Terry Odell - Mapleton 01 - Deadly Secrets (3 page)

Megan searched her brain for a mental file on Gordon. According to Angie’s gossip updates, Gordon and his wife had split three years ago. Which spared Megan the awkward small-talk
faux pas
of starting a conversation with, “So, how are you and”—what was her name? Cindy?—“doing? Any kids?”

Instead, she kept her mouth shut.

“Let’s walk,” Gordon said, heading away from the house. Rose and Sam’s house sat on a three-acre plot, most of which they left in its natural state. The air smelled of damp earth and what she always thought of as “green.” Seven years of city living evaporated.

“I hear you’re Chief of Police now,” she said. “Congratulations.”

He shrugged. “Small town. Small force. Mostly I do paperwork.”

“But it’s an accomplishment to be proud of.”

“I don’t know. When Dix—the last chief—got sick, he told the city fathers he wanted me to have his job. The council went along with Dix’s recommendation, over the mayor’s objections. Dix died about eight months ago, so we’ll see what they do when my contract comes up for renewal.”

“I’m sure you’re proving yourself more than worthy.”

He shrugged and cast his eyes downward. “How’s life in the big city, being an event planner? You organize weddings, parties, stuff like that?”

“No, I switched to conventions about four years ago. Fewer hissy fits. Less stress. And I get to travel.”

“Nice that you found time for a visit. I’m sure Rose and Sam are glad to see you.”

Was he implying she’d been neglecting them? She bit back a response and followed him along a path into the trees, concentrating on the quiet sounds of rustling trees and gentle birdsong.

“Okay, Gordon,” she said once they were out of sight and earshot of anyone. “You didn’t invite me out for a walk in the woods. What’s going on?” Had Angie blabbed about her ‘feelings’ that there was more than renovations going on at the Kretzers’?

“You were on the highway about an hour ago, I assume,” he said. “Drove in from the Denver airport?”

“Wha—what?” That flew in from left field.

“The highway. Into town. You were on it.”

“Of course. It’s not like there are many options. Mapleton’s not exactly a major hub of civilization.”

“Did you notice a blue Toyota Camry, Florida plates?”

She stopped midstride. “Yes. I guess so. I can’t tell one car from another, but I followed a jerk in a blue car with Florida plates. He drove like a snail, and there’s no way to pass along that stretch. He finally pulled over to—you know—relieve himself. At least, that’s what I assumed. No gun, no camera. Why do you ask?”

Gordon pinched the bridge of his nose. “There was an…accident.”

She couldn’t help but note the hesitation. “I assume it involved the blue car?”

“Yes.” She noticed the furrows in his brow and the concern in his eyes. Somewhere between blue and green, the color of Aspen Lake after it rained. Creases etched their corners now, giving him a more seasoned look than the high school jock she remembered. She lowered herself to the log.

“Bad?” she asked.

He nodded. “Fatal.”

She got up and paced again, searching her memory. “I noticed him at the switchbacks—the ones after the turnoff to Aspen Meadows. He might have come from there—I don’t remember seeing him before. I rounded a curve, and there he was. I almost hit him, he was going so slow.”

“How was he driving? Any signs that he might be under the influence?”

“You mean weaving? A little. I figured he was looking at the scenery. Or not used to mountain driving. Especially if he was from Florida.” She thought some more. “Oh, and he was talking on his cell phone, or trying to. Which could explain why he was weaving. Unless he was drunk or on drugs. But can’t you tell that with medical tests nowadays?”

“Yes, but not as fast as they do on television.” He gave a wry grin. “Besides, it’s not our jurisdiction. State troopers handle accidents. We’re strictly local. Catch red light runners, write parking tickets.”

“And keep everyone safe,” she said. “I remember the things the police did when we were growing up. Talk to the kids at school about drugs. Sponsor after school sports. Show them that cops are the good guys.”

His grin widened. “You left out making sure no ghosts attack Mrs. Bedford.”

“What? Ghosts? Who’s Mrs. Bedford?”

“She’s the owner of Vintage Duds.”

“She sees ghosts?”

“Calls in no less than once a week. Says the clothes hold the spirits of their former owners, and she’s convinced they’re messing with her shop.”

“See. Your job
is
important. You’re protecting the citizenry from an entire other dimension.”

He chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind. But let’s focus on the accident.”

“If it’s not in your jurisdiction, why is it bothering you?”

“I’ve got some things at the office I’d like you to look at.”

“Now? I just got here. I want to make sure Rose and Sam are okay.” Should she mention Angie’s harebrained idea that Justin had some ulterior motive for his visit? No. Angie’d undoubtedly blown everything out of proportion. She’d get a feel for things herself first. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow? It doesn’t seem fair to Rose and Sam to show up and dash out.”

“It won’t take long. I have to turn everything over to the troopers, but I want to show you first.”

He was already standing.

Right. He was a cop. People did what he said. She quickened her pace to match his longer stride as they returned to the house.

“Let me tell Rose and Sam I’m going,” she said.

“Tell them you have to take care of something in town. Not that you’re coming with me.”

“What? Why?”

“I’ll meet you at my office. Ten minutes.”

Justin heard a car door close. From his second-story window, he watched the cop car drive away. Seconds later, he heard Oma saying, “Thanks, doll,” and Megan got into her car and drove off.

Justin pulled his cell phone from its case on his belt, pressed the voicemail button. Before the call went through, he mashed the button to cancel the transmission. Better not to know. He had no answers yet.

All Megan had said while they were eating was that she had some vacation and she wanted to visit. And she’d be staying here, of course.

His grandfather poked his head into the room, carrying Oma’s plastic caddy of cleaning supplies and an armload of towels. “Your grandmother wants we should fix up Megan’s bedroom.”

“Of course,” Justin said. As if the bedroom wasn’t always ready, in case anyone needed a place to stay.

“And these go into the bathroom.” Opa dropped the towels on Justin’s bed.

“I’d better do some cleaning if we’re going to share.” Justin took the caddy. “Why don’t you make sure Oma’s being sensible.”

“Rose has an extra mouth to feed. She’s in the kitchen. In heaven.”

“All the more reason to make sure she doesn’t overexert before she sees the doctor.” He pretended to examine the contents of the caddy. “So, where’s Megan off to?”

“She said she forgot something, had to pick it up in town. I figured it was one of those female items. And Rose needed some things from the market.”

Justin laughed. “As if she couldn’t feed half the town with what she has here.”

“I learned long, long ago never to contradict your grandmother when it comes to food.”

“Go. I’ve got it all under control.”

He waited until he heard his grandparents arguing about what Oma should and shouldn’t be doing.

All under control. Like hell.

He crossed into the bathroom that connected his bedroom to Megan’s. They’d never had issues sharing when he’d visited before, even in their teens. Somehow, now, sharing the bath felt disturbingly…intimate. But first, he needed to inspect Megan’s bedroom.

He hadn’t given Megan’s bedroom more than a cursory check since he’d arrived. It was a generic guestroom, with a few dolls and stuffed animals proclaiming Megan had lived here. He moved to the window, struggling with the sash before the swollen frame groaned and moved upward in the track. He stepped away, feeling the fresh breeze waft into the room. Chilly, but it would get rid of the stuffiness.

Birds scattered from the oak tree outside. Memories of Megan’s unsuccessful attempts to get him to climb out one night brought a rueful smile to his face. God, he’d been a mess. Fat, insecure. A coward.

And you’re still a coward
.

He checked the bookcase. A dictionary, a thesaurus, and some basic reference books suitable for middle and high school were probably Megan’s. The rest were from Opa’s extensive collection.

The shelves of books reminded him of why he was here, and a quiver of fear snaked along his spine. This might be his only chance. He checked the time, trying to guess how long Megan would be gone. He figured an hour on the outside—better shoot for half that. Using Oma’s sprays and polishes to cover his snooping, he set to work.

Each tick of the old schoolhouse clock on his office wall heightened Gordon’s anxiety. Megan should have been here by now. The Colorado State Patrol would investigate the accident, but he didn’t want to turn over what he’d found before he’d talked to her.

He buried the tingle of guilt. He wasn’t withholding evidence. Merely…rerouting it. Briefly. And, technically, it wasn’t evidence. Simply something…interesting…in an accident victim’s car.

When the accident call came in, Mapleton had been first responders. Dave Gilman and Tom Reynolds in the ambulance, and Ed Solomon in a cruiser. Technically the CSP was in charge of traffic accidents, but they were spread thin. Gordon liked to think of himself as a team player, and the troopers had never objected to the help. Gilman had inadvertently left an envelope belonging to the victim in the Mapleton ambulance and had turned it over to Gordon for safekeeping.

Tires crunched on gravel. He swiveled his chair toward the window and caught the silver gleam of Megan’s car pulling into the lot. It took conscious effort to even his breathing. He slid the envelope into his desk drawer and sorted through Solomon’s photos of the accident scene one more time.

“He’s expecting me.” Megan’s voice preceded her sneakered footfalls down the corridor. Laurie’s heads up call coincided with a tap on his office door.

“Thanks,” he said into the phone. He hung up, took a breath. “Come on in.”

“All right, Gordon, I’m here.” Megan rested her hands on the back of the wooden visitor chair across from Gordon’s desk. “What’s so important?”

“You know anyone named Karl Franklin?” He blurted it out, no preliminaries. No way for her to anticipate the question, prepare herself. Unless she expected it.

Her expression was guileless. Her body language agreed. “No. Where should I know him from?”

He pushed a photo across the desk. “This the guy you saw?”

Bracing her hands on the edge of the desk, she leaned forward. And jerked away with a gasp. She sank into the chair.

“You recognize him?” Gordon asked.

She shook her head. “No. I didn’t expect something quite so…graphic.”

She’d paled. Gordon rolled his chair back and hurried to her side. “Shit, Megan. I should have prepared you first. I need to find out what you know before the troopers show up, and I blanked out the part where you’re not a cop and used to this. I didn’t think. You want some water?”

“No, I’m okay. It took me by surprise.” She closed her eyes, took a breath, and gathered her composure before opening them. “It’s not much worse than the crime scene shows. I think what got me is it’s real, not makeup. That I might have seen this guy alive. Is this Karl Franklin?”

“According to the troopers, yes.”

“Let me see it again.”

“You sure?” Had her reaction been to the bloody picture? The body was fresh, nothing grossly mangled. Blood covered the man’s face, and the eyes had the glassy stare of death, but as accident photos went, this one was on the tame side.

Or did she know the victim and was reacting on a more personal level?

She sucked in a noisy breath. “If it’s important, I can do it.”

“Keep thinking of it as a television show.” In school, she’d had a reputation for being open, saying what was on her mind. Now, he saw nothing shifty, nothing deceptive. No red flags. He ignored the twinge of remorse for upsetting her with the picture. But it brought her emotional responses closer to the surface, where he needed them.

“I never got a good look at his face.” She held the picture as if she were afraid to touch it.

“Look again, please,” he said. “See if any details about the man you saw come to mind.”

She nibbled at her lip. “All I saw was the back of his head. Bald on top. He got out of the car, looked my way, then went into the woods. He was wearing sunglasses. And I’m not sure I’d recognize him from this picture anyway. All the blood.”

“Don’t think about that for now. You said you’d followed him for some time. Close your eyes. Think about it. What did you notice? Was he alone in the car?”

She took a deep breath, as if she were preparing to jump into the swimming hole outside of town. With her eyes closed, she worried her lower lip again before speaking. “I’d say, yes, he was alone. He never seemed to be talking to someone else. I remember noticing the Florida plates, assumed he was a retiree. Maybe because he was bald, but that’s silly. Guys can go bald at almost any age.”

Gordon rubbed the top of his head, thankful he wasn’t one of them. “True enough. But those kinds of impressions might be based on more than lack of hair. The way he stood, walked, might have played a part.”

She picked up the picture, squinting at it as if she could see the living man under the corpse.

“I don’t know, Gordon.” Her eyes widened. “Please, don’t tell me I have to identify the body.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He smiled at the relief on her face. “But there is one more question.” Trying to read her, he set the real reason he’d insisted on seeing her on the desk. “Any idea why he had these?”