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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “Worse? How could it be worse? Mrs. Buckley, is your husband still alive?” Oona challenged.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “And are you happy with him?”

  “Yes, I am. Very.”

  “Then you have absolutely no idea how I feel right now.” Her red rimmed eyes filled, once again, with tears.

  “No, I admit that I don’t.” Stella pulled a chair alongside the bed and sat down. “So, why don’t you tell me?”

  “What do you care? I’m a washed up, middle-aged hippie.”

  “And I’m a washed up, unemployed, not-quite-middle-aged-although-others-would-argue-otherwise art curator who dabbles in murder and cross stitch. Surly cross stitch.”

  Oona briefly stopped crying. “What do you mean ‘surly’?”

  “Oh, umm, I stitch sayings, like ‘Let the Good Times Be Gin,’ ‘Suck it Up, Buttercup,’ and ‘Namaste, Bitches.’”

  Oona giggled through her tears and Stella laughed with her, despite the lack of caffeine in her bloodstream.

  Tuttle, in the meantime, delivered Stella’s coffee, his mouth agape at the frivolity in the room.

  “Thank you, Mr. Tuttle,” Stella said graciously.

  “You’re welcome.” Tuttle deposited the coffee mug in Stella’s hand. “Can I bring you anything else? Or take care of anything else?”

  Stella glanced at Oona, who shook her head from side to side.

  “No, thank you, Mr. Tuttle. I think we’re good,” Stella assured with a secretive wink.

  Tuttle flashed Stella a thumbs up sign before fleeing the room.

  Stella downed a sizeable gulp of coffee and allowed the warm, delicious brew to seep into her fingers, toes, and bloodstream. After a deep breath, she spoke again, this time feeling much more human. “Tell me about Arthur.”

  “I loved Arthur. I still love Arthur,” she cried.

  “Well, naturally. You were married for how long?”

  “Thirty-three years. And they were good years, but –”

  “But?”

  “But Arthur could be… well, Arthur. He was a brilliant engineer and a staunch advocate for the environment, and the homeless, and the aging, and college students, and,” Oona sighed, “everyone but us.”

  “So Arthur was what one might call a ‘tireless crusader’?” Stella ventured.

  “I prefer the term ‘workaholic.’ It was one thing when the children were young – we have a son and a daughter – but when they grew up and went off to school and then when out into the world to form their own lives, I thought Arthur and I might be able to finally scale back a bit and enjoy life. Oh, I feel guilty even complaining now,” she moaned.

  “You can’t help how you felt, Oona. Did you ever talk to Arthur about it?”

  She shook her head. “I tried. I’d suggest we go out on dates or take a moonlight walk or even take an afternoon off from the business, but Arthur was under fire from all sides. He was trying so hard to get his Yomes for the Homeless program implemented somewhere – anywhere – and all he got was pushback from legislators, from the community, from zoning administrators, veterans’ organizations. You name it, they were all on Arthur’s case. Compared to that kind of pressure, my desire for more quality time seemed trivial.”

  “That must have been very difficult for you,” Stella sympathized.

  “I – I handled it okay. I used the time I would have spent with the kids at Zumba class or going out to lunch with girlfriends. I expanded the garden. I increased my work hours with Arthur, so at least we had some time together. There was still some emptiness, but I filled it best I could… for a while.” Oona’s body convulsed into sobs.

  Several seconds elapsed while Oona fought to regain her composure. With a hearty blow of the nose, she finally resumed her story. “Then, one day, I was shopping at our local food co-op after having lunch with some friends. I rarely wear makeup (Arthur never liked it; said it was dangerous to a woman’s health) but that day, I was wearing a new lipstick that matched the scarf I was wearing. A man who works there noticed it and paid me a compliment. It was the first time in years that a man had even noticed my appearance, let alone praised me on it.”

  “From that moment on, I would dress up when Arthur wasn’t around. I’d put on a bit more makeup, a new scarf, maybe some jewelry. I’d go out shopping. Walk around town, strike up conversations. With men, mostly. I liked the compliments they gave me. They made me feel pretty, young, and wanted again. There were days when the attention I received from other men was the only thing that made me feel worthy of being alive.” Oona’s voice cracked. “I know that sounds horrible, and maybe it is, but please don’t judge me.”

  She gave Stella no time to reply. “I never cheated on my husband, Mrs. Buckley. I swear, I didn’t. I flirted with men, came on to them, but it never went further than that. Some men seemed shocked; others played along. No one ever pushed the game that far and I can’t say what I would have done if they had. I never let myself think about that possibility. I focused on the fun, the attention – never the potential result of my behavior. Until last night.” Oona drew a deep breath. “I suppose your husband told you that I met him outside the bathroom last night.”

  Stella nodded.

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Buckley.” Oona looked Stella squarely in the eye. “I truly am. Your husband is a very good man. He reacted to me so honestly, so decently, that at first, I laughed at his awkwardness. But then, when I got to my room and looked in the mirror, I felt absolutely ashamed. I had spoken to a man while wearing nothing but a towel. What would my children think of me? My parents, if they were still alive? The person who looked back in the mirror wasn’t me – it was some crazy woman. I have lived my life trying to teach my children the difference between right and wrong. Always say ‘thank you’ and ‘please.’ Hold doors open for others. Respect your elders. And here I was disrespecting both my husband and myself.”

  “Oona, you went to see Arthur last night, didn’t you?”

  It was Oona’s turn to nod. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Your lipstick was on a wineglass beside the bed.”

  “I was in such a state, I don’t even remember leaving it there. After coming up here and feeling disgusted with myself, I resolved to make a better effort in my marriage. Like your Nick, my Arthur was a good man too. And here I was acting like a complete fool in a warm, dry house, while he was out there in the pouring rain – well, it had stopped raining by this time, but I knew Arthur was miserable regardless – so I put my clothes back on and went downstairs. Philip had always been very generous to his guests, so I picked up a bottle of wine from the dining room and a couple of glasses from the kitchen and went out to our yurt.

  “I expected Arthur to be happy to see me, but he wasn’t. The hole in the roof had really gotten under his skin. Still, I persisted in trying to make the best of the situation. I poured some wine for myself – he refused a glass – made light conversation, and asked him to come back to the house with me. If he wouldn’t, then I’d be staying out there with him. I told him that we were in this thing together and I didn’t want to spend the night apart. That’s when he lost it.”

  “Lost it how?”

  “Arthur was in intense pain from his arthritis. I know he was; rain always did that to him. So did stress, so as you can imagine, his discovery of Morehouse’s plans for HALLE and the sabotage to the tent had combined to make him a complete mess. But what really set him off was his blanket. Arthur had a magnetic blanket for sleeping that he’d carry with him everywhere, an acupuncturist friend of ours recommended it for Arthur’s arthritis and it seemed to give Arthur some comfort. Last night, however, he couldn’t find it anywhere. I tried to help him look – you know how wives seem to locate things that husbands and children can’t – but Arthur pushed me away. He started shouting that the damage to the yurt and the missing blanket were all a part of yet another plot against him and that he was going to catch whomever did this to him. He was so angry, he really
wasn’t making much sense. He was shouting and swearing and tossing things about. Then he ordered me back to the house.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I begged him to let me stay, but he swore at me and again, told me to leave. So I did. It had started raining again, so I ran, in tears, back to the house. So upset I had been, that I didn’t even realize that I had taken Arthur’s unused glass with me, but left the dirty one there. Nor, I admit, did I care. I left Arthur’s glass in the sink and came up here to my room. That’s the last time I saw my husband alive,” she cried.

  Stella changed position from the chair to the edge of the bed and placed a consoling arm around Oona Bauersfeld. When the woman’s weeping had slowed considerably, Stella whispered, “I know that getting away from here and the memory of last night’s events is the first thing on your mind, but I really think you should stay.”

  Oona paused to consider Stella’s statement. “If I leave, will the police think I did it? That I murdered Arthur?” she asked calmly.

  “They very well might,” Stella conceded.

  “But I didn’t! Oh, I swear to you, Mrs. Buckley… I may have felt hurt and disappointed and frustrated when I left the yurt last night, but I didn’t kill my husband.”

  “I believe you.”

  Oona seemed surprised. “You do? It’s not just because I’ve been crying and you feel sorry for me, is it?”

  “No. I mean, I do feel sorry that you’ve lost your husband but that’s not why I believe you’re innocent.”

  “Then why do you?”

  “Because your husband’s blanket was missing,” Stella answered, cryptically, a strange far-away smile on her face.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Stella departed Oona’s room and stopped down the hall to see Mark Rousseau before heading back to her bedroom to bathe and get dressed.

  Rousseau’s bedroom door was open and the man himself was sitting up in bed, wrapped in a dark blue flannel robe, reading the New York Times and drinking a tall glass of green juice. “Good morning,” he folded the newspaper and put it down on the bed beside him.

  “Good morning. How are you feeling?”

  “Lucky to be alive. And like someone brained me with a tire iron.”

  “Yes, I imagine you would. I’m glad you decided to rest up instead of working at today’s Cavalcade.”

  “Meagan’s taking my place today. She insisted. I’m not sure I’d have the wherewithal go on the way she has. She’s a real trooper.”

  “Yes. Yes, she is. Mind if I ask you some questions?”

  “Ask away.” He placed the glass of juice on the nightstand and waved her toward a white plastic tulip chair.

  Stella pulled it bedside and took a seat. “I know you met Amanda in the carriage house yesterday evening.”

  “What?” Rousseau was indignant. “Whoever told you that is lying.”

  “No one told me. I saw it, and heard it, for myself.”

  “Nope,” Rousseau folded his arms across his chest. “You’re mistaken. I never – I don’t believe you.”

  “Remember that strange clunking noise you put down to one of the horses moving around? Yeah, that was me. I was hiding in one of the stalls.”

  Rousseau’s calm demeanor faded. “What the hell were you doing in one of the horse stalls?”

  “Just one of the crazy things we middle-aged Angela Lansbury wannabes do in our spare time,” Stella shrugged.

  “Good God, you did hear us.”

  “Um, I believe that’s what I’ve been saying.”

  “I’m sorry you overheard that,” Rousseau apologized. “You didn’t happen to hit me over the back of the head for it, did you?”

  “Sadly, no,” she replied with a smile. “Someone else beat me to the punch.”

  Rousseau chuckled. “Well, I apologize again. And thank you for not pummeling me. One blow to the head is enough.”

  “Yes, about that – I know I already asked, but now that you had some time to rest up, are you certain you didn’t notice anything about your attacker? A scent of cologne, a sound, a style of glove or shoe? Anything.”

  “No, nothing. As I’ve told you and the police, I was minding my own business, walking back to the house, when I suddenly heard a noise on the gravel behind me. I turned to look over my shoulder,” Rousseau recreated the movement by turning his head to the right and then stopped.

  “Are you okay?” Stella checked.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I uh…”

  “Remembered something about your attacker?”

  “No, I… it’s probably nothing.”

  “If it’s about the night of the murder, it’s not ‘nothing,’” Stella prompted. “Whatever you might have seen or heard could be the reason you were attacked last night.”

  Rousseau was still reluctant to speak.

  “Look, I know you went out that night, after everyone went to bed. Where were you going? To meet Amanda in the carriage house?”

  He turned sharply. “Why were you hiding in one of the stalls Saturday night too? You know, I’m beginning to believe that bedroom you’ve been assigned hasn’t been used since you’ve gotten here.”

  Rousseau’s continued defensiveness gave Stella pause. Was the carriage house simply the site of his and Amanda’s trysts? Or was Rousseau the person behind the hidden HALLE buried in the hay?

  “No. I wasn’t hiding in the horse stall.” She was purposefully vague. “But you were seen heading toward the fairgrounds that night.”

  “Yes. Yes, okay? Yes, you’re right about all of it. God, your husband must love how right you are. All. The. Time,” he said aside. “Amanda left the house after dinner and checked out with security. However, there’s a path that leads to a rear gatehouse. I‘ve used it since I was a kid, but few people are aware of its existence. Amanda came back here late that night, parked her car at the beginning of the path, and followed it down to the gate, which I had unlocked before heading to the carriage house.”

  “While you were walking toward the gatehouse, you glanced over your right shoulder. That’s what you remembered just now, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of it until now. I was on the trail to the fairgrounds, near where I was attacked yesterday, when I heard something behind me and to my right. I looked over my shoulder to see something moving behind the boxwood hedges at the end of the house, by the parlor and billiard rooms.”

  “Did you see what it was?”

  “No, but in retrospect it might have been Arthur’s killer, couldn’t it? At the time, I didn’t even know about the Bauersfelds’ tent being slashed, so I wrote it off as a deer or a bear, but now in light of everything… wow. Had I a clue that anything was amiss – anything at all – I wouldn’t have met Amanda. I wouldn’t have put her in that kind of jeopardy.”

  “Yes, about Amanda, tell me more about her and your relationship.”

  “There’s not much to tell, really. Amanda helps out during special events and Foundation visitor days. We met here at Vue Colline at this past spring’s fundraiser.”

  “She was waiting tables then too?”

  “Yes, she was.”

  “And when she’s not here?”

  “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  “What you described is part time work, so what does Amanda do with the rest of her time?”

  “She’s a journalism student over at the University,” Rousseau answered sheepishly.

  “Graduate work?”

  “Er, um, no. Undergraduate. Which is why we had to keep our relationship on the down low.”

  “Your step-father wouldn’t have approved?” Stella speculated.

  “Decidedly not.”

  “Handy that he should be out of the way so shortly after you and Amanda became engaged to be married.”

  “Engaged? What the –?”

  “Yes, engaged. I believe that’s what you both said yesterday. Was it not?”

  “It was, but that wasn
’t quite um, how can I say this…?”

  “Kosher? Legit? On the up-and-up?” Stella offered.

  “Thanks,” Rousseau deadpanned.

  “You’re very welcome,” Stella smiled.

  “Since I’m obviously coming clean with everything whether I like it or not, I might as well tell you that I was not in love with Amanda. Truth be completely told, there are times when I have difficulty even remembering her last name.”

  “What is her last name?”

  “Race. Amanda Race.”

  “And yet you told her that you loved her yesterday in the carriage house.”

  “No, if you listened carefully, she said she loved me. I said nothing and kissed her in reply.”

  “So, you were simply stringing her along,” Stella inferred.

  “Well, if you want to get ugly about it,” Rousseau whined.

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s hot.”

  “So you didn’t ask her to marry you and then scheme to kill your step-father so you could inherit his money and, thus, your freedom?”

  “She’s not that hot,” he answered flatly.

  A shriek could be heard from the hallway outside Rousseau’s bedroom door as Amanda charged in, screaming like a banshee. “Not that hot? Not that hot? And I guess you’re just Magic Mike! And for the record my last name is ‘Rice.’ Rice! Ugh, I can’t believe I fell for you, you pig… worm… scum!”

  Nick, who had been in the process of getting dressed when he heard the young woman’s screams, dashed in from down the hall, his shirt partially buttoned. “Hey! Hey, settle down.” He placed a hand on Amanda’s shoulder in an attempt to both calm the woman down and restrain her.

  The move worked, but not before Amanda had a chance to grab the glass of green juice from the bedside table and dump its contents over Mark Rousseau’s head.

  “Debbie Conaway told me you were a player. I should have listened!” Amanda burst into tears as Nick escorted her out of the room.

  Stella handed Rousseau a box of facial tissue from the nearby sitting area. “You’re probably going to need a shower,” she remarked in a soft voice.