Lie Catchers (3 page)

“I’d say Mallen’s in charge now,” Parker observed. “Jenny seems sharp in the brain, but not so, physically. She was still up when we got in last night, so we sat and talked about the old days until after midnight.”

“Really?” Liv asked. “She’s usually pretty quiet.”

Chet pointed to Parker. “He can get people to talk. Just like his sisters.”

Parker shrugged. “Jenny’s ninety-seven, with a lot of history stored up in her brain. Mallen seems to play interference, interrupting when Jenny talks about the old days. I guess she thinks guests will be bored by Jenny’s topics, but I’m not.”

With a shake of her head, Liv said, “When Jenny mixes up the past with the present, she gets embarrassed, then flustered. I think Mallen is trying to save her from the pain.”

Smiling, Parker said, “That’s probably why I like Jenny. I get mixed up all the time.”

Liv wrinkled her brow at his comment and changed the subject. “I assume you didn’t find Tilly today.”

Parker nodded, his mouth full.

“But you’ll see her at the cannery tomorrow.”

Swallowing, Parker said. “Bright and early. Maybe I’ll swing by to see you afterward. Would that be all right? I don’t want to cut into your writing time.”

She squirmed in the bench seat.

Chet held a French fry mid-air. “You write? Are you published, Liv?”

“I am. Magazines and e-zines; features mostly.” She waved a hand as if to say her work wasnʼt important.

“She publishes under a pen name,” Ivor said. “Good luck wresting it out of her.”

Parker’s interest spiked at the challenge. He wanted to read her articles, especially the one about detectives.

She touched Chet on the shoulder. “Excuse me, but if you’ll let me out, I’ve got to do a few things in the store tonight.”

Ivor motioned that he was ready to leave as well, so Parker rose and shook Ivor’s hand. “See you at Lito’s Landing tonight.”

When Parker grasped Liv’s hand, she said, “How about noon tomorrow, Detective? Come through the store and upstairs. I’ll leave the front door open.” At his nod, she left, with Ivor saying his goodbyes and following her out.

Parker and Chet took their seats again to finish up their food.

“Nice people,” Chet said. “She doesn’t know you’re a Treasury agent, does she?”

With a shake of his head Parker said, “The chief and I agree it’s best to keep the Fed involvement off the radar.”

“You think Ivor will be able to help you figure out Everett Olson’s money trail?”

“I hope so. It’s a close-knit town so I have this sinking feeling I’ll have to interview practically everyone.”

“Petersburg comes with a little baggage.”

“What do you mean, Pop?”

“Well, you said Tucker Barber and Tilly Grant would provide you with your best information, right?”

“I did.”

“And they seem deeply connected to Liv Hanson.”

“I don’t know about the ‘deeply’ part.”

“Bear with me, son. After forty years as a port security guard, I sure as hell haven’t lost my nose.”

“Go on.”

“Her non-verbals got my antennae going. Uncomfortable talking about her writing and definitely uneasy about talking to you.”

Parker sighed, wishing he could disagree with his father’s observations. He didn’t want Liv on his suspect list. “I caught that.”

Chet clicked his tongue. “Your Liv Hanson is hiding something, and it’s not just a pen name.”

Parker lifted a bottle of beer at the chief sitting on the bar stool across from him. “If I’m playing a Seattle cop, I definitely need more inside information on drownings.”

Ivor winced. “I wish I didn’t know so much about them. We haul dead people out of the ocean every year. On men, we check the zipper.”

Parker’s brain stalled on Hanson’s statement, so he surveyed the dance floor. “Rolling on the River” pulsed from the DJ’s speakers, charging up a couple dozen dancers. God, they looked happy. They knew exactly where they were and what they were doing.
Me?
I feel like I’m on Mars!

“Don’t like the beer?” Hanson asked.

“I do,” Parker said, taking a swallow. “This town’s a surprise.” The breath he pulled in came with the odors of perfume, sweat, Pine Sol and stale beer, overlaid by a taco bar’s pungent offerings of corn tortillas and spicy, fried meats. As he considered the significance of open or closed zippers, he glanced at a giant picture positioned over the Landing’s pool tables, showcasing an enormous polar bear lying languidly on its back, a come-hither look in its eyes. Close by was a blown-up photo of two moose skeletons, the antlers of the animals impossibly and perpetually entangled. Parker empathized with the moose. Meese. Mooses. Mice? God, what was the plural of moose?

The dancers yelled out “Rollin’! Rollin’!” and Parker turned to watch them. He zeroed in on Liv, whose glittery jewelry and golden hair caught the light in a magical way. Who was her dance partner?
Lucky man.

Ivor said, “Petersburg requires acclimation.”

“I thought this was a village, small and isolated. Yet when I flew in yesterday, from above, I saw marinas packed with boats, half a dozen canneries, and a sprawling town. I never knew how big…”

“Non-stop rainfall and three thousand people. Nothing like your Fresno.”

“Definitely not Fresno. But bigger than I expected.” He drank from his bottle and decided to plead ignorance regarding open or closed flies. “Everett Olson’s zipper was down.”

Ivor nodded. “Helps to have that information. See, you found Ev’s body in Puget Sound waters several days after the boat he’d rented was discovered adrift. He was a fisherman before he became a cannery foreman here in town, so it’s possible he was fishing in Seattle, though we have no evidence he bought a Washington license. If he was on a boat, alone, he could have taken a piss over the side and fallen, accidentally. Bumped by a wave, tripped. Whatever. We see a lot of drownings that way.”

“Zippers down.”

“Yup. More suspicious if the zipper is up.” Ivor rubbed his chin. “He was in the water about a week, you say?”

“Give or take. Hard to be sure after the critters had their way with the body.”

Both men stared at the dancers, Parker’s attention caught, again, by Liv who waved at her brother in time to the music before she turned, her hands in the air, torso, butt and legs gyrating. Limber. Lithe. Parker straightened his shoulders, feeling included in Liv Hanson’s gesture
.

“It’s her outlet,” Ivor said.

“Oh.”

“She goes a little nuts with the dancing.” His expression showed affection mixed with concern. “Outlets are hard to find in Petersburg. In fact, with a short fishing season and dreary weather, some people spend too much time indoors. Short tempers. Depression. Booze. Drugs. A nasty cocktail. “

Nodding, Parker gazed at Liv, drawn by the jewelry sparkling on her ears, her neck, and arm. Bare arms, bare legs. Looking tanned.

He glanced at Ivor and saw the resemblance. Like his sister, Ivor was a towhead with a warm, light brown complexion and blue eyes. Late thirties for Ivor; his sister, younger. He was tall, broad-shouldered and maybe six two; Liv was tall, too, around five eight, slim and delicate-looking compared to her beefy brother.

Ivor held up his bottle. “Another beer? I’m surprised Barber’s so late.”

“Sure. I’ll get this round.”

Hanson was signaling the bartender when movement at the doorway caught their attention. “Speak of the devil; Barber’s arrived. He’s the guy in the Mariner’s ball cap.”

Parker focused on the tall man entering Lito’s Landing, smiling and cocksure as he greeted people right and left, bussing women on the cheek and fist-bumping men. Tuck Barber, thirty-five; a muscular six feet, three inches of confidence. Owner of Lito’s Landing and friend of the now-deceased Everett Olson.

As if to dramatize Barber’s entrance, the song ended.

“He’s aware I want to talk to him?” Parker asked, lowering his voice in the sudden quiet.

The chief chewed on his lip. “He’s got something else on his mind first.”

The man strolled to the middle of the dance floor, the dancers watching his every move. Then like a parting of the sea, they crabbed sideways to clear a path for Barber.

Liv emerged from the group, lifted her index finger and beckoned to Barber. When he moved into her arms, the DJ yelled, “It’s a slow one, folks…the lovely Nora Jones.” With the first strains of a ballad, the dancers coupled and filled the floor, hiding Barber and Liv from Parker’s sight.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Hanson said. “Thought you should have a first-hand look at
our complication. Tuck Barber’s a popular, well-to do townie, my sister’s neighbor, and…” Hanson viewed the clutched couples, frowning, “they’re close.”

****

Liv Hanson rested her head against Tuck’s shoulder, content with the slow pace in the arms of the best dancer in Petersburg.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, his lips touching her ear, his hand firm against her back.

She relished their chest-to-thigh connection and a seamless synchrony as they whirled around the floor. Were her feet touching the floor? She smiled her joy next to his chin. “The night is but a pup. We’ll—”

“Can’t.”

“What?” Liv asked, raising her head.

“Blame your brother,” he said, casting a stern look Ivor’s way, before they circled to the DJ stand.

“What’s up?”

“He’s got a bloody Seattle cop with him. They want to talk to me.”

“Detective Browne. He came to my store.”

Tuck shrugged. “Ivor’s probably pissed I’m making him wait for me, but I thought you deserved one dance, at least.”

“Nice of you.”

Tuck gripped her hand and pressed his palm on her back, whipping her into a turn. She gasped in surprise, but managed to follow his move.
What in the world is going on?

“Sorry.” He eased the pressure on her back. “Your brother is a royal pain.”

“Ivor’s a professional, Tuck. Conscientious. Good for Petersburg. He’s got to help the cop solve this case.” She glanced at Parker Browne, noting his open expression, a contrast to her brother’s sternness. Ivor didn’t like Tuck and he disapproved of her antics on the dance floor, but something else deepened his sour expression. Was Tuck a serious suspect in Ev’s death?

“Maybe I could help. Want me to join you?” She added a coy smile. “Protect you?”

He frowned. “Hell, no. Why would I do that?”

“Never mind,” she said, hiding her disappointment. “We’ll stick to dancing.”

“Not my choice, babe. You set the boundaries.” He cupped her ass. “Say the word and we’ll two-step to my place. Or yours.”

She pushed his hand away, worried the gesture would upset her brother and tip off other couples they were more than dance partners. “Let’s stick to what we do best,” she said breezily.

He growled his frustration, re-gripped and squeezed her hand, and pulled her hard against his chest.

Petersburg, 1932

High Stakes for a Lone Federal Marshal

(The Murder of Sing Lee: A Retrospective

by Liv Hanson)

“Watch your footing in Petersburg!” yelled the ferry captain as he helped his Juneau passengers off the boat. To Gus he said, “And good luck finding the murderer of old Sing Lee, Marshal.”

Gus Stockton blinked as he pressed a dime tip into the man’s hand. Was the ferryman being sarcastic? Probably. Well, he’s got it right: Since I’m the wrong man for this job, I’ll need every ounce of luck I can get.

He climbed the steep gangway, such a precarious ascent at low tide that Gus used the rail to pull himself up the slippery surface. When he reached the platform and got his first look at the town through the veil of a relentless downpour, he suppressed a gasp. All the roads and sidewalks were constructed of a xylophone of wood planks, rendered shiny by the falling rain, a telltale spattering of green warning walkers of the presence of moss. Tricky footing, indeed.

Realizing he stooped against the pelting rain, Gus straightened his spine and walked with caution to the only hotel in town, The Acacia.

“We have a reservation for two Federal Marshals, sir,” said the young hotel clerk.

“One, only one.” Gus corrected. He thought about Frank Murchison, his senior partner, bedridden with consumption instead of joining him on the investigation. When Gus had asked for another agent to accompany him, his boss had said no, citing budget problems. The Depression had caused cutbacks in every Federal department, with salaries suffering thirty percent cuts. President Roosevelt’s new term was about to begin with a mandate to bring the U.S. out of the economic doldrums.

Gus handed over seven dollars for two week’s lodging, wincing at the cost and the stress of his lone responsibility. If he were going to save money for his new President, he’d have to solve the murder of Sing Lee in record time.

As he settled into his room, he sucked on his corncob pipe, empty of tobacco, but still a comfort to his mouth and a way to feel older than his twenty-eight years. Sleet jabbed at his one tiny window, urging him to hurry and find the criminal who had killed the most popular and richest man in Petersburg. His department had taken down big-city Al Capone; surely Gus could find the man who killed Sing Lee in this tiny village.

With a glance at the room’s skinny bed, he thought about how little sleep he’d get in the coming weeks. He lowered himself into the rickety desk chair, and began to sort through the facts to find himself a killer.

****

Liv stilled in her desk chair, considering the challenges facing Gus Stockton in 1932. No Internet, lousy phone service, and the urgency of a front-page crime to be solved by a lone Federal agent. All her research showed the man sent to this Alaskan territory was capable and diligent but the odds were against him from the start.

Switch scenes seven decades later, to Parker Browne staring at her trade beads and striking up a conversation about jewelry. She had the uneasy feeling that the cop’s lackadaisical approach was a strategy and he’d found out things about her through the Internet and other magic technology that no one else in the town knew, using stealth tactics and a fishing-on-the-side father who might be serving as a spy.
In less than twenty-four hours.
Poor Marshal Stockton had had to take a slow boat all alone to Petersburg, and couldn’t even begin his investigation until several days after Sing Lee’s death. Sing’s trail was ice-cold; surely Ev Olson’s was hotter, wasn’t it?