Terry Odell - Mapleton 03 - Deadly Puzzles

by Terry Odell

  “You go first.” Metcalf lifted the cable. “If you fall, I’ve got your back.”

  Gordon maneuvered in front of Metcalf and gripped the line.

  “Take it slow and easy,” Metcalf said. “I’d rather not have to catch you.”

  Gordon sucked a few breaths, gathering what energy he had left.

  You did this before. No cable, no snowshoes. This will be a piece of cake.

  Blocking all thoughts other than sending his feet up the hill, one step at a time, Gordon half-climbed, half-hoisted himself to the top. At least he wasn’t crawling.

  Puffing, he staggered the final few steps to the truck and leaned against the door, catching his breath before dealing with snowshoe removal. Metcalf appeared a moment later, breathing harder than normal, but seeming unchallenged by the climb. Damn him. Then again, Metcalf hadn’t hung suspended in a tree well or had an up close and personal encounter with a tree trunk.

  Gordon heard the click when Metcalf released the truck’s locks, and he yanked the passenger door open. He tossed his snowshoes over the seatback and hoisted himself into the truck, collapsing onto the seat. Metcalf leaned in, turned on the engine and went on with stowing gear.

  Gordon rubbed his temples, trying to erase the headache while he waited for Metcalf to get going. Finally, they pulled off the shoulder, snowflakes dancing in the pickup’s headlights. The effect was dizzying, and Gordon closed his eyes, afraid he might be sick otherwise. Warm air from the heater lulled him. Metcalf’s uncharacteristic silence was a blessing.

  Gordon must have dozed off, because the next thing he was aware of was the truck stopping. He lifted his gaze to the welcome sights of a glowing yellow porch light.

  “Home, sweet home,” Metcalf said. “I’m going to let you tell Orrin where we stand as far as his missing wife goes, and graciously refrain from saying I told you so.”

  Gordon gathered his equipment and half-stumbled up the steps. If anything, his headache had worsened. Concussion came to mind. He shoved dealing with that possibility to the bottom of his immediate to-do list. Somewhere after getting warm and dealing with Wardell.

  He opened the door, the cowbells’ clang sending a stabbing pain behind his eyes. Mrs. Yardumian rushed toward him. “Thank goodness you’re back.” She lowered her voice. “Did you get Raffi’s text?”

  Chapter 16

  Gordon pulled off his watch cap. Rubbed his eyes. Gazed past Mrs. Yardumian into the living room, where her husband and Wardell sat by the fire, tumblers of amber liquid in hand. He matched her quiet tone. “Text? No. I lost my phone.”

  Wardell sprang to his feet. “Did you find her?”

  “No, we didn’t,” Gordon said. He stripped off his gloves and worked out of his wet, snowy boots on the small tiled area inside the door. “We tried. We found a backpack—”

  “I found a backpack.” Metcalf entered the room displaying the battered pack. “You recognize it?”

  “No.” Wardell’s shoulders slumped. “We didn’t even bring packs this trip. What do we do now?”

  Metcalf dropped the pack onto the tiles. “What we should have done from the get-go. Let the authorities handle it. Call it a night, man. We could have died out there. Gordon nearly did.” He shouldered Gordon aside and knelt to take his own boots off. “I don’t suppose we could trouble you for something hot to drink?” he asked Mrs. Yardumian.

  Gordon was surprised—and impressed—with the abrupt shift in Metcalf’s tone as he addressed their hostess. Maybe some time in the great outdoors had reset Metcalf’s politeness meter.

  “Of course,” Mrs. Yardumian said. “What am I thinking? You must be freezing. Coffee, tea, or cider? Or cocoa? The power came on around half an hour ago. The heat’s on, but it’ll take a while to warm the place. Get over to the fire.”

  “Cocoa,” Metcalf said. “Gordon needs the fuel. And I’ll have some, too.”

  “Two cocoas coming up. Meanwhile, Raffi can fill you in.” She scurried away, and Gordon and Metcalf peeled out of the rest of their sodden outerwear.

  “And then maybe some of that whiskey—” Metcalf gazed toward Raffi Yardumian, who swirled a tumbler of what Gordon assumed was the Bushmills he’d offered earlier. “But none for Gordon,” Metcalf said. “He was borderline hypothermic. Alcohol’s a no-no.”

  Gordon knew enough about hypothermia—and concussions—not to argue, although his headache had retreated a bit. Tight-lipped, their host nodded and went to the sideboard. He returned with the bottle and another glass. Since he hadn’t mentioned the text, Gordon wondered if there was something he didn’t want Wardell—or Metcalf—to hear. And where were Paula and Tyner?

  Metcalf strolled to the fire, turning to warm his back. Or to keep an eye on Wardell, who paced, dragging his fingers through his hair which was sticking out in unruly spikes as if he’d been doing it since they’d left. Gordon was cold enough, tired enough, and aching enough, not to care. But the thought there was something hinky about both of them niggled at the small part of his brain not preoccupied with his discomfort. Although he did owe Metcalf for saving his ass. After he warmed up and had some sleep, the logical side of his brain might kick in.

  “Why don’t you go to bed?” Gordon said to Wardell. “Nick is right—there’s nothing we can do, and if the State Patrol finds anything, they’ll call. We can regroup in the morning.”

  Wardell did another drag through his hair. “I suppose so. But it feels—wrong. Like I’m betraying Roni.”

  “I understand,” Gordon said. “But you’ve done everything. You have to tell yourself that. Meanwhile, try to get some sleep. If something breaks, you’ll do better if you’re rested.”

  With a resolute sigh, Wardell picked up the glass of whiskey he’d been drinking and plodded for the stairs.

  Gordon flopped into the chair Wardell had vacated, stretching his feet toward the hearth. He could almost see steam rising from his wet socks. Metcalf was turning now, like a pig on a spit, warming himself on all sides. Gordon glanced at Raffi, trying to convey that he was willing to hear about the text, but that he understood if it wasn’t meant for Metcalf’s ears. Raffi seemed content to sit and sip his whiskey. Did not offering his fireside chair to Metcalf mean Raffi hoped the man would leave?

  Damn, there were times when it was too much trouble to second—or third, or fourth—guess every word, every silence, every action, or every lack of action. The text couldn’t have been of critical importance or Yardumian would have figured a way to get Gordon alone, or blurted it out. Mrs. Yardumian was probably overreacting to whatever it was.

  She entered the room with two steaming mugs of cocoa, handing one to him and the other to Metcalf. “Careful, it’s hot.”

  The chocolate aroma teased Gordon’s nostrils, and despite his exhaustion, his mouth watered in anticipation. For the next few minutes, he was going to enjoy a cup of hot—hot being the operative word—chocolate. He cupped the mug with his numb fingers and lowered his head, inhaling the rich, sweet smell. Warmth spread through his palms and into his chest as he took in another deep, slow breath.

  He tested the drink. The first swallow traveled down, bringing a welcome warmth along with it. This was rich, homemade cocoa, he’d bet. Definitely not the instant packets he was used to at the station. His thoughts drifted to Angie—he didn’t think they’d ever had hot chocolate together—something he would rectify when he saw her again.

  He realized she might be trying to get in touch with him, and the brief moment of contentment passed. His damn phone. He twisted his head around, checking the clock on the wall for the time. Nine-thirty. With the pre-dawn hours Angie had to keep for Daily Bread, she’d be in bed already.

  Metcalf guzzled his cocoa and started in on the whiskey, taking his glass to the sofa. Gordon’s lids grew heavy, and he knew he’d never outlast Metcalf. What little caffeine was in the chocolate was counteracted by the soporific effects of the hot milk—not to mention the exertions of the day. He stifled a yawn. “I’m going to call
it a night myself.”

  Raffi Yardumian merely nodded. Had Mrs. Yardumian imagined he’d sent a text? Gordon stood and carried his mug to the kitchen, where she was wiping down counters.

  “You can set it in the sink,” she said.

  He did, then approached her. “What was the text about? Your husband hasn’t mentioned it at all.”

  “I don’t know. Raffi took a call from the State Patrol, and I heard him say he’d text you.”

  “Me, specifically?” Gordon asked. “Or did he just say he’d send a text?”

  She rinsed the sponge in the sink. “You know, I might have jumped to conclusions. We were all worried about you and Nick, and everything else that’s going on. Raffi’s exact words, as I recall, were, ‘Thank you. I’ll text him.’ Oh, dear. Because it was the State Patrol calling, I assumed it meant you, but it could have been anyone. And now I’ve worried you unnecessarily.” She dried her hands. “Let me go ask him.”

  “Please, don’t bother. I thought maybe it was something he didn’t want anyone else to hear. If it was urgent, I’m sure he would have figured out how to tell me.” Although curiosity buzzed in his brain, it was too quiet to overpower the mounting return of his headache. “Thanks for the cocoa. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  In the living room, Metcalf sat alone by the fire nursing his whiskey. Gordon nodded a good night and offered one more thanks for the rescue. Metcalf lifted his glass. Gordon nodded in his direction and dragged himself up the stairs. He let himself into his room, already shedding clothes in anticipation of a hot shower. He closed the door behind him, fumbling for the light switch. The lamp beside the sofa went on, revealing a backlit silhouette in the easy chair.

  Chapter 17

  Gordon grabbed for his Beretta. The shadowy figure rose.

  “I hope I didn’t startle you.” Raffi Yardumian’s voice. “I wanted to talk privately.”

  Gordon slipped the pistol into its holster and tugged his thermal shirt down to hide it. Sweater over his arm, he crossed the sitting room. “Is this about the text your wife said you sent? I lost my phone, so I never got it. She said the State Patrol called.”

  “I never sent it,” Yardumian said. He obviously wanted to say something, but didn’t seem to know where to begin. Yardumian lowered himself into the chair again, and Gordon took a seat on the sofa. Gordon waited, allowing the man to collect his thoughts, wishing he could yank the words from Yardumian’s throat and get on with that hot shower he craved.

  After what seemed like enough time for three hot showers, the man spoke.

  “You never said you were the Chief of Police in Mapleton.”

  All right. He hadn’t expected to keep his job a secret forever. “No, I didn’t. I’m here on vacation, and when people know you’re a cop—well, it’s more of a vacation when they don’t.”

  “Kind of like being a doctor, everyone describing their symptoms?”

  “Yeah. They always want you to run background checks on their shifty neighbors,” Gordon said.

  Yardumian ducked his head. “I didn’t tell anyone. Not even Tamara. Yet.”

  “Appreciate that.” Gordon waited, eyeing the bathroom, hoping Yardumian would cut to the chase. When no response was forthcoming, Gordon tried again. “That message—?”

  “Yeah. Trooper wanted me to tell you they’re making headway on the accident investigation. I didn’t know what he was talking about, or why he’d be telling you. Apparently he thought I knew more than I do. He tried to cover his blunder, but he ended up telling me that someone shot the driver of a pickup earlier this morning, which caused the pileup. And that whoever did it might have taken refuge near here. That’s when I Googled you and found out what you do. I don’t want anything to happen to Tamara—or anyone else, of course.” He ducked his head, then met Gordon’s eyes. “I don’t mean to be asking for favors, but is there some way you can check up on our guests?”

  “Me? Not really. Cops don’t have the right to poke around the criminal databases. Every search has to be connected to a case.”

  Yardumian nodded. “Understood.” A pause. “Are you armed?”

  Gordon showed Yardumian his Beretta. “It’s good at short range, but I’d rather not need to use it.”

  “But you would if you had to, right?”

  Gordon reholstered the gun. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “So, even if you can’t check on people, you must have opinions, right? You think someone here could have done it? I mean, we don’t ask where our guests spend their days, and they all have keys to the entrance if they want to come and go. We didn’t see anyone until breakfast this morning. Paula gets up early and runs, and Sam goes sketching. And then Orrin showed up out of the blue.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “And I checked. Nick Metcalf never made a reservation—at least not one we got. We save all emails, confirmations in particular, and if he said he got one—well, it didn’t come from here. I’m beginning to think that Agatha Christie scenario might not be too far-fetched.”

  Gordon sighed and explained what had happened while he and Metcalf were looking for Roni. “He had every chance in the world to do me harm, but he saved my life instead. I don’t know why he claimed to have a reservation. Maybe he thought you’d turn him away if he didn’t. Or maybe he got his B and Bs mixed up. I know I looked at a bunch of places before I chose yours.”

  “So, you think we’re safe here tonight? I’ve got a shotgun, mostly to scare bears. Never had to use it. Was wondering if I should keep it within reach.”

  “I doubt that’s necessary.” All Gordon needed was a nervous, trigger-happy, inexperienced shooter blasting away at the tiniest noise.

  “I’ll trust your instincts, then. See you in the morning.” Yardumian stood. “Sleep as late as you want. We’ll make sure you get breakfast.”

  Gordon walked Yardumian to the door and locked it behind him. Hoping the power had been on long enough to heat the water, he stripped and turned on the shower. After a moment, steam billowed above the curtain. With a groan, he let the spray sluice over him until the chill left his bones, ignoring the stinging of the water against his myriad cuts and scrapes.

  He patted himself dry, and was out as soon as he hit the bed.

  ~~~

  Sunlight crept under Gordon’s eyelids. He discovered the expected aches and pains as he eased himself out of bed. The bedside clock said eight. He’d slept ten hours. Once he was dressed, he limped down the stairs to the dining table, finding Orrin Wardell the only one there.

  Mrs. Yardumian greeted him from the kitchen. “It’s waffles today,” she said. “I’ll have them for you in a jiffy.”

  Gordon helped himself to coffee—actually her decaf was pretty good, if you didn’t mind the lack of buzz.

  When he took his seat, he noticed a folded piece of paper with his name on it, held down by a cell phone. His cell phone. He gave Wardell a questioning glance.

  The man lifted his hands. “Hey, don’t ask me. It was sitting there when I got down here.”

  Gordon opened the note. He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to dislodge the school of floaters obscuring his vision. Plus, he’d left his readers upstairs. Assuming there was nothing personal in a note left in plain sight on the table, he passed it to Wardell. “Don’t have my glasses. Do you mind?”

  Wardell set his coffee aside and read aloud. “Found this wedged under your seat in the truck. Must have dropped before you got out. N.M.”

  Gordon checked the phone, which gave him a pleasant surprise by turning on. Battery was on its last legs, but charging it would be easy enough. He was about to go to his room for his readers when Mrs. Yardumian came in and set a bowl of fruit and cheeses, along with a huge glass of orange juice in front of him. “Your waffle will be up in a second.”

  He thanked her and asked if she’d seen when Nick Metcalf had left the phone and note.

  “No, he left bright and early. Around six, I think. He took some breakfast to go.”

>   “Checked out?”

  She bobbed her head. “Yes. Said he’d changed his plans because of the weather.” She turned and gazed out the window. “It looks like it might be a nice day today. But around here, you never know.”

  Wardell stood. “I’d better look into getting a rental car while the roads are passable. Where’s the nearest agency?”

  “Montrose,” Mrs. Yardumian said. “I think they have the one that delivers cars. Or, if you can wait, maybe Raffi can drive you into town.” She cast a questioning gaze in Gordon’s direction. “Paula and Sam both checked out this morning, too.”

  Gordon couldn’t avoid Wardell’s pleading expression. “I suppose I could give you a ride. But first we should be available for the State Patrol investigators.”

  “Let me get the rest of your breakfast.” She picked up Wardell’s empty coffee cup and stepped toward the kitchen.

  “Hey, if it’s too much trouble, I’ll call and see if I can get a delivered car,” Wardell said to Gordon. “I’d have to pass through there on my way, anyhow.”

  “You going back to your uncle’s?” Gordon asked. “You said he lived in Telluride?” Different county, different jurisdiction. And not his problem.

  “Can’t think of anything else to do. Unless you have any ideas?”

  “Let’s see what the troopers say.”

  Wardell wandered to the sideboard and picked out an apple from the bowl of fruit Mrs. Yardumian had sitting out. He took a bite, ambled to the window, then to the living room. Gordon heard sounds of the news coming from the television. Mrs. Yardumian returned with a plate filled with a huge Belgian waffle and rashers of bacon, a platter with honey, syrup, whipped cream, a mixed fruit compote, and butter. “If you need anything more, let me know.”

  Gordon’s appetite caught up with him, and his stomach rumbled. “Looks great.”

  He’d worked his way through half the waffle when the cowbells clanged from the front room. Boots clumped, and Raffi Yardumian and Wardell appeared in the dining room along with a weary-looking State Trooper.