Killer Sudoku (16 page)

After she got Mrs. H.’s promise to back up her alarm clock, Liza lay down for a little bit, trying to get some rest and clear her mind before tackling the next leg of the competition. She didn’t know what sort of surprises Will Singleton might have in store. All she knew was that the contestants would have less time to deal with them.

Liza got up, showered, and put on a new outfit. Out in the sitting room, Mrs. Halvorsen perched on an armchair with her book, whistling, tapping her fingers, and apparently turning pages at random.

“I’ve decided to stay in the room this afternoon, dear,” she said the moment Liza came in. “As soon as you go, I’m putting the bolt on the door and reading out on the balcony. Or maybe I’ll go into my room, lock the door there, and take a nap.”

Liza grimaced at the way her friend was talking to the surveillance mike. At least she wasn’t down on her knees in front of the couch, hollering into the damned thing.

“That all sounds very restful, Mrs. H.” Liza smiled at her friend. “I guess I’ll see you a bit later.”

She made it to the improvised makeup station with plenty of time to spare. Was it her imagination, or was the makeup artist putting a bit more care into brushing on her powder and eyeliner? Liza hadn’t really thought about it, but she’d managed to put herself into definite contention for the tournament prize.

Liza enjoyed that brief excitement, having it tempered soon enough as Babs Basset got into the next chair. “Well,” she said with a breathy sort of sigh, “I had quite a nice game of tennis. The courts aren’t bad, and the pro was a nice enough fellow. I do so believe in using the amenities wherever I go.”

Even if they’re managed by an ex-husband who gives you hives,
Liza thought.

Babs just kept burbling on. “I get in some sun and a swim every day, too.”

While I seem barely able to manage getting in my meals and some sleep.
Liza grumpily made her way to the Hebrides Room. But then, Babs wasn’t trying to figure out who was making all the trouble. She just wanted to make hay from it.

Liza halted in the corridor, suddenly recalling Michael’s comment about different agendas.

Just as quickly, she pushed the thought away. This wasn’t the time for distraction, she told herself. This was time for sudoku.

Once again, Will sat ensconced in the front of the room with that dreadful timer. This time, Doc Dunphy wasn’t in the ever-shrinking gathering. But when Liza glanced around, she saw Babs Basset taking a seat behind her.

Liza wondered if she’d have to worry about spitballs if it looked as if she were pulling ahead.

Will launched into his well-practiced spiel about the rules, emphasizing that for this round, contestants only had thirty-five minutes to complete their puzzles. Assistants distributed the sealed envelopes, Will counted down the seconds on his watch, he started the timer—and they were off.

Liza had done several pieces in her column about rating sudoku. Now she wished she could interview Will about his rating methods—specifically for this puzzle. It seemed to teeter on the brink of requiring the upper orders of technique, where the would-be solver had to create chains of logic that threatened to cross over the border into the forbidden zone of guesswork.

The question of whether she’d have to go beyond the swordfish managed to occupy enough of Liza’s mind that she barely noticed the camera crews. They only crept back into her consciousness as she rushed into the home stretch, her pencil slashing across the puzzle to eliminate the final candidates with simpler techniques. Then, once again, she became aware of almost silent scuffling movements as the crew kept cutting back and forth between herself and Babs.

Somewhere, Charley Ormond sat in front of a bank of monitors, trying to create drama, suspense—at least for the viewers if not the contestants.

Liza had to bite her lip, fighting the urge to thrust her face at the intrusive lens and snap, “It’s sudoku, for god’s sake, not a sword fight.”

But she didn’t need the phony tension or the exasperation jogging her mental elbow as she checked over her solution. Haste and anxiety could make a person overlook obvious mistakes.

She finished her inspection, went over the puzzle one more time, and then raised her hand.

Liza couldn’t be sure, but she thought she heard Babs actually gnashing her teeth in the background.

Liza got halfway down the corridor toward the waiting area when she remembered her last thought in this hallway—Michael’s comment about two agendas. Maybe the notion had planted itself in her subconscious while she wrestled with Will’s sudoku. But now the idea leapt fully formed into the front of her mind as she greeted her friends.

“I’ve had an idea on how to turn those bugs to our own use,” she told them in an undertone.

“And how exactly do you intend to do that?” Michael had enough experience with Liza’s plans to be worried.

“I’ll give the bugmeister a time and place to eavesdrop on a conversation between myself and Babs Basset,” Liza replied. “In the course of that, I’ll accuse her of sabotaging the tournament.”

She nodded at Michael. “Remember what you said? Two agendas?”

Now Kevin began to look concerned. “And what if she’s following one agenda and tries to kill you like Quirk and Terhune?”

“I’m not allergic enough to anything for that to happen.” But on second thought, Liza had to admit that he might have a valid point. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to have two strong men in hiding somewhere nearby.”

Grinning, Kevin slapped his lean but muscular chest. “Well, we’ve got one, but where will we find another?”

“I believe she meant me,” Michael gritted out.

Liza left them to their wrangling as she cast an eye over the sudoku fans. She quickly spotted Oliver Roche’s shaved head. Even though he tried to place himself inconspicuously against a wall, his height put that shining beacon of a noggin above the crowd.

Okay. He wasn’t all that far from the end of the hallway where the contestants entered. As long as Babs came for her usual shot of ego-boosting applause . . .

Liza headed for the threshold, and at the same time Babs Basset appeared, offering a professional smile and wave to her supporters. Moving to intercept the other woman before she could cross the anteroom, Liza caught her by the arm and steered her toward the nearby wall—and Oliver Roche.

“Babs,” Liza said, trying to put a bit of menace into her tone, “I think the time has come for us to have a talk. A serious, private talk.”

Babs looked a little surprised, and then she shrugged. “The rooftop pool is pretty empty at this time of day,” she said. “That’s why I like to go there for a swim and to work on my tan.”

She glanced at Liza’s hand gripping her arm. “They also have a hot water spa so you can relax some of those tense muscles. Shall we say half an hour?”

Babs swept on, and Liza headed back to her friends. Michael bent his head to speak softly. “Whatever you said, Roche just about had his ears flapping. He’s hurried off already.”

“I guess you’ll have to give him a few minutes to bug the place, but then go check out the rooftop pool for somewhere you and Kevin can take cover.” Liza sighed. “Meanwhile, I’ll have to decide on buying a new swimsuit, or wearing the one I brought with me.”

Rancho Pacificano boasted a small boutique selling resort outfits. She’d passed the sales display coming and going in the lobby and hadn’t been impressed by the swimwear flaunted on a tanned and apparently anatomically correct mannequin. Checking out the sales stock didn’t improve her first impression. All they had were a few brightly colored bits of material for placement in strategic areas. And apparently they were charging the same price per ounce as the local gold exchange.

Scowling, Liza went back upstairs. The suit she’d brought was meant for swimming, not parading around in.

The VIP pool occupied the top of the resort’s main building, raised far above prying eyes. Through the decorative waist-high fence, Liza could see the waters of Newport Bay down and in the distance. She spotted no suspicious little boxes, and no one else up here except for Babs doing laps in the pool. Her golden hair was darkened and sleeked back by the water, making the woman’s features seem sharper, almost predatory, as she looked up at Liza.

“I began to think you weren’t coming,” Babs said, swimming to a set of steps and emerging from the water.

Liza managed not to gawk like a hick at what the other woman wore—a collection of straps and scraps that would barely offer enough material to make a slingshot.

Babs might be petite and slim, but every bit was “cherce,” as the line in the old movie went. And she obviously worked to enhance it.

Maybe she’s on the lookout for hubby number four, and needs to keep the goods on display,
Liza thought. In her sedate black one-piece, she might as well have the word “frump” beaded across her chest in brilliant zircons.

Picking up a huge, sumptuous-looking towel, Babs dried her hair, then threw the towel over her shoulders like a queen’s stole. “Always refreshing. A nice swim, a sudoku puzzle, and a dependable pen—you never know when you’ll need a little ink.”

Babs bared her teeth in a predatory smile.

Who’s baiting who?
Liza wondered.

“Do try the spa,” Babs said blandly. “I think it will do you a world of good.”

Liza shot a suspicious glance at the bubbling water—what was it going to do? Dissolve her? Then she glanced around for any long-poled implements that might be used to push—and keep—her under.

Nothing.

She stepped into the spa, sighing. It was even warmer than the afternoon sun on her back. Almost against her will, her muscles loosened a little as the streams of bubbles tingled against her skin.

Liza looked up, but Babs didn’t seem about to launch a sneak attack. She spread her towel on a nearby chaise and bent to retrieve a plastic bottle of suntan lotion, offering quite a view to a nonexistent audience as she did so.

“I have this made up for my exact skin tone,” the woman explained, rubbing the oil onto all that exposed skin. “It—”

She broke off to wave away a bug of the flying variety—a bee, Liza realized.

Instead of buzzing off, the insect made straight for her palm.

Babs opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. She staggered back a little, cradling her stung hand in the other.

Liza heard more high-pitched humming—the agitated buzzing of more bees.

Above her near-naked body, Babs’s face showed naked fear as she backed away from her winged assailants. But two and then two more came on like tiny dive-bombers, going for her arms, her stomach.

Liza heaved herself out of the spa as Babs reached the railing.

“Ge’ ’em ’way!” Babs cried in a curiously choked voice. At the same moment, another bee arrowed in on a stinging run. Babs flinched back, hitting the fence at waist level, overbalancing.

Her arms went up, her legs went up . . .

And then she went over.

Liza’s wet feet skittered along the concrete lip around the pool as she dashed for the low fence. She bent over, then straightened up quickly as she saw a tanned form sprawled on the rocks rising out of the bay.

“This wasn’t what I planned,” she muttered, closing her eyes.

Bad move. A second later, she heard a high, angry whine—and then a stabbing pain in her lower right eyelid.

Liza jumped back, yelling in agony. She cupped a hand over her wounded eye.
At least it didn’t send me over the edge,
she thought.

The sound of running footsteps brought her around. Kevin and Michael dashed up, shouting, “What happened? Are you all right?”

“I’m stung,” Liza told them, “and I think Babs is dead.”

They halted at the fence, staring down. “Not good,” Michael muttered.

Kevin gently peeled her cupped hand away. “Where is the sting?”

“Oh, man.” Michael peered forward. “Right in the eyelid.”

He reached forward until Kevin slapped his hand away. “Hey! The stinger’s still in there. I was going to get it out—”

“And if you do it with your fingers, you’ll end up squeezing more poison in,” Kevin interrupted, digging in his back pocket for his wallet. He pulled out a credit card.

“What are you going to do, pay a doctor?” Michael asked.

“No, I’m going to do something useful.” Kevin gently scraped the card beneath Liza’s eye. “There. It’s out now.”

Liza felt glad for that, but she still hurt.

“I think we should get you out of here.” Michael suddenly recoiled. “Yikes—more bees over here.”

Liza’s eye with the stung lid had gone teary and blurry. She shut it and peered around with her good one, spotting several bees. Even as she looked, one went into a dive-bombing run, swooping down to sting—a magazine?

She looked more carefully. This was no shiny magazine, it was a sudoku puzzle book soaked with Babs Basset’s suntan oil. She’d dropped her bottle, leaving a puddle of oil that had lapped over to the book.

Squinting, Liza saw that it was a pretty simple puzzle. If Babs had started a solution, the oil had dissolved whatever she’d jotted in.

But why did the bees hate it? Another bee made a stinging attack on the blank space.

“Something weird is going on here,” she told the guys. “Grab a towel and cover that up. And then I suppose we should call—”

Liza heard distant sirens coming toward them even as she finished her sentence with “the cops.”

They made their way to the other side of the roof to see a small flotilla of police vehicles—unmarked cars as well as patrol units—racing down the drive to the main resort building. In moments, Pete Janacek; his tall, skinny colleague; and several uniformed officers came hustling onto the roof.

Behind them came Oliver Roche, waving a tape recorder and yelling, “It’s murder, Pete. There she is, and I’ve got proof that she did it.”