Well-Offed In Vermont Part 12

"Care to phrase that in non-Mr. Wizard terms?"

"Red fabric dye."

"So what? Weston was wearing a new shirt. How is that important?"

"Didn't say it was important. It might be, but it might not. Found it interesting, that's all."

"If Weston was shot at close range, does that mean he died fairly quickly?" Stella jumped in. "Because that would affect the time of death, right?"

Mills took a swig of beer and nodded. "Coroner puts Weston's death somewhere between ten am and noon."

"Hmmm. And what about Weston's truck?"

"Oh, we found that this morning."

"Really? Where was it?"

"Couple of hikers found it parked on a trail in the woods 'bout an eighth of a mile behind your house. The keys were in the ignition."

"How strange."

"Most folks leave their keys in the ignition 'round here, but I agree with the spot being strange. A man working on your house would want his truck-and, most of all, his tools-nearby."

"Alice said that Weston's truck was at the house when she got there," Nick recounted. "Maybe that's when he unloaded his tools."

"Could be," Stella allowed. "She said he hadn't started work yet when she stopped by."

"Right. But does that mean Weston moved the truck after unloading it? I mean, why would he do that? It doesn't make any sense."

"Alice?" Mills asked, his face a question. "You talked to your real- estate agent today?"

"Y-yes," Stella stammered. "You know how you get a brief warranty time when you first move into a house? We wanted to see if we could get ours extended since we're not actually living there."

"And that somehow led to you telling her about the Weston case, did it?"

"Yes. How could it not? After all, that's what's preventing us from moving in."

"Doesn't mean you should have told her about the truck though, now, does it?"

Stella blushed bright scarlet.

"Oh, go on. You were saying that Alice saw Weston's truck at the house when she stopped by."

"That's right."

"What time was that?"

"Between ten thirty and eleven o'clock."

"Interesting."

The waitress interrupted briefly to deliver their food.

"It is interesting," Stella continued once the waitress was gone. "Especially given the time of death you just presented. The only thing we can't explain is what motive Alice Broadman would have for wanting Allen Weston dead."

"I've lived here my whole life, and I can't think of any. She didn't mention or hint at anything to you?"

Stella didn't want to put Sheriff Mills on Alice's trail until she had explored her suspicions. "No, not a word. But even if she had, it still wouldn't explain why Weston's truck was parked in the woods. Have you come up with any explanation for it?"

Mills lifted the bun from his burger and applied a generous dollop of ketchup. "I can think of a reason or two, but they're only guesses at this point."

"Care to share?"

"Sure would, but the State of Vermont wouldn't be too happy if I did. They're none too keen on us throwing around wild theories." Mills slid the ketchup bottle to Stella.

"No matter. We can probably figure it out." Stella poured the ketchup onto the side of her plate and pa.s.sed the bottle along to Nick.

"We can? I'm not even sure I know where to begin," Nick said as he doused his burger and fries.

Mills chuckled and dove into his burger.

"At the beginning." Stella bisected her burger and dipped half of it in the ketchup. The sight of the oozing red substance triggered a question. "Sheriff Mills, you didn't mention it, but was there any blood in the truck?"

"Mrs. Buckley, I shouldn't ... oh, h.e.l.l. You'll just wheedle it out of someone else, won't you? No, there was no blood."

"Then we can rule out that Weston was shot there and his body moved to the well later."

"Hmm ... you're pretty good at this. You a fan of those TV detective shows?"

"Not really. But my job in New York required a.n.a.lytical thinking at times."

"Oh yeah? What'd you do?"

Stella knew from experience that explaining the duties of a tapestry curator would either bore the sheriff or launch them onto another topic entirely. "I'll, um, I'll tell you some other time."

"So if there was no blood in the truck," Nick said between chews, "we can a.s.sume that Weston moved it there himself. Right?"

"Weston or his killer," said Mills. "The fact that it was found only an eighth of a mile away from the house would indicate that the driver wanted to hide that truck but still be within walking distance of the house."

"Okay, but why would his killer move it?" asked Nick.

"To buy some time," Stella guessed. "If we had pulled up and seen Weston's truck, we would have discovered his body much earlier than we did. Moving the truck to the woods-to where it couldn't be seen by someone approaching the house-would have ensured the killer a safe getaway. Now, if Weston moved it ..." Stella took a bite of burger and pondered what possible reason a man would have to park his truck in the woods.

"Go on," Mills encouraged with a twinkle in his eye. "You've done a good job so far."

"Well, the only reason I can think of is that he was trying to hide from someone. But that doesn't make sense, does it? He was working outside for all the world to see."

"But he had access to your house, didn't he? And you can hear a car coming down your driveway before you even see it, can't you?"

"I don't know. I haven't been in the house long enough to test that."

It was a thinly veiled jibe, but Mills paid no attention. "So if Weston heard a car coming, all he'd have to do is go inside the house. Without his truck around, it would appear that he had left to go back to the shop or to get a bite to eat."

"I suppose. But how many people could have known he was going to be at our house?"

"I spoke to Weston's secretary about that. She said the only ones who knew he was working on your job were herself, Weston, Alice, and the two of you, of course. But when I was at the office, I noticed a schedule on the wall-a big, erasable whiteboard listing jobs, dates, and names of service people. Your job and Weston's name were on it. Anyone who came into the office could have seen it."

"The problem with that theory is our job was rescheduled from Wednesday, meaning that the correct date was only visible during the twelve to eighteen hours prior to the murder. That's a pretty tight window."

"Did Weston's secretary say why the appointment was changed?" Nick inquired.

"She had no idea why. Weston called her from his house Wednesday morning and simply said that it needed to be moved to the next day. Weston wasn't the type of man you questioned, so she kept her mouth shut and made the necessary changes. However, she did confirm Alma's statement about Weston never working on job sites. In the five years she's worked for the well company, yours is the first job he handled himself."

"That limits our suspects, doesn't it?" Stella noted. "If Weston never worked at job sites, the killer wouldn't think to look for his name on that board. That means the killer must have been told about Weston's movements by Weston's secretary or by Weston himself."

"Or they were a lucky son-of-a-so-and-so and just happened to spot Weston's name on the board while they were in the office."

"Yeah, but it's like we said to Alice this morning," Nick spoke up. "The well service trucks were bright yellow. You wouldn't need a military special-ops background to track the dude to our place."

"Those trucks are G.o.d-awful bright," Mills agreed. "You can see 'em for miles, even during a whiteout. Be easy to follow. Question is, who would do that? Sure, Weston ruffled a few feathers around town, but to lie in wait and then follow him-"

"Who said anything about lying in wait? The killer could have spotted Weston on the road, followed him to our house to talk to him, and things just got out of hand. It's hunting season. Riding around with a rifle in your vehicle wouldn't be unusual."

"As for who would do this-you're joking, right? I mean, as much as I hate to say it, Josh Middleton does have a motive, doesn't he?" Stella posed.

"Yeah. And what about Colonel Kurtz?"

Mills's eyes narrowed. "Who?"

"Hank Reid. Old guy. Big hunter. Uber-conservative. If he wasn't already bald, he'd still be sporting a flattop."

"I can see you two were busy today. You paid a visit to Middleton and Reid too, did you?"

Stella tried to deny it. "Ummm ..."

Nick, however, came clean. "Yeah, we did. Middleton is your typical angry kid, but Reid is a total head case."

"Hank's an odd duck, at that."

"Odd? He shot his future wife's boyfriend in the shoulder."

"Told you that story, did he?" Mills chuckled.

"You're laughing. Does that mean it's not true?"

"Oh, it's true all right. Just laughing at how rattled you are by it."

"Yeah, well, call me a silly flatlander, but I'm not used to people using turkey hunting as a pretext to shooting each other."

"No different than city people claiming self-defense or insanity."

"Nope, it probably isn't. And once I shed my flatlander mindset, I'm sure I'll be as accustomed to it as you are, but for now, I find it a little bit unnerving."

"You can lose the mindset, but you'll never lose the name. Could live here the rest of your life, you'll still be a flatlander. Your children and your children's children too. Some say a family has to be here at least four generations 'til they're considered true Vermonters; some say more. It's open for debate."

"So we'll always be flatlanders like Weston."

"Yup. No one will call you that outright, of course, unless you tick 'em off. It's like Alma said. Weston didn't show respect. Came here, bought everything out, and aimed to build everything up. People here like things the way they are; they don't want a Walmart on the next corner. So long as you don't act as though you're better than most and try to change things, you'll do fine."

"We'd never do that," Stella a.s.sured.

Mills, having finished his meal, stood up and donned his hat. "That a fact? 'Cause changing things includes nosing around murder cases and possibly putting people in jail."

Stella blushed.

"I understand you're eager to get the bottom of this thing and move into that house of yours, but what you should be doing, Mrs. Buckley, is making friends. You need to convince folks you're one of them. Try dressing down a bit like the other ladies."

Stella surveyed her ensemble of dark indigo boot-cut jeans, black stiletto heel boots, and fitted V-neck knit top accessorized with a silk scarf, bangle bracelets, and a pair of silver hoop earrings in confusion. Was Mills suggesting she wear a hand-knit sweater? Or, worse yet, flannel?

"And get yourselves a truck. You need to fit in and blend-at least, that's what I'd be doing. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd best be going. I have to get home and feed my cats. Mr. Roscoe and Mr. Rufus get ornery if they don't get dinner by nine o'clock. "

As Mills walked to the bar to settle the tab, Nick turned to Stella. "Mr. Roscoe and Mr. Rufus? Oh yeah, he blends."

CHAPTER.

10.

STELLA AND NICK left the Windsor Bar and Grill and drove the two blocks to the Perkins Family Store. Once inside, they realized that Perkins was not so much a convenience store as a purveyor of products guaranteed to satisfy every facet of Vermont country living. Shelves lined with patterned contact paper that would have seemed at home in Hank Reid's kitchen cabinets offered customers the usual suspects: breads, cereals, snacks, and an eclectic mix of canned and packaged foods. However, tucked alongside the pantry staples were such oddities as hand-carved turkey calls, bright orange rain ponchos, squirrel-proof bird feeders, home-baked organic dog treats, and souvenir bottles of maple syrup.

Lining the wall behind the cash register were the age-restricted items: rolls of lottery tickets, stacks of cigarette cartons, and boxes of ammo to fit nearly every caliber hunting rifle known to man. And, for those who would rather try their hand at catching (and then releasing) the local supply of brown, rainbow, brook, and lake trout-in addition to the typical eggs, milk, soda, and beer-gla.s.s refrigerator cases held plastic containers of nightcrawlers and other live bait. Alongside the cases, a display of nymphs, emergers, and b.u.g.g.e.rs appealed to anglers.

Indeed, even the front porch of the store presented consumers with buying opportunities. Having been transformed into a seasonal outdoor supply section, the rickety floorboards were stocked with flower bulbs, rakes, locally grown pots of chrysanthemums, and bags of autumn fertilizer.

But possibly the most unique facets of the store were a back room filled to the rafters with the finest wines and spirits (including a few bottles of twenty-five-year-old Macallan Scotch priced at ninety dollars each) and a delicatessen counter whose blackboard listed the Hunter's Special of the Day as roasted turkey breast, arugula, and smoked mozzarella on rosemary and sun-dried tomato foccacia.

Doubtful that such a recipe would ever grace the pages of Field & Stream magazine, Stella could only a.s.sume that the Hunter's Special had been designed to please the thrill-seeking cliff-dwellers and suburbanites who arrived each autumn in their shiny Land Rovers with the latest L. L. Bean hunting gear.

As she and Nick perused the aisles for their bed, Stella found herself grinning at the idea of camo-clad grown men sitting cross-legged on red-and-white-checked blankets, sipping chardonnay, and nibbling, pinkies suspended in midair, on panini. When she imagined those same well-heeled Orvis-shopping sportsmen being forced to spend the night in Ray Johnson's hunting camp, she nearly laughed out loud.

Laughed out loud, that is, until she literally came face to face- or, more accurately, mouth to forehead-with a hobbitlike woman somewhere in her sixties. Standing just under five feet tall, she wore a pair of ill-fitting corduroy pants and a nubby, multicolored Fair Isle sweater that only served to accentuate her saggy bosom. Her straight, slightly stringy, long white hair not only gave her the appearance of being quite ancient but failed to bring balance to a face permeated by an extremely large nose.