by Terry Odell
“Gotcha. You want me to make sure Irv understands? I can talk to him when he comes in.”
“Couldn’t hurt.” Should he mention the mayor’s scanner? No, Connie knew scanners were all over the place, and calling attention to the mayor’s apparent interest in police business might make her self-conscious. Or feel as though Gordon didn’t trust her to do her job. And who knew how it would affect Irv?
“One question,” Gordon said. “You’ve got the inside track on most of the scuttlebutt around the department. What undercurrents are you feeling? Any undue interest in these bones?”
She flattened her lips and appeared to be weighing her words before speaking. “Everyone knows they’re out there. But they respect you, Chief, and I’d say most of them are keeping their mouths shut. It’s hard to up patrols and keep things quiet.”
“Understood.” And he’d heard the slight emphasis she’d put on the word most. There would be talkers—there always were. “You deal with Irv. I’ll speak to the patrol officers at their briefing. I have to agree with Mayor Alexander on one thing—we don’t need a bunch of lookie-loos or a media circus.” Lord, he didn’t need the media. Press conferences and media briefings made him almost physically ill.
“Anything else?”
“No, just Irv’s performance. Thanks.”
Connie nodded. “I’ll try to dig up some transmission tapes before Irv gets here.”
Gordon sat for a moment after Connie left. When he’d been a cop, there had been a barrier between doing his job, and dealing with the media and politics. Until he took over as Chief, Gordon hadn’t realized how much Dix had done to establish and maintain that buffer between the cops and the bureaucrats. Gordon had developed a decent rapport with the local paper—thank goodness it was a weekly. And, as far as he was concerned, politics had no place in police work. But try telling that to the politicians.
All part of the job. He was determined to be as effective as Dix had been so his officers could do their jobs. He rubbed his eyes again and pulled up the budget spreadsheets.
When his direct line rang half an hour later, he was surprised to see the call was from Tyler Colfax, a homicide detective with the sheriff’s department. They’d worked together on solving a homicide in Mapleton a few months back, but he hadn’t heard from the detective since they’d shared a few beers after they’d put that case to bed. Gordon had been a cop too long to think that a call from Colfax right after unidentified bones had been discovered was a coincidence.
“Hepler.”
“Heard you’ve got a potential homicide. Mapleton becoming a hotbed of crime?”
“And hello to you, too. First, it hasn’t been proven a homicide.” Colfax’s silence raised the hackles on Gordon’s neck. “Shit. What do you have?”
“Untwist your knickers, Hepler. Nothing confirmed, but when the Coroner’s Office orders a Crime Scene Response team to little old Mapleton, my cop radar hums, and I wonder if we’re going to be working together again.”
“God, I hope not.” Gordon laughed. “Nothing personal. Don’t need another homicide, is all.”
“Not that I like the idea of another homicide, but cold cases have always fascinated me.”
“Trust me, if it does turn out to be homicide, you’ll be my first call. Right now, I’ve been virtually ordered to stand down from investigating what has been called a waste of resources.”
“And I’m not wondering where that directive came from.”
“Ever thought about running for mayor?” Gordon said, tongue only partially in cheek.
Colfax guffawed. “Is the Devil ice skating?”
“Guess not. And I haven’t noticed any airborne pigs, either.”
“Seriously, I’m touching base, and if anything pops in the homicide scheme of things, I’ll get back with you.”
“Thanks. Asel’s supposed to let me know what they’re doing.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“Actually, he’s been on top of things. This case interested him, and he’s in the thick of it.”
A pause told him Colfax was having trouble processing that tidbit.
Colfax hissed a low whistle. “Maybe the Devil is ice skating. I’m definitely keeping my eye open for pig excrement dropping from the sky.”
“Catch you later,” Gordon said. Colfax disconnected. As soon as Gordon replaced the handset, his cell rang. Now what? A check of the display told him it was Asel. His pulse quickened.
“Hepler. Got something?”
“Not what you want to hear, I’m afraid. CSR is swamped. Three new cases in the last hour. We’re on the back burner until tomorrow. Might take two of your officers to maintain the scene tonight.”
“You’ll have them.” If Colfax was talking homicide, and Connie said the word had leaked out about the bones, Gordon couldn’t take a chance that they might have a killer on the loose, and if they did, he—or she—might want to get rid of the evidence. “Got anything else?”
“Your man Titch and I have been excavating the site where we found ribs and vertebrae. Hoping to find the pelvis, which should let us know if we’re looking at a male or female. Of course, a skull would be nice, too.”
Gordon couldn’t picture the rotund Asel down on his knees digging, but Titch could do the work of three. “I’ll cross my fingers.” He consulted the duty roster. “Titch is on until twenty hundred. I’ll have relief for him by nineteen forty-five. Let me know when you’re leaving, and I’ll have someone else out there.”
“I’ll have to leave at six,” Asel said. “But if I can pull the right strings, I’ll be back at eight tomorrow morning. CSR should have a team here by then.”
“Sounds like a plan. And thanks.”
Gordon disconnected and looked at his manpower stats. He could pull a few people from the volunteer civilian corps for routine patrol. Ninety percent of what they did was provide a visible presence. If anything got out of hand, they’d call sworn officers. Using the corps would free up a couple of uniforms to guard the site. On the off chance a killer did show up, he didn’t want civilians in the line of fire.
When his cell rang with yet another interruption, he would have cursed, except for the fact that it was Angie’s ringtone. As always, hearing it brought an automatic smile to his lips. “Hey there.”
“Hey there, yourself. Have you had dinner?”
On cue, his stomach rumbled. “Not yet.” Angie didn’t work the dinner shift on Mondays. “You have something in mind? I’ll have to be back by twenty-hundred hours for the shift briefing.”
“That’s eight o’clock, right?”
“Exactly. You’re learning.”
“Then there’s plenty of time. There is one catch, but I didn’t think you’d mind.”
Catch? What scheme was she working on now? “Which is?”
“Dinner’s with my grandparents. They invited me, and I remembered you’d said you wanted to talk to them, so I asked if they’d mind setting an extra plate.”
“Let me guess. You called them, they didn’t call you.”
“Just trying to help.”
“And you told them I wanted to ask them questions.”
A brief pause. A quiet, “Yes.”
Since they were on his to-do list, he forgave Angie’s meddling. “Are you sure it’ll be okay?”
“Okay? It’s perfect. Come by and pick me up. That way, I’ll have a reason I have to leave, too. They still don’t grasp that getting up at four-thirty means I can’t sit and watch The Tonight Show with them.”
“Give me fifteen minutes. I have to take care of a few things.”
“I’ll be ready. They’re going to love you.”
“Angie, what else did you tell them?”
But she’d hung up.
* * * * *
Gordon kept his mouth shut on the way to Angie’s grandparents’ house, preferring the strained silence to starting another fight. She’d thought she was helping when she’d wangled this dinner invitation. Rather tha
n push, he let it drop. Although, he admitted to himself, he wouldn’t mind another round of make-up sex.
Following Angie’s instructions, he pulled into the driveway of a small bungalow on an oak-lined street. White clapboard siding and a wraparound porch with a roofed entry over the blue-painted door welcomed them. Yellow flowering potentillas interspersed with neatly trimmed junipers bordered a brick walkway to the porch. All that was missing was the white picket fence.
Angie grabbed his hand and led him toward the house. Before they’d gotten halfway up the path, the front door opened.
A tall, raw-boned woman, her grey hair braided and pinned atop her head, stood in the doorway. About as far from Angie’s petite, pixie-like quality as anyone could be. Holding the screen door open with a hip, the woman wiped her hands on her blue-and-white checkered apron, then extended her arms in welcome. A broad grin brightened her sun-weathered face. “Angie.” Her smile diminished, and her gaze shifted to Gordon, moving from head to toe and back again. He tried not to squirm under the obvious scrutiny. Only then did he realize he and Angie’s hands were still entwined. So be it. Angie’s hand was warm, and the quick squeeze she gave him eased some of his discomfort. The woman’s smile returned. “And you must be Gordon. Please, come in. We’ve been dying to meet you.”
Gordon ushered Angie in front of him. As soon as he crossed the threshold, the aroma of spaghetti sauce assaulted him. “That smells fantastic, Mrs.—”
“I’m Willa. And my husband is Don.” She gestured toward the living room, where a barrel-chested man with a thick shock of white hair sat in a leather recliner, a blanket over his legs despite the warmth of the summer evening.
“It’s nice to meet one of Angie’s friends,” Don said, extending a hand. “Excuse me for not getting up.”
Gordon noticed the wheelchair parked beside the recliner. Angie hadn’t mentioned anything about it, and Gordon wondered if this was a temporary situation, or an ongoing condition. And why should it matter? He shook the man’s hand. “Gordon Hepler.”
The man’s handshake hinted at superior upper body strength, and Gordon adjusted his hypothesis to fit a man who’d been confined to a chair for some time.
“Park it, Gordon. Easier to see you at eye level. Would you like a beer? Wine? Something stronger?” The man’s voice boomed, almost as if he were making up for his other weakness.
“I have to be back at work, but I could handle a beer.”
“I’ll get it,” Angie said, and abandoned him.
So much for pleasantries. Making small talk wasn’t Gordon’s forte, so he sat on the couch across from Don, and cut to the chase. “Angie tells me you’ve lived in Mapleton a long time. I’m trying to track down someone who might have disappeared thirty or forty years ago.”
“Willa said something to that effect, yes. We’ve both been trying to remember. Small town gossip travels, but forty years is a long time. And spreading gossip does no one any good.”
Gordon bit his tongue to keep from mentioning Angie’s penchant for repeating things she heard. “Agreed, but in my line of work, I look at everything. Gossip and rumor are often rooted in facts, even though they might get distorted. It’s my job to see past the distortions and filter out the truth.”
Angie returned carrying a tray with two frosty mugs and two bottles of beer. She set the tray on the coffee table and handed a mug and bottle to him, then carried the other to her grandfather. She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. When Don looked up, it was clear where Angie’s blue eyes had come from. And more than the color. They shared that impish twinkle as well.
“You two have a nice chat,” Angie said. “I have to help Gramma in the kitchen.”
Don poured his beer into the mug and held it aloft. “Cheers.”
Gordon followed suit. “Cheers.”
Don chugged a healthy portion of his beer. “So,” he said, wiping foam from his mouth. “How long have you and my granddaughter had something going?”
Talk about cutting to the chase. Gordon felt heat climb the back of his neck.
“I heard that, Granddad.” Angie’s voice carried from the kitchen.
Don winked at Gordon and turned his head toward the kitchen. “Can’t blame a guy for trying, Princess. Your gramma would love a great-grandkid. You could do a lot worse than the Chief of Police.”
Angie tromped back into the living room carrying a glass of wine. She sat next to Gordon, practically in his lap, and put her free arm around him. “And maybe I could do a lot better. You know, someone with a nine-to-five job who’d actually be around enough to help take care of that great-grandbaby Gramma wants so much.” She tilted her head at Gordon. “Don’t mind him. Or Gramma. I’m their last hope for another addition to the Mead bloodline.” She shifted her attention to Don, speaking loudly enough so Willa could hear her. “And this is why I don’t bring guys to meet you. Or do you just want the baby, in which case, I could skip the entire get-married-and-settle-down part and go straight for the kid. You could be full time baby-sitters.”
Don burst out laughing. “Touché, Princess. Meddling is over. Besides, I think it’ll be a lot more interesting to talk about Gordon’s police work.”
“Good.” Angie picked up her glass and retreated to the kitchen.
Gordon tried to imagine having that kind of a conversation with his grandparents. Nope. Would never have happened. To underscore that he was definitely moving into police work territory, Gordon pulled out his notebook. “About those names.”
“Save it for later. Dinner’s ready.” Willa came into the room, wineglass in hand. “Nothing fancy. Just spaghetti.”
Don hoisted himself into his chair and wheeled into the dining room and scooted to the head of the table. Willa pointed Gordon to a chair to his left, and she took the one to his right. Salads were set at each place, and a napkin-covered basket of what had to be garlic bread judging from the aroma, rested near Willa’s seat.
Angie entered carrying a huge bowl of spaghetti smothered in a red sauce. “Ta Da. Not to contradict my gramma, but this is hardly just spaghetti. Presenting the Mead family’s secret recipe spaghetti and sausage.” She placed the bowl in front of Gordon, then took the chair next to his. “Company first. Help yourself.”
After everyone had heaped their plates with Willa’s pasta and garlic bread, there were several moments of appreciative silence as they ate.
“I hope it’s not too spicy,” Willa said, her eye on Gordon. “Don’s family swears by extra-hot Italian sausage in their red sauce. Promising to uphold the tradition was almost a condition of our marriage.” She shot a suggestive glance at Angie. “The recipe gets handed down to all Mead brides.”
Angie glowered. “Stop it. As long as you and Mom have the recipe, I’ll enjoy it when I visit, thank you very much.” She gave Gordon’s shoulder a playful punch. “Or maybe I’ll pull some strings with the Chief here and have him run a full lab analysis of the sauce and get the recipe that way.”
“Delicious,” Gordon said quickly, hoping to avert any more discussions like the one they’d had before dinner. “I like the kick.” He mopped up the sauce with a slice of bread and took a second helping, to Willa’s obvious delight. “But if you’ll permit business talk at the dinner table, I would like to hear more about what you know.”
Don leaned over and elbowed Angie. “The third degree, heh? I bet you get a lot of this.”
Unlike Gordon, Angie didn’t blush. This time, she didn’t glower, either, but merely shrugged off the jibe. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Would you answer Gordon’s questions? Who disappeared forty years ago?”
Willa wiped her mouth and set the napkin beside her plate. “What about Daisy something or other. Powers? Peters? She left town in a hurry.”
“Knocked up,” Don said. “Plain and simple. Back then, you didn’t have a baby if you weren’t married.” He smirked at Angie. “Not like nowadays where there’s no stigma to being a single mom.”
Angie smirked back. “Hey,
don’t look at me. I practice safe sex on all counts.”
Gordon figured he must be as red as Willa’s sauce by now. He fumbled for his pen. Daisy Last-Name-Started-With-A-P wasn’t much of a lead, but at least it was better than talking about babies and implied sex.
“She lived in that house on Shadowbrook, didn’t she? Across from the Randalls?” Don said. “But they’ve moved, too. Not many of us old farts left.”
“Donald Mead, watch your language. We’re at the dinner table.” Willa shoved her chair back. “I’ll get dessert.”
“It’s not like he’s never heard the word,” Don grumbled. He sat erect and composed his features into a stately expression. “Excuse me. What I meant to say, there aren’t many ultra-mature Mapleton residents left.”
Gordon shook his head, trying not to laugh, as he leafed through his notes, finding the pages where he’d written down the names Rose and Sam had given him. “What about any of these?” he asked, and started reading them off.
Over peach pie and vanilla ice cream, Gordon was able to eliminate five names from the Kretzers’ extensive list, but he added three more suggested by the Meads. “Do you remember Benny and Zannah Lowenthal? He was an architect. Retired to Florida.”
Don laughed. “Ah, Mister Have I Got a Deal for You. Sure, I remember him. Not her, though. Willa?”
Willa frowned, as if searching her memory. She scraped the last of her pie from her plate, chewed, and swallowed. “I think she might have been in book club. Or was it stitchery? I don’t recall, but if either of those groups is still around, someone might remember her.”
“Book club, stitchery,” Gordon mumbled as he wrote them down. “Do you have any names of people in either group?”
“Sorry,” Willa said. “My interests run to gardening. But I’m sure there are some people in my gardening groups who might belong to those groups as well. I can ask.”
“I’d appreciate it.” Gordon pulled out his business card case and gave cards to Don and Willa. “You can reach me by phone or email.”
Angie stood and began gathering plates. “You sit, Gramma. I’ll handle the dishes.”
