Murder by Numbers (7 page)

“So you think he was dead when his killer buried him?” she asked.

“I can't imagine what it would be like to be alive, watching the tide rise. But in his shoes, I'd have struggled like anything—heck, like my life depended on it. No way a conscious man would go in a hole all neat and tidy like I heard it was. Ugh. I don't want to think about it anymore. I saw enough dead bodies when I served in the army.

“So you think he was dead when he got buried? What about rigor mortis?” Liza said.

“You'll have to pay more attention to those
CSI
shows,” Kevin told her. “Rigor can take hours. A very long time in hot weather.” That haunted look came back to his eyes. “Almost makes me pity the guy who killed him. Can you imagine spending hours beside a stiffening stiff? More important, can you imagine Deke Jannsky doing that?”

“When you put it that way, no.”

He shook his head. “And even if the killer did wait until Chissel was stiff, I don't think the pile driver would work. More than likely it would squish him rather than drive him. Bodies are pretty fragile.”

Liza shuddered a little at that mental image.

“Hey,” Kevin said. “You're the one who started this, with your questions. If you don't like the answers, we can stop right now.”

“No.” She raised her chin, determined not to look squeamish in his eyes. “Maybe the police will find the answer, but it can't hurt for us to ask questions. I don't suppose Sheriff Clements has dealt with many murders in his career.”

“You might be surprised,” Kevin said. “He started out on the Portland PD. Ended up in homicide before he came here.”

“Really?” Then Liza shook her head, determined not to let Kevin distract her from her main point. “All right, the pile driver theory doesn't work. Where does that leave us with Jannsky and Chissel?”

“Just a little less improbable than Chissel being abducted by the saucer people and getting beamed down into the beach.” Kevin sounded flippant, but his eyes were serious as he looked at Liza. “Your scenario makes a nice package, but I want you to think for a second: Is Maiden's Bay the kind of place where you find a killer behind every bush? Or should you be looking where Chissel did his business, made his enemies, and screwed people?”

Liza didn't want to answer. Kevin had a point. Maybe Hollywood was pretty far away from the Oregon coast. But there were plenty of Hollywood people here in town—the movie crew, Lloyd Olbrich, Peter Hake, Chissel's assistant, Guy Morton, Michelle, Michael…and Jenny.

Chissel wasn't exactly Miss Congeniality back in Tinseltown. She wondered who would show up for his funeral.

Maybe the killer really was an out-of-towner.

Judging from the people stacked up at the police station, Sheriff Clements was pretty sure as to where he'd find his killer.

Not a local among them.

Except for her, of course.

“I guess I know better than to ask if we're done here,” Kevin said. “You never give up on a challenge, never have. Probably never will. So I'll put it this way—do you have any other theories?”

“No,” Liza admitted. “Not now. Not, I guess, till I talk with the people who are down at the police station.”

Kevin tapped his hand against the SUV's steering wheel. “This isn't some puzzle for you to solve. Just because you found the body, it doesn't mean that you're involved. We know right from the get-go that this is murder—and that there's someone out there who definitely
doesn't
want to be found.”

He didn't hide the concern in his face—or his voice. “Why are you worrying about this one?”

“Because I found him. And the sheriff thinks I might have killed him.”

“Not seriously,” Kevin said.

“Maybe not,” Liza agreed. “But I'm in the middle of it.”

“Not like last time,” Kevin said. “At least the last time you got involved, you liked the dead guy and there was something to be learned from sudoku scattered into the case. It's different today. Can't you leave this one to the police?”

“The sheriff has his job to do, and that's to put someone—anyone—away,” Liza said. “I just want to protect myself and my friends. As for the whole sudoku thing, logic is logic. It doesn't matter whether you're figuring out if the number nine goes in a particular space, or whether a particular person could be in a particular place at a particular time.”

“It certainly smells different. I promise you that.”

“You've got a point.” She grinned and shrugged. “But I'm right about the logic. And judging from the last time, I may be more willing to look into some places that the police wouldn't think of.”

“It's your neck on the line,” Kevin said. “I sure can't stop you.”

“Exactly.” Liza looked down at Rusty, still pulling on the leash. “Somebody else has his neck on the line right now. I need to get this pup moving.”

She set off up Main Street with Rusty, leaving an unhappy Kevin behind her. Soon she'd reached the tree-shaded residential part of the street. Two turnoffs and she'd almost be home.

“Speaking of puzzles,” she told Rusty as they walked along, “I'd better work up a couple more sudoku before I take off work to play detective.”

Whatever Rusty thought of that idea, he was more intent on getting home and getting breakfast.

Rusty bounded into the kitchen, eager for his appointment with a can of dog food to be consumed in the square of sunshine coming in through the window. While he chowed down, Liza fired up her computer.

She called up a puzzle she had begun earlier but filed. “Now, what was I thinking when I started this?” she muttered. Soon she was lost in the throes of creation. She used the software to run a check—yes, only one possible solution!

In the groove now, Liza retrieved another puzzle from the computer's memory, but her concentration was shattered by the ringing phone.

She picked it up to hear a shrill “I suppose it didn't actually occur to you that you work for a newspaper, did it?” Ava Barnes was clearly in a state. Her childhood friend and boss at the
Oregon Daily
sounded torn between amusement and aggravation.

“What do you mean? I write sudoku. And I just got home from talking with the police,” Liza said.

“I run a newspaper. You work for me. So you should call me when you see news. Finding a dead guy up to his neck in sand on our beach definitely qualifies.”

“Ava, you know the
Daily
is a morning paper—today's copies were already on trucks being delivered when I found Oliver Chissel. Besides, you bribe every dispatcher in the department with weekly donuts to keep you up on the gossip. You knew almost as soon as I did. And you always tell me no paper does extra editions anymore.”

“You could have called in and had me tell you again,” Ava said. “At least tell me you haven't talked to any of those TV vultures. We can run a great first-person piece for tomorrow—”

“Sorry. Sheriff Clements asked me not to talk to anybody,” Liza said.

That brought the usual flood of newsperson's arguments from her managing editor, which Liza tried to deflect. She'd had enough practice the last time she found a body to be getting good at it. “Change of subject—have you got anything about the windows on Main Street being smashed?”

“Nothing. We've been asking around, but so far the theories include drunks, kids, and drunk kids from out of town.”

“Do you think it could tie in with the sabotage on the movie that Chissel was complaining about?” Liza asked.

“Huh.” That got her a moment's silence. “Maybe. I had Murph talk to the movie crew.” Murph was one of Ava's best local reporters.

“I bet that was pretty easy to do with filming suspended.”

“Yeah, but it didn't get me very far,” Ava said. “Besides the graffiti, most of the damage was annoying but not very technical. Cameras messed with, stuff out of place. Could have been internal, or it could have been local. Repairing things on a fishing boat would teach someone enough to disrepair the film equipment.”

Ava sighed. “Lot of people around town these days are good with their hands and don't have a lot of work.”

“So, if you had a job as an extra, say, and wanted the gravy train to hang around a little longer,” Liza began, “would you mess with petty vandalism to keep the film crew around longer?”

“That might make sense, but I don't see how it necessarily ties in with the current sabotage—unless they were planning to film a big scene on Main Street,” Ava cut her off. “It certainly doesn't tie in with today's bigger local story, where you were an eyewitness. So when can you talk to the paper about what you found?”

“I'll talk to the sheriff and see what he says,” Liza promised. “Meantime, maybe he'd appreciate a little help from a professional publicist.”

Clements had already lived through one media circus generated by a high-profile, Hollywood-related murder case. And that case had already been solved. Liza was willing to bet the guy certainly wasn't looking forward to daily press briefings for newspaper reporters from all over, local and network TV crews, and what Liza had already heard him call “the scumsuckers”—the tabloid press and television people eager for some scrap of celebrity dirt.

“Just make sure you get the okay for a story—” The call-waiting tone cut in on Ava's orders. Liza begged off, hit the flash button, and heard an equally ornery voice.

“I'd have expected you to be down here by now, ready to help us get out.” Michelle Markson was definitely not in a good mood. “The media is assembling, and there are too many familiar faces out there already.”

“Working on it.”

“Work faster then.”

“I'm on my way.” Liza hung up on Michelle, said good-bye to Ava, and explained that she had to head back down to City Hall.

“I still want that story,” Ava insisted.

“I'll do what I can.” Liza hung up, shook her head at the unfinished puzzle on her computer screen, then looked down at the disreputable sweats she was wearing and shook her head again. No time to change.

She let Rusty out into the backyard and grabbed her purse.

Traffic on Main Street was backed up almost to her neighborhood.

Sure, there's probably a battalion of television vans parked outside City Hall already
, Liza thought. She took a circuitous route that brought her around the rear of the civic building, taking the side entrance that led to the mayor's office. As she passed through the central lobby, Liza got a rear view of Sheriff Clements standing on the front steps, addressing the assembled media.

“Not the time to ask about Ava's article,” Liza murmured to herself as she entered the police side of the building.

The same deputy as earlier manned the front desk, but the benches were empty. However, a knot of people stood gathered in a corner out of the direct view from any door.

“Finally!” Michelle Markson growled. She stood at Jenny's left elbow, while Michael stood at the right. From behind them emerged Alvin Hunzinger.

Alvin had been bestowed the title “lawyer to the stars” due to his usually successful representation of Hollywood's finest in various drunken misdemeanors and felony assaults, not to mention the occasional wrongful death or murder. Michelle had dispatched him to Santa Barbara when Liza had discovered Derrick Robbins's dead body hanging head-down from a tree.

This time around, Liza had thought her partner was taking things more in stride. But clearly that wasn't Michelle's way. She didn't merely subscribe to the old Boy Scout motto, “Be prepared.” She operated more on the maxim, “In trying situations, always have overwhelming offensive firepower on hand at all times. And don't be afraid to use it.”

Apparently, Michelle's call had dragged Alvin off the golf course.

That was the only reason that Liza could think of to explain what he was wearing. Now, it was easy enough to discount Alvin's legal smarts due to his laughably Elmer Fudd–like face and physique. But Alvin in golf clothes…Liza had to strangle back a guffaw. A mere smile wouldn't cover it.

The man was wearing seersucker plaid pants in every shade of the rainbow, colors so loud that that the glow could probably be seen from outer space. He'd matched the pants with a pair of white leather golf shoes, pinholed and wing tipped with a little leather kilt covering the laces. The matching belt cinched in an Easter-chick yellow polo shirt. To complete the ensemble, he wore a floppy hat with a tassel in still more of the plaid. The last time golf fashion had ever taken such a hit, Rodney Dangerfield had been filming
Caddy-shack
.

Michelle, however, found very little to laugh about. “You could have given us a little more warning from the get-go,” she accused.

“I called you right after I spoke to the police—something I wasn't supposed to do.”

Michelle's glare indicated complete agreement. But Liza knew it wasn't because her boss wanted matters kept quiet like the nice police officer requested. No, Michelle thought Liza was
supposed
to call her first, even before she called the police.

“I barely had time to confer with our client before the deputies arrived. And since she declined to listen to any advice—”

“I don't
need
a lawyer!” From Jenny's tone of voice, this was just another chapter in a continuing debate. “I didn't see Chissel since I left the set with you guys.”

“And can you prove that?” Michelle challenged. “What did you do after we got back to the inn?”

Jenny shrugged. “We all had supper and watched
Evening Celebrity News
. Then I went back to my cabin and hit my script. There were new lines to learn, thanks to the hack writers Lloyd Olbrich brought in.” Her lips twisted in momentary disgust. “After that, I turned in. When you have to get up before the sun does, that's generally a good plan.”

“And that's what you told the police?” Alvin Hunzinger interjected.

“Yes. And I signed a statement to that effect.” Jenny glanced over at Liza. “It's the truth. I've got nothing to hide. I'll tell you this, though. Sheriff Clements wasn't a big old teddy bear like the last time I saw him. More like a growly one.”

“I noticed the same thing,” Liza said.

“So the police have your statement, and they'll go to work trying to disprove it,” Hunzinger said. “And if they can challenge you on any part of it, they'll be all over you.”

“But I told them the truth,” Jenny insisted, “so I didn't need a lawyer.”

A shocked Hunzinger looked ready to argue that case, but by now Michelle definitely had enough. “What's done is done. I'm sorry I called you up here for nothing, Alvin.”

She doesn't sound all that sorry
, Liza thought.