by Terry Odell
“Police business, Sam.”
“I understand. But I’m thinking you would tell Rose to keep the doors locked, except you’re afraid it would upset her. On the other hand, if I insist, she’ll simply call me a worry wart. But the doors will be locked.”
“You’re a wise man, Sam.”
Gordon tossed his ball cap onto a hook inside his office door, shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair. Cinnamon wafted to his nostrils. His stomach rumbled; his mouth watered. He followed the aroma to the break room where several uniformed county deputies were stuffing their faces with cinnamon buns.
“Sorry we don’t have donuts,” Gordon said, insinuating himself between them and grabbing one for himself. “Nothing but fresh-baked cinnamon buns. Us being the poor country bumpkin police force and all.”
One deputy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then licked his fingers. “If this is your normal fare, let me know when you have an opening, and I’m putting in for a transfer.”
“No, this is a special service. Only happens when we get a homicide. At the current rate, you might tell your grandson to apply for the job.” He poured coffee into his mug, raising it in salute. “Briefing in five, officers,” he said, and went off in search of Laurie.
Irv approached. “Chief, do you want me to stay? I know I screwed up, but it won’t happen again.”
Damn straight. Irv had taken Gordon’s initial instructions too literally. He’d told Irv that Vicky was in charge of dealing with Mrs. Bedford’s whining, and Irv had extrapolated that to mean he shouldn’t bother Gordon with any calls regarding Betty.
In retrospect, Gordon admitted he might have sounded irked when he’d talked to Irv after Betty’s second call out. Still, the man should have known the difference between a homicide and a fear of ghosts. But, bottom line, Betty had been dead for a while before Vicky found her, and getting called out at oh two hundred instead of oh four-seventeen wouldn’t have mattered.
Irv looked humble to the point of it being embarrassing.
“Sure,” Gordon said. “We can use all the help we can get. Connie’s working Dispatch, but she can use an assistant.”
“I won’t let you down.” Irv spun on his heel and marched toward Connie’s desk.
Gordon found Laurie with Solomon in the multi-purpose room, pushing desks together, forming one long table down the center. The white board was set up at the far end of the tables, creating the top of a T. Solomon had taped an eight-by-ten blowup of one of the crime scene shots.
Detective Tyler Colfax, the deputy who’d shown up at the scene to help work the case meandered into the room and leaned against the far wall, apparently content to let Gordon’s staff handle setting thing up. Gordon nodded in his direction.
Colfax lifted a cup of coffee in response. Mid-forties. Average height, beginnings of a paunch, but his relaxed stance was deceptively casual. Steel-blue eyes grabbed every detail. Soft-spoken, but people did what he said, no questions asked, Gordon knew, after working with him earlier.
Members of the Mapleton force, most munching on cinnamon buns, filtered into the room. Nothing like a grisly murder to bring out the curiosity in everyone. He figured most of the off-duty staff was here volunteering to “help,” although there wasn’t a hell of a lot they could do. Consensus was, the asshole who killed Betty was long gone, but until the evidence was analyzed, they had no idea who they were looking for.
And what does the Mapleton PD have to analyze evidence with, even if we find it?
However, leaving stones unturned wasn’t good police procedure, so he and the deputies would be knocking on doors, hoping for a lead. Didn’t need any fancy equipment for that.
His crew and half a dozen deputies strolled into the room, finding seats around the table, dragging in chairs, or standing against the wall. Gordon strode to the white board.
“Thanks for coming,” he began. “A few details to get out of the way. I’m Police Chief Gordon Hepler.” He glanced around the room, making eye contact with the deputies. “We’re working as a team with the Sheriff’s Office on this one. Detective Tyler Colfax will be helping me head up the investigation.”
He paused, half-expecting some reaction from Colfax, but the man only gave a perfunctory nod of his head. Nothing wrong with collaboration, is there, Dix? Doesn’t make me less of a cop.
Gordon regrouped and pointed to the picture. “The victim, Betty Bedford, was discovered at oh two twenty-eight by Officer McDermott.” He gestured toward Vicky, and she raised her hand.
He went on. “I had personal contact with Mrs. Bedford from twenty-three-hundred to approximately twenty-three-forty, so we know she was alive then. At that time, there were no signs of unusual activity at her place of business.”
He picked up a black marker and began a time line across the lower portion of the board. At appropriate intervals, he drew vertical lines representing the times he’d mentioned.
“The victim had requested extra surveillance, being concerned about intruders, so special attention was paid to her store.”
There was a brief undercurrent of murmuring from his officers, who were well aware of Betty Bedford’s eccentricities. He shot them the look he usually reserved for the mayor, and they quieted.
“Officer McDermott’s reports indicate no other merchants were in the surrounding shops, although Finnegan’s, which shares the rear parking lot with Vintage Duds as well as eight other establishments, was open, and there might have been some witnesses.”
“You think the suspect could have been in the bar?” a deputy asked.
“Anything is possible. We’re a small town. On a weeknight, it’s likely the patrons were regulars, so a stranger might be remembered. I want you to work in teams of two. One Mapleton, one deputy. Deputies will drive. Their cars have computers, and I’ll expect your reports immediately. Nobody goes anywhere without backup. Check in with Connie in Dispatch. She’ll assign sectors. Canvass the neighboring shops, in case we missed a merchant working late.”
Vicky bristled. He shook his head.
“Officer McDermott had her routine patrols, plus I’d asked her to do extra surveillance of a residence on the north side. It’s possible someone was in and out while she was performing the rest of her assigned duties.”
“Maybe our suspect was hiding in one of the stores,” a deputy said. “Would have had lights off, nobody would notice.”
“True,” Gordon said. “When you’re doing your interviews, have the merchants check for evidence they had an uninvited guest.”
“Drugs?” another deputy asked. “People go all kinds of crazy if they’re high or need a fix.”
Gordon considered it. “Other than a little weed, we’ve never had a serious drug problem, and I can’t imagine Betty Bedford being involved. But it’s an avenue to explore. Thanks.”
He paused, trying to think of anything else he missed.
When he couldn’t, he said, “Questions?” He waited out a short silence. “Ladies and gentlemen. We’ve got a bad guy to catch.”
###
Justin sat in the waiting room of Doctor Evans’ office, checking his watch against the clock on the wall for the umpteenth time. He picked up the tattered copy of National Geographic and tried to concentrate on an article about radio tracking whales when what he wanted to be doing was searching. But when Opa had asked him to drive, he couldn’t think of a reason to refuse.
Finally, Opa, Oma, and Megan came through the door. From their smiles, he assumed they’d had good news. Hoping to avoid a protracted chat session with the receptionist, he rose, immediately heading toward the door. “Ready?”
“Megan’s fine,” Oma said. “No after-effects, except a sore wrist.”
Typical, he thought, to put Megan’s welfare first. “And what about you?”
“Nothing serious,” Oma said.
He stopped, holding the door open, his pulse jumping. “But there was something?”
“He’s changing my bloo
d pressure medication,” she said. “What I was taking lowered it too far, and that’s why I got dizzy.”
“And passed out,” Opa added. “Maybe more than once. We need to stop at the pharmacy and get the new prescription filled.”
Relieved, Justin said, “Of course. Megan, did he give you any different pain pills?”
“No, he recommended over the counter stuff.” She held up her wrist. Yesterday’s thick support had been replaced by a thin elastic sleeve. “It’s much better.”
Now, if he could figure out a way to keep everyone out of the house for an hour or two. Instead, Oma came up with half a dozen other essential errands, which Justin figured were primarily to catch up on what had happened at Vintage Duds.
Megan yawned. “I could use a cup of coffee. I’ll walk over to Daily Bread. You can meet me there.”
“I’ll go with you,” Justin said. “I could use a cup myself.”
“I’ll go with Rose,” Opa said. “An hour?”
“Sounds good,” Justin said. Could he skip the coffee, get home and have time to do a little poking around? Not enough. He resigned himself to another late-night excursion, after everyone had gone to bed. Maybe he’d have decaf now, and crash for an hour when they got home.
He followed Megan to a booth near the rear of the diner. Angie zeroed in on them, carafe and mugs in hand. “How’s the memory?” she asked.
Megan glanced around, as if she were afraid someone might be listening. “Same.”
“Heard the news?” Angie said. “About Betty Bedford?”
“Yes,” Justin said. “Kind of hard to avoid it.”
Angie checked the room, then nudged Megan over and sat beside her. “Yeah, but did you hear how she died? All the details? I was there. It was awful.”
“You were there?” Megan’s jaw dropped. “You saw it?”
“Not exactly there, as in inside the store, but I heard about it when I came in to start the baking. So I brought over an urn of coffee.”
“Being the good Samaritan,” Justin said. Angie hadn’t changed one bit. Always had to be in the thick of things.
“Nothing wrong with that,” Angie said without looking at him. “The cops appreciate a good cup of coffee while they’re working, and I figured they’d be there awhile.” She twisted on the bench so she was facing Megan. “It was awful. Her throat was cut. I think I’m getting a burglar alarm. Or a big, loud dog.”
“I’d go with the alarm,” Justin said. “Don’t have to walk or feed it.”
Angie rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”
Still dismissing him, as if he didn’t exist, Justin thought.
“God, that’s terrible. No wonder Sam made a fuss about locking all the doors,” Megan said.
“Yeah, well they called in some county deputies, and the crime scene folks—they’re not as cute as the ones on television—and they’re all over town asking questions.”
“Maybe that’s why Gordon stopped by so early this morning,” Megan said. Justin detected a hint of relief in her expression.
“He questioned you?” Angie said. From across the diner, someone lifted his coffee cup, and she slid out of the booth. Focused on Megan, she waved an “in a minute” gesture in the man’s general direction. “Why would he think you knew anything?”
Megan chewed her lip. “I didn’t talk to him. Sam said he wanted to know if my memory came back. God, I can’t believe it. A murder in Mapleton.”
“Ronnie at the gas station said the cops were asking about drugs,” Angie said. “But Betty Bedford doesn’t—didn’t—seem to be the drug dealing sort.”
After Angie left to handle coffee refills, Megan silently nursed her coffee for several minutes. When she spoke, he had to lean forward to hear. Her scent, her only adornment, surrounded him. She wore no makeup, undoubtedly because she couldn’t apply it left-handed. Even so, he didn’t think makeup would have concealed the deep shadows under her eyes, or the worry lines between her eyebrows. Her lips were pinched together, as if she were keeping a secret trapped behind them.
She cast a furtive glance around the room, then studied the contents of her mug. “Gordon would be busy investigating the murder, wouldn’t he? Even if there were county deputies, it would be his top priority, right?”
“I’d think so.” He matched his tone to hers.
Another look around the room. “So why would he take time out to drop by Rose and Sam’s unless he thought there was a connection?” When she lifted her mug, it shook in her hand.
Justin took the mug from her hand and set it down before she spilled coffee all over the table. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring grin. “He wanted some apfel kuchen?”
She glared. “I’m serious.”
He lifted his hands in apology. “My bad. But Gordon would have mentioned it, wouldn’t he?”
“I guess.” Her eyes went saucer-wide. “You can’t believe he thinks Rose and Sam are involved? That he came by to search for clues? All hush-hush.”
“That’s totally ridiculous.”
She picked up her spoon, then put it down. Repeated the motions with her fork. Then her knife. “Justin, I’ve got to tell you something. But you can’t tell anyone.”
His heart hammered. What did she know? “I won’t.”
She scanned the room again. He started to check, but she stopped him with a sharply whispered, “Don’t turn around.”
“Megan, you’re being paranoid. Whoever killed Mrs. Bedford is long gone. Why would a killer hang around a small town where he’d stand out as a stranger?”
“Unless he’s hiding in plain sight. Or…or, I don’t know. But I don’t want to talk here. Let’s go somewhere more private.”
Justin left payment for the coffee on the table. He guided Megan toward the door, his hand at the small of her back. He felt her trembling. He threaded his arm around her waist, and she leaned into him.
Her cell chimed. She pulled it out, squinted at the display, and her eyes widened. “Sam texts?”
He chuckled. “I showed him how. He and Oma were always saying they hated the way cell phones interrupted everything. Texting seemed less intrusive, although he complained about the tiny keyboard. I didn’t think he’d actually use it. What did he say?”
“That they’re done, and they’ll meet us at the car.” Just then, Oma’s voice carried from down the block. “Justin! Megan! We’re finished.” An array of bags hung from Opa’s hands.
“Guess we’ll talk later,” Justin said. Megan moved away, but laced her fingers with his. Her vise-like grip telegraphed her fear.
The brief ride home was unusually quiet. The distressing news of the murder seemed to muffle any need for idle conversation. Justin pulled into the garage, hitting the remote to close the door behind them. Opa fumbled in his pocket for the key to the mud room.
Justin grabbed the bags and followed him inside. “Where do you want these?”
“Put them on the kitchen table for now,” Oma said, slipping out of her coat and sliding it onto a hanger.
Justin, contemplating Megan’s fear, didn’t realize his grandfather had stopped in the middle of the doorway to the kitchen, and collided with him. He stepped back, waiting for Opa to move forward.
“Mein Gott!” Opa said.
Then it hit Justin. The crawling sensation up the nape of his neck. The sense of disturbance. The faint odor of tobacco. Someone had been here. Or was here, waiting.
“Oma, Opa. Megan,” he said in a whisper. “Get in the car.”
“But I need to put some things in the refrigerator.” Oma tugged at the bags Justin held, tried to push him out of her way.
Then she screamed.
Chapter Ten
Gordon shoved his notebook into his pocket. Another “Sorry, didn’t see anything,” interview. Some of Finnegan’s regulars had offered descriptions of suspicious characters. Three strangers in the bar last night. Ten different descriptions. Tall, short, black, white. Maybe Hispanic, maybe Asian. Young, old. Fat, thin. H
e rubbed his eyes.
Every lead, however flimsy, had to be followed. So far, they’d had no luck. He started to think maybe there were ghosts involved after all. He got into his car, ready to tackle the next interview.
His phone rang. “Hepler.”
“Tyler Colfax. Can we meet? I have some interesting information on your accident victim.”
Detective Colfax’s words took a detour on the way to Gordon’s brain. Accident? What happened to Betty Bedford was no accident. Slowly, his thought processes found the right path. “The traffic accident yesterday? Karl Franklin? Thought that went to state patrol.”
“It’s ours now. Your office?”
“On my way.” Shell casings. They’d been looking for shell casings, Patterson had said. Had they found some? Or evidence that it wasn’t a routine accident? Why else would the Sheriff’s Office have it? Was he dealing with a second homicide? And could it be related to Betty Bedford? He remembered the papers Franklin carried. Were Megan and the Kretzers in serious danger? Had he dropped the ball when he assumed the threat had died with Franklin?
He’d checked the Florida DMV records and hadn’t come up with anything useful. Plenty of Franklins, although none of the pictures resembled his Karl Franklin. And they didn’t even all have pictures. If the original license had been issued before they computerized the photos, the computer search came up blank on that count, because they just mailed stickers as renewals if a person’s record was clean. Damn, he felt useless.
Was getting him behind a desk really why Dix pushed him into the chief’s job?
Gordon snapped his phone shut and tossed it into a cup holder. He did a quick three-point turn and pointed his SUV toward the station, flipping on the light bar as he turned the corner.
He pulled into the rear lot, his tires kicking up gravel as he aimed for the station’s rear entrance, glad nobody had taken his slot. In his office, Gordon found Colfax sitting at his desk, using his computer. He stopped in the doorway, cleared his throat. “Hello?”
