Terry Odell - Mapleton 03 - Deadly Puzzles (11 page)

Wardell made it clear that the subject was closed, and Gordon let things drop. Domestic cases were his least favorite, and if there was strife in the Wardell household, he
’d rather let someone else—anyone else—handle it. That decision made, Gordon was happy enough to deposit Wardell at the rental agency. Without bothering to shut off the engine, Gordon gave a quick “Good luck” that Wardell might be reunited with his wife, swung out of the agency’s lot, and reversed his route.

Radio reception sucked up here, so it was Gordon, his thoughts, and the hiss of tires on asphalt.

Flakes of snow brushed against his windshield. He checked the time. Too early for the storm, if you could trust the forecast—which he didn’t. He turned on the windshield wipers, but the road was still a blur. Was it the snow or his damn CSR?

He goosed the accelerator a bit. Not enough to get into trouble on the mountain road, but enough so he might get to the Yardumians
’ a little sooner. Part of him wanted to cut his so-called vacation short, go home where he’d be ensconced in familiar surroundings.

But he knew himself too well—he wouldn
’t be able to stay away from the station, which meant he’d be in ‘stress territory’. So, he’d finish out the week at the B and B, where he resolved to follow Dr. Demming’s orders and relax. Let the locals take care of solving crimes and investigating accidents. He would rest, maybe listen to one of the audio books he’d brought along, or watch some of the movies the Yardumians had in their entertainment center. Maybe help Raffi with whatever repairs he was doing. If the weather cleared, maybe a little fishing. Maybe see if he could have some nice, long chats with Angie. Anything to take his mind off the stresses of police work, whether his or someone else’s.

True to Colorado weather form, the evening storm hit well before Gordon made it to the Yardumians
’. The SUV crawled the last five miles, and Gordon didn’t think the visibility would be the least bit better with or without his damned Central Serous Retinopathy. He used his GPS to anticipate the turns in the road, because he sure as hell couldn’t see them coming.

Red and blue strobing lights ahead had him braking to a snail
’s pace. Between passes of his windshield wipers, he identified them as two State Patrol vehicles pulling away from the edge of the road. Gordon slowed to let them in. He checked his GPS readout to discover they were at the waypoint he’d marked to locate Wardell’s car. The troopers had probably been working the accident site until the weather turned nasty. Again.

Using their lights to help guide him along the road, Gordon found the turnoff to the Yardumians
’, where he promised himself he would
not
call the State Patrol to see what they’d found.

V
acation. Relaxation. No stress. So what if you’re an hour behind schedule. What schedule? You don’t have a schedule.

Taking slow, deep breaths, he inched the SUV the last twenty yards toward the B and B, where lights marked his destination. Wouldn
’t do to slide across their porch and into their living room.

His was the sole vehicle in the parking area, which bode well for peace and quiet. Through the shimmering white curtain of snow, a yellow glow illuminated the way to one of the cabins, where Gordon assumed Raffi Yardumian was working. Or maybe he
’d left the lights on. Or maybe there’d been another power outage and—

There you go analyzing everything. Relax.

He shoved his way through the accumulated snowfall and crunched his way to the porch, up the steps, and to the door. Stomping as much snow as he could from his boots, and brushing what had dusted his parka on the short walk from car to porch, he paused before twisting the knob.

The cowbells clanged as he opened the door, classical music playing softly beneath their harsh interruption. Mrs. Yardumian sat by the fire, knitting, as she
’d been when Gordon had first arrived. She smiled as he peeled off his cap and unzipped his parka. He hadn’t been here long, but there was a welcome, homey feel to the place. Lemony furniture polish. And another more tantalizing aroma. Barbeque sauce, he thought.

“
I’m glad you made it back safely,” she said. “According to the news, this storm is going to stick around for several days. I’m so sorry it’s spoiling your vacation.”

“
I’m here to rest, so the snowstorm is just what the doctor ordered.”

The corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled.
“Oh, so we have him to blame for this weather.”

“
That’ll work for me,” Gordon said.

She set aside her knitting and rose from her seat.
“Are you hungry? I’ve got sandwich fixings. And some chicken soup. As long as you’re our only guest for the rest of the week—and a stranded one at that—you can eat with us.”

“
As long as you’re only preparing what you’d make if I weren’t here,” he said.

“
Deal. Fifteen minutes, and it’ll be ready.” She walked toward the kitchen.

Gordon heard keyboard clicks from the office. So, Raffi wasn
’t in the cabin after all.

Give it a rest. He left the light on. Much easier to find his way back if he still has things to do.

Gordon draped his parka over a hook by the door and climbed toward his room. On the second floor landing, he paused. Would Mrs. Yardumian have made up the rooms already? Or, with no guests coming, would she give herself a break? After all, with the temperamental power supply, maybe she didn’t want to risk washing bed linens if the electricity—or the water—gave up mid-cycle. Or maybe she hired someone else to come in and clean.

Get a grip. You
’re still overanalyzing.

But he glanced down the hall and saw the doors standing open. He
’d take a quick peek, that’s all. He strode to the first door. Paula’s former room. Not quite closing the door behind him, he stepped far enough inside so he couldn’t be seen from the landing and surveyed the space. The bed was rumpled. Dresser drawers were open. So, the housekeeping hadn’t begun, either by Mrs. Yardumian or anyone else. Gordon peered into the drawers, glad he could do it without making noise. All empty.

The bathroom towels were in a heap on the floor. The sink was dotted with toothpaste and a scattering of hairs, the mirror covered in spatters. A hair dryer lay on the vanity. The small bottles of shampoo and other amenities were strewn on the ledge of the tub.

Typical post-visit guest room. He poked his head into the closet, which held a spare blanket and pillow on the shelf above the rod, which was barren other than the assorted hangers, all empty with the exception of the one that held a plastic laundry bag. Same as in his room. The only evidence that someone had used the room at all, other than the unmade bed, was a wastebasket filled with travel brochures. He wondered if that’s what she used to write her blogs. Or were they future destinations?

What had he expected? A written confession that she wasn
’t an honest travel blogger? Or, that she’d played between the sheets with Sam Tyner? He left Paula’s room, ignored the other two, and went to clean up for lunch. Leaving his phone plugged into the charger, he joined the Yardumians at the kitchen table. A crock pot sat on the counter, the source of the barbeque aroma he’d noticed when he’d first come back.

“
My lazy-day ribs,” Mrs. Yardumian said as they lunched on ham and cheese sandwiches and a hearty chicken soup. “Toss a few ingredients into the pot in the morning and you’re done cooking.”

“
Can’t beat it,” Raffi said. “Along with mashed potatoes, it’s a perfect snowy day dinner.”

“
Smells delicious. And this soup is great,” Gordon said between bites. “By the way, I noticed a light in one of the cabins as I drove up. Thought you should know in case it shouldn’t be on.”

“
Guess I forgot to turn it off,” Raffi said. “I was working out there earlier. New bathroom fixtures, checking the heat, touching up paint, trim—all the things you can’t do when the rooms are filled back to back. Not that I’m complaining about being full, of course.”

“
If you want a hand, I’m happy to help,” Gordon said. “Least I can do to thank you for all this fantastic food.”

“
Maybe tomorrow.” Raffi’s gaze moved toward the window. “Paint has to dry before I can do anything else, and I’m not going out in that mess to switch off a light. I’ve got plenty of bookkeeping to deal with, and I want to get it done in case the power goes out again.”

“
Just give a shout.”

Over Mrs. Yardumian
’s protests, Gordon insisted on helping with the cleanup. While he sponged off the table, he followed up on his earlier thoughts. “Must be a lot of work, taking care of a place like this. Housekeeping, laundry—I think I’d go crazy having to provide clean sheets and towels for a houseful of guests. Making beds isn’t my thing.”

She gave her dismissive hand wave again.
“When we have a lot of short-termers, yes, it can be work, but for the most part, I don’t mind. A little dusting, laying out towels—I have a couple of locals I pay to come in when it gets busy.” She folded the towel she’d used to dry the dishes. “They’d have come in today, but I told them not to be crazy, driving in this weather. And, with no new guests coming in for a few days, I’m treating myself to a full-fledged lazy day. Dinner’s doing its thing, and I can work on the blanket I’m knitting for the next grandkid.”

“
Congratulations.”

She beamed.
“Due in May. Number five. Two girls, two boys so far, so this one’ll be a tiebreaker.”

After another round of congratulations, Gordon excused himself, and with the strains of what he thought was Mozart filtering up the stairs, went down the second-floor hallway to Sam Tyner
’s room.

Tyner
’s room was as empty as Paula’s had been, although the man was neater by far. His bed sheets and pillowcases were meticulously folded and sat on the end of the mattress next to the blanket and spread. As in Paula’s room, Tyner’s dresser and closet were emptied. He’d cleaned the bathroom sink, and there were no spots on the mirror. Towels, like the sheets, were folded on the vanity.

Gordon
’s initial reaction was that Tyner had cleaned up to remove any traces of his presence—most particularly, fingerprints. Or he was trying to cover up the fact that Paula had been in here. But that was the skeptical cop talking. As an artist, Tyner must like to maintain order in his world.

Yeah, like how many artists do you know?

Tyner’s wastebasket beside the small desk was the one part of the room that didn’t fit the neat-freak image. Wadded up balls of paper filled it like a stash of snowballs awaiting battle.

Gordon bent down and lifted one from the top, then paused. He went to the closet and unclipped the plastic laundry bag from the hanger and dumped the papers into it. On a whim, he went to Paula
’s room and did the same. He’d already looked in Wardell’s room, but he went in for another look. On the neatness scale, Wardell was in between Paula and Tyner—closer to Tyner, but that might be because he didn’t have many personal effects with him. His wastebasket contained a few scraps of paper that looked like they’d come from the small tablet provided in the room, and a brown apple core.

Gordon chuckled inwardly. Television crime show viewers would expect him to take the fruit and have it analyzed for DNA. As if it happened that way in real life. All they
’d be able to prove would be that Wardell ate, or didn’t eat, the apple. Forget that it would be ridiculously expensive and take next to forever since there was no crime to attach Wardell to. And even if there were, what would finding an apple in his room do to solve a crime? DNA rarely solved a crime. But Gordon did take the paper scraps, more to satisfy his curiosity than anything else.

Next, he made a quick trip through Metcalf
’s room. Aside from not stripping his bed, the room was as pristine as Tyner’s. Not even trash in the wastebasket. All the possible explanations wound through his head again, with one new one. If Metcalf was a responsible visitor to the wilderness, he might be used to packing everything out to avoid impacting the environment. Whatever the reason, Gordon had nothing to look at.

In his own room, Gordon took the bags to his sitting area and started with Wardell
’s. He dumped the contents onto the desk along with the scraps of paper. The first was a phone number with the name of the car rental agency. No-brainer on that one. Another was doodles, the sort a person would make while talking on the phone—or, more realistically, listening to hold music. Wardell liked to draw squares, rectangles, cubes, and triangles. Whether a psychologist could attach any significance to them was beyond him.

If these had been found at a crime scene, Gordon wouldn
’t have given them much thought. The fact that they were in a guest room made them even less significant.

Tyner
’s papers were next.

He pulled out a wadded up paper and smoothed it out on the desk. A rough pencil sketch of a tree-lined body of water. He uncrumpled the rest, one by one, finding more penciled landscapes. He was ready to toss them all, but he had nothing else to do, so he kept going, opening and studying each one. He found a few of deer, wondering for a moment how Tyner got that close, then remembering that Tyner shot photos. He could have captured the deer with his camera, then sketched these from his pictures. When he unfolded one of the last papers, Paula
’s face stared at him. Not bad. Gordon opened the next, and let out a low whistle. This was a full body sketch. A reclining nude, definitely Paula. Was that what she’d been doing in his room? Modeling? Or was that in addition to the usual hanky-panky? His mind, as always, was running through the possibilities when his cell rang.

He jumped and hurried across the room to answer it. His first thoughts were of Angie, finally touching base. His pulse quickened in anticipation. When he saw Ed Solomon
’s name on the screen, his heart thumped even faster.

He mashed the screen.
“Hepler. What do you have?”

“
Hey, Chief, take it easy. No crisis. Everything’s cool. I know I promised not to call, but I wanted to tell you. We’re famous. It’ll be on the news. Camera crew just left.”

Gordon sucked in a breath and sat on the edge of the bed.
“What are you talking about? Who’s
we?
What camera crew?”

“
Mapleton. You remember that ATM scammer? I was right. He showed up in Mapleton, and the local Denver news station did a piece on it. Yours truly was interviewed.”

Gordon visualized Solomon
’s beaming face, his puffed-up chest. Unable to speak, Gordon waited out the pause. Solomon filled the void.

“
It wasn’t a big deal—not like a homicide, but apparently this guy had taken close to a quarter of a million dollars in little bits and pieces, and we caught him, Chief. Me, McDermott, and Rose Kretzer.”

Gordon jumped off the bed and paced the room.
“Rose? You let Rose get involved in an arrest? Solomon, what the
hell
were you thinking?”

“
No, no, it wasn’t like that,” Solomon said. “You know I’d never involve a citizen in a sting. It was a serendipitous moment. McDermott was on patrol duty, and everyone had a heads up about the scammer, especially the bank tellers. Rose was in the bank, and—well, you know Rose.”

“
Yes, I do,” Gordon said. “Fair to assume she was aware of the scam.”

“
As was everyone who frequented Daily Bread. Angie had the guy’s picture posted next to the register.”

Which would have been seen by over half the town. Gordon gave up his pacing and flopped onto the bed.
“She did, did she?”

“
Hey, Chief, the guy had no history of violence. And she did ask me first. I approved it. Guy sees his face on a flyer, he’s not prone to pull anything.”

Gordon took a mental step backward. Before he
’d left, he’d told Solomon it was okay to alert the bank. Expanding the scope of that approval sounded like Solomon, who considered much of his job to create a citizens’ awareness program. And an informed citizenry was one reason Mapleton had little crime, even if it meant the tip line often overheated with “helpful” calls.

“
So, tell me how it went down,” Gordon said, quelling his frustration that he hadn’t been there. And even if he had, he’d have been pushing paper while everything happened—and
much
better that Solomon had been the one to deal with the press, a task Gordon preferred to avoid whenever possible.

“
So, Rose was in the bank, talking with the teller, and she saw this man—our guy—fiddling with the ATM. She walks right over, stopping a few paces behind him, you know, like she’s waiting for her turn. He turns to her, gives her a song and dance about how he can’t figure out how to get money out of the machine. Says it’s jammed or something, and would she mind trying it.

“
But she’s no helpless little old lady—”

Gordon
’s guffaw cut into Solomon’s recitation. “No, she’s not.”

“
See, she’s already told the teller to call the cops, and McDermott’s waiting outside where he can’t see her, but she can see Rose. Rose steps up to the machine, sticks her card in, and McDermott swoops in for the kill. The rest, as they say, is history—or will be as soon as it’s aired on the news. They’re hoping for the four-thirty broadcast.”

“
Sounds like you been handling things,” Gordon said, part wistfully, part with pride.

“
Yeah, but according to the news, you’ve had some excitement out your way, too. Sorry to step on your thunder with our little scam-stopping. You’ve had a homicide. Much more interesting.”

“
No,” Gordon said. “The troopers and the deputies had a homicide. Not my case, not my jurisdiction. I’m on vacation, remember.”

Solomon
’s silence indicated he didn’t believe Gordon wouldn’t have managed to insert himself into the investigation—or at least into the information channels.

“
We’ve been without power half the time, no phones, no Internet, and no television. The roads are virtually impassible with the blizzard,” Gordon said.

“
Blizzard? Nothing like that here. Bet it put a crimp in your vacation plans.”

Gordon brought Solomon up to speed on Wardell
’s wife. “I got some hinky vibes from him, but nothing too far outside the scope of someone who’s afraid his wife might be dead.”

“
So, you’ve got a homicide
and
a missing person,” Solomon said. “From what you’re describing, it sounds like the disappearing wife might be worth checking out.”

“
And I’m sure the local LEOs are doing exactly that. State Patrol was at the scene a while ago.”

“
Oh, c’mon, Chief. What’s wrong with poking around a few databases? Making a few calls? That’s how I found our ATM guy.”

“
Solomon, you know the rules. I shouldn’t have to say anything more than that.” Which, as Gordon knew, wasn’t going to stop Solomon from poking around. The man was a good cop, knew what he could and couldn’t do within the system, and managed to ferret out what he needed without technically breaking the rules.

“
I’ve been digging a little into your homicide,” Solomon went on. “The victim wasn’t your everyday model citizen. Five DUIs, three failed marriages in which he’s behind in alimony and child support, and he was a suspect in a hit-and-run that killed a kid. No proof, so he walked. There might be someone with a motive to take him out.”

“
How long ago?” Gordon asked.

“
Eight years.”

“
And now it’s a motive? Solomon, you’ve been watching too much television.”

Solomon snorted.
“Maybe so. But speaking of television, I have to go make sure the DVR is set to capture my moment of glory.”

Gordon shook his head and ended the call. After staring at the phone for the span of several heartbeats, he punched in the number of the State Patrol.