Terry Odell - Mapleton 03 - Deadly Puzzles (5 page)

“
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.

“
I’ll get him.” Gordon turned as Raffi Yardumian came into the living room.

“
We weren’t expecting anyone today,” Yardumian said. “Your name?”

Metcalf repeated his name for Yardumian.
“I made the reservation at least a month ago. I called and talked to a woman, but I didn’t book direct. I did that about a week later. By email.”

“
Did you get a confirmation?” Yardumian asked.

“
Yeah, but I didn’t bring it. Didn’t think I’d need it. Hey, do you have a room or not, because I sure don’t want to have to deal with those roads.”

“
Of course. We do have a vacancy. A single.”

“
That’s all I need.”

“
If you’ll come into my office, we can take care of the details,” Yardumian said.

Gordon stepped to the window and peered through the whirlwinds of snow. A good-size pickup was parked next to his SUV. A pickup with a plow mounted on its front bumper. Convenient, but where would Metcalf have come from that he
’d have a plow handy? Not your typical tourist out exploring the countryside. He went to his seat by the fire.

Paula trotted through the room a moment later. Gordon held up a finger when she headed for the office.
“They’re busy.”

She frowned and flopped into the other fireside chair, arms folded.

Mrs. Yardumian breezed through the room into the office. She emerged a minute or two later, Metcalf at her heels. “I know I got the confirmation,” he said. “Two nights. I printed everything out and went and left the folder on my desk at home.”

Mrs. Yardumian smiled.
“Mistakes happen. I’m glad we have a room in the house. I’d hate for you to be stuck out in one of the cabins—we shut those down for the winter months, but we always honor reservations, so I’d have opened one up for you. I’ll show you to your room.”

Paula got off her chair and tapped on the door jamb outside the office.
“May I use your computer for a few minutes?” She held up her flash drive. “I need to upload a file. My blog post.”

A chair scraped on the floor and Yardumian appeared in the doorway.
“Sure. Hope you’re not going to hold the weather against us.”

Without responding, Paula waited for Yardumian to move aside—impatiently, Gordon thought—before going into the office. And closing the door behind her.

Yardumian lowered himself into the seat Paula had vacated and let out an exasperated sigh. “Never did trust email. You hit send, and who knows where your message ends up. Tamara thought she remembered talking to the man, and we do have a vacancy, so all’s well.”

“
Where’s he from?” Gordon asked. “Noticed he’s got a plow on his truck.”

Yardumian
’s eyebrows winged upward. “That would explain how he got through. Said he was going to do some fishing and snowmobiling in the Blue Mesa area. We’re conveniently located—his words, not mine, although they’re true.”

“
He hauled a snowmobile in this storm?”

“
Apparently so,” Yardumian said.

A resounding crash shook the room, followed by darkness, and a rather unladylike epithet from Yardumian
’s office.

Yardumian moved through the shadows. A drawer opened, and a flashlight beam cast a golden glow.

Paula appeared, and Gordon didn’t need to look at her to know she’d be scowling. “Don’t you have a generator or something?” she said.

“
Sorry,” Yardumian said. “This isn’t our typical weather. I think our old pine tree finally bit the dust. Might have taken out some power lines.” He went into the office and returned with an apologetic frown. “And the phone lines, I think.”

“
You mean we’re stranded? In the dark? With no phones?” Paula said.

“
Afraid so,” Yardumian said. “But I’ve got plenty of firewood, the freezer and pantry are stocked. I doubt it’ll last more than a day, if that long. The utilities companies up here are on top of things.” He moved through the room, lighting the camping lanterns, which provided a background hiss and circles of white light.

“
May I have one of those?” Paula said, her hand reaching for it before Yardumian’s answer. She hardly waited for his nod before grabbing it and traipsing to the stairs.

“
She’s a charmer all right,” Gordon muttered.

Yardumian laughed.
“We get all kinds. Some day they’re going to end up in a book.”

“
You write?”

He shrugged.
“Working on a mystery. Been at it for years, though. Don’t know if it’ll ever be finished.”

“
Well, you’ve got the perfect setup here. A bunch of strangers stranded together in a snowstorm. Power is out, no outside communication—” He stopped before mentioning the dead pickup driver. Or Wardell’s missing wife.

Yardumian laughed again.
“I think Agatha Christie’s done that already.”

“
It’s how you tell it,” Gordon said.

“
You’re right. I’ve probably got a few hours of battery on my laptop,” Yardumian said. “Maybe I’ll peck out another chapter later tonight.”

Mrs. Yardumian and Nick Metcalf came downstairs. She carried another lantern.
“I’ve put a lamp in all the rooms,” she said. “Nick’s got a snowmobile in case of an emergency.”

Getting Paula away from the house didn
’t qualify, but Gordon wondered how long it would take her to demand a ride to somewhere else. He chided himself for the uncharitable thought—his life centered around helping people, although there’d been a few he could have done without.

“
Is there anything I can do to help you?” he asked. “I know we’re creating quite a burden.”

She flapped her hand.
“Nonsense. We run this place because we like people. A few extra meals is a pleasure. Of course, it’ll be cold cuts and salads—we have a gas stove, but it has an electric igniter, so it’s no good in a power failure.”

Gordon couldn
’t help but think of Rose Kretzer, Mapleton’s mother hen, always making sure everyone was fed.

“
If the wind isn’t too bad, I can grill,” Yardumian said.

Metcalf wandered into the room, checking things out.
“Guess your movie collection isn’t on the agenda tonight.” He ambled to the bookshelves. “Board games. Wow. Monopoly? Scrabble? Haven’t played the
real
version in years. Everything’s on the Internet now.”

“
There are cards and jigsaw puzzles, too,” Mrs. Yardumian said. “Does anyone play bridge anymore?”

“
Poker’s more my style,” Metcalf said. He glanced at Gordon. “Think we might get a friendly game going? There are a couple others here, right?”

“
Five, not counting our hosts,” Gordon said. “I’m game.” Poker was an excellent way to get to know people, and he had a feeling everyone here had something they weren’t showing around the breakfast table. He had two mysteries he wasn’t officially part of, but he could put his detecting powers to use. Who knew what he might uncover?

Gordon peeked at the cards in front of him. A pair of sixes, sharp and clear, even in the shadows. They
’d each brought a flashlight, but for the game, they’d dragged a small end table closer to the card table and placed a lantern atop it. Had his CSR begun the reversal at last?

“
Five to you, Sam,” Paula said.

Sam Tyner took another glance at his hand.
“Check.”

Mrs. Yardumian—rightly so—had made it clear they weren
’t to play for
real
money, but she’d provided them with a box of poker chips. Gordon had a feeling Tyner and Metcalf were going to settle up later in the privacy of their rooms, but they’d publically agreed to her terms.

“
You dragged a trailer and snowmobile through this weather?” Gordon said to Metcalf, seeking to draw him out.

With long, calloused fingers, Metcalf shoved a small stack of chips to the center of the table.
“Sure. I’m all for winter sports. Drag that baby everywhere. Snow tires and chains. Have to watch the crosswinds, though.”

“
Better you than me,” Gordon said. “You do a lot of snowmobiling?”

“
Hell, yes. I’m on the road most of the winter. Ice fishing, snowmobiling—snowshoeing, too.”

“
Don’t you have a job?” Wardell asked Metcalf.

Paula tapped the cards.
“It’s your bet.” She pointed at Wardell.

Paula
’s demeanor hadn’t improved since she’d agreed to join the game. Plus, she had the best poker face at the table. Then again, she hadn’t shown much in the way of emotion other than her momentary burst of frustration when the power had gone out. She’d also accumulated the largest pile of chips. Gordon wondered if the other men had underestimated her skill because she was a woman. Back in Mapleton, Vicky McDermott, one of his better officers, fared well whenever they got together for a game.

Wardell shoved his cards away. He
’d been losing steadily, and Gordon attributed much of it to the man’s distress. They’d still had no word about his wife. “Fold,” Wardell said. “And you didn’t answer my question. What do you do that lets you roam the country all winter, fishing and tearing through the snow on one of those ear-splitting, air-polluting monsters?”

Metcalf
’s face darkened, his eyes narrowed, his fingertips whitened on the tabletop. “I’ll pretend you didn’t mean that. I’m sure you’re upset, what with your wife out there in the cold, freezing to death.” He paused, leaned forward, a wicked glint accompanying a sneer. “Or maybe she’s off in some hotel room, with someone else to keep her warm.”

Wardell jumped up, scattering chips as he bumped the table. His hands reached out like claws, ready to rip Metcalf
’s throat. “You take that back.”

Gordon stiffened, poised to intervene. Wardell
’s outburst added another dimension to the man’s character.

Tyner
’s jaw dropped. “Hey guys, chill. Take it easy.”

Metcalf lifted his palms.
“Just messin’ around, that’s all. Being cooped up brings out the worst in me. I apologize.”

Wardell lowered his hands, but didn
’t retake his seat. “I’ve had enough. I’m going upstairs.” He grabbed his flashlight and fled.

“
That was rude and uncalled for,” Tyner said.

“
Oh, come on. His wife up and vanishes? Sounds fishy to me. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the one who got rid of her. Playing the worried husband and all.” Metcalf scooped up Wardell’s few remaining chips and added them to the pile. “And, for the record, I spend most of the year as a fishing and hunting guide. I don’t do summer vacations. I happen to prefer being footloose and carefree in the winter. Go where I want, do what I like. Was considering moving to Alaska someday. Assuming I can hang onto my money long enough to put aside the old nest egg. And, speaking of money, let’s get on with the game.”

Gordon cut his gaze toward Paula, who
’d been stacking her chips into neat piles and squaring the deck of cards. As if the conversation had gone right past her.

She
’d also avoided any eye contact with Tyner, which told him they likely
had
gotten something going earlier. Not looking at people around a card table was as much of a tell as the heavy-lidded surreptitious glances lovers exchanged. But that was all he’d been able to decipher from her mannerisms.

Paula dealt the next card, the turn, face up onto the table. A six of hearts joined a four and seven. Which gave him three sixes. And a slim chance for a straight, depending on what showed up when Paula dealt the two river cards. He decided to maintain his conservative betting, at least for this round, and kept his raise reasonable.

“Speaking of what people do,” Metcalf said. “Gordon, you haven’t told us your job. Or why you’re here.”

Gordon let his gaze roam the faces at the table, smiled, and shrugged.
“Nothing interesting. I work for the city of Mapleton. Just another overworked civil servant. Not enough staff, too much paper to push. I had some use-it-or-lose-it vacation time, and this place was recommended.”

Metcalf returned to his former easy-going self, and Gordon wondered what Wardell had said that set him off.
Poked fun at his lifestyle was all Gordon could come up with. But it did reveal that Metcalf had a short fuse.

Gordon gave Metcalf another quick smile.
“I have snowshoes if you can stand a novice tagging along once the weather clears.”

“
Sure,” Metcalf said. “I know a few beginner trails.” He checked his watch. Gordon kept his own expression friendly—but that watch-checking was Metcalf’s tell—he’d done it every time he’d bluffed.

Raffi Yardumian poked his head out of the kitchen.
“Dinner in fifteen minutes. Brats and burgers, hot off the grill.”

Raffi disappeared, and Gordon sniffed the air, inhaling the aroma of grilling meat that wafted in when Yardumian had
opened the door to their deck.

“
They’re going above and beyond,” Gordon said. “We ought to pay them for their trouble—not to mention all the food they shouldn’t have to be feeding us.”

“
Way I see it,” Tyner said, “is that we’re not getting what we signed on for—no power, no heat, no television, no hot breakfast—so it’s a break-even deal.”

Metcalf scowled.
“Hey, I just got here. For all we know, the power might come on in an hour or so, and everything’ll be as it should be.”

“
Can we finish this hand?” Paula said. “I’d like to freshen up before dinner.” She turned up a king of diamonds and a two of clubs for the river.

After three rounds of betting, in which Metcalf checked his watch twice, Gordon took the hand with his three sixes. He dragged his winnings to his place and began stacking.
“Guess that’s it.”

“
No reason we can’t continue after dinner,” Metcalf said. “As Tyner pointed out, there’s not much else to do. Unless you want to work a namby-pamby jigsaw puzzle.”

The rest of them slid their cards in Paula
’s direction. She stacked them and left them in front of her seat, then went upstairs.

“
She’s a cold fish,” Metcalf said. “Who stuck a rod up her ass?”

“
She’s upset because she can’t file her blog,” Tyner said.

“
A
blog?
You’re shittin’ me. She’s upset about an effing blog?”

“
Hey, it’s her job,” Tyner said.

“
You can make a living blogging?” Metcalf slapped the table. “Dang, who’d a thunk it?”

“
I didn’t say that,” Tyner said. “But she does get paid.”

Tyner busied himself sorting and stacking chips. The slight flush to his neck told Gordon that Tyner had revealed more than he
’d intended—although unless he was hiding something, knowing Paula made money from her blog wouldn’t be out of the realm of normal conversation. Bending-over-backward syndrome, Gordon called it.

“
I need to freshen up myself,” Gordon said.

“
Freshen up?” Metcalf snorted. “Aren’t you all la-dee-dah. A real man would tell it like it is. You’re going to take a piss.”

Gordon ignored the man
’s taunting. Metcalf was all over the place, but maybe spending so much of his time out with Mother Nature removed some of the normal filters of civilization. Trees and fish didn’t care what you said.

As he headed toward his room, Gordon wondered if Metcalf, loose cannon or not, had picked up some of the same vibes from Wardell that he had. That there was something else going on. Both men seemed to have erratic personality shifts.

A light bounced down the hall ahead. Wardell barreled past him and raced down the stairs.