Celebrity Sudoku (18 page)

“I’ll do the numbers, since I’ve got the puzzles already,” he replied. “What do you think? Clues first, or answers?”

“Clues,” Liza decided. “Since they’re messed up, that suggests they’re where the message is.”

Michael nodded. “Content forcing the puzzle to change. Okay. Here’s one with a mistake.” He peered at the puzzle for a moment, then said, “One, seven, four.”

Liza opened the binder. “The first page is a letter. Do I count the letterhead and the address as separate lines?”

“Try it that way,” Michael suggested. “What do you get as the seventh line?”

“It’s the first paragraph.” Liza read aloud:

“‘I’m delighted over your agreement to participate in the
D-Kodas
annual celebrity competition. The information in this packet should bring you up to speed.’ ”

She frowned. “The seventh line is the one beginning ‘the
D-Kodas
.’ So the fourth word is . . . ‘should’? ”

“Except for the opening of ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ I’ve never heard a sentence begin with ‘should,’ ” Michael said. “Maybe it’s the seventh line in the body of the letter?”

“That’s the end—it’s a pretty short letter,” Liza told him. She counted down and read, “ ‘. . . you have any questions.’ That’s the fourth word—‘questions.’ ”

“Not a promising start,” Michael said dubiously. “Let’s try the next one.”

They gave up on the direct approach when they got “questions executive Goodman.”

“The Goodman referred to there is a quiz-show producer who died years ago,” Michael said. “Are there any other Goodmans involved in
D-Kodas
?”

Liza ran down the list of producers, on-screen talent, and crew. “Not a Goodman in the place.”

“I guess we can ask Sam Pang if she knows somebody named Goodman.” Michael did not sound particularly confident.

“Apparently, an executive named Goodman, who should be questioned, or has questions . . . or maybe we’re not doing this right.”

They tried starting from the other end of the puzzle, then reversing the order of the clues—word, line, page. They even switched to another puzzle. But all they got were nonsensical collections of words.

“I sort of like ‘love her globes,’” Michael said.

Liza gave him a look. “You would. The problem is, it doesn’t sound like much of a message, much less blackmail that someone would kill over.”

“We’re missing something,” Michael agreed. “Maybe it’s every third clue, or only even numbers, or—”

“Since we don’t have the key, we’ll never figure it out,” Liza said gloomily. “Especially since the key may have died with Ritz.”

She shook her head. “Maybe these are just what they are—sloppy puzzles. Why would Ritz send a message without the code?”

“Ritz may look foxy,” Michael began, only to stop at another look from Liza. “No, not sexy, but literally like a fox with those sharp features.”

“Uh-huh,” Liza said with a dangerous amount of disbelief.

“What I’m saying is that Ritz looked like a fox—but she acted more like a cat. You know how they like to play with their food.”

Now Liza was completely lost. “Come again?”

“I forget you never had a cat.”

“Dad was a dog person,” Liza said.

“Well, my mom had a cat. She’d corner a mouse, let it almost escape, then pounce on it again.”

“The cat or your mom?” Liza couldn’t help asking.

That earned her a look from Michael. “Turning the subject back to Ritz, I’m not sure if she had a personality flaw for messing with people, or if it might have been her idea of psychological warfare—softening up a blackmail victim or wearing her down.”

He leaned forward, making his case. “Chard and Forty Oz. both were pretty close to her—Ritz had probably done something like this to them in the past. Neither Samantha Pang nor Lolly had spent much time with Ritz. Maybe the messages—if that’s what they were—were supposed to confuse them and freak them out a little. Then, when the time was right, they’d get the code key—and maybe be more freaked-out.”

He rested back against the pillows. “If I were writing her as a character, based on observation, I could see her developing that way.”

“Meaning exactly what?” Liza said.

Michael shrugged. “In the limited time I spent with her, Ritz acted like a snotty little witch, but with a real talent for poking hard at people’s sore spots.”

Liza nodded. “Lolly’s ethnic and personal background, Sam Pang’s whole wallflower thing—”

“And my position on the Hollywood totem pole,” Michael finished for her. “As for the big blowup you described, Darrie Brunswick has to be aware that the things she wears on the show have become part of the American jokebook. You can’t call those costumes designer creations.”

“More like designer debacles,” Liza said.

“I mean, would you see yourself going into a store and saying, ‘I want something like the gown Darrie Brunswick was wearing last Thursday’?”

“Not if I were sober and of sound mind,” Liza replied with a laugh. Then she got quiet.

“Liza, please tell me you’re not thinking of a Darrie Brunswick outfit you actually liked,” Michael nervously tried to joke.

She shook her head. “I’m thinking that we ignored two more suspects. The last time I saw Darrie, she was screaming at Ritz.” All traces of levity deserted Liza’s expression. “And, of course, there’s Wish.”

Michael took her hand. “It’s no fun, suspecting a friend.”

“Or a friend’s daughter,” Liza agreed heavily. “But we have to ask.”

She went to the phone and punched in Wish Dudek’s number. A teenaged voice answered, getting a little more circumspect when she discovered an unknown caller.

“Could you tell your dad it’s Liza Kelly? I’m a friend of his.”

“Oh, yeah, you were supposed to be on the show.” The young girl excused herself.

After a few seconds of dead air, Wish came on. “Liza? What’s up? Did you get tired of the room service in Westwood?”

“I was thinking maybe we should have lunch,” Liza said.

“Sure. Tomorrow good for you? I’m always happy to have a meal with a beautiful woman.” He paused for a beat, then said, “Not the smartest thing to say for a guy who already has one divorce on his record.”

But Liza heard laughter in the background. “Sounds as if you got off the hook, Romeo.”

Wish added some laughter of his own. “The machinery is still rumbling on the Celebrity Week front, but I can ask some questions in the morning,” he said. “Maybe I can get you an early report.”

“That would be great,” Liza said.

He’s putting himself out for me,
she thought.
No need to rain on the parade this early.
Aloud, she added, “Can we make it a reservation for three? I can’t drive with this knee, so I’m depending on Michael. It would only be fair to include him—”

“And, I suppose, having your husband along will silence some of the wagging gossip tongues in this town.” Wish laughed again.

They set the time and place—one thirty in a quiet place in the Valley.

Pretty well off the beaten path for autograph seekers and paparazzi,
Liza thought.

A little more convivial back-and-forth, and then she hung up.

“How nice of you to you ensure my cooperation,” Michael teased from his spot on the sofa.

“Oh, it was the least I could do,” Liza kidded back.

“Probably the
very
least.” He drew himself up with a mock-severe look on his face.

“What? Are you jealous?”

Michael opened his mouth—and then closed it, slumping a little in the seat and shutting down his whole playful air.

“I guess I am,” he said quietly, sounding a little surprised at himself.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a while, until Michael finally asked, “Do you want to watch some TV?”

“Yeah—yeah, that sounds good.”

Liza winced.
Not too quick on the agreement,
she scolded herself.

Michael picked up the remote and turned on the set. After twenty seconds of channel surfing, he stopped clicking. “
The Lowdown
is coming on. Wanna watch?”

“Why not?” Liza replied. “We can watch them root around in someone else’s dirty laundry.”

The show started with the usual montage of celebrity shots, paparazzi, and, of course, Don Lowe’s walking shot, followed by his acolytes. Usually, it switched to the bullpen, Lowe up front with a whiteboard, his paparazzi spread among the desks, pitching stories.

This time, however, the opening showed a close-up of Ritz Tarleton’s face with Lowe doing a voice-over.

“All of Los Angeles felt the earthquake mere days ago. Thousands were injured, several killed. But Hollywood is haunted by the murder of Ritz Tarleton.”

Then, all of a sudden, a close-up of Liza appeared on the screen as Lowe went on. “But now, someone else is haunting Hollywood—Liza Kelly, a puzzle expert who does a big side business in crime solving . . . especially murder.”

Then Lowe went on to outline Liza’s theory about the crime, adding, “After alienating everyone on the set of the game show, what did Ritz Tarleton hope to achieve—and how did it get her killed?”

The show went to commercial, but Liza kept staring at the screen until Michael physically turned her head to look at him.

“Liza, say something,” he told her, “even if it’s cursing and swearing. ’Cause otherwise, I’m afraid your head’s about to explode.”

The next morning, Liza still had a splitting headache as she paced up and down in the reception area of Michelle Markson’s office. Well, at least she attempted to pace—it wasn’t easy to accomplish with a walker.

It hadn’t helped that it had been a morning—and evening—for screaming. Hal Quigley had called her before the end of the next segment on
The Lowdown.

Liza was just as glad the cop was on the phone. She figured he’d look pretty ugly, what with all the froth coming out of his mouth.

Quigley had threatened arrest, interrogation, and possibly incarceration on Devil’s Island. Liza had argued that yet again she hadn’t hindered the police investigation; she’d been looking in places where Quigley hadn’t. Had he known about the connection between Ritz Tarleton and Chick Benson? That had led her to talk with Don Lowe. If Quigley had a problem, he should take it up with the boss of
The Lowdown
.

No sooner had she gotten rid of Quigley than the phone rang again—this time with an aggravated Ava Barnes.

Ava didn’t mince words. “If you have theories to share with a media outlet, maybe it should be the newspaper that pays you rather than some syndicated gossip show.”

But when they went over the story, there was a great deal of hypothesis and very little in the way of fact. It came down to two news items: that Ritz was involved with Chick Benson and that she was working for Don Lowe.

“Which Lowe confirmed for you, but off the record, so we can’t use it,” Ava said grimly.

“Yeah. I noticed he didn’t use it in his own broadcast.”

“Why would he give away the existence of his secret weapon to people who’d only use it as an excuse to sue him?” Ava asked.

“On the other hand,” she went on, “when you talked to Lowe, you didn’t put it off the record.”

“I was asking him questions,” Liza protested.

Ava repressed a sigh—almost. “You didn’t think he might turn them around and use them as statements?”

“Um—no.” Now Liza was glad she hadn’t bolstered her theory by actually quoting the people who’d been blackmailed. Doubtless, Lowe would happily have thrown them into the gossip barbecue pit.
I can’t tell Ava, either,
she realized.
I promised Forty Oz. and Sam Pang I would keep their blackmail secret.

“Which leaves the romantic connection between Ritz Tarleton and this paparazzo,” Ava said.

“C’mon, Ava, that’s a story more suited to the
National Interloper
than the
Oregon Daily
.”

“Most days, I wish we had the
Interloper
’s circulation,” Ava responded gloomily as they concluded their conversation.

 

 

Okay, that had involved embarrassment more than screaming. When the summons to Michelle’s office had arrived the next morning, Liza wasn’t sure what to expect.

Not even Ysabel could offer an inkling of what Michelle had in mind.

“She did put in a call to Buck Foreman.” The receptionist tried to put a joking spin on the news. “I’m not sure if he’s supposed to add moral support or help her dispose of any bodies.”

In fact, Buck had already been closeted with Michelle when Liza and Michael arrived.

At least they faced no yelling when they went down the hallway. A guy as big as Buck didn’t need to, and Michelle was famous for maintaining a quiet, almost conversational tone as she tore strips off people.

They entered to find Buck in his usual place on the office couch and Michelle behind her desk. “It seems,” she said as Liza maneuvered her walker through the door, “that since you left this office you’ve gotten a bit fuzzy on what we do here. We’re supposed to manage and control news coverage, not broadcast it willy-nilly.”

Liza gripped the handles on her walker. This might be one of the rare occasions when Michelle really exploded.

Her partner took a deep breath, then released it in a rush. “And we especially don’t do that with media upstarts like Don Lowe.”

Another deep breath, and then Michelle asked, “How did it happen?”

Liza reported her conversation with Lowe, not bothering to sit down.

If you’re going to be called on the carpet, you might as well stand,
she told herself.

At the end of the recital, Michelle sat silent for a moment. “So, because you failed to mention three little words—well, I suppose ‘off the record’ is two little words and a medium-sized one—Lowe was able to trumpet your entire discussion all over the country. I hope this is a lesson to you.”