Ghost Sudoku (4 page)

“I think Killamook is a little small for that,” Liza agreed. “But it’s hard to believe that Chad Redbourne is the secret master of all the phony voters.”

Ted shrugged. “Well, he’s the one in charge of voting—the obvious suspect, you might say. I’ll tell you this, though. Our latest meeting was way different from the others over the last couple of weeks. He kept fumbling and bumbling—wasting at least another twenty minutes.”

Great—while I sat outside in the car with a bursting bladder,
Liza thought.

“At first I thought Redbourne had just come up with a new way to stonewall me. Then I realized he was distracted—no, more than that—scared.” Ted gave her a sidelong look. “What the hell were you talking about with him that you left making threats? Because whatever it was, you sure shook him up.”

Liza looked down at the tabletop, pursing her lips. She didn’t want to be discussing this nonsense, but the words came out anyway. “Some idiots are trying to run me for mayor.”

That got a laugh out of Ted. “Madam Mayor—do you think that would outrank a sergeant?”

“Knock it off, Everard,” Liza shot back. “It’s the last thing I want—or need—right now.”

“Makes sense, though, I guess.” Ted was back in his more analytical cop mode. “Massini must be gearing up for his own run. Having an unexpected candidate turn up has probably thrown him off his stride. Like it or not, he’s got to deal with you. That means diverting assets—people and even money—that might have more usefully been deployed elsewhere.”

“Ted, I’m not even for real.”

“You know that, Pauncecombe and his people know that, but Massini can’t be sure. So, like it or not, he’ll have to divert resources—time and brainpower, if not money. And whatever he does, he’ll be a little weaker in dealing with the candidate the machine does put up against him. It’s a clever example of a political dirty trick—and for Killamook, fairly subtle, as well.”

Liza nodded in doubtful appreciation of Ted’s analysis. “Well, I went to Chad Redbourne to find out what I could do about it, and got nothing—except a strong suspicion that he’s in on whatever is going on. And I still don’t know what to do. It’s like identity theft, just without all the interesting shopping.”

“You could freak them all out and start running for real,” Ted suggested.

Liza gave him a look. “Yeah, right.”

He shrugged. “Or you could pull a Sherman.”

“A what?”

“It’s a who, actually, General William Tecumseh Sherman, Civil War hero.”

“The guy who said, ‘War is hell,’ ” Liza said.

“He had another interesting quote, more suited to your situation. After the war, a lot of people wanted to put him up for the presidency. He wasn’t fond of that prospect, so he told them, ‘If nominated, I shall not run; if elected, I will not serve.’ ”

Liza smiled. “You have to admire the way they had with words in the old days.”

Ted nodded. “It worked so well that it became part of the political lingo. If someone wants to reject being drafted for an office, they pull a Sherman.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” Liza said.
Because I guess that’s what I’ll have to do with Ava for the paper,
she thought.

“At least that clears up your present difficulty, if not your past problems with this place . . .” Ted paused as he realized he’d lost Liza again. “Did you notice another historical annoyance?” he asked.

“Yes,” Liza replied, “she’s opening the door.”

The restaurant’s door flew open as a woman in expensive yet garish clothing and makeup popped inside. Curly black hair framed her head like a cloud, and her silk tank top showed off impressive and perfectly tanned cleavage. An abbreviated crimson skirt twitched around her ample hips, and her slim waist was accentuated by a gold belt in the shape of a snake, thousands of tiny scales culminating in a solid gold head with winking ruby eyes.

“Liza Kelly!” the sexy vision purred, giving Liza a vividly lipsticked smile. “I heard you were back in the area . . . I just haven’t seen you at the country club.”

The only time Liza would turn up at the Killamook Country Club would be as the guest of honor at a funeral—and even then she’d be spinning in her casket.

“Ooh!” Liza’s new best friend exclaimed, bringing up a wristwatch that looked like a jewel-encrusted armband. “Got to run—can’t keep the hooze-bond waiting. See ya around.”

She swung round, her short skirt flicking within a millimeter of decency, and strode off on her four-inch heels.

Ted craned his neck, watching her through the window, then shamefacedly turned back to Liza. “Who was that?”

“I guess you could call her my high school nemesis,” Liza replied grimly. “Brandy D’Alessandro.”

“D’Alessandro?” Ted echoed. “Isn’t that some sort of Italian for ‘Alexander’?”

“Tell me about it,” Liza snorted. “The cutesy name, the whole Brunette Bombshell thing, skirts up to her crotch, shirts open down to her belly button, captain of the cheerleading squad . . .”

“Queen Bee,” Ted said.

“That’s the first letter of five to describe her.” Liza closed her eyes, remembering how it was back then. She wasn’t bad looking, was pretty popular, and certainly smart. But when Brandy was around, Liza might as well have been wallpaper. “She gave me an itch.”

“Guess so, if you still have to scratch it twenty years later.”

“We both ran for president of the senior class,” Liza said.

“And she won?”

Liza shook her head. “Should have been a sure thing—more girls than guys in the class. Instead, Brandy and I split the vote, and J.J. Pauncecombe—John Junior—got in.”

She laughed at the look on Ted’s face. “Oh, yeah, he was in our class, too. So was Chad Redbourne. The election wound up a pure popularity poll—with J.J. as president and Brandy as vice president. I was secretary, and Chad was the class treasurer.”

Ted sat silent for a moment, then said, “I always think the best thing about high school is that it’s so many years ago. You moved on.”

Liza nodded. “Back then, I couldn’t wait to get away. I made sure the college I chose was as far away as I could manage.”

“And then you went to Japan to visit your mom’s family, followed by those years down in L.A.” Ted spread his hands. “You had a life. Looks like your friend Brandy never got farther than the Killamook Country Club.”

“Actually, Brandy headed down to California after high school.” Liza smiled. “She thought she was going to set Hollywood on fire. But all she got was a few walk-on parts, basically on the strength of her chest.”

Ted shrugged. “From what I could see, she still has a pretty strong chest.”

Liza made a rude noise. “That’s just because she can afford expensively engineered lingerie to lift and separate whatever she’s got under that designer slutwear she struts around in.”

“So I guess she must have put away something from the film business.”

“No, that was her second career—or actually, her third.” Liza gazed out the window for a moment. “Brandy came back to Killamook, and J.J. got her a job in the Party offices. Not surprising—they’d always been an item at school.”

“So she married the boss’s son?”

Liza couldn’t help her malicious smile. “No, but her obvious talents did get some notice from on high. Nowadays, Brandy is Mrs. John Jacob Pauncecombe, Senior—your basic trophy wife.”

She managed to time that announcement just as Ted brought his spoon to his lips—and just narrowly avoided getting spattered with clam chowder. Shaking his head, Ted dropped the spoon into his bowl. “What do you say we blow this pop stand?”

“You didn’t finish your soup,” Liza said.

“And I don’t think I’m going to,” Ted replied. “You were right. The damned stuff tastes like fish-flavored wallpaper paste.”

They had a coffee and bite to eat in a place with fewer past associations for Liza, and then Ted excused himself. “Got to get back to my motel and go over the BS papers Redbourne gave me.”

“Business before pleasure, I guess,” Liza said.

Ted’s lips quirked in a familiar grin. “Maybe you’d change my mind if you paraded around in—what did you call it? Designer slutwear?”

“In your dreams, Everard.”

“Ohhhhh, yesssss,” Ted replied in a trembling voice, raising his eyes to the sky.

Liza smacked him and went to Mrs. Halvorsen’s enormous, Reagan-era Oldsmobile.

“Looks as if I’ll be here for a while,” Ted called after her. “It will take that much for Redbourne to clear up this particular mess. Will I see you? We’ll stay away from the Killamook tourist traps.”

“Good plan,” Liza told him as she got into the car. “You’ve got my number.”

Ted waved and climbed into his official clunker. Each of them pulled onto Broad Street, heading in opposite directions.

Liza drove to Krista’s Killamook Kennels, the only pet-boarding operation in the area. Mrs. H. had volunteered to visit Rusty every day, feeding and walking him. That had been okay for a long weekend, but Liza thought two weeks of doggie duty was pushing the envelope of neighborly friendship.

The only drawback was Krista Cronin’s overwhelming sweetness. Liza sometimes wondered if the groomer and kennel owner was a danger to diabetic clients. As soon as she came in the door, Krista began caroling, “Rusty! Rusty! Mommy’s here!”

That set off an entire chorus of barks, but the loudest came from Rusty. “Mixed-breed” was far too high-toned a description for the lovable mutt who’d wandered into the neighborhood at the same time that Liza had taken up lonely residence in her old family home.

He’d gotten his name from the color of his coat, suggesting a predominance of Irish setter in his background. As soon as Krista let him out of his cage, he came bounding toward Liza, going into a whole-body wriggle of delight at seeing her. He danced around, barking happily, then leapt up, resting his forepaws on her jean-clad hip.

Liza patted his head. “Good to see you, too, fella. Ready to go home?”

Rusty dropped to the floor with a “Woof!” of assent and trotted for the door.

After a quick exchange with Krista of a check and Rusty’s leash, Liza took off after him. She clipped the leash to Rusty’s collar, they headed down the block, and he climbed into Mrs. Halvorsen’s Oldsmobile, quietly arranging himself on the front seat.

They drove along the coast back to Maiden’s Bay with the windows down, Rusty popping his head out every once in a while to catch the breeze, then turning back, apparently to make sure Liza was still there. Liza turned on the radio. “I wonder what kind of taste in music Mrs. H. has.”

But instead of music, she got talk. “This is K-MOOK, the Voice of Killamook County,” an announcer’s voice came out of the speaker.

Liza grimaced. KMUC was the local radio station—not to mention the hobby and personal soapbox of Lawson Wilkes. Wilkes had invested what was supposed to be his college fund into a variety of Silicon Valley enterprises. Some had tanked, but enough had prospered to make him a moderately wealthy man. Unlike a lot of similar investors, he got out of high tech with that small fortune intact. Retiring to the Oregon coast, he’d bought KMUC and adopted the role of mini-media mogul. With a judicious blend of syndicated talk shows, a variety of music, and some local talent, he managed to make a modest profit.

But to establish himself in Killamook, he’d made a deal with a community segment looking for a media outlet—the county’s politicians. The community newspaper, more a collection of ads for local stores than a news organ, had collapsed in the nineties. And even before Ava Barnes began running regional operations, the
Oregon Daily
had been hostile to the Killamook machine. Lawson Wilkes and his Owner’s Editorials had been a propaganda god-send. WMUC might call itself the Voice of Killamook, but it was really the voice of John Jacob Pauncecombe.

“Now we go to our phone-in forum,” the radio host announced. “Do you think that a newcomer to politics— someone like, say, Liza Kelly, could clean up the mess Ray Massini has made in Maiden’s Bay? Let’s hear your opinions, people.”

Liza stabbed a finger to turn off the radio. But as she drove along, the mood of the day seemed to shift to mirror her own—or rather, Oregon displayed the famous changeability of its weather. The former sunshine quickly dimmed behind a bank of clouds.

Glad I’m safe on the ground heading home instead of up in the air with Wish Dudek,
Liza thought, glancing up at the massed gray ranks spreading across the skies. It would be raining soon, and Liza didn’t want Rusty celebrating his return home with a vigorous shake in the middle of the living room.

She pulled the Oldsmobile into Mrs. H.’s driveway and left it in front of the garage. Then she opened the door, let Rusty out, and started cutting across the lawn to her own kitchen door.

Dark clouds had gathered to such an extent that the late afternoon seemed more like early evening. And the shadows from the shrubs were deep enough that Liza had no clue as to the identity of the male figure suddenly moving to block her path.

 

 

 

Liza recoiled as the tall, dark figure moved toward her. But Rusty bounded forward, his tail wagging a welcome. Since he didn’t like most males above the age of ten, this cut down the stalker identity list considerably.

Then the menacing figure stepped into the light and revealed himself as Kevin Shepard.

Liza let out a sigh of relief. Kevin represented a happy memory from high school, as Liza’s beau from the football team. She’d returned to Maiden’s Bay contemplating divorce and arrived to find Kevin already in Splitsville and starting a new career in the hotel trade, managing the tony Killamook Inn.

A relationship developed, even when Liza’s husband, Michael, belatedly turned up hoping for reconciliation. Liza found herself in the middle of a triangle with as much low comedy as romance as Kevin and Michael jostled with each other as jealous suitors. And the whole thing had taken new sides and dimensions when Ted Everard came into Liza’s life.