Terry Odell - Mapleton 03 - Deadly Puzzles (2 page)

After dinner, the Yardumians retired to their wing of the house. Paula grabbed the magazine she
’d been reading and went upstairs, leaving Gordon alone with Sam Tyner. Maybe he knew something about Paula. But before Gordon could aim the conversation in that direction, Tyner headed toward the staircase. He glanced over his shoulder at Gordon. “Not much to do around here at night. Hope you don’t think I’m rude, but I’ve got to work on my sketches.”

“
Don’t sweat it. I’ve got things to do myself,” Gordon said.

He waited for Tyner to leave, then wandered around the living room, bypassing the
collection of books, heavy on the mysteries. Trying to read only aggravated his stress level.

One wall housed an entertainment center with an assortment of DVDs, as well as a rack filled with brochures advertising attractions for most of Colorado. Gordon perused them and found some from Wyoming, Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico as well, attesting to the probability most people staying here were the sort to get behind the wheel for their vacations.

There was a square wooden table surrounded by four chairs where he supposed guests could write postcards, or work one of the puzzles he noticed on one of the bookshelves. He spotted a computer monitor on a writing desk tucked away in a corner. A calligraphy-script notice said it was for guests’ use, with the polite admonition that one should limit one’s turn to 15 minutes if others were waiting. He jiggled the mouse and the screen came to life, displaying the B and B’s website.

He entered
“Paula’s Places” into a search engine and waited to see what came up. Numerous Pinterest pages topped the list. Gordon refined his search to show only travel blogs and found the link. He clicked and discovered a header featuring a collage of maps, but no picture of the blog owner. Her profile picture was of the back of someone’s head—someone wearing a bright yellow oversized straw hat.

After enlarging the font,
Gordon scrolled through a few pages of posts. Paula, whether she was the woman he’d met tonight or not, wrote more about things to do than places to stay, although she did list accommodations in the areas she featured. Her writing was straightforward—no gimmick, no hook, no clever writing style. Read like a police report.

He wondered if she
’d fed the Yardumians a bill of goods, or if she really planned to do a specific feature on their B and B.

He scrolled some more.

One thing for sure. The Paula who wrote this blog got around. If one believed she actually visited every place she covered in her blog, she’d visited a new place every week for the last six months. And there didn’t seem to be any logical route. One would think she’d work her way across the country in a more linear fashion, but her posts hopped around like a jackrabbit. One day in the Pacific Northwest, then out in the western desert, then the eastern seaboard, then back to California. Or maybe her posts weren’t scheduled in the same order she visited each locale.

He looked for entries for Colorado. The closest she
’d been to Denver was Colorado Springs, and her description of places to go, things to see, could have been lifted from any travel guide in the library. Then again, how many places
were
there to see if you were a tourist in Colorado Springs? The zoo, Garden of the Gods, some mine stuff. A few museums. Hiking and fishing, but she didn’t mention those.

Maybe this was a different
Paula’s Places
blog.

He looked for more
blogs with similar names, but no, this was it. Gordon backed out of the search engine, erasing his search history more out of habit than fear that Paula might discover he’d been checking up on her. He ambled to the chairs by the fire and turned off the table lamp, stretched his legs out, and enjoyed the warmth. With his eyes closed, listening to the crackle and pops as the flames devoured the logs, he could almost forget his CSR. Almost.

From upstairs, he could hear muffled footfalls, water running, drawers opening and closing, as Paula and Sam went about their business. Outside, wind whistled. Branches creaked. In the distance, a coyote yowled. Inside, closer, a wall clock ticked away the seconds.

Gordon opened his eyes, surprised to see it was almost nine. He stood and stretched. He considered banking the fire, but assumed the Yardumians knew what they were doing and would attend to it later.

Upstairs in his room, h
e took a hot shower, pleased with both the temperature and the water pressure, but mindful of the Colorado drought conditions, he didn’t linger. One snowstorm didn’t make up for years of sub-normal rainfall.

With the oversize
d bath towel wrapped around his hips, he checked his phone to see if Angie had returned his text. She hadn’t, but he buried his disappointment understanding the demands of her new job venture. Since her partner, Megan Wyatt, was Angie’s best friend—somehow, Gordon couldn’t bring himself to use the term BFF—he knew she was putting every spare minute and most of her energy into making sure their party planning company succeeded.

He texted her a
wish you were here
message—which wasn’t a hundred percent true, because the more he was with her, the more he’d have to lie to her—and plugged the phone into the charger. As far as she knew, he’d made the one trip to Dr. Demming’s office, when she’d come with him, and he’d told her it was a mandatory exam for his police department insurance policy. He didn’t like the deception, but told himself he was sparing Angie extra worry. He reminded himself again that most cases of CSR reversed themselves within a few months.

This is NOT the time you want to be the exception to the rule.

He finished drying off, stepped into the cotton boxers he slept in, and brushed his teeth. Remembering his meds, he fished the vial out of his Dopp kit and swallowed his pill. He sat on the edge of the bed—despite the early hour, he was exhausted—and did his breathing exercises.

Once he
’d finished, he got out his new blood pressure machine and wrapped the cuff around his arm. He tried to concentrate on remaining calm, but the very fact that he had to monitor his BP made his heart pound. He waited for the final reading, which was within the range Dr. Demming wanted it. Pleased, Gordon recorded it on the chart alongside the date and took one last cleansing breath.

At least he didn
’t feel like a total idiot anymore.

He put everything away, crawled under the covers, and flipped off the
lamp.

He lay in the dark, trying not to think of what was going on in Mapleton. He chuckled to himself as he thought of Ed Solomon, who loved looking for crimes and puzzles, always wanting t
o exercise his detective chops.

There wasn
’t enough crime in Mapleton to satisfy him, so he scoured the police reports, databases, and cold case files hoping to find something he could sink his teeth into. That’s what he’d brought Gordon the morning that had set things in motion for this vacation. An article about a rise in ATM scams in small towns in Colorado, paired with police reports naming a potential suspect, had convinced Solomon the man in question would try it in Mapleton next, and Solomon wanted to be the one to thwart the crook.

Gordon had played along. Made Solomon feel good, and Gordon
didn’t want to lose his best cop to a bigger city force. And this was better than Solomon’s last suspicion—that one of Mapleton’s newest residents was in the Witness Security Program. Despite Solomon’s penchant for seeking out crimes having nothing to do with Mapleton, Gordon knew his city would be in good hands.

Gordon
lay in bed as he listened to the rhythms of the night. Distant traffic. Creaking noises, which he attributed to the random settling of an old house. Another coyote’s yowling. Stirrings from the floor below him. Tyner or Paula? He didn’t know which rooms they were in. Noises from further below. One of the Yardumians banking the fire, most likely. Or was Paula looking for something else to read? And who was she, really?

He might be on vacation, he might be cutting himself off from the stresses of being Mapleton
’s Chief of Police, but he’d discovered a nice little puzzle here in Tranquility Valley. He’d take a lesson from Solomon, gnaw on it, and find pieces and see how they fit together. Who said a relaxing vacation couldn’t be interesting? He let those thoughts grind around as he fell asleep.

Gordon
woke to the strong aromas of sausage and bacon. Seven-fifty-three? He hadn’t slept this late in months. Breakfast was served between six-thirty and eight-thirty. He grabbed a shower and rushed through the rest of his morning routine and was downstairs before eight-fifteen. Tyner was shoveling eggs, biscuits, and sausage into his face.

Mrs. Yardumian welcomed Gordon with a smile.
“Good morning. I hope you slept well.”

“
I did. Like a rock, in fact.”

She bustled into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of cut fruit and a platter of biscuits.
“Omelets today. Ham, mushrooms, peppers, tomatoes, onions, and cheese.”

“
I won’t say no,” Gordon said.

“
Jam and butter on the table, coffee’s on the sideboard. If you prefer tea, I can get it for you.”

He started over, then remembered his restriction. Pausing, he noticed two carafes, one marked decaf. With an inward sigh, he filled his cup from that one and took the same seat he
’d occupied last night.

“
Snow’s let up.” Tyner wiped his mouth and pushed his empty plate away. “I’m going to get some shots, make some sketches. Nothing like the morning after a snowfall to make everything new and pristine.”

“
Good luck,” Gordon said. He’d finished half his fruit when he heard Tyner leave.

Ten minutes later, tires crunched in the snow. A car door slammed.
From the living room, the cowbells rang, followed by the door crashing shut. Seconds later, Paula stormed into the dining room, her hair dripping, her cheeks flushed from the cold. “I’m not too late, am I?”

Paula hung her damp jacket over the back of the chair across from Gordon, yanked off a blue knit cap, shook out her hair, and set the cap on the table beside her place. She wore black form-fitting running tights and a light-blue fleece over a white turtleneck. She helped herself to coffee from the sideboard.

“You’re out early,” Gordon said.

She took her seat and shrugged.
“I did my five miles. Took longer because of the snow.”

Mrs. Yardumian brought Paula a bowl of fruit and repeated the omelet choices.
“I’ll have yours ready in a minute,” she said to Gordon.

Paula set her coffee cup down.
“No onions or tomatoes.”

Mr. Yardumian appeared with Gordon
’s omelet shortly thereafter. “Enjoy.”

Gordon stared at the plate. Not only a huge omelet, but sides of hash browns, sausage, bacon, and mixed grilled vegetables. Mrs. Yardumian followed with a basket of coffee cakes and Danish pastries.

Gordon picked up his fork. “I think I might have to do ten miles if they feed us like this every day.” No wonder Tyner skipped lunch.

Yardumian chortled.
“If you need to eat before two in the afternoon, we’re not doing our job. Let me know if you want anything else.” He retreated to the kitchen.

“
How long have you been here?” Gordon asked Paula.

“
Three days. I’ll be leaving later this morning. Weather forecast said there’s a fast-moving storm on its way, and I want to beat it out.”

Gordon glanced behind him, through the sheer white curtains covering the window. Definitely snowing again. Robustly.
“Let’s hope they’re right for a change.”

“
I take it they’re not reliable.”

“
Let’s put it this way. In Colorado, they get yesterday’s weather right most of the time.”

She nodded, lips pressed together, as if she was filing this bit of information away for a blog post.

“If you don’t mind,” Gordon said, “I’d love a preview of what you’re going to cover. Since I just got here, I’d like to know your impressions of the area. I’ve got four-wheel drive, snowshoes, and am in decent shape.”

“
It’s all good,” Paula said. “There’s a notebook in the lobby with places to go, things to see. Any one of them should work.” She shifted sideways to allow Mr. Yardumian to set her omelet in front of her. Her portion was half the size of Gordon’s, he noted, and lacked the potatoes. She’d probably made her preferences known earlier in her stay. Picking up her fork, she suggested Gordon ask their host to help plan his day, effectively passing the buck.

He worked his way through his meal, glad there were no cinnamon rolls, because based on everything else he
’d eaten, he was afraid Mrs. Yardumian’s might be as good as Angie’s. Maybe better. Paula finished her eggs and excused herself, saying she had to pack.

Gordon lingered over several more cups of pseudo-coffee. It didn
’t taste bad, but he missed the buzz.

He wished he could put his finger on why Paula set his radar thrumming. No requirement that she had to be friendly. Could be why she wrote blog posts instead of interacting with people.

Again, Gordon considered the lack of a profile picture. His first thought had been it allowed her to travel incognito, but the Yardumians knew what she did, and she hadn’t denied it, or even shown surprise when Gordon had mentioned it last night. Maybe this was an exception. Or, what if there was a team, all contributing to the blog? That could explain it, too.

You
’re starting to think like Solomon. Looking for a mystery. Paula’s one of those less-than-likeable people. Doesn’t mean anything.

He
’d moseyed out to the lobby to check on the notebook Paula had mentioned when heavy footfalls thudded up the porch, and a spitfire rapping bounced off the front door. Since the door wasn’t locked during business hours, Gordon wondered why someone would knock, but he sensed the urgency and strode the few paces to the entry, noticing the comforting weight of his backup weapon against the small of his back.

He opened the door to a man in his forties, hands on his thighs, sucking air. Jeans, wet to the knees, showed below a damp orange barn coat.
“Mr. Yardumian?” The man puffed out the words.

“
No, but I’ll get him. Come in where it’s warm.” Gordon stepped aside and pointed the man toward the fireplace. Gordon left the man pacing in front of the hearth and hunted down Yardumian in the kitchen. Yardumian set aside the pan he was drying, and, wiping his hands on the dish towel, hurried into the lobby.

“
I’m Raffi Yardumian.”

The newcomer stopped pacing, but shifted his weight from foot to foot and clenched and unclenched his hands.
“I’m stuck … My wife still … In the car … Need help.”

Gordon stepped forward, clamped a hand on the man
’s shoulder, urging him to slow down. “Take it easy. We’ll help, but start at the beginning. What’s your name?”

The man yanked off his knit cap and dragged a hand across his forehead. Blood trickled from a cut near his hairline.
“Orrin Wardell. Elk … Out of nowhere … Ice. We spun out.” He held his hand out in front of him, stared at it as if he couldn’t believe it was shaking. Then he staggered.

Yardumian rushed to the kitchen and returned with a glass of orange juice and a damp cloth. He daubed at the scrape on Wardell
’s forehead. “Doesn’t look bad. Scalp wounds bleed like the devil. Should be fine.” He extended the glass. “Drink this.”

Wardell sipped tentatively, then gulped the contents of the glass. Gordon pried it from the man
’s grasp and guided him to the chair by the fire. Wanting to make sure the man didn’t pass out, Gordon gently pressed the back of the man’s head, forcing it to the man’s knees. Gordon lowered himself to Wardell’s level. “Breathe,” he said.

Wardell inhaled, then exhaled a slow, unsteady breath.
“Sorry. I’m all right.”

“
Where’s your car?” Yardumian asked.

Wardell shoved up the sleeve of his coat, checking his watch.
“I left—almost an hour ago? My wife. Have to get to her. She’ll be freezing. I came as fast as I could, but I’m not in the best shape, and—”

“
It’s all right, man,” Gordon said. “I’ve got my SUV. We’ll go get her, okay? Was she hurt? Should we call an ambulance?”

“
No, she’s all right. Shaken up.” He straightened and turned to Yardumian. “She didn’t want me to leave her, but she’s not hurt.” He displayed the barest hint of a grin. “I think the airbag scared her more than anything else.”

Gordon thought of Davey Gilman, one of Mapleton
’s paramedics, whose motto was
Seatbelts and airbags. Don’t leave home without
’
em.
Looks like they’d saved a couple more lives.

“
Wrecker?” Yardumian asked.

“
Let’s wait until we see what we have, and a fix on their position,” Gordon said. “What kind of car? Color? Tags?” he asked Wardell.

Wardell blinked.
“Yeah. Of course. Silver Chevy Cruze.” He blinked again, then reported the license plate.

“
Got it,” Yardumian said.

“
Call the State Patrol and see if they’ve spotted the vehicle. Or if anyone else has reported it.” Gordon gave Yardumian his cell number. “Send a text if you can’t reach me by voice.”

Wardell
seemed oblivious to the conversation going on around him. He stood, took a tentative step or two, as if testing his strength. “Any chance we can get a room for the night?”

“
Of course. Bring your wife here,” Yardumian said, “and I’ll have a room ready, and a fire going.”

“
Blankets? Extra coats?” Gordon said to Yardumian.

Yardumian grabbed a throw from the sofa and a parka from the closet.
“Here.”

Gordon tossed them to Wardell and rushed upstairs for his own parka and car keys. He worked his way into the parka as he headed downstairs. Wardell jumped from his chair and hurried toward the door, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an athlete warming up, leaving the parka and blanket behind. Gordon grabbed them and said,
“My car’s out front.”

Under eight inches of snow.
“Shit.”