Deadly Puzzles: Mapleton Mystery, #3

DEADLY PUZZLES

For Matt Kennedy. I hope you found your peace.

Chapter 1

Gordon Hepler gripped the armrests of the chair until his knuckles went white. What’s the verdict? Am I going blind?

Let’s have a look at the new pictures. Dr. Demming rolled his chair aside, allowing Gordon a clear view of the computer screen. Side-by-side grainy but brightly colored images displayed the inner workings of Gordon’s eyeballs. Gordon leaned closer, blinking to sharpen his vision. The series of green, blue, and yellow smokestack-shapes with their black centers glared at him.

They look the same to me. Gordon rubbed the Band-Aid on the back of his hand where the doctor had injected the dye.

Dr. Demming’s expression didn’t change. It never did, not in the three months Gordon had been coming to Denver to see the eye specialist. The doctor consulted the manila file folder that held printouts of more pictures like the one on the screen, flipping pages, making notes.

His silence confirmed Gordon’s fear.

Your night vision? Dr. Demming asked. Any change?

Gordon shook his head. Not that I can tell. But not worse didn’t mean it was good.

Dr. Demming made more notes. He closed the folder and dovetailed his fingers on top of it. His gray eyes under bushy eyebrows captured Gordon’s gaze. You taking your blood-pressure meds? Your readings were high this afternoon.

Gordon nodded. Yours would be too if you were in my shoes. Waiting to find out if you might lose your vision.

White coat syndrome, Dr. Demming muttered. I’ll chalk it up to that, but I want you to start monitoring your pressure twice a day. You can pick up an inexpensive machine at any drug store. Call me if your readings don’t stay level and I’ll tweak your prescription. What about your caffeine intake?

I’m watching it.

Dr. Demming didn’t seem to notice Gordon’s stretching of the truth. And bottom line, it was Gordon’s vision at stake, not the doctor’s, if Gordon didn’t follow the suggestions. He’d gone to half-caff, but another glance at the lack of improvement between today’s images and the ones taken on his first visit was enough to convince him he’d have to switch to straight decaf.

Dr. Demming went on. I think we can wait another few months before taking further steps. There’s a laser treatment, but given the location of your leaks, I’d rather give things a chance to clear up on their own.

Is that the only option? Gordon asked.

Dr. Demming shook his head. No, there’s a newer treatment called photodynamic therapy, should it come to that. Meanwhile, I strongly suggest you get away from the stress of your job for a while. Retinal detachment is a complication we don’t need.

I’m the Chief of Police. Mapleton might be a small town compared to Denver, but it’s hard to pick up and leave just to avoid the pressures. Granted, most of them were budgetary and staffing headaches—understaffing headaches to be precise—which had him filling holes in shifts. Even without that, it wasn’t a nine-to-five job he could shut the door on when he left the office.

They’re your eyes, Gordon. I’ve already explained the risk factors.

Right. Stress, hypertension—both of which Gordon had in spades—and caffeine, which he could control. He stood and extended a hand to the doctor. Understood. I’ve got some vacation time.

Dr. Demming stood and returned the handshake. Use it. I want to see you in a month. And don’t forget the blood pressure monitor.

Gordon stiffened his spine and tried to swap the worry on his face for a smile before opening the door to the waiting room. He took his gloves from his jacket pockets and pulled them on, hiding the evidence of his injection.

Angie Mead looked up from her cell phone, turning her clear blue eyes his way. Such a pain you had to come all the way to Denver for an eye test. How did it go?

Fine. Get your errands done? he asked, changing the subject. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell her about his CSR—central serous retinopathy.

She nodded. Yep. Should we head home?

You know what? he said. Let’s get a room here in Denver for the night. We can have a nice dinner, a glass or two of wine, and not have to deal with the drive to Mapleton. Which, given when the sun went down this time of year, would save him driving the mountain roads in the dark. Or asking Angie to drive—another evasion she hadn’t seemed to notice when they’d gone out after dark. The two of us. A quiet night together.

She looped her arm in his and tugged him toward the exit. "Not too quiet, I hope."

Monday morning, after his stint as crossing guard at Mapleton Elementary, Gordon crunched across the frost-covered parking lot to the private entrance of his office. The smell of freshly-brewed coffee from the break room enticed him, but he shrugged out of his parka and settled himself in front of his computer.

Rubbing his temples against the caffeine-withdrawal headache, trying not to inhale the coffee aroma, he dealt with the paperwork that had accumulated over the weekend. He wasn’t sure taking weekends off made much difference to his stress level, since all it meant was there was more to deal with on Mondays. Last Friday night had been relaxing, though. As had Saturday morning. At least the doctor hadn’t said anything about cutting back on sex.

Ed Solomon, one of his best officers, burst into the room. Hey, Chief. He pulled out the visitor chair and sat. I think you ought to see this. He set a folded copy of the Denver Post onto the desk, pivoting it so it faced Gordon, and tapped an article. What do you think? Should I alert the bank?

Gordon stared at the tiny print. He slipped on his new reading glasses. The lines of words danced around the page, refusing to stay in focus. He blinked. Blinked again. Nothing. Heart pounding, sweat filming his palms, Gordon took off his glasses and set them beside the paper. Striving to keep the panic at bay, he stared into Solomon’s blurry face. Sorry, Ed. I’ll have to get back to you on this one.

Chapter 2

Gordon hefted his duffle out of the back of his SUV, head hunched against the rising wind as he hurried to the porch of the Tranquility Valley Bed and Breakfast. Cowbells clanged as he opened the door. The aroma of Italian food, mixed with a scent of wood smoke filled his nostrils.

Welcome. A female voice floated from the other side of the room.

Gordon peered into the grandmotherly face of a lean, gray-haired woman in an easy chair, knitting by a crackling fire. She rose, holding out a bony hand. I’m Tamara Yardumian. Looks like you beat the storm.

Guess so. I’m Gordon Hepler. I have a reservation.

She smiled. I figured it was you. Not a lot of business this time of year. You said you wanted peace and quiet, and you should have plenty.

Looking forward to it, he said, although his tone lacked conviction.

A rustic getaway made more sense to him than meditation or yoga, the two other suggestions Dr. Demming had offered. Gordon had tried a few yoga classes. All that mind clearing just made more room for the things he was worried about. Which was why Gordon had chosen the Tranquility Valley B and B, a good six-hour drive from Mapleton, and totally out of his jurisdiction. He knew Ed Solomon would ride herd on the force while Gordon followed doctor’s orders and hid out in the middle of nowhere. Too bad Angie couldn’t have come, too, but between her job at Daily Bread and her new partnership with Megan’s event catering, she barely had a minute for him when they were both in town.

As soon as we take care of the formalities, I’ll show you to your room, Mrs. Yardumian said. Gordon went through the check-in procedure, then followed Mrs. Yardumian up two flights of stairs to a large suite on the top floor.

No extra charge for the upgrade, she said, giving him a conspiratorial wink. It’s one bed, one set of towels, no matter how big the room is.

Gordon made a quick survey of the suite. Large sitting room with a blue, red, and green plaid sofa, two blue easy chairs, as well as a writing desk. Gas fireplace. The bedroom held rustic oak furnishings, including a four-poster bed, and a quilted navy-blue coverlet with a striped blanket folded at the foot. Very L.L. Bean. This looks perfect.

Room key and one for the front door if you’re out late. She handed him the keys and left, and Gordon dropped his duffle on the chest at the foot of the bed. He’d checked out the facilities and begun unpacking when someone rapped gently on the door. Gordon?

He opened the door to Mrs. Yardumian. Yes?

I’m sorry to bother you, but the storm’s rolling in, and well—the roads can be tricky. Hate for you to get stuck driving to town for dinner. It’s not part of the package, but since there’s only you and two others staying here tonight, you can join us—assuming you like spaghetti.

Gordon faced the window. A swirling mass of fluffy white flakes obscured the view. He had a frisson of fear that his world could soon look like that all the time. Without turning around, he said, Spaghetti sounds wonderful.

Six o’clock, then, she said. Casual.

When she’d departed, Gordon finished unpacking, putting his Beretta .380 backup weapon into the small lockbox he carried in his luggage. He’d debated bringing it at all, but even on vacation, he was a cop. Of course, he had no intention of telling anyone here that’s what he did.

Sitting on the bed, he pulled his cell phone from its holder on his belt. One bar. Not unexpected considering the location. He sent a quick text letting Angie know he’d arrived safely, and flopped onto his back.

Staring at the ceiling, he turned the seams of the wooden planks into another eye test. The lines seemed straight enough. He tried to convince himself he was simply outside the normal timeframe for his CSR to reverse itself. Not so far out that he’d lose much of his vision while he waited.

He’d studied all the possible complications, all the potential treatments with their inherent complications. What would he do if he couldn’t see? Get a dog? He couldn’t continue as a cop, nor could he envision himself tapping a white cane down Main Street.

After the brief panic attack when he hadn’t been able to read the newspaper Solomon had shown him, Gordon had made another visit to Dr. Demming, and then spent the rest of the week clearing his calendar for this vacation.

His gut churned. This was not relaxing.

He checked the new clock app on his phone—the one with the oversize numerals. Ten minutes until dinner. After taking five cleansing breaths the way Dr. Demming had shown him, Gordon went into the bathroom, splashed water on his face, changed into a clean shirt, and headed downstairs.

Mrs. Yardumian welcomed him. Would you like a glass of wine? When he hesitated, she went on. It’s a tradition here. She pointed him toward a platter of cheese and crackers. Happy hour. On the house.

Thanks.

She poured red wine from a carafe and offered the glass to him. He thanked her again and went to the sideboard for some cheese and crackers. He’d stopped along the drive to take pictures, but not to eat. The aroma of spaghetti sauce had his mouth watering and his stomach grumbling.

The cowbells clanged, and a moment later another man—mid-fifties, Gordon guessed—strolled into the room. He was bottom-heavy, large-nosed, and bald except for a thick ruff of gray hair stretching from ear to ear, reminding Gordon of the punching bag clowns he’d had as a kid.

The man set a fancy-looking Nikon next to a place setting, then went for the buffet. Holding a small plate piled with an assortment of cheeses, he crossed toward Gordon. Just get in? the man said. He stuffed a cracker topped with cheese into his mouth.

Yes, I did. I’m Gordon. Since the man was busy eating and both of Gordon’s hands were occupied, he skipped the handshake ritual.

The man swallowed. Sorry. The breakfasts here are huge, so I’m never hungry for lunch. I barely beat the storm.

Gordon nodded toward the Nikon. Nice camera. You a photographer? I’m more of a cell phone snapshot person myself.

Landscape artist. Taking pictures and doing preliminary sketches for my next show. He swallowed another morsel, then swiped a napkin across his mouth. Sorry again. I’m Samuel Tyner. Sam. He looked at Gordon as if he expected him to recognize the name.

Uh, what was the proper etiquette in a situation like this? Sorry, I don’t do much art? Sorry, I’ve never heard of you? Or, "Oh, you’re that Samuel Tyner."

Gordon decided on a generic Nice to meet you, but before he had a chance to utter the words, another man entered the room. Short, square, with a swarthy complexion and a hawk-bill nose. He approached Gordon and Tyner.

The man displayed shiny white teeth in a wide grin. You must be Gordon. I’m Raffi Yardumian. Welcome. I wish we had nicer weather for your stay.

I’ve lived in Colorado most of my life, Gordon said. I’m used to it.

Again, welcome. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must attend my sauce. It’s an old family recipe. He lowered his voice. My great-grandmother on my father’s side was Italian. He glanced toward the stairs. Our other guest should be down shortly. She’s a travel writer.

And he’s hoping she does a nice write-up of the B and B, Gordon thought. Didn’t take twenty-twenty vision to see that one. He wondered if she got discounted rates—or if she paid at all.

The woman arrived a moment later, late thirties, he guessed, on the skinny side of slim. Sneakered feet, khakis, and a purple long-sleeved turtleneck. Ignoring him and Tyner, who was at the sideboard again, she sat in one of the two chairs near the fireplace and picked up a magazine from an end table.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Yardumian came in and called them to dinner. Gordon carried his unfinished wine to the large oak dining table and took the seat she pointed him to, which put him next to the travel writer.

Sam, Paula, this is Gordon, Mrs. Yardumian said. Sam lifted his glass in a silent salute. Paula the travel writer merely nodded.

Call it idle curiosity or his cop mentality, Gordon couldn’t resist a little digging. He turned to his neighbor. I understand you’re a travel writer. I’m looking into seeing more of the world. Do you have any recommendations?

Depends, Paula said, busily buttering a roll. Too many factors to answer your question. Climate, budget, your comfort level, all kinds of things play a part.

Okay, so let’s say I like the outdoors and peace and quiet, he said.

Then I’d say you’re in the perfect place right here. She twirled a fat spiral of spaghetti onto her fork.

I guess I am. But I’m interested. Where might I find some of the articles you’ve written? What’s your byline?

Freelance mostly, she said. "Too many to mention, but I blog at Paula’s Places."

Have you ever been to the Waterford Hotel outside of Denver? Now there’s a place to relax, he said. Especially since they renovated it two years ago. Their new botanical garden is amazing.

She set her fork on her plate and wiped her mouth. Yes, I agree. Excellent accommodations, and reasonable prices given the quality of the service.

Gordon nodded in agreement and went back to his spaghetti, which lived up to Yardumian’s claims. He’d have to do a little more digging into this Paula person, however. The Waterford, which had never included a botanical garden, had burned to the ground three years ago and never reopened.

Chapter 3

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, he 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 oversized 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 to 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.