Lie Catchers (7 page)

Gus Stockton sat in the Viking Bakery at one of five small round tables, his hand splayed on the editorial page. He closed his eyes, imagining how his boss would take the public display of disaffection from the so-called concerned citizens of Petersburg. The town wanted a scapegoat for the murder of Sing Lee and in their desperation, they picked one man as their favorite suspect: Alf Forden, assistant manager to Sing Lee, and now, the acting manager of the Country Store until Sing Lee’s affairs could be put in order.

“More coffee, Marshal?”

“Please, Greta. Thank you,” Gus said to the pretty young blonde with the coffee pot in hand.

“How about another cinnamon bun, sir?” she asked, with a hint of mirth behind her eyes.

He patted his stomach, the editorial forgotten for a blessed moment. “A pastry here in the morning and one at the Country Store in the afternoon are luxuries I probably don’t deserve.”

She shook her head, wonderment in her expression. “You work so hard, Marshal. I never see you relax. If you aren’t reading a notebook, you’re interviewing people. When I deliver to the Country Store in the afternoon, you always have a new person at your table, asking them questions and taking notes.”

He pointed to the editorial in the Press, unable to keep tightness out of his voice. “You have anything to do with this letter?”

Greta appeared horrified, retreating a step as if concerned Gus might explode into a rage. “No, sir. I help with the baking and I deliver our goods all around town. I like Mr. Forden, Marshal. He might be a little strange, but he’s always treated me good and paid me on time. Sing Lee trusted him and I do, too.”

Feeling like a heel for upsetting her, he reached out to pat her arm. When she flinched, he said, “I’m not accusing you of anything, Greta. Like you, I’m skeptical of Mr. Forden as a suspect for many reasons. But understand that I wouldn’t be angry with you if you had a part in writing this complaint to my bosses.”

She filled his coffee cup, “You’re doing the best you can, Marshal Stockton,” she said, but her smile didn’t match the sadness in her eyes.

****

“Are we protecting Ev’s killer?” Liv mused, staring at the 1932 letter from the citizens of Petersburg. “Without meaning to, are we making Parker’s job tougher? Maybe I’m subconsciously advocating for Tilly or praying Tuck isn’t a suspect for my own selfish reasons; for sure, I’m guarding my own privacy.”

Liv tapped on her desk mat as she considered Parker’s reaction to her chart. He’d risen, grabbed his coat out of the closet, and walked to her front door. “Coffee and Norwegian cookies another time, thank you. I’ll see you and Ivor at your mother’s tonight.” He held up her chart stiffly. “And we’ll go over this line by line and person by person.”

“Where are you going?” she’d blurted, confused by her feelings. She was glad she’d stalled the interview, but she didn’t want him to go. How was that for stupid? Plus now she dreaded the dinner tonight at the same time she looked forward to seeing him again.

He’d stared at her chart, and said quietly, “I’m off to get a forensic tutorial on dead people found in saltwater. Your list tells me it’s useless to question any more people in this town until I can pinpoint time of death.”

She’d nodded, but he was gone before he caught her gesture. The detective was irritated with her, with the whole town, and maybe, with himself. And it bothered her, hollowing out her gut. Here was a man who actually appealed to her, and she’d worked him like she did all guys. A lifetime of flirting and dissembling to hide her weird brain. For the first time, her old ploys not only didn’t work on a guy, she felt inane using them.

Depressed and unable to concentrate on her Sing Lee feature, she drifted down to the shop and opened early. She was arranging a pyramid of salmon jars on the counter when Tilly came roaring in. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Liv cocked an eyebrow, but didn’t turn around. “You’re always sorry for running your mouth, Til.”

“I told him you needed to get laid,” she blurted. “Implying he was the man to do it.”

Liv smiled ruefully, “No chance in hell.”

“You scared him off?”

Liv turned, rolling a jar of salmon in her palms. “I think he saw right through me, which is a first. And he didn’t like me trying to play him.”

“Whoa. He said that?”

“Not in so many words.”

“Well, he got more out of me than I planned to say.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Tilly jabbed her elbows on the counter and stared at an array of purses. “He made me so nervous that I sicced him on you. It was like junior high, for Christ’s sake. The guy has a way of looking you right in the eye and really listening to what you say. He spooked me, seriously.”

Liv gave Tilly a pat on the shoulder, thinking she’d captured exactly what made Parker Browne different from most men. “That takes some doing.” Tilly’s lifelong goal seemed to be shocking people with her crass observations. How different was her friend’s method of diversion from Liv’s habit of presenting a light, flirty side?
This is what the town expects of us.

Tilly said, “You
do
need to get laid.”

Liv squinted at the orderly rows of salmon on the shelves, reminded of the disarray in her life. She shook her head. “I’m on his suspect list, not his ‘to be laid’ list.”

****

Parker stalked past the Coffee Hüs, the Norsk Hotel and Viking Travel, casting a critical eye on the whimsical red and blue rosemalling swirls and grinning Norwegian elves that decorated storefronts.
I will not be cheered up.
Ivor better be in his office, dammit!

He shoved open the door of the police station. After a nod from the receptionist, he entered Ivor’s office and slapped Liv’s chart on his desk.

“Had lunch?” Ivor asked.

Parker took a deep breath, knowing he had to calm himself and match the habits of these people if he was going to get anywhere. He took a seat, stretched his arms and put his hands behind his head. “Could have eaten
krumcake
, but professional that I am, I got right down to business at Liv’s.”

Ivor shook his head. “Your loss. She doesn’t bake often, but when she does—”

Parker raised a palm, interrupting Ivor. “Would have been nice to know that half of Petersburg was in Seattle during the week Olson died.”

With a shrug, Ivor said, “We go to Seattle all the time. Alaska Airlines, twice a day, nonstop. They’ll give me lists of who went where and when, any time I ask. But the fly-in event our folks attended in Seattle is tip of the iceberg. People come and go in fast boats and helicopters, too. Those lists aren’t so easy to obtain.” He glanced at Liv’s tidy chart of people, places, and times. “She likes spreadsheets.”

“This is gnat’s eyebrow stuff. I hadn’t seen that aspect of Liv.”

“She’s a writer.”

“Yes?”

“She’s the detail person in the family, but doesn’t flaunt it.” He cleared his throat. “Look, we don’t know time of death; nor has the autopsy revealed if he fell or was pushed into the water. True?”

“Correct. But we’re guessing Olson had more than three million dollars tucked in the Grand Caymans so his death doesn’t feel accidental to us. Even without TOD or, say, evidence of a blow to the head, we’ve got to assume foul play.”

“Or you wouldn’t be here, investigating.”

“Right.” Parker pointed to Liv’s chart. “So you’re saying that’s only one list.”

Ivor nodded. “Her data includes people she was with in Seattle. Ev had enemies and access to a lot of money. There will be more lists, for sure.”

****

“Uff da,” Jenny Skogland said as she sank into her cushioned rocking chair.

Parker smiled a greeting from his seat on the living room couch of the B&B where he was waiting for his father to dress for dinner. He liked the feel of the big room, its two massive flowered and skirted couches facing each other across twin coffee tables. Fanned out magazines and bowls of wrapped candy invited lingering. Jenny chose a chair facing him next to the stone fireplace where modest flames gave the room a golden glow.

Drawn to the old woman for reasons he couldn’t articulate, Parker asked, “What the heck does ‘Uff da’ mean in Norwegian? I see the word printed all over town.”

With a laugh, Jenny said. “In my ninety-plus years, I’ve used it incessantly. When I was a teacher, ‘Uff da’ took the place of swearwords. Just now, I said it because my spine pained me when I sat down; standing, my knees will protest and I’ll have to say ‘Uff da’ again.” She rubbed her hands together, wincing. “Between arthritis, dizziness, and barking dogs,” she said, pointing to her slippered feet, “I seem to say ‘Uff da’ every other breath.” Jenny slapped a palm on her chair’s armrest. “But I’m here to find out the progress of your investigation, not complain.”

“Thanks for the translation. As for my detective work, ‘Uff da.’”

Jenny laughed, her body quaking with the emotion. “I wondered when you’d conclude that Petersburg comes with challenges.”

He rubbed his forehead. “People are willing to answer my questions, but only after I find the right questions to ask.”

“Otherwise they’ll keep the information to themselves.”

“Right.”

Jenny shook her head. “It’s always been that way.” She was quiet for a moment, a faraway look in her eye. Sighing, she said, “It’s a problem. You have a tendency to assume the worst, to—”

“Right,” Parker said, interrupting. “Because people are averse to offering information, they seem to be hiding things.”

Mallen Skogland stepped into the living room from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “Grandma, time for your pills. Orange juice or water?”

Jenny waved her hand. “I’ll take them later.”

“Mr. Browne, you’re being so polite,” Mallen said. “My grandma loves to talk about the past, but I know you have to be on your way.”

Parker looked at his watch and stood. “Better be going.” He winked at Jenny. “But I’ve enjoyed our talk, and my new, useful vocabulary.”

As soon as Mallen returned to the kitchen, Jenny motioned for Parker to come and stand by her. “I think the closed-mouth trait comes from the type of Norwegian who settled in Petersburg. These were rugged individualists, upset about not being able to make a living in their home country and so very determined to succeed here. As soon as they found the best fishing grounds around Petersburg, they kept the locations to themselves. Along with tricks on how to catch fish, they carried those fishing holes to their graves.”

“Really?”

“We have a high theft and assault rate here in Petersburg, higher than the national average.”

“I saw the figures.”

“Booze is part of it, of course. But I think the drive for individual success is the bigger reason.”

Parker reached down to touch Jenny’s hand. “That’s a good theory, Jenny.” He glanced toward the stairway when he heard his father’s steps. “I need all the help I can to work with your friends.” Hurriedly he added. “Like Liv. She’s a puzzle.”

Jenny nodded. “One of my favorite women in this town.”

“Ready?” his dad called out.

“In a minute, Dad.” Parker gazed at Jenny, knowing, for the first time, that the tug he felt from Liv Hanson was more than business and more than curiosity. “We’ll talk about her later, okay?”

She looked into Parker’s eyes. Then, as if she understood his complicated feelings for Liv, she winced and said, “Uff da.”

****

“More halibut, Parker? Fishcakes. Potatoes, Chet? Some
lefse
?” Harriet Hanson pointed to each dish on the dining room table. She sat at the head of the table, smiling, her face flushed from the bustle of preparing a meal and the pride of sharing food with guests. Harriet pushed her hair behind her ears in a gesture that reminded Parker of Liv, who sat across from him. Same delicate noses and high cheekbones. Warm complexions that contrasted to blonde, shoulder-length hair and deep blue eyes. Beautiful women, mother and daughter. Similar laugh. Both gracious to guests.

Parker chewed his last bit of
lefse,
a Norwegian flat bread, and patted his stomach. “I think I’ve gained ten pounds in two days. You too, Dad?”

Raising his thumb and wiggling his bushy eyebrows was Chet’s answer.

With a glance at Ivor and Liv, Parker said, “Much as we’ve enjoyed your incredible meal, it’s time to talk about Everett Olson.”

“Dessert,” said Harriet Hanson, rising from her chair and collecting plates. “Over there.”

In unison, Parker and his father turned to look at a table set up in the living room, complete with lace tablecloth, plates, utensils and a squatty arrangement of roses as a centerpiece.

“Dessert?” Parker asked.

Liv laughed. “Sorry we didn’t warn you. On special occasions, Norwegians eat dinner in the formal dining room, then move to another table for dessert.”

Chet said, “Dessert is important, all right.” He elbowed Parker to agree with him, then rose and walked to the living room.

Parker said, “We’re in for a late night, I’m guessing.”

Ivor chuckled as he jumped up and snagged two serving platters. “Business
after
dessert. We should have warned you.”

Parker held up both palms. “I abide by all Norwegian customs.” He slid a glance to Liv. “Does the aquavit come before or with business?”

Liv reached for Parker’s plate and utensils. “We call it
akevitt
. We drink it
with
business.”

He took her hand, rose, and said quietly, “I’ve got your number, Liv.”

Eyes widening, she said, “You do?”

“You Norwegians stretch out your meals.” He squeezed her hand. “Like the eagle feathers and halibut ear bones, another distraction.”

Her expression turned coy. “Feeling stonewalled, are you?”

Parker thought better of starting an argument and patted his stomach again. “I’m feeling
stuffed
.”

With a smile, she grabbed a stack of plates, gave the swinging door to the kitchen her hip, and left him alone at the table. When he heard her laughter from inside the kitchen, he wanted to join her, stand close to her, and share the light moment. Surprised by the strength of his need, he shook his head. He felt unprepared by every single person he’d met in Petersburg, but mostly by Liv.