Aurora blushed slightly and, with a glare in Carlson’s direction, went off to take the seat she had occupied the previous evening.
“And thank you, Stella,” Meagan continued, “for all your work today and for finding Mark the way you did. I’m especially grateful for your quick actions and that Nick and Dan are there with him to ensure he gets home safely.”
“Thank you?” an obviously intoxicated Oona Bauersfeld scoffed. “Thank you for what? For getting in the way of the police while they try to do their job? You may not want the truth about your fiancé to come out, Meagan, but it will. Arthur knew about Philip’s lies, that’s why Philip murdered him!”
The room fell silent as all eyes focused on Oona and then, in turn, on Meagan.
During Oona’s tirade, Chef Durand and Ms. B. Ology had quietly entered the room and placed two large silver chafing dishes on the sideboard. As B. Ology retreated to the kitchen to retrieve more of the meal, Durand approached Oona and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Madame Bauersfeld, it has been a sad, tragic, exhausting day. We are all at a loss for words at the death of your beloved husband, but, alas, life goes on. Let us all have some food, some drink, err… water,” he corrected after a glance at Oona’s empty white wine glass, “then retire to our own beds for the night for some much needed rest. I have created a comforting menu of the macaroni and gruyere gratin, a kale salad with the pecans and dried cranberries, and Ms. B. baked us the most delicious apple pie with the fruit grown here on the grounds.”
Oona removed Durand’s hand from her shoulder. “Food? How can you or anyone else here think of food at a time like this?”
“I can always think of the food,” Durand answered with a gentle smirk. “It is a disease for me, I think. But we all do need to keep up our strength. Life goes on, Madame.”
“Life goes on? That’s all you have to say? Well, you won’t be saying that if Philip’s plan goes through. That’s right. He wasn’t going to use his invention to help people, he was going to sell it to the Chinese. That’s right! The big philanthropist was selling life-altering technology for a profit.”
Repudiation of Oona’s accusation came from an unlikely source. “That’s a lie!” Kenneth Zolar rose from his chair and shouted, leaving his audience in rapt attention. “HALLE was designed for medical purposes only. It was never to be used for military purposes. Never!”
“Sure. And when the Chinese army starts using that robotic suit against us, you won’t be so bold then will you? Better learn to speak Mandarin,” Oona sang as she staggered to the end of the sideboard, where a glass and metal bar cart held multiple bottles of wine.
Aurora and Carlson rushed to flank Oona on each side. “I’m not sure this is a good idea, Mrs. Bauersfeld,” Carlson cautioned. “You should eat something first.”
“Si,” Aurora chimed in. “The wine on the empty stomach will give you the big headache.”
“I don’t care! I’m going to get rip roaring drunk, wallow in my gigantic headache, and then, in the morning, I’m leaving this place.”
“You know you can’t do that,” Carlson reminded her. “The police still have the yurt cordoned off, along with all your belongings.”
“To hell with that damned yurt! I’ve been a prisoner to that thing for years. Years! I’d happily leave here with nothing more than the clothes on my back if it meant not having to haul that thing to another fair or show or civic meeting.”
“Now, now, you don’t mean that,” Aurora soothed. “You are upset.”
“You’re damned right I’m upset. I’m upset I’m stuck here in this… place with all of you. What I want – what I need – is to go home. I swear if I have to stay here another night I’ll go crazy.”
“Short trip,” Kenneth Zolar whispered. Chef Durand, who was standing behind the young inventor, gave him a firm, yet gentle, slap to the back of the head.
“I will! I’ll go crazy!” Oona continued before breaking into violent sobs.
Aurora placed a protective arm around her shoulders and gave a knowing look to Carlson.
With a nod to Aurora, Carlson began leading the way out of the dining room. “Come on, Mrs. Bauersfeld, let’s get you to bed. You’ll feel much better in the morning.”
Oona Bauersfeld did not resist. Leaning her head on Aurora’s shoulder, she followed Carlson out of the room.
Stella got up and watched as the trio made their way through the hallway, past the parlor, and up the main staircase.
“What if Oona’s right?” B. Ology asked when they were out of earshot. “What if Philip did kill Arthur?”
“He didn’t,” Meagan snapped. “You can’t listen to such foolishness.”
“Mademoiselle Meagan is correct,” Durand spoke up. “Madame Bauersfeld is not seeing the situation clearly. If Philip murdered Arthur then who could have attacked Mark in the garden this evening?”
“Thugs?” B. Ology shrugged. “Maybe the same thugs that slashed Oona and Arthur’s tent?”
Stella did not comment on B. Ology’s flawed logic or whether the glass blower might have an ulterior motive for leading her fellow housemates astray. She wandered, silently, to the parlor where, on an empty end table, her phone lay charging.
Pressing the ‘on’ button, she waited eagerly as the display flashed on and a wifi signal was recognized. Within seconds, a text message appeared on the screen, accompanied by a loud chime.
It was from Sheriff Mills: PM died of cardiac arrest due to complications from a failed defibrillator. Stay safe. Mills
Chapter Twenty
After a scrumptious yet somber dinner that did much to replenish her energy stores, Stella assisted her fellow houseguests in cleaning up the dishes and kitchen before retiring to her room. There, tucked behind a locked door and snuggled into the warmth of her leopard print bathrobe, she awaited the return of Nick, who, after a two-and-a-half hour stint in the hospital waiting room, was on his way back to Vue Colline with the Salvage Guy and Mark Rousseau in tow.
After browsing the internet and sending off a few important emails, Stella curled up on the window seat and stared out across the driveway and front lawns. Her mind, however, was fixed upon the whitewashed form of the carriage house where, buried beneath a stack of hay, rested HALLE or a prototype thereof.
She wondered if she should take up watch in one of the rooms that overlooked the fairgrounds. Perhaps there, if she looked hard enough, long enough, she might be fortunate enough to spy one of her housemates taking advantage of the cover of darkness to sneak to the carriage house and claim the hidden robotic suit. Or to ensure its safety.
But what if HALLE hadn’t been hidden for nefarious reasons? What if the suit in the carriage house was part of what Zolar described as ‘the spectacle’ Philip had planned for the Cavalcade? What if it were merely a prop in Morehouse’s – the great entertainer’s – show?
And what about the claims that Morehouse was going to sell HALLE to the Chinese? Stella doubted the claims, as did most of the Creators, but then what about the paperwork that Bauersfeld saw? And why did Meagan seem to express some doubt about Philip’s innocence that morning?
Despite interviewing everyone at Vue Colline, Philip Morehouse was still an enigma. The deceit behind the death of his first wife, his intentions for the HALLE project, but most of all, his death itself. How could a man who received a clean bill of health from his cardiologist die as a result of a failed defibrillator just days later?
Stella sighed and stretched. The day’s events had left her bone weary and mentally exhausted. Still, she didn’t want to go to bed until Nick had safely returned. Not only was she anxious for his safety, but she would rest a lot easier knowing she was not alone. With a long yawn, Stella reached into her red leather handbag, extracted a cylinder of pepper spray left over from her days of living in New York, and made her way downstairs for a cup of tea.
As she reached the bottom of the staircase, she was surprised to hear the sound of music coming from the rear of the house
. She clutched the pepper spray tightly and followed the sound to the dining room. There, by the light of two vintage silk shaded floor lamps, Chip Carlson sat looking out the French doors toward the fairgrounds, the record “There’s A Wah Wah Gal in Agua Caliente” blasting through the laser gramophone’s single horn-shaped speaker.
Despite the late hour, Carlson was still dressed in street clothes, albeit slightly disheveled ones. His long coat had been draped over the back of a nearby dining chair, his starched white shirt was open at the neck, and the buttons of his waistcoat were undone. In his left hand, he held a carved crystal old fashioned glass filled with translucent brown liquid. With his right, he motioned to Stella, doing so without ever taking his gaze from the window.
“Good evening, Mrs. Buckley.”
“Mr. Carlson,” she addressed. “I didn’t expect to see you still awake. What are you doing?”
“Watching and waiting,” he replied, his focus still fixed upon the view outside the French doors. “And you?”
“I’m waiting for my husband to come back from the hospital.”
“So it would seem that you’re watching and waiting as well,” Carlson turned around with a smile. “Shall we do so together?”
“Um, actually, I was going to fix myself a cup of tea and head back to my room.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have tea here, but there’s water, wine, and other spirits.”
“Oh, well, actually I think there’s some in the billiard room.” Stella tried desperately to excuse herself.
Carlson shook his head. “The Keurig died during last night’s storm. Power surge.”
“Casualties abound,” she remarked with an ironic chuckle.
“You seem nervous, Mrs. Buckley,” Carlson observed.
“Well, I can’t imagine why. Two murders, one assault, a dead coffee machine, and the possibility of industrial espionage. Sounds like a perfectly relaxing weekend.”
“I did warn you about poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“Yes, you did. Was that for my benefit or for yours?”
“Yours, of course. Now why don’t you sit down and have a drink until your husband gets back?”
“I’d rather not, thanks. I think I’ll go up to bed.”
“You’re safer down here with me.”
“Am I?” Stella challenged. “I don’t even know who you are, Mr. Carlson.”
“I’m precisely whom you just said: Carlson. Charles Peter Carlson a.k.a. ‘Chip’ due to my initials, a striking resemblance to my father, and my early interest in computers.”
“And yet when Googling this young man who had such an interest in computers, I find that there is not a photo of him to be found on the entire internet.”
“I don’t like having my photo taken,” Carlson shrugged.
“Just like you don’t enjoy socializing or large crowds. And yet, here you are, suddenly on Vue Colline’s doorstep, dancing, joking, drinking, and completely at ease.”
“I’ve already addressed that with you, Mrs. Buckley. My staff –”
“Yes, about your staff,” Stella interrupted. “I visited your website, which features an email address to your personal assistant. I sent this young woman a message requesting a meeting with you and she replied, quite quickly and efficiently, that she would be happy to arrange something but that, at the moment, you were enjoying a two week vacation in Tahiti.”
“Cover story,” Carlson answered flatly and took a sip from his glass.
“Cover story? A cover for what, might I ask? A cover to keep your legions of Steampunk fans away from the Cavalcade? That wouldn’t make sense. A cover so that you wouldn’t have to share photos of your latest designs on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, like you have in the past? Perhaps, since sharing those photos would also require you to provide your followers with a description of what they were seeing and, at last juncture, you were unable to even recognize one of your own daggers, let alone explain the inspiration behind its concept. So, again, I ask the question: Who are you?”
Carlson swigged back the remainder of his drink and slammed the glass down on a nearby accent table.
Stella gripped the cylinder of pepper spray and braced herself for either a backlash, a confession, or both.
Instead, she and Carlson were surprised by a knock at the main door. Without a word to Carlson, Stella scurried from the dining room and into the entry hall, where she eagerly unbolted the latch to allow her husband, Rousseau, and Dan admittance.
She greeted Nick with a wide embrace.
“Hey,” he soothed as he wrapped his arms around her. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. Just happy you’re back.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek before pulling away from him. “And glad to see Mark back on his feet again.”
“I think we’re all happy about that,” the Salvage Guy added.
“Indeed we are,” came Carlson’s voice as he joined them in the hall. “You were very lucky, Mr. Rousseau. Your injury could have been far worse than it was.”
“No one knows that better than I do,” Rousseau expressed. “For a minute there, I thought I was a goner. I’m thankful that you found me, Mrs. Buckley, and that you acted as quickly as you did.”
“My pleasure,” Stella smiled. “I’m just sorry I didn’t find you sooner; I might have seen who did it. You didn’t happen to see anything, did you, Mark?”
“No. Not a glimpse. One minute, I was walking back to the house. The next, I was on the ground.”
“Well, I won’t ask any more questions tonight. If it’s okay with you, Mark, maybe I can talk to you in the morning?” Stella asked.
Rousseau nodded his head. “Sure thing.”
“Thanks. I know it’s been a long evening. There are some leftovers in the kitchen if anyone’s hungry. If you all trust me to do so, I’d be happy to zap them in the microwave.”
“We actually grabbed something on the way back, hon,” Nick replied.
“Yeah, my stomach couldn’t wait any longer,” the Salvage Guy explained.
“And I’d already had one near-death encounter today. I didn’t want to take any chances with dinner,” Rousseau half-joked. “Look, I’d love to stay and chat, guys, but…”
“Yeah, I think we’re heading up too. It’s been a helluva day,” Nick commiserated.
Stella nodded. “Absolutely. I’m done.”
“Make me a fourth,” the Salvage Guy chimed in. “How about you, Carlson?”
“Not yet.” His eyes slid to Stella. “I’ve still got some waiting and watching to do.”
As Rousseau and the Salvage Guy went about their nightly ablutions, Stella reclaimed her spot on the bedroom window seat and stared out across the front lawns while Nick got undressed.
“Was Carlson bothering you at all?” he asked. “You seemed a little weirded out when I got back.”
“Bothering me? No. At least not in the way you mean. But there’s definitely something about the man that doesn’t sit right.” Stella went on to tell Nick of her findings regarding Carlson, B. Ology, and, most importantly, Morehouse.
“I don’t get it,” Nick admitted. “If Morehouse’s defibrillator malfunctioned, it’s not murder, right? So there’s no case, and no connection to Bauersfeld.”
“I would be likely to agree with you had Morehouse not visited his cardiologist just a few days ago. If that defibrillator had given any indication of malfunctioning, the doctor should have spotted it.”
“I agree, to a point. With any electrical device, there’s a chance it simply stopped working without any sign whatsoever,” Nick pointed out. “Besides, a person can’t mess with someone else’s pacemaker. I mean, this isn’t Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. No one reached into Morehouse’s chest, pulled out his heart, and flipped off the switch.”
“Well, not literally, no. But there are other, hands-off, ways of flipping that switch.”
“Are you serious?”
“Uh huh, I checked it out online.”
&nb
sp; “Wait a minute. You Googled how to stop a pacemaker?”
Stella nodded.
“Hellooooo, FBI watch list.”
“I’ve been at the scene of four murders in the past month. I’m pretty sure my name is already on it,” she dismissed.
“When you put it that way…” Nick pulled a face.
“As I was saying, the two most common means to stop a defibrillator are via electromagnetic waves or by hacking into the device itself.”
“Hacking? Into a pacemaker?” Nick shook his head. “That’s crazy.”
“And yet, given the brains and technology around us, highly possible.”
“Yeah, but thinking about how you’d go about proving it is making my brain hurt.”
“Mine too,” she frowned. “And yet, while technology changes, people and human nature remain the same, don’t they?”
“Yeah, I suppose they do,” Nick reflected as he watched his wife gaze out the window, an obvious burden upon her shoulders.
“Hey,” he approached the window seat and placed a comforting hand on the small of Stella’s back. “You’ll figure it all out. I know you will.”
“I hope so. Then we can get back home. Despite the unpainted walls, the ugly linoleum in the kitchen, and Crazy Maggie next door, home sounds like heaven to me right now.”
“I know. Me too,” he kissed her on the forehead. “In the meantime, we should try and get some sleep. You want to go and brush your teeth?”
“Could we go together? It sounds silly, I know. Especially since I’m usually the one charging off without you, but I’m more than a bit uneasy.”
“It’s not silly at all. Call me overprotective, but I don’t feel safe letting you go alone either.” He followed her out of the bedroom, across the hallway, and into the bathroom. “Hey, the other bathroom is free. Why doesn’t one of us use that one – this way we finish at the same time and can go to bed and lock the door behind us?”
“Sounds like a perfect plan!” Stella put some toothpaste on her brush and rushed to the bathroom at the end of the hall. There, with the door open, she gave Nick a wave and began brushing her teeth.
Short-Circuited in Charlotte: A Pret' Near Perfect Mystery Page 23
