Terry Odell - Mapleton 01 - Deadly Secrets

by Terry Odell

  After a brief interval of unintelligible whispers, Megan called out, “Come on in, Justin.”

  So much for stealth.

  Megan sat in bed, propped up in a nest of pillows. Too pale, he thought. And when she blinked, it seemed to be in slow motion.

  “Is this a good time?” Justin addressed Gordon. “I think she needs to rest.”

  “And I need to ask some questions.”

  ###

  Megan took a sip of water from the glass beside her bed, the cool liquid soothing the dryness in her throat.

  “How’s the memory?” Gordon asked.

  “Blurry,” she said, avoiding his eyes. Why did he have to show up here? The stranger had said he’d be watching. Without thinking, she cast a quick glance toward the window. Seeing the closed curtains, she relaxed.

  But if the man was watching, and saw Gordon’s car, would he think she’d called them? Another thought chilled her. Could the man have bugged her room while everyone was at the hospital?

  She trusted Gordon, wanted to tell him everything, but not now. Not here, with Rose and Sam in the house. Why hadn’t she told him to go away? Had to be the pain meds slowing her brain functions. She had to think it through. For now, she’d be content that she’d made him promise not to tell Rose and Sam about the papers in the dead man’s car.

  The pills dulled the pain, but not the fear. She’d do as the stranger demanded and keep her mouth shut about what he’d said until she could figure out what it was he wanted. The doctor had said memory loss was normal, so Gordon would believe her. She hoped.

  Gordon muttered something, then reached for his belt. Unclipping his phone, he checked the display. He gave her an apologetic grin and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hepler.”

  Maybe he’d be called away. She wanted to signal Justin to keep his mouth shut, but Gordon kept his gaze on her as he listened to whoever was on the phone.

  “Who’s on duty?” he said. After a pause, he continued. “Tell her Vicky’s on her way, that I’ll be there later. Then have Vicky call me with an update.” He flipped his phone closed and slipped it into its holder. “Mrs. Bedford’s on another ghost watch.”

  Megan smiled. “Do you need to go? We’ll understand.” Please.

  “Ghosts?” Justin said.

  Gordon sighed. “Not yet. But she’s insisting tonight’s the night—again—and wants me there.”

  “Ghosts?” Justin repeated. “Where?”

  “I’ll explain later,” Megan said, winking at Justin, then wincing at the stab of pain in her forehead.

  Gordon’s expression shifted from exasperated to serious cop. “So, Megan. What can you remember?”

  She convinced herself to relax. “I remember running. Falling. Like I’m dreaming. I remember thinking how I had to get to the house, and then I was on the porch, and then the paramedics were poking around.”

  Gordon wrote in a little notebook. “But you don’t remember where it started?”

  She glanced at Justin. “We were going to run. I got as far as the Maple Street access and waited on the bench.”

  “You remember seeing a couple of kids?” Gordon asked.

  She shifted her gaze to Gordon. “No. Definitely not. I didn’t see anything.”

  “I told the officer what I saw,” Justin said. “But the kids said no one else was around. At the time, I didn’t think there was a problem, or I’d have asked more questions. Although the way they were tangled up, I don’t think they’d have noticed if an elk walked by.”

  “No problem,” Gordon said. “My officer is out tracking them down.” To Megan, he said, “I have a couple more questions if you’re up to it.”

  Of course he’d have more questions. But she needed to steer him away from asking about what had happened to her. “Did you find out anything else about the car accident?”

  “What car accident?” Justin looked at Megan, eyes wide, reflecting concern. Or fear? “Were you in an accident?” He gripped her forearm.

  She gave his hand a pat, then pried his fingers loose. “No, no. Not me. Nothing like that. I saw the car—before the accident happened. Gordon thought I might have been a witness. But I wasn’t.”

  “Which reminds me,” Gordon said. “Justin? Do you know of any ties Rose and Sam have to Florida? Or someone named Karl Franklin?”

  After a few seconds of apparent thought, Justin said, “No to both.”

  “Thanks. I’ll ask them,” Gordon said.

  “Ask what?” Rose bustled in. “Whatever it is, it should wait. Meggie needs her rest. There’s coffee downstairs.” She scuttled to the bedside and kissed Megan’s forehead. “Some herbal tea for you, and I’ll bring it up. You two”—she made a shooing motion as if the two large men in her path were nothing but pesky kittens—“out.”

  “One minute, Rose,” Megan said. “I need to ask Gordon one question.”

  Rose inched her glasses down her nose and glared at Gordon. “Make it quick.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  Megan waited until Rose was likely out of earshot. “Gordon, remember. Please don’t bother them tonight. They’ve had enough excitement for one day. Bringing up the accident will cause unnecessary worry.”

  “Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on?” Justin asked. “Like maybe how some traffic accident involving someone from Florida could possibly involve my grandparents?”

  “Let’s go downstairs,” Gordon said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Megan.” Gordon motioned Justin toward the door, and the two of them thudded down the stairs.

  She threw aside the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Ignoring the shakiness in her knees and the throbbing in her wrist and head, she scuffled to the closet for her robe. How dare they leave her here, like some invalid.

  Chapter Seven

  Gordon groped for the alarm, sending the clock crashing to the bedroom floor. He leaned over the bed, sweeping his hand across the carpet until he found it. Pressing the off switch did nothing to silence the piercing tones. He blinked, bringing the glowing red numerals into focus. Four-seventeen? What the—?

  The noise finally resolved itself into the ringtone he reserved for Dispatch. He hoisted himself onto the bed and fumbled for his cell phone. Flopping onto his back, he thumbed the answer button. “Hepler.”

  “Chief, you need to get to Vintage Duds.” Country music played in the background.

  Irv. The night dispatcher. Gordon closed his eyes and swallowed the curse on the tip of his tongue. “Can’t someone tell Betty Bedford there’s no such thing as ghosts? I already did a full walk-through with her at ten. And eleven. Where’s—who’s on duty? Vicki. She’s good with Mrs. Bedford. Let her handle it.”

  “No, Chief. You need to get over there. Now. She’s dead.”

  He jerked upright and hit the lights, squinting against the sudden brightness. “What? And shut off that music.” He shielded his eyes with his free hand. His heart pounded at a rapid clip, but his brain hadn’t caught up yet. “Dead? Vicky’s dead? What? How?” He jumped up and headed for the bathroom.

  “No, not Vicky—she’s already on scene, along with half the force.”

  “You’re telling me Mrs. Bedford is dead? In her shop?” One handed, he grabbed toothbrush and paste, trying to uncap the tube. Damn cell phones were too small to tuck between chin and shoulder.

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “On my way.”

  ###

  Most of the time, Gordon enjoyed living above the lake on the outskirts of town. Gave him a little distance between work and his personal life—what there was of it. Tonight, the twenty-five minute drive seemed endless.

  Earlier, he’d asked the Kretzers about Karl Franklin. He’d been subtle. Casual. He recalled the way Megan had kept her eyes fixed on him, ready to intervene if he crossed whatever limits she’d set. But he’d simply mentioned it in passing. One of those small talk throwaway lines. “Oh, I understand you’ve been to Florida. We had a traffic accident earlier involvi
ng a Floridian. Maybe you knew him. Karl Franklin.”

  Sam had laughed out loud. “You’ve lived in Mapleton too long, Gordon. Even here, you don’t know everyone by name and face. Florida’s a big state.”

  Gordon had played the sheepish bumpkin. Megan had smiled. Justin hadn’t reacted to the name. So Karl Franklin was a dead stranger. Maybe the quest for whatever he wanted from Rose and Sam had died with him.

  From there, he’d gone to Vintage Duds where Betty Bedford had pointed out every damn piece of merchandise that was half an inch out of place. Her definition of place. With all the bric-a-brac scattered all over the shop— “It gives such ambience, don’t you agree?” she’d said—how the hell could anyone tell if something had been moved? But he’d smiled and agreed. Told her he’d have Vicky—Officer McDermott—check that nothing unusual was going on.

  She’d looked disappointed. “You mean you won’t be handling this personally?”

  He’d fed her some bull about how Vicky was tuned in to the other side more than he was. Told her to go home and get some sleep.

  But Mrs. Bedford had called at ten and insisted on talking to him. She’d seen shadows outside. She’d brought an old cushion from a patio lounge chair, some blankets and a pillow, and was determined to spend the night in the store and catch the ghosts in the act.

  “Mrs. Bedford—”

  “Please, I’ve told you. Call me Betty.”

  “Betty. Aren’t you afraid the ghosts will stay away if you’re here?”

  “I’m going to be in my office. They won’t find me.”

  He hadn’t bothered to dispute her logic. He’d walked the perimeter of the shop, inside and out, with her tagging along behind him like an eager puppy. He’d convinced her it was probably a stray dog, or someone taking a shortcut from Finnegan’s. Reluctantly, she’d let him leave, but had refused to go home.

  At eleven, she’d called again. This time she’d heard noises. Another trip downtown. He’d run through the routine again, telling her that Officer McDermott would handle any more calls. He’d already assigned her to check the Kretzers’ place regularly. And to do it without letting them know, since he’d promised Megan not to worry them.

  Damn, no ghost had killed Mrs. Bedford. But who had? And why?

  Slow down. All he knew was that she was dead. She could have imagined a ghost and scared herself into a heart attack. Or tripped over a mannequin, or any of the myriad obstacles in her shop and broken her neck. Why assume murder? Six months off the street and he’d lost his open-minded objectivity. Or was he so fed up with paperwork and budget line items that he was actually thinking someone being killed was a positive thing?

  He ignored the stop signs and two blinking red traffic lights as he sped through town, heading for the flashing cruiser and ambulance lights outside of Vintage Duds. Why the ambulance? Had Betty been alive when the call came in? Was someone else hurt?

  He angled his SUV beside Vicky’s cruiser and jumped out. Dave Gilman and Tom Reynolds leaned against the fender of their rig, sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups. “Chief,” Gilman said. Reynolds bobbed his head.

  “What do you have?”

  “DRT,” Gilman said. “Flat line.”

  Dead Right There. Although the medics weren’t officially permitted to call a death, he trusted Gilman and Reynolds to know the difference between someone who might be resuscitated and someone long gone.

  “So why are you here?” Gordon asked.

  “Thought we’d stick around until someone releases the body. We might be needed for transport.”

  “I’ll go see what’s up,” Gordon said. He did a quick turn, scanning the area. “Coffee?”

  Reynolds pointed to his left. “Angie brought an urn.”

  Gordon spotted the white Daily Bread van. Angie waved and approached with a steaming Styrofoam cup. Why was he the last one here?

  “Coffee, Chief?” Angie asked.

  She looked reasonably fresh. Smelled good, too, above the coffee aroma. Thinking about it, he figured being up this early was normal for her. “Who’s baking?”

  “Me. Soon. Solomon was grabbing coffee when he got the call. It sounded like my services might be appreciated.”

  “And they are.” He took the cup, had a few sips and handed it back. “Thanks. I’ve got to check out the scene.” He marched up the sidewalk to the storefront, where Vicky waited, clipboard in hand.

  “Here you go, Chief. Solomon’s got the alley door. Doc Evans is with the body now.”

  “Glad someone got around to calling me,” Gordon grumbled as he signed his name. “Let me look around, but I’m going to want a full report.”

  He ducked under the tape, stepped into the store and came to an immediate halt. This wasn’t the work of ghosts.

  ###

  Justin fanned open the slats of the blinds and peered out his bedroom window. The cops had been checking all night. A plain blue sedan drove by. Did an unmarked car mean things were better or worse? The regular cop car parked out front had left about an hour ago.

  Guess we’ve been demoted from stakeout to drive-by surveillance.

  Rubbing his eyes, he climbed into bed. Hands folded under his head, he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. How had he ended up in the middle of this mess?

  Easy answer. To spare his grandparents.

  From the other room, he heard the rustling of sheets, a faint whimper. Megan tossing and turning. Again. Was she in pain? Having nightmares? Should he do something? The old feelings of inadequacy, of insecurity, of being a failure, threatened to displace any confidence he’d built over the years. He quashed a fleeting desire to pull the covers over his head. He was an adult now, and beyond those childhood anxieties. Now he had full-fledged grownup anxieties.

  The whimpering grew louder. Almost a cry. Justin ripped back the covers and crossed to the bathroom. At Megan’s closed door, he paused. He tapped his knuckles against the wood. “Megan?” No answer. Pressing his ear to the door, he heard muffled weeping.

  He eased the door open. “Megan?” he whispered into the darkness. “What’s wrong?”

  She sniffled. “Go away.”

  He flipped the bathroom light on. “No, I’m coming in.” He left the door ajar behind him, providing enough light to see.

  She sat up, hugging the covers to her chest. “Just a dream.”

  Justin crossed the room and sat at the foot of the bed. “Talk to me, Megan.”

  “I…I can’t.” She wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  “You remembered, didn’t you?”

  “No. It’s…I can’t sleep is all.”

  “You want anything? Herbal tea? Hot chocolate? Another pain pill?”

  She paused, as if he’d posed the question of the ages. She flexed her wrist, then inhaled sharply. “Maybe a pill.”

  The vial sat on her bedside table, beside a glass of water. He opened the container and tipped out a tablet. She took it from his palm, popped it in her mouth, and he handed her the water.

  “I haven’t been able to sleep either,” he said after she swallowed the pill. “How about we talk until it starts working?”

  Handing him the empty glass, she cocked her head. “Another surprise. We hardly ever talked as kids.”

  “Yeah. I was a loner. Not that you tried to change that.”

  “The first time you visited—when I lived here—I was six. You were eight.”

  “I remember. You were a bossy little squirt.” He gave her leg a playful punch.

  “We were kids. I was insecure. I was afraid of you.”

  “Afraid?” That hit him like a two-by-four. Megan the Fearless? Afraid of him? “Of me? Whatever for?”

  She fussed with the sheet. “It hadn’t been that long since my parents died. I was a late-in life-baby, and my parents were probably closer in age to Rose and Sam than to parents of other kids my age. Rose and Sam were like family.

  “Then, all of a sudden, they were family. Deep down, I worried that they might go away forever
, or send me away. Rose used to go help Sam in the bookstore, but I’d panic if she left me with someone, or had someone come stay with me after school.”

  “That’s understandable. You’d had a traumatic loss.”

  “When you showed up, I thought Rose and Sam might like you more than me. And you didn’t like to play with us kids, so you spent a lot of time with Sam in his store. I was afraid they wouldn’t have room for both of us, and since you were a real relation, you’d be the one they chose.”

  He didn’t respond immediately, trying to think like a frightened six-year-old who’d lost her parents less than a year before. All the mischief she’d wrought, blaming it on him. It made sense now.

  “Maybe we didn’t talk enough then,” he said. “But my parents, and Oma and Opa, should have explained. I think kids understand a lot more than adults give them credit for. All my folks said that year was that Oma and Opa had a little girl living with them, and that I’d have someone to play with. I didn’t have many friends at home, so I thought it might be fun.” He grinned. “Even if you were a girl.”

  “But I wasn’t what you’d expected.”

  “No, you weren’t. You didn’t like to read. Or do jigsaw puzzles. Everything you did involved running, or included some kind of ball. I was a klutz. And then there was the frog incident.”

  She ducked her head. “I’m sorry about that one. I still owe you for not telling Rose I put it in your bed.”

  “I think I checked for nighttime guests for six months—even after I went home.”

  “I remember being glad when you went home. Like I’d won. You stayed what—three weeks that first time? It seemed endless.”

  He huffed. “Yeah, on that we can agree. And too bad, because that visit set the tone for all the rest.”

  “If I could go back, I’d try to be more understanding. You think we can put it behind us? Start over?” She extended her good hand. “Friends?”