Terry Odell - Mapleton 01 - Deadly Secrets (11 page)

Standing in the garage, Megan wrapped her arms around Rose’s trembling body. “We can’t go inside, Rose. Not until the police get here.”

“But the ice cream. It’ll melt all over the floor.”

“Oma, we can buy more ice cream, and I’ll clean the floor,” Justin said. “Maybe even put in a new one. Someone might be in there. The police said to stay out.”

Rose shuddered. “We locked the doors, yes. Sam?”

“Yes, I checked,” Sam said.

“So how did they get in?” Oma asked.

Opa took Oma’s hands in his. “That’s for the police to figure out. They might have broken a lock, or a window. Right now, we need to leave. We don’t want to mess any evidence.”

“Exactly, Oma. Like on television.”

“Where will we go?” Rose asked. Megan’s heart ached at the plaintive tone. She’d never known Rose to be helpless. She’d always been strong, always made Megan find her own inner strength.

“What about Selma’s house?” Sam said. “It’s two blocks away.”

“We can’t go in the house to call her. What if she’s not home? Or busy?” Rose said.

Sam came over and rested his hands on Rose’s shoulders. “We have a spare key, remember?”

“True.” Rose ducked her head. “But I hate to impose.”

“Rose, don’t be ridiculous. If Selma came to you, you’d invite her in, no questions asked,” Sam said.

“I guess so. But I don’t like hiding.”

“You do what you need to survive,” Sam said.

His tone prickled the hairs on Megan’s neck. She’d never heard him sound so bitter.

“Let’s go.” Megan opened the passenger door of the car and gently nudged Rose inside.

“What? We can’t walk a couple of blocks?” she said.

“Rose, be quiet,” Sam said. Another new tone. Sharp, authoritative. He’d used a milder version on Megan growing up, and it had demanded immediate compliance. This one had her snapping to attention.

Rose’s eyes widened, but she settled into her seat and fastened her seatbelt. Sam slid behind the wheel. Megan climbed in back with Justin. He seemed as surprised as she was at Rose and Sam’s reactions.

Minutes later, they pulled into the driveway of Selma’s white clapboard cottage. Megan hopped out of the car and trotted up the stoop. She pulled open the screen door and rapped the brass knocker, remembering how many times she’d gone through these same motions as a child. The siding needed a fresh coat of paint, and the concrete stoop was pitted and stained. It seemed smaller. Like Rose had when she’d given her that first hug yesterday.

“Who’s there?” Selma’s voice sounded smaller, too.

“It’s Megan. Megan Wyatt, and Rose and Sam. And Justin. Can we come in?”

A lock snicked, and the door opened an inch. From behind her, Megan heard car doors open and close. In front of her, Selma peered through the thick lenses of her glasses. Her brown eyes hadn’t lost any of their sparkle. “Megan Wyatt. All grown up. My heavens, child, come in.” The door opened wider. “I thought you might be that reporter from the
Weekly
. He’s after me to talk about the Holocaust. I haven’t decided if I trust him to write what I say. But come in, come in.”

Megan stepped aside so Rose and Sam could precede her into the house. Justin waited for her to enter. Once they were inside, Selma closed and locked the door. “Terrible thing, Betty getting killed. In her own shop. We never used to lock doors. The world is changing.”

Sam’s face clouded. “Maybe not so much,” he said under his breath. If Megan hadn’t been standing so close, she wouldn’t have heard.

Justin leaned down and kissed Selma’s cheek. “Hi, Selma. We won’t bother you long. Only until the police check out Oma and Opa’s house.”

Selma’s mouth dropped. “Police? What happened?”

Megan escorted Rose to the overstuffed chintz sofa. “You sit, Rose. You’re probably not adjusted to the different blood pressure medication yet. You’re shaking.”

“Someone was in my house,” Rose said. “That’s not right.”

“No, it’s not,” Selma said. “But the police will catch whoever did it. I’ll put on some coffee while we wait.”

“I’ll call the police station, let Gordon know where we are,” Megan said. She stood, surprised to find her knees wobbly.

After letting Gordon’s assistant know where to find them, Megan helped Selma with the coffee, a ritual much like the one Rose performed for guests, and had been doing as long as Megan could remember.

“Terrible, terrible thing,” Selma muttered under her breath as she measured grounds into the coffeemaker. “There are cookies in the jar. Store-bought, I’m afraid. Some pound cake is in the bread box.”

Megan didn’t bother to argue. Although Selma was soft and round where Rose was thin and wiry, the two shared the same mindset. Food equaled comfort.

Even if Megan didn’t think she could eat, seeing the coffee and sweets arranged on the large coffee table in Selma’s living room brought the reassuring memories of so many Sunday late-afternoon
Kaffeeklatsches
. Rose, Sam, and Selma seemed to settle into an uneasy silence broken by the chink of cup against saucer, or the clink of metal against china as they stirred their coffee.

Justin set his cup aside and paced, casting furtive glances toward the door, as if it might make Gordon appear. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Catching Megan’s gaze, he said, “I need some air.”

“Should you go outside?” Sam asked.

“What difference does it make?” Justin said. “Our car is out there. If someone is looking, they’ll know where we are. Besides, if they wanted one of us, why toss the house? Why be so obvious? Why not sit and wait?” The tension seemed to roll off him in waves.

“Go in the backyard,” Selma said. “It’s private.”

Justin barged toward the kitchen. The back door slammed shut.

“I could use some air too.” Megan wiped her mouth and carried her cup and plate to the kitchen. From the window over the sink, she saw Justin pacing circles in Selma’s lawn. She let herself out and matched Justin’s stride. A faint scent of roses wafted on the afternoon breeze.

After three trips around the yard, Justin’s pace slowed.

“Guess I’m getting acclimated,” Megan said. “I kept up.”

He led her into the wooden gazebo in the center of the yard. They sank onto the wooden bench that circled the inside of the ivy-covered lattice structure. Running his hand over the slats, he said, “Could use some maintenance.”

“We’re not out here to talk about fixing Selma’s gazebo, although she’d be thrilled. There’s something wrong, isn’t there? It’s obvious enough you’re upset.”

“I keep thinking, what would have happened if we’d been home? You heard what they said about the lady in the dress shop. Her throat was cut. That’s not an easy way to kill someone. I keep seeing”—he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“You think both crimes are connected, don’t you?”

“Geez, Megan. Nothing ever happens in Mapleton. And now, in less than two days, there’s a murder. And a break-in? Two break-ins, because it sounded to me like Mrs. What’s Her Name surprised a burglar. Only he didn’t run, which would seem to be the normal reaction.”

Her heart played battering ram against her ribcage. She struggled to breathe. Was she a target? Those pictures from the dead man. Was there a connection? But he was dead. It couldn’t be a coincidence that someone had tried to mug her. How many other people might be looking for her? A cold, clammy sweat filmed her body.

For the second time in far too few hours, Gordon stood in a doorway and inspected a disaster area. All he could think was, thank God no one had been home. Unlike lives, things could be replaced.

“Pictures, Solomon,” he said. “Everything. Six ways from Sunday.”

Solomon raised the camera to his eye and started snapping. “Looks kind of like my kid’s bedroom after a temper tantrum. You think our guy had an objective, or was just plain ornery?”

“Maybe a little of both. Maybe he couldn’t find what he wanted and got mad.”

“Not your run-of-the-mill thief,” Gordon said. “Television and stereo are still here.”

Solomon clicked off more pictures. “Old models. Everyone wants a flat screen. The TV’s probably twenty years old. And who uses video tapes anymore? It’s all DVD. At least he didn’t leave any of those dandy bodily function surprise packages.”

“There is that high note. We’ll have to ask the Kretzers if anything’s missing.”

“Want me to dust for prints?”

Gordon thought about Rose, the consummate housekeeper, returning to find not only the chaos, but also the black mess of fingerprint powder all over her house. He clenched his jaw. “Do it. There might be some matches with what the CSR team got at Vintage Duds. Might help narrow it down.”

“I heard one of the techs grumbling about how many prints they’d have to run.”

“Hell, it was a retail store. Ever watch a woman shop? Picking things up, touching everything?” His cell rang. Again. “Hepler.”

“Chief, Megan Wyatt called,” Laurie said. “They’re at Selma Goldberg’s on Woodlawn. You need the address?”

“No, I know the house. Send a deputy over to the Kretzers’ to help Solomon.”

“On it. How’s it look?” Laurie said.

“Not good, but there doesn’t seem to be much breakage. Mostly a mess. How are things holding up on your end?”

“Phone’s are ringing off the hook.”

“You need any help?”

“Irv is on it. He’s good at polite and evasive. The Denver papers are calling. And their local television station. They’re probably going to send a crew.”

“And you’re going to tell them?”

“No comment.”

He thought for a minute, checked his watch. “I can talk to them at five-thirty. Let Colfax know.” That way, nothing would be plastered all over the local early news shows. And nothing would hit the papers until tomorrow, although with half the news being on the Internet these days, he didn’t know whether they’d update their websites as soon as he finished. Wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t going to tell them much. “Let Buzz know, too. Reserve a seat up front for him.”

“On it.”

A damn press conference. He cringed. Maybe he could work an information officer into the budget. Wouldn’t necessarily have to be a sworn officer. Might be smarter that way. Gordon figured he’d have to exercise considerable restraint to keep from shooting a reporter. He switched his phone to vibrate and stuck it in its clip.

“Hey, Chief?” Solomon called in from the kitchen. “You think I need to leave all this?”

Gordon walked over. The contents of the freezer sat in the middle of the floor. Canisters of flour, sugar, rice had been emptied. Even Rose’s cookie jar was tipped onto the counter, gingersnaps spilling from its mouth.

Near the mud room, a sticky puddle of melted ice cream dripped from one of Rose’s mesh shopping bags, mixing with some tomatoes, grapes, and spinach into an unappetizing sundae.

“You shoot it?”

“Yes,” Solomon said.

“I’ll take care of it. You finish documenting the rest of the house. Find the point of entry.”

“Will do.”

This was one part of the mess Rose didn’t have to see. Gordon went to the mud room, found a broom, reevaluated the damages and changed his mind. In the garage, he found a snow shovel hanging on a wall. With it, he scooped everything into plastic trash bags he discovered under the sink. Then he used the broom. After that, he wet a paper towel, wiped up the ice cream residue, and threw everything away.

When he finished, he told Solomon backup was en route, and took off on foot for Selma Goldberg’s. Anyone passing by would see the normal, peaceful streets of residential Mapleton. The days were growing longer, aspens were leafing up, and flowers brought colorful borders to many of the walkways from street to stoops. Gordon ground his back teeth. Whoever had brought ugliness to his town would pay.

He made his way up the steps to Selma’s door. She opened it before he had a chance to knock. “Come in, Chief Hepler.”

He stepped inside, took his cap off. “Since when are you so formal?”

“You’re the police chief now. An important man. And you’re here on official business.”

“You can still call me Gordon.” He drew the line at Gordie, which she’d called him when he was in her second grade class.

“Rose and Sam are inside.”

His heart did a quick hop. “Megan and Justin?”

“They’re out in the yard. Said they needed some air.”

He exhaled. “I’ll talk to Rose and Sam first.”

Sam stood as Gordon walked over.

“Sit,” Gordon said. Both Rose and Sam seemed years older than when he’d seen them last. Sam’s eyes had a steely coldness to them. Anger burned. “I know you’re both upset. But let’s be thankful you weren’t home, that nothing happened to you.”

He asked his questions as gently as he could. Neither was aware of anyone wanting anything they owned. Other than Sam’s book collection, which was of more sentimental than monetary value, and the usual household collection of some silver pieces and basic jewelry, they didn’t have much worth stealing. Then again, that was a totally subjective opinion. People had killed for the price of a cheeseburger.

“I’m going to need you to look around. But I don’t want you staying there tonight. Is there someplace you can go?”

“They can stay here,” Selma said. “I have plenty of room.”

Rose and Sam exchanged uneasy glances.

“It’s for the best,” Gordon said. “And I’ll have a car patrolling both your houses all night.”

“Is that necessary?” Sam said. “Are we in danger?”

“I strongly doubt it. It’s a precaution. And maybe a deterrent.” He stood. “I’d like to talk to Justin and Megan for a minute, then I’ll go to the house with you.”

Gordon strode across the lawn toward the gazebo where Justin and Megan were tangled in an embrace. Her face was buried in his chest. Justin nuzzled her hair, tinged gold with the late-afternoon sun, and his hand moved up and down her back. Gordon slowed, about to announce his presence, when muffled sobs told him he wasn’t interrupting a romantic interlude.

He trotted the last few feet and took the steps in a single bound. “Is there a problem?”

Justin pulled his face away from her hair long enough to say, “Scared,” then murmured more sounds of comfort.

Gordon sat on Megan’s other side. “Megan. It’s Gordon. Did you remember what happened to you? Is that why you’re afraid?”

When she didn’t respond, Gordon put his hands on her shoulders and eased her away from Justin. “Megan, it’s important. Talk to me. You’re safe here.”

She shook her head wildly and her sobs intensified.

“She won’t say anything,” Justin said. “She’s been crying for about five minutes.”

“What triggered it?” Gordon took over Justin’s role of comforter as Megan buried her face in his chest now. He couldn’t remember seeing Megan cry. Ever. She’d shaken off injuries, both physical and emotional, with a defiant toss of her braids. He wasn’t sure she was even aware he’d taken her from Justin.

Justin frowned. “We were talking about how we thought the break-ins at my grandparents’ house and the dress shop were related, and she went all white and clammy, then said someone wanted to kill her. Then she fell apart.”

Gordon’s skin prickled. “She say who threatened her?”

“No. But I’m guessing it pertains to what happened to her yesterday. Doesn’t take a deerstalker cap and magnifying glass to deduce that.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Gordon muttered.

He pried Megan loose and took her chin in his hands. “Megan. You’re okay. Rose and Sam are okay. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you, or them. But we have to talk.”

She squinted. Blinked. As if she was trying to see into some dark passageway. Which maybe she was.

Megan stared at Justin, then at him. Her vision cleared. “I don’t know why I went off the deep end like that.”

“Someone threatened you. It’s understandable,” Gordon said.

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

“Nothing is going to happen to Rose and Sam. I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she said. “But I know you mean you’ll do your best.”

“Me and the entire Mapleton Police Department, and a multitude of County Deputy Sheriffs. Rose and Sam will stay here tonight. Will you?” He included Justin with his gaze.

“I can probably stay with Angie,” Megan said.

“I’m not afraid to sleep at my grandparents’ house,” Justin said.

“Nobody’s going to stay at their place until it’s released as a crime scene.” Gordon stood. “Speaking of which. I want to take Rose and Sam to look things over.”

“Was it bad?” Megan asked. “Justin shooed us all out of the house before I could see.”

“I’m not going to lie. It’s not good,” Gordon said. Which was why he was going to handle this part of the investigation personally.

“I’m coming, too,” Megan said. “They’ll need support.”

Justin stood. “I’m with you.”

“It’s not necessary,” Gordon said.

“I’m going,” Justin said. The rigidness of his expression, the sharpness of his tone, gave Gordon the feeling his insistence on being included had to do with more than moral support for his grandparents.