Well-Offed In Vermont Part 7

"Oh, I love Alma's! Did you eat there this morning? Her cinnamon rolls are wicked good."

"We didn't have the cinnamon rolls. We'll have to try them tomorrow. Right, honey?" Stella turned to Nick and smiled; Alice had provided the perfect segue to discuss the murder.

"Sure, although that breakfast sandwich I had was pretty tasty.

I might-"

Stella kicked him in the shin. They hadn't come here to discuss breakfast foods, but the scent of Alma's baking still resonated. "Tomorrow we'll try the cinnamon rolls. You can have your breakfast sandwich another day. I'm sure you'll have plenty of opportunity since it doesn't look as if we'll be having breakfast in the new place for a while."

Thankfully, Alice took the bait. "Why won't you be having breakfast in the new place? Surely you must be allowed back in by now."

"Actually, no, we're not. Not until Sheriff Mills gets this case wrapped up."

"What's there to wrap up? Allen Weston fell into the well. It was an accident, right?"

Stella debated the proper course of action. The papers and the radio hadn't mentioned Weston's gunshot wounds, but that was in all likelihood due to the lack of a coroner's report. Once the official findings were released, everyone in the state would know that Weston hadn't died of a broken neck. a.s.suming, of course, that they hadn't already heard the news from Jake and Betsy Brunelle.

Seeing no point in delaying the inevitable, Stella decided to tell Alice the truth. "It may have been an accident, but it wasn't the fall that killed him. Weston was shot."

If Stella had antic.i.p.ated a reaction from Alice, she was sorely disappointed, for the woman exhibited not a shred of emotion. Nick, on the other hand, stared at his wife as if she had lost her mind.

Stella narrowed her eyes at him to signal that she knew what she was doing. "You don't look very surprised, Alice."

"Well, that sort of thing happens all the time around here. It's fall, isn't it? Seems every year someone gets himself mistaken as a bear or a turkey or a deer. And it's usually because somebody's been drinking. There's a reason deer camp is sometimes called beer camp."

Stella recalled Alma's words from the previous day: fatal hunting accidents don't happen as often as you'd think. And yet both Alice Broadman and Jake Brunelle automatically a.s.sumed that Weston's shooting had been accidental.

As Stella pondered the possible significance of Alma's words, Nick continued the conversation. "Beer camp ... I like that. The only problem is that Weston wasn't hunting when he was shot. He was working on our well."

"I know. I made the appointment. But you do realize that your farmhouse is surrounded by woods, don't you? Someone could have been hunting close to your property line and have hit Weston with a stray bullet."

"First of all, it would have been nice of you to mention the risk of getting shot by hunting crossfire before we bought the house."

Alice's pale cheeks turned bright crimson.

"Second, we already thought of the stray bullet theory. However, Weston wasn't shot once; he was shot three times. I'm no hunter, but I'm willing to wager that even Mister Magoo would have landed at least one of those bullets into his target-unless, of course, that target was Weston."

It was Stella's turn to be surprised. For someone who seemed eager to play things close to the vest, Nick was showing all his cards.

"Then there's the matter of Weston's truck."

"What about his truck?"

"It wasn't at the farmhouse when we discovered Weston's body."

"It wasn't? It was there when I dropped off the air mattress and champagne."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. The well service trucks are bright yellow; Weston chose that color so that they'd stand out from the other contractor trucks in the area. One of his genius marketing schemes."

"Did you see him or just the truck?" Stella quizzed.

"No, he was there. I didn't speak to him though," Alice added hastily. "He was outside talking on his cell phone."

"Outside? Is that because the house was locked?" Nick spoke up.

"No. I know most contractors start work at eight o'clock, so I stopped by a little before then to unlock it. Don't think I had to, though. Weston didn't even have the cap off the well when I got there."

"What time was that?"

"Oh, ten thirty or so."

Stella remembered how Alice, fl.u.s.tered and frantic, had arrived late to their twelve-thirty closing. "What time did you leave the farmhouse?"

"By the time I inflated the air mattress, probably about a quarter after eleven."

"And Weston was still on his phone when you left?"

"N-no, but I was in a rush. I had some phone calls to make before your closing, so I left without talking to him." The color once again rose in Alice's cheeks. "W-why are you so interested in my whereabouts?"

"I'm not. I'm just trying to get a timeline on Weston's death."

"Don't you think you should leave that to the police?"

"Oh, I plan to. But, you see, Nick and I are a bit bored. We had planned to use these few days to unpack and get settled. But now that we're on hold, well, there's not much to do except to join in the local gossip."

The comment had the desired effect. Alice's face became more relaxed. "That will definitely keep you busy. Behind maple syrup, lumber, and cheese, gossip is our biggest product."

"Yeah, we've noticed," Nick joined in. "Our neighbor knew my name before I even introduced myself."

"Your neighbor? Oh, you mean Crazy Maggie. Yeah, news spreads fast. Not always accurately, but fast. I'd say it was like the game of telephone, except that most of the news is usually pa.s.sed along in person. Church suppers, pig roasts, maple sugar weekends ... the highlight of them all is the gossip. Oh, and never stop at Perkins if you're in a hurry. Clyde will stop whatever he's doing just to listen to a juicy story. I went there once to pick up ice cream, and by the time he finished talking to Irma from the post office and rang up my order, the whole gallon had just about melted."

"So that's who Clyde is," Nick said under his breath.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Since we're gossiping, I was just wondering what you've heard about Weston. I mean, I'm a city boy: jaded and cynical to the extreme. But even in the city, when a guy dies, you're going to find someone-even if it's just one person-who has something good to say about him. But from the article in the Herald, it seems the nicest thing anyone can say about Weston is that he was a good businessman."

"Because that's all he was," Alice stated plainly. "Maybe he meant more than that to someone out there, but I can almost guarantee that person doesn't live in these parts."

"Wow," Stella remarked with a smile. "Was he as popular as that?"

"Pretty much-or pret' near, as a true Vermonter would say. Weston was brusque and arrogant, which doesn't sit well in a place like this. People here pride themselves on being down-to-earth."

"What about other businesspeople? What did they think of him?"

"Some respected him. Others got rubbed the wrong way."

"And you? Did you ever do business with Weston?"

"Only to take care of your well. I would rather have hired Jake Brunelle, but Mr. Colton, the seller, insisted on calling Weston to do the job. And since he was paying, I wasn't in a position to argue."

"That's the only time you dealt with him? Weston never used your services as a real-estate agent?"

"He was more interested in taking over other business than in buying property."

"But he must have bought a house when he moved into town. Didn't he use you to-"

"He built his house on land he had purchased decades earlier," Alice interrupted. "I wasn't an agent then, but if I had been, he'd have been out of luck. It would have been a cold day in h.e.l.l before I signed any piece of paper that had Allen Weston's name on it."

"That's a pretty strong sentiment," Nick noted.

"Allen Weston wasn't known for his fairness and honesty," Alice said bluntly. "I worked hard to build my business. I wouldn't want his reputation to rub off onto me."

"Reputation? So Weston had dealings with other people in town?" asked Nick.

"Yes, but I'd rather not implicate anyone by mentioning names."

"No need. We understand you wishing to protect their privacy."

"Although," Alice's pale eyes sparkled with new life, "it's no secret that Weston's employees didn't think much of him."

"Oh?" Stella leaned back in her chair, confident that her one-syllable response would spur Alice onward.

"Apparently, he cut their wages-which you might expect in the middle of winter, when the well and septic businesses were slow, but he did this right in the middle of summer. Summer! And then there's that whole Josh Middleton business."

"Josh Middleton?" Nick inserted on cue.

"He worked for Speedy Septic. Young kid with a criminal background, which is pretty much what you'd expect of someone who pumps out tanks for a living."

During the course of her and Nick's home search, Stella had come to think very highly of Alice. But the narrow-minded remark about Josh Middleton's criminal background spurred Stella to consider that the real-estate agent might have a darker side. "Are you suggesting that Middleton might have been involved in Weston's death?"

"I'm not suggesting anything, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he was involved somehow. Weston had Middleton arrested a few weeks back for stealing a truck. Middleton's out on bail now, awaiting trial. If convicted, he'll get two years in prison for breaking parole."

"I could see where Middleton would be angry with Weston, but if he stole the truck-"

"But he didn't steal it. At least that's what he claims. He said Weston let him borrow it in order to meet his parole officer the next morning."

"Where was the truck when the police tracked it down?" Nick inquired.

"Parked outside Middleton's mother's trailer. He lives with her."

"That's a pretty stupid thing to do, wouldn't you say?"

"What, park a stolen truck outside your house? I wouldn't do it."

"Nor would most moderately intelligent people. So, would you describe Middleton as being none too bright?"

"No, not at all. If anything, he's one of the smartest guys Weston had working for him."

"Then I'm more inclined to believe Middleton's story than Weston's. We're talking about a septic truck here, not a Corvette. I could see Middleton taking a septic truck out for a joy ride or to play a prank, but if he's smart-and we're a.s.suming he is-he would have taken it back to the shop afterward. I mean, what else is he going to do with it? Go trolling for girls?"

"Eww," was Stella's only comment.

"Exactly. The simple fact that it was parked outside his mother's house-er, trailer-supports his story. He wouldn't have brought the truck there; he'd have known that was the first place the cops would look."

"Middleton's mother believes his story too," Alice told them. "She's the one who raised the bail money, though I'm not sure how. She barely sc.r.a.pes by as it is; without her son's income, I don't know what she'll do."

"So not only did Weston's theft charge threaten to send Josh Middleton to prison, but it caused his mother financial hardship," Stella summarized.

"Can we say motive, boys and girls?" Nick sang.

"I know I can," Stella said. "The question, however, is whether Middleton is the type to commit murder. I know you said he has a criminal background, Alice. What was he arrested for?"

"I don't remember-drugs of some kind. Does it matter, really?"

"Yes, it does. There's a big difference between being caught with a bag of pot and killing a person in cold blood."

"According to you, perhaps. But what about Weston's truck missing from the murder scene? Sounds like a calling card from Middleton, if you ask me."

"You think he killed Weston and took the truck as a"-Stella struggled to find the appropriate words-"thumb-to-the-nose sort of gesture?"

Alice's face registered bewilderment.

"What my wife means," Nick interpreted, "is that taking Weston's truck from the scene was Middleton's way of saying 'screw you for accusing me of stealing your truck, you filthy rotten-'"

"Nick!"

"Yes," Alice affirmed. "That's precisely what I think he did."

"And you don't think there could be another explanation?"

"Maybe, but if it weren't Middleton, it was another one of Weston's employees." She raised a stubby finger. "Mark my words: whoever b.u.mped off Weston plotted it right under his very nose."

CHAPTER.