Killer Sudoku (15 page)

Fleming’s desk wasn’t all that large, an old-fashioned rolltop type that looked as if it had done a lot of traveling. Judging from the way the room was set up, the Scotsman did a lot of his business in a conversational area set up in front of what seemed to be a working fireplace. Two overstuffed chairs flanked a low table.

That was the first thing Liza saw when she stormed in. She couldn’t believe it when she glimpsed logs and kindling arranged on a pair of gleaming andirons.

What does he do, get the air-conditioning running at full blast before he lights that thing up?
she wondered.
For at least half the year down here he could be starting brush fires.

Fleming rose from behind his desk and came around to the conversation area. “Is there some sort of problem, Ms. Kelly?”

“Yes,” Liza replied, “I’ve got a major problem with your house dick.”

“Mr. Roche is an assistant manager,” Fleming said. “Security does come under his purview, and I know he can sometimes be a bit zealous—”

Liza leaned right into the man’s bearded face, a trick she had learned from Michelle. “When he starts badgering a woman old enough to be his mother so she’ll give the kind of testimony he wants, I think that goes well beyond zealous, Mr. Fleming.”

“You can’t be serious, Ms. Kelly.”

“As serious as a heart attack, Fleming—which is just about what Roche gave to my friend Mrs. Halvorsen. He caught her alone in your lovely gardens and began interrogating her. And when she didn’t give the answers he wanted to hear, he tried intimidating her.”

“You say your friend is a bit elderly. Perhaps she didn’t understand what Oliver was asking. After all, he’s a trained law enforcement professional.”

“Who was forced to retire from the LAPD after he unsuccessfully attempted to railroad a suspect,” Liza finished.

Fleming’s lips tightened and his eyes got a bit flinty. “I was assured that was a mistake. He had excellent references—”

“From superior officers who were glad to pack him off before he became a complete media catastrophe for them,” Liza shot in again.

“He also made a very good impression on several of the partners here at Rancho Pacificano,” Fleming told her.

Liza could just imagine those partners—Orange County developers, conservative types who’d love giving a job to a guy that they’d consider a no-nonsense cop. She took a deep breath and tried to calm down a little. This also meant that Roche wasn’t somebody Fleming had just hired. The managing partner had probably accepted Roche as part of a deal with the other people putting up money for the resort.

She met Fergus Fleming’s eyes. He still regarded her with a constrained expression. “Roche told me about your reputation. He collected clipping files on all the specially invited participants in Mr. Singleton’s tournament. After Mr. Quirk collapsed, he warned me that you might try to conduct your own investigation.”

Liza lost it again. “And what the hell do you think he’s doing, just observing everything from behind the potted palms? He was trying to scare up a witness—or just plain scare one—to contradict my statement about where I was yesterday afternoon.”

“Your alibi,” Fleming said.

“My statement to the police,” Liza told him. “Where does Roche come off questioning your guests about that?”

“ ‘Guests’ plural?”

“Almost as soon as Ian Quirk was rolled off to the ambulance, Roche tried to pump Babs Basset for information.”

A sort of convulsive shudder ran through the big Scotsman’s frame. “Did he?”

“Not that he got very far with her,” Liza had to admit. “But considering his previous research—and your personal history with the lady—do you think that was a good idea?”

Fleming sank into one of the armchairs, his hands gripping the overstuffed arms tightly enough to create dents in the upholstery. “I see that you know some of that personal history yourself.”

He sighed. “Perhaps you’ve heard people refer to the hotel business as the hospitality industry?” he asked.

“My friend Kevin Shepard has mentioned it,” Liza told him.

The resort manager nodded. “And I imagine you must know how proud Kevin is of that inn up in Oregon. Well, ever since I was a lad, I was fascinated by a business offering people hospitality. I set out to learn the trade, hoping I’d have the chance to show off my own brand of hospitality someday.”

Liza gestured around the office. “It seems as if that time is now.”

“So I’d hoped.” His lips twisted under his whiskers. “I took some strange roads to get here—”

Through Babs Basset’s bed, for instance,
Liza couldn’t help thinking.

“And I don’t necessarily believe that Rancho Pacificano is the optimal location for what I hoped to do. Frankly, I think a more northerly location would be better. However, this is what was available, in terms of time frame and financial constraints, and here I am.”

“Not many resorts of this caliber would allow TV cameras all over the place.” There Liza spoke with a professional’s knowledge.

Fleming nodded. “To be frank, we could use the publicity. By no means are we the only resort in Southern California. It’s been hard to get ourselves established. I thought that hosting a nationally televised event would raise our profile—the SINN people talked about doing background shots all over the property to lead into the tournament events. Instead . . .”

Liza wouldn’t have believed it possible, but his big hands squeezed the upholstery even more tightly. “It’s been a complete disaster. SINN has actually cut down their coverage. And all anyone has seen of Rancho Pacificano is people apparently dropping dead at every opportunity.”

That head of red hair drooped for a moment. Then Fleming brought it back up to face Liza. “Given the situation, I imagine I’d be glad for any investigation that brings an end to these incidents—professional or private.”

Liza nodded in silence. Fleming wasn’t going to rein in Roche. But he wasn’t going to get in the way of her investigation, either.

She frowned as she headed up to her suite. Kevin, Michael, and Mrs. Halvorsen all stood gathered in the sitting room. Apparently Mrs. H. had been conducting a guided tour. She was just sliding open the glass panel offering admittance to their private terrace as Liza unlocked the suite door.

A gust of wind came through the opening, and Mrs. Halvorsen’s sun hat flew off as if it had finally taken wing. “Oh!” the older woman said, her fingers an instant too late to catch the hat as it skimmed into the room and under the couch.

“No problem.” Michael dropped to one knee as he retrieved the hat.

“So what luck?” Kevin asked, turning to Liza.

“This is a very nice view. Thanks for showing us,” Michael interrupted, rising with the hat in his hands and a very odd expression on his face. “What kind of view does your room have, Kevin?”

Kevin stared at him, wondering if that wind had gone in one of Michael’s ears and out the other. “It’s not as nice as this one,” he replied gruffly.

“Oh?” Michael pressed. “Is it on the other end of the building? Does it have a landward view?”

“It overlooks the back of the stables, all right?” Liza figured he’d have a hard time getting the words “manure pile” out from between his clenched teeth.

“Stables!” Michael echoed like a kid opening a Christmas present. “I didn’t know they had horses here! Isn’t that wonderful, Liza?”

“Oh?” Now it was Liza’s turn to be taken aback.

Michael’s voice took on a hearty, laughing tone. “You know how I love horses, dear. Every year we never missed the horse show in Santa Barbara.”

As a wife, Liza had heard that tone before—usually when Michael was trying to convince her of something that wasn’t true. And a yearly pilgrimage to Santa Barbara in search of horseflesh was definitely untrue. Michael was more likely to say he’d do that when horses fly.

A little belatedly, she took up the cue. “I wonder what kind of horses they’d have here. Do you think people board their own animals?”

Shrugging, Kevin went along. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Did you know you can store your own wine here, to be delivered to your table when you eat?”

“Amazing.” Michael stepped over to give Mrs. H. her hat, drew her inside, and slid the panel closed. “C’mon, what do you say we go take a look?”

He prattled on until they got on the elevator, where Liza turned to give him a look. But Michael astonished her by putting a finger to her lips, cutting off any questions.

After a little pressing, Kevin started telling a few stories about his equestrian experiences while they followed some back passageways and finally emerged from the building.

Liza’s nose wrinkled as a slight gust of wind brought a distinct whiff of the stables.

“All right,” she burst out, “what’s the big idea of dragging us back here? These are good shoes, and I don’t want to go stepping in any—”

“You remember the first time Buck Foreman came to Mrs. Halvorsen’s house?” Michael interrupted, his voice mild.

“He was very impressive with all that machinery,” Mrs. H. said. “And then he found that funny box.”

Michael nodded. “The one that could pick up any conversations and transmit them about fifty feet away.”

“Mr. Foreman put it on the floor and squashed it like a bug,” Mrs. H. recalled.

Michael nodded again. “So it’s a funny thing. When I got your hat, I noticed a box just like that stashed under your suite’s couch.”

Liza stared at Michael’s face, trying to see if he was joking. He looked dead serious. “Are you sure about this?” she asked.

Michael shrugged. “As sure as I can be on a quick look. I didn’t want to handle it, and I figured we’d be better off getting out of range before we started discussing it.”

That made sense to Liza. If someone were spying on them, she could see several advantages in not advertising their knowledge to the eavesdropper.

Kevin burst out in anger. “Who the hell would be doing a thing like that?”

“I think we can narrow down the list a bit,” Liza answered him. “We need someone with a background in investigation, a willingness to get their hands dirty, a driving need to get to the bottom of what’s going on here, easy access to guests’ rooms—oh, yes, and a desire to make me suspect number one.”

“Oliver Roche,” Mrs. Halvorsen said. “I told you that man was crazy.”

“And maybe a very specialized kind of crazy, at that.” Michael frowned. “Has anybody ever heard of a condition called Munchausen’s Syndrome?”

“Is that what happens when you smoke a little dope and then eat everything in the house?” Kevin asked a bit facetiously.

That earned him a look from Michael. “That’s the munchies.” He coughed, glancing at Mrs. H. “Or so I was told back in my younger days.”

“I seem to remember a Baron von Münchhausen. He told a bunch of tall tales with himself as the hero.”

Michael nodded. “Being a hero is at the root of Munchau sen’s Syndrome. People will go to dangerous lengths to make that dream come true. Volunteer firefighters will commit arson so they can heroically battle the blaze. Health care professionals will give patients an improper dose or the wrong meds so they can ‘save’ them.” He raised his fingers to put little quote marks around the word “save.”

“Poison them, you mean?” Mrs. Halvorsen burst out in amazement.

“You think Roche is doing something like that?” Kevin asked.

“That ties in with something Fergus Fleming told me when I talked with him,” Liza said slowly. “Roche researched all of the invitees for the tournament. And he was the first responder when both Quirk and Scottie began showing symptoms.”

“But if he wanted to be a hero . . .” Mrs. H. shook her head. “They both died.”

Liza shrugged. “One of the things we keep wondering about is whether whoever is behind all this actually wanted the victims to die.”

Kevin mutinously shook his head. “But when we said that, we were trying to tie in the sabotage to the tournament. That would have nothing to do with Roche wanting to be a hero.”

“Maybe it’s two different agendas, two different people,” Michael said. “One tries to sabotage the tournament—”

“Or Will Singleton,” Liza put in.

“The other poisons guests at the resort, hoping to save them—preferably in front of TV cameras.”

Liza pursed her lips as if she’d just encountered a bad taste. “Or maybe he poisoned one guest, hoping to save him—and poisoned the other to cover himself.”

Her friends all stared at her. “What?”

“When one person dies, you look into the motive, opportunity, and means of—well, let’s call it a rational murder,” Liza tried to explain. “When two people die, it starts to look like the work of a serial killer—some kind of nut. That leads to a whole different range of motives to distract the police. And in the meantime, Roche is beating his brains out, trying to hand the cops a perpetrator.”

“Which in a way could be yet another facet of Munchau sen’s Syndrome,” Michael said.

Liza looked at her watch. “The afternoon puzzle session is supposed to be at two-thirty. That leaves me a little time to rest and get ready. Why don’t you guys take off until after the next round? Mrs. H. and I will take a look at this magic box.”

“Which might just well turn out to be some sort of pest control device.” From the glance Kevin shot at Michael, he seemed a little disappointed that the hypothetical device hadn’t worked.

“Could be,” Liza said. “If not, let’s think of ways we might be able to use it.”

When Liza and Mrs. Halvorsen returned to the suite, the older woman looked very self-conscious, engaging in a stream of nervous small talk while Liza peered under the couch at the box Michael had found. It did indeed look like one of the bugs Buck Foreman had detected and destroyed. Liza had to repress an urge to do the same.

Roche doesn’t know that we stumbled upon one of his magic ears,
she thought.
Wouldn’t it be nice to work it into some sort of scheme for a little payback?