Terry Odell - Mapleton 01 - Deadly Secrets (10 page)

Justin sat in the waiting room of Doctor Evans’ office, checking his watch against the clock on the wall for the umpteenth time. He picked up the tattered copy of
National Geographic
and tried to concentrate on an article about radio tracking whales when what he wanted to be doing was searching. But when Opa had asked him to drive, he couldn’t think of a reason to refuse.

Finally, Opa, Oma, and Megan came through the door. From their smiles, he assumed they’d had good news. Hoping to avoid a protracted chat session with the receptionist, he rose, immediately heading toward the door. “Ready?”

“Megan’s fine,” Oma said. “No after-effects, except a sore wrist.”

Typical, he thought, to put Megan’s welfare first. “And what about you?”

“Nothing serious,” Oma said.

He stopped, holding the door open, his pulse jumping. “But there was something?”

“He’s changing my blood pressure medication,” she said. “What I was taking lowered it too far, and that’s why I got dizzy.”

“And passed out,” Opa added. “Maybe more than once. We need to stop at the pharmacy and get the new prescription filled.”

Relieved, Justin said, “Of course. Megan, did he give you any different pain pills?”

“No, he recommended over the counter stuff.” She held up her wrist. Yesterday’s thick support had been replaced by a thin elastic sleeve. “It’s much better.”

Now, if he could figure out a way to keep everyone out of the house for an hour or two. Instead, Oma came up with half a dozen other essential errands, which Justin figured were primarily to catch up on what had happened at Vintage Duds.

Megan yawned. “I could use a cup of coffee. I’ll walk over to Daily Bread. You can meet me there.”

“I’ll go with you,” Justin said. “I could use a cup myself.”

“I’ll go with Rose,” Opa said. “An hour?”

“Sounds good,” Justin said. Could he skip the coffee, get home and have time to do a little poking around? Not enough. He resigned himself to another late-night excursion, after everyone had gone to bed. Maybe he’d have decaf now, and crash for an hour when they got home.

He followed Megan to a booth near the rear of the diner. Angie zeroed in on them, carafe and mugs in hand. “How’s the memory?” she asked.

Megan glanced around, as if she were afraid someone might be listening. “Same.”

“Heard the news?” Angie said. “About Betty Bedford?”

“Yes,” Justin said. “Kind of hard to avoid it.”

Angie checked the room, then nudged Megan over and sat beside her. “Yeah, but did you hear how she died? All the details? I was there. It was awful.”

“You were there?” Megan’s jaw dropped. “You saw it?”

“Not exactly
there
, as in inside the store, but I heard about it when I came in to start the baking. So I brought over an urn of coffee.”

“Being the good Samaritan,” Justin said. Angie hadn’t changed one bit. Always had to be in the thick of things.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Angie said without looking at him. “The cops appreciate a good cup of coffee while they’re working, and I figured they’d be there awhile.” She twisted on the bench so she was facing Megan. “It was awful. Her throat was cut. I think I’m getting a burglar alarm. Or a big, loud dog.”

“I’d go with the alarm,” Justin said. “Don’t have to walk or feed it.”

Angie rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

Still dismissing him, as if he didn’t exist, Justin thought.

“God, that’s terrible. No wonder Sam made a fuss about locking all the doors,” Megan said.

“Yeah, well they called in some county deputies, and the crime scene folks—they’re not as cute as the ones on television—and they’re all over town asking questions.”

“Maybe that’s why Gordon stopped by so early this morning,” Megan said. Justin detected a hint of relief in her expression.

“He questioned
you
?” Angie said. From across the diner, someone lifted his coffee cup, and she slid out of the booth. Focused on Megan, she waved an “in a minute” gesture in the man’s general direction. “Why would he think you knew anything?”

Megan chewed her lip. “I didn’t talk to him. Sam said he wanted to know if my memory came back. God, I can’t believe it. A murder in Mapleton.”

“Ronnie at the gas station said the cops were asking about drugs,” Angie said. “But Betty Bedford doesn’t—didn’t—seem to be the drug dealing sort.”

After Angie left to handle coffee refills, Megan silently nursed her coffee for several minutes. When she spoke, he had to lean forward to hear. Her scent, her only adornment, surrounded him. She wore no makeup, undoubtedly because she couldn’t apply it left-handed. Even so, he didn’t think makeup would have concealed the deep shadows under her eyes, or the worry lines between her eyebrows. Her lips were pinched together, as if she were keeping a secret trapped behind them.

She cast a furtive glance around the room, then studied the contents of her mug. “Gordon would be busy investigating the murder, wouldn’t he? Even if there were county deputies, it would be his top priority, right?”

“I’d think so.” He matched his tone to hers.

Another look around the room. “So why would he take time out to drop by Rose and Sam’s unless he thought there was a connection?” When she lifted her mug, it shook in her hand.

Justin took the mug from her hand and set it down before she spilled coffee all over the table. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring grin. “He wanted some
apfel kuchen
?”

She glared. “I’m serious.”

He lifted his hands in apology. “My bad. But Gordon would have mentioned it, wouldn’t he?”

“I guess.” Her eyes went saucer-wide. “You can’t believe he thinks Rose and Sam are involved? That he came by to search for clues? All hush-hush.”

“That’s totally ridiculous.”

She picked up her spoon, then put it down. Repeated the motions with her fork. Then her knife. “Justin, I’ve got to tell you something. But you can’t tell anyone.”

His heart hammered. What did she know? “I won’t.”

She scanned the room again. He started to check, but she stopped him with a sharply whispered, “Don’t turn around.”

“Megan, you’re being paranoid. Whoever killed Mrs. Bedford is long gone. Why would a killer hang around a small town where he’d stand out as a stranger?”

“Unless he’s hiding in plain sight. Or…or, I don’t know. But I don’t want to talk here. Let’s go somewhere more private.”

Justin left payment for the coffee on the table. He guided Megan toward the door, his hand at the small of her back. He felt her trembling. He threaded his arm around her waist, and she leaned into him.

Her cell chimed. She pulled it out, squinted at the display, and her eyes widened. “Sam texts?”

He chuckled. “I showed him how. He and Oma were always saying they hated the way cell phones interrupted everything. Texting seemed less intrusive, although he complained about the tiny keyboard. I didn’t think he’d actually use it. What did he say?”

“That they’re done, and they’ll meet us at the car.” Just then, Oma’s voice carried from down the block. “Justin! Megan! We’re finished.” An array of bags hung from Opa’s hands.

“Guess we’ll talk later,” Justin said. Megan moved away, but laced her fingers with his. Her vise-like grip telegraphed her fear.

The brief ride home was unusually quiet. The distressing news of the murder seemed to muffle any need for idle conversation. Justin pulled into the garage, hitting the remote to close the door behind them. Opa fumbled in his pocket for the key to the mud room.

Justin grabbed the bags and followed him inside. “Where do you want these?”

“Put them on the kitchen table for now,” Oma said, slipping out of her coat and sliding it onto a hanger.

Justin, contemplating Megan’s fear, didn’t realize his grandfather had stopped in the middle of the doorway to the kitchen, and collided with him. He stepped back, waiting for Opa to move forward.

“
Mein Gott!”
Opa said.

Then it hit Justin. The crawling sensation up the nape of his neck. The sense of disturbance. The faint odor of tobacco. Someone had been here. Or was here, waiting.

“Oma, Opa. Megan,” he said in a whisper. “Get in the car.”

“But I need to put some things in the refrigerator.” Oma tugged at the bags Justin held, tried to push him out of her way.

Then she screamed.

Gordon shoved his notebook into his pocket. Another “Sorry, didn’t see anything,” interview. Some of Finnegan’s regulars had offered descriptions of suspicious characters. Three strangers in the bar last night. Ten different descriptions. Tall, short, black, white. Maybe Hispanic, maybe Asian. Young, old. Fat, thin. He rubbed his eyes.

Every lead, however flimsy, had to be followed. So far, they’d had no luck. He started to think maybe there were ghosts involved after all. He got into his car, ready to tackle the next interview.

His phone rang. “Hepler.”

“Tyler Colfax. Can we meet? I have some interesting information on your accident victim.”

Detective Colfax’s words took a detour on the way to Gordon’s brain. Accident? What happened to Betty Bedford was no accident. Slowly, his thought processes found the right path. “The traffic accident yesterday? Karl Franklin? Thought that went to state patrol.”

“It’s ours now. Your office?”

“On my way.” Shell casings. They’d been looking for shell casings, Patterson had said. Had they found some? Or evidence that it wasn’t a routine accident? Why else would the Sheriff’s Office have it? Was he dealing with a second homicide? And could it be related to Betty Bedford? He remembered the papers Franklin carried. Were Megan and the Kretzers in serious danger? Had he dropped the ball when he assumed the threat had died with Franklin?

He’d checked the Florida DMV records and hadn’t come up with anything useful. Plenty of Franklins, although none of the pictures resembled his Karl Franklin. And they didn’t even all have pictures. If the original license had been issued before they computerized the photos, the computer search came up blank on that count, because they just mailed stickers as renewals if a person’s record was clean. Damn, he felt useless.

Was getting him behind a desk really why Dix pushed him into the chief’s job?

Gordon snapped his phone shut and tossed it into a cup holder. He did a quick three-point turn and pointed his SUV toward the station, flipping on the light bar as he turned the corner.

He pulled into the rear lot, his tires kicking up gravel as he aimed for the station’s rear entrance, glad nobody had taken his slot. In his office, Gordon found Colfax sitting at
his
desk, using
his
computer. He stopped in the doorway, cleared his throat. “Hello?”

The detective turned when Gordon entered, evidently taking in Gordon’s frown. “Don’t worry. I’m using your terminal to access the county system. Your secrets are safe.”

Gordon kept walking. “I’ll be right with you. First chance I’ve had to hit the head all day.”

When he returned, Colfax had moved to the visitor chair. An open file folder sat on the desk. Gordon sank into his own chair and leaned back. “There’s got to be a basic design flaw in cop work. You survive on coffee, but there are no bathroom breaks when you’re working a case.”

“Super-economy-sized bladder ought to be one of the job requirements.”

“I hear you. What do you have?”

“Less than we should have. CSP ran the plate on the car. Gave us a blue Camry, but it’s not registered to a Karl Franklin.”

The tiredness brought on by lack of sleep and tedious interviews vanished. He leaned forward. “Go on.”

Colfax leafed through the papers in the folder and pulled one out. “Car belongs to a Tomo Yamaguchi. Sixty-two years old. Lives in Fort Lauderdale. Is alive and well, and had no idea his plate was stolen. He and his wife were driving cross country. The plate could have been lifted at any one of countless stops. He’s an amateur photographer, she’s a free-lance writer. They’re trying to put together some sort of off-the-beaten-path travel book.”

“Maybe you can connect Franklin to one of their stops.”

“We’re working it. But they’ve been on the road six weeks. They’ve taken innumerable detours, stopped at scenic overlooks, schlocky tourist attractions, roadside rest stops, hole-in-the-wall eateries. They probably parked their car in a hundred different places.”

“Did Franklin put his own plate on their car? Or steal theirs?”

“Swapped ‘em. That’s probably why the Yamaguchis didn’t notice. Both cars had the standard issue Florida plates. Can’t say many people actually pay attention to them. You put it on, forget about it. They’d probably notice if it was gone, but it doesn’t surprise me that they wouldn’t notice a different one.”

“So, who is he?”

“The switched plate belongs to a rental car. Picked up in Des Moines two days ago.”

“Des Moines? You said it had Florida plates.”

“It did. I checked with the rental company. The rental originated in Orlando. Heavy tourist town, lots of vehicles needed. Things slow down, they don’t need as many, they let some go. Figure they’ll get them back when the tourist season picks up. The company has designated cars it uses for out of state and one-way trips. This was definitely booked as one-way out of Orlando.”

Gordon started scribbling notes. “So Franklin didn’t start his trip in Orlando?”

Colfax shook his head. “No. We verified the guy who drove it from Orlando to Des Moines wasn’t Franklin. College kid, flew to Orlando for Spring break, had a change of plans and ended up driving home. No connection to Franklin, no record. Clean.”

“So why does Franklin swap out his plate?”

“You tell me.”

Gordon felt like he was being tested. He let his brain grind the facts. “Could be he was trying to avoid the cops. Maybe he committed some crime while driving the rental, so he decides to switch plates. But what are the odds of finding another car the same make and model as his rental with Florida plates?”

Colfax seemed to have dropped the inquisitor demeanor. He crossed his hands behind his head. “Maybe not that high. Camry’s are common enough. But it still feels opportunistic to me. Maybe he was paranoid. Or a nutcase.”

“True. I think it’s safe to say the guy acted on a whim. He’s doing something shady, sees the car and figures switching plates will create another layer between him and whoever might be looking.”

Colfax narrowed his eyes. “Franklin had a Mapleton address with him, for Rose and Sam Kretzer. And pictures of someone from San Diego. Megan Wyatt. Works for a company called”—Colfax thumbed through the pages.

“Peerless Event Planners,” Gordon said.

“You know her?”

Gordon nodded. “Rose and Sam Kretzer were her guardians. They raised her when her parents died. Since she was five.”

“You saw the papers in Franklin’s effects.” It wasn’t a question.

“Megan swears she never knew anyone named Karl Franklin. Neither did the Kretzers, although I thought he was from Florida, not Des Moines. Damn, I never saw his driver’s license, and made a rookie assumption. But they didn’t recognize the name.”

“You might have mentioned the connection,” Colfax said.

Gordon kept his gaze steady. “I thought I’d do a little checking first. I know how busy you guys are. I’d have passed on any relevant information. Then everything hit the fan with this homicide, and since Franklin was dead, I guess it slipped onto the back burner.”

“You spoke with Miss Wyatt? We haven’t been able to reach her yet.”

Gordon nodded. “She arrived yesterday.”

“She’s here?”

Gordon scratched his stubble. “I guess we might as well lay this all out.” Gordon brought Colfax up to speed. When he got to the part about Megan’s incident and short-term memory loss, Colfax interrupted.

“You find out who did it?”

“We don’t even know there
was
a someone. She was the kind of kid who always had to be the best, to prove she was as tough as the guys. She might have been trying to catch up to Justin, but the altitude got her. If she took a tumble on the path out by the pond, she could be feigning the memory loss to save face.”

Colfax’s gaze bored through him. “What do
you
think?”

“I saw her last night. She said everything was still foggy. Her biggest concern was for the Kretzers.”

“Do we agree that Franklin was coming to Mapleton, and that it’s connected to the Kretzers and Megan Wyatt?”

“Yes,” Gordon said. New worries snaked through his gut. “But Franklin’s dead.” It was Gordon’s turn to stare down Colfax. “Was it an accidental death? The trooper mentioned shell casings.”

Colfax consulted the file. “Looked like a bullet hole in the rear window, but hasn’t been confirmed. Nothing was recovered from the vicinity of the crash. The lab’s working on the car to see if they can find a link to a second party being involved. That stretch of the road has its share of accidents.”

“Lots of questions,” Gordon said. “Not many answers.”

“Not yet. But we’ll find them.”

“I’d ordered surveillance on the Kretzer house last night. I guess I should reinstate it.”

“Might be smart. Until we find those answers.”

Laurie tapped on the door, then walked in. “Chief, you need to get to the Kretzers’.”