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DEADLY
SECRETS
A Mapleton Mystery
© Terry Odell, 2011
CHAPTER 1 Gordon Hepler yawned and rubbed
his eyes. Next time, he swore he'd send Vicky McDermott out to deal
with Betty Bedford and her ghosts. Vicky was a damn good officer,
and Betty might listen to her—one of those woman-to-woman things.
He'd told Betty to put in surveillance cameras, but she swore the
ghosts in her shop wouldn't show up on tape. Yeah, but the customers
who pick something up and put it back somewhere else would.
Then again, dealing with the woman was a break from his normal
routine as Mapleton's Chief of Police. Budgets and paperwork. Damn,
at thirty-six, he was too young to be riding a desk. He stared at
the spreadsheet on his monitor. At this rate, he'd be blind before
his contract was up for renewal. Would he accept it?
A promise was a promise, he reminded himself. Even if the person you
made it to wasn't around anymore.
Shaking away the ever-recurring doubts about why Dix had insisted he
take the job, Gordon grabbed his eye drops from his desk drawer,
tilted his head, and dripped the fluid into each eye. Blinking, he
waited for his vision to clear, then picked up the first night
report. Car blocking a fire hydrant on Ash Street. Nice fine for
that one. The Mapleton town council would be pleased.
He continued through the stack. Mostly citizen complaints. Barking
dogs, rowdy teens. He stopped at an altercation at Finnegan's Pub.
Triggered, apparently, by an article in the Mapleton Weekly.
Gordon found his copy of the paper and turned to the article in
question. Holocaust: Fact or Fiction? Great. Another one of Buzz
Turner's articles, trying to parlay his job into one at a big-city
press. Tabloid was more likely.
Drug use caught his eye on the next report and he read more
carefully. His town didn't need drug problems. Officer smelled
marijuana, but didn't find any hard evidence. Gordon checked the
name. Willard Johnson. Not one he recognized. Address was Flo and
Lyla Richardsons' B&B. Not a local, then. Table that one for now,
until he talked to the officer.
He shoved his chair away from his desk and grabbed his jacket. He
stopped at Laurie's desk. "Anything urgent?"
"No," she said. "Except your direct line's made it onto the
telemarketer's list again. I've had a few calls." She waved some
message slips.
"Save them. I'll handle it later. Meanwhile, if you need me, I'll
be—"
"At Daily Bread."
He stopped and glared at his admin's grinning face. "I could be
going out on a call, you know."
"Of course, Chief. The cinnamon buns should still be warm. Bring me
one."
"One day I'll have a prune Danish just to prove you wrong."
"Change of routine might do you good."
"You saying I'm predictable?"
Laurie gave him an eye roll. "Who, me?"
Gordon grumbled to himself as he ambled along the three short blocks
to Mapleton's most popular café. Ten o'clock was a perfectly normal
time to take a break. And nobody in town would dispute the quality
of the coffee and cinnamon buns at Daily Bread. En route, he checked
the parking meters along the street, picking up his pace as he
strode past Vintage Duds, Betty McDermott's shop. He'd deal with her
another time.
At the door to Daily Bread, he paused, schooling his features into a
casual expression. He adjusted his jacket and pushed open the door.
Angie smiled his way, her blue eyes twinkling. "Hey, Chief." She
poured a cup of coffee, placed a cinnamon bun on a plate, and set
them in front of an empty seat at the counter.
Gordon sat. "I want a Danish this morning. Prune."
"Need more fiber in your diet, Chief?"
Heat rose on his neck. "Forget it. It's a joke." He tugged a hunk
off the warm pastry and popped it into his mouth.
Angie spent more time than necessary wiping the counter around
Gordon's place. He recognized her look.
"Out with it, Angie. What's bothering you?"
"Nothing." She glanced around the room. "Can you keep a secret?"
Better than she could. "As long as it doesn't involve breaking the
law."
Her eyebrows winged upward. "You know me better than that, Chief."
She lowered her voice and made a show of wiping the counter some
more. "Megan Wyatt's coming into town later today. To surprise the
Kretzers. But you can't tell her I told you. And don't breathe a
word to them."
The squawk of his radio cut the conversation short.
* * * * * Megan Wyatt ribboned the silver Chevy rental out of the Denver
airport, finally leaving the interstate traffic for the tree-lined
road to Mapleton. To Rose and Sam. Foothills soon gave way to
serious mountain terrain, and long-unused driving reflexes surfaced.
Slow when entering a turn, accelerate through it.
After navigating a series of switchbacks, a blue car appeared in
front of her, seemingly out of nowhere.
And watch out for idiots admiring the scenery.
Megan hit the brakes, avoiding both a collision and swerving off the
side of the mountain. Resigned to following someone who had to be a
card-carrying member of the ten-miles-under-the-speed-limit club,
she settled in behind the sedan. Florida plates. A flatlander.
Probably scared to death at altitudes more than twenty feet above
sea level. Geez. And trying to use a cell phone? Here in the land of
no bars? If he wasn't careful, he'd take the shortcut down the
mountain. Straight down.
Tamping back her impatience, she eased off the accelerator, aware
she had another twenty minutes before she'd be able to pass. She
inhaled deeply and relaxed. Sunlight dappled the road.
How long had it been since she'd visited? Guilt filled her. Three
years? Rose's seventieth birthday. A quick recalculation dumped
another bucket of guilt. It couldn't have been seven years. How easy
had it become to make excuses not to visit? In retrospect, they
sounded so flimsy, but Sam and Rose had never complained.
We know how important your job is, sweetie. We're so proud of you.
And if Angie hadn't called, Megan might have kept putting off the
visit until a funeral demanded it. No job should be that important.
The phone conversation echoed in her head.
"You've got to get back here," Angie had said. "For Rose and Sam."
Her heart had skittered into her throat. "Are they all right?"
"Please come, Megan. It's been too long. Something bad's going to
happen, I can feel it."
Although Angie's obsession with hyperbole hadn't diminished since
grade school, Megan couldn't deny her friend's concern had been
genuine. And, she admitted to herself, if she waited until things
slowed down at work, it would be another seven years. Or seventeen.
Things never slowed down at Peerless Event Planners. There was
always one event running, one waiting, and one in recap.
Ahead, the blue car's emergency flashers went on. Was there a
problem? She watched as the car slowed and pulled onto the shoulder.
Should she try to help? Call 911? As if she'd get a signal here.
The driver opened his door, glanced her way, and adjusted a pair of
sunglasses. As she approached, he waved her on. Glad to have clear
road ahead of her, she passed, keeping an eye on him in her rearview
mirror.
He rounded his car, walking into the forest. What could he be doing
in the middle of nowhere?
Answering nature's call, idiot. She drove on, trying not to imagine
what would have happened if she'd approached him. She could picture
it. "Hi. Need any help?" She shook the image away.
Half an hour later, she pulled onto the main drag of Mapleton, where
time seemed to stand still. The grassy park with its red brick paths
filled the center of town, framed by the stately Methodist and
Episcopalian churches on one end, the modest synagogue on the other.
Government center and official businesses to the east, shops and
eateries on the west. The same cracked sidewalks, the same planters
filled with juniper and potentilla.
Nostalgia drew her around the square, slowing at what had been Sam's
bookstore. When he'd retired—was it five years ago already?—the new
owner hadn't lasted a year, unable to compete with the big chains
and the Internet, not to mention the digital book revolution. Now,
Vintage Duds, a second-hand clothing shop, stood where Sam had once
fulfilled his dream. A rack of dresses sat on the walk outside the
window.
She shook off the reminiscing—and a little more guilt at not being
with Sam and Rose to celebrate his retirement.
She'd better let Angie know she'd arrived safely. Her friend was
expecting her; Rose and Sam weren't. Megan parked in the city lot
and headed for Daily Bread. As soon as she pushed open the door to
the coffee shop, she was engulfed by the familiar aroma of Angie's
famous—and all too filling—cinnamon buns. Knowing Rose would insist
on feeding her, Megan settled for a deep inhale.
Angie had her back to the entrance as she stocked the display case.
Megan took a seat at the counter. Smiling, she rapped the salt
shaker against the Formica. "Hey, what does it take to get some
service around here?"
Angie whirled, a brief scowl replaced by a huge grin. "Megan! You
made it." She rushed around the counter and threw her arms around
Megan.
After returning the embrace, Megan inspected her friend. Other than
her blonde hair cropped short instead of the ponytail Megan
remembered, Angie hadn't changed any more than Mapleton had. Still a
petite bundle of energy.
"Safe and sound," Megan said. "Wanted to let you know. You didn't
tell Rose and Sam, did you?"
"Of course not. I can keep a secret."
For five seconds.
"Cinnamon buns are warm," Angie said. "Want one? On the house."
"Another time. I need to get over to Rose and Sam's. There's a law
you have to arrive hungry, you know."
Angie laughed. "Rose is probably my biggest competition, and she's
not even in the business. Coffee?" Angie didn't wait for an answer,
merely poured a cup of the steaming aromatic brew into a thick,
white mug. "How's everything in the world of event planning?"
Megan took a minute to enjoy the first sips. "Crazy. But Peerless
will have to do without me for two weeks. I warned them I was going
to be away from e-mail and Internet connections."
Angie pointed to the "Free WiFi" sign. "Got hooked up here four
years ago."
"Last time I was here, you couldn't even get a decent cell signal."
"Still hit and miss."
"So, how's business? Place looks busy."
"Yeah, we're getting the hunters, fishermen and nature
photographers." Angie winked. "And the word seems to be out that our
baked goods are worth the detour. Keeps me busy."
"That's great." Megan glanced around. The other diners were
engrossed in their food or their newspapers. She lowered her voice.
"I'm here. Tell me the truth. Were you exaggerating, or is there
anything concrete you can tell me? About Rose and Sam."
Angie's smile faded. "Not really. But they seem so…draggy. Right
after Justin showed up."
"Justin?" Rose and Sam's grandson. "He's in town? How long?"
"He's been here close to two weeks." Angie leaned forward. "I don't
know. I have a…feeling. And you know my feelings."
Yeah, Megan did. Angie had a minimum of five a week. Eventually, the
law of averages said one of them would be true, which, of course,
merely reinforced Angie's belief in all the rest.
"And you think Justin could be up to something? You're talking about
Jumbo Justin? Justin the Jerk? Get real. He's a lump. Never gave a
damn about anything. But he wouldn't harm Rose or Sam. He wasn't
that kind of kid. Appeared, sat around, went home."
"Well, he's not sitting around now. You should see all the repairs
he's convinced them to make on their house."
"Repairs? Then of course they'd be draggy. Living with contractors
is exhausting. Especially if you're Rose and feel obligated to feed
them."
Angie wiped the counter. "Maybe I overreacted."
Yeah, just a little. "No matter. Thanks for lighting the fire under
me. It's been too long since I've been home. If there's a problem,
I'll get to the bottom of it."
Megan waved off a coffee refill and gathered her jacket and purse.
"I'll be in touch."
As she rounded the corner to the parking lot, the whoop-whoop of a
siren filled the air. She stopped as an ambulance sped down the
street.
When she realized the ambulance was headed in the direction of Rose
and Sam's, she ran the rest of the way to her car. Coincidence?
There were plenty of other homes out that way.
She tossed her jacket and purse into the car and peeled out of the
lot.
* * * * *
Justin Nadell gripped his grandfather's bony shoulder. "They'll be
here soon, Opa. Don't worry."
His grandmother tutted from the sofa. "I don't know why you insist
on making such a fuss. I slipped, that's all."
"Rosie, you were unconscious," his grandfather said. "You didn't
slip, you fainted."
"I don't faint, Sam. I got a little lightheaded. From the paint
fumes."
Justin sat and slipped his arm around his grandmother. "Oma, I told
you and Opa to leave until the work was done. A nice Florida
vacation."
"I've been to Florida. It was hot. Full of mosquitoes and old
retired fuddy-duddys."
The wail of the siren grew louder. Justin dashed to the front door,
flung it open and peered down the street. Lights flashed through the
aspen-lined avenue. The white-and-orange ambulance appeared, the
siren shutting down as it neared the house. Justin waved to the
driver and went inside.
He sat beside Oma, taking her hand. "They're here. Everything will
be fine."
She glowered. "Everything is fine. What a waste of time. I'm sure
there are people out there who truly need help."
"Rosie, it shouldn't hurt they take a look at you," his grandfather
said.
She struggled to rise, pushing Justin away.
"Where do you think you're going?" Justin said. "Sit down." He
motioned to the paramedics, then jumped to clear a path through the
obstacle course of furniture in Oma's living room. Two men, one a
stocky African-American, the other a tall, lanky blond, pushed a
gurney into the entryway.
"Such nonsense," Oma said. She crossed her arms across her narrow
chest. "Davey Gilman, you can take that contraption back out to your
fancy ambulance."
The African-American man crouched at her feet. "Long as we're here,
Mrs. Kretzer, might as well let us check you out."
"Listen to them, Rosie," Opa said. "The sooner they check you out,
the sooner they'll leave."
She tsked, but unfolded her arms. "Oh, very well. Justin, why don't
you bring some lemonade and the platter of cookies from the kitchen.
Might as well give these nice boys something for their troubles."
The paramedic Oma had called Davey spread his lips in a wide grin,
his white teeth gleaming against his dark skin. "They wouldn't be
gingersnaps now, would they?"
"What else with lemonade?" Opa said. "And she baked them this
morning."
Davey's grin widened even further. "Here we go." He wrapped Oma's
arm in a blood pressure cuff and stuck the earpieces of his
stethoscope into his ears.
"I guess that's my cue," Justin said, heading for the kitchen.
The second paramedic intercepted him, a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"She's in good hands," he said. "She's known Davey since he was a
baby. He loves her like family."
Justin stared into the cool blue eyes of the paramedic. "To me, she
is family." He shrugged away.
Justin arranged glasses and the pitcher of lemonade on one of Oma's
serving trays. As he peeled the plastic off the platter of cookies,
he heard the paramedic's radio squawk. He stopped what he was doing
and rushed to the living room. Davey and his partner were fitting
everything into their kit, concerned expressions on their faces.
"What's wrong with her?" Justin asked.
"Nothing," Davey said. "BP is normal, pulse is strong, respirations
good, lungs clear."
Oma gave her head an indignant shake. "As I told you."
"It's another call," the partner said. "We've got to go."
"You and Tommy can't stay long enough for a nosh?" Oma asked. "Or
Sam can put them in a bag for you."
"Sorry," Davey said. "Emergency."
"Is she all right?" Justin asked. "Shouldn't you take her to the
hospital?"
"I don't think that's necessary." Davey patted Oma's hand, but
shifted his gaze to Justin's grandfather. "Mr. Kretzer, make sure
she calls her doctor."
"I'll do it myself," Opa shot a no-nonsense glare at Oma and levered
himself from the couch.
Justin followed the paramedics out the door, gripping the porch rail
while they loaded the ambulance and sped away, lights flashing and
sirens blaring. He stood there a long moment, taking slow, deep
breaths. He released the wooden rail, giving it a solid whack before
turning for the house.
He spun at the sound of an approaching car. A silver Chevy Cobalt
peeled into the driveway, stirring up a whirlwind of leaves and
dirt. The door opened and a frantic woman raced up the porch. She
rushed into the house as if he didn't exist. "Rose! Sam!"
"Excuse me? Ma'am!" He hurried after her.
Still ignoring him, she beelined to the sofa where Oma sat. "Oh,
Rose. Where's Sam?" Her head swiveled as she searched the room. "The
ambulance. Is it Sam?"
Did everyone in this damn town know his grandparents? Stupid
question. Not only knew them, but cared about them. The slightest
incident seemed to bring them out of the woodwork. But how had this
woman gotten here so fast? He cleared his throat and strode across
the room.
"Excuse me? Ma'am?" he repeated. "They're fine. Now, would you mind
telling me who you are, and what you're doing here?"
For the first time, she seemed aware of his presence. "I could say
the same of you," she said. She took a seat on the sofa and drew Oma
into an embrace, apparently back to ignoring him.
###
Megan inhaled Rose's citrus scent, the familiar 47-11 perfume
engulfing her in comfort. "You're okay? Sam, too?" Feeling Rose
tense beneath her arms, she eased up on the bear hug.
Rose pushed away, squinting at her. "Meggie? Is that you?" She
twisted toward the kitchen. "Sam! Come out here. Little Meggie's
home." She returned her gaze to Megan. "Have you eaten?"
Megan smiled at the familiar greeting. Usually uttered before
"Hello."
Sam shuffled through the doorway, adjusting his glasses. "Mein Gott,
Meggie doll. It is you."
Tears sprang to Megan's eyes and she blinked them away. When had Sam
gotten so old? Where was the spring in his step? Rose, too. When
she'd hugged her, Megan had been afraid she might crack one of
Rose's ribs. Guilt washed over her. No job was worth abandoning the
ones you loved. She jumped up and rushed over to hug Sam. "I wanted
to surprise you." No need to mention it had taken a call from Angie
to get her here.
"This calls for a celebration," Rose said. "Meggie and Justin. Both
home together."
Megan studied the man in the room. If he was Justin, Rose and Sam
weren't the only ones who'd changed.
She hoped her incredulity didn't show on her face. Or her wariness,
as Angie's concerns threaded through her thoughts. She stood. Smiled
politely. "Justin. Hi. Good to see you again."
She looked more closely. No more thick glasses, just clear
mocha-brown eyes. A strong jaw line instead of a pudgy face. Sun
streaks lightening his brown hair. And a broad-shouldered, muscular
torso tapering to narrow hips. But muscles notwithstanding, if he
was out to hurt Sam and Rose, she'd strangle him barehanded.
"Megan. It's been awhile. Hi," Justin replied with the same lack of
enthusiasm.
Rose got to her feet. Sam moved to her side with a speed that took
Megan aback.
"Rosie, you stay put. Doctor Evans will see you tomorrow, and he
said to take it easy until then. I am completely capable of carrying
some cookies and lemonade."
"I'll help," Megan said. She gave Justin a polite nod and followed
Sam into the kitchen.
"The good glasses," Rose shouted after them. "And real plates. And
not the everyday ones. And there's some apfel kuchen. Maybe some
vanilla ice cream. Check the freezer."
"I know, Rosie, I know," Sam called. "As if after all these years I
wouldn't know," he muttered. He took glasses from a tray on the
counter, put them in the cabinet, and went to the dining room,
returning with four cut-crystal tumblers.
"Let me, Sam," Megan said, setting the tumblers on the tray. She
took his hands. "What happened? Why the ambulance?"
"Rose got dizzy. Passed out for a couple of seconds. Said it was the
fumes from the painters. Justin insisted we call the ambulance—they
checked her out before they left on another call."
Megan sniffed. "I don't smell any paint."
"Yesterday, they finished painting the trim. For almost two weeks,
people in and out. Pounding and painting. Repaired the roof, the
porch, the laundry room. Painted the whole outside." He shook his
head and lowered his voice. "I think Justin was smart to call the
ambulance. Rose, she'll never admit to any weakness. Always an
excuse, a logical reason. Doctor Evans will see her tomorrow."
"I'll come too." Pangs of worry wrestled their way through her
system. Could Angie have been seeing signs of Rose's failing health?
Or Sam's? But why assume Justin had anything to do with it,
deliberate or otherwise?
"She hates being fussed over." Sam's protest was half-hearted.
"Too bad. I'm here, and I'm going to fuss. She can take some of her
own medicine."
Sam chuckled. "That would be a sight to see. Now, we'd better get
the food out."
Megan went to the hutch and pulled out four dainty floral-patterned
china plates, setting them on the polished cherry wood of the dining
room table, then brought the cut-crystal pitcher that matched the
tumblers to the kitchen. "You think we can get away with leaving the
cookies on the everyday platter?" she asked, smiling. "Saves
dirtying another dish." When Sam raised his eyebrows, she stood on
tiptoe and planted a kiss on his bald head. "Yeah, right."
Once Megan was satisfied they'd met Rose's hospitality requirements,
she carried everything to the dining room. Justin held onto Rose's
elbow, escorting her to the table. He even held Rose's chair for
her. However, he avoided Rose's apple cake with ice cream, and took
only one gingersnap. She caught Rose's frown. He'd lose points for
that one.
She gazed across the table. "So, Justin. What brings you to
Mapleton?" |
