Amy Patricia Meade - Well-Offed in Vermont

Chelsea R. Nye

Amy Patricia Meade, the author of the critically acclaimed Marjorie McClelland Mysteries, is a native of Long Island, NY, where she earned bachelors degrees in English and business. She enjoys traveling, cooking, and classic films, and is a member of Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America. Her Pret Near Perfect Mystery series debuts this November with Well-Offed in Vermont, and she is the author of the forthcoming Rosie the Riveter Mystery series (Kensington). Meade now lives in Vermont and spends the long New England winters writing mysteries with a humorous or historical bent.

Visit Amy on the Internet at www.amypatriciameade.com.

Copyright Information

Well-Offed in Vermont: A Pret Near Perfect Mystery 2011 by Amy Patricia Meade.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition 2011

E-book ISBN: 9780738730554

Book design and edit by Rebecca Zins

Cover design by Ellen Lawson

Cover illustration Tim Zeltner/i2i Art Inc.

Interior needle and thread image 2004 Nova Development/Art Explosion

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Stella Thornton Buckley carefully navigated her bright yellow 2008 Smart Fortwo coupe up the quarter-mile-long potholed dirt driveway and watched with a mix of trepidation and excitement as each revolution of the vehicles fifteen-inch tires brought her closer to the circa 1890 white clapboard farmhouse ahead.

White-knuckled, Stella gripped the steering wheel and cringed as she felt her stomach churn and her heart rate rise with each teeth-rattling bump and dip. She didnt recall the driveway being in such bad repair during their last visit, but it was certainly something that she and Nick would need to address. Let the homeowners remorse begin, she said to herself as she brought the diminutive vehicle to a stop directly in front of the farmhouses extensive wraparound porch, just a few yards behind the massive U-Haul moving truck operated by her husband.

Dressed in a New York Giants T-shirt and a pair of well-worn jeans, Graham Nicholas BuckleyNick to all who knew himstepped down from the drivers seat and, with a deep yawn, stretched his arms above his solid six-foot-two-inch-tall frame.

Stella, meanwhile, retrieved her cell phone from its place on the passenger seat and stared blankly at the last-received-call display. Home repairs were the least of her concerns. As if the drive from New York City and the subsequent house closing hadnt been tiring enough, the call she had received while on the road had left her feeling completely depleted. The Shelburne Museum, home to one of the nations most diverse collections of Americana, had given their textiles curator positionthe only available job of its type within the state of Vermontto another applicant.

Fighting back tears, Stella switched off the phone and watched through the front windshield as Nick, sporting a boyish grin, sprinted to the front of the U-Haul. She had mentioned nothing to him about the Shelburne call. This move, the farmhouse, the Forest Service job that was to start the following Mondayall of ithad been Nicks dream for as long as shed known him. That dream was finally coming true, and Stella was determined not to allow her personal disappointment to mar the occasion.

Her resolve strengthened, she withdrew the keys from the Smart cars ignition. Upon snatching her sweatshirt from the back of the drivers seat, she leapt from behind the wheel and rushed to the front of the truck where Nick now stood, arms folded across his chest, surveying the structure before him.

I cant believe we did it, he remarked in amazement. I cant believe were here.

Not only are we here, she dangled a single gold key in front of her husbands face, but were here to stay.

Nick grabbed the key in one hand and placed the other on the small of Stellas back. Homeowners, he said, meditatively turning the key over in the palm of his hand.

Vermont homeowners, she amended.

Nick turned his gaze to the seemingly endless forest of brightly colored trees that surrounded the back of the farmhouse. Beyond them, the rounded gray peaks of the Green Mountains, like a row of balding elder statesmen, stood sentinel over the valley below. Helluva better view than the one on Murray Hill, isnt it?

Oh, I dont know. When Mr. Yang got his annual shipment of chrysanthemums in, that corner market was just as colorful. The early October air had grown damp and chilly, prompting Stella to don her hooded sweatshirt and pull the zipper up tightly against her chin. Perhaps not as picturesque as this, mind you, but

Nick pulled his wife closer and laughed. Yeah, you look like youre enjoying the scenery. Come on, lets get inside before it rains. He led her up the porch steps to the front door, which, after a bit of key-jiggling, unlocked and then swung wide open.

Eager to escape the bone-chilling wind, Stella stepped toward the doorsill, only to feel Nicks strong arms lift her off the ground and playfully throw her over his shoulder. Watch your head.

What are you doing? Stella ducked and giggled as he carried her across the threshold.

Its tradition for a husband to carry his wife into their new home, isnt it? He continued through the foyer, past the spindled staircase, and into the first room on the right.

Yes, but typically not in a fireman carry. And not all the way into From her unique, upside-down vantage point, Stella could see that the living roomwhich had, upon last inspection, been emptynow bore a large air mattress piled high with blankets, a basket of firewood and matches, and, on the hearth, a bottle of champagne with two glasses. What? Whats all this? How did you?