Short-Circuited in Charlotte: A Pret' Near Perfect Mystery Read online

  Chapter Four

  Stella lounged on the window seat of the Green Room, her legs stretched out before her, and watched as the sun sank rather ominously behind a dark purple curtain of clouds. Since the festival preview ended, the temperature had plummeted dramatically and a cold, damp wind had blown in from the west, casting the last of the tree-anchored leaves from their limbs and sending them, swirling, into the evening air.

  “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes,” Stella remarked as Nick, freshly showered and clad in a dark blue terrycloth robe, slid onto the bench behind her and put his arms around her waist.

  “Wicked? At a tech fair?”

  “It’s from Macbeth,” Stella explained. “It popped into my head while I was watching these clouds roll in. You can almost feel the foreboding, can’t you?”

  “Actually, what you’re feeling are the charged ions in the air combined with falling barometric pressure. That’s why electrical storms always make people feel uneasy. Well that and because of the sound of the thunder.”

  “Clearly, someone has been doing their homework for this weekend.”

  “Nope. Got that from Mr. Wizard. I used to watch him as a kid.”

  “And to think I was impressed,” Stella teased.

  “You want to be impressed? What if I told you that there appears to be a bank of low-lying nimbostratus clouds following on the heels of our current mammatus cloud formation and that those nimbostratus clouds don’t seem to be traveling very quickly?”

  “Umm, okay. Meaning?”

  “Meaning that after the mammatus clouds roll through and deliver a heavy downpour, which may or may not include hail formations, the nimbostratus will come in and ensure that the temperature remains on the cool side and that the ground, already soaked from tonight’s storm, will remain saturated.”

  “Okay, I’m impressed. Could you now translate that into human terms?”

  “It’s a good thing you brought your wellingtons, because it’s gonna piss down rain.”

  Stella sat upright. “Oh no! You mean all weekend?”

  “I don’t know about the whole weekend, but for the next several hours at least.”

  “Ugh. All the grounds will be covered in mud.”

  “Yeah, but we should be able to stay dry. The sides of the tents roll down and secure with stakes. It will be like camping in the rain.”

  “I’ve never been camping,” Stella reminded him. “Mostly because I never found the concept of sleeping on the ground very appealing. Dodging mud puddles and being rained upon makes it even less so.”

  “Relax,” Nick assured as he tightened his grasp around her waist and burrowed his face in her neck. “It will be cozy.”

  “Yes, just you, me, and a few hundred kids and their families. Sounds like a second honeymoon,” Stella teased as she leaned back against her husband’s broad chest and shoulders.

  “Oh yeah. I forgot about the kids.”

  “Puts a slightly different slant on things doesn’t it?”

  “Mm hmm. Means we have to make the most of our time alone.”

  “I rather like that idea,” she purred, “Mr. Buckley.”

  “Good,” he whispered as he ran his lips along the back of her neck. “How much time do we have before we meet with everyone for drinks and dinner?”

  “Enough,” Stella replied and tilted her head back to kiss Nick’s chin. “Just enough.”

  Chapter Five

  At five minutes after seven, Nick, dressed in dark wash jeans, a button-down purple shirt, and a black blazer, accompanied his wife downstairs for dinner and drinks. Never one to be under-dressed, Stella made her entrance in a vintage black lace sleeveless dress that came to just below the knee. She polished off the look with black velvet peep-toe pumps, a mess of seed pearl bracelets, curled blonde hair, and red lips and nails.

  Meagan, who had since traded her Creator’s Cavalcade fleece jacket for an ivory wool sweater dress, knee-high brown leather riding boots, oversized gold jewelry, and perfectly styled auburn locks, greeted them at the drawing room entrance. “Love that dress,” she complimented Stella.

  “Thank you. Nineteen fifty-nine couture. I got it at a vintage boutique in SoHo,” Stella confessed. “Your boots are killer, by the way.”

  “Oh these? I got them at a shoe outlet in Burlington. I had my eye on them for a while and finally bought them at the end of last season. It’s tough to say ‘no’ to fifty percent off.”

  “Fifty percent? Wow, that’s amazing…”

  “Oh, I know…”

  Nick gave a slight cough as the shopping talk continued. The gesture was not lost upon Meagan McArdle. “Sorry, Nick. I’ll introduce you to Mr. Morehouse and the other guests. I do want to talk to you though, Stella.”

  “Oh, likewise. You’ll have to give me directions to that shoe place. It sounds fantastic.”

  “I will. But I, um, I also wanted to discuss something else,” Meagan faltered. “Not shopping related. Perhaps we can reconnect later?”

  Despite her surprise at the request and the temptation to push Meagan for further information, Stella nodded in agreement. “Sure. Of course.”

  “Thank you. I really appreciate it,” she stated softly as she ushered them into the drawing room. “Philip, the Buckleys are here.”

  “Ah yes.” Dressed in a black dinner jacket and black tie, Philip Morehouse recaptured the James Mason elegance more than ever. He motioned to a uniformed waitress bearing a tray of champagne flutes. Nick and Stella each availed themselves of a glass of bubbly with murmured thanks before the waitress quietly departed.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Buckley,” Morehouse welcomed with an extended hand. Despite his resemblance to the late actor, the Creator’s Cavalcade founder’s Boston accent gave away his true place of birth.

  “Just call me Nick,” Buckley requested as he took Morehouse’s hand in his and gave it a firm shake. “And this is my wife, Stella.”

  “Ah, nice to meet you, Nick.” Morehouse took Stella’s hand in his and bowed. “And Stella. I’m pleased you could accompany your husband for the weekend. Do you also work in a science or technology related field?”

  “No, art history, I’m afraid. I was a curator of medieval tapestries at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. However, I’m incredibly interested to see all the exhibits and learn more about what everyone does.” Stella motioned her arm to indicate the others in the room.

  “Ahh, a curator. Fascinating! As you become acquainted with our Creators, I believe you’ll find that many of them reside in that very place where imagination, art, and technology converge. That is why it’s called Creator’s Cavalcade and not TechFest – although the latter was bandied about by the board for a while,” he smiled. “But that’s a story for another day. Tonight, we have champagne and, soon, a toast. Is everyone here, Meagan?”

  “Yes,” replied Meagan as she scanned the room. “I believe so.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Morehouse announced in a loud voice. “If you’d be so kind as to join me in raising your glasses in a toast. To the Sixth Annual Creator’s Cavalcade Arts and Technology Festival. May the weekend grant us many opportunities to provide inspiration, education, and awe.”

  As glasses clinked, the colloquial cheer of “Hear, hear,” echoed around the room.

  Morehouse took a sip of champagne and allowed his guests to do the same before speaking again. “And now, if you’ll permit me, I would like to introduce you all to the two newest members of the Creator’s Cavalcade family, Nick and Stella Buckley.”

  The introduction was met with murmured greetings.

  “Mr. Buckley is here on behalf of the United States Forest Service to discuss their latest environmental programs. His wife, Stella, is an art curator who will, no doubt, take interest in the creative aspects of this event and may even be able to offer fresh perspective. Perhaps?” Morehouse glanced at Stella.

  Stella smiled and nodded. “I’d be happy to oblige. Only if asked, of course.
”

  “Of course,” Morehouse smiled in return. “And now, let me introduce you to the extremely talented Creator’s Cavalcade cast of characters. You have met Ms. McArdle, naturally.”

  “Yes. She’s been very helpful in getting us settled,” Nick praised.

  “Yes, Meagan is not just my right hand, she’s my entire arm. I’m not sure where I, nor the other Creators, would be without her.”

  At this comment someone in the room clicked their tongue in what could only be interpreted as annoyance. Stella scanned the crowd of faces in search of the source, but came up empty.

  The consummate host, Morehouse ignored the sound and gestured to Kenneth Zolar. “You may have seen this young man at our demonstration this afternoon. This is Kenneth Zolar, our robotics expert.”

  “We did,” Nick replied and offered his hand to Zolar. “Very impressive.”

  Zolar accepted Nick’s hand and shook it, limply. “Thanks. Yeah, well the dumpster routine always gets the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs,’ but it’s boring, really. Well, at least from an academic standpoint.”

  “Kenneth graduated top of his class from MIT,” Morehouse explained.

  “My education has nothing to do with it. There are better uses for robotics than playing Iron Man – uses that could have a tremendous impact on the world – but our Cavalcade audience wouldn’t find them as exciting to watch.”

  “I’m afraid Kenneth has never been completely comfortable with my P.T. Barnum tendencies,” Morehouse apologized as he patted Zolar on the back. “I enjoy putting on a show for the kids when I can, but he’s right. We’re looking at ways robotics can help humans, especially those with physical disabilities. I’ve been talking to doctors at Dartmouth Hitchcock and Johns Hopkins and we believe HALLE could be modified to provide strength and support to patients who suffer from mobility issues such as muscular dystrophy, degenerative arthritis, and even partial paralysis.”

  “That is incredible news,” Stella declared.

  “Well, it’s not news yet – not officially,” Morehouse clarified. “But I expect we’ll be able to announce something soon. And it’s all because of Mr. Zolar’s efforts. HALLE has been his baby since he started working for me seven years ago. We’ve come a long way since then.”

  Zolar lowered his head in a gesture of humility, prompting Morehouse to move on to the next introduction. “Speaking of coming a long way,” he segued, “joining us from Milan, Italy, our resident fiber artist and designer, Ms. Aurora Marici.”

  Tall, slender, with jet black hair, deep set blue eyes, and a thin aquiline nose, Ms. Marici, like many fashion designers, might have started her career as a fashion model. Indeed, despite her age – which Stella estimated was somewhere between fifty and sixty years – Marici and her dark olive skin possessed incredibly few wrinkles, a trait that could be attributed to either good genes or an even better plastic surgeon.

  “Buonasera,” she purred before dangling a diamond bracelet-clad arm before Nick’s face.

  He grasped her hand and, with a bow, allowed it to linger, briefly, in his. “Ms. Marici.”

  “Please, call me Aurora. And your name again?”

  “Nick.”

  “Neeck?”

  Nick suppressed a laugh. “Yes, and my wife Stella.”

  “Estella,” she greeted. “That means ‘Star’ in my country. A beautiful name.”

  Stella resisted correcting Aurora’s pronunciation and smiled a ‘thank you’ instead.

  “Why don’t you explain to the Buckleys what you do, Aurora?” Morehouse urged.

  “Yes, I use fiber opt-eek fibers to create the smart clothing. You know, clothing that sends signals to the smart phones and other devices to track vital statistics, movement, that sort of thing.”

  “Aurora’s clothing has been used in CGI for films and in sports to help improve athletes’ performance,” Morehouse explained. “In addition, she also has a fashion line of fiber opteek – erm, excuse me – fiber optic clothing for women.”

  On cue, Aurora clapped her hands twice and the black one-shoulder evening dress she wore became illuminated by an endless sea of tiny white lights.

  “Oh, wow,” Stella uttered in surprise. “That’s um, that’s something, isn’t it?”

  “Si, it allows all women to sparkle, no? I have one with the lights rosso… um red. I give it to you. You would look molto bene.”

  “Oh, I um, I couldn’t do that. Not with all the work you put into them. Besides, we, um… we live in a small town. There’s not much need for a sparkly dress there,” Stella begged the offer.

  “I don’t know, honey,” Nick chimed in. “Deer season’s right around the corner. Best play it safe. You can wear it jogging. Hunters would see you coming and it’s way more stylish than an orange vest.”

  As Stella shot Nick a warning glance, Morehouse jumped into the fray. “Aurora, you and Stella have all weekend to discuss your fashions. I need to finish my introductions before dinner.”

  Aurora clapped twice to extinguish the lights on her dress and quickly apologized. “Mi dispiace. I’m sorry, Philip.”

  “Nessun problema,” Morehouse pardoned before moving on to the Salvage Guy.

  “We know Dan, the Salvage Guy,” Nick stated.

  “Yeah, Nick and Stella are in the tent next to mine,” Dan interjected.

  “Next door?” Morehouse repeated. “Oh, the poor Buckleys!”

  Dan burst out laughing. “How’d I know you’d go there, Phil?”

  “Because we’ve known each other too damned long,” Morehouse chuckled. “Dan and I have known each other our entire lives. We were even roommates as undergrads at the University of Louisville. Dan played on traditional instruments back then.”

  “And Phil was a future captain of industry who played a pretty mean bass guitar.”

  “We drifted apart for a while,” Morehouse explained. “But then we bumped into each other on the street one day.”

  “That’s what happens when you don’t wear your glasses,” Dan teased.

  “I don’t wear them so that I don’t have to look at your ugly mug all the time,” Morehouse rallied. “Anyway, Dan told me what he had been doing the past few years.”

  “And Phil told me about his idea of starting an organization that supported the arts, science, and the environment. All of it fit with what I was trying to achieve, so I uprooted my house in California and moved to Vermont within a matter of weeks.”

  “The center of the state,” Morehouse again clarified. “So that he could travel to schools statewide to teach about music and the environment.”

  “Which I’ve done for the past six years.”

  “And to great success, Daniel. To great success.”

  “Yes, but now I think –” the Salvage Guy started.

  “We’ll discuss your concerns later, Dan,” Morehouse interrupted. “Right now, I must tend to my guests.”

  The Salvage Guy frowned in quiet capitulation.

  “Since we’ve been on the topic of relationships that go back a long way,” Morehouse, once again, deftly moved the conversation back on track, “I’d like you to meet my stepson and intrepid Director of Finance, Mark Rousseau.”

  With his dark blonde hair, aqua colored eyes, and of-the-moment navy blue marled wool Italian suit, the thirty-something Rousseau cut quite a figure. “Pleased to meet you both,” he greeted with an extended hand.

  “Mark’s talents have kept our tiny ship from sinking on more than one occasion,” Morehouse bragged. “Don’t let his youthful appearance fool you. His instincts are killer.”

  “Thanks, Philip,” the younger man replied.

  As Morehouse walked away, Stella watched, through her peripheral vision, as Rousseau silently slid his eyes toward the waitress in the corner of the room and then pulled a face.

  The gesture was so subtle, so quick, and done so surreptitiously, that few would have noticed it. After scanning the faces in the room, Stella was convinced that no one else had.

&n
bsp; “Stella. Nick. Chef Nicolas Durand,” Morehouse presented a small man clad in a pink polo shirt, dove gray cable-knit pullover, and black trousers. Somewhere in his mid to late fifties, his longish dark hair had begun to gray at the temples and upon his upper lip grew a thick black moustache.

  “Nice to meet you,” Nick greeted as the chef shook his hand.

  “Likewise,” Durand smiled before taking Stella’s hand in his and bowing before it. “Madame. Enchanté.”

  Despite her best efforts, Stella felt herself blush. Damn, what was it about old school gallantry that turned her into a quivering idiot? Oh wait, that’s right… gallantry.

  “Chef Durand is Cordon Bleu trained,” Morehouse continued the introduction, “and has worked as Head Chef at such illustrious restaurants as 21 Club, Balthazar, and The Four Seasons, but lately, he has channeled his passion for cooking in a new direction.”

  “Yes, the molecular cuisine and especially the cryogenic cooking, they excite me,” Durand inserted with a heavy Gallic accent.

  “Cryogenic cooking uses liquid nitrogen to ‘cook’ food at extremely low temperatures as opposed to high temperatures,” Morehouse explained.

  “So, will we be eating your creations at dinner tonight, Chef Durand?” Stella asked.

  “Only the dessert,” the chef replied. “I am but a mere guest this weekend – serving the cryogenic ice cream to the kids, eh? Tonight’s menu, yes, tonight is entirely Philip’s creation.”

  “Creation? You give me far too much credit, my friend. No, everything you’ll taste tonight has been created by my cook,” Morehouse clarified. “She is not you, Nicolas, but then again, few people are.”

  At the compliment, Durand bowed his head in gratitude.

  “Still, I think you’ll find her to be competent enough,” Morehouse went on. “As for this evening’s menu, I will take the credit for helping to plan it. I ensured that everything on our one hundred percent vegan dinner menu was either grown here on the estate or at nearby farms and is entirely organic and pesticide-free.”