by Terry Odell
Gordon backed the SUV around and headed up the drive to the highway, stopping at the intersection. He studied Wardell’s expression. “The deputies will call in search and rescue dogs. They can pick up her scent from the car. If she’s around, they’ll find her.”
Wardell’s expression was—expressionless. “You make it sound like they’ll find her body,” Wardell said. “Not her.” His voice was as flat as they came.
“Hey, there are too many possibilities to think that.” His yet was unspoken.
Wind blew residual snow across the road. The skies held wisps of clouds against a brilliant blue background, several shades darker than Angie’s eyes. He realized that in his haste to see what had happened to his pictures, he hadn’t checked his messages. He tugged his cell from the cup holder and glanced at the screen. More floaters blurred his vision. He set the phone down. Angie would call if she could. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried to get in touch.
“You been married long?” he asked Wardell.
“Six years.”
“Kids?”
Wardell shifted in his seat. “No. Not yet, anyway. We’re hoping that will change soon.”
Gordon didn’t detect any emotion in Wardell’s delivery. Numbed because he was worried about his wife? Or was having a family a point of contention between them? Different opinions on having a family had been a major issue with Gordon’s short-lived marriage to Cynthia. That, and money. Two of the biggies in any relationship.
Angie drifted into his thoughts. If things kept moving the way they had been, would they have kids? He’d never broached the subject of marriage, much less having kids, with her. Between her hours and his, would it even be fair to have children who would have to spend much of their time in daycare, or with a nanny?
Why was he thinking about this? He’d been burned once and wasn’t going to rush into anything again. He’d decided to play chauffeur to learn more about Wardell, not get all dopey thinking about his future.
He shifted to what he considered his gentle interrogation mode, trying to keep his tone conversational. “Did you see any of the other guests this morning? I can’t believe I slept that long—must have been totally zonked after yesterday. I wanted to thank Nick for helping me out.”
“I didn’t sleep much,” Wardell said. “At least until four, four-thirty—after that, I must have gone under for a few hours. I woke up around eight. I might have heard the others, but I couldn’t tell you who—just sounds of people moving around. Doors, cars. Could have been dreaming for all I know.”
“Yeah, been there.” Gordon took a sip of his coffee, decided to go for broke. “Things were okay between you and your wife? Marriage—been there once, and failed. Now, I’ve been dragging my feet. Don’t want to get into something unless I know it’s for the long haul.” Shit. He was talking marriage to a virtual stranger. He reminded himself he was interviewing a potential suspect, and anything he said was to get the man talking. Didn’t have to be true.
“As good as any marriage,” Wardell said. “Ups and downs, differences of opinion, but we weren’t talking about splitting or anything. There’s something to having someone there for you—makes it easier to get through the tough moments.”
No indignation, Gordon noted. Nothing to indicate Wardell thought Gordon’s questions were out of line. Which struck him as strange—unless the guy was totally oblivious to the intent behind Gordon’s questions. Not all that impossible, though. Gordon thought like a cop. Most people didn’t.
“You’ve had tough moments?” Gordon said. “Or did she?”
“Goes back and forth. Right now, I’ve had some setbacks at work. That’s part of the reason we decided to take this vacation. A few days without stress, regroup, get a fresh outlook.”
Gordon snorted. “Yeah. This has been a real stress-buster, all right.”
Wardell gave a wry laugh. “You nailed that one. What do they say? Someday you’ll look back on this and laugh. I’m not laughing.”
“I hate to ask this, but can you think of any reason your wife might have left on purpose?”
Wardell’s response was to mutter a quiet no, cross his arms tighter, and face the window.
Aha. Maybe things weren’t all sweetness and light on the Wardell home front.
Chapter 21
Wardell made it clear that the subject was closed, and Gordon let things drop. Domestic cases were his least favorite, and if there was strife in the Wardell household, he’d rather let someone else—anyone else—handle it. That decision made, Gordon was happy enough to deposit Wardell at the rental agency. Without bothering to shut off the engine, Gordon gave a quick “Good luck” that Wardell might be reunited with his wife, swung out of the agency’s lot, and reversed his route.
Radio reception sucked up here, so it was Gordon, his thoughts, and the hiss of tires on asphalt.
Flakes of snow brushed against his windshield. He checked the time. Too early for the storm, if you could trust the forecast—which he didn’t. He turned on the windshield wipers, but the road was still a blur. Was it the snow or his damn CSR?
He goosed the accelerator a bit. Not enough to get into trouble on the mountain road, but enough so he might get to the Yardumians’ a little sooner. Part of him wanted to cut his so-called vacation short, go home where he’d be ensconced in familiar surroundings.
But he knew himself too well—he wouldn’t be able to stay away from the station, which meant he’d be in ‘stress territory’. So, he’d finish out the week at the B and B, where he resolved to follow Dr. Demming’s orders and relax. Let the locals take care of solving crimes and investigating accidents. He would rest, maybe listen to one of the audio books he’d brought along, or watch some of the movies the Yardumians had in their entertainment center. Maybe help Raffi with whatever repairs he was doing. If the weather cleared, maybe a little fishing. Maybe see if he could have some nice, long chats with Angie. Anything to take his mind off the stresses of police work, whether his or someone else’s.
True to Colorado weather form, the evening storm hit well before Gordon made it to the Yardumians’. The SUV crawled the last five miles, and Gordon didn’t think the visibility would be the least bit better with or without his damned Central Serous Retinopathy. He used his GPS to anticipate the turns in the road, because he sure as hell couldn’t see them coming.
Red and blue strobing lights ahead had him braking to a snail’s pace. Between passes of his windshield wipers, he identified them as two State Patrol vehicles pulling away from the edge of the road. Gordon slowed to let them in. He checked his GPS readout to discover they were at the waypoint he’d marked to locate Wardell’s car. The troopers had probably been working the accident site until the weather turned nasty. Again.
Using their lights to help guide him along the road, Gordon found the turnoff to the Yardumians’, where he promised himself he would not call the State Patrol to see what they’d found.
Vacation. Relaxation. No stress. So what if you’re an hour behind schedule. What schedule? You don’t have a schedule.
Taking slow, deep breaths, he inched the SUV the last twenty yards toward the B and B, where lights marked his destination. Wouldn’t do to slide across their porch and into their living room.
His was the sole vehicle in the parking area, which bode well for peace and quiet. Through the shimmering white curtain of snow, a yellow glow illuminated the way to one of the cabins, where Gordon assumed Raffi Yardumian was working. Or maybe he’d left the lights on. Or maybe there’d been another power outage and—
There you go analyzing everything. Relax.
He shoved his way through the accumulated snowfall and crunched his way to the porch, up the steps, and to the door. Stomping as much snow as he could from his boots, and brushing what had dusted his parka on the short walk from car to porch, he paused before twisting the knob.
The cowbells clanged as he opened the door, classical music playing softly beneath their harsh interruption. Mrs. Yardumian s
at by the fire, knitting, as she’d been when Gordon had first arrived. She smiled as he peeled off his cap and unzipped his parka. He hadn’t been here long, but there was a welcome, homey feel to the place. Lemony furniture polish. And another more tantalizing aroma. Barbeque sauce, he thought.
“I’m glad you made it back safely,” she said. “According to the news, this storm is going to stick around for several days. I’m so sorry it’s spoiling your vacation.”
“I’m here to rest, so the snowstorm is just what the doctor ordered.”
The corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled. “Oh, so we have him to blame for this weather.”
“That’ll work for me,” Gordon said.
She set aside her knitting and rose from her seat. “Are you hungry? I’ve got sandwich fixings. And some chicken soup. As long as you’re our only guest for the rest of the week—and a stranded one at that—you can eat with us.”
“As long as you’re only preparing what you’d make if I weren’t here,” he said.
“Deal. Fifteen minutes, and it’ll be ready.” She walked toward the kitchen.
Gordon heard keyboard clicks from the office. So, Raffi wasn’t in the cabin after all.
Give it a rest. He left the light on. Much easier to find his way back if he still has things to do.
Gordon draped his parka over a hook by the door and climbed toward his room. On the second floor landing, he paused. Would Mrs. Yardumian have made up the rooms already? Or, with no guests coming, would she give herself a break? After all, with the temperamental power supply, maybe she didn’t want to risk washing bed linens if the electricity—or the water—gave up mid-cycle. Or maybe she hired someone else to come in and clean.
Get a grip. You’re still overanalyzing.
But he glanced down the hall and saw the doors standing open. He’d take a quick peek, that’s all. He strode to the first door. Paula’s former room. Not quite closing the door behind him, he stepped far enough inside so he couldn’t be seen from the landing and surveyed the space. The bed was rumpled. Dresser drawers were open. So, the housekeeping hadn’t begun, either by Mrs. Yardumian or anyone else. Gordon peered into the drawers, glad he could do it without making noise. All empty.
The bathroom towels were in a heap on the floor. The sink was dotted with toothpaste and a scattering of hairs, the mirror covered in spatters. A hair dryer lay on the vanity. The small bottles of shampoo and other amenities were strewn on the ledge of the tub.
Typical post-visit guest room. He poked his head into the closet, which held a spare blanket and pillow on the shelf above the rod, which was barren other than the assorted hangers, all empty with the exception of the one that held a plastic laundry bag. Same as in his room. The only evidence that someone had used the room at all, other than the unmade bed, was a wastebasket filled with travel brochures. He wondered if that’s what she used to write her blogs. Or were they future destinations?
What had he expected? A written confession that she wasn’t an honest travel blogger? Or, that she’d played between the sheets with Sam Tyner? He left Paula’s room, ignored the other two, and went to clean up for lunch. Leaving his phone plugged into the charger, he joined the Yardumians at the kitchen table. A crock pot sat on the counter, the source of the barbeque aroma he’d noticed when he’d first come back.
“My lazy-day ribs,” Mrs. Yardumian said as they lunched on ham and cheese sandwiches and a hearty chicken soup. “Toss a few ingredients into the pot in the morning and you’re done cooking.”
“Can’t beat it,” Raffi said. “Along with mashed potatoes, it’s a perfect snowy day dinner.”
“Smells delicious. And this soup is great,” Gordon said between bites. “By the way, I noticed a light in one of the cabins as I drove up. Thought you should know in case it shouldn’t be on.”
“Guess I forgot to turn it off,” Raffi said. “I was working out there earlier. New bathroom fixtures, checking the heat, touching up paint, trim—all the things you can’t do when the rooms are filled back to back. Not that I’m complaining about being full, of course.”
“If you want a hand, I’m happy to help,” Gordon said. “Least I can do to thank you for all this fantastic food.”
“Maybe tomorrow.” Raffi’s gaze moved toward the window. “Paint has to dry before I can do anything else, and I’m not going out in that mess to switch off a light. I’ve got plenty of bookkeeping to deal with, and I want to get it done in case the power goes out again.”
“Just give a shout.”
Over Mrs. Yardumian’s protests, Gordon insisted on helping with the cleanup. While he sponged off the table, he followed up on his earlier thoughts. “Must be a lot of work, taking care of a place like this. Housekeeping, laundry—I think I’d go crazy having to provide clean sheets and towels for a houseful of guests. Making beds isn’t my thing.”
She gave her dismissive hand wave again. “When we have a lot of short-termers, yes, it can be work, but for the most part, I don’t mind. A little dusting, laying out towels—I have a couple of locals I pay to come in when it gets busy.” She folded the towel she’d used to dry the dishes. “They’d have come in today, but I told them not to be crazy, driving in this weather. And, with no new guests coming in for a few days, I’m treating myself to a full-fledged lazy day. Dinner’s doing its thing, and I can work on the blanket I’m knitting for the next grandkid.”
“Congratulations.”
She beamed. “Due in May. Number five. Two girls, two boys so far, so this one’ll be a tiebreaker.”
After another round of congratulations, Gordon excused himself, and with the strains of what he thought was Mozart filtering up the stairs, went down the second-floor hallway to Sam Tyner’s room.
Chapter 22
Tyner’s room was as empty as Paula’s had been, although the man was neater by far. His bed sheets and pillowcases were meticulously folded and sat on the end of the mattress next to the blanket and spread. As in Paula’s room, Tyner’s dresser and closet were emptied. He’d cleaned the bathroom sink, and there were no spots on the mirror. Towels, like the sheets, were folded on the vanity.
Gordon’s initial reaction was that Tyner had cleaned up to remove any traces of his presence—most particularly, fingerprints. Or he was trying to cover up the fact that Paula had been in here. But that was the skeptical cop talking. As an artist, Tyner must like to maintain order in his world.
Yeah, like how many artists do you know?
Tyner’s wastebasket beside the small desk was the one part of the room that didn’t fit the neat-freak image. Wadded up balls of paper filled it like a stash of snowballs awaiting battle.
Gordon bent down and lifted one from the top, then paused. He went to the closet and unclipped the plastic laundry bag from the hanger and dumped the papers into it. On a whim, he went to Paula’s room and did the same. He’d already looked in Wardell’s room, but he went in for another look. On the neatness scale, Wardell was in between Paula and Tyner—closer to Tyner, but that might be because he didn’t have many personal effects with him. His wastebasket contained a few scraps of paper that looked like they’d come from the small tablet provided in the room, and a brown apple core.
Gordon chuckled inwardly. Television crime show viewers would expect him to take the fruit and have it analyzed for DNA. As if it happened that way in real life. All they’d be able to prove would be that Wardell ate, or didn’t eat, the apple. Forget that it would be ridiculously expensive and take next to forever since there was no crime to attach Wardell to. And even if there were, what would finding an apple in his room do to solve a crime? DNA rarely solved a crime. But Gordon did take the paper scraps, more to satisfy his curiosity than anything else.
Next, he made a quick trip through Metcalf’s room. Aside from not stripping his bed, the room was as pristine as Tyner’s. Not even trash in the wastebasket. All the possible explanations wound through his head again, with one new one. If Metcalf was a responsible visitor
to the wilderness, he might be used to packing everything out to avoid impacting the environment. Whatever the reason, Gordon had nothing to look at.
In his own room, Gordon took the bags to his sitting area and started with Wardell’s. He dumped the contents onto the desk along with the scraps of paper. The first was a phone number with the name of the car rental agency. No-brainer on that one. Another was doodles, the sort a person would make while talking on the phone—or, more realistically, listening to hold music. Wardell liked to draw squares, rectangles, cubes, and triangles. Whether a psychologist could attach any significance to them was beyond him.
If these had been found at a crime scene, Gordon wouldn’t have given them much thought. The fact that they were in a guest room made them even less significant.
Tyner’s papers were next.
He pulled out a wadded up paper and smoothed it out on the desk. A rough pencil sketch of a tree-lined body of water. He uncrumpled the rest, one by one, finding more penciled landscapes. He was ready to toss them all, but he had nothing else to do, so he kept going, opening and studying each one. He found a few of deer, wondering for a moment how Tyner got that close, then remembering that Tyner shot photos. He could have captured the deer with his camera, then sketched these from his pictures. When he unfolded one of the last papers, Paula’s face stared at him. Not bad. Gordon opened the next, and let out a low whistle. This was a full body sketch. A reclining nude, definitely Paula. Was that what she’d been doing in his room? Modeling? Or was that in addition to the usual hanky-panky? His mind, as always, was running through the possibilities when his cell rang.
He jumped and hurried across the room to answer it. His first thoughts were of Angie, finally touching base. His pulse quickened in anticipation. When he saw Ed Solomon’s name on the screen, his heart thumped even faster.
He mashed the screen. “Hepler. What do you have?”
“Hey, Chief, take it easy. No crisis. Everything’s cool. I know I promised not to call, but I wanted to tell you. We’re famous. It’ll be on the news. Camera crew just left.”