Death by Sudoku (6 page)

“To me it seems like an unlikely place to send messages. Too public.” Liza shrugged. “I certainly don’t know what I could tell you that would shed any light on this. Are you sure this is really some kind of embedded coded message?”

“As for that, I took the bull by the horns.” Derrick patted the old Bible. “I found a quote I thought was appropriate to what was going on, encoded it the same way the
Prospect
’s puzzle creator has been doing in a puzzle of my own, and sent it off to the
Prospect
. If I’m crazy, then nothing will happen. If I’m not crazy . . . well, we’ll see. I thought I should mention it to somebody—somebody who might understand. Like you.”

He stepped away from the desk, suddenly businesslike. “So what’s our next step with Jenny?”

“I’ll talk to Michelle tonight—sound her out,” Liza said, a bit relieved at the change of subject. “If we’re lucky, she may fax me a contract. Or I may need a copy of Jenny’s screen test from you as a convincer.”

Derrick nodded. “Either way, stop up here tomorrow morning, and I’ll either run you back to Portland or drop you at John Wayne for the commercial flight. Is seven thirty too early?”

“Sounds good to m—” Liza’s reply was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Jenny popped her head inside. “The cab’s here,” she said.

Liza didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

But she knew it was a good idea to think about all she’d heard tonight before she acted on it.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll get my bag and my hat.”

Liza’s hotel room boasted a good-sized balcony with a pleasant enough view. It didn’t even come close to the vista from Derrick Robbins’s terrace, though.

After stowing away the contents of her carry-on bag (a pretty quick job, really), Liza went out onto the balcony. Dropping into one of the chairs, she took out her cell phone and dialed Michelle Markson’s home number.

Liza expected to get the answering machine, but got a live voice instead—Michelle greeting her brusquely. “What’s up, Liza?”

Oh, the joys of caller ID.

“I was down in Orange County and bumped into Derrick Robbins—”

Michelle didn’t go as far as interrupting Liza with her imitation of the harsh buzzer sound quiz shows use to greet wrong answers. But she did interrupt by cutting right over Liza’s sentence, disinterest dripping from every word. “Derrick hasn’t worked since
Spycraft
wrapped.”

Translation: Derrick might as well have fallen off the edge of the world.

“He’s been exploring the production end, and he showed me a screen test—”

“This town really does move fast. He can’t impress the girls by being a star himself, so he’s got to use the casting couch?” Michelle let out a long breath, a sign that she was really reaching the end of her patience. “I know you’re supposed to be the nice partner. Huh. Well, you can tell Derrick you talked with me.”

I really have been out of the rat race too long
, Liza thought.
Even with Michelle, I’ve got to keep the pitch short and sweet.

“This isn’t about Derrick.” She spoke quickly before Michelle hung up on her. “From what I saw of that screen test, we may be looking at the next Julia Roberts.”

There was a long pause. Liza could just imagine her partner, finger poised halfway to disconnecting the call.

“Tell me more.”

“She’s Derrick’s niece, and I’d say she got all the right family genes. She comes across on camera as well as he did when he was a kid, and the look works better for her.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“The camera loves her. She has great presence and moves well—just out of drama school, so she’s got some student-actor issues. Not a problem with a good director to give her the basics on film work as opposed to stage acting. I’ve even met her, and she strikes me as a nice kid. Jenny Robbins has all the raw talent anyone could want. She just needs polishing.”

“Mmm. So you decided to call me with this little gift as your going-away present for leaving the agency?” Michelle was almost purring now. “Well, you’re the partner on the scene, so it’s your call, Liza.”

Deep breath. “Then fax me over our standard agreement. We should sign her.”

“Sure about that?” Michelle asked. “Because you’re the one who’ll have to live with this decision. You bring this girl in, she’s your client, partner.”

That was classic Michelle—direct, hard as nails, and with a sting that any scorpion would envy on the backswing.

Not to mention sharp as a whip. For months, Liza had been working to distance herself from the business of Markson Associates. Taking Jenny Robbins on as a client—launching her career—would represent a new and time-consuming entanglement, complicating all her work to distance herself from that part of her life.

Oh, what the heck
, Liza thought.
The girl has talent.

“Let’s bag her.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it? I think you’ve been getting a little rusty up there in Poontang Bay. You nearly lost me with the first two sentences when you brought this up.”

Oh yeah, Michelle was a player. She knew just the right combination of challenge and venom to rope Liza in.

“I think you’ll be glad we took Jenny on.” Liza was very careful in her choice of pronouns. Michelle would have a definite part to play in getting Jenny established. And frankly, she was necessary. A talent like Jenny’s deserved the best representation possible. And that was Michelle—in spades.

“Here’s where you can send the contract.” Liza reeled off the hotel’s fax number. “I’m heading up to Derrick’s place early in the morning. She’s visiting him.”

“You mean he’s not waiting around the corner pouring you a nightcap?” Michelle’s voice now turned cheerfully mocking. “Old Derrick’s still pretty easy on the eyes. And after you spent the winter alone in the cold and fog . . .”

“I never knew
you
to seal a deal that way,” Liza shot back. “But then, we don’t pry that much into each other’s personal lives.”

Michelle laughed. “I’ll get that fax to you right away. Ysabel is gone, and I’ve got some airhead from a staffing agency on the front desk. Better I do it myself.”

Liza opened her mouth to say something, then shut it. One of her unofficial jobs at the agency had been staff retention—somebody had to step in to fix the effects of Michelle’s sometimes caustic remarks. She stopped just in time, recognizing this as another of Michelle’s ploys to suck her back in.

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” she replied blandly.

Liza was rewarded with another puff of aggravated breath on the other end of the line and a quick cutoff.

She grinned, congratulating herself on having scored a point. Then she checked her watch. Mrs. Halvorsen stayed up to watch the ten o’clock news, and right now the sports would be on—a good time to call.

Liza dialed, and a second later was rewarded with a slightly squeaky voice saying, “Hello?”

If any Hollywood producers needed a prototypical “Little Old Lady,” Liza knew exactly where to steer them. “Hi, Mrs. H.,” she said. “Liza Kelly here. I just wanted to check in with you—make sure things were okay with Rusty.”

“Oh my, yes.” Mrs. H.’s voice suddenly turned raspy, and she added a theatrical cough. “I’m afraid, though, the weather was a little raw this evening. I may have caught a chill.”

Liza rolled her eyes. Make that a prime hypochondriac “Little Old Lady.” The list of ailments that supposedly struck Mrs. Halvorsen would fill a good-sized medical journal. Still, Liza felt a pang of conscience. Had she been asking Mrs. H. to do too much?

Apparently not, judging from what the older woman had to say next. “Rusty is such a good boy, and he does enjoy company. I arranged for someone else to take him for a walk if I feel under the weather.”

“I’m hoping to get home before noon,” Liza said, “so there should only be a morning walk to worry about.” She made a mental note to stop off in Portland and pick up a box of that Scandinavian herb tea Mrs. H. swore by.

“That will be fine. Rusty will be glad to see you.” Mrs. H. chuckled. “And I will, too, of course. Have a nice trip, dear. ‘The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore.’ That’s Psalm 121, verse 8.”

The elderly woman’s main comfort amid her imaginary illnesses was an ancient family Bible.

She’d have gotten on with Derrick’s dad
, Liza thought, throttling back an urge to respond with an “Amen!”

Instead, she said, “Thanks very much, Mrs. H.,” hung up, rose, and stretched to the accompaniment of an enormous yawn. She looked at Will Singleton’s puzzles, which she’d unfolded and left beside her bed, intending to start making notes on the solutions. Maybe that was a little optimistic, after today’s activities and this evening’s wine.

There’s always tomorrow
, Liza told herself.
Maybe I can pick Derrick’s brains on the flight. That way I’ll have both Will’s tournament puzzle and comments by the Hollywood star winner.

She’d check at the front desk for Michelle’s fax in the morning. Now it was definitely time for bed.

 
The next morning, Liza was up with the dawn again, showering, rooting around in her extremely limited wardrobe, and brewing a cup of coffee in her room’s coffeemaker.
Considerably better than what Cal Burke handed me at Ma’s
, she thought with a longing look at the little basket of baked goods that had magically appeared outside her door. The croissants looked especially appealing.

No. Derrick had promised her breakfast when she arrived at his place. Regretfully, Liza put the tempting little basket aside uneaten, then turned back on impulse to grab a handful of tiny corn muffins. She wrapped up her stash in a couple of paper napkins and stowed the package in her already loaded carry-on.
That should be enough to make an in-flight snack for both Derrick and me later on
, she thought.

After one last check to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind, she headed out the door. She’d already talked to the desk clerk, arranging for a cab to take her up to Derrick’s.

Downstairs at the reception desk, Liza picked up the fax from Michelle and checked out. She was riffling through the flimsy sheets of the contract when the cabdriver came into the lobby looking for her.
All present and correct
, she thought as she followed the man out.

The night before, the trip down the mountain roads had been accomplished in pitch darkness. All Liza had gotten from the ride was a sense of numerous twists and turns. Now, seated in the backseat of this cab, she put on her sunglasses to cut the glare of the early-morning sunshine, and let herself stare at the incredible scenery.

It wasn’t so obvious at first how scenic the drive was.

The driver’s route took them around the outskirts of town, but then they started climbing a narrow road into the mountains. There were indeed plenty of twists and turns as the road wound its way up a series of increasingly rugged slopes.

Soon they’d left the land of manicured lawns behind. Greenery on the cliffsides came from low brush forcing its way between cracks in the rocky walls and trees rooted on ledges above them.

Even in daylight, the driver had to keep both eyes on a road that consisted mostly of hairpin and switchback curves as it kept climbing. Liza, however, was free to enjoy the view. She opened her window, breathing in a slightly rank, piney odor from the trees and bushes. Closing her eyes, she fantasized for a moment that she was back home in Oregon—on a pretty, warm day, she had to admit.

Smiling at her silliness, she opened her eyes, which immediately went very wide. “Stop the car!” she almost screamed.

With a stomp on the brakes, the driver sent them swerving down the road, bringing them to a standstill before he reached the next curve.

Liza was already struggling with the door handle until the driver hit the automatic locks. “You gonna be sick or something?” he asked, anxious about his car’s interior.

Liza stumbled out, staring back the way they had come—and upward. Any answer she might have given dried up in her throat as her empty stomach began to roil.

It hadn’t been a trick of the shadows. She really had seen a human figure dangling head-down and motionless from the branches of one of the pines. And now she could see the garish pattern on the sweater hanging from the still figure’s torso.

It was Derrick Robbins, wearing his not-so-lucky sweater, from the looks of it. Because he was very obviously dead.

“Hey, lady—” the cabdriver said as he came out of the car. Then he spotted Derrick’s body. He froze in his tracks, his jaw sagging open, and almost fell to the pavement. “Holy jumping Judas!”

Liza whipped around. “You’ve got a radio in your cab, right?”

The driver nodded.

“Then get on it to your base, and have them send the police.”

After that, the driver wanted to get out of there. Liza had to use some of the more drastic techniques she’d picked up from Michelle to keep him around. “You’re a witness,” she told him. “If you drive off, the police could begin to think you’re a suspect.”

“B-but you’re with me,” the cabdriver protested. “You chose the destination.”

“Precisely. And I’m staying here to talk with them. If you want to make sure what kind of story I tell the police, so will you.”

Long minutes passed. Liza spent them with her back determinedly turned to the horrible thing that once had been her friend. Even a quick glance showed that Derrick had hit the mountainside several times before finally getting caught up in the tree. Between the impact wounds and the fact that all the blood had settled in the lower parts of his suspended body, Derrick’s handsome face had become a horribly distorted parody of itself. If it weren’t for that cheesy sweater—