Lie Catchers Read online

  “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.

  “I’d say Mallen’s in charge now,” Parker observed. “Jenny seems sharp in the brain, but not so, physically. She was still up when we got in last night, so we sat and talked about the old days until after midnight.”

  “Really?” Liv asked. �
�She’s usually pretty quiet.”

  Chet pointed to Parker. “He can get people to talk. Just like his sisters.”

  Parker shrugged. “Jenny’s ninety-seven, with a lot of history stored up in her brain. Mallen seems to play interference, interrupting when Jenny talks about the old days. I guess she thinks guests will be bored by Jenny’s topics, but I’m not.”

  With a shake of her head, Liv said, “When Jenny mixes up the past with the present, she gets embarrassed, then flustered. I think Mallen is trying to save her from the pain.”

  Smiling, Parker said, “That’s probably why I like Jenny. I get mixed up all the time.”

  Liv wrinkled her brow at his comment and changed the subject. “I assume you didn’t find Tilly today.”

  Parker nodded, his mouth full.

  “But you’ll see her at the cannery tomorrow.”

  Swallowing, Parker said. “Bright and early. Maybe I’ll swing by to see you afterward. Would that be all right? I don’t want to cut into your writing time.”

  She squirmed in the bench seat.

  Chet held a French fry mid-air. “You write? Are you published, Liv?”

  “I am. Magazines and e-zines; features mostly.” She waved a hand as if to say her work wasnʼt important.

  “She publishes under a pen name,” Ivor said. “Good luck wresting it out of her.”

  Parker’s interest spiked at the challenge. He wanted to read her articles, especially the one about detectives.

  She touched Chet on the shoulder. “Excuse me, but if you’ll let me out, I’ve got to do a few things in the store tonight.”

  Ivor motioned that he was ready to leave as well, so Parker rose and shook Ivor’s hand. “See you at Lito’s Landing tonight.”

  When Parker grasped Liv’s hand, she said, “How about noon tomorrow, Detective? Come through the store and upstairs. I’ll leave the front door open.” At his nod, she left, with Ivor saying his goodbyes and following her out.

  Parker and Chet took their seats again to finish up their food.

  “Nice people,” Chet said. “She doesn’t know you’re a Treasury agent, does she?”

  With a shake of his head Parker said, “The chief and I agree it’s best to keep the Fed involvement off the radar.”

  “You think Ivor will be able to help you figure out Everett Olson’s money trail?”

  “I hope so. It’s a close-knit town so I have this sinking feeling I’ll have to interview practically everyone.”

  “Petersburg comes with a little baggage.”

  “What do you mean, Pop?”

  “Well, you said Tucker Barber and Tilly Grant would provide you with your best information, right?”

  “I did.”

  “And they seem deeply connected to Liv Hanson.”

  “I don’t know about the ‘deeply’ part.”

  “Bear with me, son. After forty years as a port security guard, I sure as hell haven’t lost my nose.”

  “Go on.”

  “Her non-verbals got my antennae going. Uncomfortable talking about her writing and definitely uneasy about talking to you.”

  Parker sighed, wishing he could disagree with his father’s observations. He didn’t want Liv on his suspect list. “I caught that.”

  Chet clicked his tongue. “Your Liv Hanson is hiding something, and it’s not just a pen name.”

  Chapter Two

  Parker lifted a bottle of beer at the chief sitting on the bar stool across from him. “If I’m playing a Seattle cop, I definitely need more inside information on drownings.”

  Ivor winced. “I wish I didn’t know so much about them. We haul dead people out of the ocean every year. On men, we check the zipper.”

  Parker’s brain stalled on Hanson’s statement, so he surveyed the dance floor. “Rolling on the River” pulsed from the DJ’s speakers, charging up a couple dozen dancers. God, they looked happy. They knew exactly where they were and what they were doing. Me? I feel like I’m on Mars!

  “Don’t like the beer?” Hanson asked.

  “I do,” Parker said, taking a swallow. “This town’s a surprise.” The breath he pulled in came with the odors of perfume, sweat, Pine Sol and stale beer, overlaid by a taco bar’s pungent offerings of corn tortillas and spicy, fried meats. As he considered the significance of open or closed zippers, he glanced at a giant picture positioned over the Landing’s pool tables, showcasing an enormous polar bear lying languidly on its back, a come-hither look in its eyes. Close by was a blown-up photo of two moose skeletons, the antlers of the animals impossibly and perpetually entangled. Parker empathized with the moose. Meese. Mooses. Mice? God, what was the plural of moose?

  The dancers yelled out “Rollin’! Rollin’!” and Parker turned to watch them. He zeroed in on Liv, whose glittery jewelry and golden hair caught the light in a magical way. Who was her dance partner? Lucky man.

  Ivor said, “Petersburg requires acclimation.”

  “I thought this was a village, small and isolated. Yet when I flew in yesterday, from above, I saw marinas packed with boats, half a dozen canneries, and a sprawling town. I never knew how big…”

  “Non-stop rainfall and three thousand people. Nothing like your Fresno.”

  “Definitely not Fresno. But bigger than I expected.” He drank from his bottle and decided to plead ignorance regarding open or closed flies. “Everett Olson’s zipper was down.”

  Ivor nodded. “Helps to have that information. See, you found Ev’s body in Puget Sound waters several days after the boat he’d rented was discovered adrift. He was a fisherman before he became a cannery foreman here in town, so it’s possible he was fishing in Seattle, though we have no evidence he bought a Washington license. If he was on a boat, alone, he could have taken a piss over the side and fallen, accidentally. Bumped by a wave, tripped. Whatever. We see a lot of drownings that way.”

  “Zippers down.”

  “Yup. More suspicious if the zipper is up.” Ivor rubbed his chin. “He was in the water about a week, you say?”

  “Give or take. Hard to be sure after the critters had their way with the body.”

  Both men stared at the dancers, Parker’s attention caught, again, by Liv who waved at her brother in time to the music before she turned, her hands in the air, torso, butt and legs gyrating. Limber. Lithe. Parker straightened his shoulders, feeling included in Liv Hanson’s gesture.

  “It’s her outlet,” Ivor said.

  “Oh.”

  “She goes a little nuts with the dancing.” His expression showed affection mixed with concern. “Outlets are hard to find in Petersburg. In fact, with a short fishing season and dreary weather, some people spend too much time indoors. Short tempers. Depression. Booze. Drugs. A nasty cocktail. “

  Nodding, Parker gazed at Liv, drawn by the jewelry sparkling on her ears, her neck, and arm. Bare arms, bare legs. Looking tanned.

  He glanced at Ivor and saw the resemblance. Like his sister, Ivor was a towhead with a warm, light brown complexion and blue eyes. Late thirties for Ivor; his sister, younger. He was tall, broad-shouldered and maybe six two; Liv was tall, too, around five eight, slim and delicate-looking compared to her beefy brother.

  Ivor held up his bottle. “Another beer? I’m surprised Barber’s so late.”

  “Sure. I’ll get this round.”

  Hanson was signaling the bartender when movement at the doorway caught their attention. “Speak of the devil; Barber’s arrived. He’s the guy in the Mariner’s ball cap.”

  Parker focused on the tall man entering Lito’s Landing, smiling and cocksure as he greeted people right and left, bussing women on the cheek and fist-bumping men. Tuck Barber, thirty-five; a muscular six feet, three inches of confidence. Owner of Lito’s Landing and friend of the now-deceased Everett Olson.

  As if to dramatize Barber’s entrance, the song ended.

  “He’s aware I want to talk to him?” Parker asked, lowering his voice in the sudden quiet.

  The chief chewed on h
is lip. “He’s got something else on his mind first.”

  The man strolled to the middle of the dance floor, the dancers watching his every move. Then like a parting of the sea, they crabbed sideways to clear a path for Barber.

  Liv emerged from the group, lifted her index finger and beckoned to Barber. When he moved into her arms, the DJ yelled, “It’s a slow one, folks…the lovely Nora Jones.” With the first strains of a ballad, the dancers coupled and filled the floor, hiding Barber and Liv from Parker’s sight.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” Hanson said. “Thought you should have a first-hand look at our complication. Tuck Barber’s a popular, well-to do townie, my sister’s neighbor, and…” Hanson viewed the clutched couples, frowning, “they’re close.”

  ****

  Liv Hanson rested her head against Tuck’s shoulder, content with the slow pace in the arms of the best dancer in Petersburg.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, his lips touching her ear, his hand firm against her back.

  She relished their chest-to-thigh connection and a seamless synchrony as they whirled around the floor. Were her feet touching the floor? She smiled her joy next to his chin. “The night is but a pup. We’ll—”

  “Can’t.”

  “What?” Liv asked, raising her head.

  “Blame your brother,” he said, casting a stern look Ivor’s way, before they circled to the DJ stand.

  “What’s up?”

  “He’s got a bloody Seattle cop with him. They want to talk to me.”

  “Detective Browne. He came to my store.”

  Tuck shrugged. “Ivor’s probably pissed I’m making him wait for me, but I thought you deserved one dance, at least.”

  “Nice of you.”

  Tuck gripped her hand and pressed his palm on her back, whipping her into a turn. She gasped in surprise, but managed to follow his move. What in the world is going on?

  “Sorry.” He eased the pressure on her back. “Your brother is a royal pain.”

  “Ivor’s a professional, Tuck. Conscientious. Good for Petersburg. He’s got to help the cop solve this case.” She glanced at Parker Browne, noting his open expression, a contrast to her brother’s sternness. Ivor didn’t like Tuck and he disapproved of her antics on the dance floor, but something else deepened his sour expression. Was Tuck a serious suspect in Ev’s death?