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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “For me?” Ms. B. Ology appeared genuinely shocked. “What do you mean?”

  “Given your words in the hallway before bed last night and the way you nearly ran after Zolar during dinner, I think it’s safe to say that you have a crush on the man.”

  Ms. B. blushed a bright crimson. “A crush? Oh no! I admire him, but… he’s just so brilliant, that’s all. I’ve always said that I could never be in a relationship with another artist, because there always winds up being too much drama. But a scientist? And not just a scientist, but a scientist whose invention can help improve the lives of thousands? Naturally, that has an allure, but it’s not like I have a – a thing for him or anything like that.”

  “My apologies. I must have misread the situation.”

  “That’s an understatement,” B. Ology scoffed, but it was too late. She had already given away her true feelings by, to quote the Bard, “protesting too much.”

  “So it would seem the only motive you might have had for killing Philip was his failure to support your educational program.” Stella grinned, “Theoretically, of course.”

  “Theoretically, yes,” B. Ology agreed, “but practically, no. Phil could tick me off when he wanted, make no mistake of it, but I never wished him ill, let alone dead. Never in a million years would I have wanted this to happen to him.”

  “Would you mind telling me your whereabouts last night and early this morning?”

  “Here, in this room, alternating between reading and trying to go to sleep.”

  “You were having trouble sleeping?”

  “Always. I’m a super-light sleeper, borderline insomniac. It takes me forever to fall asleep and even when I finally do, the slightest noise awakens me.”

  “Was there much noise to disturb you?”

  “So much that I was tempted to drive into town and lie down in the middle of Main Street for a little peace and quiet.”

  “I know my room is just across the hall from yours, but I slept rather soundly. And my husband, Nick, well, when he’s out he’s out,” Stella explained. “So what did you hear? Who did you see?”

  “Just about everything and everyone,” B. Ology sighed. “I swear, it’s incredible that anyone was able to get out of bed this morning.”

  “Um, care to share the details?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Let’s see… I came upstairs at the same time as everyone else did. I changed into my pajamas, used the bathroom – once you had finished with it – and then knocked on your bedroom door to let Nick know that I had finished.”

  “Yes, I remember all that,” Stella corroborated.

  “Well, no sooner had I knocked on your door, than Oona Bauersfeld came racing down the steps, covered with just a towel. She headed directly into the bathroom. I was going to say something, but given her… nakedness… I assumed she had run in for a quick tinkle, so I went back to my room. You can imagine my surprise when, mere moments later, I heard the shower start. I debated for a while as to whether I should knock on the door and tell Oona that she needed to wait her turn, but she was so quick that I needn’t have worried. When I opened the door again, there she was, dripping wet and chatting up your husband.”

  “Yes, Nick told me about that,” Stella laughed. “It takes a lot to rattle Nick, but he was sufficiently embarrassed.”

  Ms. B. shook her head. “I like Oona well enough and I feel terribly about her husband, but I just can’t understand what would possess her to talk to another woman’s husband while wearing just a sheet of terrycloth. I’m younger and single, and I’m absolutely mortified at the prospect of it.”

  Stella grinned. “I think Oona is a bit closer to the era of ‘free love’ than you and I are.”

  “Whatever. I just don’t get it.”

  “So, after Oona’s hallway shenanigans, what did you do?” Stella steered the conversation back to the topic at hand.

  “I curled up in bed and attempted to get engrossed in my book. It’s about Victorian glass-making processes,” she rose from the beanbag chair and retrieved a glossy coffee table style book from a wall-mounted bedside ledge. “But, just as I started getting into it, there was a loud bang, almost like a door slamming shut, but louder, sharper.”

  “That was a shutter outside our bedroom window,” Stella explained. “The wind caught hold of it, but Nick was finally able to secure it.”

  “Well, that would explain why I didn’t see anything in the hallway.” Ms. B. sunk back into the beanbag chair and tossed her book onto the blond hardwood flooring.

  “So, what then?”

  “So, after checking on what must have been the shutter and seeing nothing, I sat here with my book. All was well for about an hour or so – maybe more, and I thought I might actually go to bed and drop off, but then I heard someone in the bathroom next door. Someone grumbling to himself. I looked out the door to see Dan entering our bathroom. He didn’t see me, but from what I could gather from his mumblings, someone had been occupying the gentlemen’s bathroom for some time.”

  Stella reflected on her previous interviews. Neither Chef Durand nor the Salvage Guy made any mention of using either bathroom during the night and although Rousseau and Carlson did mention brief visits to the lavatory, neither of them specified having an extensive need for the facilities.

  “Interesting,” Stella remarked.

  “Not as interesting as what happened next. Determined to get some sleep, and kinda laughing at Dan’s tough situation (I mean, it could only happen to him, right?) I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up over my head. I must have nodded off for a half hour before I awoke to the voice of Chef Durand. He had either forgotten to put in his contact lenses, or he was a little tipsy, or both, because I heard him shuffle toward the bathroom and swear in French, like he had stubbed his toe.”

  “Which bathroom did he use?”

  “The one he shared with Mark, Carlson, and Dan. The one down the hall.”

  “So, by that time, that bathroom was empty.”

  “Yes, although I didn’t hear or see anyone come out of it. I must have been asleep when they left.”

  Stella nodded. “Go on.”

  “After a few minutes, Chef Durand came out of the bathroom and met Mark Rousseau in the hallway. They made some small talk and Mark must have entered the bathroom – I’m assuming that’s what happened, because I didn’t actually get up and look – and once again, I fell asleep. When I woke up, I felt a strange urge to look out the bedroom window.”

  “An urge? What do you mean an urge?”

  “Well, it’s hard to describe really. It wasn’t as if I woke up and wondered what might be going on outside; it was more as if I woke up because I needed to check on something. Although what that ‘something’ might have been is beyond me. I don’t remember a specific noise or sound, but perhaps I did, subconsciously, hear something and it woke me. I can’t say for certain. All I know is that I felt the need to check outside the window, so I did. And that’s when I saw him!”

  “Saw whom?”

  “Mark Rousseau! He was walking away from the house and toward the carriage house. Maybe on his way to the fairgrounds?”

  “Are you certain it was Rousseau?”

  “Absolutely. In case you haven’t noticed, Mark has quite the taste in clothes. Twenty thousand dollar suits, tailored trousers, fitted jackets. No Creator could possibly afford those things.”

  No CFO of a non-profit organization should be able to afford them either, Stella thought to herself. No wonder Mark Rousseau was petrified about losing his trust fund.

  “Besides,” B. Ology continued, “I saw Mark’s face.”

  “I thought you said he was walking away from you.”

  “He was. He was walking quickly and looking… what’s the word they use in those English country house mysteries? Furtive? That’s it. He was looking over his shoulder furtively. That’s when I saw his face, while he was glancing back at the house.”

  “But it was a moonless, overcast night,” Stel
la was quick to note.

  “Now you sound like Sheriff Wilkins,” B. Ology clicked her tongue.

  “So you told the police what you saw?”

  “I don’t see how I couldn’t. For all the good it did. Not only did Sheriff Wilkins tell me that it was too dark outside to have seen Mark Rousseau’s face, but she suggested that my lack of sleep might have caused hallucinations. Can you believe that? You don’t think I imagined the entire thing, do you?”

  “Sheriff Wilkins is right in that sleep deficit can cause confusion and brain fog.” Stella tried to remain objective. “I read somewhere that some people even confuse their waking and sleeping hours as a result. You, however, seem to have adjusted to living on little or no sleep, so, no, I don’t think you were dreaming or hallucinating. I truly believe you saw what you did… the only questions are why and how?”

  “”Huh?” B. Ology was puzzled.

  “Don’t worry, that’s for me to figure out, not you. By the way, you didn’t mention what you saw to Rousseau, did you?”

  B. Ology shook her head furiously. “Are you kidding? What if he’s the murderer? I might be his next victim.”

  “Good,” Stella deemed. “I wouldn’t mention it to anyone else either, if you can help it.”

  “I won’t,” the young redhead agreed.

  “So, is it safe for me to assume that the Rousseau sighting was the last bit of excitement before you woke up this morning?”

  “Ha! I wish!”

  “Go on,” Stella urged.

  “A short while after, I settled back into bed and slept for quite some time before waking to the sound of floorboards creaking in the hallway. It was quite early in the morning by that time, close to five o’clock or so. I thought someone might have woken up and was headed down to the kitchen to put on some coffee, but the creaking stayed limited to one spot. I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out what was going on, so –”

  “So, you got up and took a look,” Stella surmised.

  “Well, a peek, actually. I opened the door just wide enough to eyeball the situation and immediately noticed Aurora Marici pacing in the hallway outside Meagan’s door. Creepy. But even creepier? Chip Carlson watching her!”

  Stella pretended this was the first time she had heard the story. “Watching her?”

  “Yes. Just standing in the doorway of his bedroom, staring at her. He didn’t try to get her attention; didn’t say anything or do anything. He just watched.”

  “Did Carlson notice you looking out your door, watching him?”

  “Eventually, yes.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t give him an opportunity. I immediately shut my door and locked it. I stayed in bed another half hour or so – not sleeping of course – before I decided to get up and make myself some coffee. As I did, I heard someone walking past my door, in the direction of Philip’s quarters. I thought it might be that creeper Carlson again, so I snuck a peek. But it wasn’t Carlson; it was Dan.”

  “You saw the Salvage Guy enter Philip’s room and you didn’t say anything until now?”

  “Because it wasn’t like that,” B. Ology snapped defensively. “Dan didn’t have time to kill Philip or much of anything else for that matter. He raised his hand to knock on the door, but it must have been open already, because Dan went right in. Only a few moments later, he came back out and returned to his room.”

  “How did Dan look to you?”

  “I honestly didn’t get a look at Dan’s face. When I saw him coming out of Philip’s room, I figured he’d be heading this way, so I ducked back inside and shut the door. I didn’t want him to think I was spying on him or something.”

  At this remark, Stella suppressed a bit of a chuckle.

  “I can say that he was in a bit of a hurry though,” B. Ology went on, “his footsteps were rushed – almost like a quasi-jog. It seemed strange at the time, but now I realize he must have found Philip dead.”

  “That’s his story,” Stella confided. “One that you just unintentionally corroborated.”

  “So, I provided Dan with an alibi?” B. Ology mused. “Finally, something good came of my insomnia.”

  “Well, so long as Philip wasn’t killed by hypodermic needle or Taser gun or some other rapid fire device, then, yes, your sighting most likely puts Dan in the clear.”

  “Cool! Oh hey, I almost forgot – there was one other odd thing that occurred last night. I think I was visited by a ghost.”

  “Oh?”

  “It was early on in the night, while I was reading. I was interrupted by what sounded like and looked like someone pressing, very lightly, against my bedroom door. It happened twice in a row.”

  “What do you mean by pressing? Like a soft knock?”

  “No, more like two brief, gentle pushes. Just enough to move the door within the jamb and make a subtle sound.”

  “And did you see who or what did it?”

  “No, that’s why I blamed it on a ghost. I looked up and down the hallway, but there was no one to be found. Every room on this floor was silent. Like whatever brushed up against my door had disappeared without a trace.”

  “Maybe the wind?” Stella offered.

  “My windows were closed. And the worst of the storm had subsided by then. No, whatever caused that sound was outside my room and vanished just as quickly as it had appeared.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kenneth Zolar, clad in a vintage logo t-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans, slouched against the back of a white cotton covered futon in the sitting area of his Asian-themed bedroom and, with languid fingers, poked at the touchscreen of a large tablet style phone. “I don’t mind talking to you, Mrs. Buckley, but I’m not exactly sure why you’re here.”

  “I’d like to ask you some questions about Philip Morehouse,” Stella announced.

  Zolar glanced up from his phone with a wistful sigh. “Ah yes, Philip. At the risk of sounding trite and hackneyed, I honestly can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “At the risk of sounding equally cliché, I’m sorry for your loss. The two of you must have been very close.”

  “We worked together every single day of the past two years, yes.”

  Stella’s eyes narrowed. It was an unexpectedly evasive answer for what seemed, to her, a straightforward question. “And, obviously, the two of you worked well together. HALLE is the proof of that.”

  “Yes, we did. I mean, there were times – like the one you witnessed yesterday afternoon – where Philip’s flair for showmanship grated on my nerves, but apart from those moments, we worked exceedingly well together. In fact, he was like a second father to me.”

  “And what about the times Philip Morehouse teased you or made you the butt of his jokes?” Stella led as she leaned forward in the carved rosewood chair she now occupied. “How did those moments affect your relationship?”

  Although his gaze was still transfixed on the tablet phone before him, the corners of Zolar’s mouth twitched. “Clearly, someone has been talking to Ms. B. Ology.”

  “I have. I’ve also witnessed, firsthand, Philip Morehouse’s less-than-kind treatment of you.”

  Zolar placed his tablet phone down on the futon cushion. “What you define as ‘less-than-kind’ was simply Philip being Philip. Old Morehouse was like a second father to me. He could be an altruistic, benevolent man, a decent scientist, and a sharp businessman, but unfortunately, he also possessed what I could only call, a great sense of idealism. In Philip’s mind, things in the world should operate in a particular fashion; if they didn’t, he felt no compunction whatsoever in pointing out the perceived deficiency. In my case, the creator of a project as grand as HALLE should be prepared to pitch his product to the public and prospective buyers, social inhibitions be damned.”

  “And did that idealism, to use your term, bother you?”

  “No, it didn’t. You see, Mrs. Buckley, I’ve never been what others would consider as normal. From the time I was young, I preferred books to base
ball and pets to people. Needless to say, I received my share of name calling and negative remarks from those who thought they had the right to comment upon my life and behavior. When I was a boy, it bothered me; it bothered me enormously. But then I reached a point when I realized that my detractors were the ones with the problem, not me. So for every jab, for every witty observation, I doubled my efforts to be the very best scientist and creator I could be. And today… well, here we are.”

  “That’s quite admirable.”

  “Admirable?” Zolar gave a bitter chuckle. “I’m not sure about that. I probably should have called out those bullies. That’s what Philip would have done. But I… well, I’ve always felt as though my energy was better placed elsewhere. Which, of course begs the question: why are you expending your energy talking to me about Philip Morehouse?”

  “Because we think Philip’s death might be linked to Arthur Bauersfeld’s murder,” Stella bluntly stated.

  “We? You and the police?”

  “No, Meagan and I.”

  Zolar leaned back in his seat and, with his arms folded behind his head, gazed up at the ceiling. “I don’t want you to think I’m a jerk, Mrs. Buckley, but do you really think you should be basing a murder investigation on the suspicions of Meagan McArdle?”

  “I see nothing wrong with it, but I sense you’re going to try and persuade me otherwise.”

  “Again, I’m not trying to be a colossal jerk here,” he sighed. “I like Meagan. I like her a lot. She’s been instrumental in getting the Cavalcade organized and she’s always been very kind to me, extremely kind actually, but she’s had a terrible shock. She obviously cared a great deal for Philip and I feel badly that all her plans for the future – her life with Philip – have been suddenly taken away.”

  “But?”

  Zolar placed his hands on his lap and leaned forward in his seat. “But she’s operating from a place of emotion, rather than a place of logic.”

  “Are you implying that Meagan is a hysterical woman?”