Terry Odell - Mapleton 03 - Deadly Puzzles Page 4

  “Raffi talked to them. He’s in his office. I’ll get him.”

  She swished out of the room and came back seconds later with her husband.

  “Yes, I called,” Mr. Yardumian said. Right after you left. They hadn’t had any reports of accidents and said they’d call if they found the car. Wasn’t long after that the storm hit full force. The power’s been off and on, and our phone service is intermittent. Must be ice on the lines. It’s happened before.”

  As if the power gods heard him and decided it was a perfect time for torment, the lights flickered, then went out.

  Mrs. Yardumian made a circuit of the space, lighting the camp lanterns sitting ready on tables. “There are flashlights in the night tables in your rooms. Orrin—I hope it’s all right to call you that? We’re on a first-name basis here. I’m Tamara, and my husband is Raffi. I can show you to your room if you’d like to freshen up. The gas fireplaces work without electricity.”

  When the shivering, blue-lipped Wardell hesitated, Gordon urged him to follow Mrs. Yardumian. “Get warm. We’ll do what we can down here.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrs. Yardumian said to Gordon. “You’re soaked to the skin, too. Go change your clothes.”

  Gordon took a few minutes to go upstairs and peel off his wet jeans. He draped them over the shower rod, toweled off, and slipped into dry, flannel-lined jeans, immediately feeling warmer. He trotted downstairs.

  “Do you know what happened on the highway? East of your access road,” Gordon asked Yardumian. “Looks like some kind of accident. First responders are there, judging from the flashing lights.”

  Yardumian shook his head. “No, but I can believe an accident. There’s a series of hairpin curves, and people get in trouble even in perfect weather. Everyone has to drive so fast. As if saving five minutes on a trip is vital.”

  Gordon remembered navigating that stretch of road and had to agree the conditions were hazardous. “At least the State Patrol got there. If we could contact them, I could give them the coordinates of the Wardell’s vehicle, although in this weather, I’m surprised they’re even on the road. Or that they haven’t closed it.”

  “My money says they will. It’s steep and we’ve had semis not able to handle it. As soon as there’s ice on the roads, it’s a nightmare. But if they’re out, and close, sure. You can use the phone in my office.” He chinned toward the doorway. “Number’s on the desk.”

  Gordon thanked him and found an address book—paper, no less—open beside the phone. He closed the door to avoid Yardumian overhearing the conversation, although he guessed he’d be outed as a cop before too long.

  After the person who answered the phone verified Gordon was who he said he was, he was put through to the duty officer.

  “I’m not here in any official capacity,” Gordon explained. “But I figured as long as you had troopers so close, you might keep an eye out for a missing woman. Roni Wardell. Has anyone reported finding her yet?”

  Gordon gave him the coordinates for Wardell’s car, and everything else he had—including the purple scarf—not surprised when the response was “Not a lot we can do in this weather. Pickup spun out and flipped on that road taking two cars with it. Multiple injuries and two fatalities. Until we clear the scene, nobody’s getting through. Enough trouble getting a plow in there to get the bodies and victims out. We’re turning everyone around at 25 to the east and 92 to the west.”

  “Understood. The husband is at the Yardumians’ B and B at this number if you have any more information.”

  “We’ll try to get there to interview him, but not until the storm lets up.”

  “Understood. He seems quite concerned.”

  “Seems?” the trooper said.

  Gordon glanced toward the door and lowered his voice. “Goes with the job. The vibes are right, but there are always questions.”

  “Yeah, good cops are skeptics all the way. You have a description of the woman? I can pass it on to the Sheriff’s Department. Save you the call.”

  The cold must have gotten to Gordon’s brain, too. “Hang on. I’ll get one for you.” He left the phone and asked Mrs. Yardumian where she’d put Wardell.

  “Upstairs, second floor, in the elk room. I wish I’d had another double vacant. It shook him up, I can tell you that. It’s at the end of the hall on the left.”

  Gordon trotted up to the second floor. He glanced at the doors, two on each side, lining the hall. Each had a hand-painted plaque displaying a different animal. Mountain goat, bear, mule deer, and the elk Mrs. Yardumian had mentioned. He knocked. “You need to give the state trooper a description of your wife.”

  The door opened without delay. Wardell had stopped shivering, but his lips were still tinged with blue. “Did they find someone they think is her? She’d have told them her name, though. You think she bumped her head and has amnesia?” His mouth dropped open. “Or do they want me to identify her body?”

  “Nothing like that,” Gordon said. “They haven’t found anyone yet, but they need to know who they’re looking for. The trooper’s on the phone.”

  Wardell flew down the stairs two at a time. Gordon trotted in his wake and showed him to the office. Wardell grabbed the handset.

  “This is Orrin Wardell. My wife is Roni. Thirty-two years old. Five-six. A hundred and—” he hesitated, and Gordon wondered if Wardell was fudging on her weight—if Roni might be sensitive about it. He knew women who had no problem stating their age but would rather die than admit they were even five pounds over whatever they thought their ideal weight should be.

  “—And thirty pounds,” Wardell continued. “She has blonde hair. Shoulder-length. It was in a braid today. Blue eyes.” A pause, as if he were listening. Then, “Um … dark gray ski pants and a sweater. I think it was striped. Lots of colors. A black parka. And a purple hat.”

  Another pause. “Thanks. Please. You have to find my wife.” Without asking if Gordon needed to talk to the trooper, he hung up.

  Mrs. Yardumian waited for them in the living room. “Would you like some coffee? Or tea? Hot cider? Hot chocolate? I can make some sandwiches for lunch, since it looks like we’re all going to be together a while longer.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” Gordon said. “I know that’s not part of the package.”

  She flapped her hands. “Nonsense. You can’t get out, and I’ve got plenty. Nothing fancy.”

  Wardell flopped into one of the chairs by the fire. Mrs. Yardumian gave Gordon a sympathetic look. “Poor man,” she whispered. “It’s bad enough being helpless and snowbound without what he must be going through.”

  “The State Patrol will call out search and rescue teams, but there’s not much they can do until the blizzard passes. Have you checked the weather reports?”

  “Raffi was watching it earlier. He mentioned the cell stalling right where we are.”

  Gordon didn’t want to say anything in front of Wardell, but that couldn’t bode well if his wife had somehow wandered off in the storm. She’d be lost and hypothermic at best, depending on when she’d left the car. At worst, cadaver dogs would find her when the weather cleared.

  “I’d better get going on those sandwiches,” she said.

  Gordon took another look around the living room. No sign of Tyner or Paula. Mrs. Yardumian hadn’t seemed concerned. They were probably upstairs.

  Raffi Yardumian came into the room and set a thermal jug on the sideboard. “Hot cider. Might warm you up.”

  “Did Sam Tyner get back?” Gordon asked. “Or did he check out this morning? I didn’t see his car. I take it Paula’s still around.”

  “Sam’s parked in the rear lot. I assume they’re both in their rooms.” Yardumian poured a mug of cider and carried it to Wardell. “Drink this,” he said, as if speaking to a child.

  Gordon helped himself, cupping his hands around the mug to absorb its warmth. The aroma of cinnamon in the cider reminded him of Angie. If she’d watched the weather reports, she’d be worried. He had no
idea what the weather was doing in Mapleton. And without power, he wasn’t going to find out now.

  “Mind if I make a call?” he asked.

  “As long as we’ve got phones, feel free,” Yardumian said.

  Gordon took his cider to the office. Ready to dial Daily Bread, he remembered Angie was busy with one of her new catering events and wouldn’t be at the deli. He called her cell instead, and left a message when his call went to voice mail. Who he wanted to call was Solomon, but they’d promised not to bother each other unless it was an emergency. If Solomon couldn’t run things for five days without him, he’d misjudged the man’s ability to handle the job. And if Gordon couldn’t go five days without checking in, he hadn’t trained his staff properly.

  When the phone rang, Gordon jumped. He’d reached for the handset before he realized he wasn’t at his desk, and had no business answering the phone. After three rings, it stopped, and he assumed one of the Yardumians had picked up an extension. He headed toward the living room.

  Yardumian caught him before he had a chance to sit down. “It’s the State Patrol. The trooper wants to talk to you.”

  Chapter 8

  Gordon picked up the phone in Yardumian’s office. “Gordon Hepler.”

  The trooper he’d spoken with earlier was on the line. “One minute,” Gordon said. He waited until he heard the click of the extension being hung up. “What do you have?”

  “A heads up,” the trooper said. “The pickup that rolled over had some help. One of the tires was blown out. By a bullet. Another one went through the driver’s side window. It’s a toss-up as to whether that bullet killed him or the crash did. Why I’m calling. It’s possible whoever did this might try to take shelter at the Yardumians’. I didn’t want to alarm them, but you’re on the job. You’d pick up any hinky vibes.”

  “When did this happen?” Gordon asked. He didn’t remember seeing the lights when he and Wardell had pulled onto the road, but that didn’t mean the accident hadn’t happened a long time earlier. With no traffic, there’d be no one to call it in.

  “We got the call an hour ago. First on scene was twenty minutes later.”

  “Who called it in?”

  “Burn phone with an Arizona number. Reported it then hung up. We almost didn’t roll—nothing like someone with a beef against cops placing a crank call to make us go out in this weather.”

  “You think it could have been the shooter?”

  “Can’t say. Disposable phones are all over the place these days, and a tourist from Arizona isn’t out of the ordinary here. Unless the shooter got a case of the guilts when what was supposed to be a clean shot ended up involving the other cars, and he called it in himself.”

  “Any reason for someone to want the pickup driver dead?”

  “We’re looking into it. Wanted you to keep your eyes open. If it wasn’t for the second shot, it might have looked like a hunting accident, but that’s an awfully big might. It’s not easy to shoot out the tire of a moving vehicle. If it happened earlier this morning, when the weather wasn’t so bad, I’d say it was possible, but a second shot to take out the driver? That’s pushing my buttons. Big time.”

  “No argument from me on that one. Thanks for the alert, and I’ll call if anything looks hinky here.”

  “I’ve known the Yardumians for a long time. They’re solid people. Appreciate the extra eyes and ears.”

  “You’ve got it.” Gordon hung up and mulled over the trooper’s words as he went to the dining room where Mrs. Yardumian had set out a tray of sandwiches and chips, along with more fruit.

  Wardell sat with a plate of food in front of him, but he wasn’t eating. Paula had come downstairs and was helping herself to the spread. She’d changed into jeans and a thick blue cable-knit sweater. She took a chair next to Wardell.

  Gordon fixed his own plate and sat across from her. “You from Colorado?” he asked, not directing the question at either of them.

  Wardell shook his head. “New Mexico. We’re visiting my uncle. Taking short trips using his place as a base.” He took one bite of his sandwich, rearranged the chips, then stood and clomped to the window. “Is this snow ever going to stop?”

  It had been snowing less than half a day, but Gordon didn’t think Wardell wanted to hear that. Time tended to stop when you were waiting and worrying about a loved one.

  “By tonight, I think they said.” Paula forked up a strawberry, ignoring Gordon’s question.

  “That’s too long,” Wardell said, as if anyone had control over the weather.

  “Where’s Sam?” Gordon asked. “The Yardumians said he made it back.”

  Paula busied herself with more fruit. “Yeah. He was in his room.”

  Did Gordon detect a blush? Maybe she’d been in Tyner’s room, too. Or he’d been in hers. Her hair was damp, as if she’d recently showered.

  You’re worse than Solomon, looking for secrets. Or Angie, looking for gossip. Two consenting adults trapped in a snowbound house. If Angie were here, you’d be enjoying yourself, too.

  But Angie wasn’t here, and Gordon found himself enjoying the search for questions to answer. Of course, the biggie now was who shot the man in the pickup, and was he coming here? Solomon would have fun getting his teeth into this one.

  The lights flickered on, off, and on again. Everyone stopped and stared at the ceiling fixture, waiting to see if it would hold. After about ten seconds, Gordon said, “Looks like we have power.”

  Paula’s gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, as if she had to confirm Gordon’s words for herself. “I’d better get up and file my blog post.” She took one dainty bite of her sandwich—half a sandwich, actually—and pushed away from the table. “Assuming this hole in the wall’s Internet connection is up, too. The Wi-Fi upstairs sucks.”

  “I think the office computer is hard-wired,” Gordon said. “You might ask to use it.”

  “What a pain. I have the post written, all ready to upload, on my laptop. At least I have a flash drive.” She wandered into the kitchen, then reappeared, shaking her head, and went toward the office, returning seconds later. “Not there. I’m sure they won’t mind. It’ll just take a few minutes.” She left, headed upstairs, most likely to get the post onto her flash drive. Rude of her not to ask, but it seemed to fit her persona.

  Footfalls sounded on the stairs a moment later, followed by Tyner’s appearance. He, too, looked freshly showered.

  None of your business. Still, Gordon couldn’t help wondering if there was another puzzle here.

  After Tyner got his lunch, he glanced at the half-empty plate Paula had left, then slipped into the chair next to Gordon. “Guess I’ll eat lunch today,” Tyner said. “Being out in cold weather works up an appetite.” He took a bite of sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. If he was curious about Wardell, he didn’t show it. And since he’d been gone when Wardell arrived, he might not realize there was anything wrong.

  “Get your pictures?” Gordon asked.

  “Not many,” Tyner said. “Damn storm blew in out of nowhere. I was headed toward the rec area, but decided not to risk getting stuck in the snow. Barely made it back here before all hell broke loose.”

  So, he’d gone in the direction of the pileup. “What time did you get here?” Gordon asked, hoping to give the troopers a better handle on when the accident happened.

  Tyner shrugged. “Dunno exactly. Maybe tenish? Why do you ask?”

  “Apparently a pickup spun out, took two other cars with it.”

  Tyner put down his sandwich. “Shit. Was anyone hurt?”

  “I didn’t get the details,” Gordon said. If he were a civilian, he wouldn’t have, so he stuck to being evasive.

  Wardell snapped to attention. “You heard from the cops?”

  “Just that there was another accident,” Gordon said. “And no, your wife wasn’t one of the victims. They’ve got a BOLO out on her.”

  “BOLO?” Tyner said.

  “Be on the lookout.” Gordon’s heart skipped
a beat as he realized he’d used police jargon. Had he blown his cover? “You know, like they say on TV.” He hoped that would take care of it.

  Neither man seemed to care.

  Tyner went to the sideboard for coffee. “Your wife?” he said. “Something happen?”

  “She’s gone,” Wardell said. “Car went over the ledge and we can’t find her.”

  “Damn, that sucks. Hope she turns up.”

  Gordon waited a heartbeat or two, but that seemed to be all the interest a missing person generated. Wardell seemed numb, and Gordon couldn’t find a reason to upset him again with more questions.

  Gordon took his dirty plate to the kitchen, rinsed it, and set it on the counter. He thought he detected motion through the window over the sink, but when he fingered the lacy curtains aside, it was nothing but pine branches waving behind a swirling blanket of snow.

  He went to the sideboard and refilled his mug with cider. Sitting by a fire on a snowy day should be relaxing enough to meet Dr. Demming’s prescription. Of course, a potential murder investigation might not be what the good doctor had anticipated.

  Lights flickering beyond the front window caught his eye. He strolled in that direction, hearing the rumble of a vehicle—pickup was his guess—under the wind. He checked the room, confirming he was alone. After setting his cider on the entry table, he rested his hand on his weapon and stood off to the side of the door. Boots stomped. Cowbells clanked. The door opened.

  A parka-clad figure, face buried in a fur-trimmed hood, stepped inside.

  Chapter 9

  “Are you Raffi Yardumian? I’m Nick Metcalf. I have a reservation.” He shoved the parka hood away from his face and swiped his hand from his walrus moustache to his shaggy beard. Creases lined the corners of his brown eyes. Sandy-blond hair hung over his ears.

  Gordon released his hold on his weapon. Highly unlikely a killer would have made a reservation. If he’d planned a killing in advance and made any reservations at all, they’d be at a place far, far away from the crime scene.