Cold Smoked

by K. K. Beck

  THE MYSTERIOUS PRESS

  Published by Warner Books

  A Time Warner Company

  COLD SMOKED. Copyright © 1995 by K. K. Beck. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  For information address Hachette Book Group USA, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017.

  A Time Warner Company

  ISBN 978-0-7595-2430-9

  A hardcover edition of this book was published in 1995 by Mysterious Press.

  First eBook Edition: June 2001

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Imagine a cross between Nora Charles and Kinsey Millhone, a female sleuth who walks and talks like a thirtysomething Lauren Bacall—and you’ll have a pretty good portrait of K. K. Beck’s Jane da Silva. Jane, a former lounge singer who has been the chief (and only) investigator for Seattle’s Foundation for Righting Wrongs, can collect on her uncle’s vast inheritance only when she solves worthwhile “hopeless cases.” She’s a lady who values her independence, yearns for a healthy bank balance, and appreciates a good wine, a Cole Porter tune, a great clothing sale . . . and a fine-looking man. Now Beck is back with her fourth mystery in the acclaimed Jane da Silva series . . .

  COLD SMOKED

  “Beck tells a story with a compelling narrative drive.”

  –Chicago Tribune

  “Jane da Silva’s character is made of just the right proportions of cynicism, good humor, avarice, determination, and resourcefulness.”

  –Denver Post

  “This is Beck’s best work to date. . . . COLD SMOKED is a hot treat.”

  –Seattle Times

  “This fourth Jane da Silva novel by K. K. Beck treats readers to a smorgasbord of intrigue dished up for a humorous and savvy heroine.”

  –Mostly Murder

  “Beck has created a breezy, modern detective . . . a delightful series.”

  –Publishers Weekly

  “Beck writes in a wry and appealing style, and Jane is a well-realized protagonist.”

  –Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “A fresh and cockeyed look at the way an amateur sleuth can be invented.”

  –Murder Ad Lib

  “Beck’s da Silva is daring, determined, clever, and spirited.”

  –Booklist

  “Jane da Silva is the kind of woman you wouldn’t mind having a long cup of coffee with on a rainy day.”

  –Wisconsin State Journal

  “Beck has a style that is slightly comic but wholly interesting.”

  –Greeley Tribune [KS]

  “Beck is a mystery writer with a splendid gift for spinning out a story that catches up the reader, with a mesmerizing fascination for plot and character that stands her in the company of the Agatha Christies and Conan Doyles of the mystery tradition.”

  –Midwest Book Review

  “Jane is one of the few detectives who manages to be endearing yet tough at the same time.”

  –London Free Press

  “Beck is a charming storyteller with a lively sense of humor.”

  –San Jose Mercury News

  C O L D

  S M O K E D

  THE JANE DA SILVA NOVELS:

  Cold Smoked

  Electric City

  Amateur Night

  A Hopeless Case

  ALSO BY K. K. BECK:

  Death in a Deck Chair

  Murder in a Mummy Case

  The Body in the Volvo

  Young Mrs. Cavendish and the Kaiser’s Men

  Unwanted Attentions

  Peril Under the Palms

  For Alex, who loves fish

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was in the middle of her first number, “Blue Moon,” that Jane da Silva realized the Fountain Room smelled heavily of fried fish. It must be coming from the clothes and skin of all these conventioneers attending the international seafood show, she thought. She hadn’t noticed it earlier when she’d been working the lobby lounge. Now, however, she was in a private banquet room, doing a party for a group that had something to do with salmon. She shifted a little on her tall stool, closed her eyes, tilted her head back and began the chorus.

  The fishiness was mingling with the smells of cigarette smoke and the chlorine fumes from the room’s circular fountain. This pathetic structure, an apparent attempt to create an upscale atmosphere, seemed to be made of an old Jacuzzi with a mosaic of the chunky white rocks used in gas station landscaping cemented to the outside. A weak stream of water came out of a copper pipe in the middle of the thing. Jane had cranked up the mike in an attempt to drown out the persistent whoosh that sounded exactly like a running toilet.

  The Fountain Room also had crushed velvet draperies with satin cord tiebacks and plastic wood tables with cigarette burns. It was in the basement of the Meade Hotel in downtown Seattle, a bland, recently renovated hotel from the fifties that catered mostly to the business traveler on a skimpy expense account.

  Jane had been working at the Meade for two weeks now and had been under no illusions from the beginning. She’d known this was a tacky gig the minute she’d clapped eyes on the piano. It was white.

  Still, she supposed she was lucky to get the job. The surly food and beverage manager, a young, dark, hulking man with heavy eyebrows, hadn’t asked to see a promo book or hear a demo tape. He’d taken her word for it that she knew five hundred songs, which was a slight exaggeration. (Actually, she knew the opening lines to five hundred songs and relied on her fake book and her accompanist Gary’s heavy chords to do the rest.)

  He hadn’t asked to see Gary’s ID, either, which was a blessing because Jane suspected he was under twenty-one and therefore too young to work legally where booze was served. Jane, pushing forty, wondered if she and Gary looked like a mother-son act.

  Gary had been here for a few months on his own, and because of dwindling business in the lobby lounge, he’d been told to come up with a female vocalist if he wanted to stay on. “Get a babe with some class,” the manager had said. Now Gary had to split the take, but the tip glass—a brandy snifter the size of a baby’s head, baited every night with fives and tens—took the edge off the low pay.

  Yesterday the manager had muttered something about a beat box, a synthesizer that provided fake percussion sounds, to jazz up the act. Gary and Jane had managed to fend him off. The thought was anathema to them both, definitely sleazy, with its soulless, jangling, thumping cha-cha beats. Not to mention unsightly. The equipment sprouted ugly wires and plugs and looked like something from Radio Shack. But what else could you expect when the piano was white?

  Anyway, she’d been happy to take on this party. It was an extra five hundred dollars, and she and Gary had brazenly brought in the tip glass, w
hich was a nervy thing to do at a private gig.

  Jane smiled in the direction of a nest of conventioneers with plastic name badges. A few of them were swaying and singing along to “Blue Moon.” She’d watch them. All this karaoke had made mike grabbers out of people, and she wasn’t about to let that happen.

  One of them came across the room to make a request. She leaned down with a half smile. He was a tall thin man with fine silvery hair, slightly bloodshot blue eyes and a light brown suit that looked definitely European. In a slight Scandinavian accent, he asked for “Just One of Those Things.” What a break. She actually knew all the words. Cole Porter was her strong suit.

  She caught his name badge, which said he was Trygve somebody from the Norwegian Fisheries Ministry, and nodded. He patted her proprietarily on her shoulder. She felt the clammy warmth of his hand through the fabric of her beige silk dress. Still smiling, she turned slightly and executed an accidentally-on-purpose maneuver that involved flicking the microphone so that the cord snapped at his Adam’s apple and he stepped back.

  When she had sung his request, and done a pretty good job of it, too, she thought, the Norwegian came up and stuffed a measly two dollars into the glass. She gave him a two-dollar nod of thanks: about a quarter of an inch. She sighed and signaled to Gary that they should take their break a little early.

  Jane felt herself teetering on the brink of a major depression. Maybe a shot of cognac would take the edge off and get her through her next set.

  She smiled nicely to the scattered applause that floated over Gary’s final chords, turned off the mike, set it carefully on her stool, and went over to the bar, where she sat down and ordered her usual tapwater with a wedge of lime, then decided what the hell and changed it to a small Courvoisier.

  Two men with conventioneers’ name badges were sitting there. One was about forty, dark and elegant. Jane read his name badge. He was from Santiago, Chile. She took in the dark good looks, the expensive tailoring and the wedding ring. The other was younger, with sandy hair and an open, amiable sort of face and pale skin. The two men watched the Norwegian make his way back to his table. He seemed to be having a little trouble negotiating the fountain and was following its curve with his head down like a pony in a child’s zoo ride.

  “Poor old Trygve. He’s looking a bit pathetic. He always drinks too much at these gatherings,” said the Chilean with a slight accent and a disapproving click of the tongue.

  The younger man answered in a strange accent she assumed was Scottish, but was thicker than any she’d ever heard. “Spirits are desperately expensive in Norway, so they sometimes tend to crog it on a bit when they leave home.” He paused and went on indulgently, “He was pairfectly sober for his speech today. He doesn’t generally do these fish shows. I heard he was a last minute replacement for the assistant fisheries minister. He hasn’t lairned yet that you wait for a late night until the last day of the show, once you’ve packed up your stand and all.”

  Jane liked having foreigners around. A recently reformed expatriate, she felt homesick for the rest of the world.

  Just then two young women came into the Fountain Room. They were wearing short, tight velvet jackets, thigh-high Royal Stuart kilts, black mesh stockings and spiked heels. They did a showy turn around the fountain, and then the blond half of the team waved at the Norwegian, who seemed delighted and gestured them over to his table.

  The Chilean rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe the Scots, using those prostitutes to sell their salmon.”

  “It’s their American distributor, actually,” said the other man.

  “Oh!” replied the Chilean, as if that explained the lapse in taste. “I didn’t mean to malign your countrymen,” he added with a little smile.

  “They aren’t my countrymen.”

  The younger man sounded testy. Jane’s eyes flitted down to his name badge and read the computer-generated letters. His name was Magnus Anderson. Hardly a Scottish name. The second line read “Shetland’s Finest Smoked Salmon,” and the last line read “Lerwick, Scotland.” The word “Scotland” was crossed out in pen and replaced with block capitals that read “Shetland.”

  Magnus Anderson glowered. “We were stolen by the Scots. We were part of a dowry for the ugliest queen in the world.”

  “Yes, yes,” his companion said impatiently.“You explained me this. They had to give away the most beautiful islands in the world to marry her off.”

  “And the Orkneys, too,” said Magnus, peering gloomily into his beer. “By rights, we should be part of Norway.”

  “Then you could have Trygve’s job, and maybe we’d accomplish something at the salmon exporters meeting. Oh, excuse me, but there is a customer I must see.” The dark man drifted away toward an elderly Japanese gentleman and executed a very un-Latin bow.

  Anderson now turned to Jane and said, “It’s grand to have you singing for us. Perhaps you’ll cheer us up. We just had our yearly meeting, and there are a lot of problems in salmon farming. Things got a bit heated.” He sighed. “I’ll be glad to get back home.”

  Jane glanced at his name tag as if reading it for the first time and repeated the name of his company. “Shetland Smoked Salmon. Really! Smoked salmon is one of my favorite things.”

  “The very best in the world comes from Shetland,” he said. “World” came out “weereld.” “You’ve heard of Shetland, haven’t you?”

  “Of course,” she said. “The Shetland Isles at the northern tip of Scotland. I’ve always wanted to go there.” Jane had French friends who’d raved about the place in the romantic way the French did about mist-enshrouded northern spots.

  He beamed happily at her enthusiasm. “We prefer to call it Shetland.” He indicated an enamel lapel badge showing a blue flag with a white cross. “This is our flag.”

  “The best smoked salmon in the world?” said Jane. She was prepared to listen to any sales pitch if she could hear more of that fabulous accent. There was something so wonderfully cozy about the vowels.

  “We start out with the best fish,” he intoned, like someone telling a child a much loved bedtime story. “In the voes of Shetland, the water temperature is perfect, and the wave action is strong, so the fish swim against the current and develop proper muscle tone. And then, of course, we prepare it properly. Cold smoked. Very slow.”

  “And I imagine you’ve been doing it for centuries,” said Jane, prompting helpfully.

  “Well, not exactly,” he said. “In actual fact, we’ve only had salmon for the last fifteen years or so. We’ve no rivers. But now it’s all farmed, you see. In pains in the sea.” It took Jane a minute to figure out what he was getting at. He meant “pens,” not “pains.”

  “Smoked salmon,” she murmured, and closed her eyes, imagining it sliced thinly on buttered toast with some onion and caper and a lemon wedge as a garnish, with a cool glass of wine.

  “Come by the seafood show and I’ll give you some,” said Anderson. “After the show ends, and I take down the stand”—an operation that became “tack doon” when he said it—“I’ll give you what’s left. We canna ship it all back.” He handed her his card. “But there’s just one condition.”

  “What’s that?” said Jane.

  “Sing my favorite song,” he said.

  “And what might that be?” She was alarmed because, as was her habit, she seemed to be absorbing the cadence and accent of whomever it was she was speaking to and selling it back to them. He didn’t seem to notice. Despite his almost American friendliness, there was something feathery and otherworldly about him. His skin looked translucent, and his voice was soft. She could imagine his favorite song being some keening old ballad from a few centuries back.

  “ ‘Walkin’ after Midnight,’ ” he said. “You know, the Patsy Cline thing?” He clearly sensed that she didn’t expect him to be a Patsy Cline fan. “Country music’s very big in Shetland,” he said. He tapped at his card. “If you ever come, look me up. We’re always happy to see visitors.”

 
She drank the last delicious sip of the cognac and slid off the stool. “I’ll be glad to sing that,” she said, thanking God for her fake book.

  Before she started again, she went to the ladies’ room, tastefully done up in pink Formica with some bouquets of dried roses in baskets. She examined the skin under her eyes for mascara smudges.

  The two young women in Highland attire, one blond and one brunette, stood in front of the mirror.

  “Jesus, Marcia,” said the one with brown hair in a squeaky voice that sounded as if she were on helium, “my feet are fucking killing me.”

  Jane could well believe it. The spikes were at least four inches high, enough to jam her toes painfully down into the point of the shoe and throw out her back. It was one of life’s major ironies, thought Jane, that something that made your legs look so good made your feet feel so bad.

  “I know,” said Marcia. She had taffy-colored hair and too much makeup around her small, wary blue eyes. “And these mesh stockings sort of cut into the soles of your feet, don’t they?”

  Jane, who had dismissed these girls as mindless twits because of their tacky outfits, felt sorry for them. They seemed suddenly young and vulnerable. After all, who was she to sneer? She was strutting her stuff, too, in her own middle-aged, subtle way. Hadn’t she chosen the beige silk dress she was wearing for the way it curved over her hip, made her waist look small and revealed just a tasteful slice of leg?

  “Plus, my hair smells like fish,” said the brunette lass thoughtfully. She took the end of a strand of her hair between her fingers, brought it to her nose and sniffed. “Yuck,” she said, then examined the hair sample visually in the time- honored split-end-inspection gesture. “So do you think those guys who said they’d meet us here will show?”