Murder by Numbers (5 page)

“In Maiden's Bay, actually.” Michael hesitated. “I called Mrs. Halvorsen for some suggestions about bunking down in town, and she offered me her spare bedroom.”

Liza whipped around, her mind nearly exploding with shock. “You're staying with my next-door neighbor?”

“The price was right.” Michael shrugged and spread his hands. “Like I said, I'm a poor writer.”

“Great. This should be interesting. Come on, then,” Liza said. “At least I won't be wasting any gas.”

 

The next morning, Liza woke up and started to roll over in bed. Obviously, it was too early to get up—it was still dark outside. Then her alarm began peeping insistently. She opened her eyes again, remembering why it was so dark—the bedroom curtains were drawn tightly shut. Usually, Liza didn't bother to close the drapes. Her bedroom was on the second floor, and her nearest neighbor was the elderly Mrs. H. Liza figured Mrs. H. had seen her in a nightgown—or without one—often enough that it didn't matter if she left her windows exposed or not. But last night, thinking of Michael next door, Liza had carefully pulled the blinds before getting ready for bed.

Shaking her head at the thought of having her soon-to-be-former husband next door for the foreseeable future, she sat up in bed, stretched, and took a deep breath. Then she stopped and took another. Odd. In fact, wonderful. Her nose wasn't stuffed anymore.

Well, thank heavens for some small mercies
, she thought, padding over to the chest of drawers for a T-shirt, fresh sweats, and socks. She pulled on a pair of running shoes and headed downstairs. “Hey, Rusty,” she called, “want to get out of here for a while?”

The response was an eager bark as her dog trotted to the foot of the stairs. Rusty was a mutt, of indeterminate breed, except that his coat color and his exuberance showed he had plenty of Irish setter in his background.

The dog eagerly circled Liza's feet as she went to the kitchen and drank some orange juice. Rusty was always energetic, but never more so than when he got out of the house, pulling on his leash. He also looked at going for a run more as a race than a bit of shared exercise.

Rusty danced around as Liza clipped on his leash. He didn't quite yank her through the door—quite. But Liza had to keep a good grip as they started out along the streets. They took a route that led to a footbridge over the railroad tracks and the highway, then headed down to the beachfront by the bay.

Liza let Rusty off his lead, and he dashed joyously along the sands. She jogged along after him, not trying to race flat out, just making sure he stayed in view. The dog led them toward the town's harbor area, in hot pursuit of interesting smells. Liza swung onto the hard-packed sand, increasing her pace as they came closer to the construction area—the planned boardwalk extension. Nobody was there yet, but she could see the pile driver rising up beyond the existing structure.

“Hey, Rusty!” she called. The dog stopped, but didn't come to her. That was unusual. He stayed where he was, his head going low, his ears flopping forward at full alert.

Liza put on some speed and caught up to the dog.

“Come on, boy.” Liza almost tripped over Rusty as he slunk to one side, whining unhappily.

“What's the matter?” She leaned over, expecting to see a crab. One had nipped Rusty once. He'd had a nasty fear of them ever since. At least she knew it wasn't a dead bird or fish—otherwise the dog would be rolling on it.

Liza's first impression was that some sort of rock had spooked her dog.
Kind of big to wash up here
, she thought,
unless we had a typhoon overnight.

She took a step closer, but Rusty got in her way again, making yipping sounds of distress. Maybe it was some kind of bundle that came in on the tide. She could see a starfish on the thing and some seaweed…

Liza suddenly stopped dead. That wasn't seaweed. What had at first seemed to be plastered-down ribbons of kelp was actually individual strands of something. And they were the wrong color to be seaweed, sort of a damp browny red.

She stepped round Rusty, getting a new angle on the mystery item—and sucked in a gasp. The strands resolved themselves into overlong ginger hair straggling across a bald dome. She recognized it, even though it was pale now instead of pink.

It was a human head. In fact, it was the head of Oliver Chissel. And from the look of things, it had been here when high tide had come in and then receded.

For the second time in as many days, Liza found herself at the Maiden's Bay City Hall. This time, though, she was in the busy side of the building, the law enforcement side.

Not that Maiden's Bay was exactly a hotbed of crime. Judging from the police blotter in the
Oregon Daily
, the officers spent almost all of their time dealing with a fair number of working stiffs who had a few too many in local gin mills. That resulted in bar fights, not to mention drunk-and-disorderly arrests. The influx of Californians building expensive houses and filling them with expensive things had led to a few more burglaries in recent years. And, like everywhere else, some people took drugs.

Though not many. And not often.

But murder? Liza wasn't sure whether a murder had even happened during Sheriff Clements's time in office. She had met the county's leading law officer after the whole hoo-hah over Derrick and Jenny Robbins. But she'd seen him around the county since she was a kid. Bert Clements had been a deputy, a big, slope-shouldered guy in a plain khaki uniform. Newt McFarland, the sheriff back then, had looked more like a movie star than a cop, in a uniform that would have made more sense on some South American generalissimo than on a small-town sheriff on the West Coast. The look had only gotten more ridiculous as Newt got older, his good looks undermined by an additional chin. And more and more tailoring had been required to fit the fancy uniform over the years as Newt's gut had grown.

After Clements got elected, he wore the same plain uniform he'd worn on the beat, except for the addition of a gold badge. He still did.

Bert Clements was a big, bearlike man, a calm, authoritative presence. Of course, Liza had never been in an interrogation room with him before.

It wasn't even a real interrogation room, just a cramped space that doubled as an office. Clements's real office was in the county seat at Killamook, but he'd quickly come up the coast after Liza had called in her grisly discovery.

Clements didn't look like a huge pillar of calm right now. Instead, Liza found herself thinking of big, looming thunderclouds—just before the lightning came lancing down out of them, killing golfers and starting fires.

Clements had his cop face on today. His expression was sealed and self-contained, his eyes coldly inscrutable as Liza related what she'd done and seen on her morning walk with Rusty.

“And when was the last time you'd seen Mr. Chissel—before this?” the sheriff asked.

What's he expecting me to answer?
Liza wondered.
Something stupid like, “Oh, it was a couple of hours before the tide came in, while I was busy burying him.”

“It was mid-to late afternoon yesterday,” she said, “down by the docks.”

“Where he made his announcement about extending work on the film here around town.” Clements finished. “That upset a lot of people, including your client Jenny Robbins.” He paused for a second. “You have to admit, you have a pretty public record of going the extra mile for that girl.”

“So you think I just did away with this troublesome studio head?” The words sort of burst out of Liza. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Not currently. Could you account for your whereabouts yesterday evening?”

Liza couldn't believe what she was hearing. This was the guy who had shaken her hand not so long ago and complimented her on her investigative instincts. Now he was treating her like a murder suspect!

“They wrapped filming early. I gave Jenny a lift back to the Killamook Inn, had dinner with her and some business associates…and then I went home, did a little work, and watched some TV.”

“Was anyone with you?”

Liza shrugged. “On the drive home, yes. Afterward, no. Just my dog. I got into grungy clothes, walked the dog around the block, settled in, and watched
House
. You can check with my next-door neighbor to see if I went out. Mrs. Halvorsen keeps pretty good tabs on the neighborhood.” She paused for a second. “Also, my husband Michael is staying next door with her.”

That made Clements blink. “Your husband?”

“We're separated. He came up from L.A.—he's one of the business associates I mentioned. I gave him a lift from the hotel—he can tell you that.”

“Any other associates in town I should know about?” Clements asked.

“A few. Jenny you already know about. There's my partner, Michelle Markson. She's staying at the inn. Michael—my husband—is a scriptwriter. The Killamook Inn is a bit rich for his blood.” She shot a look at the sheriff. “You don't think—”

“I don't think anything right now,” Clements replied. “I'm just asking questions, trying to see who was where, and when. You find the body—you get asked the first questions. That's how it works.”

One of the deputies, Curt Walters, stuck his head in the door. Liza remembered him from high school. He'd played football with Kevin Shepard. He'd also been one of the responding officers when Liza's house had been broken into. He'd impressed her then with his cool professionalism.

Curt didn't look as cool right now, interrupting his boss. “Uh, Sheriff, the mayor is on line two, wanting to know about the broken windows on Main Street. He'd like to talk to you right now.”

“Walters, why don't you ask the mayor which he thinks will be worse for tourism—a few stores being vandalized in the shopping district or the dead body on the beach?”

“Uh—yessir!” Curt quickly disappeared.

The sheriff glanced over to Liza. “I understand you were with Massini when he met with Chissel yesterday.”

“You understand a lot,” Liza said.

“I hear things—it's part of the job. And it's also part of the job to ask questions until I understand things. You got a problem with that?”

Liza sighed. “No. I don't. The mayor wanted someone with Hollywood experience on hand when he talked with ‘this Hollywood guy.'” She shrugged. “The mayor's words, not mine. He wanted the shoot to get wrapped up so he could get the boardwalk construction back on track. Not that I did him much good. Chissel had all the leverage.”

“You never know. I think maybe you helped keep things businesslike and polite,” Clements responded. “Massini and Chissel had another run-in later, at Fruit of the Sea.”

Liza knew that was the nice restaurant in town, as opposed to Ma's Café. “I didn't hear about that,” she said.

“You get too busy watching TV to keep up on the gossip, you never know what you'll miss.” The sheriff looked down at some notes on his desk. “‘This Hollywood guy,' as you called him, stayed on in town after that first meeting broke up. He was making the rounds of all the location owners. He wanted them to know that their payment wouldn't be forthcoming until the filming was finished. After they heard that, a lot of those people gave Massini an earful. The way I heard it, it didn't look like Mayor Massini was too happy about it. Then he goes out to supper and finds Chissel at the next table.”

“Awkward,” Liza said.

“Awkward and loud.” Clements shook his head. “Ray Massini needs to learn a bit more about politics now that he's stuck his neck into the business. In his heart, I think he's still a Ranger sergeant, barking orders to his platoon.”

Liza raised her eyebrows. “So will you be asking the mayor where he was last night, the way you did with me…and, I expect, with Jenny?”

“Sure. Not just them, but a lot of other people, too. Like I said, you find the body, you get first crack at the questions. But I've got a long list of other people to check in with.”

“Hake?”

“Definitely. He stepped in to back Massini down at that dinner. Guy's got a nice line in subtle threats. They seemed to work. The mayor left.”

“You know, you may just have one problem here, not two,” Liza pointed out. “Maybe Chissel decided to celebrate his victory over the mayor. Maybe he got half a load on and ran down Main Street, breaking windows until an outraged local merchant stopped him. Figure out which window was broken last and you've got your killer.”

That actually got a laugh out of Clements. “Wouldn't that simplify things?” he asked. “Unfortunately, I hear tell that murder cases don't tie up with such neat little knots.”

“It was just an idea.” Liza hesitated for a moment, then spoke. “I hate to bring this up, but maybe your eyes and ears already know about this. I saw Deke Jannsky get fired from being an extra on the film yesterday. He didn't take it too well. He started shooting his mouth off—it made me wonder at the time if he might not have something to do with the sabotage on the set.”

Clements just looked at her, his face settling into a cop's mask again.

“Now there's more vandalism, this time on Main Street,” Liza went on. “Is it all that different from the earlier sabotage?”

“I already planned to have a talk with Jannsky—after I get done with this piddling murder thing.”

“They might be connected…” Liza said.

Clements rose, obviously dismissing her. “Thanks for your help. We may need to talk again.”

“I know the drill,” Liza said.
Like it or not
, she thought.
I've been here before.

Liza stepped out of the room, getting a distinct whiff of
eau de drunk tank
wafting down the hallway—those subtle tones of vomit overlain with heavy-duty disinfectant were unmistakable. Hollywood publicists often found themselves visiting drunk tanks, but at least in Liza's case those visits had been strictly professional. Plenty of her clients overindulged in the juices of grape or barley. Unlucky stars wound up with disheveled-looking mug shots on TV. Very few of Michelle Markson's clients had ever faced such humiliation. But then, Liza considered, Michelle was picky. She tried to avoid signing clients who would make such asses of themselves in the first place. Once signed, Liza figured that Michelle's clients stayed sober out of fear that Michelle might kill them if they ended up on the celebrity scandal shows.

Speak of the devil
, Liza thought as she pushed through the swinging doors to the front-desk area. Michelle sat on the first bench of the small waiting area. A deputy sat beside her, obviously placed there to prevent discussion with Michael, who had the next place on the bench.

Sheriff Clements obviously didn't want potential witnesses contaminating each other's testimony—or concocting any acceptable stories among themselves.

Like Michelle would leave such an important detail until after the fact…

Liza snorted. Her boss might scare people to death, but she'd never kill a client. It would be bad for business.

Michelle didn't need any words. The glare she gave Liza held an easily decoded message:
Well, here's another fine mess you've gotten us into.

Doubtless there would be a major chewing out to come from her boss in her near future, but Liza was safe for now. Michelle wasn't about to tear her up in front of witnesses. Meanwhile, a couple of loud barks announced that someone was glad to see her. As the desk deputy untied the leash from his desk, Rusty wriggled so delightedly his dog tags jingled. He capered around Liza's legs as she took charge of him once more.

In spite of the show of pure joy Rusty was putting on, Liza's attention was on the next bench, where Jenny Robbins and Guy Morton sat with another deputy. Standing behind them were Lloyd Olbrich and Peter Hake. The director continued to complain loudly about lost shooting time. The deputy with him apparently couldn't care less.

Liza glanced again at Jenny, who gave her a crooked grin and a shrug. Well, the girl had spent enough time with cops going over the story of her kidnapping to learn how to deal with them. That hadn't exactly been an interrogation, but the experience should do her some good. Saying anything to Jenny right now would just make the local police unhappier. Liza contented herself with a wave and a reassuring smile and headed for the street, Rusty leading the way.

In fact, it was more being towed out the door than it was making an exit under her own steam.

She took a deep breath of fresh air and reached down to pat her dog as the door shut behind her.

“What now, Rusty?” she asked the dog. “You've already gotten me in over my head today.”

Rusty looked up the street and whined.

Apparently Ma's Café was doing a land-office business—and the aroma of the blue plate specials being served there was wafting down the street. Her dog trembled with the urge to check them out.

It was as good a direction as any. She and Rusty started walking along Main Street. The business district looked pretty crowded for a weekday, although Liza wondered whether more shopping than gawking was going on. Lots of store owners were busy trying to arrange some sort of cover for the holes in their windows.

The sheriff's Main Street vandal had been busy—it looked to Liza as though at least five stores had been hit. In a quiet town like Maiden's Bay, most merchants didn't bother pulling heavy grates down over their windows at closing time. Whoever it was apparently had the sense to stay away from windows that might have alarms, like the bank branch and the local jewelers. Ma's Café had been a target, and across the street the army-navy store and Schilling's Pharmacy had taken hits.