Sinister Sudoku (14 page)

“It’s stayed under the radar so far,” Michelle went on, “but I’ve got a copy. Thought it might come in handy to make a good splashy distraction if the media ever really got after one of our clients. You can tell Mr. Tarleton that if he doesn’t see the error of his ways, he’ll get to see some tamer excerpts tonight on
Evening Celebrity News
.”

“I could be wrong here, but I think you really don’t like this guy,” Michael spoke up.

“Oh, please,” Michelle replied. “He’s just a travel agent with delusions of grandeur. His father came home from World War II with the bright idea of selling package tours. Then Fritz—and what kind of name is that, anyway?—just picked the right time to go into the deluxe travel business. Just because he was making arrangements for the rich and famous, he thought he’d become one of them. With that daughter of his, though, it looks as if they’ll go from shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations.”

“You know, Michelle,” Liza said, “it sounds to me as if you would enjoy the chance to put Mr. Tarleton in his place.”

“Mmmmm-yes,” Michelle’s voice turned very sweet— always a danger sign in conversations with her. “You’re far too nice to do this job effectively. Is Tarleton still at the— what is the ridiculous name of that inn again.”

“The Killamook Inn.” Liza did her best to keep a straight face as Kevin flinched at that comment. “Do you need the number?”

“No, we’ve got it here,” Michelle said. “I even stayed there, remember. Very nice place, in spite of that name.”

They exchanged good-byes, and Liza cut the connection. “Well, that should provide some counterpressure.”

“If you consider being hit on the head by a falling piano counterpressure,” Michael said.

“I think Fritz Tarleton will back off,” Liza told Kevin.

He looked a little dazed. “I don’t know how—” His thanks were interrupted by a knock on the office door.

“Come in,” Kevin called.

John the assistant manager opened the door and stepped in, an envelope in his hand. “We were just going through the mail delivery, and this came in.”

Kevin extended his hand, but John offered the envelope to Liza. She looked at the scrawled inscription.

“Now what the hell is this?” she asked.

Some sudoku can actually be solved in your head. Most, however, require the use of a pencil to list the candidates for each space and slowly reduce them. For some solvers, though, tackling more esoteric puzzles means bringing
pencils
, plural, to the job.

The idea is to map out competing chains of logic by filling the spaces involved with different colors. It’s a technique that can be useful, and at times it turns a plain old sudoku into a piece of modern art.

And unless you know the logic behind it, coloring is about as easy to understand as modern art, too.

—Excerpt from
Sudo-cues
by Liza K

Kevin looked more intently at the envelope Liza was tearing open. “That’s Killamook Inn stationery.”

John nodded. “It just made a round trip between here and the post office.”

One of the two pieces of paper inside the envelope was inn stationery, too. Liza frowned as she read the scribbled words:

The note was signed “Chris Dalen.”

After she read it aloud, Michael crossed his arms. “
He
doesn’t ask for much, this guy.”

Kevin managed a ghost of a laugh. “He’s not asking for anything that Liza isn’t already doing—with our help.”

Michael shot him a glance. “More or less.”

Liza barely paid attention as the sniping resumed. She was busy examining the other piece of paper that came from the envelope. This wasn’t stationery. It was some kind of art paper, translucent vellum. As for the geometric design drawn on it—

“What’s that?” Buck Foreman asked, looking over her shoulder.

“It’s a very nice miniature copy of
Composition in Blue, Red, and Green
.” She recognized it from the faded magazine page tacked up on the wall of Patrician Books. “How thoughtful of Chris to send along a reproduction of the painting I’m supposed to find.”

“It’s a nice job,” Buck said. “Ink and watercolor.”

“Lovely.” Liza’s voice was sour. “I suppose if I screw up on finding the painting, I can always have this framed and give it to Mrs. H.”

She glanced over at the assistant manager, who was trying to retreat to the door. “I suppose I should say thank you, John.” Then she looked at Buck, Michael, and Kevin. “Otherwise—well, I guess our business here is done.”

Liza felt Kevin’s eyes on her back as she walked out of the office. She glanced back from the doorway. Yes, Kevin was looking at her. His mouth opened and then clamped shut in a tight line.

Yeah,
Liza thought,
nothing much we can say right now.

She tucked the note and the picture back in the envelope, put the envelope in her pocket, and left.

They drove back to Maiden’s Bay. As they headed up Main Street, Liza’s stomach suddenly growled. Putting a hand firmly over the noisemaker, she asked, “What do you say to a late lunch at Ma’s Café?”

“That’s why I go on business trips,” Buck said, “for the cushy expense account meals.”

He found a parking space, and they crossed Main to enter the café. The combination of steam and fried food filled Liza’s nostrils, and all of a sudden she found herself salivating. The booths that lined the walls were pretty much empty—most of the regulars had finished their lunches by now. A few of the older habitués lined the lunch counter, hunched over cups of coffee. Liza wondered if some of them ever went home. The only place she saw them was at the counter at Ma’s.

Buck led the way to the back booth, seating himself so he had a clear view of the door.

Some habits die hard,
Liza thought as she shepherded Michael into the inside seat. He was right-handed while she was a lefty, so she wanted the outside seat. Otherwise, as bitter experience had shown, trying to eat side by side would result in a case of dueling elbows.

Liz Sanders, sister of the original Ma of Ma’s Café, came to take their orders. Buck had the Yankee pot roast, Michael had the artery buster, and Liza ended up with the salad with grilled chicken—honey Dijon dressing on the side.

They had just started eating when Liza heard the door open behind her. Buck sat up straighter. “Somebody’s coming our way.”

The first thing Liza noticed was the shiny brown polyester parka. “Could I speak with you for a moment?” Howard Frost asked.

Stuck with a mouthful of lettuce, Liza had no graceful way of saying “no.”

“I know we got off to a bad start.” Frost’s jowls wobbled apologetically as he spoke. “It’s just that this whole thing with the Mondrian has hung over my head for the past dozen years. I’m a good investigator, have a damned good track record. But that painting—not recovering it has been the big failure of my career.”

A multimillion-dollar failure—guess I’d get kind of excited over it if it were me,
Liza thought.

“My neighbor mentioned that every time Chris Dalen came up for parole, you’d turn up at the hearing to argue against it,” she said.

A flash of fire came to Frost’s eyes. “Damned right. They tell us that prison is for rehabilitation. You get out early if you show you’ve changed your ways—”

Buck cleared his throat as if something had gone down the wrong way. Frost flashed him a conspiratorial smile. “I’d guess you work or have worked in law enforcement,” he said, “but I’m talking about theory here—your practical viewpoint may be somewhat different.”

He turned back to Liza. “So, if Dalen had become an honest man who should leave prison early, wouldn’t surrendering what he stole be the honest thing to do?”

“He was in prison more than a decade,” Liza began.

“Sitting on his tail, waiting to sell that Mondrian. I worked my tail off the same number of years, but I’m not getting a three-million-dollar retirement package.”

“You’re not dead, either—Dalen was murdered, after all,” Liza pointed out, although she had to admit, Frost did have a point. But she still wasn’t going to share any information with the investigator—such as Chris Dalen’s posthumous letter.

One of the regulars at the lunch counter suddenly spun on his stool to point at Frost. “You’re the insurance guy from W.A.G., ain’tcha?”

“Western Assurance Group,” Frost said politely.

“Y’know, I got some storm damage to my house after that big blow the other night.” The coffee drinker’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down on his scrawny throat. “I hope you ain’t going to screw me over like you did to Elise Halvorsen.”

“I can assure you,” Frost began, but the other guy cut him off.

“I’ve known Elise for about forty years—you I know for about fifteen seconds. I dunno about ‘resting assured,’ but I know whose word I’d trust.” With that, the local spun back to his coffee.

Frost contented himself with giving cards to Buck and Michael. He asked Liza whether she still had the one he’d given her, and then he left.

“You think he got the idea he wasn’t wanted?” Michael asked, deadpan.

They managed to finish their meal without incident, and Buck gave them a lift back to Hackleberry Avenue. “I’ll have to push it a bit to catch my flight back to L.A.” So he just said good-bye and took off.

Michael glanced over at Liza’s house.

“I’m going to be working,” she warned.

He nodded. “I guess Mrs. H. could use some company, anyway.”

Arriving back home, Liza disappointed Rusty by heading straight for her computer instead of the treats jar. She sat down and forced herself to crank out a simple puzzle before taking another shot at beaming an IM to Uncle Jim. Liza hoped he was around this time because she really needed his help with Dalen’s seventeen clue sudoku.

Luckily, a response appeared in the box on her screen.

Hi Liza,
Uncle Jim typed.
That was a pretty interesting sudoku, considering it came out of an introductory class.

Even as she read, Liza was typing herself.
Do you see any hint of a message in there?

For a long moment she got no response. Then words began to appear.

Liza’s heart sank as she read. This was what she was afraid she’d hear.

She leaned over her keyboard.
I know. I was just hoping you could surprise me. Run your magic eyes over it and see something I could not.

Uncle Jim’s answer appeared.
Your confidence in me is very flattering . . . misplaced, maybe, but flattering.

After a moment, more words crept onto the screen.
You still there, Liza? I didn’t hurt your feelings, did I?

Liza was busy typing.
No, there’s just more. I got a letter from the dead man today. He asked me to help find the hidden painting. Here’s what he said:

The next part she had to type very carefully. She wanted an exact transcription of Chris Dalen’s note.

After she sent that, Liza typed,
When he asks me to go for the picture, he seems to think I’ll have no trouble finding it. Is there something in the letter that I’m missing?

His answer seemed equally puzzled.
That’s all it says?

“Well, it’s on a piece of hotel stationery,” Liza muttered. She typed that in, adding,
so it has the address of the Killamook Inn.

Another brief pause.
There could be some sort of secret writing involved. That would involve chemical analysis. Or . . . it could be simply mechanical, say an overlay with cutouts so that only certain words come through.