Lie Catchers Page 3

  “Maybe I could help. Want me to join you?” She added a coy smile. “Protect you?”

  He frowned. “Hell, no. Why would I do that?”

  “Never mind,” she said, hiding her disappointment. “We’ll stick to dancing.”

  “Not my choice, babe. You set the boundaries.” He cupped her ass. “Say the word and we’ll two-step to my place. Or yours.”

  She pushed his hand away, worried the gesture would upset her brother and tip off other couples they were more than dance partners. “Let’s stick to what we do best,” she said breezily.

  He growled his frustration, re-gripped and squeezed her hand, and pulled her hard against his chest.

  Chapter Three

  Petersburg, 1932

  High Stakes for a Lone Federal Marshal

  (The Murder of Sing Lee: A Retrospective

  by Liv Hanson)

  “Watch your footing in Petersburg!” yelled the ferry captain as he helped his Juneau passengers off the boat. To Gus he said, “And good luck finding the murderer of old Sing Lee, Marshal.”

  Gus Stockton blinked as he pressed a dime tip into the man’s hand. Was the ferryman being sarcastic? Probably. Well, he’s got it right: Since I’m the wrong man for this job, I’ll need every ounce of luck I can get.

  He climbed the steep gangway, such a precarious ascent at low tide that Gus used the rail to pull himself up the slippery surface. When he reached the platform and got his first look at the town through the veil of a relentless downpour, he suppressed a gasp. All the roads and sidewalks were constructed of a xylophone of wood planks, rendered shiny by the falling rain, a telltale spattering of green warning walkers of the presence of moss. Tricky footing, indeed.

  Realizing he stooped against the pelting rain, Gus straightened his spine and walked with caution to the only hotel in town, The Acacia.

  “We have a reservation for two Federal Marshals, sir,” said the young hotel clerk.

  “One, only one.” Gus corrected. He thought about Frank Murchison, his senior partner, bedridden with consumption instead of joining him on the investigation. When Gus had asked for another agent to accompany him, his boss had said no, citing budget problems. The Depression had caused cutbacks in every Federal department, with salaries suffering thirty percent cuts. President Roosevelt’s new term was about to begin with a mandate to bring the U.S. out of the economic doldrums.

  Gus handed over seven dollars for two week’s lodging, wincing at the cost and the stress of his lone responsibility. If he were going to save money for his new President, he’d have to solve the murder of Sing Lee in record time.

  As he settled into his room, he sucked on his corncob pipe, empty of tobacco, but still a comfort to his mouth and a way to feel older than his twenty-eight years. Sleet jabbed at his one tiny window, urging him to hurry and find the criminal who had killed the most popular and richest man in Petersburg. His department had taken down big-city Al Capone; surely Gus could find the man who killed Sing Lee in this tiny village.

  With a glance at the room’s skinny bed, he thought about how little sleep he’d get in the coming weeks. He lowered himself into the rickety desk chair, and began to sort through the facts to find himself a killer.

  ****

  Liv stilled in her desk chair, considering the challenges facing Gus Stockton in 1932. No Internet, lousy phone service, and the urgency of a front-page crime to be solved by a lone Federal agent. All her research showed the man sent to this Alaskan territory was capable and diligent but the odds were against him from the start.

  Switch scenes seven decades later, to Parker Browne staring at her trade beads and striking up a conversation about jewelry. She had the uneasy feeling that the cop’s lackadaisical approach was a strategy and he’d found out things about her through the Internet and other magic technology that no one else in the town knew, using stealth tactics and a fishing-on-the-side father who might be serving as a spy. In less than twenty-four hours. Poor Marshal Stockton had had to take a slow boat all alone to Petersburg, and couldn’t even begin his investigation until several days after Sing Lee’s death. Sing’s trail was ice-cold; surely Ev Olson’s was hotter, wasn’t it?

  She looked at her watch. Three more hours to research, complete a Sing Lee to-do list, and polish another section for the newspaper column. She’d shower around eleven, an hour before Parker showed up. Jewelry. The turquoise and silver? She’d worn that set on July 1st when she went dancing at Lito’s Landing, a clear night with a half moon and Tuck was out of town.

  Standing, she stretched out her arms and yawned, but the tension in her shoulders remained. Why did Browne make her so nervous? He’d steadied her when she stepped off the ladder and complimented her about the merchandise in the store. The man was sweet to his father, deferential to her brother and didn’t show one iota of tension about the task before him. Where Ivor was a coiled spring, the detective was laid-back and affable.

  Maybe he bugged her because he didn’t fit the portrait she’d trotted out in her e-zine satire about uptight detectives. Was he trying to fit in by wearing jeans and a denim shirt? Could he be faking a casual approach to investigating as a means to get close to the people he questioned? Every once in a while, he’d sweep his light brown hair off his forehead, messing it up instead of taming it. Was that a phony gesture?

  He looked her in the eye when he asked a question and listened intently to her answer, but could that be a reel-in strategy?

  He’d seen her clerking in the store, sort of eaten dinner with her, and watched her dancing, all in one day. And now she was considering jewelry that might please him. Crazy.

  The muscle tangle in her shoulders pounded with pain as if to remind her to be cautious. Men she dressed up for usually ended up lying to her.

  It was only a matter of time until Parker Browne did, as well.

  ****

  “The Feds get off easy on this junket,” Chet said as he and Parker hiked down the covered gangway to the marina and headed for the dock dedicated to small boat tie-ups. “You don’t need a car or taxi, the lodging and food is reasonable, and if I can hook some big salmon and halibut, we’ll have a year’s worth of fish to eat.”

  Parker smiled, understanding his father’s yearning to be a provider, to be useful instead of mope, to feel alive and involved instead of depressed and alone. “Go slay some fish, Dad,” Parker said, giving a wave to Matt Harkins.

  Chet grabbed the gunnel of Matt’s Grady-White and stepped down into the fishing boat, grinning like a kid. “You watch. Matt and I will find the big ones.”

  Matt gave a half nod, as if to add ‘if we’re lucky,’ and started up the big 250 Yamaha outboard.

  “Good luck on your own fishing expedition,” Chet shouted over the growling motor.

  Parker untied the bowline from the dock and handed it to Matt while Chet released the stern line. After Parker pushed the boat away from the dock, he stood, hands on his hips, following the boat’s progress out of the marina. Rain fell steadily on this windless day. White puffs of fog sat above the water, organized along a straight line over the dead-calm waters, as if to point the way from Wrangell Narrows to Frederick Sound.

  Fishing expedition. Parker turned to ascend the gangway, mentally preparing for the day’s interviews. He’d penned two pages of by-the-book prompts, but he still didn’t feel ready. Ten years of investigation by computer had left him uncertain about real-life interrogation. This was a fishing expedition conducted by a fish-out-of-water.

  Me. A cod caught in a tidal current. A Treasury agent more comfortable following the money on computer than in person. A Federal investigator mucking up his pretense as a Seattle detective.

  At the top of the gangplank, movement in the window of the marina office caught his attention. Candy Peterson. On watch. She sees everything from there.

  Parker opened the office door and strolled in, his attention caught by pictures of Petersburg’s past crowded on three walls of the reception area. Tired o
ld buildings, planked streets and sidewalks, and serious, rough-hewn faces stared back at him. One frame exhibited a bunch of beans. The label said, ‘Boil. Eat. Result: Norwegian Bubble Bath.’ Parker smiled.

  “Detective?”

  Parker shook the harbormaster’s hand across the counter. “Didn’t want to bother you while you were on the short-wave radio. Guess you know who I am.”

  “My job to know,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes, her small frame half-hidden by the counter. “Actually, Matt Harkins, who took your dad out this morning, told me your name. We’ll figure out why you’re here before you have to tell us, too.” She grinned, deepening the wrinkles on a face used to maybe fifty years of smiling.

  “I’m Detective Parker Browne. How’s your day been so far?”

  “On my third cup of coffee. Matt’s the last to go out this morning, so I can relax awhile.”

  “Ivor said you hold the most important position in town. Thought I should say howdy to you first this morning.”

  She waved a hand. “He’s always been jealous that my window looks out on more action than his does. Ivor’s number one on my speed dial since most of the crime starts here.” She thumbed toward the marina.

  “Territorial disputes, Liv Hanson called them.”

  “Right on. It begins out on the waters, hits the dock, travels up the gangway and boils up in the taverns. The old saloon was named The Bucket of Blood for a reason.”

  “Ivor says you’re smart and a history buff regarding Petersburg. He comes to you for advice.”

  She opened her palms. “We work well together.”

  “Well, protocol requires I talk to a few others before I come back to you. Promise you won’t take offense?”

  With a laugh, she said, “I’ll know what’s up by the end of the day, Detective.”

  Parker pushed open the door to leave. “Good. That means you’ll have answers prepared. Nice meeting you, Candy Peterson. Enjoy your coffee.”

  Parker took a right off Nordic Drive, checked through security at the Ocean Riches guard gate, and walked the quarter mile of elevated boardwalk to the canning facility, built entirely on pilings. He had to watch his footing on the rain-slicked, mossy planks, eventually choosing to walk on a narrow pathway made of composition roof shingles. Motorized carts raced past him, carrying loads of plastic fish-packing containers; 6:00 a.m. shift workers walked briskly by, determined to clock in early. On the rooftop hundreds of sea gulls screamed, eager to sample the cannery’s leftovers.

  He located the administration wing, painted forest green like the rest of the clapboard complex, but looking more important with its slick glass double doors. A twenty foot-long, chest-high metal counter separated him from a series of closed-door offices, giving an institutional feel to the place. Parker figured that except for a fresh coat of paint, the Spartan room had probably looked this way for fifty years.

  A receptionist flipped up a section of the shelf and led him to the manager’s office.

  “Detective Parker Brown, Seattle PD.”

  The short, stout man dressed in a green plaid flannel shirt and jeans shook Parker’s hand and glanced at Parker’s proffered badge. “Robert Halley, Manager. Have a seat. How can I help you?”

  Parker considered the questions he’d written down the night before. Boilerplate. Organized. Pointed. He took a seat across from Halley and instead of question number one from his list, said, “I read last Thursday’s Petersburg Pilot. Is it true that this is the best fishing season since the sixties?”

  Leaning back in his chair, Halley grinned, brushing his hand over his bald head. With his pop-out eyes, fleshy mouth and florid complexion, Halley had the look of a chunky, genial snapper. “You heard right. I’ve worked in this cannery for fifteen years at one job or the other. Never seen anything like it.” He pointed to a picture of the cannery from earlier times. “We were half this size back then, and never could have handled the tonnage we took in this year.”

  “Maybe Petersburg will turn into a boom town; similar to the gold rush.”

  Halley shook his head. “I wish. Actually the gold rush comparison is a good one. Remember how short that ‘rush’ was? Same with fishing. A rich harvest one year and disappointing ones for the next five. Depends on weather, water conditions, the stars lining up.” He spread his hands. “Fishermen have to save up the windfalls to cover the lean years.”

  Parker nodded. “Which is why I’m here, Mr. Halley. You’re short one foreman. Everett Olson.”

  Halley sat forward in his chair. “Yes.”

  “We found his body in the waters of Puget Sound.” Parker held up a palm to keep Halley from asking the question. “His zipper was down.”

  “Jesus. Dead? An accident?”

  “Gathering information at this stage. Tell me what you can about Everett Olson.”

  Hands gripping his chair arms, Halley said, “I gave him a one-week vacation. When he didn’t return last Monday, I was convinced he’d left me high and dry.” He huffed. “Instead he’s found low and wet. Damn.”

  “Why did you assume he might not come back?”

  Halley steepled his fingers. “The guy was social; not the best worker.”

  “Yet, a foreman.”

  “Of the least glamorous job at the cannery—cooking and grinding fish parts into pet food. A big money maker, but the butt end of fish processing.”

  “So, a people person.”

  “Right.”

  “And Tilly Grant’s boyfriend.”

  Halley averted his eyes. “I could never keep track of Ev’s girlfriends. He was the town Romeo, leaving unhappy women in his wake. I think you’ll find he pissed off lots of folks in town.”

  “Okay. Besides Tilly, who?”

  Halley waved his hand. “Don’t ask me. Ask Tilly, or Liv, or Liv’s mother, or Candy; shit, ask any woman in town, if you can get them to talk. They keep track of that crap. Men spend so much time fishing, so women run the town. Always have, probably always will. “

  “I got the idea from Ms. Hanson that Ms. Grant and Everett Olson were temporarily separated.”

  Halley said, “Ev was running out of women in Petersburg. To tell you the truth, I visualized him tomcatting around Seattle.”

  “Oh.” Parker began to see his interrogation list growing. How many women in Petersburg had Olson dated, and what jealousies and rage had the guy fomented amongst the men in town? Parker visualized scores of interviews with women in Seattle. “I checked Olson’s room at the Seaman’s Bunkhouse. Didn’t use it much, did he?”

  Halley barked a laugh. “Ev always crowed about how he paid the rent at the Bunkhouse but never slept there.”

  Parker let the silence grow between them, but when Halley again avoided eye contact, he said, “Your daughter, sir.”

  Pressing his lips together, Halley said, “You work fast, don’t you, Detective?”

  “Tell me about Susanna.”

  With a big exhale, Halley began. “Twenty, spoiled and aimless. Still love her…she’s my only kid, but somehow the responsibility gene didn’t transfer from me to her. I think she’s smart, but the University doesn’t agree. She failed summer quarter and I refused to pay for her apartment and expenses in Juneau if she wasn’t enrolled in school. Works at the Coffee Hüs, now.” He rolled his eyes. “She’s miserable living at home. We barely speak.”

  “Because of Ev.”

  He shrugged. “Call that the straw. She saw Ev on the sly because she knew we wouldn’t approve. He’s older than she is by more than ten years and his behavior is disgusting.”

  Parker was quiet.

  “I found out about them two weeks before Ev left.”

  “Oh.”

  Halley drummed his fingers on the table. “I encouraged Ev to take a vacation. Distance. All that.”

  “He went willingly.”

  A nasty chuckle came from deep in his throat. “I all but kicked him out. The terms were if he returned to take up his foreman job he could not see Susanna.”


  “You were actually pleased he didn’t come back?”

  “Ecstatic.”

  “Susanna?”

  “Devastated when she found out about my deal. He told her, of course. The dick.” Halley squirmed in the chair, his face orange-red now, frustration in his expression. “Remember old Jimmy Carter, how he got into trouble for saying he could recall times he lusted in his heart?” At a nod from Parker, Halley continued, “I wanted to kill Ev Olson; I dreamt of it, lusted for it.” He sighed. “But I didn’t murder him. If he’d come back and taken up with my little girl again, I might have.”

  Parker spent the next half hour asking questions about Everett Olson’s work history and gathering more names of men and women who could have been friends or enemies, depending on which women Olson bedded at any given time. Parker handed his fake business card to Halley, and rose. “Looks like I have quite a few people to interview, Mr. Halley. I’ll be talking to Susanna, you know.”

  “Beware of shrapnel,” he muttered.

  “I’ll be in town for a couple of weeks, at the Viking B&B.”

  Standing, Halley shook Parker’s hand. “I’ll take you to Tilly’s office. After you talk to her, I’d suggest you visit with Liv.”

  “Really? Why?”

  His mouth tightened. “I’m the type who keeps out of people’s business unless it affects the cannery, but I’m not deaf. Something happened between Liv and Ev many years ago. I’ve learned not to put those two names together, but I’m not sure why. This is a town full of stoic Norwegians, after all. Even if I’m not one of them, I try to act like them.” Halley gave Parker a measuring look. “Good luck finding out the real truth about Ev Olson, Detective Browne.”

  ****

  “Don’t tell me,” were the first words out of Tilly Grant’s mouth once Halley had introduced Parker to her and left the room. Grant flopped down in her chair and pouted. “I usually don’t let people into my office with bad-news expressions on their faces.”