“I use one every day,” Ritz piped up. “After all, I have to update my blog.”
The mobster gave her an
I rest my case
look.
Chris Dalen shrugged. “And even though I’m getting out today, there’s still an order barring—What did they call it?—‘unauthorized contacts’ or something like that.” He smiled at Liza’s puzzled expression. “I guess they’re afraid I was going to put the Mondrian up for auction on eBay.”
Liza didn’t know what to say to that, so she went back to discussing the techniques and choices Fat Frankie had made in constructing his sudoku.
When Liza finished, Ritz gave her head a sage shake. “Just as I thought,” she said. “This is really, really hard.” That predatory look came over her fox-face as she glanced over at Kevin again. “Ya know what I mean?” A little pink tongue tip appeared between the celebutante’s lips.
Liza had to restrain herself from whacking the girl over the head.
With my luck, her teeth would click together, she’d bite off the end of her tongue, and I’d face a long court case over cruelty to prisoners. Not the best publicity for Liza K’s syndicated sudoku column.
Kevin only rolled his eyes.
The class finally came to an end, and Liza thanked her erstwhile students. “You were very good sports, taking part in this pilot program,” she said.
“It’s not as if we had to fit you into our busy schedules,” Conn Lezat told her.
“When they asked me, I thought, ‘What the hell?’” Fat Frankie admitted. “But—well, I came up with that damned puzzle, didn’t I?”
“Better being in here than looking at walls and bars.” Ritz shot another glance at Kevin as she spoke.
Chris Dalen had to smile at the girl’s honesty, however tactless. “I’d been doing these puzzles for a while, but you brought me to a whole new level,” he told Liza.
“I guess so, if you could come up with a sudoku using only the bare minimum of clues,” she replied.
“I hope you’ll check it out for me,” Dalen said.
“Definitely,” Liza promised. “Good luck on the outside.”
“Thanks.” Dalen went back to his faux German accent. “Perhaps I giff you a call on der telefunken.”
With that, a guard arrived at the classroom door to lead the students back into their prison routine. Liza collected her stuff, and then another guard escorted her and Kevin down the corridors and through a series of gates.
An assistant warden met them just before they exited. “It was a small sample group, but everyone seemed pretty enthusiastic about your class,” he said. “I understand that you’ll be very busy. Do you think you could come up with a curriculum that would work with the general prison population?”
“I think it would definitely run longer, with more time introducing the basics,” Liza replied, thinking of the steep learning curve Ritz had suffered from. “Some things have to be explained more simply”—in spite of Conn Lezat’s penchant for esoteric math—“and the final project probably needs to be broken down into easier stages.”
After all, only Fat Frankie and Chris Dalen had even managed to create a sudoku, and Basso had raised some valid concerns about accomplishing that.
The three made some agreeable noises at each other, and Liza and Kevin finally got outside.
Liza released a long breath that came out as a plume of condensation in the cold air. She was a little surprised it didn’t come out gray. The longer she stayed in the prison, the more she felt as if she were inhaling air that every other inmate had already breathed.
She shivered, but that wasn’t all reaction. The day was bright and clear—probably a peculiar form of torture for the people who couldn’t just walk out the prison gates. But it was really
cold
.
That was one of the more perverse twists of Oregon winter weather. The damp, cloudy, gray days usually had more moderate temperatures than days with clear skies. Then, apparently, any warmth seemed to escape into outer space or something.
Juggling an attaché case and shoulder bag, Liza struggled to zip up her Eddie Bauer parka, something she had neglected to do while still inside. She was so distracted trying to insert the tab in the zipper that she almost collided with someone heading from the parking area toward the gate.
Liza stepped back, recognizing the round face wreathed about with a hand-knitted scarf. “Why, Mrs. H.—what brings you out here?”
Mrs. Halvorsen was Liza’s next-door neighbor. Growing up in the small-town ambience of Maiden’s Bay, Liza had looked on the older woman as a sort of surrogate grandmother, enjoying milk and cookies in her kitchen. Since returning to her old hometown, Liza found her neighbor treating her to glasses of fairly dreadful sherry while trying to hook her up in a series of matchmaking attempts.
Today, she thought, Mrs. H.’s usually cheerful face looked more disconcerted than anything else. “I’m here doing my Christian duty,” she finally replied.
“Oh,” Liza said brilliantly. Well, Mrs. H. could usually be found reading an enormous family Bible—although her interpretations could be pretty surprising. Mrs. H. beat her arms against herself, in spite of being fairly bundled up. Liza suddenly felt guilty, looking at her neighbor’s wan face. “You should go inside and warm up.”
With a quick nod to Kevin, Mrs. H. hurried over to the gate. Kevin looked over his shoulder as he walked with Liza to his big, black SUV. The thing bulked over most of the vehicles in the parking area, including some sort of repair truck. “Funny,” he said, “Mrs. H. is usually a lot more chatty.”
“I guess she’s doing some kind of Bible class with the inmates.” Liza frowned, recalling the look on Mrs. H.’s face. “I wish I’d known. We could have offered her a lift.”
“A lift?” Kevin said. “That’s awfully generous—with my car.”
“Mrs. H. could use a little friendly help,” Liza told him. “That huge, ancient Oldsmobile she drives isn’t great when it comes to MPGs. And you know what gas costs these days.”
Kevin looked at her. “A lot of people are feeling that pinch.”
“Mrs. H. is feeling it a bit worse, I’d say,” Liza went on. “Her husband’s company rejiggered their pension plan.”
Kevin’s breath came out in a white puff. “That can’t be good.”
“Especially for mere surviving spouses. Her monthly income took a nasty hit.” Liza paused. “And you remember that storm a couple of weeks ago?”
Kevin nodded. “We lost a tree on the inn property.”
“The same thing happened on Hackleberry Avenue— except the top of the tree landed in Mrs. H.’s living room. Luckily it was at the end of the storm, so the furnishings weren’t ruined. But when she went to her insurance company to pay for repairs, they lowballed all the costs.”
That stopped Kevin with his key halfway to the SUV door lock. “They screwed her over?”
Liza nodded. “Big time. She got a policy years ago with the Western Assurance Group.”
“The people with all those ads on TV saying, ‘Rest assured?’” Kevin asked.
“Those are the ones. Well, Mrs. H. kept paying the same premiums, but the company kept sneaking in changes to the terms—changes that shrank the coverage considerably.”
Kevin’s eyebrows rose. “Makes me want to check my own homeowner’s policy.”
“Tell me about it,” Liza said. “Since Mom passed away, I’ve just kept paying the premiums on her policy for the house. Now I’ll have to dig out all her old paperwork and compare what she bought—and what I’ve got now.”
She shook her head. “In the meantime, Mrs. H. has plastic wrapped around one side of her house, and she’ll have to pay about half of what the repairs will cost.”
“So she takes a hit both in her income and in her savings.” Kevin opened the door then went round to the driver’s side of the SUV.
“Not only that, but there’s talk of raising the tax assessments in our neighborhood. We’re too close to those pricey developments that sprang up on the outskirts of town,” Liza said.
“You mean ‘Little California?’” Kevin asked with a grin.
“As if you never get any Californians over at the Killamook Inn,” Liza said, climbing aboard.
“Yeah, but they don’t decide to live there.”
The influx of Californian money had brought a latte place and several high-style boutiques to Maiden’s Bay. This new development, however, was alarming.
“Seriously, though,” Liza said. “If property taxes go up, Mrs. H. may not be able to afford her home. I still have some public relations money coming in from my partnership in Markson Associates and now the syndication of my column. What’s she going to do?”
Kevin shrugged as he settled in behind the wheel. “Didn’t you mention that she had Michael painting and redoing the spare bedroom to pay his keep while he was staying here? Maybe Mrs. H. is going into the bed-and-breakfast business.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Liza said with a frown.
“You don’t have to worry,” Kevin assured her. “I’m not afraid of the competition.”
“I’m just worried about how much business she’d get,” Liza said. “Maiden’s Bay isn’t exactly what you’d call a hot destination.”
She was interrupted by a tap on her window—make that more like insistent rapping.
Liza turned to find a short man in a brown polyester parka right out of the seventies peering in at her. He had a face like an old basset hound, all jowls and wrinkles. But instead of that breed’s usual lugubrious expression, this guy reminded Liza of the aggressive little schnauzer belonging to one of her aunts. The mutt considered every visitor an intolerable provocation to be greeted with snarls and snaps.
In this case, the aggression came out in raps.
It took a moment to locate the button that lowered the window. “What’s your problem,” Liza asked.
Mr. Hound Dog thrust his pink, saggy face into the opening. “You’re Liza Kelly—the one teaching that sudoku class.” The words came out more like an accusation than a question.
Not a fan, I suspect,
Liza thought. “I am,” she said aloud. “Who are you?”
“Howard Frost, Western Assurance Group.”
“Why doesn’t that reassure me?” Liza asked, thinking about Mrs. H.’s payment problems.
“My company held the policy for
Composition in Blue, Red, and Green.
” Seeing Liza’s look of incomprehension, the insurance man added, “The Mondrian that Christopher Dalen stole.”
“Oh,” Liza said, “I can’t say we ever talked about that.”
“But he did class work for you?” Frost pressed. “You should understand that that prisoner is not allowed any communication, written or otherwise—”
“He’s getting released today!” Liza burst out.
“—to ensure he cannot pass information regarding the present location of the artwork he stole,” Frost continued inexorably.
Liza blinked. “You think he’s making secret messages in sudoku puzzles?” She dug into her attaché case and pulled out a copy of Chris Dalen’s seventeen-clue wonder. “Here you go—knock yourself out.”
Crumpling the paper, Liza tucked it down the front of Howard Frost’s parka. Then she turned to Kevin. “Let’s get out of here.”
3
As they drove off, Liza caught a glimpse of Howard Frost in the side mirror. He’d spread out the paper with the sudoku, perusing the puzzle as if it held the secrets of the ages.
“What do you think that was about?” Kevin asked.
“I guess the Western Assurance Group may get away with stiffing smaller clients,” Liza said. “But the painting Chris Dalen stole left them on the hook for at least a couple of million. Even after a dozen years, they must have some flunky out trying to recover it.”
“Good luck with that,” Kevin said with a smile. “So, shall I drop you at the
Oregon Daily
, or do you want to stop off at Ma’s Café for a bite to eat?”
Liza grinned back. “What? Spoil my appetite for dinner tonight?”
“And here I thought you were just coming for the ambience.”
The Killamook Inn had a deserved reputation for its kitchen. And when Kevin invited her to the dining room, he always reserved table twenty-one, the quiet, romantic table in the corner that every good dining establishment should have.
“Nope, definitely the food,” Liza assured Kevin.
Well, he didn’t take it personally. Instead, Kevin laughed all the way to the satellite office of the
Oregon Daily
. Actually, that was a pretty grandiose title for an operation shoe-horned into the second floor of a strip mall outside of town. Lately, Liza had found herself spending a lot of time there with Ava as the launch date for her syndicated column came closer.
Liza transferred to her car, waved good-bye to Kevin, and drove off toward Hackleberry Avenue and home. Turning onto her block, she saw Mrs. H.’s house half wrapped in plastic and sighed.
But her mood lifted as she pulled into her driveway. The sound of her engine brought a reddish-furred head poking up in the front window. Then barking erupted as she put her key in the lock. Rusty danced around the living room as Liza came in. The dog’s coloring came from his Irish setter ancestry. As for his perpetual good humor, that probably came from the mutt side of his parentage. Shortly after moving back to Maiden’s Bay, Liza had found the dog wandering the neighborhood. She’d named him Rusty and taken him in to lighten the mood in her old family homestead.
And Rusty did his best to oblige, like his cheerful greeting. He also deftly sidestepped while he moved around, leading them toward the kitchen counter where the jar containing his dog treats reposed.
Rusty paused, looking up at Liza expectantly.
She laughed, opening the jar. “Knock it off, you fraud.” He caught the treat on the fly, ran in a victory circle, and settled down contentedly in a patch of sunshine from the window.
Liza took a seat at the kitchen table and fished a copy of Chris Dalen’s puzzle out of her attaché. As she worked her way through the grid, she shook her head. Minimum sudoku represented a specialized province in Sudoku Nation. In fact, Liza knew of a website that collected all known seventeen-clue puzzles.