay. I believe you.”

  It was too late. Nick had already retrieved his phone and was zooming in on the photo in question. “See?”

  Stella’s eyes narrowed as she examined the image. “That’s not pink. It’s coral and precisely the same shade Oona was wearing last night. And I was right; the pattern of the glass matches the set we drank from at Vue Colline.”

  “Is it really? Wine glasses all look pretty much the same to me, so I’ll defer to your judgment.”

  “They’re identical alright,” Stella deemed as she zoomed in on the wine glass in Nick’s photos. “The question is, did Oona enjoy a glass of wine with hubby before she came up to the house and knocked on the dining room doors? Or did she return later, after we were all in bed?”

  “Before,” Nick stated with conviction. “Remember, I met her coming out of the bathroom after she had just taken a shower.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Yeah, it does. I saw her go up to her room.”

  “That doesn’t mean she didn’t come back down. She could have gone upstairs, gotten dressed, and went out with the glass of wine to check on her husband or possibly to offer the glass of wine to him.”

  “Or she took it to fortify herself before she killed him,” Nick suggested.

  “You saw her that night. Did she strike you as a woman who was about to murder her husband?”

  “No, but she seemed…” Nick placed a finger to his chin as he selected the right word to describe Oona. “Flirty. Provocative.”

  “Oh? Is that because you caught her wearing just a towel?” she smirked.

  “No, it’s because she lingered. I know I surprised her by trying to enter the bathroom when I did, but once I apologized, the average woman would have made a fast exit. Am I right?”

  “I know I sure would have.”

  “Well, not Oona. She hung around and made conversation, including the fact that she enjoys sleeping naked. ‘Airing things out’ was how she phrased it.”

  Stella wrinkled her nose. “Ew.”

  “Exactly. Ew. She really seemed to take pleasure in my discomfort.”

  “Since you didn’t take the bait, do you think Oona might have toddled off to the O.H.B. in hopes of brewing up a storm of their own?”

  “The O.H.B.?”

  “Arthur, the Original Honey Bear.”

  “Again, ew.”

  “Sorry, I was trying to be cute rather than explicit.”

  “Yeah. Failed on both counts,” he shuddered. “Um, to answer your question, Oona might have ‘toddled off’ as you said, but, in my opinion, it would have been as a last resort. You saw her in the dining room when she first arrived. I haven’t seen a woman so happy to be out of a tent since my mom visited my brother, dad, and me while we camped at the Pine Barrens for a week back in ’83.”

  “Your mother told me about that visit. She went home, downed a bottle of Sauternes, and Cloroxed everything in the house that didn’t move.”

  “Really? I never knew that.” Nick stared off into space for a few moments. “You know, Zippy, my pet turtle, died that week. You don’t think she…”

  “Bleached your turtle? No, I don’t, Nick. Besides, one mystery at a time.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  “Back to Oona – I noticed the same thing you did. She looked extremely pleased to be here and she truly seemed to regret turning down Morehouse’s dinner invitation. If not for the food, then for the opportunity to dress up and mingle.”

  “Yeah and she missed that opportunity because of her husband’s dislike of social functions. Seriously, it sounds like the guy had a single focus in life: his yurts. That had to have gotten old for her at some point.”

  Stella plopped back into the folding chair. “Well, it can’t be easy being married to a ‘saint.’”

  “Probably not a boat load of laughs, either. Although, you seem to do okay.”

  “Every. Time,” Stella muttered to herself. “I walk into it. Every. Single. Time.”

  “I don’t think Oona has your grace or your broad shoulders,” Nick continued, unfazed. “I think she was tired of Arthur and bored out of her mind. Her only way out of the marriage was to kill him.”

  “Well, there’s divorce too,” Stella offered.

  “Ah, but neither of them had much money. You divide them, and there’s even less. No, Oona was trapped. Then she comes here. She looks forward to the weekend, but first, she’s forced to turn down Morehouse’s dinner invitation. Then, she and Arthur return to find their tent slashed. Finally, looking forward to sleeping in a ‘dry, non-lumpy bed’ as she described it, she takes a hot shower and, upon exiting, makes one final play for affection, only to be rejected.”

  “Rejected?”

  “By me,” Nick clarified.

  “Oh,” Stella replied as she stifled a giggle.

  “Oona can endure no more. She gets dressed, goes downstairs, pours a glass of wine, and grabs the knife from the drawing room. She then
goes to the yome, yurt… what have you and offers the glass to Arthur. Arthur drinks it, unaware that it has been laced with sleeping pills. As he nods off, Oona takes the knife from her jacket and plunges it into Arthur’s chest, freeing herself at last.”

  “Uh huh. And the slashes in the tent?”

  “Ummmm…”

  “And Oona forgets to take the glass with her?”

  “Obviously an oversight on her part.”

  “The glass bearing traces of sleeping pills?” Stella pressed. “How could she forget that?”

  “She was flustered. She had just stabbed her husband.”

  “A glass with traces of sleeping pills and her lipstick around the rim, which suggests that she drank from it too?”

  “Well...”

  “And, if Oona had drunk from a glass laced with sleeping pills, she too would have been rendered unconscious.”

  Nick pulled a face. “That was completely unnecessary, you know.”

  “What was?”

  “Dismissing my theory before I had even finished putting it together.”

  “Sorry, honey. I agree that Oona may have had a motive for murdering her husband. Heaven knows, people have murdered their spouses over far less. She also had the means and opportunity. But then, how does Philip Morehouse fit into the whole scheme?”

  “Morehouse was Oona’s secret lover?” Nick shrugged.

  “If he were, she’d hardly need to hit on you outside the bathroom; she would have gone down the hall and knocked on Philip’s door. No, I think I need to start investigating this from the opposite end of where the police have started.” Stella eyed the Salvage Guy as he sat hunched over a folding table in his tent, mechanical pencil in hand, and jotted lines on a stack of paper.

  “Dan and the missing Allen key?” Nick surmised.

  “And Carlson and the knife. And… well, everyone who was in the house last night.”

  “Then you’d best get cracking,” he smiled.

  Stella returned the smile and wandered over to the Salvage Guy’s tent. He was hard at work, inscribing musical notes onto lined music paper. She waited until he looked up before speaking.

  “Hi. I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  “That’s okay. I was looking to take a break.”

  “Working on a project for the Cavalcade?”

  “No, a new album,” he acknowledged. “It’s been so quiet, I thought I’d make good use of the time.”

  “It has been awfully quiet. Between the rain and everything else that’s transpired, I can see why families have stayed away. It feels like a morgue, instead of… oh! I mean… oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I made the same mistake earlier,” Dan chuckled. “This whole thing is crazy, isn’t it? First the tent slashing, then Phil, and then Arthur. It’s almost as if someone’s not just trying to destroy Philip, but the entire Cavalcade.”

  “That’s a perspective I’ve not heard before.”

  “Perspective or a lack of faith in humanity. Take your pick,” Dan deadpanned. He then stood up and offered Stella his chair while he unfolded another for himself. “I’m sorry if that came across as overly negative. I’ve just been at this a while.”

  “Thank you,” Stella murmured as she sat down. “No, I completely understand. You and Philip Morehouse were lifelong friends and college roommates. Wasn’t that what Philip said last night?”

  “That’s right. Phil and I were tight back in the day.” Dan sat down and briefly buried his face in his hands before looking up and speaking again. “I can’t believe he’s gone. I mean, sure, we had our differences in opinion – we’d always had – still, we always worked through it. He and I were buddies through middle school, high school, and the first years of college. Blood brothers, best friends… you name it. That was us.”

  “And then, at some point, the two of you drifted apart.”

  “Drifted apart?” Dan scoffed. “Phil always did have a way with words.”

  “Are you suggesting that things went differently than that?”

  “Hell, yes.” Dan laughed. “We didn’t drift apart. We broke apart and tore each other to shreds in the process.”

  “Really? Why? Erm, I mean, if you don’t mind me asking, of course,” Stella pardoned her interest.

  “No, no, that’s fine. I don’t mind at all. It was the age old story, I’m afraid,” he sighed.

  “A woman,” Stella guessed.

  Dan’s face broke into a broad smile. “Not just ‘a’ woman, but ‘the’ woman.”

  “And you both fell in love with her,” Stella surmised.

  “Not quite. I was in love with her and she was in love with me – well, at least I thought she was – but then Philip entered the scene.”

  “And he tried to steal her from you?”

  “Oh, there was no trying with Philip. If he saw and he liked, he conquered. He still is that way, well, at least until this morning. How do you think he got Meagan?”

  “Meagan was seeing someone else?”

  “No, she wasn’t seeing anyone. Chef Durand hadn’t gotten that far yet, but he was certainly smitten. Everyone at the Cavalcade knew it – except for poor Meagan, who was oblivious to the whole thing. The minute Philip thought Durand might actually make a move, he jumped in and swept Meagan off her feet.”

  “Do you think Durand might still be carrying a torch for Meagan?”

  “Mrs. Buckley, did you happen to see his face last night when Meagan was flashing her engagement ring? Yeah, I’d say the flame is still alive. Thing is, he’d never say anything to her, and he certainly won’t say anything to her now. I tried to convince him to make a move early on, but the time was never right. I thought Frenchmen were romantic and bold. Not Nicolas Durand. He might be a hot shot in the kitchen, but on the highway of love, the boy’s a rusty 1972 Dodge Dart.”

  “And what about you? How did you compete against Philip Morehouse?”

  “I didn’t; there wasn’t enough time. Ultimately, Wanda married someone else.”

  Stella’s eyes opened wide. “Wanda? Wanda Morehouse?”

  Dan smiled. “Wanda Voorhees at the time. But, yes, one in the same. Phil and I fought over her, but she eventually threw both of us over for a businessman from Montreal.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah, it stunk at the time, but I have zero regrets. I went on to have a great music career and to marry the most beautiful woman in the world. She passed away six years ago, shortly after Philip lost Wanda.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. It’s been rough, for sure, but I’m grateful for the time I had with her. Twenty years is longer than many people get to spend with someone they love. ”

  “So true,” Stella smiled. “How did Philip and Wanda wind up getting back together?”

  “Wanda’s husband, Richard Rousseau, died of a heart attack about twenty years ago. In true Morehouse fashion, Philip, who was still single, saw the notice in the paper and sent flowers. He kept a respectful distance for several months before finally paying Wanda and Mark a visit. A year later they were married.” Dan chuckled, “Funny thing is that wedding helped to restore Phil’s and my friendship.”

  “Oh?”

  “Being the competitive soul he was, Phil sent me and my wife an invitation to the wedding. It was his way of letting me know, all those years later, that he had still won.”

  Stella shook her head and laughed. “Did you attend?”

  “We did. My wife, Norma, knew about Wanda and Philip as well as the rivalry. She was a good sport about the whole thing. Plus she knew that I only ever had eyes for her.”

  “So the story about you and Phil reconnecting on the street wasn’t true,” Stella surmised.

  “Strictly speaking, no it wasn’t. I did, quite literally, bump into him on the street outside the church on his wedding day, but the meeting had nothing to do with coincidence or fate. It was fifteen minutes before Phil was to be married and I was an invited guest. But, as Phil himself admitted, he al
ways had a bit of the P.T. Barnum showmanship in him. The street story was a form of vaudeville to him; a chance to use his classic one liners, and for me to come back at him with mine. Pure theater.”

  “Was his reluctance to finance your nationwide teaching program a performance as well?”

  Dan flashed a cautious smile. “No. I’d consider that an example of how our opinions sometimes differed. Phil was financially conservative when it came to the Cavalcade’s money. I may not have always agreed with that approach, but I’ve always respected it.”

  “Then it’s safe to say that you didn’t harbor a grudge against Philip Morehouse for not funding your program.”

  “Of course not. I was disappointed, but not angry.”

  “Even when Morehouse decided to fund Kenneth Zolar and his robotic suit instead?” Stella provoked.

  As the Salvage Guy’s face turned a bright crimson, Stella reached into her pocket for the wad of tissue containing the Allen key.

  “Look,” he blustered, “I don’t know what you’re trying to get at here, but Philip Morehouse was my friend and I never would have –” The Salvage Guy suddenly fell silent as Stella extended her palm to reveal the Allen key.

  “Where did you get that?” he demanded.

  “Precisely where you thought it might be when you searched your pockets earlier this morning.”

  “What? I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “Oh, I think you do. It was on the floor of Philip’s bedroom, on the rug directly alongside the bed. It was there because you were in Philip Morehouse’s room last night.”

  “That’s ridiculous! I’ve been at Vue Colline since Thursday. Phil and I had several meetings in his office; I could have dropped that Allen key at any time.”

  “But you didn’t. Mr. Tuttle vacuumed Philip’s room yesterday morning. There’s no way he would have missed something as large and heavy as an Allen key lying on the carpet. Moreover, I saw the expression on your face this morning, when you needed to tighten the bolts on your music rack and couldn’t find the proper tool.”