Ghost Sudoku (18 page)

“I keep going back to that Halloween prank in high school,” she said at last. “Whoever rigged that tackling dummy had to know the same things as the killer who faked the suicide.”

“It’s not like cracking the genetic code,” Michael objected. “Two separate people might have stumbled onto the same bits of information.”

“Or maybe one person did it. Or one person heard about it from another,” Liza conjectured.

Michael hunched his shoulders a little. “All right,” he said in a resigned tone of voice. “Why don’t you give Kevin a call? He was on the team, wasn’t he?”

Liza dug out her cell phone again.

As luck would have it, Kevin didn’t have any pressing business at the Killamook Inn right then. Hearing that there were new developments in the case, he readily agreed to come over and talk.

He arrived in about half an hour in his management casual outfit, a linen jacket over an open-necked shirt and a pair of pressed denims tailored to look like trousers instead of jeans. The pants alone probably outpriced everything that Michael had on.

Kevin looked around with an odd expression on his face as Liza held the door and he walked into Mrs. Halvorsen’s living room.

“I’m trying to think of the last time I was in here,” he said.

From the moment Kevin came in, Michael stood smiling at him—at least, his teeth were showing. When Rusty made a face like that, he usually added a growl. “Yeah, I guess that would be hard,” Michael said, “since the last time you came in, you were dead drunk.”

“So were you,” Kevin shot back.

Liza rolled her eyes. Her two former beaus had barely been in the same room ten seconds before the testosterone wars began.

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you why Mrs. Halvorsen is out,” she began, trying to calm things down. “She’s mobilized a whole bunch of friends to collect signatures on nominating petitions for Bert Clements—and for Ray Massini. I only mention it because apparently she didn’t contact the sheriff’s official campaign, and they thought this was something from the Pauncecombe arsenal of dirty tricks.”

“I hadn’t heard,” Kevin said, “but I’m sure Ray will be glad to get the news.”

Michael headed toward the kitchen, but paused in the doorway, looking back. “Hey, Kevin, you want a snack? I think Mrs. H. left some coffee, and maybe we could rustle up some cookies.” He grinned. “Hanging out in somebody else’s house—it’s like being back in high school, isn’t it?”

Kevin paused before answering, examining Michael’s comment for possible barbs.

“I thought that was the best way to set things up,” Michael went on, “because Liza wants to take you on a stroll down memory lane.”

If looks could kill, the one Liza shot at Michael should have left him shriveled up on Mrs. H.’s carpet.

“I wanted to ask you more about Chad Redbourne,” she said. “I just saw him for the first time in umpteen years a few days ago. You’ve been here in Killamook, and like it or not, you’ve seen some of the politics going on.”

She took a deep breath. “Did you get any sense of what Chad was like? I mean, socially?”

Kevin shook his head. “His whole family was—well, weird. The mother was a prime social climber. My aunt and uncle lived about three blocks over, and everyone was excited when the Redbournes moved in. When they saw that fancy terrace going up, people figured that was going to be the party spot of the neighborhood.

“But no, the invitations all went out to ritzier parts of town. Problem is, none of the First Families of Killamook was interested. And when the Redbournes finally set their sights lower, none of their neighbors wanted anything to do with them, either.”

“Whoa, I’d never heard that story,” Liza said.

“You should ask Mrs. H. She and my grandmother used to talk about that all the time when I was a little kid.”

“That whole fancy setup, going to waste,” Liza mused.

“They tried it again when Chad got older,” Kevin pointed out. “Figured if they got the kids over, they might make social points with the parents.”

Liza made a face. “That worked out pretty well.” She remembered her dad dropping her off at the Redbournes, insisting that it was impolite not to respond to a mailed invitation.

In spite of the magnificent setup—hell, the Redbournes had even sprung to have the first couple of parties catered—she had a hard time imagining more boring evenings. Turnout had been sparse, mainly class losers and kids with parents like Liza’s who cared about etiquette. None of the cool kids or the social kids ever attended.

“How about later—when he grew up?” Liza asked “I figure you saw your share of political hoedowns. The inn must have hosted a fair share of them.”

Kevin smiled wryly. “More than I’d like, to tell the truth.” He thought for a moment, as if he were going over guest lists in his head. “Whenever the big boys held a fund-raiser, Chad was there. But otherwise, he was just a glorified worker bee. The cool kids still pretty much ignored him.”

“Still sounds like high school,” Michael interjected.

“Michael!” Liza shot him another look.

But Kevin only shrugged again. “Probably true, in a way.”

Michael responded with an evil smile “Well, the school board is going to face a big budget cut.”

Kevin’s brows drew together. “What do you mean?”

Liza explained the news she’d gotten from Sheriff Clements—how Chad had drained money from the Party accounts.

“I guess that explains some of the grousing I’ve been hearing on the grapevine,” Kevin said. “Not everyone working for the county is a loyal minion of John Jacob Pondscum. But if you want to keep your job, you go along, make contributions, and so forth.”

“So?” Michael asked.

“So I’ve been hearing stuff for the last day or so about a special assessment—no explanation why, but everyone is expected to donate. All the big boys are saying is that it’s necessary.”

“I guess it is, if their coffers have taken a big hit,” Liza said.

“Yeah, but when the news finally gets out to the rank and file . . .” Kevin paused. “The way politics is played around here, it runs on money and favors. And nobody’s going to think it’s a big favor to have the bite put on them over and above the usual take.”

He smiled. “Maybe Mrs. H. and her friends are just the tip of the iceberg. At long last, people may be getting tired of the Killamook machine.”

“Be nice to think so, wouldn’t it?” Michael said doubtfully.

“So.” Liza rode over his comment, trying to steer the conversation back to where she wanted it. “Chad didn’t get to throw many parties, political or otherwise, at his house?”

“Many?” Kevin snorted. “I think the word would be ‘any.’ ”

“That’s what I thought.” Liza’s voice got a bit quieter now. “So how did the killer know about all the stuff at the Redbourne place?”

“Stuff?” Kevin said.

“The killer had to be familiar with the Redbourne place to know about that architectural folly,” Michael interrupted impatiently. “And Liza thinks the killer would have to know the place intimately, figuring out how to rig that phony suicide.”

“Intimately,” Kevin repeated.

Michael snapped his fingers. “Keep up with us, Little Sir Echo.”

Liza glared another unspoken “shut up” message.

“It wouldn’t be easy to find the Grotto, for instance,” she pointed out.

Kevin nodded. “Not with the trees and stuff. My uncle used to say that from spring to late autumn, he didn’t have to look at his neighbors at all.”

“So the killer had to know where it was—and know what was inside.” Liza spelled it out. “Chad was strung up from some interior wiring conduit—just as the tackling dummy was set up years ago. So I’m asking—who knew that much about the Grotto?”

“That whole dummy thing—that was a hundred percent J.J. Pauncecombe,” Kevin insisted. “He used to brag that he knew more about that damned beehive than the Redbournes did. He’d gone over every inch of the place—while going over every inch of most of the cheerleading squad.”

He looked over at Liza. “You must have heard what J.J. said, that Chad had the best make-out spot in town—and nobody to take there.”

Liza nodded. The first time she’d visited, Chad’s mom had sent him off to take Liza on a guided tour of the Grotto. If his face had glowed any redder, she’d have been able to read in the dimness of the stone beehive. So it seemed that even Chad had heard.

“Well, J.J. wasn’t about to let a place like that go to waste. He made it part of his private slang, ‘Goin’ in the
grot
-to,’ ” he mimicked. “He turned it into one of those whaddayacallems—double entries.”

“That’s bookkeeping,” Michael told him. “You mean double entendres.” He looked at Kevin carefully. “And there’s something you’re not telling.”

Kevin looked uncomfortable. “He talked it up so much, other people used it.”

“Did you?” Michael asked.

Liza glared at him yet again. But when she glanced over at Kevin, her jaw nearly dropped. Tall, lean Kevin, who always looked as if he could whip his weight in wildcats, had sort of hunched in on himself. “I always thought it was creepy.”

“That’s not exactly a yes-or-no answer,” Michael said.

Kevin muttered something and then looked at Liza. “It was sort of a bet.”

“What was?” she asked.

“I was talking with Brandy about finding my way through the woods—even then I was pretty good at it.

“She asked if I could do it at night without a flashlight. When I said yes, Brandy told me she’d left a ring in the beehive. If I could get it back that night, she’d give me a reward. There was a place where I could park my car behind some bushes on the opposite side of the block. If I went into the trees there, could I find my way to the Grotto?”

“Did you?”

“Yeah.” Kevin kept his eyes trained on the floor. “And when I got there, Brandy was waiting for me.
She
was the reward. She had a lantern in there and an old blanket hung from that conduit to block any light from coming through the doorway.”

“So what did you do?” Michael wanted to know.

Kevin went a bright red. “I ran. Left my car and just got out of there.” He shook his head. “If the place was creepy before, it got a lot worse after that.”

“When was this?” Liza demanded.

“Spring of junior year,” Kevin replied.

She looked at him in silence for a moment. Up till then, Brandy had pretty much ignored her. After that, she’d gone out of her way to make life difficult for Liza. Hell, Brandy hadn’t even gone out for class president until Liza started running.

Liza had a brief fantasy of strangling Kevin—and an even stronger one of strangling Brandy.
Michael writes mysteries,
she thought.
I could ask him for a way to do it without being caught.

On the other hand, asking an almost-ex-husband for a way to murder someone who almost seduced a past and sometimes present boyfriend probably worked better in soap operas than in real life.

Liza glanced at her watch. “Time for the evening news.”

That ought to defuse some of the tension—and hopefully, distract Kevin and Michael from their continual sniping.

She bent over, manually switching on the TV. The screen immediately showed a station anchor with perfect teeth, blond hair moussed into short spikes . . . and a slightly rattled expression as he departed from the prepared script on the teleprompter.

“And now in a breaking story, we go to political reporter Evan Blair at the Killamook County Courthouse.”

A balding guy with a bulldog chin and a microphone stood on the courthouse steps. “Todd, in a shocking development to the Redbourne murder case, Killamook DA Cy Langdon announced an indictment against local political godfather John Jacob Pauncecombe, the leader of Langdon’s own party.”

 

 

 

“What the . . .” Liza froze, still half-crouched in front of the TV set, staring at the screen as if the newscasters had suddenly switched to Lithuanian.

“Hey, Liza,” Michael called from the couch. “Much as we enjoy the view, we’d like to look at the television, too.”

Liza hurriedly straightened and stepped away.

“I don’t get this at all.” She turned to look at Michael and Kevin. “Sheriff Clements was just on the phone with me. Why would he tell me about Chad withdrawing all that money and not mention the fact that his people had arrested Pondscum Senior?”

“Maybe that’s because he didn’t arrest old John Jacob,” Kevin said slowly. “Cy Langdon just said the old man had been indicted.”

“So what’s the difference?” Liza wanted to know, but she saw Michael nod in understanding.

“The cops investigate a crime, assess the suspects, develop a case, and then it’s up to the district attorney to decide whether it’s strong enough to go to trial. But sometimes—”

“Usually for political reasons,” Kevin put in.

“The DA will bring a case to trial even if the police work is incomplete or shaky,” Michael finished. “And yes, often it has to do with politics—the need to get re-elected, or because local feelings are running so high that the home folks have to see that something,
anything
, is being done.”

Kevin picked up the conversation ball. “Cy has a couple of years to go on his term in office. And I haven’t seen any torchlight processions demanding action in Chad’s case. There is a certain amount of pressure to get this thing sewn up, though—and quickly, too. Every day Chad’s case drags on, more light gets shone on the Killamook machine—and Cy and his pals look worse and worse. If Chad’s death can be presented as a crime of passion, not something political, the DA probably hopes a lot of embarrassing stuff can be swept under the rug.”

“And everybody remaining can close ranks and point a finger at the criminal.” By now, Liza pretty well knew the emergency operating procedure of the Killamook machine by heart. “One question, though—why on God’s green earth would John Jacob Pauncecombe go along with that?”