Lie Catchers (2 page)

“Everett Olson was Barber’s friend.”

“So you’ll take a hard look at Tilly, too. And Susanna.”

When Parker glanced down to think over his answer, the lacey decoration on her leggings caught his attention. Liv Hanson might dress stylishly but she also had a quick mind.
You want smart people in your camp
. “Your brother thinks you’ll be able to help us with some details about Tuck Barber, in particular.”

She chewed on her lower lip. “Why…uh…why did Ivor think that?”

Parker wondered about her sudden nervousness. “Barber’s your dance partner.”

“Yes.”

“You write free-lance,” he said pointing up the stairs to her apartment. “Ivor told me your desk window looks toward Mr. Barber’s second story front door. Is there something your brother left out about your connection to Everett Olson?”

“No.” She scratched the back of her neck and said hurriedly, “No. That’s it.” Liv glanced at the door. “Here comes a customer. Are we finished?”

“For the moment. Later, I’ll want to ask a few more questions about Olson and Barber.”

She waved a hand, seeming to dismiss the idea she had anything to offer on the two men. “Suit yourself. Thanks for the heads up so I can help Tilly.”

“Yes…I’ll—”

Liv brushed by Parker, cutting off his sentence by hailing the customer, a waft of her perfume as well as her behavior unsettling him. Her surprise about Olson’s death and the girlfriend’s probable reaction to the drowning seemed appropriate, but she was evasive about Tuck Barber and something else.

He left the store and walked to the alley separating The Smiling Coho from a two-story building. Liv Hanson’s apartment windows, lighted from within, lined up with those in Tuck Barber’s place, across a narrow gravel one-way road. She accessed her apartment through the front door of the family store; Barber climbed stairs to get to his entrance. So she danced with the man at Lito’s Landing, lived only steps away from his apartment and she had a front row seat to observe his daily rituals.

Parker was beginning to understand the chief’s discomfort. If Tuck Barber was a suspect, the chief’s sister, Liv Hanson, was a person of interest, too.

****

“He brought his father along? What kind of a detective does that, for God’s sake?” Liv asked.

Ivor shrugged as he bit into his reuben sandwich. Liv could tell he wasn’t thrilled she’d hunted him down at Mama Bear’s, his favorite place for a light dinner. But dammit, she had questions about Parker Browne, and she wanted the answers now.

Pointing to his full mouth, Ivor shook his head. With his short blond hair and warm complexion, Ivor had the look of a surfer, not an Alaskan cop who hadn’t seen sun for weeks. Liv noted the tension in his brow line and the sag in his shoulders.
He’s worried about this case.

“I don’t care if you talk while you’re chewing.” She blew on her tea. “I want to know about this guy, especially since he’s planning to interrogate me.”

Ivor swallowed. “You put him off, didn’t you?” He quirked an eyebrow. “He’ll need the whole town’s cooperation, Liv.”

She leaned toward him. “I’ll help if I can, but I don’t see why he comes to me first about Ev’s death. What did you tell him?”

“You’re Tilly’s friend, you dance with Tuck, your desk window is open to Tuck’s comings and goings. That’s it.”

Gripping her mug of tea, Liv asked, “Does the guy even know what he’s doing? He came waltzing into our store, more interested in rescuing me from the ladder and gawking at my jewelry than in Ev’s drowning.”

Ivor lifted his shoulder a bit and went on eating.

“Why did he bring his father along?”

“Parker’s mother died about a year ago, in Seattle, and his father’s in a pretty deep funk about it. Chet, his dad, likes to fish, so while Parker is asking questions around town, I arranged for Matt Harkins to take him out fishing two times a day.” Ivor held his palm out. “Kind of unusual, I agree.”

Liv frowned. “He seems like a lightweight. You’re a hard ass, Ivor; a grill and driller. People duck and cover when you come their way. Even
I’m
afraid of you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Right.” Dill pickle raised, Ivor hesitated, then said, “Look. Browne’s been candid with me. He was an administrator until budget cuts eliminated his former position.”

“Ah, that explains it. He’s been a desk jockey so long he doesn’t know how to conduct an investigation with real people. He talked about my merchandise, for God’s sake. And he seemed fuzzy about drownings.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to write him off. And since Ev died in Seattle, Browne’s technically in charge of the task force.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” She rubbed her forehead, irritated by the ironies surrounding their lives. “None of us get to do the things we’re good at, Ivor.
You
should be the lead officer in the same way I should be writing about important stuff.” She swallowed some tea and blurted, “Well, maybe you can stand aside and let this green detective botch the investigation. Me? I’m going to write about my
own
case.”

“Huh?” Ivor stopped chewing.

“I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to write a column for the paper. My Petersburg debut as an author.”

Ivor’s eyes widened.

“I’m going to take on the Sing Lee murder.” She rubbed her hands together. “He died in November, 1932; Ev died in November. It’s meant to be.”

“Why in the world would—?”

Liv spread her hands on the table. “This is my ‘coming out’ article, a way for the people to get to know me and my writing. It’s Petersburg’s big unsolved crime, the elephant in the town, and eighty years later it’s still on people’s minds. I’m going to serialize the investigation in the present tense.”

Ivor wagged his head. “Fucking fabulous. You bring up the town’s failure to find a murderer from 1932 while I’m struggling to find Ev’s killer. Your timing sucks,” he hissed.

She waved away his concern. “I think the town will appreciate my efforts to walk them through the crime and re-examine evidence.”

“While we don’t have a single clue about Ev’s death,” Ivor grumbled.

Grabbing his hand, she said, “I’ll show them how hard your job is. And who knows, maybe I’ll find something they missed in the archives. Shed a new light on the old investigation. Besides, I’ve found only six people in town who lived in Petersburg when Sing Lee was alive. They’re in their nineties, Ivor; it’s important to interview them before they die.”

He pushed his empty plate away. “You might get something out of Nels, Anette, and Jenny, but the other three have dementia.”

“I’m talking to all of them, anyway. They were kids in 1932; some of those recollections are the sharpest. Nels is full of stories about getting penny candy from Sing Lee’s Country Store and bringing in grouse he shot for money.” Liv tapped on his hand. “Our people have stories to tell, Ivor. Like Jenny. Her sister, Greta, delivered bakery goods to Lee’s place twice a day.” Liv toyed with her napkin. “If only Greta were alive to tell me about it.”

“Meanwhile, I have a list of
live
suspects as long as my arm.”

Liv studied her brother’s face.
He’s aged. The job is hard on him.
She leaned across the table and patted his cheek. “You’re a good cop, Ivor. A big fishing town like this comes with extra crime, that’s a fact. You’re doing the best you can, I’m sure of it.”

He let out a breath. “The town’s changed, Liv. It’s different from when we were kids.”

She straightened. “Which is code for ‘Liv doesn’t belong here.’”

He hitched a shoulder.

“A month ago, I might have agreed with you. But I’m starting to make money off my writing, I’ve got my rooms above the store decked out the way I like them, and I don’t mind clerking in the store a few hours a day.”

“And the oil,” he said with a sigh.

“Yes. Fish oil. I’m going to put Petersburg on the map for selling pure, organic fish oil pills. It’s the only thing that’s going to save our family business.”

He shook his head. “Every penny Mom has is tied up in the store and the apartment you live in. What about her knee surgery? And don’t you think she deserves to retire one of these days? To do that, the store and the apartment have to be sold.”

“If I can market the fish oil, it’s retirement money for Mom and me.”

“But we don’t have the capital to get the fish oil venture off the ground.”

“I’ll get it.”

“From whom?”

“People in this town.”

Ivor blinked. “Yeah, right.”

Liv went on, feeling desperate in the face of her brother’s worries. “I have to find time to write what I love, Ivor. If we can’t make the salmon pills, I’m doomed to writing satire for the rest of my life.”

His smile was stiff. “You’ve got the smarts, Liv. Go for it. Meanwhile, be nice to Parker Browne, will you? Help him? If we can’t get to the bottom of Everett Olson’s death quickly, Petersburg will take my badge and you’ll have
me
to support with your damn salmon oil.”

****

The fish smell was so strong in Petersburg that Parker swore he could
taste
salmon in the air. Yet as he walked with his father on Nordic Drive, the people they met seemed oblivious to the odor. Oblivious to the wet, too. Parker noticed not a soul carried an umbrella even though rain fell steadily.

“What do you think of the town, Dad?” Parker asked when they stopped at a corner.

Chet Browne yanked down the brim of his baseball hat to better protect his face from the rain, but grinned as he did so. “This is the
real
Alaska, son, a bona fide fishing town.”

“You belong here, Pop,” Parker said, smiling at his dad’s Army green slicker. “With your white beard and mustache and those boots, you look like an old salt.”

His father lifted up a foot to admire his Petersburg ‘sneakers,’ the brown calf-high rubber boots he’d bought at Ham’s General Store. “They’re comfortable. No wonder everyone wears them. You should get a pair, too.”

“So you’re glad you came?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve wanted to fish in Alaska my whole life.” Chet held up his right hand and wiggled his fingers. “See this? I’m itching to put my pole in the water right now. Hell, it doesn’t get dark for awhile. Maybe I could go jig for some herring off the dock.”

Parker laughed. “Forget it. You need dinner and a good night’s sleep since zero tide is 5:30 a.m. Here we go.” He turned into Mama Bear’s and held the door for his father. “The chief said this is a good place to eat.”

“No room in the inn, looks like,” Chet commented, as he surveyed the tables full of customers. “We have a second choice?”

Parker was about to turn around and lead his father out the door, when he heard “Browne!” He glanced in the direction of the voice to see Ivor Hanson waving him over. “Looks like we’ve got a booth with Ivor and his sister.”

Ivor directed Parker and Chet to a counter where they could order food. When they’d returned with beers, Parker motioned for his father to slide in by Liv as he took a seat next to Ivor. Introductions all around, with Chet taking a few extra moments to hold Liv’s hand. “Yours is a Norwegian name, right?”

Liv smiled. “Yes and no. Our skin and eye color combination might throw you. We’re ‘Tlingwegians.’ Our great-grandmother was Tlingit, a member of the biggest Native population in this area. T.l.i.n.g.i.t is the spelling. ‘T’ has a ‘K’ sound. Our grandfather Hanson came from Norway; the Tlingits spent summers here on the northern end of Mitkof Island.”

“Your great-grandmother’s maiden name was…?”

“Tlingits back then didn’t have last names. Her only name was
Gugan,
the Tlingit name for sun.”

Parker leaned back, nodding, the mystery of Liv and Ivor’s tanned skin solved. But the way Liv dressed when she wasn’t working in the store surprised him. Most women in the restaurant wore sweatshirts or sweaters with jeans and roomy rubber boots; Liv was decked out in designer jeans, an expensive-looking burgundy sweater, cowled at the neck, and leather boots. Her necklace of irregular blue and red beads and matching earrings caught his attention. “Tell me about those,” he said, pointing to the jewelry.

“My secret obsession. Trade beads. They’re made of glass,” she said, her voice warm with pride.

Chet’s eyebrows went up. “Indian trade beads?”

Nodding, Liv fingered the necklace. “When I have time, between writing and working for my folks, I comb beaches, literally sifting through sand and rock, looking for trade beads.”

“We’ve got Indian middens everywhere,” Ivor explained. “Middens are abandoned beaches where natives used to live. One remnant of an Indian village across Wrangell Narrows, around Icy Cove and Brown Cove, dates from four thousand years ago.”

“But trade beads came a couple hundred years ago, from Europe, as a means of paying Tlingits for goods and services,” Liv said. “Some say when the beads became worthless for trade, the natives threw them out like garbage.” She touched the necklace. “One person’s refuse is another’s treasure.”

“I’ll bet they’re worth something, too,” Chet said.

“Try Googling ‘trade beads.’ Some of these blue beauties are worth a couple hundred apiece.”

“Goes around, comes around,” Ivor commented. “They’re worth more now than they ever were.”

“Amazing,” Parker said. “Your hobby makes sense since you like jewelry so much.”

“It does, doesn’t it? And I’ve taught myself how to string necklaces, bracelets and earrings so the hobby isn’t as expensive as it could be,” she said, looking pleased.

The waitress brought Parker and Chet’s hamburger and fries, so the two men dug into their food.

Ivor asked, “How do you like the Viking B&B?”

“Fine,” Parker said. “We each have big rooms with comfortable beds and they make a great breakfast, huh, Dad?”

“I’ll be putting on some pounds, for sure. Jenny’s sticky buns are irresistible.”

Liv nodded. “Jenny Skogland ran that place alone after her husband died.” She checked with Ivor. “For about twenty years? Anyway, when her granddaughter, Mallen, got divorced, she came to help Jenny. Mallen’s devoted. Efficient. Smart. Pretty, too. Right, Ivor?” She winked; Ivor frowned.