Part 7 (1/2)
”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 s.h.i.+n. 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.”