Deadly Relations: Mapleton Mystery, #11

DEADLY RELATIONS

A Mapleton Mystery

Terry Odell

Copyright

© 2023 by Terry Odell

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

For Mom. 1926 – 2022. Love you and miss you always.

Chapter 1

HERE WE ARE, IRIS said as she unlocked the door. I know you’ll love it.

The Realtor had uttered the same words at every house he and Angie, his wife, had looked at. So far, Angie had rejected all of them.

This one—fingers crossed—would meet her criteria. Except for one minor wrinkle, it was perfect.

We’ll see. Angie pushed past him and strode for the staircase. She insisted she be alone while she opened herself to any negative feelings. The wrinkle in question was the dead body Gordon and Iris had discovered in the bathtub. That was over a month ago. To be accurate, the body had been killed elsewhere, so the tub was a dumping ground, not a homicide site. It made a difference to Gordon, Chief of Police of Mapleton. Did Angie see it the same way? Did she regard a dead body as a dead body, regardless of the way it met its demise?

He forced himself to relax. She was here, she knew about the body, she was willing to evaluate the house. Maybe now they could move out of her cramped apartment.

Angie disappeared upstairs and Iris moved through the house, turning on lights, doing whatever Realtors did for a showing.

Gordon’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Ed Solomon’s name appeared on the display. Mapleton Police Department’s lead officer? Pulse quickening, Gordon tapped to accept the call.

Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, Chief, his officer said. There’s a ... situation.

Solomon’s not coming out with what was going down meant it was something he’d rather discuss privately. Gordon stepped onto the front porch.

What is it, Ed? I’m alone for the moment.

A man, refuses to give his name, is at your house, says he’ll only talk to you. He’s chained himself to the porch and has a jerry can he says is full of gasoline. He’s waving a lighter. Not lit. Yet.

Gordon’s expletive was far from under his breath. He glanced behind him to make sure Iris wasn’t within earshot. I’ll get there as soon as I can.

He dashed into the house, found Angie and Iris in the kitchen. Trying to keep his anxiety hidden, he approached the two women. Angie, there’s a minor situation at work, and Ed says I’m needed. Nothing major, but I have to be there. Iris, would you mind driving Angie home when you’re finished? We’ll discuss the house later and get back to you tonight.

Angie’s brows winged upward, but she accepted Gordon’s request without question. Verbally, anyway. Her expression said she knew he wouldn’t have been called out on a Sunday for anything minor and they’d be discussing a lot more than this house tonight.

He rushed to his SUV and called Ed. Okay, give me everything you have. I’m in my personal vehicle. Do I need to stop by the station, get my official one with a radio? Additional weaponry?

I think coming in hot will scare the guy into doing something he didn’t mean to. I’ve asked for a negotiator from County, but who knows how long it’ll take for one to get here. The guy wants you, Chief, and you might be the best extinguisher we’ve got. No need for the radio. I’ll keep my cell on and will relay everything to Dispatch.

I’ll come straight over. Gordon accessed his hands-free system and set his phone in the console, then pulled away from the curb and wove his way through the suburban streets to the highway. Any hostages?

Negative. Also, he claims he doesn’t have a phone, so it’s hard to carry on a conversation. He gets his knickers in a twist if I get any closer than the sidewalk. All he says is he’s waiting for you.

Gordon worked on a strategy. Send someone behind the house where he can’t see them. Check the rest of the exterior.

Roger that, Chief.

Gordon pounded the steering wheel as two cars ahead of him drove side-by-side, both well under the speed limit. Experience had taught him that flashing his headlights or tapping the horn had drivers slowing down out of spite. You told him I was coming?

We did, Ed said. He sat down, folded his arms, and hasn’t moved.

I suppose that’s a positive. Have Dispatch route any spare officers to that sector, have them on alert, but not close enough to spook him. Same for firefighters and medics.

Roger.

Finally, the car in the left lane overtook the one next to it and moved right. Gordon mashed the accelerator and sped forward.

He hit the entrance to his subdivision, noting the Mapleton patrol car parked a quarter mile from his house. Gordon raised four fingers, letting the officer—Rafe Perez—know all was under control. For now.

ETA under two, Gordon said to Solomon. Everything still okay?

No change, Solomon said. McDermott checked the outside where she wouldn’t be noticed. Peeked in the windows. No signs of a break-in or disturbance. Guy’s sitting on the top porch step staring into space. No clue what’s going on inside his head.

Gordon passed the waiting emergency vehicles, gave them the same four-fingers gesture. At his house, Gordon parked on the street alongside Solomon’s unit.

The man on the porch stood, his lighter—unlit—waving above his head.

Solomon exited his vehicle, hands in the air. Chief Hepler is here, he shouted.

Gordon got out of his SUV, his hands raised as well.

Keep your phone on, Solomon said.

Gordon nodded as he took several slow steps toward the porch. There was something familiar about the man waiting for him.

Chapter 2

KEEPING HIS PACE CASUAL, Gordon studied the man. Five-ten, maybe one-forty. Clean-shaven. Faded jeans, scuffed lightweight hikers, navy-blue hoodie half-covering his head.

The man pulled the hood away, shook out a mass of red curls.

Gordon halted. Memories flooded over him. Rowan?

Glad you remember me, Gordon.

Of course I do. We were brothers-in-law for three years. What do you need?

Rowan tipped the jerry can on its side, then flicked his lighter. I need you to pay.

Pay for what?

Rowan glowered. You figure it out.

Gordon raised his hands. Rowan. Come on. We can talk. Put down the lighter. He judged the distance to the porch. A puddle of liquid spread from the jerry can. If Rowan dropped the lighter onto the porch, could Gordon get there before the gasoline ignited?

Even if he couldn’t cover the distance fast enough to keep Rowan from igniting the fuel, the flames shouldn’t get out of control too quickly. Contrary to popular belief, gasoline didn’t explode. Only the vapors were flammable, and Solomon would have a fire extinguisher in his vehicle.

Setting a fire meant Rowan was suicidal, because he’d made no effort to unlock the chains securing him to a porch rail. The man Gordon remembered was easy-going, always volunteering. Food bank, VA, literacy programs. What had happened? Gordon braved a step closer. C’mon, Rowan. You don’t want to do this. Get rid of the chains, come on down, and we can talk. Work it out.

Too late, Rowan said. You ruined her. Now it’s your turn.

Gordon decided he was close enough to talk to Rowan, yet far enough away for a getaway if the guy followed through on his threat. Ruined who?

Don’t pretend you don’t know. Cynthia, who else?

Gordon startled. His ex? She’d been the one to call everything off. How could he have ruined her life?

Rowan fished something out of his pocket and dangled it in front of him. A key. To the padlock?

As Gordon moved forward to accept it, Rowan hurled it across the yard into a clump of flowering Russian sage bushes.

If Gordon had any doubts as to Rowan’s current sanity, the burst of maniacal laughter erased them.

"I said your turn to pay," Rowan said, his tone now somber. He slipped his free hand into the pouch of his hoodie and locked his gaze on Gordon.

I understand. Tell me what you want. How do I repay you?

Isn’t going to happen. Rowan turned his back.

Rowan, I’m coming up. We’ll talk. It’s never too late to fix things.

That’s what you think. Rowan spun, and thick red smoke hid the porch.

What the—? Gordon stood rooted as his brain whirled through the possibilities. Before he could single one out as most likely, a resounding boom shook the ground. Sounds of shattering glass followed.

Gordon twisted away, shielded his head, then grabbed his phone from his pocket. Ed—

On it, Solomon replied before Gordon said anything else.

Smoke filled the air. Flames licked at the windows.

His officer appeared at his side, bolt cutters in hand. They rushed toward the porch. Rowan was gone. The chain lay on the wood next to a smoke bomb canister like a sunbathing snake. The jerry can rested on its side.

Get those firefighters rolling, Gordon said.

Already did. And we’re better off farther away. I don’t want to be this close if something inside goes whoosh. Solomon rested a hand on Gordon’s biceps and urged him down the steps to their vehicles. Sirens announced the approach of the fire department.

Leaning against his SUV, Gordon stared at the rapidly spreading fire. Dammit. Rowan bombed my house.

Solomon looked prepared to offer one of his wisecracks, then merely shook his head.

Did you see which way he went? Gordon asked.

Sorry, Chief. Reflexes. When I saw the smoke, I rolled fire and medics. After the boom, I turned around—just for a couple of seconds. I never saw him leave the porch.

Smokescreen, Gordon muttered. Get on the radio, put a BOLO out for him. Name’s Rowan Benedict. You’ve got a description.

Solomon grabbed his radio and told Connie, the dispatcher on duty, to get the lookout order underway as a priority.

Rowan had this whole thing planned. Why? Gordon said.

I figured you’d know the answer to that one.

The firefighters arrived and set to work. Gordon had a brief flashback to rescuing someone from a fire and not liking the consequences, so he was glad the professionals were here now. He trotted to the Russian sage plant and rummaged around for the key Rowan had tossed there. When he spied the gleam of metal, he hollered to Solomon to come with gloves and an evidence envelope.

His officer complied and raised the key to the light. Too big to be the padlock key. Looks more like a house key. I’d say he wants us to think he’d thrown away the key to his chains.

Gordon nodded in agreement. And for us to think as long as he was his own captive, nothing bad would happen. That he wouldn’t ignite the gasoline.

Do you think he’d have set himself on fire? Solomon dropped the key into the envelope.

Not the Rowan I knew. This guy—he was totally unhinged. He might have. Hang on a sec. Let me see that key again. Gordon fished his key ring from his pocket.

Solomon tipped the key out of the envelope and handed it over. Gordon went through his keys and singled one out.

Holy crap. Gordon dropped the key back in the envelope.

What? Solomon asked.

At least we know how Rowan got inside. That’s a key to the house.

Solomon sealed the envelope. How’d he get it?

Damned if I know. Cynthia might have given it to him years ago while we were living here. He visited a couple of times.

Could be he forgot he had it until now.

There’s no proof this is the same key we saw him throw, Gordon said, although it’s highly unlikely there’s another one.

I’ll have it printed, Solomon said.

Gordon gave it a moment’s thought. It’s moot at this point. How he got the key doesn’t matter. We’re both eyewitnesses to his actions. He had everything staged.

Understood, Chief.

Gordon pointed to the porch. A firefighter picked up the can and jogged toward his truck.

Not much we can do here while the firefighters are working, Chief, Solomon said. You can have the rest of your Sunday. I can coordinate things from the station. Crime Scene Response Team, arson squad, follow up with Dispatch, make sure everyone’s got eyes open for our guy.

You do that. I’ll be in later. I want to take a quick spin around the neighborhood, see if I can find Rowan, or at least where he went.

Want me to get Buster? Solomon asked. I can ask if Mary Ellen’s free to bring him over. Save a little time.

Buster, the Solomons’ German shepherd, filled in as the department K-9 when needed, which in small-town Mapleton wasn’t often. Yeah, why not.

Roger that, Chief.

Gordon took in the scene, trying to ignore the smell of smoke, and attempted to get into Rowan’s head. The man—deranged or not—had planned everything, and an escape route would have been part of his playbook. He’d have gone away from the house, away from the street where Solomon’s unit was parked.

By now, firefighters had trampled the ground around the house. Any evidentiary footprints would be obliterated.

Down the block, a dog barked. Then another joined in. Then another. Alerting to a stranger? Gordon slipped into his SUV and headed that way.

Chapter 3

GORDON ACTIVATED HIS hands-free system as he cruised the block and let Solomon know his whereabouts. It’s worth checking out the barking dogs. Moose lives three blocks away and nobody ever gets past him. Or, he could be announcing the arrival of a squirrel.

Keep me apprised, Solomon said. I’ll make sure Dispatch knows where you are.

The barking stopped. Could it have been a squirrel after all? Too bad he couldn’t interview the dogs. He pulled to the curb near Frieda Keller’s house and gave his location to Solomon. I’ll knock on doors. See if anyone saw anything.

Starting with Moose’s house. Gordon headed for the yellow bungalow. As soon as he stepped from the sidewalk to the walkway leading to the front door, frantic barking said Moose had noticed him. The black lab barreled toward Gordon, who froze.

Hey, Moose. It’s me. A neighbor. A friend.

His owner, seventy-year-old Frieda Keller, lived alone and relied on the dog for her protection. She also had what Gordon thought of as bored old person syndrome and if anyone saw anything unusual, it would be Frieda.

Moose had stopped barking, but he paced the edge of the walkway, hackles raised, canines exposed, growling.

You all right, Chief? Solomon’s words came from Gordon’s pocket.

Gordon kept his voice low, his focus on Moose while he talked to Solomon. Having a friendly discussion with a dog. His owner will be out to investigate the ruckus.

Mary Ellen’s bringing Buster to the station. I’ll make all the calls before she gets here. Titch is duty officer, so he’ll mind the store while Buster and I do our reconnoitering.