“Actually, I’m coming back here for dinner. I’m bringing Richard. Remember?”
“Oh. Right.” Murphy shut the door, then watched Elin drive off into the fog.
In the kitchen Olga was slicing asparagus, with a row of pies on one counter. The fragrance of baking salmon came from the ovens. “There you are.” She pointed with a paring knife. “Write your cell number on the whiteboard over there in case I need to get hold of you. Then go change into your uniform and come back down. Set the table for seven. Denali will be at the far end away from the kitchen, so no chair at that spot. Silverware and napkins are on the sideboard.”
Murphy wrote her number under the few events scheduled for the guests at the resort’s main lodge, then raced to her room and found a reasonably well-fitting pair of jeans and shirt in her closet. No time for a shower. She refreshed her deodorant and hoped it would be enough.
When she returned to the main floor, Denali, Lab by his side, was holding court with Jake, the pilot, now dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. Father Ivanov, still in the black cassock and green tennis shoes, sat in an easy chair by the window. A middle-aged man wearing dark tortoiseshell glasses sat on the sofa in front of a crackling fireplace. Lucas, Denali’s grandson, leaned against the wall near the bar. The room smelled of burning pine and baking salmon.
No one paid any attention to her as she headed to the dining room. As she set the table, she listened to the conversation.
“So here’s the funny thing,” Denali was saying. “I told Bill Gates that I liked his wife’s answer better than his.”
Everyone chuckled.
“Tell us more about your trip,” Father Ivanov said to Jake.
“They climbed that cliff and were gone for several hours,” Jake said. “The storm blew in even faster than I thought. It’s a miracle that lady survived the fall and we made it out.”
“I told Elin to just let well enough alone on that island.” Denali slapped the armrest of his wheelchair. “What’s the toll now? Six dead and one seriously injured? If your plane had gone down, it would have been nine dead.”
“If you count the murder of Vasily and Irina, there are eight dead people,” Lucas said.
Father Ivanov shook his head. “There’s no reason to put that double homicide in with the bodies on Ruuwaq, is there?”
“You don’t think they’re connected?” Denali asked. “Seems quite the coincidence that they should be gunned down before Vasily could say anything else. What did that crime-scene lady come up with before she was hurt?”
Jake leaned forward. “Not much on the flight out. She was having Murphy write stuff down. Right, Murphy?”
Everyone turned and looked at her. She busied herself with placing bread plates. The clatter of the dishes on the table seemed overly loud.
“Bertie, um, she was just brainstorming possibilities.”
Olga poked her head out of the kitchen. “Go serve some drinks.” She glanced at the table and grunted. “Good. You know how to set a table. Last one didn’t know a bread knife from a salad fork.”
Murphy moved to the wet bar in the corner of the living room. Shelves displayed various glasses and liquors, while the small refrigerator under the counter held beer and white wine. A small round serving tray sat on the counter. She noted the brands and approached the men. “May I get anyone something to drink?”
“Coke,” Lucas said.
“Do you have a cabernet sauvignon?” the priest asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll have a small glass.”
Jake caught her attention, pointed to the priest, and held his fingers apart, indicting the other man needed a large glass. “And I’ll have a Scotch with water.”
“Make that two,” Denali said.
The newcomer reached over and offered her his hand. “I’m Ryan.” The man appeared to be in his forties, with an open, likable face and lopsided grin. His sepia-brown hair receded from a high forehead. The combination of heavy, square glasses and hunter-green corduroy jacket gave him a scholarly look. He reminded her vaguely of Tom Hanks. “Just flew in from Anchorage. They were telling me about this case of yours. Six dead bodies discovered over ten years ago on a remote island, bodies burned, all but a skeleton in a Quonset hut?”
She shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Ryan. I’m Murphy. Technically it’s Detective Olsson’s case. I’m just doing some sketches.” She retrieved her hand from his grip. “May I get you something to drink?”
“I’ll have a glass of that cab.”
She nodded and retreated to the bar. She returned shortly with the drink order.
Gravel crunched as several cars pulled up in front of the lodge. Elin got out of the first one. Murphy gave her a quick wave out the window, then handed Ryan his wine. “You seem to be pretty up-to-date on our progress.”
“It’s not as if it’s a secret, is it?” Jake shrugged, then drained his glass of amber liquid. “I mean, those guys have been dead for a long time.”
“Bertie mentioned the ABI would probably step in—” Murphy started.
“Not until I give them my report.” A short, ginger-haired man in his late forties, with a neatly trimmed goatee and beard, and sour expression, stood at the open front door. “I’m Richard Zinkerton, like Pinkerton with a Z, CSCSA, CCI, ICSIA.” Richard held up a badge, then took off his jacket and tossed it on a chair. “Nice digs.” He looked around. “Really nice. Sure beats the fleabag Economy Inn. That place reeks of fish.”
“Someone must hate him,” Lucas muttered.
Elin entered after him carrying a paper bag.
Denali turned his chair toward Zinkerton. “I’m glad you and Elin could join us for dinner. Welcome to Salmon Run Lodge. I’m the owner, Denali Stewart.” He introduced everyone, including Ryan Wallace, who was a journalist writing a piece about the history of the lodge. “And that’s Murphy Andersen, the artist who went out to Ruuwaq with Bertie.”
She crossed to Elin. “May I get you something to drink—”
“You’re a bartender?” Zinkerton’s gaze drifted down her body, coming to rest on her chest. “And a kid to boot. Bertie actually took an underaged bartender along on an investigation?” He smirked. “Internal affairs will love to hear this one.” He took a seat near the fireplace. “At any rate, I’ll need to talk to you. Sounds like Bertie will be out for a while.”
She made an effort to unclench her hands. “Elin, may I bring—”
“You can bring me a Chivas Regal, neat,” Zinkerton said. “If ya got it. If not, Glenlivet.” He jerked his thumb at Murphy and said to Denali, “Is she legal?”
Murphy made a point of not looking at him. “Elin?”
“Club soda.” Elin made a face at the back of Zinkerton’s head, then handed Murphy her jacket and held up the paper bag. “And I brought you some clothes.”
“Thank you.” A sudden lump of gratitude filled her throat. She took the coat and bag, returned to the bar, and stored them on a chair.
She poured a highball glass of Jim Beam and ice for the technician.
“I guess you didn’t hear me,” Zinkerton said peevishly. “I said—”
She held up the bottle. “We’re just out of Chivas and Glenlivet. Will Jim Beam do?”
Zinkerton shrugged. Denali shot her an appreciative look.
Taking a chilled glass from the refrigerator, she added ice and a slice of lime, then poured the club soda. She brought both drinks into the living room.
Elin took her soda and winked at her.
She winked back, then handed Zinkerton his whiskey. He downed it in one gulp, then thumped the glass back on the tray. “Bring me another. Rough day and rough flight over.” Once more behind the bar, she found and filled a clean glass.
Elin handed Bertie’s digital camera to Zinkerton. Without speaking, he signed the chain-of-custody form she handed to him, then turned on the camera.
Murphy brought his second drink, lingering behind him as he scanned the photos. He grunted when he came to
the photographs from the inside of the Quonset hut, then paused when he came to the skeleton. “When did you say I can get out there?”
Elin said, “Depends on the weather.”
Murphy leaned closer. “Watch out for the rats. The skeleton—”
He held up his hand. “No. I’ll come to my own conclusions. You’re not a certified crime-scene technician, let alone a trained laboratory analyst.” He took a long gulp of the whiskey and once again placed it on her tray. “You’re lucky to have been asked to go along.”
She straightened and strolled to the bar.
“So what’s your first move?” Ryan asked Zinkerton.
“And you are?” Zinkerton asked.
“Ryan Wallace. I’m here—”
“Right, the journalist. I don’t discuss my cases with the press.”
Grabbing the whiskey bottle, Murphy dumped a hefty amount into the glass, debated on spitting in it, opted not to, then brought it to Zinkerton.
“But maybe you have information I need to know,” Zinkerton said. He took the full glass from Murphy and bolted half of it down.
She should have spit in it.
“And what might that be?” Ryan asked with that enigmatic half smile.
Olga entered. “Dinner is served.” She gave a brief jerk of her head to indicate Murphy should follow her into the kitchen.
She went reluctantly. I’d love to hear his answer.
CHAPTER 12
The first course is coconut shrimp with spicy orange dipping sauce.” Olga handed Murphy several plates. “Be sure you serve from—”
“The guest’s left and remove from the guest’s right. Yes, ma’am.” She took the three appetizer plates and rushed back to the dining room.
Everyone was seated and Father Ivanov was offering a short prayer in Russian.
She stopped, bowed her head, and breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t missed anything.
When he’d finished the prayer, she started serving the meal.
“So I usually get sent to the highest-profile cases.” Zinkerton stuffed a shrimp into his mouth. “This one on that island—”
“Ruuwaq,” Father Ivanov said.
“Yeah, whatever.” Zinkerton waved his fork and stabbed another shrimp. “Was a cold case, so I sent a less experienced investigator.”
Murphy placed the last appetizer in front of Lucas, then said quietly to Zinkerton, “I thought Bertie was a senior investigator.”
Zinkerton placed his fork on the plate with a clank. “Look, girl.” He spoke just above a whisper. “You’re nothing more than a waitress and bartender. I don’t know why Bertie dragged you along on this case, but you need to keep your trap shut until I interview you, which I’ve decided I’ll do tomorrow instead of tonight. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” she said through tight lips. Tomorrow when he wasn’t as sloshed.
“Now bring me another drink.”
No one at the table noticed the exchange. She walked stiff-legged to the bar and poured Zinkerton yet another generous drink. It took all her willpower not to dump it on his head when she returned with it.
By the time the main course was served, Zinkerton had downed two more drinks and was slurring his words. “Sho, the real reason Bertie went on thiz case is my wife’s sick. Been sick. ’Bout a year now. Gotta wait until someone’s available. But I been thinkin’ ’bout it. The way I figure, this island place was where they were hiding drugs or schomething.” He took another drink.
She paused in picking up a dirty dish. “Don’t you think the Quonset hut was important?”
He pointed a finger at her. “You’re suffering from CSI syndrome. Too mush television. You don’t know what’s importan’ and what’s not. That”—he looked around the table—“takes years of work and training.”
Enough. She carefully placed the dirty dish on the sideboard with a shaking hand, then turned to Zinkerton. “The Quonset hut on Ruuwaq was a T-rib design and had rusty steel.”
All the table conversation ceased, and everyone’s attention focused on her.
Ryan cleared his throat. “Um . . . aren’t all Quonset huts made of steel and therefore prone to rust?”
“Yes, but the original huts, made in 1941, were made of lightweight corrugated sheets that would rust comparatively easily. They were later replaced with more rust-resistant steel.”
Denali nodded. “That’s right. They would have used nonstrategic steel because of the war.”
“So you’re dating that hut to sometime between 1941 and 1945?” Elin asked.
“I think it could be dated tighter than that.” She stared at Zinkerton. “When we measured the building, we found it to be thirty-five to forty feet long. The original 1941 structures were sixteen feet by thirty-six feet. And the T-rib design was phased out around 1942.”
“That’s excellent, Murphy!” The priest beamed at her.
“What makes you such an expert?” Zinkerton’s face flushed.
She opened her mouth to answer, A master’s degree in fine arts with an undergraduate minor in architecture. Then she paused and looked at Elin. “There’s more. Starting in 1942, Frank Hobbs, an engineer in Seattle, developed Pacific Huts. They were shaped like the Quonset huts but were made of wood. They were cheaper, easier to ship, and stayed warmer. They were used extensively in Alaska.”
“So all indicators suggest the Quonset hut you found,” Elin said, “may have been one of the original ones from 1941 to early 1942.”
“Fascinating,” Ryan said. “So now you need to figure out when the slide buried it.”
“I’ll do the figurin’,” Zinkerton said. “And any research needed.” He tried to draw her attention to his nearly empty glass.
She ignored him and continued to clear the table.
“Speaking of research,” Denali said to Zinkerton, “weather permitting, are you going to Ruuwaq Island tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” Jake spoke from the bar where he’d just filled his glass with bourbon.
She winced at the amount of alcohol in his glass, thinking about his piloting the next day. Elin caught her expression and mouthed, He’ll be fine.
Jake sauntered to his seat. “The fog’s supposed to lift before morning. If it does, we’ll fly out tomorrow about ten, with Richard here and an Alaska State Trooper.”
Zinkerton turned to Father Ivanov. “Hey, I have to ask. Are you a Ruskie?”
“I was born in Russia. I came to Kodiak to attend the St. Herman Theological Seminary about six years ago and stayed.”
“Why?” Zinkerton didn’t wait for an answer. He downed the last of his drink, then stood, swaying slightly.
Elin also stood. “If you’re done eating, I’ll drive you back to your motel.”
Zinkerton glanced at his watch, a gold Rolex. “Gotta call home, but a bit early to call it a night, don’t you sink? I’m okay. Thansh for the offer.”
“It wasn’t an offer.” Elin strolled to his jacket, still thrown over a chair, and retrieved his car keys. “It was a directive.” She looked at Denali. “I’ll send someone over tomorrow to pick up my SUV.” She pulled a clunky key ring from her purse and peeled off a single key. “Spare in case you have to move my rig.”
“Well, hey.” Zinkerton stumbled toward her. “I don’t mind being taken home by a pretty girl.” He pulled out a keycard. “Room 32. Come in and check out the decor.”
Elin’s eyes narrowed.
Murphy made a point to turn her back and stack dirty dishes, hiding her grin. She’d give her left arm to see Elin rearrange Stinkerton’s face.
After they left, the group moved to the living room and settled into the comfortable chairs and sofa around the crackling fireplace. She finished clearing the dishes.
Olga brought a coffee service set into the dining room and handed it to her. “Cognac in the bar. Big pot is regular, small is decaf.”
The tray was heavy. She lowered it to the coffee table and turned. Before she could take drink orders, Denali said, “You have a
n impressive knowledge of Quonset huts, Murphy. There seems to be a lot more to you than a barmaid and waitress. What’s your story?”
“Just like reading a lot,” she muttered. Fool. She had put herself into the limelight by showing off. She kept her head down as she headed to the bar.
She stopped abruptly at the bar. Elin had left her jacket. Glancing out the window, Murphy saw no sign of Zinkerton’s car. Once she was done serving and cleaning, she would put the coat in Elin’s SUV.
The conversation moved from crime to politics. By the time the evening wound down, Murphy was dropping on her feet. Denali was the last to retire down the hall, dog padding softly behind.
She still had the cognac glasses and coffee service to wash, and the living room to straighten. It was close to one in the morning and finally dark before she finished.
Picking up Elin’s jacket, she strolled to the table where Elin had left the single key. Murphy grabbed it and stuffed it in her pocket. She walked outside to place the jacket in Elin’s car.
A phone rang.
She checked Elin’s coat. Her cell was in the left side pocket. The number was blocked. She was about to ignore it, but what if this call was from Elin?
“Murphy Andersen.”
A female voice answered, “This is Detective Buchanan of the Kodiak Police Department. Who did you say you were?”
She clutched the phone. “Murphy Andersen. Are you calling for Detective Olsson?”
Silence. “Ah . . . no, Ms. Andersen. I’m calling from a phone found on an unidentified man. This number was the last one dialed.”
“Oh no.” It came out as escaping air.
“Would you tell me who called you earlier?”
“You said he’s unidentified. Is he dead?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“How? Why?”
“Um . . . you mentioned Detective Olsson. How do you know—”
“I’m a forensic artist working with Detective Olsson.”
“I see. Could you give me his name?”
“What does he look like?”
“Red hair. Mustache and goatee. Name?”
Murphy slowly sank to the porch. “Not until you tell me what happened.”
Formula of Deception Page 9