Sinister Sudoku (4 page)

She frowned as she worked toward a solution. In the early days of sudoku, people believed the fewer the clues, the more difficult the puzzle. Actually, many minimal puzzles tended to the easier side of the spectrum, solvable with simpler techniques.

The puzzle at hand was a bit more complicated than that. She compared her solution to the one Chris Dalen had given her. They matched.

Liza leaned back in her chair. Hmmm. Maybe this was the seed of a new column, about puzzle construction or the minimum number of clues necessary to make a valid sudoku. Michelle Markson would love to see a column come out of the prison class—she’d probably want all the celebrity names mentioned. Too bad Ritz Tarleton hadn’t come up with it. Michelle would insist that Liza name it after the girl, like Bowman’s Bingo.

Well, Chris managed a pretty impressive achievement,
Liza told herself.
Maybe I could call it “Dalen’s enigma.”

But even as she considered the idea, niggling doubts appeared in the back of her head. Liza glanced over at her computer, ensconced in the corner of the living room she’d converted into a makeshift office. Maybe she should check that minimum sudoku site. What if Chris had just copied a puzzle from there and passed it off as his own?

Liza sat down at the keyboard, then hesitated again. Chris had told her that he wasn’t allowed access to a computer. Then a sarcastic voice began speaking up in the back of her head.
Right. And we should believe him because he’s an art thief and, up to this morning, an imprisoned felon.

She started going online, then canceled that. She wasn’t going to waste time checking on Chris Dalen’s honesty. Nor was she going to unleash “Dalen’s enigma” upon the world. It was a cool title, but this was just a seventeen-clue puzzle—interesting, but not earthshaking.

Instead, Liza called up the Solv-a-doku program on her computer and used it to check whether the minimal puzzle was a true sudoku with only one possible solution. It was. Nodding, Liza saved the puzzle, then called up one she was still working on. This was a killer sudoku that had, on and off, taken several days of construction. As Liza worked her way into it again, time quietly slipped by.

The sudden bleating of the telephone came as a shock. Liza turned away from the computer screen to see that the spot of light from the window had shifted considerably. It had also become a lot less bright.

She picked up the handset. “Hello?”

“I’ve been cooling my heels in a reception area while some studio small fry tries to convince me he’s a big shot,” Michael Langley’s voice came over the line. He’d been staying with Mrs. H. until a desperate request for his script-doctoring services had taken him back to Hollywood. “Anyway, they’ve got a flatscreen TV up on the wall— probably worth more than they’ll pay me on this gig—and the weather report is talking about nasty weather up your way.”

Liza frowned. “That offshore storm? I thought that was supposed to hit us sometime late tomorrow.”

“Well, it looks as though the schedule has moved up— unlike the project I’m stuck with.” Exasperation put a slight edge into her almost ex-husband’s voice, but that quickly moderated into concern. “They’re talking about snow and wind and all sorts of unpleasantness overnight. Are you going to be okay?”

“It won’t be the first time something like that has happened around Maiden’s Bay,” Liza said. “Just about every winter, some kind of squall comes in, knocks down a few trees or utility poles, and we lose power for a while. You know, just like the brushfires, earthquakes, mudslides, and whatnot that you enjoy down south.”

Michael chuckled. “I think you left out crime waves, riots, and civil disobedience.” Then the concern came back. “You’re going to be all right, though?”

“It gets to be second nature,” she assured him. “We make sure there are lots of batteries for the radio, candles and lanterns, and everybody runs to the store to buy up all the bread and milk. I should probably make sure I’ve got a good supply of Rusty’s food.” Her dog’s head came up off the rug, hearing his name and the word “food” in the same sentence.

“I sort of ignored you up there most of last winter.” That had been the really rough time after they had just split. Liza remembered it as a long, lonely, gray time. “I just—I didn’t want to do that again,” Michael said.

“Well, I suppose I should thank you,” Liza told him. “I’ve been working on a puzzle and haven’t heard any new reports on the TV or radio.”

“Then that’s a good thing.” Michael laughed. “When you get your teeth into a sudoku, you wouldn’t notice if the front window blew out until the snow was drifting around your feet.”

“Maybe,” she retorted. “But I’m not the one who got so wound up in a fiendish sudoku that he let a pot not only boil empty, but actually melt on our stove.”

Michael harrumphed, but he couldn’t deny his own sudoku fanaticism. “I just wanted to make sure you’d be okay, safe at home tonight.”

“I’ll be fine.” Liza didn’t want to tell Michael about her dinner date with Kevin, so she resorted to a little verbal sidestep. “I suppose I should get moving to the store now. Tell you what, I’ll call you in the morning and tell you how much snow I have to shovel.”

“Fine.” Michael lowered his voice. “The way things are going, I could still be sitting around here.”

They exchanged good-byes and Liza hung up, sending a guilty look toward Rusty. “Well, come on. We might as well go to the store and make some part of what I said true.”

She got the leash. Rusty enjoyed the walk to Castelli’s Market, sniffing the air appreciatively. Liza was less cheerful. The air was still cold, but she could feel the trace of dampness in it that predicted—or was that threatened?— future snow.

Liza left Rusty outside and braved quite a crowd at Castelli’s to pick up her snow supplies. Arriving back home, she had to drop her shopping sacks and run to the phone without even opening her coat. Rusty ran around, trailing his leash and barking as the phone continued to bleat.

Shushing the dog, Liza picked up the receiver while fighting pangs of conscience. Michael had a writer’s ear— not to mention a mystery writer’s suspicious mind. Had he detected some trace of ambivalence in her voice—and rung back to call her on it?

“Hey, Liza,” Kevin’s voice came over the line. “I don’t know if you’ve been catching the weather report—”

“I got some warning,” Liza replied, diplomatically avoiding any mention of her source. “In fact, I just got back from carting in the emergency provisions.”

“Speaking of which,” Kevin began.

Liza sighed, wondering if he was going to call the evening off.

“My chef is in the middle of creating some special lamb thing for tonight, just for you,” Kevin said. “But I think we ought to get together a little earlier than we planned.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Liza admitted.

“Fine. I’ll pick you up in say . . . three hours?” Kevin said. “You make jokes about my SUV, but I think it’s better in case of rough weather.”

Liza checked the wall clock—five minutes before Kevin was supposed to arrive. Then she took a last-minute look in her mirror. She was wearing the Armani suit she’d picked up on Rodeo Drive during that last wild visit to L.A. solving Derrick Robbins’s murder. The suit had knocked a pretty good dent into her credit balance, but had been necessary— business camouflage.

Now it was the newest, nicest suit in her wardrobe. The charcoal gray wool complemented the wine-colored sweater she was wearing underneath. As for the rest, she had the regulation number of eyes, nostrils . . .

Liza parted her lips—nothing stuck in her teeth. Her shoulder-length hair, dark brown with hints of chestnut, fell naturally. Liza hadn’t fooled with it. Frankly, she needed a trim. That brought up an unwelcome image of Michael, whose untidy curls always seemed to need cutting. Liza repressed that thought and pulled on her good dress coat.

“Probably smarter to bring my Eddie Bauer special,” she muttered, flicking a bit of dog hair off the cashmere. The clouds had gathered threateningly, and from the sound of things, the wind was picking up.

It wasn’t howling quite yet, but Rusty had already taken what Liza considered his storm station, squirming in behind the sofa.

“I left you some extra dry food,” Liza told her dog. “Don’t make a pig of yourself. With this weather, it may have to last you till morning.”

She’d also taken the precaution of spreading newspapers across the kitchen’s linoleum floor.

Well, I’ve said it out loud,
she thought, turning to the door as she heard Kevin’s big behemoth pulling up in her driveway. “Take it easy, Rusty,” she said. “I should be home in a little while.” All she got was a muffled
woof
from under the couch.

Outside it was still cold, and that “snow is on the way” dampness just about smacked her in the face, backed up by an insistent breeze. Besides cutting right through her dressy clothes, it also blew her hair all over the place.

“You look great,” Kevin said, rushing over to give her his arm.

“I look like Cousin It from
The Addams Family
,” Liza groused, tucking her arm through the crook of his elbow and huddling close, trying to use him as a windbreak.

Flipping down the vanity mirror on her side, she tried to repair the damage as Kevin drove along the coastal highway toward the inn. Branches on the evergreens were already whipping around. The water of Killamook Bay looked as if it had been transformed to lead, except for the white-caps lashed up by the now howling wind.

Snow began falling when they were about three-quarters of the way there. And this wasn’t the cute, lacey variety. No, these snowflakes were little white pellets that struck the rear windshield like tiny machine gun bullets.

“I hope you don’t take offense,” Liza told Kevin, “but I think the sooner we finish supper, the better.”

A sort of rough-hewn porte cochere protected them from the buffeting wind when they pulled up at the Killamook Inn’s main building. Kevin let one of the valets take his SUV and ushered Liza inside. The reception area was large, rustic, and blessedly warm. They had just stepped onto a rich length of carpeting on their way to the dining room when the assistant manager came rushing over from behind the reception desk.

“Er, Kevin, we’ve got someone who registered—kind of a special guest—he’d like to meet with you, discuss the operation.” Kevin’s usually unflappable assistant looked as if his blazer didn’t fit right. He handed over a business card. Liza craned her head to get a look.

“Frederick ‘Fritz’ Tarleton, Tarleton Tours,” she read aloud. “Father of our little Ritz, I suppose.”

“Head of one of the biggest high-end tourism outfits in the country.” Kevin glanced from the card to Liza and actually bit his lip. Liza could see the conflict—business versus having a personal life. If he sat down in the dining room with Tarleton, he lost his time with Liza, and maybe the wonderful lamb dish if the big shot was demanding enough.

With a quick glance at his watch, Kevin asked, “Where is Mr. Tarleton?”

“In his room,” the assistant replied.

Kevin nodded. “Let’s see if I can catch him there.” He turned to Liza. “Would you mind waiting a little bit?”

“Hey, in my previous life, that was part of the job description,” she assured him. She left Kevin, who walked back to the reception area with his number-two man while shooting his sleeves—Kevin’s equivalent of girding his loins for business battle.

Liza went to the dining room entrance and checked her coat. Glancing into the large room, she saw only a couple of tables occupied. The oversized fireplace in the far wall held an enormous log surrounded by kindling, but it hadn’t been lit yet.

“Not enough of an audience for the floor show,” she muttered. Well, that was the way Kevin described the nightly fireplace ritual.

The maitre d’ approached with his usual effusive greeting, and Liza raised both hands. “Kevin has to take care of something,” she said. “I think I’ll wait in the bar.” Liza managed to sidestep into the bar, preventing the man from turning her arrival into an “entrance.” The long, dimly lit room also had customers, people enjoying predinner drinks or looking for some cocktail camaraderie.

She avoided the bar itself, heading to the row of tables down the wall where she hoped to find an inconspicuous seat. The farther along she got, the dimmer the lights became. Liza stopped, resting her hand on the back of a seat.

“Sorry,” a strangely familiar voice told her. “This one is occupied.” Liza peered into the shadows. Then her eyes went big in surprise.

“Chris Dalen!” she burst out in surprise. “What the hell are you doing here?”

For a second, Dalen looked as surprised as Liza when she sat down at the table. Then his lips quirked in a crooked smile. “Und zo, ve meet again,” he said in his hokey German accent. With his next words, he switched back to his normal voice. “I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked, considering that your friend Kevin runs this joint.”

“I’m not sure he’d appreciate you calling this a joint,” Liza said.

“I expect not,” Dalen replied. “Well, it sure beats hell out of the joint where I’ve spent the last dozen or so years. Nicer dress code, for one thing.” He fingered the lapel on the suit he was wearing. It was a little too narrow to be fashionable, maybe ten or twelve years out of style. Back then, though, it had been a good, expensive suit.

Now it hung on Dalen’s emaciated frame. Liza figured he could fit two fingers under the collar of his dress shirt. “That’s all very interesting,” she said. “But it still doesn’t answer my question about what you’re doing here.”

Dalen shrugged, rattling the ice in his highball glass. “Guess I was looking for a place where I could order top-shelf booze, enjoy a room where
I
get to lock the door, and sleep in a comfortable bed with a blanket that doesn’t rasp the skin off me. I wanted one taste of the old, good life.” He lapsed back into his fractured German shtick. “Und tomorrow, I get on der telefunken und call mein zister.”