Terry Odell - Mapleton 01 - Deadly Secrets

by Terry Odell

  The detective turned when Gordon entered, evidently taking in Gordon’s frown. “Don’t worry. I’m using your terminal to access the county system. Your secrets are safe.”

  Gordon kept walking. “I’ll be right with you. First chance I’ve had to hit the head all day.”

  When he returned, Colfax had moved to the visitor chair. An open file folder sat on the desk. Gordon sank into his own chair and leaned back. “There’s got to be a basic design flaw in cop work. You survive on coffee, but there are no bathroom breaks when you’re working a case.”

  “Super-economy-sized bladder ought to be one of the job requirements.”

  “I hear you. What do you have?”

  “Less than we should have. CSP ran the plate on the car. Gave us a blue Camry, but it’s not registered to a Karl Franklin.”

  The tiredness brought on by lack of sleep and tedious interviews vanished. He leaned forward. “Go on.”

  Colfax leafed through the papers in the folder and pulled one out. “Car belongs to a Tomo Yamaguchi. Sixty-two years old. Lives in Fort Lauderdale. Is alive and well, and had no idea his plate was stolen. He and his wife were driving cross country. The plate could have been lifted at any one of countless stops. He’s an amateur photographer, she’s a free-lance writer. They’re trying to put together some sort of off-the-beaten-path travel book.”

  “Maybe you can connect Franklin to one of their stops.”

  “We’re working it. But they’ve been on the road six weeks. They’ve taken innumerable detours, stopped at scenic overlooks, schlocky tourist attractions, roadside rest stops, hole-in-the-wall eateries. They probably parked their car in a hundred different places.”

  “Did Franklin put his own plate on their car? Or steal theirs?”

  “Swapped ‘em. That’s probably why the Yamaguchis didn’t notice. Both cars had the standard issue Florida plates. Can’t say many people actually pay attention to them. You put it on, forget about it. They’d probably notice if it was gone, but it doesn’t surprise me that they wouldn’t notice a different one.”

  “So, who is he?”

  “The switched plate belongs to a rental car. Picked up in Des Moines two days ago.”

  “Des Moines? You said it had Florida plates.”

  “It did. I checked with the rental company. The rental originated in Orlando. Heavy tourist town, lots of vehicles needed. Things slow down, they don’t need as many, they let some go. Figure they’ll get them back when the tourist season picks up. The company has designated cars it uses for out of state and one-way trips. This was definitely booked as one-way out of Orlando.”

  Gordon started scribbling notes. “So Franklin didn’t start his trip in Orlando?”

  Colfax shook his head. “No. We verified the guy who drove it from Orlando to Des Moines wasn’t Franklin. College kid, flew to Orlando for Spring break, had a change of plans and ended up driving home. No connection to Franklin, no record. Clean.”

  “So why does Franklin swap out his plate?”

  “You tell me.”

  Gordon felt like he was being tested. He let his brain grind the facts. “Could be he was trying to avoid the cops. Maybe he committed some crime while driving the rental, so he decides to switch plates. But what are the odds of finding another car the same make and model as his rental with Florida plates?”

  Colfax seemed to have dropped the inquisitor demeanor. He crossed his hands behind his head. “Maybe not that high. Camry’s are common enough. But it still feels opportunistic to me. Maybe he was paranoid. Or a nutcase.”

  “True. I think it’s safe to say the guy acted on a whim. He’s doing something shady, sees the car and figures switching plates will create another layer between him and whoever might be looking.”

  Colfax narrowed his eyes. “Franklin had a Mapleton address with him, for Rose and Sam Kretzer. And pictures of someone from San Diego. Megan Wyatt. Works for a company called”—Colfax thumbed through the pages.

  “Peerless Event Planners,” Gordon said.

  “You know her?”

  Gordon nodded. “Rose and Sam Kretzer were her guardians. They raised her when her parents died. Since she was five.”

  “You saw the papers in Franklin’s effects.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Megan swears she never knew anyone named Karl Franklin. Neither did the Kretzers, although I thought he was from Florida, not Des Moines. Damn, I never saw his driver’s license, and made a rookie assumption. But they didn’t recognize the name.”

  “You might have mentioned the connection,” Colfax said.

  Gordon kept his gaze steady. “I thought I’d do a little checking first. I know how busy you guys are. I’d have passed on any relevant information. Then everything hit the fan with this homicide, and since Franklin was dead, I guess it slipped onto the back burner.”

  “You spoke with Miss Wyatt? We haven’t been able to reach her yet.”

  Gordon nodded. “She arrived yesterday.”

  “She’s here?”

  Gordon scratched his stubble. “I guess we might as well lay this all out.” Gordon brought Colfax up to speed. When he got to the part about Megan’s incident and short-term memory loss, Colfax interrupted.

  “You find out who did it?”

  “We don’t even know there was a someone. She was the kind of kid who always had to be the best, to prove she was as tough as the guys. She might have been trying to catch up to Justin, but the altitude got her. If she took a tumble on the path out by the pond, she could be feigning the memory loss to save face.”

  Colfax’s gaze bored through him. “What do you think?”

  “I saw her last night. She said everything was still foggy. Her biggest concern was for the Kretzers.”

  “Do we agree that Franklin was coming to Mapleton, and that it’s connected to the Kretzers and Megan Wyatt?”

  “Yes,” Gordon said. New worries snaked through his gut. “But Franklin’s dead.” It was Gordon’s turn to stare down Colfax. “Was it an accidental death? The trooper mentioned shell casings.”

  Colfax consulted the file. “Looked like a bullet hole in the rear window, but hasn’t been confirmed. Nothing was recovered from the vicinity of the crash. The lab’s working on the car to see if they can find a link to a second party being involved. That stretch of the road has its share of accidents.”

  “Lots of questions,” Gordon said. “Not many answers.”

  “Not yet. But we’ll find them.”

  “I’d ordered surveillance on the Kretzer house last night. I guess I should reinstate it.”

  “Might be smart. Until we find those answers.”

  Laurie tapped on the door, then walked in. “Chief, you need to get to the Kretzers’.”

  ###

  Standing in the garage, Megan wrapped her arms around Rose’s trembling body. “We can’t go inside, Rose. Not until the police get here.”

  “But the ice cream. It’ll melt all over the floor.”

  “Oma, we can buy more ice cream, and I’ll clean the floor,” Justin said. “Maybe even put in a new one. Someone might be in there. The police said to stay out.”

  Rose shuddered. “We locked the doors, yes. Sam?”

  “Yes, I checked,” Sam said.

  “So how did they get in?” Oma asked.

  Opa took Oma’s hands in his. “That’s for the police to figure out. They might have broken a lock, or a window. Right now, we need to leave. We don’t want to mess any evidence.”

  “Exactly, Oma. Like on television.”

  “Where will we go?” Rose asked. Megan’s heart ached at the plaintive tone. She’d never known Rose to be helpless. She’d always been strong, always made Megan find her own inner strength.

  “What about Selma’s house?” Sam said. “It’s two blocks away.”

  “We can’t go in the house to call her. What if she’s not home? Or busy?” Rose said.

  Sam came over and rested his hands on Rose’s shoulders. “We have a
spare key, remember?”

  “True.” Rose ducked her head. “But I hate to impose.”

  “Rose, don’t be ridiculous. If Selma came to you, you’d invite her in, no questions asked,” Sam said.

  “I guess so. But I don’t like hiding.”

  “You do what you need to survive,” Sam said.

  His tone prickled the hairs on Megan’s neck. She’d never heard him sound so bitter.

  “Let’s go.” Megan opened the passenger door of the car and gently nudged Rose inside.

  “What? We can’t walk a couple of blocks?” she said.

  “Rose, be quiet,” Sam said. Another new tone. Sharp, authoritative. He’d used a milder version on Megan growing up, and it had demanded immediate compliance. This one had her snapping to attention.

  Rose’s eyes widened, but she settled into her seat and fastened her seatbelt. Sam slid behind the wheel. Megan climbed in back with Justin. He seemed as surprised as she was at Rose and Sam’s reactions.

  Minutes later, they pulled into the driveway of Selma’s white clapboard cottage. Megan hopped out of the car and trotted up the stoop. She pulled open the screen door and rapped the brass knocker, remembering how many times she’d gone through these same motions as a child. The siding needed a fresh coat of paint, and the concrete stoop was pitted and stained. It seemed smaller. Like Rose had when she’d given her that first hug yesterday.

  “Who’s there?” Selma’s voice sounded smaller, too.

  “It’s Megan. Megan Wyatt, and Rose and Sam. And Justin. Can we come in?”

  A lock snicked, and the door opened an inch. From behind her, Megan heard car doors open and close. In front of her, Selma peered through the thick lenses of her glasses. Her brown eyes hadn’t lost any of their sparkle. “Megan Wyatt. All grown up. My heavens, child, come in.” The door opened wider. “I thought you might be that reporter from the Weekly. He’s after me to talk about the Holocaust. I haven’t decided if I trust him to write what I say. But come in, come in.”

  Megan stepped aside so Rose and Sam could precede her into the house. Justin waited for her to enter. Once they were inside, Selma closed and locked the door. “Terrible thing, Betty getting killed. In her own shop. We never used to lock doors. The world is changing.”

  Sam’s face clouded. “Maybe not so much,” he said under his breath. If Megan hadn’t been standing so close, she wouldn’t have heard.

  Justin leaned down and kissed Selma’s cheek. “Hi, Selma. We won’t bother you long. Only until the police check out Oma and Opa’s house.”

  Selma’s mouth dropped. “Police? What happened?”

  Megan escorted Rose to the overstuffed chintz sofa. “You sit, Rose. You’re probably not adjusted to the different blood pressure medication yet. You’re shaking.”

  “Someone was in my house,” Rose said. “That’s not right.”

  “No, it’s not,” Selma said. “But the police will catch whoever did it. I’ll put on some coffee while we wait.”

  “I’ll call the police station, let Gordon know where we are,” Megan said. She stood, surprised to find her knees wobbly.

  After letting Gordon’s assistant know where to find them, Megan helped Selma with the coffee, a ritual much like the one Rose performed for guests, and had been doing as long as Megan could remember.

  “Terrible, terrible thing,” Selma muttered under her breath as she measured grounds into the coffeemaker. “There are cookies in the jar. Store-bought, I’m afraid. Some pound cake is in the bread box.”

  Megan didn’t bother to argue. Although Selma was soft and round where Rose was thin and wiry, the two shared the same mindset. Food equaled comfort.

  Even if Megan didn’t think she could eat, seeing the coffee and sweets arranged on the large coffee table in Selma’s living room brought the reassuring memories of so many Sunday late-afternoon Kaffeeklatsches. Rose, Sam, and Selma seemed to settle into an uneasy silence broken by the chink of cup against saucer, or the clink of metal against china as they stirred their coffee.

  Justin set his cup aside and paced, casting furtive glances toward the door, as if it might make Gordon appear. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Catching Megan’s gaze, he said, “I need some air.”

  “Should you go outside?” Sam asked.

  “What difference does it make?” Justin said. “Our car is out there. If someone is looking, they’ll know where we are. Besides, if they wanted one of us, why toss the house? Why be so obvious? Why not sit and wait?” The tension seemed to roll off him in waves.

  “Go in the backyard,” Selma said. “It’s private.”

  Justin barged toward the kitchen. The back door slammed shut.

  “I could use some air too.” Megan wiped her mouth and carried her cup and plate to the kitchen. From the window over the sink, she saw Justin pacing circles in Selma’s lawn. She let herself out and matched Justin’s stride. A faint scent of roses wafted on the afternoon breeze.

  After three trips around the yard, Justin’s pace slowed.

  “Guess I’m getting acclimated,” Megan said. “I kept up.”

  He led her into the wooden gazebo in the center of the yard. They sank onto the wooden bench that circled the inside of the ivy-covered lattice structure. Running his hand over the slats, he said, “Could use some maintenance.”

  “We’re not out here to talk about fixing Selma’s gazebo, although she’d be thrilled. There’s something wrong, isn’t there? It’s obvious enough you’re upset.”

  “I keep thinking, what would have happened if we’d been home? You heard what they said about the lady in the dress shop. Her throat was cut. That’s not an easy way to kill someone. I keep seeing”—he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.

  “You think both crimes are connected, don’t you?”

  “Geez, Megan. Nothing ever happens in Mapleton. And now, in less than two days, there’s a murder. And a break-in? Two break-ins, because it sounded to me like Mrs. What’s Her Name surprised a burglar. Only he didn’t run, which would seem to be the normal reaction.”

  Her heart played battering ram against her ribcage. She struggled to breathe. Was she a target? Those pictures from the dead man. Was there a connection? But he was dead. It couldn’t be a coincidence that someone had tried to mug her. How many other people might be looking for her? A cold, clammy sweat filmed her body.

  Chapter Eleven

  For the second time in far too few hours, Gordon stood in a doorway and inspected a disaster area. All he could think was, thank God no one had been home. Unlike lives, things could be replaced.

  “Pictures, Solomon,” he said. “Everything. Six ways from Sunday.”

  Solomon raised the camera to his eye and started snapping. “Looks kind of like my kid’s bedroom after a temper tantrum. You think our guy had an objective, or was just plain ornery?”

  “Maybe a little of both. Maybe he couldn’t find what he wanted and got mad.”

  “Not your run-of-the-mill thief,” Gordon said. “Television and stereo are still here.”

  Solomon clicked off more pictures. “Old models. Everyone wants a flat screen. The TV’s probably twenty years old. And who uses video tapes anymore? It’s all DVD. At least he didn’t leave any of those dandy bodily function surprise packages.”

  “There is that high note. We’ll have to ask the Kretzers if anything’s missing.”

  “Want me to dust for prints?”

  Gordon thought about Rose, the consummate housekeeper, returning to find not only the chaos, but also the black mess of fingerprint powder all over her house. He clenched his jaw. “Do it. There might be some matches with what the CSR team got at Vintage Duds. Might help narrow it down.”

  “I heard one of the techs grumbling about how many prints they’d have to run.”

  “Hell, it was a retail store. Ever watch a woman shop? Picking things up, touching everything?” His cell rang. Again. “Hepler.”

  “Chief, Megan Wyatt called,
” Laurie said. “They’re at Selma Goldberg’s on Woodlawn. You need the address?”

  “No, I know the house. Send a deputy over to the Kretzers’ to help Solomon.”

  “On it. How’s it look?” Laurie said.

  “Not good, but there doesn’t seem to be much breakage. Mostly a mess. How are things holding up on your end?”

  “Phone’s are ringing off the hook.”

  “You need any help?”

  “Irv is on it. He’s good at polite and evasive. The Denver papers are calling. And their local television station. They’re probably going to send a crew.”

  “And you’re going to tell them?”

  “No comment.”

  He thought for a minute, checked his watch. “I can talk to them at five-thirty. Let Colfax know.” That way, nothing would be plastered all over the local early news shows. And nothing would hit the papers until tomorrow, although with half the news being on the Internet these days, he didn’t know whether they’d update their websites as soon as he finished. Wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t going to tell them much. “Let Buzz know, too. Reserve a seat up front for him.”

  “On it.”

  A damn press conference. He cringed. Maybe he could work an information officer into the budget. Wouldn’t necessarily have to be a sworn officer. Might be smarter that way. Gordon figured he’d have to exercise considerable restraint to keep from shooting a reporter. He switched his phone to vibrate and stuck it in its clip.

  “Hey, Chief?” Solomon called in from the kitchen. “You think I need to leave all this?”

  Gordon walked over. The contents of the freezer sat in the middle of the floor. Canisters of flour, sugar, rice had been emptied. Even Rose’s cookie jar was tipped onto the counter, gingersnaps spilling from its mouth.

  Near the mud room, a sticky puddle of melted ice cream dripped from one of Rose’s mesh shopping bags, mixing with some tomatoes, grapes, and spinach into an unappetizing sundae.

  “You shoot it?”

  “Yes,” Solomon said.

  “I’ll take care of it. You finish documenting the rest of the house. Find the point of entry.”