Sinister Sudoku (8 page)

“It’s a Mondrian worth three million dollars,” Liza replied. “If you heard anything about how the body was found—and what happened next—you’d know it’s pretty embarrassing for me. And why should I have any theories about anything?”

“What?” Ava’s voice got a little louder over the line. “You’re going to solve this, aren’t you? You solved the Derrick Robbins case down in Santa Barbara. I was there, remember? I almost got killed along with you. And you solved the mess that cropped up around the movie shoot here in Maiden’s Bay. I figured you’d already be at work, out there with Sheriff Clements.”

“For one thing, it’s not just Sheriff Clements. There’s an investigator from the state police who definitely doesn’t want me butting in. For another, I don’t want to get involved.”

“How can you say that?” Ava’s voice took on a “that’s just crazy talk” tone—the tone of a managing editor seeing hopes for additional circulation flying out the window.

“As I remember it, you weren’t all that eager to see me get involved in those other cases.”

“Liza.” Now Ava sounded like a schoolteacher trying to point out to an extremely dense student that two and two actually equal four. “Your column goes national in a couple of weeks. Think what it would mean if you also made the news pages in all those papers.”

“Listen to me, Ava,” Liza said. “I’m not getting involved in this. I mean it.”

Well, they had literally been best friends for forever, painting sample polish on each other’s bitten nails as kids, giggling over boys. Ava could tell when she was serious. Her brief silence showed that she’d gotten the message.

“We can talk about that later,” Ava offered diplomatically. Then her managing editor side came out. “But there’s still the story about what happened at the inn. You don’t have to write anything,” she said quickly. “I’ll just put Murph on the line, and you can answer a few questions—”

“No,” Liza said. “Give me a little time to get my head together, and then I’ll come in. You’ll understand a little better about how I feel after I talk with you.”

Like how I’d hate to see all the juicy details splashed across the media,
she added silently.

“Okay,” Ava said uncertainly. “Later, then.” She took a breath. “Which I hope means sooner, if you know what I mean.”

“I know the paper has a deadline. Just give me a little time to sort things out. Bye, Ava.” Liza hung up the phone.

Her fingers were still on the handset when the damned thing began ringing again. Had Ava thought up some new, last-minute argument? Taking a deep breath, Liza brought the instrument to her ear.

“I’d begun to think you had died instead of that art thief,” Michelle Markson’s voice came crisply across the line.

Michelle was not one to go gently into the night—or anywhere else, for that matter. She had used a forceful personality to create an impressive public relations fiefdom, her sharp tongue turning Hollywood movers and shakers into quakers instead. And even though Liza had attained the position of Michelle’s partner, that didn’t mean Michelle considered Liza her equal.

Michelle had her own plans for using the murder at the inn for publicity purposes. While her strategy resembled Ava’s, her tactics were quite different.

“First and foremost, don’t let your little friend on the
Podunk Gazette
think she’s going to control the flow of information.”

“It’s the
Oregon Daily,
” Liza corrected her for the fiftieth time.

“Whatever.” Michelle didn’t bother to keep the dismissive tone out of her voice. If a media outlet didn’t have national penetration, she wasn’t interested. The only local newspaper she paid any attention to was the
Hollywood Reporter
.

“Art theft is usually a bit too cerebral for the
Evening Entertainment News
,” Michelle went on, mentioning one of the bigger TV tabloid shows. “They’ll probably have to coach their people on how to pronounce Mondrian’s name, but three million dollars should be understandable enough. The question is, how quickly can you uncover the murderer and find the picture? There’s been a drought of good celebrity scandal—I swear to God, they were reduced to doing a piece on Shilon expecting her first permanent teeth last night.”

“I’m not sticking my nose in this killing,” Liza said firmly.

“You know, dear, you’ve achieved a certain reputation for figuring out what the police can’t,” Michelle pointed out.
A reputation that you’ve pushed pretty shamelessly while beating the drums for my new column,
Liza thought. “People might find it strange that you refuse to get into this case.”

“I had strong reasons to get involved in those other cases,” Liza said. “First a friend was murdered, and then a client had her career and film debut threatened. This time around, I don’t have that kind of personal connection, and I’d prefer to let the professionals do it.”

“I don’t think this will help your reputation, Liza.”

“But now you think playing detective will?” Liza glared at the phone. “Someone gave me an interesting sidelight on amateur sleuths—they either turn out to be cranks or publicity seekers.”

“You make that sound like a bad thing,” Michelle said sweetly. “Well, I wasn’t expecting instant progress, anyway.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Liza warned. She hung up just as Rusty, Kevin, and Mrs. H. came back in.

“Well, that’s gotten most of the silliness out of his system.” Mrs. H. leaned down to scratch Rusty behind the ears.

“Oh, good. I thought you meant me.” Kevin glanced at his watch. “But I’m afraid there’s lots of silliness waiting for me back at the inn.” Liza gave him the slicker and quickly changed into her usual parka to see Kevin out to his SUV.

As he drove away, Mrs. H. took hold of Liza’s sleeve. “Could you come and join me for a cup of tea?” she asked. “I need to speak with you.”

They were walking along the newly cleared path when they saw the first signs of traffic along Hackleberry Avenue other than Kevin’s black behemoth. A nondescript sedan that might as well have been flying a flag that said “rental car” tried to get round Kevin—not an easy job given the size of his SUV and the width of plowed roadway. The car’s rear wheels whined in slush and the vehicle fishtailed its way past, coming down the avenue toward them.

It pulled up in front of Mrs. H.’s house just as she and Liza arrived. The driver levered himself out and scrambled across a pile of shoveled snow to get to them. Liza recognized the brown polyester parka before she placed the pinched features. It was Howard Frost.

“Elise Halvorsen,” he said, panting slightly as he came forward. “I’m with the Western Assurance Group—”

That was as far as he got. “Get off my property!” Mrs. H. shouted. “You’re no better than a pack of thieves. And when I think of what you put us—me—through . . .” She stomped up the cleared path to her door, yanked it open, and then slammed it shut behind her.

That left Liza staring at the obnoxious insurance guy. He looked about as astonished as she felt. “I thought you were in the hospital,” Liza said.

“I signed myself out,” Frost told her.

Liza blinked. “And then you came all the way out here to annoy my neighbor? I thought you were after Chris Dalen. Is this just a side trip to see how well your company screwed Mrs. Halvorsen on her home repairs?”

Now Frost looked even more surprised. “Don’t you know? Her married name is Halvorsen. But before that, your neighbor was Elise Dalen. She’s Christopher Dalen’s sister.”

“Chris Dalen is dead,” Liza said. “Why do you have to harass—”

“That doesn’t end my business,” Howard Frost interrupted. “There is still the matter of the missing painting, which my company is responsible for recovering.” He paused for a second, adding, “Western Assurance Group has announced a ten percent reward for finding the Mondrian, so long as this does not involve guilty knowledge.”

Liza looked over at the closed door. “Well, if Mrs. H. has any knowledge, I don’t think she’s in a mood to share with you right now.”

Frost opened his parka and dug out a business card. “I’m staying at the Maiden Motor Court. If you happen to uncover any information—which I’m told you sometimes do—feel free to contact me.”

Once again, Liza found herself saying, “Don’t hold your breath.”

While Frost made his way to his car, she headed up the shoveled walkway and knocked at the door. “It’s Liza,” she called, turning round to see the rental sedan pull away. “And nobody else.”

The door opened, and Mrs. H. stood there, tears in her eyes. Liza grabbed the older woman’s hands. “I didn’t know—I’m so sorry—”

“It’s not something I much wanted to talk about,” she admitted, “having a convict in the family.”

Mrs. H. took a deep breath. “He’s my kid brother, the youngest of our family. When he was growing up, he always threatened to run away and join the circus. Maybe he should have. He had talent, he could have been a gymnast or the man on the flying trapeze, instead of spending all those years behind bars.”

“If he talked about running away, I guess he mustn’t have been all that happy at home,” Liza said.

“We lived on a farm, and Chris hated it. As he got older, he used to give my father a hard time. Dad liked to say that he was his own boss, but Chris always needled him about really working for the bank.” Mrs. H. looked down. “And he had a point. A couple of bad years, and Dad had some serious notes to pay off.”

She shook her head. “My oldest brother inherited the farm. His kids sold the place to a larger operation, which got taken over by one of the big agribusinesses. They knocked down the house where we lived to put in a feedlot or some such. That was years after Chris left—or was taken.”

“As in arrested?” Liza asked.

“Chris was always kind of a wild kid. Suddenly he had a lot of spending money. When my parents asked about it, he said he’d been doing some odd jobs. We found out just how odd when he got caught with a carload of computers he’d stolen out of an office building.”

She shrugged. “My father refused to give him any help, and Chris wound up going to prison. Dad thought he’d learn a lesson. What he learned is that electronic stuff quickly loses its value, but art doesn’t—and it’s usually easier to carry. There were people who taught him the techniques, who helped set up jobs and sell off the proceeds.”

“I guess your folks weren’t so happy about that.”

“They never spoke to him again, even when he turned up with lots of money in his pockets.” Mrs. H.’s eyes began to tear up again. “No one was supposed to talk about him. When I got married, my husband Albert—well, he was a good man, but he was glad when his company transferred him down this way. No one knew the Dalens and what he used to call my ‘scapegrace brother.’ If I got the occasional letter from Chris, I always had to hide it. It would make Albert anxious—and angry.”

She gave Liza a wry smile. “I thought Albert would have a fit when Chris got caught after this big job and wound up in Seacoast Correctional. Of course, he forbade me to go there.” Mrs. H. shrugged. “But after he passed away, I would go and see Chris.”

“It must have been very difficult for you,” Liza said. “Like leading a double life.”

“Not really,” Mrs. H. admitted. “For a long time, it looked as if he’d never get out. Whenever Chris went up for parole, that awful man from the insurance company was there, arguing against it. He never missed a chance, like it was his religion or something.” She looked bitter. “Usually, art thieves don’t serve their entire sentences. Deals get made. All it takes is giving up the stolen picture.”

Now it was Liza’s turn for a wry smile. “But your brother had a stubborn streak. I saw that in our sudoku class.”

“Chris said he’d rather die than let those phonies have it.” Mrs. Halvorsen’s lips trembled. “Now it looks as if that came true. It’s not as if he had all that long to go. When he got sick, the doctors at the prison did their best, but—”

“He was going to stay with you,” Liza said gently, remembering Dalen’s words after he gave up his German shtick. “He told me at the inn. He was going to find a little job somewhere.”

“I had told him about all the problems, how much it cost to fix the house. He said he’d do his best to help out.” The older woman looked at Liza, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Where else was he going to go? We were the last of our generation.”

It took Mrs. H. a moment, but she got control of herself. “That reminds me of something I have to do as next of kin. Doc Conyers called—he’s serving as the county coroner and needs a formal identification. That’s why I had gotten to work with the shovel. And then when you came home, I wanted to ask if you’d come with me. But I didn’t want to ask in front of Kevin.”

“I understand,” Liza said, “and I’d be glad to help.” She gestured at her mismatched clothes. “Just let me change first.”

Mrs. Halvorsen’s eyebrows rose. “I was going to ask about those, too, but I didn’t think I’d get an answer.”

“It’s kind of complicated to explain,” Liza began, then shook her head. “So let’s go with the short answer—you’re right, you won’t get one.”

Back in her own clothes again, Liza helped Mrs. H. free her ancient Oldsmobile from the snow. Then they headed off for downtown Maiden’s Bay. The parking situation looked pretty iffy, but they lucked out, finding a recently vacated spot not too far from City Hall.

The morgue was in the basement, in the opposite side of the building from the sheriff’s department holding cells. Doc Conyers met them at the entrance. He was the town’s general practitioner as well as the local coroner, an oversized sort of man with oversized facial features. As a kid, Liza had thought of him as very wise and very kind. As a grown-up, she suspected that Conyers would be a very difficult man to play poker against. Even so, she couldn’t repress the feeling of trust that sprang up when she saw him.

“Elise, I’m sorry I have to ask this of you,” Doc Conyers said. “And, Liza, thanks so much for coming along.”