Lie Catchers (9 page)

“Jenny worries about Petersburg throwing curves as you try to investigate Everett Olson’s murder.”

“Alleged murder, Dad.”

Chet waved away the technicality and said, “Plus the Liv Hanson issue.”

“What?”

“She’s your puzzle,” Jenny said. “Liv has always marched to her own tunes.”

With a tsk, directed Jenny’s way, Chet added, “You’d think with three older sisters, my son would have learned how to talk to a woman.”

“Uh, Dad. I’m in the room. I don’t have any problems with Liv Hanson.”

“You walked her home at eleven o’clock and here you are fifteen minutes later,” Chet said.

“How did you—?”

“Mallen reported in. She left Lito’s after you,” Jenny said.

Parker shook his head. “Damn. You’d think in a town where everyone knows everyone else’s business, I could find a murderer.”

“Alleged,” Chet said.

“Alleged.” Parker sighed, elbows on his knees and chin resting in his hands. “Lots of secrets in Petersburg.” Parker glanced at Jenny. “You think we’ve got a killer under our noses?”

“Liv,” Jenny said, hurriedly. “Let’s finish with Liv. Are you worried about her relationship with Tuck?”

“After, tonight, I’m not. But don’t ask me to explain why.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Chet asked. “We wouldn’t want Liv mixed up with a prime suspect.”

“I have no idea who the ‘prime’ suspect is and I can’t cross Liv off the list yet.”

Jenny leaned over to Parker and patted his knee. “You’ll have to be patient. Read her articles so you get a better picture of her talent. Ask about her projects for the same reason.”

“She won’t tell me her pseudonym.”

With a laugh, Jenny said, “You don’t need permission from her to find it. I know what it is.”

“You do?”

“My body might be decrepit, but my brain’s fairly agile. Took me about an hour to Google her name and find out she writes under TJ Hawk. I’ve taken the liberty of passing her alias around town.”

“She wrote an article about cops some time ago.”

Jenny smiled. “Might hit a little too close to home, but it’s funny. Read it for the humor.” Her expression grew grave. “I’m worried about her newspaper series. I think she wrote the Sing Lee column out of desperation, a need to be seen as a serious writer.” Shaking her head in agitation, Jenny began to pick at the blanket on her lap.

Chet laid his hand on her wrist and said, “She interviewed you about the Sing Lee murder, didn’t she?”

She nodded slowly. “I wish she hadn’t. But how could I refuse when the project is so important to her?”

Parker saw the glint of tears in her eyes and reached over to pat her on the knee. “So her intentions are good but she’s misjudging the effect of her efforts?”

Jenny smiled. “She’s a good daughter, Parker. She’s staying here to help her mother, but to do so she has to get the whole town on her side.”

“You mean the salmon oil. Petersburg has to buy in.”

“Right. Why would she start her campaign with a retrospective on an unsolved murder? I wish you could change her mind because I can’t bear to hurt her feelings.”

Parker took in Jenny’s earnest expression, wanting to assure the woman he could help. But quashing talk about a 1932 crime seemed the least of his worries. He had a recent possible murder to solve, rife with complications. Tonight, he’d pulled Liv, a suspect in the murder, out of the arms of Tuck Barber, another suspect. A Treasury agent’s strategic move? Hell no.

Parker made eye contact with his father, who gave a “don’t ask me” shrug.
Thanks a lot, Pop.
With a final pat on Jenny’s knee, Parker said, “We’ll do what we can, Jenny. Let’s get a good night of sleep. Things have got to look better tomorrow.”

Petersburg 1932

In Search of a Strategy

(The Murder of Sing Lee: A Retrospective

by Liv Hanson)

Half the town had slogged through muddy streets and relentless rainfall to the cemetery for Sing Lee’s funeral. Raindrops bounced off the hunched heads of the bereaved, compounding their beleaguered look. Gus purposefully stood opposite the crowd, well behind the Lutheran minister, so he could examine the faces of the mourners. He knew most of the people by name, having questioned them at one time or another in the last two weeks, still without pinpointing a single suspect. A dozen Chinese workers grouped off to the side, looking glum about the proceedings, likely upset over the foreign rituals. But without rights and a halt in Chinese immigration beginning in 1892, Sing Lee’s country people feared deportation if they protested the alien ceremony.

A crude wooden sign read “Mar Goey/Mar Chan Len (Sing Lee), born 1842-died 1932. Beloved citizen of Petersburg, Alaska, 1892-1932.”

So far, Gus had learned the Chinese man worked as proprietor of the Country Store, never raised his voice, gave money to the needy, rose early and went to bed late, and got by with limited English. Though he ran a store that sold liquor, he did not drink. His employees knew little about his family in China, his religion, what he read or wrote, or what he thought about local politics. He was a smiling Chinese in a Norwegian town, intent on serving his customers well.

Gus gazed at the crowd, hooded against the rain, and sighed heavily when he could hardly see their faces much less read their expressions. Sing Lee’s store manager, Alf Forden, made eye contact with him and so did Greta Bjornson, the bakery delivery girl, but everyone else concentrated their attention on Lee’s casket, shiny from the rain.

Who among the townspeople would expose their guilt in this public place? Not a soul. Was the killer standing with the mourners? Since Gus’s gut answered yes to that question, he took out paper and pencil and began taking roll.

****

Liv’s cell phone buzzed like an annoyed wasp, her agent’s name flashing in the window.

“This will be short because God knows I don’t want to interrupt the one thing that makes us money,” Renee said.

“Hello to you, too, dear agent.”

“I thought you’d appreciate the bottom line.”

Liv sighed. “Actually…”

“Uh-oh. Hand-holding time. Am I talking to TJ Hawk or Liv Hanson? Christ, come to think of it, I should be getting paid double working with you.”

Liv chuckled, enjoying the light moment. “Bullshit. You never have to prop up TJ. Liv’s the enigma.”

Silence from Renee.

“You’ve got your Google Alert set on Petersburg, don’t you?”

“Have to keep up with the author and the enigma.”

“I should have told you about my Sing Lee series.”

“And the alleged murder of a school chum.”

“Not a friend. But still a difficult event for the town to handle.”

Renee sighed. “Something you’re not telling me?”

“A Seattle cop is here trolling for secrets.”

“About you?”

“About everyone.”

“You’re a suspect?”

“Yes.”

“Lordy, Liv. Do you need a lawyer?”

“Can’t afford it. I’ll have to plow through this one on my own.”

“I suppose I should be asking if this angst is cutting into your writing time. I meant for this phone call to be short.”

“What
did
you call about?”

“Your “Never Get Serious About a…” series got a sniff from Comedy Central.”

“Great!”

Renee cleared her throat. “You’d have to step up your output, Liv. With a murder investigation and the Sing Lee feature…these, uh, distractions might make the workload impossible.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’d have to focus on the satires; they’ll ask for twice as many features.”

Liv’s stomach clenched. She couldn’t get capital from Tuck, which meant she’d have to raise money for the salmon oil venture by writing.
But I don’t want to stop the Sing Lee series.
“I’ll do both, Renee. Don’t you worry. TJ will double her efforts while Liv handles the so-called distractions.”

Renee was quiet for awhile. “Well, I hope so. But here’s the thing. Once Comedy Central discovers TJ Hawk, Liv Hanson won’t be able to hide anymore.”

****

“Mind if I walk with you this morning?” Parker asked Mallen. “I could use the exercise.”

“Suit yourself,” Mallen said as she tied the shoelaces of her tennis shoes in the foyer of the B&B, shooting a side look at him. “This my interrogation?”

“Interview. Yes,” Parker corrected as he zipped his raincoat and put on a baseball hat. “You’d be number one today. Another nine to go before I sleep.”

She huffed as she pulled the strings on her hood, closing it tightly around her curly blonde hair. “Good luck.” With her face framed by the crinkly edges of the blue hood, Parker had the opportunity to examine her features in answer to the question: Why did Everett Olson, a thirty-three year-old, hook up with Mallen Skogland, forty?

Slim, petite, and athletic in her movements, Mallen’s age showed only after close examination of her face, where wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, along with permanent parallel lines on her forehead gave evidence the woman had seen more of life than Parker had. No question, she was attractive. Having watched her manage the B&B for a week, Parker would add smart, efficient, and gracious to the list of descriptors. Protective of her grandmother and the family business, too. But there was a sharpness in her tone that came out when events or people didn’t quite measure up, especially concerning her grandmother. Why did she hover every time Parker or Chet spent time with Jenny?

Mallen stretched her legs, her rain pants swishing with each movement. First she lurched forward with the right knee bent, left leg straight, and held the pose for several seconds. She switched legs and when she’d finished on that side, opened the door and took off down the sidewalk.

Pulling up beside her, Parker said, “You do this every day, even when it snows, I’ll bet.”

“I was a flight attendant. Bustling required. Can’t let rain or snow slow me down. Some days I have to do this in the afternoon, too, because I go crazy cooped up in the B&B.”

“How many years in the air?” Parker asked, matching her fast walk as they turned up Nordic Drive.

“Fifteen. Would have been more, but my pilot husband didn’t like the idea of my meeting other pilots like himself. Asked me to quit.” She forged ahead passing Petersburg Real Estate, moving her arms like pistons.

“Divorced? When?”

“After he found a younger flight attendant. Or two. Or three. A year ago.”

“Sorry.”

“I was the fool. He was the smart one. I found out he bought a sixty-foot yacht for a couple million exactly two weeks before we were married, the title naming him as sole owner. I came away from the divorce jobless, penniless and kidless.” She jerked her thumb toward the B&B. “I ended up here. Jenny needed help, and I was used to accommodating people,” she said with sarcasm. Softer, she added, “I love my grandmother.”

“Your parents?”

“Arizona.”

“No help?”

“Unsuitable for the B&B business. Physically and mentally.”

“I see.” Parker dodged a customer exiting the supermarket while Mallen strode ahead.

“Do you?” She glanced at him. “I have to support my grandmother by running this B&B until she dies, trying not to let her see that I hate the family business.”

“Hmm.”

“I don’t want her to die.” She shook her head, the rainwater flying off her hood. Irritated. Impatient. Bitter.

“Everett.”

Mallen ignored him and picked up her pace. She crossed Nordic Drive and started down the opposite side of the street slowing at the Wild Asparagus Gift Store to consider their window display, muttering something about a birthday present. Aloud, she said, “You talked to Tilly. Susanna. Liv. Any woman you consult in Petersburg has an opinion about Everett.”

“He got around.”

“He truly loves women; collects them like butterflies. Pins them in his display case. The trouble is he, like my ex, doesn’t understand monogamy, loyalty, or integrity.”

“You knew that about him at the outset, didn’t you?”

Her shoulders sagged. “You’d think after my husband played me I’d be smarter.”

“You fell for Ev.”

A false laugh came from her, wobbled by her quickening pace. “He said I was the first this and the first that. I wanted to believe him.”

“But he took up with Susanna.”

She glared at him. “They said you were a fast study.”

“I watch and listen, Mallen. In my old job, I used to read computer output really well, so I’m scrutinizing people in the same way I analyze numbers.” He paused. “Men have disappointed you. Your ex. Ev Olson. Ivor?”

Mallen stopped abruptly. Parker had moved a couple paces ahead of her before he pivoted to hear her say, “Leave Ivor out of this. We’re friends. Nothing more or less. What did he say to make you think otherwise?”

Parker hitched a shoulder. “He used three adjectives to describe you. Positively loquacious for a man of few words.”

She stared at him as if he were an alien creature. “Ivor didn’t know about my relationship with Olson, but now you’ll have to present him with the grimy details, won’t you?”

Before Parker could answer, she turned on her heel and stalked in the direction of the B&B. Running to catch up with her, he said, “Ivor’s my partner in solving the puzzle of Everett’s death, Mallen. Of course I have to tell him.”

She made a guttural noise before she spoke, the energy gone from her voice. “Ivor’s the only man I’ve ever met who is exactly who he says he is. When he finds out I slept with Everett, he’ll be disappointed. Repulsed.”

“Maybe he knew.”

The glare again. “Now you’re suggesting Ivor killed Everett out of revenge? To support me?”

Parker grabbed her arm to stop her from walking away. Though she growled when she faced him, he said, “I can’t help that so many people wished Everett dead. Now I have to consider Ivor as a suspect because of his possible loyalty to you. Along with Liv, Susanna, Tilly, you and God knows how many women and jealous or angry men in town. Help me cross you off the suspect list. Will you?”

She shrugged, verve gone, the lines on her face more defined than they were at the beginning of the walk.