Killer Sudoku (4 page)

Or having people springing idiot surprises on me,
she could have added but didn’t.

They didn’t have time for any more conversation. Gemma Vereker swept up to them both, placing an empty champagne flute on Kevin’s tray while picking up a replacement.

“I’m really sorry to drop out of the sky on you like this,” Gemma apologized to Liza. “When I decided to come out here, I did try to talk to you about it, but apparently you aren’t in the office much. And Michelle did say it was okay.”

They exchanged a look over that, sharing the unspoken Hollywood knowledge—anything Michelle Markson says, goes.

“I hope you didn’t mind that bit of theater from Will Singleton,” Liza replied.

Gemma laughed. “He seems a nice enough man, and as theater goes, it was fairly benign. Lord knows, I’ve added a bit of star power to much loonier causes.”

“Liza, dear.” Babs Basset deftly shouldered her way past Kevin like a linebacker while still looking perfectly ladylike. It appeared she had gifts Liza had never suspected. “Would you mind introducing us?”

Glancing around, Liza saw that all her sudoku rivals were bearing down on Gemma, to the accompaniment of camera flashes and several advancing video cameras.

Liza hoped her smile didn’t look as cynical as she felt. This had nothing to do with sudoku solidarity or even celebrity per se. What Babs and the others were angling for was a photo opportunity. Planting themselves beside a famous face enhanced their chances of appearing on a news-cast or in a newspaper photo.

It meant less to Liza. Her job had left her with a huge collection of photos of herself accompanying the famous, the infamous, and everything in between.

Michelle’s array of “star-effer pictures,” as she called them, was even larger. She always threatened to use them to decorate the office powder rooms and bring some of the clients down to earth.

Again, Gemma played her role flawlessly, greeting her prospective opponents as if they were old friends. She even patted Roy Conklin on the cheek. “With a face like that, you could have made a fortune as a child star,” Gemma said.

Roy turned bright red and began stammering a response. Gemma leaned toward him. “That’s not necessarily a good thing, though. You don’t want to be treated like a kid forever.”

For just a second, Gemma’s face hardened in a sharp frown. Then, just as quickly it was gone as the star ban tered with Roy about his academic career. “Sounds a lot more grown-up than my career in make-believe.”

Liza’s antennas were out and quivering, though. Even a momentary lapse like that from a star was reason for a publicist’s concern. She remembered a publicity disaster from way before she even thought of getting into the business.

A seventeen-year-old Gemma Vereker (or Gem Verrick, as she was known then) wanted more time off to prepare for her college boards. Her parents, who were managing her career, wanted her to stick with
Malibu High
for as long as the show stayed on the air. Some of the longer-running characters were in their midtwenties.

This artistic disagreement wound up in a very public court case as Gemma had herself declared an emancipated minor—and discovered that her folks had turned all her earnings into a fancy house, fancy cars, fancy clothes, and a fancy lifestyle for themselves. They literally didn’t have enough money left in the bank, despite the millions she’d earned, to pay for her college education.

Gemma often talked about how a couple of small movie parts and a waitressing career had gotten her through college. But Liza had noticed her client never, ever mentioned her parents.

A curious crowd continued to swirl around them even as the sudoku contingent left. Gemma had some practical questions to ask about the tournament. Then Liza caught someone saying, “ ’Scuse me. Pardon me,” and turned to see another familiar figure making his way through the onlookers.

Liza’s eyebrows rose.
Speak of the devil. I think of Gemma’s old managers, and here comes her present one.

Michelle Markson didn’t have a good word to say about most of her clients’ business managers. It was just that Artie Kahn was an especially juicy target. For one thing, he looked like a stereotype—medium height, a shade past medium weight, a bit of a nebbish except for his clunky square glasses and the world’s worst hairpiece. The toupee had to be expensive; it perfectly matched what remained of Artie’s graying mouse-colored hair. But Artie’s toupee made that construction on top of Donald Trump’s head look not only natural, but attractive.

If anything, Artie looked a little worse for wear today. His Zegna suit was rumpled from sitting in Friday traffic from Century City to Newport Beach. Even his hairpiece seemed slightly askew.

He edged up to Gemma. “Darling, I didn’t even know you were in town until I got that call about the helicopter. Welcome back from New York.”

The way he leaned forward made him almost look fawning. Gemma, however, stepped aside. “If you found out I’m here, no doubt you know I’m staying for the tournament. Just for this weekend, I’m going to enjoy myself. We can discuss business on Monday.”

Artie took that for the dismissal it was. “Sure, Gemma, sure,” he said, backing away.

Liza watched him leave.
I never knew that Gemma shared Michelle’s take on Artie.

Before Artie was out the door, Fergus Fleming arrived at Gemma’s side, shaking hands and introducing himself. Yes, photo flashes went off in the background, but Liza saw something of Kevin in the big Scotsman—he was being every inch the hotelier.

Gemma took his arm. “I was quite pleased to see that there were no plants in my room. I know luxe places like this like to decorate with them. For me, though, the perfume or whatever just closes up my nose and throat. I wouldn’t have a voice out here.”

She smiled. “What really impressed me is that you did this for Tanya Brand, a made-up name from an old TV show, and not for Gemma Vereker the celebrity.”

The two were so busy beaming at each other that they never noticed Babs Basset passing behind, giving them a poisonous glare. Oddly, Liza realized, the real venom seemed directed toward Fergus.

Did Fergus of Scotland and Babs of the Sonoma Beach Bassets have some history?

Charley Ormond would be delighted—another subplot for her reality TV show.

 

 

A couple of hours later, Liza headed for the Skye Room, Rancho Pacificano’s main ballroom. She’d spent part of that time acting as referee when Michael arrived to find Kevin ensconced at the resort. Liza also managed to fit in a light meal—sudoku solving was not improved by doing it to empty-belly music. Being overfull and having to go to the john was not a good idea, either.

Everything in moderation,
Liza told herself as she joined the knot of people outside the main entrance. Charley Ormond’s people had set up two tall folding chairs for the makeup department in a side corridor. Liza submitted to having a bib tied around her neck and a quick brushing across her face. “We don’t have to go crazy,” the makeup person told her. “They won’t really be making any close-ups.”

“Right,” Liza said. “This is just to soak up the sweat.”

The makeup brush froze in midair. “I thought this was just doing puzzles.”

“They didn’t tell you about the push-ups in between?” Liza took pity on the young woman’s worried confusion. “Sorry, just joking. That’s how my nerves show up.”

“Better that than sweating.” The girl removed the bib. “You’re done.”

Liza got out of the chair while a deeply suspicious Ian Quirk climbed in.

“Sure you’re not going to find this a distraction?” Liza asked.

He gave her an icy glare. “When I concentrate, everything—
everything
recedes into the background.”

“Then why raise so much hell at those other tournaments?”

Quirk gave her a twitch of a smile. “To psyche out the other players—like you.”

She turned to one of the production assistants. “Where do I go next?”

The PA nodded to a man standing by the door with a clipboard. “The security manager, Mr. Roche, took care of seating the other contestants. Each of you has a reserved seat at the edge of the room, beside the gallery.”

Liza glanced over with a half-smile. The guy stood at attention, a clipboard in his hands, just like the hall monitors used to do in grammar school. The smile faded, though, as she came closer. It wasn’t just Roche’s stance that was rigid. His tall, lean figure seemed to have been constructed during a skin shortage. A freckled, bald dome stretched over buzz-cut white bristles as if Roche had grown right through his hair. His face had all the mobility of a clenched fist.

The clipboard shot up as she approached. “You are?” Roche asked.

“Liza Kelly.”

The security man gave a brief nod. “You’ll be third to enter. We’re doing it alphabetically.”

Which, oddly enough, allows Babs Basset to come in first—and Gemma Vereker to be the grand finale entrance,
Liza thought.

“Mr. Singleton will announce you, and I’ll escort you to your seat.”

Liza just hoped he wasn’t going to clamp a hand on her arm. How long would it take her writing hand to recover from having its blood supply cut off?

The entrance went smoothly enough. Babs went in like a queen nodding to her subjects. Roy Conklin looked horrified at being in the spotlight. Liza got to her seat without falling on her face. She quickly spotted her own little entourage. Mrs. H.’s silly hat wobbled as if it were about to go aloft thanks to her vigorous clapping. At least neither Michael nor Kevin started hooting or making animal noises.

Somebody had been clever in relation to the name of the ballroom. The ceiling two stories above had been painted into a good trompe l’oeil rendition of the sky—but not the typical Technicolor overhead display of California. The background blue had a slightly steely cast, and the clouds were a bit grayer, edged with a rosy glow as if sunlight had managed to pass through. It reminded Liza of some days up in Oregon—or she guessed, in Scotland.

Down on the ground level, the room was set out with row after row of tables. Even with the seats set well apart, there had to be room for more than three hundred people. It might have been a big dinner, except that instead of place settings, each participant had a pair of pencils and pens, a scratch pad, and . . . Liza had to smile as she settled into her seat.
So goody bags have made their way from the Oscars and the Sundance Festival to the West Coast Sudoku Summit,
she thought.

She would have liked to check it out, but she heard the sharp sound of a chair scraping on the floor and turned to see Ian Quirk taking his place at the table behind her.

He glanced up, not so much interested in the painted sky as the camera crew established on the balcony above them. “Two for the price of one,” he sneered. “How frugal.”

Liza didn’t get a chance to respond. Almost immediately, Will Singleton began running over the rules. The stuff on the tables represented all the aid the contestants could expect—no mechanical help, cell phones, or other paraphernalia allowed. This first puzzle represented an elimination round—Will was quite up front, warning that he expected the majority of people in the room would not finish by the time limit. Those who did finish in time would be ranked and participate in four more rounds—a morning and afternoon puzzle both on Saturday and Sunday. The person with the highest overall ranking would win the prize.

Staffers began passing out sealed envelopes while Will whipped the cover off the large, remarkably ugly digital timer that apparently accompanied him to every tournament. The timer’s display already blinked at 45.

“This represents your time limit,” Will said. “Please open your puzzle envelopes . . . now.”

Liza opened the envelope and scowled at the puzzle revealed within.

As she scanned the sparse array of numbers, she quickly saw that the first two of her Twelve Steps to Sudoku Mastery weren’t going to work—there were no hidden singles or naked singles to be found.

Will wasn’t kidding,
she thought.
That usually means a pretty tough puzzle.

Grimly, she picked up a pencil and began listing the candidates, the possible answers for each space. Some squares got quite crowded. Those empty rows and columns meant that some spaces had six or even seven possibilities. Still, she kept at work until the full picture emerged.

Then Liza started scanning the subgrids across the top of the puzzle. The top right-hand box had a 2 in Row 2. That eliminated 2s in that grid and along the second row. The upper-left-hand box had 2s listed among the possibilities in both Row 1 and Row 3. The top center box had 2s only in Row 1. That meant that Row 3 was the only valid place to look for 2s in the upper-left-hand subgrid. Also, it meant that Liza could eliminate the 2s in the spaces in the first row of the box.

Three down, two hundred and some to go, she told herself. Scanning onward, she saw that the top three spaces on the second column were the only ones that held 6s. That eliminated three more 6s in Column 1 of the upper-left-hand subgrid.