Terry Odell - Mapleton 01 - Deadly Secrets (4 page)

Megan cast a slow, scrutinizing look at Gordon. His features seemed rigid, almost expressionless. He was being a cop, she realized. A recently promoted police chief, no less. Not the old friend who had walked with her in the woods a short time ago. He caught her gaze. Held it. Pushed the papers a little closer. She picked up the first one. People. Mostly faces. Blurred and grainy. She looked more closely.

Her stomach churned. This wasn’t a gory crime scene picture, but she swallowed, concentrating on keeping Rose’s cookies and apple cake where they belonged.

“You found this on the dead man?” She dropped the page as if it were on fire.

“In an envelope in the car. That’s a copy.”

The faces belonged to her.
All
the pictures were of her.

She shoved the page aside and looked at the second sheet. No pictures on this one, but in neat, block letters—Rose and Sam’s address and phone number. And below that, some handwriting, barely legible. Gingerly, she picked up the paper and tried to decipher the faint scrawl.

Use the kid. They’ll talk.

Realizing her hands were shaking, she let the page float to the desk. “What does it mean?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Have you asked Rose and Sam? Maybe there’s a simple explanation.”

“I wanted to ask you first.”

“Well, you asked. I don’t know who the dead guy is, who Karl Franklin is, or why he would have these pictures.”

“Any idea where he got them?”

Reluctantly, she studied the pictures again, trying to ignore the creep factor. The quality was low, but recognition hit. “They’re from the company website. A quick trip through Google, click ‘Print’ and there they are.” She squinted. “It might be easier to tell on the original, but it looks like these were actually cut and pasted—with scissors and glue—onto a page, and then photocopied.”

Gordon raised his eyebrows. She caught a glimmer of surprise and appreciation in his eyes. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a large manila envelope. Propping it open, he peered inside, then extracted a clear plastic sleeve. He placed it on the desk. After repositioning his desk lamp, he dipped into another drawer and pulled out a large magnifying glass.

“You really use that? It’s not a Sherlock Holmes thing?”

Some of the friend showed through as he gave her an amused grin. “We’re a
little
more advanced here, but sometimes the basics work just fine.” Holding the glass to his eye, he scrutinized the pictures. “I think you’re right.”

“Which doesn’t answer the question of what the paper means.” She tried to think of some innocent reason, but failed. No matter how she tried to spin it, it read like a threat. And judging from the sweat trickling from her neck down her spine, her brain gave it the same interpretation. “You think the
they
in ‘They’ll talk’ is Rose and Sam. Someone wants to find out something they know.”

He nodded.

“And it’s not Rose’s apple cake recipe. I think she’d share that without being threatened.”

“Agreed.”

“So,” she said, “what are you doing to protect them?”

The expression on his face turned the sweat to ice. “I’ve already assigned increased patrol in their neighborhood. However, at the moment, I’m more concerned about you.”

“Me? Why?”

“
Use the kid
.” He pointed to the words.

“I’m the kid? You think that’s me?” Of course he did. But she hoped he’d have an alternative suggestion. One her brain couldn’t come up with now.

He lifted his eyebrows. “Who else?”

“Nobody, I guess, since there aren’t any other pictures. But what does it mean?”

“I see a couple of possibilities.” Gordon’s expression was all cop.

“What do you mean?”

Megan resisted the urge to squirm as Gordon leaned forward and fixed those not-blue, not-green, not-gray eyes on her. Was she a suspect? How could he possibly think she was involved?

“Let’s start with the basics.” He raised his thumb. “One. We have someone, ostensibly headed for Rose and Sam’s address.”

She couldn’t find fault with that logic. “Okay.”

“Two.” He lifted a forefinger. “He’s got pictures of you, and apparently has connected you to Rose and Sam.”

“Agreed.”

“So, the question is, why?”

Well, duh. “And the answer is?”

“He’s either already made contact with you—”

“Which he hasn’t.”

“I only have your word for that.”

“Gordon, you’re kidding. Why would I lie?”

“Megan, I’m thinking like a cop here, not someone who knows you. This is what any cop would do—will do, once they see these papers.” He paused, as if searching for the best way to continue. “Or, they might think he was on his way to meet you. That you’re working together. I was hoping you’d give me something I could use to point them in the right direction.”

The clouds in her brain parted, and she understood the concern in Gordon’s expression. “You mean…you mean they might suspect
me
?” The words squeaked out. She took a breath. “I’ll tell them the truth. I never heard of this guy, nor has anyone tried to coerce me into getting Rose and Sam to say or do anything. I love Rose and Sam. They love me.”

“People will do a lot to protect loved ones. There’s also the possibility the guy was searching for you.”

“Here? How could he know I’d be coming here?”

“When did you plan the trip? Who knew you’d be here?”

Lord, he was dead serious about this. She tried to remember. “I bought my tickets five days ago. I gave my cell number to my boss and my team. And I told Angie.”

He jotted notes. “Thanks.”

“You can’t think one of them is involved.”

“I doubt it. If it was you he wanted, why not intercept you at the airport? Why drive from Florida?”

Megan leaned forward. “What if you hadn’t seen those papers? Would I be sitting here getting the third degree?”

He shook his head. “Without them, the whole thing looks like a simple, unfortunate traffic accident.”

“And you’re not going to…misplace…those pieces of paper, are you?” As soon as she spoke the words, she regretted the way they’d come out. “I didn’t mean to imply that you’d circumvent the law. I mean, I know you would never—”

He pulled his fingertips down the length of his nose. “I won’t say I didn’t think of it.” He put the originals in the envelope, then sealed it and wrote his name across the flap. “But I can’t pretend they don’t exist. The accident might not be in my jurisdiction, but Rose and Sam are. I’m going to check into it. As a matter of fact, maybe you could convince them to take a nice vacation with you until I get a handle on this.”

“They’d never agree. You know that. And it could be nothing. Meanwhile, I could help.”

He shook his head. “Not a good idea. Giving you access to an investigation, especially one where you’re involved, will make things look bad.”

“But what if you didn’t realize the pictures were me? I mean, it has been a long time.”

He shook his head again.

Of course. She had no right to ask him to do anything that might impugn his integrity as a cop, especially a probationary chief of police. But she could do some checking on her own.

The aroma of Oma’s brisket floated through the room. Justin’s stomach growled. He clenched his jaw and went on with his searching. He’d have to run miles before dinner. And, as the sound of Oma’s heavy-duty mixer joined the clattering of pots and pans, he figured maybe even more miles after. With Megan visiting, Oma would pull out all the stops.

He slid the next of Opa’s books off the shelf, fanned the pages and shook them upside down. And, as with the others, got nothing but dust for his efforts.

He swore under his breath.

He’d almost finished the shelf when a car pulled into the drive. Damn. So soon? He checked the window. Definitely Megan’s car.

She disappeared behind the open trunk, emerging with two of Oma’s canvas shopping totes. He swiped the dust from the front of the shelf and brought the caddy to the bathroom. Maybe tomorrow, while everyone was at the doctor’s, he’d finally have time to finish searching Megan’s bedroom.

He squirted toilet cleaner into the bowl, let it soak while he scoured the sink and rearranged his meager array of toiletries into a cluster in the corner of the counter. Megan could have the rest of the space for whatever female paraphernalia she’d brought. He sprayed something foamy into the tub and wiped it down.

He flushed the toilet, grabbed the toilet brush and swished it around the bowl as it emptied, then filled.

“Cleaning the toilet for me, Justin? Still can’t aim?”

He jumped, spinning around. “Megan. Hi.”

She smiled. “I can’t remember you ever cleaning a toilet when we were kids.”

“We’re not kids. I’ve picked up a few civilized skills. Besides, you know Oma. If I wasn’t doing it, she would be, or she’d have Opa doing it. Bad enough she cooks twenty-four seven. She doesn’t need extra housework.”

Megan scrunched her face and fisted her hands at her hips. He smiled at the familiar gesture.

“You think I’m going to wear her down? Give me a break, Justin. I’m here because I care about them.” She shot him a look, almost tangible in its vehemence.

“Hey, hey.” He raised his hands in submission, getting rewarded with cold water dripping down his arm. He returned the brush to its holder next to the toilet. “We’re on the same side here.”

“Sorry.”

Her expression made him wonder. Even as she backed into her room, he had the creepy feeling she’d given him the once over, like an alpha dog checking a newcomer to the neighborhood.

He retreated to his room, closing the bathroom door on his side. He grabbed a pair of running shorts from the dresser. Maybe the endorphins would clear his brain. If nothing else, he’d counteract some of Oma’s cooking.

Downstairs, Opa’s snoring told him his grandfather was napping in his study. Justin checked the kitchen. “Smells great, Oma.”

Dabbing her forehead with her apron, she turned from the stove and beamed at him. “Come. Let me know how it is.”

He sighed. “Everything you make is delicious.”

“But maybe it needs more salt. Come. Taste.”

He strode across the uneven floor planks. Was there a crawl space underneath? “You know, Oma, it wouldn’t take that long to get a new floor in here. I’d hate for you to trip and fall. They have some great new stuff—looks like wood but it won’t warp. And you’d never have to polish it.”

She waved her wooden spoon at him. “I’ve been walking on this floor for forty-two years and haven’t fallen yet. It’s a perfectly good floor. No need to waste the money.” She eyed him, then the pot on the stove, waiting.

He picked up a spoon, dipped it into the simmering soup, and slurped the hot liquid into his mouth. “Delicious.”

She nodded in agreement. “You won’t be late now. Dinner will be at six. Sharp.”

“I’m going around the pond. Shouldn’t be more than an hour.” He kissed her cheek, then unexpected feelings surfaced from deep inside and he enveloped her in an embrace. “I love you, Oma.”

She accepted his hug, then gazed at him, a quizzical glint in her eyes. She waved him away. “And I love you. Now go do your running, and let me cook.”

On the porch, he stopped to warm up. He twisted his torso, did some quad and calf stretches, enjoyed the warmth of the afternoon sun. He’d hoisted one leg onto the rail and bent forward in an easy stretch when he sensed Megan’s presence behind him. Her scent, a mixture of flowers and spice, drifted through the air, mingling pleasantly with the kitchen aromas and clean smells of the newly repaired porch.

Her voice followed her scent. “Cleaning toilets. Exercising. My, my. This isn’t the Justin I remember.”

Thank God.

He continued stretching, trying to ignore the neatly manicured, slender fingers stroking the porch rail inches from his calf.

“Looks good,” she said.

He angled his head toward her. Her long, sleek, bare leg appeared next to his. Her shiny brown hair cascaded in front of her face as she leaned forward. He stole a glance, only somewhat relieved to find she wore a jersey warmup jacket over—over what? He shoved away some of the fantasies he’d had when he was thirteen. Like the time she’d forgotten to close her door to the bathroom before she pulled her nightgown over her delightfully developing breasts.

Had she been teasing him then? Because she damn well was teasing him now. Why?

“The porch, I mean,” she said. “I hear you’re responsible for all the repairs.”

He switched legs. “The house needed it. Rose and Sam don’t notice the way things are falling apart. I…nudged a little.”

“Sam says you were in the thick of things, wielding tools, stroking paint. I’ll bet you’re a wizard with a cordless drill.”

Her tone was low, slow, and sultry. He grabbed his ankle, kept his face hidden against his knee, and held the stretch. “Part of what I do.”

She stood up, unzipped her jacket, and arched her back, revealing a form-fitting top. Those breasts had done an excellent job of developing.

“Rose said you were going for a run,” she said. “Mind if I tag along? You can fill me in on exactly what it is you do. I thought you’d have done the follow-the-parent’s-footsteps thing. Become a doctor or a lawyer.”

She didn’t know? Rose and Sam certainly hadn’t kept
her
accomplishments from him, bragging about the way she was moving up, how she was thinking about starting her own consulting business. Were they ashamed that he’d chosen a different path?

“You run?” he asked. He took in her loose-fitting, knee-length knit shorts and everyday sneakers.

Tossing her head, spreading another wave of flowers and spice, she put her other leg on the rail. “Treadmill mostly. I need to work out the kinks. The drive from the airport got me all stiff. You know how that goes.”

He was
not
following that thought. “You sure?”

“Are you implying I won’t be able to keep up?”

“Frankly, yes. You’re not adjusted to the altitude yet. I figured on doing about three miles—easy jog down to the pond to warm up, run a lap, then walk home to cool down. Until you start cranking out those red cells, it’s not smart to push yourself.”

She planted both feet on the porch floor and cocked her head at him. “
You
run?”

“I’m not Jumbo Justin anymore, Megan, in case you haven’t noticed.”

She had the decency to blush, and was uncharacteristically quiet.

“Oh, don’t tell me you thought I didn’t know what everyone called me.”

“I never called you that,” she said softly.

“To my face anyway.” He trotted down the steps. “I have to go. I promised to be back in plenty of time for dinner. Maybe you should stay and help Oma in the kitchen.”

“Kitchen?” She fisted her hands at her hips again. “Is that all you think I’m good for?”

“No, of course not. But now, it’s probably the wiser choice.”

He jogged away, ignoring her shout for him to wait.