Terry Odell - Mapleton 01 - Deadly Secrets (9 page)

Megan drifted along with the swirling fog of the pain medication.

“Megan?”

She squinted, finding Justin’s silhouette at the foot of her bed. Right. They’d been talking. “Hmm.”

“Pill taking effect? You think you can sleep now?”

“Maybe.” She scooted down in the bed, closed her eyes, and sank into the mattress.

Shapes and shadows danced in her head. Dreamy, ethereal. An abstract ballet. Something lurked at the edge of the shadowy figures. With a rush, it stormed into the midst of the dance. Sharp, jerky motions. A male form. Thick, blocky. He wove in and out among the dancers, tripping them, knocking them down, destroying the graceful patterns of their movements.

She strained to see him more clearly. Discern his features. He had none. A mask? Heart pounding, she reached for his face, frantic to pull away the covering. He grabbed her arm.

“Megan. Wake up.”

She struggled to free herself.

“Megan. It’s me. Justin. You’re having a nightmare. Wake up.”

Soothing tones, repeated over and over.
You’re safe. Wake up.

She shot to the surface, gasping, as if it were from the depths of the ocean. “Justin?”

“Welcome back.”

She raked her hand through wet, tangled hair. “Whoa. That was some pill.”

“Maybe next time half will be enough.”

“I think I prefer the pain. How long was I like that?”

“Not too long. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

She looked at the clock. It was after six. “You were here the whole time?”

“No, you crashed about five minutes after you took the pill. I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I came in when I heard you.”

“Heard me? Was I talking in my sleep?” Her mind had cleared enough to know she wasn’t supposed to be talking, although she wasn’t clear on the details yet. She clenched her good hand into a fist, trying to make order of the muddle in her head.

“Nothing intelligible,” he said. “Mostly groans.”

It didn’t matter. It wasn’t whether she talked, but whether the man thought she’d talked. She shuddered, and the shudders grew into uncontrollable shivers. Her throat tightened.

Justin snaked his arm behind her and she clung to him. Just for a minute. Just until she got centered. Heat radiated from his body. She absorbed it like sunshine on a winter day. She buried her face in his chest, concentrating on his steady heartbeat, trying to slow her own to match.

“Oh, God, Megan. Easy. You’re safe.”

“Just hold me for a second.”

“I’ve got you. Nothing is going to happen to you. I promise.”

If only. But now, he was here, he was strong, and she did feel safe. She wasn’t shivering anymore. Enough. This was
Justin.
He was practically family. She took one last deep inhale, soaking up his scent before pulling away.

“Thanks,” she said, avoiding his gaze.

“Any time.” He brushed his fingers along her jaw. Rough, calloused fingers, but oh, so gentle.

Water gurgled through the pipes. “It’s nearly six,” she said. “Rose and Sam will be up.”

“If you want to sleep in, they’ll understand.”

And invite the nightmares? “No, I’ll get up. I have to scrounge a plastic bag for my wrist so I can wash.”

“Need any help?” He grinned.

“In your dreams.”

“I meant scrounging the plastic bag.”

She ignored the feigned innocence in his expression. “Right. Please.”

“No problem. Back in a jiff.”

“Justin?”

He turned. “Something else you need?”

A way out of this mess.
She shook her head. “Thanks.”

He dipped his head, then went into his bedroom, closing the door on his side of the bathroom. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Her eyes followed the cracks as if they were a roadmap that would lead her to answers.

When no illuminated route appeared, she sighed and got out of bed. Steadier on her feet than she’d been last night, she padded into the bathroom to check the damages. The swelling on her forehead had gone down, but there was a nice collage of purple and yellow surrounding the red lines where the scrapes had scabbed over. Makeup wasn’t going to help. Deciding a bath would be easier than a shower for keeping her bandage dry, she turned on the taps.

And was immediately doused with cold water. Some idiot hadn’t flipped the diverter from shower to tub. “Justin!” she squealed.

The door flew open. Justin appeared, plastic bag in hand, panic in his eyes. “What happened?”

He stood there, his eyes widening. His gaze wandered across her body, and she realized her cotton nightshirt bore the results of her impromptu shower. She grabbed for a towel.

“Damn it, Justin, don’t you know enough to set the water for the tub after you shower?”

His mouth curved into a grin. “I don’t take baths.”

She snatched the bag from him. “Out. Out, out, out.”

Downstairs, the doorbell rang.

Gordon smelled the coffee as soon as he stepped out of his SUV at the Kretzers’. Seeing lights and movement in the kitchen, he strolled to the door and rang the bell. Sam, hair disheveled, wearing a flannel robe and leather slippers, peered out, then opened the door.

“Gordon? Is something wrong?”

“No. Sorry to come by so early. I wanted to check on Megan. Has she remembered anything more?”

“She’s taking a bath, I believe. If you’d like to wait, the coffee’s ready. You can ask her yourself.”

Good as Rose’s coffee was, Gordon couldn’t linger. He almost mentioned what had happened at Vintage Duds, but decided these folks didn’t need any more excitement. They’d find out soon enough. “No, I have to get to the station. Have Megan call if she regains her memory.” Inhaling one last lungful of coffee-scented air, he turned to leave.

Rose’s scuffling footfalls sounded behind him.

“Gordon, wait a minute, please.”

He pivoted and gave her a patient smile. “Yes?”

She came closer, cleaned her glasses and gave him the once-over. Self-consciously, he rubbed his hand over his unshaven jaw. She made a tsk-tsk sound.

“Why are you here so early? You wouldn’t show up unannounced at six-thirty in the morning simply to check on Megan. And to look at you, you haven’t been sleeping. What’s going on?”

Damn, she could read him like his mother. Better, maybe.

“I’ve been working a case since early this morning. And if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a meeting at seven.”

“Should we be worried?” she asked. “Is this about Megan’s accident?”

“No, not at all.” What the hell. Better to hear it from him instead of the gossip mongers. “There was an…incident at Vintage Duds.”

“Incident?” Sam said. “What kind?”

“It might be a homicide.” Might be? Talk about sugar-coating. “That’s what my meeting’s about, so I need to go.”

“Was it Betty?” Rose asked, one hand to her mouth.

He nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

She blanched. “Her family. They know?”

“We called her sister. She’ll make the arrangements.”

“Can we help? She has no family here, but maybe a memorial service?”

Gordon put his hands on Rose’s shoulders. “That’s very kind, Rose.”

“You’ll tell me how I can help?”

“Promise. I’ve got to go.”

Sam walked him to the SUV. “There is something you’re not saying.”

“Police business, Sam.”

“I understand. But I’m thinking you would tell Rose to keep the doors locked, except you’re afraid it would upset her. On the other hand, if I insist, she’ll simply call me a worry wart. But the doors will be locked.”

“You’re a wise man, Sam.”

Gordon tossed his ball cap onto a hook inside his office door, shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair. Cinnamon wafted to his nostrils. His stomach rumbled; his mouth watered. He followed the aroma to the break room where several uniformed county deputies were stuffing their faces with cinnamon buns.

“Sorry we don’t have donuts,” Gordon said, insinuating himself between them and grabbing one for himself. “Nothing but fresh-baked cinnamon buns. Us being the poor country bumpkin police force and all.”

One deputy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then licked his fingers. “If this is your normal fare, let me know when you have an opening, and I’m putting in for a transfer.”

“No, this is a special service. Only happens when we get a homicide. At the current rate, you might tell your grandson to apply for the job.” He poured coffee into his mug, raising it in salute. “Briefing in five, officers,” he said, and went off in search of Laurie.

Irv approached. “Chief, do you want me to stay? I know I screwed up, but it won’t happen again.”

Damn straight. Irv had taken Gordon’s initial instructions too literally. He’d told Irv that Vicky was in charge of dealing with Mrs. Bedford’s whining, and Irv had extrapolated that to mean he shouldn’t bother Gordon with any calls regarding Betty.

In retrospect, Gordon admitted he might have sounded irked when he’d talked to Irv after Betty’s second call out. Still, the man should have known the difference between a homicide and a fear of ghosts. But, bottom line, Betty had been dead for a while before Vicky found her, and getting called out at oh two hundred instead of oh four-seventeen wouldn’t have mattered.

Irv looked humble to the point of it being embarrassing.

“Sure,” Gordon said. “We can use all the help we can get. Connie’s working Dispatch, but she can use an assistant.”

“I won’t let you down.” Irv spun on his heel and marched toward Connie’s desk.

Gordon found Laurie with Solomon in the multi-purpose room, pushing desks together, forming one long table down the center. The white board was set up at the far end of the tables, creating the top of a T. Solomon had taped an eight-by-ten blowup of one of the crime scene shots.

Detective Tyler Colfax, the deputy who’d shown up at the scene to help work the case meandered into the room and leaned against the far wall, apparently content to let Gordon’s staff handle setting thing up. Gordon nodded in his direction.

Colfax lifted a cup of coffee in response. Mid-forties. Average height, beginnings of a paunch, but his relaxed stance was deceptively casual. Steel-blue eyes grabbed every detail. Soft-spoken, but people did what he said, no questions asked, Gordon knew, after working with him earlier.

Members of the Mapleton force, most munching on cinnamon buns, filtered into the room. Nothing like a grisly murder to bring out the curiosity in everyone. He figured most of the off-duty staff was here volunteering to “help,” although there wasn’t a hell of a lot they could do. Consensus was, the asshole who killed Betty was long gone, but until the evidence was analyzed, they had no idea who they were looking for.

And what does the Mapleton PD have to analyze evidence with, even if we find it?

However, leaving stones unturned wasn’t good police procedure, so he and the deputies would be knocking on doors, hoping for a lead. Didn’t need any fancy equipment for that.

His crew and half a dozen deputies strolled into the room, finding seats around the table, dragging in chairs, or standing against the wall. Gordon strode to the white board.

“Thanks for coming,” he began. “A few details to get out of the way. I’m Police Chief Gordon Hepler.” He glanced around the room, making eye contact with the deputies. “We’re working as a team with the Sheriff’s Office on this one. Detective Tyler Colfax will be helping me head up the investigation.”

He paused, half-expecting some reaction from Colfax, but the man only gave a perfunctory nod of his head.
Nothing wrong with collaboration, is there, Dix? Doesn’t make me less of a cop.

Gordon regrouped and pointed to the picture. “The victim, Betty Bedford, was discovered at oh two twenty-eight by Officer McDermott.” He gestured toward Vicky, and she raised her hand.

He went on. “I had personal contact with Mrs. Bedford from twenty-three-hundred to approximately twenty-three-forty, so we know she was alive then. At that time, there were no signs of unusual activity at her place of business.”

He picked up a black marker and began a time line across the lower portion of the board. At appropriate intervals, he drew vertical lines representing the times he’d mentioned.

“The victim had requested extra surveillance, being concerned about intruders, so special attention was paid to her store.”

There was a brief undercurrent of murmuring from his officers, who were well aware of Betty Bedford’s eccentricities. He shot them the look he usually reserved for the mayor, and they quieted.

“Officer McDermott’s reports indicate no other merchants were in the surrounding shops, although Finnegan’s, which shares the rear parking lot with Vintage Duds as well as eight other establishments, was open, and there might have been some witnesses.”

“You think the suspect could have been in the bar?” a deputy asked.

“Anything is possible. We’re a small town. On a weeknight, it’s likely the patrons were regulars, so a stranger might be remembered. I want you to work in teams of two. One Mapleton, one deputy. Deputies will drive. Their cars have computers, and I’ll expect your reports immediately. Nobody goes anywhere without backup. Check in with Connie in Dispatch. She’ll assign sectors. Canvass the neighboring shops, in case we missed a merchant working late.”

Vicky bristled. He shook his head.

“Officer McDermott had her routine patrols, plus I’d asked her to do extra surveillance of a residence on the north side. It’s possible someone was in and out while she was performing the rest of her assigned duties.”

“Maybe our suspect was hiding in one of the stores,” a deputy said. “Would have had lights off, nobody would notice.”

“True,” Gordon said. “When you’re doing your interviews, have the merchants check for evidence they had an uninvited guest.”

“Drugs?” another deputy asked. “People go all kinds of crazy if they’re high or need a fix.”

Gordon considered it. “Other than a little weed, we’ve never had a serious drug problem, and I can’t imagine Betty Bedford being involved. But it’s an avenue to explore. Thanks.”

He paused, trying to think of anything else he missed.

When he couldn’t, he said, “Questions?” He waited out a short silence. “Ladies and gentlemen. We’ve got a bad guy to catch.”