by Terry Odell
Gordon kept his eyes down, skimming the final three reports while he banished the thoughts of his not-so-quiet night from his brain. He tapped the stack of papers into alignment and set them in the tray for filing. “Seems that way.”
“Good for the citizens, not so good for us,” Colfax said.
Gordon lifted his gaze. “What do you mean?”
“We had great street coverage. Anybody tried anything, we’d have caught him, and we’d be done.” He jerked his head toward the doorway. “I’m starved. How about we get breakfast? Think the blonde’s on duty?”
“Suppose,” Gordon muttered.
Colfax seemed oblivious to Gordon’s reaction. “Great. I’ve been craving one of those cinnamon buns.”
“I’ll send Laurie for them,” Gordon said. “We can have a working breakfast here. What you say at Daily Bread is common knowledge in about seven minutes. With Angie, maybe three.”
Colfax tipped his wrist and checked his watch. “Forensics is supposed to have their preliminary reports in by nine. Plenty of time for breakfast without shop talk. Nothing that involves any open cases, anyway.”
As if two cops could avoid shop talk. Half the time, other cops were the only people they could talk to. They understood the job.
“Actually,” Gordon said, “I’ve got a stack of credit card charges from the diner that I want to check.”
“You think our guy was at the diner? And was stupid enough to pay with a credit card?”
“We catch ‘em because they’re dumb. An outside chance we might pick up a lead. Ozzie said he remembers a couple of customers who might fit the bill.”
“Think the waitress might remember?”
Gordon could tell Colfax wasn’t going to give up on seeing Angie. “She might.” He picked up the envelope. “Let’s go.”
Daily Bread was jammed. Nobody minded being out in daylight hours. Or the urge to gossip overpowered any fears. Angie, carrying an armload of meals, turned when the door opened, and smiled. “Empty booth in back,” she called.
They wove through the tables and settled in. Colfax frowned when Gordon took the seat facing the door, but didn’t object.
Gordon didn’t know whether he was glad or disappointed when Donna, instead of Angie, approached with coffee. Gordon flipped the mug on his table right side up, and Donna filled it. Colfax did the same.
“Busy this morning,” Gordon said.
“That it is. I came in early to help out.”
“How’s the newest grandbaby? What is this one? Number six?” Gordon asked.
Donna pulled a pencil from behind her ear. “Eight.” She stifled a yawn. “And worse than his daddy when it comes to being a night owl.”
After they’d placed their orders, Gordon tipped the contents of the envelope onto the table. Ozzie had clipped each day’s receipts together. Gordon found the ones for the day in question and divided the slips into two stacks. He pushed one across the table, then pulled out his notebook and read the notes he’d transcribed yesterday.
“We’re looking for a receipt for two eggs, over easy, with hash browns and wheat toast, and one for a corned beef sandwich, extra mustard, pickle, cole slaw, and potato salad instead of chips.”
“Be nice if they had the actual order forms the waitress turns in to the kitchen.”
“Customers keep those,” Gordon said. “Otherwise, our job would be too easy.”
“Can’t have that,” Colfax muttered. He pulled a pair of readers from his pocket. “Damn, these receipts might as well be in code.”
The abbreviations were definitely cryptic. “When things quiet down, we’ll get someone to decipher it.”
“We’re cops,” Colfax said. “We don’t have to wait, you know.” He craned his neck, scanning the space, apparently searching for Angie.
“First, let’s see if we can figure it out on our own.” Gordon gave a wry grin. “You’re a detective, after all. How many abbreviations for eggs or toast can there be?” He leafed through several slips. “See. This one says ‘2ESSU’. That’s probably two eggs, sunny side up.”
Colfax growled, but went to work. “I suppose I should be glad it’s not a Waffle House. They still use diner lingo.”
By the time Donna returned with their food, Colfax had winnowed out seven possibles. “Let me,” Gordon said. He set four of the receipts aside. “These are all local folks. Highly unlikely they’d be our guy.” He copied the information from the other three into his notebook and tapped his own stack. “I’ve got two.”
“Don’t suppose either of them matches mine.”
Gordon laughed. “Only in the movies.”
“Then we have five names to search. Maybe the waitress remembers some of them.” Before Gordon could reply, Colfax had snatched the slips, swung out of the booth and waylaid Angie. His back was to Gordon, and his height blocked any view of her. Gordon waited, wondering if Colfax was being pure cop, or if he was turning on the charm. And why was it knotting his shorts? What concern was it of his if Colfax was flirting with Angie. If last night hadn’t meant anything to Angie, they’d move on. They were consenting adults.
Angie followed Colfax to the booth. “Hi, Chief.” The smile she gave him didn’t seem any different from the one she flashed to every customer at the diner. “Detective Colfax says you have some questions.” She glanced around, seeming more like she was checking for suspicious-looking eavesdroppers than making sure the customers were satisfied. “It’s about the murder, isn’t it? And the break-in at the Kretzers’,” she whispered.
“Miss Mead has assured me of her discretion,” Colfax said.
“We want to know if you can describe any of these customers. Give us your general impression.”
Angie examined the credit card slips, setting each down on the table. “This guy was young,” she said about the first. “Kept telling me about all the great birds he spotted.” She tapped the next. “Didn’t wait on this guy—not my code.” She moved on. “Now this guy—he was a real piece of work. Sent his eggs back because the yolks weren’t the way he wanted them. Cut the crusts off his toast. I think he bathed in cheap aftershave.”
“Clothes? Height? General appearance?” Colfax said.
“Average height, I’d guess. Shabby cords, knit cap, so I couldn’t see his hair. Kept looking at his cell phone.”
Gordon picked up the piece of paper. “Will Johnson. The name rings a bell. I’ll check it out.”
Receipt number four belonged to a flirt, and the last to a twinkly-eyed man Angie put in his eighties, on his way to Boulder to see his new great-granddaughter.
“Does that help?” she asked.
“Yep,” Gordon said. “And if anyone asks, we were talking about the Fourth of July picnic menu.”
Her eyes sparkled. “I know how to keep a secret,” she said.
Colfax’s phone rang before that went any further. The detective listened, nodded, and snapped it shut. “Thank you, Miss Mead. We’ll be on our way.” After Angie resumed her duties, Colfax gave him a long, hard stare. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“About what?”
“You and Angie. Man, it’s written all over your face.”
“What?”
“Don’t tell me this is new? Last night?” He clapped Gordon on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, man. I don’t poach.” Colfax strode toward the door.
Great. Angie’d kept her mouth shut, and he’d obviously telegraphed to a virtual stranger that he’d spent the night with her. Thankfully, Gillman and Reynolds weren’t in to collect on their bet. Gordon dropped some bills on the table, stuffed the slips into the envelope and hurried after Colfax.
Chapter Nineteen
Justin awoke, disoriented. Light filtered in from under the door and the edges of the window. Unfamiliar shapes appeared as shadowed silhouettes. Sounds of breathing, not his own, permeated the quiet. Slowly, the world reassembled. Hotel room. Memories slipped into place.
When Megan had insisted they stay together, he�
��d played along as she tried to decide how best to share her bed when he refused to sleep on the floor—or in the bathtub. She’d been arranging the spare blankets and pillows into a makeshift bundling board when he took pity on her and admitted his room had two beds.
He’d gotten thwacked with a pillow for that one, but the look on her face had been worth it. He eased out from under the covers. He stood, yawned, and stretched, twisting the kinks out of his back.
“Morning,” Megan mumbled. Her eyes blinked. “Time is it?”
“Six-fifteen. You mind if I shower first? You can grab some more sleep.”
“‘Kay.” She punched her pillow into submission.
He crossed the room, passing her bed to get to the bathroom.
“You’ve filled out nicely,” she said. Her half-lidded eyes were pointedly directed below his waist, to the cotton boxers he’d slept in.
“It’s morning,” he muttered, stomping to the bathroom and closing the door.
When he’d finished, he found Megan sitting cross-legged on her bed, watching television. She glanced away from the set. “Nothing on the news. You don’t think they’ve caught the guy yet, do you?”
“Don’t know. Would your cop friend call if they had?”
“I’d think so.”
“We should get moving. Your turn.” He cocked his head toward the bathroom. “Unless you want to use the one in your own room.”
“I can handle it,” she said, flouncing across the room.
Shortly before nine, they pulled into Mapleton. Justin parked in front of the municipal building. After spending the better part of the drive arguing about how much to tell the police, they’d agreed it made the most sense to let the authorities know they were going to be in the house, and leave the rest unsaid.
“Remember,” Justin said. “Tell him, don’t ask him. Don’t give him an excuse to think about it, or say we can’t be there.”
She scrunched her face in exasperation. “You’ve said that three times. I know how to handle people. It’s part of my job.”
She was halfway up the steps before he got out of the car. “Wait up,” he called. He trotted to her side. “We’re in this together, remember.”
“I know. I’m just antsy to find out if he’s caught the guy.”
Justin pulled on the brass handle of the massive wooden door. Probably original to the building. Megan sidled past him, striding across the lobby toward one of the doors at the rear. Inside the Police Department office, she wasted no time, nodding to the clerk at the front desk as she swished by.
“She’s here to see Chief Hepler,” Justin said, shrugging. He walked in the direction Megan had gone, finding her standing by a desk, talking with a middle-aged woman.
“He’s in a meeting,” the woman said, “but I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Thanks. We’ll wait.” He glanced around and took a seat in one of the chairs against the wall. Reluctantly, Megan joined him.
“Relax,” he said. “He’s a busy man, and we don’t have an appointment.”
“I didn’t think you needed appointments to talk to cops. What if it was an emergency?”
“Then they’d send a regular cop out. Your friend is the Chief of Police.”
“I know, I know. It’s…”
“You’re anxious. Nervous. It’s understandable.” Inside, he felt exactly the way she did. It was Thursday already. He suppressed the urge to check his watch, knowing it was only a few minutes later than the last time he’d done so. His mental clock was ticking away the minutes until Sunday.
Gordon appeared, an underlying weariness in his features. He gave Megan a welcoming smile, nodded at him. “What’s going on? Laurie said you needed to talk to me. Have you found something?”
Megan popped to her feet. “No, we’ve been in Denver. Rose and Sam are still there. Did you find him?” Her hands wagged, punctuating her words. So like his grandmother. Justin couldn’t help but smile.
Gordon smiled, too. “Why don’t you two come into my office? We can talk there.”
A man stood when they entered. His piercing blue eyes lingered on Megan before he spoke. “Detective Tyler Colfax, Sheriff’s Office. I’ve been wanting to meet you.”
Why? Justin’s neck hairs prickled. Because he was a cop, and Megan was involved in an investigation, he told himself. Realizing he’d instinctively stepped closer to Megan, he held back when she moved forward to take his outstretched hand.
“I’m Megan Wyatt. Why did you want to talk to me? Have you found the killer?”
Colfax sat, gesturing for Megan to take the chair next to his. Gordon went to his desk. Justin positioned himself behind Megan, resting his hands on the back of her chair. Gordon opened a file folder, searched through it, and extracted a piece of paper, which he laid in front of Megan.
“Does this man look familiar?”
Justin leaned in, his pulse quickening in anticipation. Megan picked up the paper and moved it back and forth, as if trying to see it from different angles. It appeared to be a reproduction of a driver’s license photo, enlarged and grainy. His fingers brushed against Megan’s shoulder, and he felt her trembling. Was this the man? He rested his hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently.
“I…um…” She squinted at the picture. “I never got a good look at his face. And this isn’t a very good picture.”
“It’s also five years old,” Gordon said.
“What’s his name?” Megan asked.
“Willard Johnson,” the detective said.
“Maybe if I saw him in person,” Megan said. “Do you have him in custody? Have you figured out if he’s connected to Karl Franklin?”
“Afraid not,” Gordon said. “We’re going to talk to him and find out.”
Justin straightened. “Then we should let you go. We wanted to let you know we’ll be at my grandparents’ house until mid-afternoon, while they’re in Denver. There are some things I need to do before we head back.”
The two cops did some sort of silent communication thing. The detective scratched his chin and turned to Justin. “There’s nothing more we can get from the scene. But call if there’s the slightest sign of trouble.”
“You’ve got the direct number to Dispatch?” Gordon said. “We’re likely to be out and about.”
“Yes, we’re set,” Justin said.
“You’ll be in Denver again tonight?” Gordon said.
Justin nodded. “Easier on my grandparents.”
“Agreed,” Gordon said. “Tell them we’re doing everything we can.”
“They know that,” Megan said.
Justin said, “Thanks.” He nodded at the detective, then put his hand on Megan’s back and guided her to the door. He waited until they were in the lobby before speaking. “That detective wanted to put the moves on you, in case you didn’t notice.”
“I did. I’m a big girl.” She grinned and punched his biceps. “And you realize that if you noticed him, he noticed you being the territorial dog. But thanks. You were cute.”
Rapid footfalls approached from behind. “Miss Wyatt. Please wait. I have one more question.”
Justin turned. Detective Colfax bore down on them like a charging bull.
“I thought his name was Colfax, not Columbo,” Justin muttered. He maneuvered Megan so she was half behind him. “What can we do for you, Detective?”
###
Gordon dialed Flo and Lyla Richardsons’ B&B. The sisters had retired to the outskirts of Mapleton about ten years ago and found that turning their home into a rustic B&B that catered to the “commune with nature” crowd suited them. Since they’d come of age during the Summer of Love in the sixties, Gordon wondered if they bothered screening their guests.
Flo answered, sounding a bit out of breath.
“Flo, it’s Gordon Hepler, Mapleton Police. Do you have a minute?”
“Is this related to the murder?”
Gordon groaned inwardly at what now was part of every conversation he entered. �
�No, this is a routine follow-up to a report one of my officers filed. About one of your guests.”
A pause. “What are you asking?” He heard the wariness in her tone.
“Is a Willard Johnson staying with you?”
Another pause. Before he had to remind her he could get access to all her records, she responded. “Yes, he’s been here since Monday night.”
“So he’s still there?”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
“No, not at all. Like I said, I’m dotting Is and crossing Ts. Is he likely to be there awhile? I can ask him a few questions and wrap this up.”
“He’s stuck to his room most of the time. I imagine he’ll be here another hour or two.”
“I’ll be out in twenty minutes.”
And another pause. “You’ll be…discrete? I don’t like the idea of a murder being associated with our establishment.”
“My department and the County Sheriffs are dealing with the murder. Which leaves all the routine stuff to me.” As a rookie, he’d learned to stretch the truth, if not outright lie. In the background, he heard Lyla call Flo’s name. “I’ll let you attend to your guests. And I’d appreciate it if you’d not mention my visit to Mr. Johnson.”
The queen of pauses. “Fair enough.”
Gordon had a hunch he ought to get out there before she changed her mind. He told Laurie to let Colfax know what he was doing, and drove out to the B&B. To look at the Richardson sisters, one would never guess they’d made their money on Madison Avenue.
When they’d retired, they’d exchanged power suits for granny gowns, and now looked like well-aged hippies. Which, judging from some of the photos in their B&B, they were. They served homemade granola and whole-grain waffles along with omelets made from the eggs provided by the chickens in the coop out back. In season, their herb and vegetable gardens rounded out their fare.
He found Lyla tending the flowers surrounding the hand-painted sign at the top of the curving roadway to the B&B. She glanced up as he made the turn, and stood, brushing her hands on the legs of her denim overalls. She flipped the long braid of salt-and-pepper hair. “Good morning, Chief Hepler. Flo said you had some questions for Mr. Johnson.”
