Aurora whirled around, her face starkly white and her eyes filled with terror. “No! That is not the designs for you!”
Stella slammed the book shut and placed it back on the table. “Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t know. For what it’s worth, what I saw was quite beautiful. Are you designing them for Meagan or did she simply model for you?”
Aurora staggered back to the desk and plopped into the chair, her normally tanned skin now exhibiting a sickly gray pallor. “If I tell you something, Signora Buckley, do you promise to keep it the secret?”
“I do. So long as it has nothing to do with the murder or Morehouse’s death, then you realize I’d have to tell the police, of course.”
“I understand.” Aurora gave a somber nod. “This has nothing to do with the deaths. It has to do with me.”
“Alright,” Stella grabbed a seat in a nearby folding chair and prompted Aurora to continue.
“Meagan is in that book you just saw because… because she is la mia musa.”
“Your muse? You mean she inspires you?”
“Si, and perhaps a little more.” Aurora’s eyes cast heavenward as if in search of the proper words. “Do you remember today when I ask you if you had lost a parent?”
“Yes, I remember. And I did; I lost my father.”
“I lost my mother,” Aurora confided. “What I did not tell to you is that mia madre is not dead. She disowned me because she did not approve of the way I live my life.”
Stella read between the lines of Aurora’s statement, but she allowed the designer to continue.
“My mother, my family, the entire village where I grew up, is the Catholic. When I, the baby of the family, started modeling, mia madre was horrified. No decent woman should make a living showing off her body. I didn’t do il nudo,” she explained to Stella, “but I did wear the lingerie. The bikini. I did do the poses with the sex appeal. With the men.”
“Did she eventually get used to it? I mean times change.”
“She started to change the opinion a little bit by a little bit. She still thought the strutting of the catwalk to be… immodest… but she did after time say she liked some of my magazine shoots. She liked them so much that she decided to pay me a surprise visit in Milan. Milan where I shared a one bedroom flat with my girlfriend.
“I had always preferred the compagnia of women, but in the late seventies and early eighties a model could not say so. Women bought the clothes you wore to entice the men. They did not want to entice other women! So I kept it secret. To them, my girlfriend was someone to share the flat and the rent – nothing more.”
“And to your mother?” Stella asked.
“It did not take her long to figure out we shared the same bed. When she did, she left and never spoke to me again. And I vowed I would never tell a soul. Mia madre was already disappointed in me, but if the whole village, the whole world, knew my secret, she would die of the disgrace. So I lived the quiet life. A girlfriend here or there, but nothing serious.
“Mia madre finally did die eight years ago,” Aurora continued. “But I lost her before that. After some time, I thought about the coming out, but by then I was a businesswoman and not a model. And I was happy. Work was all I needed.”
“Until now,” Stella surmised.
Once again, Aurora began to cry. “It’s stupid. Crazy. The longings of an old woman. Meagan, she likes the men – I stand no chance, but she is the kindest, sweetest, most beautiful soul I’ve ever met. That’s what I almost told her last night. That is why I paced outside her room. That is why I lose the sleep.”
Stella reached across and placed a consoling hand on Aurora’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry you’ve had to live like this. Being with the person I love, being married to Nick, and being able to tell the world how I feel… I can’t imagine not being able to do those things.”
“Grazie, Signora Buckley. Still, I have to keep the silence. Meagan has been through too much to face this now and I,” she took a deep breath to compose herself, “don’t want to lose the Cavalcade by making people feel strange. I enjoy this event. It does not make me the money, but it makes me happy. But, I will keep the silence and I will be okay.”
Stella gave Aurora a tight hug and then returned to her seat. “In light of your confession, I do need to ask you something.”
“Did I kill Philip out of the jealousy?” Aurora gave an ironic laugh.
Stella nodded.
“No, I swear to you that I did not. I wished him out of the way. I wished that Meagan would call off the wedding. But I would never have harmed a hair on that man’s head. He was the friend to me. And I know that hurting Philip would hurt Meagan too. That, I would never want.”
“I believe you,” Stella said quietly. “And I’ll keep your secret.”
“Grazie,” Aurora bowed her head and flashed a warm smile as the color returned to her face. Then, remembering something, she abruptly leapt from her chair. “Wait! To show my appreciation.”
Aurora rummaged through a tall cabinet filled with projects in various stages of completion and extracted a red hooded sweatshirt. “I think you will like this. You said you do not wear the dresses, no? But this will keep you warm here in Vermont.”
She helped Stella, who felt as though she could not possibly refuse, out of her jacket and into the garment, adjusting something near the back content label when they were finished. Within moments, the front of the sweatshirt exploded into a flood of tiny white lights.
“It will keep you safe too!” Aurora exclaimed. “Like Neek wanted – so the hunters no shoot you.”
“I am – I’m speechless, Aurora.” Stella was telling the truth. She had absolutely no idea how to react to the fact that she was currently wearing an illuminated hooded sweatshirt.
“You’re welcome.” Aurora, like the sweatshirt, was positively radiant. “But wait. Most of my exercise garments are programmed to flash in time with the heart rate, but this one is special. It mee-micks the moves of the body.”
“How… exciting. I’ve never owned anything like –”
Aurora gave her no time to answer; she started waving her arms in the air. “Try making the letters, like that song, ‘The YMCA,’ eh?”
Stella could not believe what she was hearing. Was she wearing a designer garment or a New York City billboard? “What?”
“Follow me,” Aurora instructed and began shaping her arms and upper body to suit the title of the Village People song.
Stella joined in on forming the letter ‘Y’ and then the letter ‘M.’ Her sweatshirt did the same. “Incredible,” she remarked, as much in admiration of the technology behind such a piece of apparel as her utter and complete disbelief that parts of the alphabet could now be – and currently were – prominently displayed upon her bosom. “I truly have no words, Aurora.”
“It is cool, no? I knew you would love it,” the designer nearly sang.
“I do. I do love it… thank you. And speaking of love,” Stella reached into her back pocket to retrieve her phone. “I’d better text my husband before he sends a search party after me.”
“Si, I would not blame him for being worried. Not with the killer on the loose.”
“Mmm,” Stella grunted distractedly as she messaged Nick to alert him to her return. Despite the extremely low charge level on her phone battery, the text successfully sent. “I’m sure dinner’s nearly ready. Are you coming back up to the house? We can walk together.”
“That is most kind, but I think I need un minuto alone to calm myself and to fix up the makeup.”
“Okay, so long as you feel safe enough.”
“I do… but if I am not at the house in ten minutes tell Neek to call that search party again,” Aurora winked.
“If you’re not there in nine minutes, we’ll both call it,” Stella half-teased. “I’ll see you at you dinner.”
“Si, and Estella, grazie. For everything.”
“No problem,” Stella smiled and then bid her adieu. Opting to leave her s
weatshirt in the on position instead of attempting to walk in a straight line while simultaneously reaching down the back of her neck to locate the switch, she set off on the path back to the house.
As she left the brightly lit fairgrounds and entered the dark, unlit section of the trail she heard her phone power down, most likely due to a weak battery. As much as she disliked Aurora’s sweatshirt, Stella had to confess its arrival was well-timed, for the light produced by the mimicking of her swinging arms satisfactorily compensated for her now unusable flashlight.
The light was so bright, in fact, that she was able to detect something blocking the road several feet ahead. From this distance, she could not clearly identify the nature of the obstruction, but it was long, dark, and stretched horizontally across a section of walkway that, just minutes earlier, had been clear.
Dreading what lay ahead, Stella stopped cold in her tracks and clamped her arms tightly at her sides. Activated by her upper body movements, or in this case, the lack thereof, the tiny fiber optic lights of her sweatshirt went dark too.
Stella swore under her breath. Of all the ridiculous, stupid situations… instead of spending a relaxing weekend with her husband, here she was with a dead phone, on the grounds of a creepy mansion, trying to prove that the owner of said mansion was murdered by whomever murdered another man on the same property at nearly the same time. And now she was going to die alone. In the dark. On the grounds of a creepy mansion. Wearing an illuminated sweatshirt.
After cursing her predicament and potential fate, Stella did what she knew she had to do.
Praying that her actions might scare off whatever predators might still be lurking on the grounds, she started swinging her arms in front of her rapidly, so that the light of her sweatshirt flashed more often, thus emitting more light. Just as her arms moved swiftly, her legs moved forward slowly and cautiously until she saw the ‘obstruction’ for what it was: Mark Rousseau, face down in the gravel, the back of his head bloody.
“Oh my God,” Stella exclaimed as she rushed to the young man’s aid and knelt beside him on the gravel. “Mr. Rousseau! Mr. Rousseau, can you hear me?”
As she awaited Rousseau’s reply, Stella made certain to keep her arms moving, lest she lose the light generated by the fiber optics.
Rousseau groaned in reply.
Stella rolled him, gently, onto his back.
Out of habit, she reached for the phone in her back pocket, all the while waving one hand over head. The phone was dead.
“Aurora,” she screamed, hoping to summon the nearest party for assistance. “Aurora!”
“You’re going to be okay,” she assured Mark. “I’m going to get help and then I’ll be right back.”
Before she departed, a breathless Aurora arrived on the scene. “Estella! Are you okay? I came velocemente.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Stella nodded at the wand of mascara clutched in the designer’s left hand; a purse size flashlight was in her right. “I’m fine, but he isn’t.”
Aurora dropped her makeup and brought both hands to her face. “Dio mio! What happened?”
“Blow to the back of the head. I’m going up to the house. You stay here and make sure he doesn’t move.”
With a nod of agreement, Aurora removed the scarf from her neck and wadded it up at the back of Rousseau’s head as a makeshift bandage and cushion.
Stella, meanwhile, continued at breakneck speed, arms waving the entire way, along the path to Vue Colline. As she neared the main house, she could see Chef Durand busy in the kitchen and, through the French doors of the dining room, Nick standing around and chatting affably with Ms. B. Ology, the Salvage Guy, and Chip Carlson, a glass of wine in his hand. Behind them, Kenneth Zolar sat at the table, his face buried in his cell phone, as per usual.
“Help!” Stella shouted out in hopes of getting someone’s attention, but it was of no use. Vue Colline’s windows were shut tight against the chilly night air and she was still too far away to be heard. Still moving closer to the house, Stella began waving her arms more vigorously, causing the tiny lights of her sweatshirt to flicker on and off frenziedly.
Nick stopped talking and pointed toward the window; the group moved closer to the doors as if to get a better look. Thinking quickly, Stella raised her arms above her head to form the letter ‘H,’ her sweatshirt displayed the letter in bold lights. She switched forms to an ‘E,’ then an ‘L,’ and finally a ‘P.’ Unfortunately, the fiber optic display interpreted the last character as a ‘D,’ but it was close enough, for Nick and the Salvage Guy had exited the French doors and were running in her direction.
“A little something from the Lady Gaga collection?” Nick called to her, a broad smile on his face.
“What’s HELD, by the way?” Dan asked as they drew closer.
“Help,’” Stella corrected. “Help. As in help me. Mark Rousseau is back along the path, closer to the fairgrounds. He has a great big gash in the back of his head.”
“Accident?” Nick asked.
“Could be,” Stella allowed, “but it looks more like someone helped him along.”
“I’ll get my first aid kit from the truck and we’ll go to Rousseau together,” Nick directed before heading to the driveway.
“I’ll call 911,” Dan stated, pulling a cell phone from his shirt pocket. “And wait out front for the ambulance.”
Chapter Nineteen
Having regained full consciousness and sufficient strength to recount the tale of his attack by an unknown, unseen assailant, Mark Rousseau was taken, via ambulance, to the local emergency room for examination. There, if tests showed no evidence of permanent, serious injury, he would be stitched up and returned to Vue Colline.
Nick and the Salvage Guy, traveling in Nick’s government-issued truck, followed the ambulance to ensure Rousseau’s successful treatment and journey home. It was a task that left Nick feeling torn.
“I don’t feel safe leaving you here alone,” he whispered to Stella as the EMTs loaded Rousseau onto a gurney.
“You’re not,” Stella insisted. “I’m here with a bunch of other people, most of whom are innocent and who will, no doubt, be sticking close together until we all lock our bedroom doors and try to get some sleep tonight. The problem is leaving Rousseau alone with the Salvage Guy. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have left him alone with Aurora like I did.”
“Do you think she might have done it?”
“Honestly, no. However, I can’t account for her whereabouts between the time Rousseau left the carriage house and my arrival at her tent. We can’t take chances, Nick. I know you were in the dining room with Dan when I found Rousseau, but do you know where he was prior to that?”
Nick shook his head. “No idea.”
“Then you can’t rule out the possibility that he attacked Rousseau or that, having failed, he might try to do it again.”
“You’re right,” Nick sighed. “But why do you need to stay here?”
“Because what if the Salvage Guy isn’t our man? Someone has to keep an eye on things here.”
“Well, be careful. Please. I meant it before, but I mean it even more so now.”
“Trust me. I’m not even going to the ladies’ room until you come back, if I can help it.”
Upon the ambulance’s departure, Stella was approached by one of the uniformed police officers who had been examining the spot where the wounded Rousseau had been discovered. The familiar face of Officer Ramsey issued a polite hello.
“Good evening, Officer Ramsey. Are you still on duty from this morning?”
“No ma’am. Finished up that shift, went home, rested up, and back for another one.”
“Good lord. Has it been that long?”
“Yes, ma’am. Long day and short of staff.”
“No, I suppose you’re not used to this sort of thing, are you?”
“Typical day here consists of a traffic incident or two, the occasional domestic dispute, and maybe a drunk and disorderly – usually involving some
one up at the college. But this? Never seen anything like it.”
“Well, with any luck, we’ll find out who did this and you’ll never have to see it again.”
“Amen to that,” Ramsey nodded. “Now, Mrs. Buckley, I was told that you were the one who found Mr. Rousseau. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s right. I was returning to the house from the fairgrounds at a fairly good clip,” Stella moved her arms as though she were jogging, causing the lights of her sweatshirt to flash on in a myriad of interesting patterns. Officer Ramsey’s eyes became fixated on Stella’s bosom.
“Oops!” she pulled her arms down to her sides. “Sorry, I got this today from one of the Creators. It’s fiber opteek, um optic,” Stella explained. “Anyway, I was walking along and saw Mr. Rousseau lying in the path. He was banged up pretty badly, as you saw, and was barely conscious.”
“Did you see anyone else nearby?”
“Not a soul. I did, however, see Rousseau in the carriage house several minutes prior to his attack. He had scheduled an assignation there.”
“An assignation?”
“Yes, a rendezvous, a tete-a-tete.”
Ramsey’s eyes narrowed.
“He met a girl there,” Stella elaborated. “A server up at the house actually. It was clear that Rousseau wanted to keep their relationship a secret.”
“Do you know why?”
“No, I can only imagine that it might have been because she’s very young. I mean, she’s so young she called me ‘middle-aged.’” Stella issued a loud dismissive laugh,“Seriously? Can you believe that? She obviously has no idea what middle-aged is.”
Ramsey did not respond.
“She probably thinks Britney Spears is eligible for Social Security,” Stella quipped.
Still, Ramsey was unfazed. “Do you know this young woman’s name?”
“Amanda. I don’t know her last name. I imagine she’s a student at the University. Undergrad. Which would make her at least ten years younger than Rousseau. That wouldn’t be an issue if Rousseau were a professional tennis player or surfer, but when the CFO of a non-profit devoted to science and the education of children takes up with a cheerleader, said CFO’s step-father might not be pleased.”
Short-Circuited in Charlotte: A Pret' Near Perfect Mystery Page 21
