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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  After a long pause, Rousseau smirked at Stella. “Are you sorry you asked?

  “No, I appreciate your honesty,” Stella answered. “It also makes me wonder if this desire of yours to see Vue Colline burn might be why you closed the Cavalcade early and cancelled Aurora’s classes for the day.”

  “What, you think I’d sabotage the Cavalcade? If you recall, I was the one who didn’t think it was wise to open today. Meagan went ahead with the opening, despite my better judgment. Although I tried to soldier on and deal with police and a lack of restrooms, it occurred to me that we still don’t know who killed Arthur. What if it was a tramp in the woods waiting to prey upon an innocent family? What if it was Aurora and she lost her mind alone in a class of kids? Sorry, I freaked. My mother may have left me a sizeable trust fund, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend half of it defending myself and the Cavalcade in a wrongful death suit.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’m going to ask you one more question: where were you between the time we left the dining room and the time we heard Meagan’s screams this morning?”

  “I’d be happy to answer. I was here in this room, in bed.”

  “And you slept the entire night?”

  “Slept? I wish. It was actually one of the worst nights I’ve ever spent. First, there was that loud crash, bang that came from your room. I jumped out of bed and leaned out the window only to see your husband fixing the shutter.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that.”

  “It’s not your fault this place is a thousand years old,” he excused. “I had no sooner returned to bed than I discovered that I needed to rid myself of some of the evening’s wine. So, I shuffled out to the bathroom.”

  “Did you see anyone en route?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Chef Durand was exiting the bathroom just as I was about to enter.”

  “Really?” Stella’s face was a question.

  “I take it Chef Durand didn’t mention seeing me. Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if he forgot. We all enjoyed quite a bit of wine with dinner and Chef, no doubt, probably followed it up with his customary digestif. Suffice to say, when I saw him, he was not necessarily drunk, but he wasn’t exactly walking a straight line either.”

  Stella nodded. “Did you go directly back to bed after that?”

  “I did, only to discover that Dan, the Salvage Guy, is just as noisy asleep as he is when he’s awake. Good God, the man can snore. I’ve heard diesel engines that are less disruptive.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t bring a set of earplugs with you,” Stella chuckled.

  “How was I to know he makes such a racket? He usually sleeps in the room Zolar is currently inhabiting. Why the two got switched is beyond me, but you can rest assured it won’t happen again next year,” Rousseau promised. “In any event, after a great deal of tossing and turning, I went downstairs to get something to eat. My thought was that while I was gone, Dan might roll over or settle in for the night.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes. Eventually, but by that time, it was close to morning.”

  “And did you see anyone while getting your snack?”

  “Just my step-father’s cat. Copurrnicus and I typically don’t get along, but he managed to endure my presence at the kitchen table without hissing. Actually, he was uncharacteristically affectionate – rubbing against my leg, jumping in my lap, all very unexpected.”

  “Well, I think it’s safe to assume that his change of heart toward you did not stem from guilt over having committed a murder,” she joked.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. The look in his eyes when he defecated in my shoe years ago was quite sinister.”

  “Yes, well, I’ll take that under advisement,” Stella announced as she rose from her chair. “Thank you for your time.”

  Mark stood up and added: “Want another piece of advice? Check out Chip Carlson.”

  Stella paused and looked over her shoulder.

  “My step-father and I have been in contact with Carlson on and off over the past four years. Philip always wanted to partner with the guy, work on a project that might save the world or wow the kids. Carlson was always busy and, as we at the Cavalcade were told by his assistants, more than a bit reclusive, hence why we only communicated through email and the occasional brief telephone call.”

  Stella turned around to face Rousseau. “The creative mind is often an eccentric one,” she noted.

  “Agreed. So riddle me this, Batman: why did Chip Carlson suddenly show up here without even a hint of an RSVP? And why, for a man who claims to be a recluse, does he not seem the slightest bit socially awkward?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “So, everyone’s suspicious of the new kid in town,” Carlson smiled as he leaned against the mantel of the gray marble fireplace. “I suppose I can’t blame them. It’s easier to believe a stranger might have killed Arthur Bauersfeld than to accept the fact that one of them might be the murderer.”

  “You’re leaving Philip Morehouse out of the equation,” Stella pointed out from her position in an elaborately carved high-backed walnut chair. “I believe his death and Arthur’s are somehow linked.”

  Carlson scratched his chin meditatively. “Hmm, it’s an interesting thought. Do you have any proof?”

  “Not yet. No.”

  “But, clearly, you’re working on it.”

  “I am. At Meagan’s request, of course.”

  Carlson crossed the lavishly decorated Victorian room and took a seat on a gold Rococo style tufted sofa. Between Carlson’s vintage clothes, the sofa, and the William Morris wallpaper in the backdrop, Stella felt, for a brief moment, as though she had been transported back in time.

  “Do you have experience in police work?” Carlson asked.

  With Carlson’s remark, Stella came roaring back into the present. She was supposed to be asking the questions – not him. “I recently solved a murder case in my hometown of Teignmouth.”

  “Ah, so that’s why Meagan asked you to help.”

  “Yes,” she rejoined and then added before Carlson could interject: “So what brought you to this year’s Cavalcade, Mr. Carlson?”

  “I’ve exhibited my work at the Cavalcade for years. It’s a great event and the Wanda Rousseau-Morehouse Foundation does a lot of terrific work.”

  “You, however, have never actually attended a Cavalcade.”

  “No, I haven’t. The Cavalcade takes place in the fall. For whatever reason, that seems to be a hectic time for me.”

  “And this year you happened to be free?”

  “Yes, by some miracle I was, so I figured, after years of invitations, I’d finally check it out,” Carlson shrugged. “Meagan McArdle and Philip Morehouse both made it clear that I had a room whenever I was available and that I was always welcome to visit.”

  “Is that why you never bothered to R.S.V.P. for this year’s event?”

  “Didn’t I?” Carlson seemed surprised by the question. “Well… I suppose my staff must have forgotten. Or maybe I forgot to tell them. I’ve been known to do that from time to time.”

  “Or perhaps you told them and they thought you were joking, seeing as you suffer from social anxiety,” Stella challenged.

  “I what?” Carlson burst out laughing. “Look, I admit to not being especially fond of large crowds and I’d rather text than get caught up in a prolonged telephone conversation, but to label me as a recluse is a bit extreme.”

  “It’s funny you should use that word, as that’s precisely how you were described to me: ‘a bit of a recluse.’”

  “Well, despite my reluctance to join my staff for drinks or go see the latest local band, reports of my social anxiety are greatly exaggerated. Mr. Zolar on the other hand…”

  “Yes, about Mr. Zolar – how did you feel about Philip Morehouse sinking all of the Foundation’s money into the HALLE project?”

  “Did he sink all of it?” Carlson asked nonchalantly.

  “All that the Foundation would
allow as well as some of his own money.”

  “Well, Philip Morehouse ran a highly successful pharmaceutical company, so I wouldn’t have been one to question his actions. Especially when I’d describe myself as being more right brain than left brain.”

  “So the investment doesn’t bother you at all? Not even on the level of creative merit.”

  “No, HALLE is a great project. It uses cutting edge technology and promises to aid those with mobility problems. What possible problem could I have with either of those things, apart from the fact that they weren’t my ideas, of course,” he chuckled.

  “That’s precisely my point. HALLE wasn’t your idea, therefore Morehouse’s money went to Kenneth Zolar instead of you.”

  “Again, a very worthy investment.”

  “But you and your designs are a worthy investment also, are they not, Mr. Carlson?”

  “To some people, sure.”

  “You said yourself that a very valuable commission had just fallen through. One that you had done on spec, I believe, meaning that Morehouse’s cash would certainly have come in handy.”

  “I don’t know where you come from, Mrs. Buckley, but back in Portland, cash always comes in handy. That doesn’t mean I’d kill for it,” Carlson breezily dismissed.

  “Portland, huh? That’s a long way to travel just to find out that your potential backer has found somewhere else to sink all his money.”

  “I told you I knew nothing about that. And even if I had, I honestly couldn’t have cared less.”

  Whether the suspicions of the other Creators had cast a permanent shadow of doubt in her mind or his use of the word ‘honestly’ struck her as too desperate and overreaching, Stella could not say. Whatever the reason, Carlson’s testimony rang hollow.

  “And what about the knife that stabbed Arthur Bauersfeld? Everyone in this house knows it you gifted it to Philip Morehouse and that it was displayed prominently in the drawing room.”

  Carlson’s ever-present jovial smile disintegrated only to be replaced by a look of apprehension. “How do you know about the knife?”

  Stella was not about to be distracted again. “I’d rather discuss what you know about it.”

  After several moments’ pause, Carlson answered. “The knife was a design of mine, but I don’t recall sending it to Philip Morehouse. A member of my staff must have sent it along on my behalf – most likely as an apology for my not attending the Cavalcade. That is all I know.”

  “That might explain you not remembering how Philip had acquired it, but it doesn’t explain why you denied that it was yours in the first place.”

  “Listening at keyholes were we?” Carlson smirked.

  “Just answer the question, please,” Stella sighed.

  “Well, if you were listening closely, you would have heard me tell Sheriff Wilkins that I design hundreds of pieces every year. Some of those designs make it off the drawing board and into the studio. Others are filed away for a rainy day, in case a commission comes along that needs a Steampunk alarm clock or the like. And still others are scrapped. That said, you can’t expect me to remember every single object I’ve ever designed, much less the whereabouts of those objects.”

  “But, style-wise, it looked like one of your designs. You said so yourself.”

  “Mrs. Buckley, I’m one of the most well known Steampunk artists in North America. You’ll find copies of my work in galleries and at festivals worldwide. Just because something looks like it could be one of my creations doesn’t mean it is.”

  “That’s why artists sign their work isn’t it?”

  “Yes, or in my case, make a mark or brand on the piece.”

  “And did the knife in question bear your mark?”

  “Yes, it did. That’s how I was finally able to identify it as mine.”

  “Only after examining it twice, I might note.”

  “They say the eyesight is the first thing to go,” Carlson joked.

  The glib remark prompted Stella to frown. “Where were you between the time we all went to bed and the time Philip Morehouse was found dead?”

  Carlson leaned back in his chair. “Got a pen handy?”

  “Don’t worry. I have an excellent memory,” Stella assured.

  “At least one of us does,” he smirked.

  Again, Stella was not amused.

  “Tough room,” Carlson murmured before clearing his throat. “Let’s see… I left the dining room with everyone else and retired to my room, where I changed into my robe and pajamas. As I was third in line for our bathroom, I went out into the hallway to wait my turn. While there, I waved goodnight to Ms. B. Ology and a few other folks – I believe you were one of them – and, when the Salvage Guy was finally finished with the bathroom, I brushed my teeth and returned to my room at approximately eleven thirty. Around eleven forty-five p.m. I heard a loud bang outdoors and looked out my window to see your husband corralling a wayward window shutter. Some time around one a.m. I was awoken by Chef Durand and Mark Rousseau chatting outside the bathroom. It didn’t last long and they both soon went back to their rooms. At roughly five a.m., close to dawn, I needed the restroom. I opened my door slowly so as not to wake the other guests and noticed Aurora Marici lingering outside Meagan McArdle’s bedroom.”

  “Lingering?”

  “It’s the only way to describe it, really. Aurora was staring at the closed door and swaying back and forth, as if she were deciding whether to knock or go back to her room.”

  “What did she do?”

  “After a minute or two had passed, she went back to her room.”

  “Did she see you?”

  “No, I stayed hidden behind the door until she had gone. But Ms. B. Ology saw me when I finally emerged. She had stuck her head out her door – for what purpose I haven’t a clue. When she spotted me, she promptly went back inside and locked her door.”

  “Locked?”

  Carlson nodded. “I heard the click.”

  “Apparently I’m not the only person in this house who’s been listening at keyholes,” Stella jested and rose from her chair.

  “Oh, just one more thing, Mrs. Buckley,” Carlson addressed before she could make her leave. “Do be careful.”

  Stella felt the color rise in her cheeks. “Is that a threat?”

  “A warning. I know you solved a little mystery for the police back in your hometown, but if you keep questioning the group here at Vue Colline, I’m afraid someone’s bound not to take very kindly to it.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You know, I got to thinking about what you said earlier, and you were right,” Ms. B. Ology announced as she stood before the open door of a miniature refrigerator. “Kombucha? Coconut water? Perrier?”

  Like the glass Ms. B. Ology created for her human body sculptures, her room at Vue Colline was a study in color: walls painted in two shades of aqua, bright red upholstered furniture, patterned area rugs, and large canvases featuring every hue known to mankind.

  “Um, I’ll have a Perrier, please,” Stella graciously accepted. “What do you mean I was right?”

  “Oh, I meant about Philip having enemies.” B. Ology, cradling a bottle of kombucha, plopped into a lime green beanbag chair. “Not that I’d say Philip had enemies per se, but he did isolate a lot of us when he threw all his efforts into the HALLE project.”

  “His efforts? Or his money?”

  “Time, energy, money,” the glass blower quickly replied. “All of it. Chef Durand’s restaurant, Aurora’s fashion business, Dan’s desire to tour the country, and my education program all depended upon Philip’s backing. Even Chip Carlson probably had a pet project for which he wanted Cavalcade endorsement, otherwise why else would he have shown up for the first time in, like, forever?”

  “Do you think Philip’s refusal to provide financial or professional support to other Creators’ special projects might have been the motive for his murder?”

  “Yes… I mean no. I mean that I can’t imagine any of us wanting to
murder Philip or Arthur, much less doing it. However, if evidence bears out that it had to be one of us, then, yes, Philip’s lack of backing could be one motive.”

  “One motive?” Stella questioned.

  “Money would be the other, of course. Both Mark and Meagan are bound to inherit the Morehouse/Rousseau fortune, are they not?”

  “I don’t know for certain, but I would imagine they are named in Philip’s will,” Stella acknowledged.

  “Well, there you have it. Like I said, everyone had some reason to want Philip out of the way – except maybe for Kenneth Zolar. He was the brains behind HALLE and now his vision is becoming a reality. It must be so exciting for him,” she took a swig from her bottle of kombucha and pulled a face. “Although, come to think of it, even Kenneth had a bit of an axe to grind with Philip.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, as you may have noticed, Kenneth isn’t the most socially adept creature on the planet. Philip teased him terribly about it – borderline bullied him even. It was quite crushing to watch, actually.”

  “Yes, I did notice a few mean-spirited remarks directed toward Mr. Zolar at dinner last night. That must have been very difficult for him,” Stella sipped her Perrier. “And particularly distressing for you as well.”