Terry Odell - Mapleton 01 - Deadly Secrets

by Terry Odell

Megan hesitated. Turner jerked his arm. Oma’s cry was muffled by the tape. “Next time she’ll shed blood,” Turner said.

  “Do it, Megan,” Justin said. He leaned forward so she could tape his wrists. When she ripped the tape, the sound ripped his heart. Buzz Turner had killed once. Justin’s mind whirled, trying to formulate a plan. “Cooperate. Don’t make him angry. We’ll get out of this.”

  She knelt by his side and wound the sturdy gray tape around his ankles.

  “More,” Turner said. “And tighter.”

  When she opened her mouth, Justin shook his head. “It’s okay,” he said, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “Think of where he has that knife. Don’t do anything foolish. You can’t get to him before he hurts her.”

  Her head turned toward the bed for several heartbeats. Oma and Opa’s eyes shot warnings in her direction. She puffed a sigh and continued taping.

  “Done,” she announced.

  “Go sit over there.” Turner pointed to a spot along the adjacent wall. “Tape your ankles in front of you.”

  When Megan finished, Turner approached her, brandishing the knife. One of Oma’s cooking knives, it appeared. All Justin could think about was how angry she’d be, because that was her favorite knife, and he knew she’d never use it again.

  He realized he’d assumed Oma would have the opportunity to cook again. Good. Positive thoughts.

  “Hands behind you,” Turner said to Megan. He grabbed the tape, then used it to restrain her wrists. Next, he checked Justin’s bonds, running another layer of tape over Megan’s handiwork. Apparently satisfied, Turner strolled to the bed and waved the knife. “The rule is simple. You promise not to scream, and I’ll take the tape off. Understand?”

  Opa nodded. Turner ripped the tape from his mouth. A trickle of blood dripped from the corner. Turner reached for the tape covering Oma’s mouth.

  “Please,” Opa said. “Don’t hurt her.”

  Turner shrugged. “She’s a nice enough old lady.” He eased the tape away and crumpled it. Oma licked her lips. Justin held his breath, praying she wouldn’t say anything foolish. Turner paused, as if waiting for an excuse to inflict more damage, then perched on the bed beside her. He rested his elbows on his thighs, the knife displayed prominently in his hand.

  “Now that we’re all together,” Turner said, “it’s time to talk.”

  ###

  Gordon narrowed his focus to Colfax’s call. “What do you have?”

  “Married twice, divorced same. Grounds were abuse, both mental and physical. He’s hard up for money.”

  “And on the professional side?” Gordon added notes to his legal pad.

  “Seems to be even more of a sleaze than your typical reporter. He was fired from two papers for getting too creative with his stories. He was free-lancing until he got his job with the Weekly.”

  “Too creative? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You gotta relax, Hepler, or the job will kill you. I mean creative, as in he’d create his own news. They never proved it, but rumor has it he really didn’t let the truth get in the way of a story. He was suspected of planting evidence, feeding rumors, then breaking the story himself.”

  Gordon rolled that one around. “That fits with the damn press conference. But I can’t buy him killing someone, and vandalizing the Kretzers’ to break a story. Not unless he’s a total sicko.”

  “You might not be far off. His second wife filed assault charges. The courts sent him to anger management classes about ten years ago.”

  “I’ve never seen that kind of behavior since he’s been in Mapleton.”

  “Maybe the classes took. Stranger things have happened.”

  “Any way you can track down his counselor, find out what kind of a…student he was?”

  “I’ll give it a shot. But it was a long time ago.”

  The background music stopped. “Officer Hepler?” came from the desk phone.

  “Gotta get back to you, Colfax. No, wait. Hang on one sec.” Gordon grabbed the receiver. “Hepler.”

  “Sir, we checked the Kretzers’ room. There’s nobody inside, and there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Clothes in the closet, toiletries in the bath. No cause for alarm.” The man delivered the words as if he were indulging the whim of an annoying child.

  Gordon thanked him and went back to Colfax. “Anything in Turner’s history that would give him a motive?”

  “Nothing yet. It’ll take a deeper background check. I’ll let you know.”

  “I’ve got searches running on this end too. There’s something I’m missing. It’s there, dancing around in my head, but I can’t get a handle on it yet.”

  “Happens all the time. It’ll show up when you’re doing something entirely different. You need me for anything, call.”

  “Keep your dancing shoes handy.”

  Think of something else, Colfax had said. Gordon scrolled through his missed call log. Two from Justin, one from Angie. They’d rolled to voicemail.

  Work before pleasure. Megan’s voice followed the robotic tones of the cell phone’s message system.

  “Gordon. We’re on our way home. We got a message from Sam saying Rose wasn’t feeling well and they were going home. We can’t reach them. Could you please check? Maybe they’re at the emergency clinic. Thanks.”

  The second was a repeat of the first, but with more urgency in her voice. The third was Angie. Listening to her voice made his chest ache. Work before pleasure. He groaned and called the clinic. No, the Kretzers hadn’t been admitted. He tried Doc Evans next. He hadn’t heard anything from them.

  Gordon replayed Megan’s message. Definitely said Mapleton, not Denver. Had they had an accident en route? Or had Rose been taken seriously ill? He called their house. Answering machine.

  He left a message, then bit the bullet and returned Angie’s call. “Something else came up. I’ll be working late.”

  “You want me to bring dinner over?”

  What the hell. A man had to eat. “Use the back door.”

  While he waited, he told Dispatch to order a patrol car to swing by the Kretzers’ place, and he put wheels in motion to check for traffic accidents between Denver and Mapleton. He wandered to the war room and stared at the white board again. There were answers in there. Connections he hadn’t seen yet.

  He added Buzz Turner’s name to the board. Was he the common denominator? Was everything connected? Karl Franklin’s staged accident. Megan’s aborted abduction. The break-in at the Kretzers’. The murder at Vintage Duds. And what about Justin’s missing journal?

  He found a notepad and drew a circle in the center, then added a series of spokes extending outward. He wrote Buzz’s name in the circle. He added names he could connect to Buzz along the spokes, and jotted his notes.

  Karl Franklin. Cell phone calls. At scene.

  Betty Bedford. At scene.

  If Buzz was responsible for the break-in at Vintage Duds, logic said he’d be the one behind the Kretzers’ break-in as well. Which tied him to Rose and Sam. Or Justin. Or Megan.

  Could Buzz be Megan’s mystery man? She’d described him as average, and Turner fit that description—along with half the male population of Mapleton.

  He wrote “JOURNAL” above the circle and underlined it. Was that the missing link? He added Heinrich Kaestner’s name to the page and dug for the articles Justin had left. Henry Carpenter, if he was alive, was at a nursing home in Arizona. He looked up the number and dialed.

  He was on hold with someone in records when Irv tapped on the door. “Sir, Solomon reported nothing unusual at the Kretzers’ on a drive by. Did you want to talk to him? He’s checking into a possible intruder on the other side of town. Given what’s happened, I sent McDermott out as backup.”

  Gordon smiled at Irv’s apologetic tone. “Have him call me on my cell once he’s clear. Thanks.”

  “Oh, and Angie said you were expecting her. She’s out front.”

  Shit. So much for being discrete. “Send her t
o my office. I’ll be there as soon as I get off the phone.” Which he hoped would be in this lifetime. Or before his dinner went cold.

  The records clerk finally returned to the line, apologizing for the delay. “I thought the case was closed,” she said. “It took awhile to find the records. But why are the Colorado police interested in an old man’s death? The local medical examiner ruled it accidental.”

  Accidental. Not natural causes. Gordon resigned himself to a cold dinner. “Did you know Mr. Carpenter? How did he die?” He added a bit of good cop to his tone. “It might help with a case we’re working on out here.”

  “I’m new,” she said. “But I heard the rumors. That it was suicide.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  She hesitated. “I think you need to talk to someone in administration for details. But they’ve already gone home for the day.”

  She sounded as if she was supposed to be home too. “I’ll call tomorrow. Do you keep records of visitors? Or is there someone who worked there while Mr. Carpenter was alive I could talk to?”

  “I’ll have to check. Can I get back to you?”

  Since Carpenter was dead, there didn’t seem to be a lot he could do now. Tomorrow, he’d follow up with the local cops, see if he could get more answers. He gave her the number to his direct line and went in search of dinner.

  “Busy day?” Angie smiled as he walked into his office. “Still hunting for whoever killed Betty Bedford?”

  “Yes to both.” He decided even a cold dinner wouldn’t counteract the warmth of being in the same room with Angie.

  “I was afraid you’d had another emergency when you weren’t here to let me in.”

  “No, just working down the hall. I didn’t think I’d be gone that long.”

  “Life of a cop,” she said. “Always on the job.”

  “It’s not usually like this. You probably put more hours in than I do. But I did find your intruder.” He explained about Willard Johnson. Angie’s eyes flashed momentarily, but she seemed to shake it off.

  “A painless way to learn a lesson. No harm, no foul. But I’ll talk to Donna about the key and being more diligent about locking up. Ready for some food?”

  His rumbling stomach answered that question. Angie took containers from a large paper bag. “It’s just salad and lasagna. But after you tie things up here, you could always stop by for…dessert.”

  He turned, making sure he’d closed the door behind him. He cradled her face, capturing her pale blue eyes with his gaze. “Maybe I need a sample.” He grazed her lips with his. “Delicious. I’ll save room.”

  His desk phone rang. Angie brushed his cheek with a fingertip. “I’ll let myself out.”

  Gordon gave her a parting smile as he reached for the phone. “Hepler.”

  When the caller identified herself as someone from the nursing home in Arizona, he shoved his dinner aside in favor of his notepad.

  “I remember Mr. Carpenter well,” she said. “He was such a nice old man. I couldn’t believe the rumors. That he was a Nazi. He grew up in Pittsburgh. And Carpenter is a common name. I figured it was one of those cases of mistaken identity.”

  “Did he have any family?”

  “Not that I know of. He never mentioned anyone. He’d chat with other residents in the recreation areas, but no outside visitors. Not until shortly before he died.”

  “When was that?”

  “Let me think. Nine months ago, give or take. I’d have to look up the exact date if you need it.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Gordon said. “If I may ask, how do you think he died?”

  Her voice grew quiet. “He was old and dying of cancer. In a lot of pain.”

  Gordon immediately wondered if Carpenter might have had a little assistance leaving planet earth, and he made a note to check with the ME. “You said he had visitors before he died. Do you keep records?”

  “I remember them,” she said. “The first one, a Mr. Franklin, only came once, but Mr. Carpenter seemed more at peace after he left. The way people get when they’re putting their lives in order. But not with the other man. He came several times. Mr. Carpenter was always agitated after those visits.”

  “You remember his name?” Gordon asked, pen poised.

  “Mr. Turner,” she said. “I remember having to ask him to leave the last time he visited, because Mr. Carpenter had a medical crisis.”

  “What kind?”

  “He had trouble breathing, his blood pressure went way up. They took him to critical care for a while.”

  “So he didn’t die at that time?”

  “No, not until several weeks later.”

  “Was anyone with him?”

  “Not that I know of. The morning nurse said he’d died in his sleep.”

  “So why was suicide considered?”

  “He’d been depressed. That’s all I know, and I’ve probably said too much. I have to go.”

  He’d just hung up when his cell rang.

  “Chief, it’s Vicky. I think you should get to the Kretzers’.”

  Dinner forgotten, he jerked up from his chair and grabbed his weapon.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Megan leaned away from the wall, trying to relieve the pressure on her wrists. Rose sat, tight-lipped on the bed, glowering at Buzz Turner. Silence filled the room like a heavy fog.

  “I said, talk,” Buzz said. He pounded his fist against his thigh. “Where is it?”

  Sam spoke, his voice calm, but there was no mistaking the fury behind it. “I have told you, I know nothing about a letter, a book, or anyone named Henry Carpenter.”

  Megan shot a glance at Justin. He shook his head a fraction. Rose gasped. Megan snapped her head around. Buzz had the knife at Rose’s throat again.

  “Stop! Don’t hurt her. We might have what you want,” she said. Justin’s nod confirmed her decision. “In my purse. A letter. It’s not important enough to die for.”

  “I’m sorry, Opa,” Justin said. “I wanted to spare you, but if I’d asked at the beginning, this might not have happened.”

  “You’re speaking nonsense,” Sam said. “Spare me from what?”

  Buzz was digging through Megan’s purse, his eyes gleaming when he found the folded papers. He snatched them out, opened them and read. He tossed one to the floor—Gordon’s cover page, she assumed, then stared at the next sheet. Then the next, and the next. His fists clenched. He pounded his thigh again, still holding the knife. Megan wished he’d turn it around and stab himself. He threw the sheets of paper on the bed. “What is this gibberish? You read German, old man?”

  “Without my glasses I can read nothing,” Sam said.

  “What about you?” Buzz asked Rose.

  She shook her head.

  “Damnation, where are they?” Buzz brandished the knife, then pounded his thigh again.

  Megan sucked in a breath. At least he’s not hitting Rose.

  Sam straightened with as much dignity a man in his position could convey. His tone was firm. The one he’d used when she’d wanted a too-expensive toy, or later, when he wouldn’t let her get a motorcycle. “If you hadn’t been so eager to lure us from the hotel with your tale of Megan being captured again, we might have had time to collect our things. My glasses are in the pocket of my coat, which is in the closet of our room. Our hotel room. In Denver.”

  “And mine are on the night table,” Rose said, her chin lifted in defiance. “Also in Denver.”

  “You’ve got to have a spare pair,” Buzz said.

  “I saw them,” Megan said. “Downstairs, when we were cleaning up the mess.”

  “I don’t think so,” Rose said, then glared at Buzz. “I went through the mess you left.”

  “No, Rose, I saw them.” When Rose turned to her, Megan shot her a pleading look. Play along. “They must have fallen out of the drawer on the end table by the couch.”

  “Ach, ja,” Sam said, seeming to understand. “You know how you’re always misplacing them.” />
  Rose clamped her mouth shut. Megan tried not to let her relief show.

  “So, where are they now?” Buzz asked.

  “I don’t know,” Justin said. “Could be they’re in the end table. Or maybe there’s a pair in Sam’s study somewhere.”

  “Wait,” Rose said. “I think maybe I had mine in the kitchen. When I was paying bills.”

  “Cut me loose and I’ll help you,” Megan said. She tried to look as helpless as possible. Not a stretch. Her muscles were already starting to tighten. She knew he’d never release Justin.

  Buzz scowled. “I assume you’re kidding. You’re staying right where you are. All of you. And if I hear a sound, it’s back to the duct tape.”

  He left, taking the knife. Yeah, as if he’d leave it behind so they could cut themselves free.

  “Are you okay?” she whispered. Buzz had taped Rose and Sam’s hands, wrists crossed, in front of them, and Sam was already gnawing at his bonds.

  “Trussed like turkeys in our own home?” Rose said. “That’s hardly okay, but we’ll think of something.”

  “Try to start a tear, Opa,” Justin said. “You can’t stretch the tape enough to get it over your hands.”

  Sam mumbled something unintelligible and kept working. Rose bounced to the edge of the bed and clawed her fingers on the night table drawer.

  “What are you looking for?” Megan asked. “Your glasses?”

  “Nail clippers,” Rose said. “Mr. Turner shouldn’t assume because we’re old, we’re helpless. Or stupid.” She hissed. “But with my wrists crossed, it’s hard to make my fingers work properly.”

  “Careful.” Megan squirmed, trying to get to her feet, but with her hands behind her and her ankles taped, she couldn’t get the leverage she needed to do more than roll to her side. She was afraid to work too hard, for fear Turner would hear her. “We have to be quiet. I think he’s the man who killed Betty Bedford.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Rose said. “And they say it gets easier to kill each time. We need to be careful we don’t upset him. He seems rational until things don’t go his way.” She wriggled around, trying to get a better grip on the drawer pull. “Scheisse.”