Well-Offed In Vermont Part 5

"Yup, while the leaves are changing, the only true weekdays are Tuesday and Wednesday."

"Are you saying we won't be able to get a room until Tuesday?"

"Probably not. Town is packed."

Sheriff Mills nodded his head in confirmation.

"Seems quiet now," Nick noted.

"That's 'cause it's only quarter to seven. I'm not even supposed to be open yet." Alma presented them with two menus. "How 'bout some breakfast? This lists our cooked-to-order items, and baked goods are listed on the board behind me."

"How come I never get a menu?" Mills complained as he took a bite out of a sugar-studded jelly doughnut.

"You used to, but since you order the same thing every day, I figured I'd save my energy."

"If you're not open yet," Stella asked, "then how were we able to get in?"

" 'Cause I feel bad when my first customer of the day, every day, has to wait out in the rain."

"You come here every day at opening?" Stella asked the sheriff.

Sheriff Mills blushed. "Yup. Wanna be the first to taste Alma's excellent coffee."

Stella took a sip from her white earthenware mug. Alma's coffee was serviceable, but one could have purchased a similar cup from the Stewart's convenience store down the road. Given his reaction to Alma's arrival at the farmhouse, she was willing to bet that there was an ulterior motive to Mills's patronage.

Nick placed his menu facedown on the counter. "I'll have the breakfast sandwich on your seven-grain bread."

"I'll have a cranberry-orange scone," Stella ordered, her mind more focused on the matter of accommodations than on breakfast. "So, Sheriff Mills, since we obviously can't find a room in town, what's the chance that we'll be able to stay at the house tonight?"

Mills frowned and shook his head. "Slim to none."

"By then, you and your men will have had twenty-four hours to give the place a thorough search. Isn't that enough time?"

"Haven't gotten the coroner's report yet. Until we do, we don't know what we're looking for."

Nick spoke up. "You don't need a coroner's report to tell you that Weston was shot."

"Nope. But I do need it to tell me what he was shot with, where the shot might have been fired from, and whether or not his body was moved."

"When will you receive the report?" Stella inquired.

Mills took a sip of his coffee and swallowed. "Afternoon, most likely."

"Once you get it, can you use the information to search the living room first? That way, maybe if it checks out okay, we can ... ?"

"Mrs. Buckley, I'm gonna be blunt. Even if an initial search of your house comes up clean, I'm not gonna let you folks go rushing back there. Not 'til I know who did this."

"What if we stayed in one room-just to sleep-and didn't touch anything else? We'll even promise to be out of there by morning, so your men can do whatever they need to do."

"Sorry, but someone shot Weston and left him to die. Until my case against that person is tighter than the bark on a tree, I'm not taking any chances."

"I understand. I'm sorry for pushing you, Sheriff. It's just ..." her voice trailed off.

"No need for apologies. I understand you're eager to set up housekeeping, and I feel bad you two got more than you bargained for. But, as much as I'd like to let you folks move in, I know that cutting cross-lots might come back to bite me in the a-ahem, b.u.t.t-later on."

Stella's eyes narrowed. "'Cutting cross-lots?'"

"Taking shortcuts," Alma paraphrased as she served up the Buckleys' breakfasts.

Nick lifted the top slice of bread from his sandwich and sprinkled the filling with a generous amount of black pepper. "If we can't stay at our place, can we at least get our air mattress?"

"I knew it!" Alma exclaimed. "You hate that sofa bed as much as I do."

Nick grinned sheepishly.

"Was the air mattress at the house when Weston was fixing your well?" Mills asked.

"I don't know. Probably."

"Then the answer's no. I want everything in that house to remain as it was and where it was until I can sort things out. Besides, I don't think you wanna be over there today." He pushed the morning newspaper in front of Stella's plate.

Stella looked up from her scone. Stamped in big bold letters across the front page of the Rutland Herald were the words Local Contractor Found Dead in Well. Beneath the headline, a few short paragraphs described the body's discovery, the subsequent police activity, and the community's reaction. Set inside the article was a photo of the late Allen Weston. Dressed in a dark gray suit and matching tie, the ends of his mouth were turned slightly upward into a smile that was partially obscured by his neatly trimmed black beard.

She stared at the photo for several seconds. The image of the smiling, well-dressed businessman stood in such stark contrast to the scene at the bottom of the well that Stella found it difficult to reconcile the two.

"If the Herald already has the story, you can bet that every reporter within a two-hundred-mile radius is gonna be on your front lawn this morning. You two show up saying you own the property, and that sofa bed won't be the only thing keeping you awake."

"But it doesn't say in this article the address of where his body was found. All it says is a farmhouse well."

"They don't need to say where," Alma a.s.serted. "This is a small town. All those reporters need to do is drive into town and ask. For a few bucks, they'll find plenty of people more than happy to point the way."

"I don't think we want to live with that type of celebrity," Nick remarked in between chews. "Do we, honey?"

Stella didn't answer. Her attention was still riveted on the newspaper photograph. "I heard you talk about his businesses yesterday, but what else do you two know about Allen Weston?"

"What do you mean?" Alma asked as she unlocked the shop door and flipped the Closed sign to Open.

"I mean that if this wasn't an accidental shooting, then we're dealing with a case of murder. You live in the same town as Weston did. Do you know why someone might have wanted him dead?"

"I don't engage in gossip, Mrs. Buckley," Mills chided.

Alma returned to her spot behind the register. "I don't either. It's not good for business."

"Okay, let's try approaching this from a different angle. You both met Weston, right? What did you think of him?"

"Good businessman," Mills replied instantly.

"Smart," Alma answered immediately after the sheriff. "Very smart."

"Well, he was the owner of three successful businesses; I think both those descriptions go without saying. But what was Weston, the man, like? Where was he from? Did he have family? What did he believe?"

"Why do you want to know all this, Mrs. Buckley?" Sheriff Mills challenged.

"I don't know. I guess I'd just like to get to know the man who died in my well."

"He was from Jersey, for a start."

"Jersey?" Nick spoke up. "Huh, somehow I got the impression that he was a local."

"Nope. Moved here ten years ago or thereabouts. Divorced, I think."

"Yep, he was divorced," Alma confirmed. "No children though."

"Weston started the pump company right away. It was just him in those days. He ran the office and did the work. No employees. He weren't a friendly sort, but he showed up on time and always answered the phone-when you've been here longer, you'll realize how rare that is. It weren't long before business picked up to the point he was able to hire few men. A little bit after that, he bought out Mack Lawson's trash removal business, and then, a few years later, Speedy Septic."

"Mack Lawson? Any relation to Maggie Lawson?" Nick asked.

"Maggie's husband. Now deceased."

Stella had taken a bite of her scone, but this bit of news caused crumbs to spew from her mouth. "Maggie-the person you called Crazy Maggie-was married ?"

"Yup. Mack was pret' near crazy as Maggie. A h.o.a.rder. He'd pick through his customers' trash, looking for things that might be valuable."

"He swore someday he'd be on one of those antique shows on TV," Alma added with a loud cackle. "The trailer Mack used for an office looked like the set of Sanford and Son. I can't even imagine what their house looked like."

"Mack had always sifted through people's trash, looking for treasure. For years, he'd pick up the trash in the morning, bring it back to his office, and sort through it before dropping it at the dumps. But then he got the bright idea that it was quicker to sift through the bins while they were still outside his customers' homes. As you could imagine, that didn't go over well."

"A lot of Mack's customers were second homeowners-owned big ski lodges and condos up on the mountain," Alma explained. "They had no idea that Mack had been picking through their trash."

"And when they caught wind of it, they gradually left," Mills went on. "Weston was able to buy the business-trucks, office, dumpsters, everything-for a song. In fact, he got the whole thing so cheap, he bought Speedy Septic later that year."

"Mack was never the same after he lost the business," Alma concluded. "He pa.s.sed away shortly afterward."

"Sounds like Maggie had a reason to hold a grudge against Weston," Nick said.

"Yes, but once again we're back to Weston the businessman," Stella argued.

Alma's face grew hard. "Because that's the only way Weston could relate to people. He didn't socialize, and he only took part in community events if they offered him publicity. He could be charming when he needed to be-very charming. But otherwise, he was a cold man. Cold and calculating."

"Yup, Weston made sure he always got what he wanted. And if he didn't," Mills's eyes slid to Alma, "he took it."

Before Stella could comment, a short, heavyset man entered the shop and approached the register. He reached a stubby, callused hand to the visor of his red trucker's hat in greeting. "Two coffees to go, Alma."

"Sure thing." Alma nodded and set to work filling two tall cardboard cups.

"Well, if it ain't Jake Brunelle," Mills welcomed.

"Mornin', Charlie. Surprised to see you here. Thought you and your boys would be busy fishin' Allen Weston out of a well."

"Guess you saw the paper, then."

"Nope. Clyde at the store told me. What happened? Someone give him a shove?"

"In a manner of speaking. He was shot."

Jake Brunelle's darkly bearded face registered neither horror nor surprise. "Hmph. Prolly a hunter going after black bear or someone shootin' deer when they ain't supposed to."

"Probably right. But either way it's manslaughter."

Alma plunked the two cups of coffee onto the counter and covered them with plastic lids.

Brunelle thrust a plaid-covered arm into the pocket of his stained denim overalls and extracted a fistful of bills. "Well, it weren't me, if that's what you're getting at. I was putting in a septic tank over at the Upjohn's farm. You can give 'em a call if you want."

"Thanks, Jake. I will. I didn't want to have to ask you where you were, but knowing just how much you like bear meat and how much you hated Weston, I couldn't help but wonder."

"Good thing I set that straight, then." He selected a few wadded dollars from the wrinkled pile and slid them across the counter to Alma. "See you at camp next weekend, Charlie?" he asked as he picked up the coffee cups.

Before Mills could reply, a pet.i.te woman in her mid-forties rushed through the door. She was dressed in a trendy but inexpensive purple gabardine raincoat, a paisley scarf, and a tight-fitting pair of skinny jeans finished with a pair of high-heeled ankle boots. Her shoulder-length brown hair, although neatly trimmed and styled, sported blond highlights of so many shades and thicknesses that it was apparent the color originated from a box and not a salon. The layers of foundation, powder, and mascara she had applied to her face were a bit heavy for daytime wear. Yet, despite her ill-chosen attempts to retain her youth, it was obvious that this woman had been, and still was, quite pretty. "Jake! What's taking you so long?"

"I was just talking to Sheriff Mills here."

"Oh, h.e.l.lo, Sheriff. I'm sorry. I didn't see you sitting there."

"Mornin', Betsy. How are you?"

"Okay, thanks, but in a bit of a hurry." Betsy turned to her husband. "We'd better get moving if we're going to make it to that estimate by eight o'clock."

"Yeah, I know. I'm comin'," Jake rolled his eyes. "See ya, Charlie."

"See ya, Jake. Bye, Betsy."

The couple hurried from the shop, their presence immediately replaced by a pair of young girls who took the two stools at the far end of the counter.

Following the Brunelles' lead, Nick pulled his wallet from his jeans' back pocket and slid the 10 percent coupon toward Alma.

"Oh, no," she pushed the coupon back. "This one's on the house. Least I can do for making you sleep on that bag of coils last night."

"If it weren't for that bag of coils, we'd have nowhere else to spend the night," Stella stated.

"Tell you what, you can use the coupon tomorrow morning. How's that?"

"We'll be here," Nick promised.

"Wait! I almost forgot." Alma rushed to the cash register and returned with a piece of paper that she promptly pa.s.sed to Nick. "These are the directions to get from here to my house. I printed them off Google. Never did that before-I'm so proud of myself."

"You should be. Um ... do we need a key?"

"Nope, it's open. Always open. Just go in, get cleaned up, watch the TV if you'd like. Make yourselves at home." The sleigh bells on the front door heralded the arrival of three men dressed in work jackets and baseball caps. "I'd best get to my customers. See you tomorrah."