Death by Sudoku (10 page)

The phone on the other end ran through enough rings that Liza began to worry that the answering machine would pick up. Instead, it was answered by a human voice, if a rather groggy one.

“Did I wake you up, Will?” she asked with a guilty glance at the clock.

“No, no, I was just resting my eyes,” Will Singleton lied politely. “What’s up, Liza? Something to do with the article you want to do on my puzzles? When you came up to ask for those copies, I thought you were going to curse me out for luring you into the same hotel with Derrick Robbins. But that turned out pretty well, except for the young fellow leaving his little computer. Did you get in touch with him?”

He paused, suddenly sounding even more tired. “Or is this about what happened to Derrick? I did hear about it on the news, but I seem to be having a hard time wrapping my mind around it.”

“I’m sorry,” Liza said awkwardly. Will and Derrick must have been friends, even if she hadn’t known about it. “Between talking with the police and getting back home, it seems like almost a week ago,” she admitted. “But the news must have been quite a shock.”

She paused. “I have an odd question for you, I’m afraid. Do you know who does the sudoku for the
Seattle Prospect
?”

“Funny you should ask that,” Will said. “Poor Derrick was talking with me about the same thing during the tournament. I’m afraid I got dragged off in the middle of the conversation, but I’ll tell you exactly what I told him—I don’t know.”

He sounded almost defensive at Liza’s silent response. “Well, you can’t expect me to know
everything
there is to know about sudoku.” He chuckled. “I’ll tell you one thing, though. Whoever it is, he and/or she did a better job of hiding their interest in sudoku than you did.”

“So what does the
Prospect
say? ‘Puzzles by Mystery Person?’”

“They’d probably jump at that idea,” Will replied. “The
Prospect
represents an American toehold by yet another Australian media magnate, a character named Ward Dexter. He followed the Murdoch method, buying a failing American paper. Then he filled the staff with a bunch of smart-ass Aussies and the pages with celebrity gossip and features. Only he decided to conquer America from the Left Coast, and he hasn’t bought a Hollywood studio yet. I don’t think he’s quite in that league.”

He was silent for a moment, checking the monumental database he called a memory. “Whoever does the puzzles must be a good conservative, though—Dexter would insist on that. Although, oddly enough, I know this person disregards one puzzle-making tradition. You know how crosswords start off with easy puzzles early in the week, working up to a Saturday or Sunday stumper?”

“Sure,” Liza replied. “I do the same with my sudoku for the
Oregon Daily
.”

“Well, this person, whoever it may be, doesn’t do that,” Will said. “Sometimes, you’ll find an absolute killer in Monday’s paper and one that novices could do in their sleep on Sunday.”

Liza frowned into the phone, digesting this information. She heard Will clear his throat over the phone line.

“All right. I’ve done my best to satisfy your curiosity. Now I hope you’ll satisfy mine. What’s going on, Liza? The more I think about this, the less I like the idea of you asking the same questions Derrick did before . . . whatever happened to him.”

“If I tell you, you have to promise you won’t tell a soul,” Liza said.

“You know I can keep a secret.” Will sounded hurt. “Look at how long I’ve known about you and sudoku.”

Yeah
—
and you only blabbed it to Derrick
—
I hope
, Liza thought. Still, if she hoped to get anywhere with her investigation, she’d probably need Will’s knowledge and contacts. Taking a deep breath, she gave Will the short version of Derrick’s suspicions.

The line remained silent for a long moment after she finished. “Now I wish I’d had the time for a real talk with Derrick,” Will said quietly. “Although, at the time, I would have had a dark suspicion that he was merely setting me up for some sort of gag.”

Now it was Liza’s turn to go silent. Derrick was a really good actor when he wanted to be. He’d taken some pretty hokey stuff scripted into
Spycraft
and made it work. However, when he wasn’t being serious, Derrick had a dreadful reputation for pranks. Suppose Michael was right, and an unconnected crime had coincidentally ruined Derrick’s “Oooh! Scary, boys and girls!” setup for some silly joke?

“I brushed it off myself.” She shook her head. “But looking back, I think Derrick was serious—dead serious. And there’s something else. After I found Derrick, the police had me in his study. The room looked as if a pack of monkeys had gone through it. Everything was just shoved back on the shelves.”

“That definitely wasn’t Derrick. His puzzle library had been a special project. He asked for my opinion on some of the acquisitions, personally bought each book, designed the bookshelves, and arranged them all himself.” Will sounded as if he’d come to a decision of some sort. “If you’re going to try decrypting any puzzles, you’re going to need more computing ability than any home model can give you. Hold on a moment—”

The phone went down with a muted thump—probably on a pile of papers, Liza thought, given Will’s work methods.

“Got it,” he said, getting back on the line. “This is the number for Max Frisch. He’s a professor at Coastal University and quite the sudoku fiend. I bet he’ll be quite impressed to discover that Liza K is a neighbor of sorts—and he has access to the university’s computer system. The big mainframes, if you know what I mean.”

Liza thanked Will, cautioned him to silence one more time, wished him good night, and hung up.

One more call. Liza dialed Michelle’s private cell number with some trepidation. After two rings, she got a connection.

“Finally.” Michelle had obviously checked the incoming number before answering. The background noise—chattering voices, clinking glasses—muted as Liza’s partner walked away from the party. Sometimes it seemed as if Michelle attended a party every evening—an opening, an awards event, a client’s anniversary of some sort.

“I won’t insult you by going over the basics, like not talking to reporters,” Michelle said.

Liza looked at her blinking answering machine. “I’ve only been on the phone with two people—and neither of them has any connection with the media.”

“Just refer everyone to the agency. We’ve been handling everything since this morning.”

“And what are you telling everyone without me around to say anything?” Liza couldn’t help asking.

“The barest of facts, that you were seeing Derrick Robbins on business and had discovered his body while bringing him a contract. No speculations about mysterious messages or murderous nieces.”

“How—?” Even as the question was forced out of her, Liza had to shake her head in reluctant admiration at the way her partner kept abreast of everything.

“Unlike some people, Alvin called very promptly to discuss the situation,” Michelle replied. “That will do for the present. For everything else . . . my office—tomorrow, two o’clock.”

She probably began ringing off halfway through Liza’s assent.

Liza turned back to her computer. As expected, there was a very recent e-mail from Markson Associates with the confirmation codes for round-trip flights between PDX and LAX.
Not
too
self-assured, our Michelle
, she thought wryly.

The flight from Portland left around 11:00 a.m. At least she wouldn’t have to get up with the sun again. The return trip would land her around 6:00 p.m.

That meant she’d be losing most of a day’s work tomorrow.
Better check in at work. I’ve got a couple of backup columns I can plug in, and I think I’m still a week ahead on puzzles. Maybe I can work up a column out of Will’s puzzle while I’m traveling back and forth from La-la Land . . .

A few clicks of the mouse, and Liza had the login screen for the
Oregon Daily
’s computer network. She typed in the password for her account, and then leaned back in her chair, frowning in surprise.

According to her computer, her account was already being accessed!

Liza had enough time for a brief run the next morning—something Rusty always liked. He apparently saw it as a race and did his best to take and maintain the lead. By the time they returned home, his tongue was lolling, and Liza was panting.
Too much time on my butt in airplanes
, she thought darkly.
And I’ll be doing it again in a little while.

Passing Mrs. Halvorsen’s house, Liza saw movement n the yard. She peeked over to see Mrs. H. getting some gardening done. Rusty gave a friendly bark and all but leapt on the little rotund figure weeding around her rosebushes.

“Well! Who’s a big, silly dog?” Mrs. H. asked, giving Rusty the petting he demanded. Then, glancing over her eyeglasses at Liza, the woman added a little cough.

Liza rolled her eyes. “Nice to see you up and around again,” she said.

Mrs. H. gave a little shrug of her round shoulders. “If I leave them alone too long, the weeds would take over the whole yard. Besides, it’s not as strenuous as taking that fellow for a walk.” She glanced over at Liza’s disheveled state.

“Speaking of which,” Liza said, trying to unrumple her sweaty sweats, “I’ve been called away again today. Would it be possible for you to walk Rusty later?”

The little widow lady replied with a beatific smile. “If not me, I’m sure I can get someone to help.”

“And speaking of
that
,” Liza said more severely, “I hope you won’t drag poor Kevin Shepard over from Killamook again.”

“Kevin is such a nice boy,” Mrs. Halvorsen replied evasively.

“Yes, I thought so, too—fifteen years ago.”

“Why that’s right!” Mrs. H.’s expression of surprise was a triumph of amateur acting. “You made such a lovely couple.”

“As I said, that was fifteen years ago—and more,” Liza said.

“Yes, but he’s alone again, and from the looks of things, so are you,” Mrs. H. replied.

“Right now, I think that would be borrowing trouble.” Liza shook her head. “I don’t think you’ll find much match-making in the Bible.”

“You’d be surprised.” Mrs. Halvorsen grinned as she returned to her weeding. “Where do you think all those chapters of begats came from?”

Sighing, Liza pulled on Rusty’s leash and retreated. “I’d better be getting ready. Tell you what, Mrs. H.—I’ll call you when I get back to Portland.”

After getting out of the shower and into a suit, Liza did a final makeup check, patting her stomach to keep it from rumbling.
I remembered to feed Rusty and forgot to feed myself
, she thought. A glance at the clock showed that she could still catch a quick breakfast at Ma’s Café before heading off to Portland.
Provided I don’t dribble on my power suit.

That plan changed when Liza found Calvin behind the counter at the café, his eyes looking uncannily like the sunny-side-up eggs he was burning. “You look very nice today,” he greeted her.

“Thanks, Calvin,” she said, dropping onto a stool. “How about a cup of coffee?”

“Soon as I finish this.” He scooped up the incinerated eggs with a spatula as gingerly as if they were still in their shells. (As a matter of fact, Liza could see a couple pieces of broken shell, tiny bits of white sticking out from the blackish-brown edges of Cal’s concoction.) Cal deposited this burnt offering on two pieces of equally burnt toast, then set the plate down in front of Hank Lonebaugh, who sat between two of the place’s long-suffering regulars.

Hank had taken to turning up at Ma’s in hopes of catching Liza at breakfast or lunch. This morning though, he was the one who looked caught. His horrified eyes went from the hulking, hungover Cal to his charred short-order masterpiece—and back again. Then, with an audible gulp, Hank picked up his knife and fork and began sawing away.

As Cal turned away to get Liza’s coffee, an old codger sitting beside Hank reached up and gave him a comradely pat on the shoulder.

How nice to see he’s finally being accepted by the natives
, Liza thought.

The café door banged open and in strode Lloyd Braeburn. That was a surprise. Braeburn, like most of the California transplants in town, got his caffeine fix at the brand-name latte palace on the other end of Main Street. The locals were just as glad—they tended to loathe the newcomers. Liza always guessed she was a fifty-fifty proposition—a local girl who’d joined the enemy and then came back. At least they didn’t ostracize her at Ma’s.

Braeburn brushed past Liza’s stool as he bellied up to the counter. “I’ve got a half-finished deck behind my house, and I find you here instead of going to work finishing it up,” he said loudly.

“Sorry, Mr. Braeburn,” Calvin began. “I can’t—”

“If I had a nickel for every time I heard that from a contractor,” Braeburn butted in. “I know you small-time guys, always ready to take a vacation as the mood—or the morning after—dictates. If you need coffee that badly, fine. Get a thermos.” He banged on the counter. “You’re coming up—”

He never got to finish. Calvin whirled around from the coffee urn, Liza’s cup in one meaty hand, the other shooting out with unexpected speed to pin Braeburn’s fist to the Formica. The startled Californian tried to pull back, but his wrist might as well have been nailed to the surface. Braeburn struggled mightily to get free, but neither Cal—nor the cup of coffee he still held—budged a millimeter.

Liza sat nervously on her stool, staring. The Calvin she’d always known had left the building. Instead, a half-shaved stranger stood glaring at Lloyd Braeburn with bloodshot eyes—a stranger who was twice the Californian’s size.

Then, Calvin was back, releasing Braeburn’s hand. “Ma’s sick,” he said mildly. “She says both knees have seized up. Tom Coughlin has the flu, so he can’t fill in. It’s up to me to mind the fort.”