Part 3 (1/2)
”Helps us figure out the time of death. From that, we can work out where everyone was at the time.”
”Where everyone was at the time?” Stella repeated as she envisioned her and Nick behind bars. ”You mean like an alibi? I thought this was an accident. I thought Weston fell down the well.”
”Oh, he fell down the well, all right. He fell down 'cause he was shot.”
Nick stepped forward. ”Someone shot him? You mean this is murder?”
”Can't say just yet. Could be an accident. Black bear season just started.”
”Black bear season?”
”Turkey and deer too, but that's just bow and arrow hunting for now.”
”Yeah, I work for the US Forest Service. I know when the seasons take place,” Nick said impatiently. ”What I'm saying is, how does someone mistake a guy in a red flannel s.h.i.+rt for a bear?”
”Shooter didn't have to see him. When a hunter misses what he's aiming at, just where do you suppose those bullets go?”
”I guess you're right. It could have been a stray bullet that got him.”
”A stray bullet, sure, but Sheriff Mills said bullets,” Stella spoke up. ”How many times was Weston shot?”
”You can find out in the paper tomorrah,” Mills replied quietly. ”Until then, why don't you tell me how you happened to find Weston's body.”
Nick and Stella described the b.l.o.o.d.y tap water and their subsequent actions.
”I thought an animal had gotten into the well,” Nick explained. ”I've seen racc.o.o.ns climb into chimneys and storm drains to escape predators, so I figured a wounded racc.o.o.n or woodchuck crawled into the well to hide and then bled out.”
”Realizing that the only way an animal could have gotten into our well is if the cap had been left off,” Stella reasoned, ”I called Alice to get the number of the well company to complain, but she had already left for the day.”
”So,” Nick picked up where Stella left off, ”I got a flashlight from the glove compartment of our car and went out to take a look.”
”I was right behind him,” Stella inserted.
”Yes, you were, honey. You were stuck to my arm like Krazy Glue,” Nick noted with a raise of his eyebrow. ”I flashed the light into the well expecting to see a dead fox, but instead I saw a man dressed in a red flannel s.h.i.+rt.”
”Buffalo check,” Stella offered.
”That's the first thing I noticed about him-that bright red s.h.i.+rt. He was stuck about two-thirds of the way down, and he was obviously dead.”
”What do you mean 'obviously'?” Mills inquired.
”He was blue.”
”Blue?”
”Well, bluish gray,” Stella amended as she placed a hand on her husband's shoulder. ”At least his lips and his face were. Probably from lack of circulation. Rigor mortis. Cyanosis. All those things you see on CSI.”
Mills knitted his eyebrows together and scratched his head so intensely that his hat lowered over his eyes. ”CSI ?”
”Yeah, you know, the crime scene investigation show? Blood that glows in the dark and all that stuff.”
Before Mills could explain that he did not own a television, a woman appeared in the doorway of the living room. Tall and slender, she looked as if she had just stepped from the cover of Country Living magazine. A ruffled plaid s.h.i.+rt topped by a brown leather blazer draped her delicate torso, and her narrow waist and long legs were hugged by a pair of dark-wash jeans. A pair of flat brown boots finished the look on the bottom, and on top, her long, dark hair had been gathered into a tight braid.
Stella watched as Sheriff Mills sucked in his considerable gut.
”What's going on here?” the woman demanded.
”Ms. Deville, how did you get in?” Mills countered, his heretofore unflappable demeanor now somewhat less composed.
”Simple. I walked up the driveway and opened the front door.”
”No one tried to stop you?”
”No. Why should they? They know who I am.”
Mills sighed in exasperation. ”Why are you here?”
Ms. Deville raised her left arm to display a finely woven basket, the contents of which were obscured by a red-and-white-checked napkin. ”I came to welcome this young couple with a few sandwiches and cookies. That's my famous seven-grain bread and my prize-winning oatmeal raisins,” she whispered to Stella with a smile and a wink. ”But I can see that the sheriff's office has already sent out the welcome wagon.”
”Can't discuss it, Ms. Deville. Official police business,” Mills replied in an overly gruff tone.
”Stop calling me Ms. Deville, Charlie. We've known each other since we were in diapers. It's Alma,” she stretched a hand to Nick. ”Alma Deville. I own the Sweet Shop in town. You'll find a coupon in that basket too-good for 10 percent off any baked good.”
”Nick-Nick Buckley, and this is my wife, Stella. Thanks for the food ... and the coupon.”
”Oh, don't thank me for that. I feel terrible using a social call to drum up business, but these days, a girl has to market herself when she can. Sometimes she even has to be a bit of a b.i.t.c.h.” She took Stella's hand. ”Now tell me, why is the sheriff here bothering you? You seem like nice people to me.”
”Alma,” Mills warned.
”Charlie, you know gossip in these parts travels faster than a tick to the hindquarters of a dog. Once those men of yours get home and tell their wives and girlfriends, the news will have spread from here to the Northeast Kingdom. Not much sense in keeping me in the dark.”
With a weary sigh, Mills capitulated. ”All right.”
”There's a dead man in our well,” Stella blurted.
”What? You're pulling my leg.”
Nick shook his head.
”Do you know who it is?” Alma turned to Mills.
”Allen Weston,” the sheriff replied.
The color drained from Alma's face. ”Allen Weston?”
”Yup. You, uh, knew him from the shop, didn't you?”