Terry Odell - Mapleton 01 - Deadly Secrets

by Terry Odell

Below that, people. Must be half the town. Along the steps, across the sidewalk and into the grass of the square. Mobile news vans, their masts extended, parked on the street. His stomach lurched.

  What on God’s earth? Denver? Colorado Springs? Networks, not local? CNN? What the hell were all these people doing in Mapleton? Must be a really slow news day.

  From the edge of the crowd, he caught one more smiling face. Angie. She flashed a “thumbs up.”

  “Thank you all for coming.” He opened the folder, took a breath. “I’m Gordon Hepler, Chief of Police here in Mapleton.” He half-turned toward Colfax. “Detective Tyler Colfax of the Sheriff’s Office and I are working together. We’ll answer your questions after my statement. If you would like a copy, they will be available after the conference.”

  Two paragraphs in, the queasiness left, and he got to the end without mishap. Feeling more assured, he invited Colfax to join him. “Questions?”

  Questions flew at him so thick and fast he almost ducked. Keeping the outrage Colfax had mentioned down to a mere hint took some doing. Gangs? Neo-Nazis? Drug cartel? Russian Mafia? Where was this crap coming from?

  And then he saw Buzz, standing front and center, his Canon around his neck, mini-recorder extended, and a satisfied smirk on his face. His doing. Gordon would bet his next three paychecks on that one. Anything for a story. The man would pay.

  Colfax dodged and denied. Gordon admired the deft way the man repeated the same information regardless of the question shouted at him. “We have found nothing to lead us to believe this was anything other than a senseless, tragic killing. We offer our sympathy to the family of the victim.”

  With most of his anger in check, Gordon leaned into the lectern. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.” He pivoted and made his way to his office and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the windows.

  Colfax came in behind him, closing the door in a more gentlemanly fashion. “What the hell happened out there?”

  “Damn local reporter. We’ve got a weekly paper, but Buzz has delusions of working for the big city rags. Or television. Latest was a book deal. Always digging for his next big story. Doesn’t matter. My guess is he called every damn contact he knows and leaked little bits of total nonsense to get them all here.”

  “You tell him not to talk to anyone?”

  Gordon tried to remember his words to Buzz. “Crap. I told him not to print anything. Leave it to Buzz to take me literally.”

  “You handled yourself well,” Colfax said. “I’m thinking your reporter’s alienated a lot of his precious contacts.”

  Gordon felt a little better. “So you don’t think I should go over to his place and shoot him?”

  Colfax laughed. “Not yet. I’m going to have to think about it. Whatever I decide now isn’t going to be rational. Meanwhile, he’s not going to get more than a ‘No comment’ from anyone on the force.”

  “The big players aren’t going to take kindly to his stunt either.”

  Gordon thought for a moment. “Assuming—and this time I think it’s reasonable to do so—that Buzz is responsible for that barrage of questions, do you think there’s a germ of truth in there? Gangs? Neo-Nazis? Drugs? Russian Mafia?”

  Colfax rubbed his lower lip. “For the most part, sane, rational people don’t do what we’re dealing with. Maybe it is connected to something Buzz hinted at. Whether he was just throwing a handful of spaghetti against the wall to see if anything stuck? That’s an entirely different ballgame.”

  “What’s next?”

  Colfax held up a finger, then unclipped his cell phone and brought it to his ear. He listened, his eyebrows lifting. He thanked the caller and snapped the phone shut. “Got any aspirin?”

  Ah, so the man wasn’t invulnerable. Gordon fished a bottle from his desk and tossed it to Colfax. He tipped two into his hand and swallowed them. “We’ve got three crimes to solve.”

  “Three?”

  “Yeah. I got a call. Forensics determined Karl Franklin didn’t die in the car accident.”

  ###

  Justin handed out the key cards. “Oma, Opa, you’re in twelve fifty-two. Megan, you’re in ten twenty-eight.”

  “And you?” Oma asked.

  “I’m in ten twenty-five.”

  Megan looked at him as if she’d expected adjoining rooms. Was she relieved? Disappointed? But if he wanted to follow his plan, he needed to be far enough away so she wouldn’t notice, yet near enough to get to her if anything went wrong. He gave her a “that’s what was available” shrug.

  “We couldn’t all be together?” Oma asked.

  Justin smiled. “I think you’ll like your accommodations. The bellman is delivering our bags.” He’d requested a luxury suite for his grandparents, and figured if their bags were already in there, they might not put up a fuss about the extravagance. Too bad if they did. He and Megan had agreed they deserved some pampering.

  “Like we couldn’t carry those tiny cases?” Opa said.

  “I thought we’d unwind in the lounge with a drink,” Justin said. “This way, it saves a trip up and back.”

  “But this is such a fancy place,” Oma said. “And I’m not dressed for it.”

  “This is Denver, not New York,” Megan said. “We could all use a little relaxation.”

  Justin put his hands on his grandmother’s shoulders and turned her toward the lounge tucked in a quiet corner of the lobby.

  “Well, my special flower?” Opa said. He crooked his elbow, and winged his eyebrows. “Shall we go?”

  Oma gazed up at Opa. She took his arm. “Maybe one drink.”

  Opa rested his hand atop hers, and they strolled across the lobby.

  “They look so good together, don’t they?” Megan whispered.

  Justin almost offered his arm to Megan. “Yes, they do. It’s hard to imagine them young and courting, but they’ve still got that spark.”

  “They always have. They need to put everything aside, and this place should do it. You did good.” She stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips across his cheek.

  He had a fleeting regret about her room being across the hall.

  A short time later, settled into a grouping of chairs around a fireplace, they sipped the champagne Justin had insisted on over his grandparents’ protests. He relaxed for the first time in days.

  “To new beginnings,” he said, lifting his flute. The crystal sang as they touched glasses.

  He fortified himself with another gulp of champagne before he asked the next question. “I was thinking about going to Europe over summer vacation, and learning about my roots. Go see where you were born, where you lived, places that were special to you. What do you think?”

  His grandparents exchanged uneasy glances. Oma’s eyes widened. Opa’s lips tightened.

  He ignored Megan’s not-so-subtle head-shake. He’d been working in the dark long enough, and time was running out. And there could be another player in the game, who’d upped the stakes.

  “I…you never talk about your pasts,” Justin said. “It’s my heritage. You never tell us stories about when you were kids. You must have happy memories too.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Opa said at last. “Sometimes the past is best left in the past.”

  Megan jumped up. “More champagne?” She went to the chiller and topped off everyone’s glasses. “Maybe we should have dinner. Justin, why don’t you see if there’s a table in the restaurant.”

  Subject effectively changed. “I made reservations for Oma and Opa for seven-thirty. There’s time for them to freshen up.” He gave Megan a pointed stare. “We can grab dinner on our own. After all, this is supposed to be their celebration.”

  “No, you should join us,” Oma said. “A family evening.”

  “Not tonight,” Justin said. “This is your night. You two have a good time.”

  “Justin’s right,” Megan said. “Make this a private occasion. We’ll fend for ourselves. But don’t overdo it.” She grinned. “Remember, Rose, we’re
going shopping tomorrow.”

  Oma didn’t respond. She and Opa were exchanging a gaze that sent heat through Justin. And a newfound determination to protect them. He cut a glance toward Megan. She lifted her eyebrows and fanned herself with a cocktail napkin. “I could use a bit of freshening up myself,” she said.

  “We can meet for breakfast,” Oma said.

  “Um…actually, I ordered you the anniversary package. Breakfast in bed is included. Call Room Service and let them know when you’d like it delivered,” Justin said.

  “So much, so much. Too much,” she said. But her eyes telegraphed her pleasure.

  He got up and hugged her. “I love you. We haven’t seen enough of each other over the years. Have fun.” Sam stood, and Justin clutched him in an embrace. “You, too, Opa.”

  The four of them strolled to the elevator, Oma on Opa’s arm once again. In the elevator, backs straight, his grandparents faced the doors and watched the floor display above. But despite their formal posture, their fingers were interlaced.

  When the elevator stopped at ten, Justin kissed each of them on the cheek. Megan did too, and then he and Megan stepped out, the doors closed, and the elevator continued its journey.

  “They’re so cute,” Megan said. “I meant it, Justin. You did good.”

  “I hope Oma doesn’t pitch a fit when she sees the roses and chocolate covered strawberries.”

  “You ordered them, too?”

  “Part of the anniversary package.”

  “You’re going to make someone one hell of a catch, you know that. Who’d have thought you had a romantic streak?” They reached her door, and she took the key card from her purse. Her hazel eyes bored through him like two power drill bits. “Your room or mine?” she asked. “We could order in.”

  Her smile was less than seductive.

  “Your call,” he said.

  She inserted her key card and pushed the door open. The king-sized bed dominated the room, but there was a small table with two upholstered chairs by the window. Megan’s suitcase sat on the folding stand in a small alcove.

  The phone rang. Megan jumped. “Who knows we’re here?”

  “My money says it’s Oma.”

  Megan rushed to the desk and picked up the handset. “Hello?” She turned and leaned her bottom against the desk and smiled. “Hi, Rose. Everything’s great.” A pause. “Yes, my bag is here.” Another pause. “Justin? He’s here.”

  He stepped to the phone. “Hi, Oma. How’s your room?” To his surprise, Sam’s voice came out of the receiver. “The room is wonderful. Everything is wonderful. Your grandmother says thank you for your generosity, and that we’re going to have a marvelous time. Isn’t that right, Rose?”

  Justin heard sniffling in the background. “Is there a problem?”

  Sam lowered his voice. “She thinks you’re going too far, and I told her to shut up and simply say thank you.”

  “I understand. It’s not often she’s willing to accept being on the receiving end.”

  “Oh, she’s going to be receiving tonight. Thanks again, and we’ll see you tomorrow.” There was a brief silence, and then an even softer voice that hardly sounded like his grandfather. “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.” And the line disconnected.

  He stood there, the receiver dangling from his fingertips.

  “What?” Megan asked. “Is something wrong?”

  He set the handset in its cradle. “No. Oma turned on the waterworks, but she’s happy.” He sank onto the chair. “I think they’re…you think they…?” He covered his eyes. “I don’t even want to think about it. But Opa said not to disturb them. They’ll call us tomorrow morning.”

  Megan’s mouth dropped.

  “Yeah,” Justin said.

  They sat in silence for several moments, Justin willing his mind away from the idea his grandparents could be…hell, he couldn’t imagine his parents…

  Megan was the first to speak. “Speaking of phone calls, should we tell Gordon where we are?”

  Yeah, he could think of phone calls. And break-ins, and gruesome murders. Why were those easier to deal with than…no, he was not going there. “He’s got our cell numbers, doesn’t he?”

  Megan thought for a minute. “I called him from mine, so he’ll have it.”

  “Even if he doesn’t, he’s a cop. He’ll find them. The fewer people who know where we are, the better.”

  Her eyes did that saucer thing again. “Do you think Rose called anyone? Selma to cancel their staying with her?”

  “I told them not to tell anyone where we are. Opa said he’d make sure she understands.”

  There was another protracted silence. This time Justin broke it. “We need to figure out what’s going on. I know you remember what happened to you. Talk to me.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Karl Franklin is alive? You’re shittin’ me.” Gordon studied Colfax’s expression. Dead serious. “That’s impossible.”

  Colfax laughed. “No, he’s dead.”

  “Cut to the chase, man. What’s the story?”

  Colfax rubbed his temples, as if trying to rush the aspirin to their target. “The accident was staged. And Franklin was killed. Two independent occurrences.”

  Gordon reached for the aspirin bottle. He grabbed two bottles of water from his file cabinet, washed down two tablets and passed the second water bottle to Colfax. Taking out his notepad and a pen, he said, “Let me have it.”

  “Franklin was killed about a mile down the road. Body stuffed into the trunk of the car. Then he was tossed out, and the car was rear-ended off the road, into the tree.”

  “Did you ever confirm the bullet hole in the window?”

  “Found a thirty-eight shell lodged behind the radio.”

  “But Franklin wasn’t shot.” Gordon pushed away from his desk and went to the window, staring into the parking lot. The media had gone, leaving the gravel-covered expanse almost empty. He watched the red-orange disk of the sun dip below the mountains. “My guys screw it up?”

  “No,” Colfax said. “I saw the pictures from the scene. It appeared to be a typical car accident, and your medics confirmed the guy was dead. The car was smashed. Anyone would assume the guy had been thrown from the car. No reason for your medics to check the trunk.”

  “One of my officers was on scene. Good cop.”

  “Don’t kick yourself. There are three accidents a month, minimum, along that stretch of highway, and since the guy was dead, CSP approved the transport. Probably wanted to keep the road clear.”

  “So what clued them in?”

  “Tow truck driver. Saw a bloody sheet of plastic in the trunk and called us.”

  Gordon considered that for a moment. “Premeditated, then, if the killer had the plastic on hand.”

  “Makes sense, but it’s still an assumption. Franklin might be someone who liked to keep his trunk clean. Or the rental company put it there. And it could have come from either Franklin’s rental or the killer’s car.”

  “Sounds like you’re listening for zebras, not horses. My money’s still on premeditation.”

  Colfax nodded. “Agreed, but we have to keep every option open.”

  “What about cause of death?” Gordon asked.

  “Multiple blows to the head.”

  “That’s what it looked like from the pictures. But you said the guy was killed a mile away from the accident site.”

  “So we’ve got to figure out who else was there. You said you had a witness. Megan Wyatt.”

  “She saw the car pull off the road, the driver get out, walk into the woods. Assumed he was taking a leak.”

  “That appears to be where Franklin was killed. I’ve called for the techs to give it another once over.”

  “You think Megan’s part of this? I’ve known her most of her life. She’s not the killer sort.”

  “Which is?” Colfax said.

  Touché. There was no killer type. Under the right circumstances, anyone could kill. But Megan? “Po
int taken. But there’s no way she killed Franklin. I saw her face when I showed her the pictures. Nobody can go that white on cue.”

  “She seems to be at the heart of things. Sees the victim, her name and pictures are in his possession. She gets herself snatched—or claims she does—and then the house where she’s staying is broken into. Her room is the point of entry. And this happens shortly after another venue has a similar break in. And a homicide. I want to talk to her.”

  “I’ll call her.” That niggling, unreachable thought crystallized. Gordon gave himself a mental head-slap. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “There’s another connection.”

  “Which is?”

  “Sam Kretzer. He had a bookstore where Vintage Duds is now.”

  Colfax swigged some water. “And you’re just getting around to telling me?”

  Gordon lifted his hands in a gesture of submission. “I didn’t think of it. I had one of those nagging tickles, but this is the first time I’ve had a chance to consider the bigger picture. I was dealing with the who and wasn’t thinking about the where.”

  “The homicide victim from the clothing store. What’s her relationship to the Kretzers?”

  “None,” Gordon said. “Sam retired about five years ago, I think it was. Sold his bookstore to some guy from Fort Collins. The guy lasted a year, year-and-a-half. Gave up, and eventually sold the place to Betty Bedford, who turned it into Vintage Duds.”

  “Where can we find the bookstore owner?”

  Gordon shook his head. “Don’t know.”

  “You don’t remember the owner’s name?”

  Colfax seemed to think Gordon should have this information at his fingertips. He didn’t mention that it all happened when he and Cynthia were splitting up, and his attention wasn’t always a hundred per cent on the job.

  “He didn’t live here. Probably part of the reason it failed. Small town, you need a more personal touch. He hired clerks, but there was a lot of turnover. I was a patrol cop then. Worked nights, so the store was usually closed.”

  He’d worked nights whenever possible simply to avoid Cynthia and the constant bickering. Of course, she hated that he worked nights, so that merely fueled the fire. He shook off the memories. His relationship failure wasn’t relevant.