Terry Odell - Mapleton 01 - Deadly Secrets

by Terry Odell

  Justin complied as the elevator doors opened, then shook his head. “Voice mail.”

  “So text them. Tell them to call, that we’re on our way.” She pulled him into the elevator, pressed ten and grabbed his phone, unable to wait. She punched in a message. Somehow, doing it herself gave her a feeling of control. Justin put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Share the stress?”

  She smiled.

  “Are you trying the land line?” Justin asked. “Speed nine.”

  Damn. She should have thought of it. She got their machine. “Rose? Sam? It’s Megan. Please call. Let us know you’re okay.” The doors opened on the tenth floor. Megan rushed out. “Meet you in my room as soon as you’re packed.”

  A few minutes later, she opened the door to Justin. “Almost ready,” she said. She did a quick check to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, then zipped her bag shut. “Should we call, let the desk know we’re leaving?”

  “I’d rather leave it open. For all I know, we might end up back here.”

  Within minutes, they were on the road. Megan clutched Justin’s phone, squeezing it as if that would force Sam to pick up. When it rolled to voicemail again, she shoved it into a cup holder. “They don’t let you use cell phones in hospitals, do they? You think that’s why he’s not picking up?”

  “Could be. But if it was major, Opa would have insisted on taking her to an emergency room here in Denver, not gone to Mapleton. They’re probably trying not to worry us, the same way we were trying not to worry them.”

  “That’s not quite the same,” Megan said. “They don’t know they have something to worry about.” She gazed out the window, her foot subconsciously pressing on an imaginary gas pedal.

  “We’re almost there,” Justin said. “We’ll probably all have a good laugh when it’s over.”

  He wasn’t laughing now, though. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and that muscle in his jaw twitched. He met her gaze, and his features softened. He took one hand from its death grip on the wheel and rested it on her thigh. She covered his hand with hers and closed her eyes, trying to keep her thoughts focused there instead of on Rose.

  The physical contact held her together until they left the highway and he needed both hands to navigate the mountain road.

  Her emotions swirled.

  Relief that they’d heard from Rose and Sam. Worry about why they’d left Denver. How they’d left Denver. Apprehension about showing them the letter. Fear that there was a killer on the loose and he might strike again.

  Frustration that she hadn’t been able to reach Gordon, compounded by the frustration that he hadn’t responded to her messages, asking him to check up on Rose and Sam. At least not before they’d been sucked into that cell phone void.

  And then there was the totally new one. Desire.

  For Justin? But there it was, overwhelming the whirlpool of other emotions. A fling. That was what she needed, and Justin was safe. He’d go home to his job, she’d go home to hers, and they’d have some nice memories. She could still taste their kiss. Oh, yeah. The memories would be more than nice.

  ###

  Gordon stared at the crime scene contamination sheets, the lists of every person who crossed the boundaries of a potential crime scene. He spread them on the table.

  Common denominators.

  Ridiculous, he thought. The man had every reason to be on all the lists. Jumping to conclusions didn’t solve cases.

  Neither did assuming anything. One of Dix’s favorite reminders.

  Don’t assume. It just makes an ass out of you and me.

  Every detail had to be checked. Even if there was a good reason for it to be there didn’t mean it should be eliminated.

  For now, the only person he was going to eliminate was himself. But he was damn well going to start checking with the name that not only appeared on all the logs, but also owned the phone number retrieved from Franklin’s phone.

  He punched in the call. Voice mail. Didn’t anyone answer a phone anymore?

  He took a mental step back. Think. Start at the beginning. He re-read the accident reports. The car had been rear-ended off the side of the road and into a tree.

  Crap. He replayed what he’d seen at Lou’s garage. He scrambled for his office, went through the old Rolodex, a leftover from Dix’s days. Fingering through the cards, he found Lou’s number.

  “Lou. Gordon Hepler. You said you had a bumper repair. Whose?”

  “Buzz Turner. Said he’d had a close encounter with a deer. Tried to fix it himself, he said, but decided a new one would be a smarter move. Although it’s not so easy to get replacements for the older models. I told him I could probably fix the old one but—”

  “Wait,” Gordon said. “Do you have the original bumper?”

  “I was getting to that. Nope. Buzz said he tossed it.”

  Little red flags waved. “Thanks. Do me a favor, though. Don’t touch the vehicle. I’m going to get some crime scene guys out tomorrow.”

  “Crime scene?” Lou said. “Killin’ a deer ain’t a crime now, is it? Come to think of it, he never said he killed it, just hit it. A kill’d probably have done more damage.”

  “Lou, trust me. Lock everything up tight. I’ll explain later.”

  “Sure thing, Chief.”

  Buzz still wasn’t answering his phone. Gordon called the hot line number for the paper. A recording. Swearing under his breath, he found the home phone for the editor. Buzz Turner was off doing interviews. No, he hadn’t said where. Yes, it was common for him to turn off his phone. Didn’t like interruptions, they interfered with the flow when he had someone talking.

  All innocent enough, but the hair on Gordon’s neck prickled. He could prove opportunity, with Buzz’s name on every crime scene sheet. And means, since the murder weapons were already at Vintage Duds. But he had no motive. That Gordon knew of. Yet.

  He plugged Buzz into his search engine and called Colfax. “I need your techs to come up here ASAP to examine a car. I might have found the vehicle that pushed Franklin’s car off the road. And I want everything you can dig up on a Bradley Turner, aka Buzz. Including the way he eats his eggs.”

  “Your reporter? I know they’re a pain in the ass—”

  Gordon couldn’t wait for Colfax to finish. “His car’s in the shop. Says he hit a deer. He got rid of the old bumper, but I’ll bet your guys can find enough trace to connect him to Franklin’s accident.”

  “You’re liking him for both murders? A reporter? Isn’t that a stretch?”

  “He was at every scene, and was quick to arrive.”

  “They always are. Scanners, Hell, that stuff’s all over the Internet. Anyone can listen in.”

  “Open your mind, Colfax. What if he committed the crimes? He’d be there.”

  “If he murdered the Bedford woman, he’d have been covered in blood. Plus, we figured our killer didn’t come with the intent to kill. He used a murder weapon found on the scene.”

  “I know. But maybe he cleaned up. You’ve got a change of clothes in your vehicle, don’t you? I do. And he’s such a damn fixture around here, nobody would look at him twice. Hell, they’d go out of their way to avoid looking at him.”

  “Maybe,” Colfax said after a prolonged pause. “The timeline work?”

  Gordon checked. “He had time to go home, clean up and be back shortly after our first responder arrived.”

  “Like a firebug wanting to admire his handiwork.”

  “I think it’s more likely he hoped to find what he was searching for.”

  “You figure that one out yet?”

  Gordon hesitated. At this point, apprehending a killer, not to mention keeping the Kretzers and Megan and Justin safe, took priority. And he’d warned Justin and Megan that if the information was tied to his investigation, he wouldn’t suppress it. “No, but the connection seems to be some kind of book, or papers.”

  “Must be pretty valuable.”

  “I guess we won’t know t
hat until we either find it or find him. I’ve got to hook up with Denver.”

  “Why Denver?” Colfax asked.

  “The Kretzers, Justin Nadell, and Megan Wyatt are there. And there’s a good chance Buzz knows it. Update me on my cell.” He killed the connection before Colfax could get another word in.

  Gordon hit the print icon on his computer. While the printer worked, he grabbed his Glock from the drawer and checked his extra magazine.

  Chill. What are you going to do? Haul ass to Denver, go in shooting?

  He slowed down to let his brain catch up with his gut. He had no proof Buzz had committed any crime. He took three deep breaths.

  Call the hotel.

  He identified himself, then drummed his fingers on the desk while his call was put through to the Kretzers’ room. When it rang over to the hotel’s voicemail system, he drummed his fingers some more waiting to get connected to the operator again. This time, he asked for Megan.

  Another voicemail. “What about Justin Nadell?” The same. His gut twisted. “I’ve got reason to be concerned about the well-being of the Kretzers,” Gordon said to the woman on the phone. “Will you please send someone in your security department to their room? I’ll hold.”

  “It might take awhile,” she said. “I can’t tie up the line, but I’ll be happy to call you back.”

  And if he agreed, who knew how long it would take, or if he’d ever be able to get her on the phone again. “Then please transfer me to security.”

  Gordon repeated his request, keeping his impatience and rising temper in check. Whoever screened calls for security sounded like a cop wannabe who got all his information from watching television and seemed to enjoy being in a position of power. Gordon waited out an interval of vanilla hold music while the man insisted on ringing the Kretzers’ room.

  When the man finally came on the line, Gordon tried to remain civil. “I know they didn’t answer the phone. And I understand a guest’s right to privacy. I’m asking someone to confirm they’re not in need of medical attention. Better to err on the side of caution, don’t you think, rather than generate the kind of negative publicity the hotel would get if there was a problem and you hadn’t taken appropriate action? Or should I call the Denver police?”

  Gordon set the phone on speaker and tried to concentrate on the paperwork in front of him. His cell interrupted.

  “Got something on your reporter,” Colfax said.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Justin pushed the compact as fast as he dared along the winding mountain road. Squinting, he lowered the visor against the setting sun.

  Megan put the phone in the cup holder.

  “Nothing yet?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Out of range. I can’t decide whether cell phones make life easier or add more things to worry about. I can see why Rose and Sam resisted them. They’re from the letter-writing school. We expect instant communication.”

  Justin sucked in a breath, then exhaled slowly. “Megan?”

  She shifted, facing him. “Did you remember something else?” Her eyes reflected the worry he knew was obvious in his own.

  “No.” He ignored the heat rising to his neck, gathered what little courage he had left, and rested his hand on her thigh. “I wanted to say…no matter how this turns out, and I’m sure everything will end up okay…I’m glad you were here. It helped.”

  She lowered her gaze, but he caught the pink tinge rising to her cheeks. Her hand pressed against his. “Same goes.”

  Out with it, idiot. You’ll be home in ten minutes, and you’ll lose your captive audience.

  Despite the fact they’d had an adult conversation at the hotel, he felt like he’d reverted to Jumbo Justin. He concentrated on the warmth of Megan’s hand. She hadn’t tried to remove his from her leg. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? “You think…after this is over…that we could get together? If you ever have an event in my neck of the woods, or something?”

  She flashed a mischievous grin. “What if I don’t want to wait for an event? I’ve still got plenty of unused vacation time coming. I’d love to visit. You know, catch up. See what we’ve missed out on all these years.” Her tongue circled her lips. Her eyes twinkled.

  His breath caught. “Any time.”

  She removed her hand and angled herself away. But she’d squeezed his hand before removing hers, and a faint smile danced on her mouth.

  He dared not break the comfortable silence for fear he’d say something stupid. Talking to women wasn’t part of his daily repertoire, and although he was ninety percent certain he’d read her correctly, he wasn’t going to blow it by making assumptions.

  The road straightened as they approached Mapleton’s city limits. Megan thrust her shoulders back and faced him again, a determined look on her face. “Where should we start? House, clinic, or the police station?”

  His phone signaled an incoming message. At last. He eased his grip on the wheel, feeling some of the tension leave. He was definitely hooked into the instant communication lifestyle. Megan picked up his cell. “Another text from Sam,” she said. “Nothing wrong with Rose. They’re at the house, waiting for us.”

  “Thank God.”

  Megan twisted in her seat to face him. “I wish I could undo all the times I forgot to call when I was a kid. No cell phones, but I thought it was babyish to have to check in when I got to a friend’s house after school, or was going to be a few minutes late. I feel so guilty about all the worry I must have caused them.”

  Justin laughed. “If instilling guilt was an Olympic event, my grandparents would have taken the gold every year. And my mom would have nailed the silver.”

  “I should call Gordon and tell him to ignore the other messages.”

  Justin turned onto Maple. “Might as well wait until we get home.” It took all his control not to floor it for the final few blocks. A sense of homecoming washed over him as he pulled into the driveway. Except for a few fluttering remnants, the crime scene tape was gone. Had the police removed it, or had Oma yanked it down? He could see her doing just that. Probably had a fight with Opa about cleaning the house, too. He smiled. Opa could hold his own, especially if Oma’s best interest was at stake.

  Megan dashed up the walkway and skipped up the porch steps ahead of him. He lengthened his stride and joined her by the door. Before he inserted his key, the door swung open.

  “Come in, come in,” a man in neatly pressed khakis and a blue sport coat said. “You must be Megan and Justin. I’m Buzz Turner, with the Mapleton Weekly.”

  The voice from the answering machine. Had Oma and Opa agreed to talk to him?

  The man continued, smiling as if he were hosting a get-together. “I’m so glad you made it. Your grandparents and I have been having a fascinating chat.” He waved them in, slipping back to let them pass.

  Megan stepped inside. Justin took her hand, slowing her down. Genetic hard-wiring surfacing perhaps, but he wanted her close. The man’s smile gave him the creeps. There was something annoying about his over-friendly demeanor. Then again, there was something annoying about reporters, period.

  The living room looked exactly as it had when Justin and Megan had left. “Where are my grandparents?” he asked.

  “Waiting upstairs,” Turner said, still smiling. “They had something interesting to show me.”

  Megan shot him a wide-eyed look. He knew she was thinking exactly what he was. The journal? Had his grandparents known about it, where it was, all these years? If so, why were they sharing it with this reporter? Wondering if he’d put himself through hell for nothing, Justin massaged the nape of his neck and let Megan lead him up the staircase, Turner close behind.

  “How is Rose?” Megan asked over her shoulder. “The first message said she hadn’t been feeling well.”

  “She’s fine,” Turner said. His cheerfulness had switched to more of a grunt. Hackles raised on the back of Justin’s neck, but before he could process his unease, Turner shoved them through the open
door into Oma and Opa’s bedroom. The door slammed. Turner barreled past them. “I think we should all chat.”

  Blood pounded in Justin’s ears. Turner stood at the bedside, a knife pressed to Oma’s throat. She and Opa were sitting against the headboard, their ankles and wrists bound with tape. Another strip covered their mouths. A purple bruise stood out against the pale skin of Oma’s cheek. Justin dashed forward.

  “Very noble, but you don’t want to do that,” the man said.

  Justin froze, fists clenched, breathing as if he’d run twice around the pond.

  Megan gasped. “You’re him. The man in the park. How dare you hit her.”

  “Shut up,” Turner said. “No noise. No moving. Not if you want her to live.”

  Justin raised his hands. “We’re not going to do anything.” He shifted his gaze to Megan. “Right, Megan? We can discuss this like calm, rational adults.”

  As if a man holding a knife to his grandmother, a man who’d probably killed another defenseless woman, was anything remotely approaching calm and rational.

  “Cell phones,” Turner snapped. “On the floor. Now.”

  “The battery’s dead,” Megan said.

  “Do what I say.”

  She dropped her phone onto the carpet. Justin tossed his beside it.

  “And your purse,” Turner said.

  Justin could feel Megan’s anger as she threw her purse to the floor beside the phones. Turner took a roll of duct tape from the night table and tossed it toward Megan.

  “You, Justin. Have a seat.” Turner gestured toward the floor. “Legs out in front of you. Hands behind your back.”

  Justin followed the man’s directions, his eyes fixed on his grandparents. Oma’s head was tilted away from the knife. Opa’s fists clenched beneath his taped wrists. His expression was one of pure fury, one Justin had never seen from him. One he’d never thought his grandfather capable of.

  “You, Megan. Tape his wrists and ankles. And no cute stuff. I’m going to check.”