Formula of Deception

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  “And that led you here?”

  Ryan nodded to the gravestone. “As a matter of fact, yes. The name was in Paul Stewart’s file.”

  “So the old story you were researching had something to do with Paul Stewart?”

  “No.” He folded his arms. “I was originally researching the death of Reinhard Heydrich.”

  “Heydrich? Why does that name ring a bell?”

  “It should. He was one of the main architects of the Holocaust, the Final Solution to the Jewish people.”

  A small shiver went through her.

  “Heydrich was head of the Sicherheitsdienst, the Nazi security service.” Ryan stared off into the distance. “He was an organizer for Kristallnacht—”

  “Night of broken glass.”

  “Yes. The pogrom in 1938 where hundreds of Jewish buildings, businesses, and synagogues were destroyed. In spite of Heydrich’s prominence, the decision was made to assassinate him. Operation Anthropoid was launched. Several men were airlifted into Czechoslovakia, where Heydrich lived, with orders to kill him. They ambushed him and threw a grenade into his convertible, which wounded him. He died several days later in the hospital.” Ryan looked at her. “Now, here’s the interesting thing—a number of people believe the grenade lobbed into the car contained botulism, which got into his wounds.”

  “Sounds like an interesting story, but—”

  “But what’s the connection between Paul Stewart and Reinhard Heydrich? Between Operation Fair Cyan and Operation Anthropoid? Even the events of seven thirty-one?”

  “Seven thirty-one, as in July thirty-first?”

  Ryan shrugged. “The simple answer is I don’t know. The official files on Heydrich are still closed. I was able to get a report from the British Secret Intelligence Service, which suggests the botulism that killed Heydrich might have been acquired from Paul Stewart.”

  “Paul Stewart is a common name. Are you sure it’s this Paul Stewart?” Murphy nodded toward the gravestone.

  “The report was dated 1941. It named a Paul Stewart at this address.”

  “That’s pretty specific. Have you asked Denali about it?”

  Ryan shook his head. “Denali once sued an author for a book that mentioned Paul in a negative light. Seems like Denali is protective of the family name.” Ryan chewed his lip for a moment, then looked her in the eyes. “Maybe you could get him to open up. See if you can find out what links Heydrich and Stewart. Or what Operation Fair Cyan was all about. Actually, any information will be useful.”

  First Bertie wanted her to find out about Zinkerton. Now this. “I don’t know, Ryan.”

  “Aren’t you working that case on Ruuwaq Island? And a Quonset hut from 1941?”

  “Well . . .”

  “I pay my informants very well.”

  With some money and Bertie’s help, she could do a lot more to find her sister. “No promises, but a quick question. Do you think Paul Stewart was a German spy or—”

  “No. He was doing something for the US government. I want to know what.” He stuck out his hand. “Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Turning, she strolled toward the lodge. She glanced back just before she left the clearing.

  Ryan hadn’t moved. He was staring at her.

  CHAPTER 18

  Denali was in the lobby when Murphy returned. “Where have you been?” he asked.

  “Looking for a source of the poison.”

  He softened a little. “Any luck?”

  “No. I went all the way to the family plot.”

  “I saw Ryan go in that direction.”

  She decided not to share their strange conversation. “Yes. He was interested in the graves. For the article he’s writing.”

  He stiffened, then shook his head. “A rip-off of a sculpture from the Gloucester Fisherman’s Memorial? Stupid sayings about animals featuring a shark, a yak, and a turtle? A proverb about drinking too much? Our little cemetery is certainly interesting.”

  “But it brings you peace?”

  “I see you’ve been speaking to my grandson as well.”

  She nodded. “This sounds morbid, but the headstones all look like they came from the same block of granite.”

  “They did. A friend . . . um . . . someone had all the headstones redone for the family.”

  “An interesting gift.” Murphy waited but Denali said nothing more. He picked up the book in his lap. “Can I bring you something before dinner?”

  “No. You go ahead. You have some time before Olga will need you.”

  She was suddenly starving. Throwing a quick wave at Denali, she entered the kitchen, raided the pantry, and found some crackers. She leaned against the counter while she ate.

  Slowly she approached the house, passing a rusty truck on blocks. Reeking garbage burned her nose . . .

  Murphy flinched. She’d been standing over the garbage in the kitchen, staring at the contents. Daydreaming? But that was a nightmare. Why couldn’t she daydream about Joshua? “Hey, Bertie,” she whispered. “I think I’m developing a sweet tooth.”

  She turned to leave, glancing at the whiteboard behind the kitchen door.

  In crude handwriting, scrawled in red marker across the bottom, were the words I’ve found you.

  Adrenaline rocketed through her body. Her hand flew to her mouth to cover the scream. She shot from the kitchen, scrambled up the stairs, and slipped into her room. After locking the door, she raced to the window and pulled the curtains, then peeked out.

  Clinton Hunter had found her. He could have been the one to poison the sandwich. He had to be watching, waiting for Olga to leave. The doors were unlocked. Easy to sneak in. No one would see the whiteboard from any place but inside the kitchen.

  She crouched on her bed holding a pillow, shaking.

  Fraidy-cat.

  “What?”

  You’re a fraidy-cat. Her sister’s voice echoed in her head.

  “Did you just miss what happened? Clinton found me. He poisoned my sandwich. He tried to kill me!” She hugged the pillow tighter.

  So that’s what you’re going to do about it? Hide in your bed? Why not put that pillow over your head?

  “What am I supposed to do?” Murphy pushed the pillow aside and stood. “He’s an escaped convict with lots of family money and support—”

  You know what you have to do.

  She walked to the dresser and looked in the mirror. Dallas’s face stared back at her. “I can’t tell Denali. He’d fire me on the spot. I’ll erase the message . . .”

  Before you do anything, remember Denali has a grandson. He’d move mountains to keep that boy safe—especially from a serial killer who’s wandering around his home looking for you.

  “Then I’ll need a gun to protect the child. And myself.”

  You’ll need money to buy that gun, and to get away. Ryan is going to pay you.

  “How about you, Dallas? How can I find you?”

  You’ll find the answers. They’re already in your hands . . . Her voice faded away.

  “Wait!”

  Go now. Erase . . .

  Murphy crossed the room, opened the door, and crept down the stairs. The house was silent.

  She entered the kitchen and erased the threat from the whiteboard with a shaking hand. Red marker clung to her fingers like blood. She returned to her room and scrubbed the marker from her fingers.

  Clinton had failed to poison her. He was a sneak and a coward, so he’d take advantage of times when she was alone. She’d need to be vigilant and make sure she stayed around people. She also needed to get away from the lodge, but first she had to get the information from Bertie to find her sister, and get the money from Ryan.

  She clenched her teeth. She’d start by updating that notebook Bertie gave her.

  She found the small notebook where she’d left it. Taking it to her bed, she sat cross-legged and leaned up against the wall. Under Facts and evidence she’d written Five victims, all male, death ten years ago, signs of viole
nt death, no other reports of finding bodies, had to get to island somehow—boat? Bodies removed/disposed/buried by person or persons unknown.

  She crossed out had to get to island somehow—boat? and wrote boat stolen, Eddie Pelino? 1941 Quonset hut, body in hut, skull photo and metal object in phone camera, all evidence to date given to Richard Zinkerton. Zinkerton murdered. Vasily and caretaker Irina murdered.

  Under Questions she’d written Cause of death, what happened to bodies, what happened to transportation, Vasily and caregiver murder connected? Identity—Filipino? Cannery workers? Why on island?

  She couldn’t really cross out Identity—Filipino? or cannery workers yet as she didn’t have solid proof.

  Closing her eyes, she pictured the inside of the Quonset hut the last time she’d looked around. “Rocks,” she whispered.

  “Rocks,” she said again, louder. How did that building get covered in rocks? She tapped the tablet, then wrote Earthquake?

  After picking up her phone, she logged on to the internet, then typed in earthquake, Alaska. Her search took her to the Alaska Earthquake Center webpage. A map looking like a colorful grouping of bubbles showed earthquake activities over the last two weeks. It noted that earthquakes occurred in Alaska every fifteen minutes on average. In 2014, over forty thousand earthquakes were detected.

  “Of course,” she murmured. “The Pacific Ring of Fire. Some of the largest earthquakes ever recorded.”

  Typing in the year Vasily found the bodies, she discovered three notable quakes—two in the Andreanof Islands and one in Kasatochi. The strongest was a magnitude of 6.6. That would be enough to shake loose a landslide, but on an island almost a thousand miles away?

  “Think, Murphy. If the man died when the slide occurred . . .”

  She stood and strolled to the window. “That skull was intact, but I couldn’t see if there were any injuries to the body, as it was hidden by the rotten clothing.” The skin between her shoulder blades prickled at the thought. “Bertie and I were able to get into the building without much effort. What kept him from escaping?”

  Returning to the bed, she sat, grabbed the pillow, and wrapped her arms around it. The log walls creaked as they settled. In the distance, the muffled roar of a floatplane came through the window. “Then again,” she whispered, “what are the odds that six people became shipwrecked on an obscure island, and five of them killed each other? One fellow hid from the carnage, only to be trapped by a quake that occurred almost a thousand miles away at the same time? That kind of coincidence stretches the imagination too far.”

  What if the body in the hut wasn’t related to the other five? Who knew how long that skeleton had lain in the Quonset hut before she and Bertie found it? Or maybe he was the one who killed everybody. Or found them and burned the bodies. Or they found him and it made them go crazy—

  Useless, simply useless speculation.

  Starting a new page, she wrote Paul Stewart, Reinhard Heydrich, Operation Anthropoid, Distinguished Service Medal. Lucas said his great-grandfather was a doctor, so she added that. Under Questions, she jotted Connections? Operation Fair Cyan.

  After thinking for a moment she started a third page, heading this one with Timeline.

  1941—Quonset hut

  1946—Paul Stewart died

  Ten years ago—five? six? men dead

  Two days ago—Vasily and Irina murdered

  Yesterday—Zinkerton murdered, Myra in house fire

  She slammed down her pencil. The Quonset hut dated to World War II, as did Paul Stewart and Reinhard Heydrich. But there was an almost-seventy-year gap between the war and the bodies on the island, and another ten years between those bodies and the current murders.

  “And none of the events may even be related,” she whispered.

  The next page held the name and phone number of Vesper Amason, the Native woman with the screaming granddaughter from the hospital. Below that were the words soul searcher? Murphy circled the words, then memorized the phone number.

  She gave up. For now, answers eluded her.

  After changing into her uniform and pulling up her hair, she paused. In spite of Detective Buchanan’s doubt, Murphy still believed Zinkerton was murdered for the evidence he had. And Vasily could have been murdered for what he knew about Ruuwaq.

  Her gaze drifted to her notebook. It contained information someone might want. She looked around the room for a hiding place. Everything seemed obvious.

  Stepping into the hall, she once again noticed the Alaskan regional photographs mounted on canvas. If they weren’t screwed to the wall . . .

  They were hung by a wire on the back, leaving a hollow made by the stretcher bars. She tucked the notebook behind a photograph of a grinning fisherman holding up a huge fish, making sure the cover of the notebook was slightly wedged between the stretcher bars and canvas. If someone were to run a hand over the canvas, they’d feel the small raised area, but she’d bet no one even looked at the photos.

  Olga soon had her peeling potatoes.

  “Denali told me about Quinn,” the housekeeper said. “Said the vet sent the blood and urine contents for testing. He thinks the dog got arsenic poisoning.”

  A cold sweat dampened Murphy’s back. Obviously Denali hadn’t told Olga about her poisoned-sandwich comment. “Where could Quinn have gotten into arsenic?”

  “He’s having Lucas go through everything in the equipment shed tomorrow.”

  “I see.” She concentrated on the potatoes for a few minutes. “How long . . . how long have you worked for Denali?”

  “Oh my, ever since his accident.”

  “Accident? The one that . . .”

  “Put him in that wheelchair, yes. Car accident. Icy roads. His wife, JoAnne, perished.”

  “How sad.”

  “It was terribly sad. Bad times. Really bad. He’d just lost his daughter and son-in-law and was flooded with grief. JoAnne was a mess herself, tipping the bottle all the time. He had some kind of split or altercation with a man who’d become like a father to him. I think the only thing that kept him sane was that medal of his dad’s. I think he was focusing on how brave his dad was during the war, and that he needed to be . . . Look at me! Gossiping like an old woman.” She picked up a pot holder. “Why don’t you talk about you?”

  “There’s not much to talk about. I’m on my own. The apartment I rented burned down. My landlady died. I got this job.”

  Olga pulled a pan out of a cupboard and placed tinfoil on it. “How long have you lived on Kodiak?”

  “About a year.”

  “What brought you here?”

  “Did you want me to slice the potatoes or leave them whole?”

  Olga paused with a stick of butter. “Don’t want to talk? That’s okay with me. I can tell you’re educated, well brought up, polite, a good worker, and in a heap of trouble.”

  She stopped peeling. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because a lot of people around you are turning up dead.”

  Dinner that night was quiet and somber. Father Ivanov joined them—apparently a common occurrence—as did Ryan, Elin, and Jake.

  As Murphy served the first course, Elin was speaking. “Of course, the good news is that Bertie is on the mend.”

  Lucas was somber with red-rimmed eyes. She rubbed his shoulder slightly when placing his plate, and the young man gave her a weak smile.

  “The ABI decided to send someone over to look into our crime wave.” Elin put her napkin in her lap.

  “What is that, three murders in two days?” Father Ivanov asked. “Don’t you usually have less than three murders in a year?”

  “Way less, and if we count Murphy’s landlady, it’s four. The fire was arson.”

  “What about Ruuwaq Island?” Denali asked. “You’re done with that place, aren’t you?”

  “It’s a bit on the back burner,” Elin said. “But we still have supplies out there—a metal detector and so on. Jake, maybe you could fly—”

  “No,”
Jake said. He and Denali exchanged glances. “I’m . . . spotting bears for the next few days.”

  “Well then, we’ll get Butch Patterson. Maybe Murphy could even finish diagramming the scene and take some more photos of the Quonset hut and the body.” An uneasy silence fell on the diners until Father Ivanov started talking about Alaskan politics.

  After everyone finished eating, Lucas yawned and stood.

  “Night, son,” Denali said. Elin, Jake, and the priest added their good nights.

  Lucas went to Murphy and gave her a hug. This time she returned it. “Good night, Lucas,” she whispered.

  He left.

  When she glanced up, all eyes were on her. “Does someone need something?”

  “Well, well, well.” Jake raised his eyebrows at Denali, then took a sip of his drink.

  After a moment, Denali cleared his throat. “What are the Seahawks’ prospects this year?”

  “Not a chance,” the priest said.

  “You a betting man?” Jake asked.

  Murphy crossed the living room and stepped outside to get some fresh air. The front of the house gently sloped to the rocky beach and ocean beyond. Another storm loomed on the horizon. Leaning against a log rail, she tugged out the clip holding her hair and let the weight of it settle across her shoulders. A bald eagle and a pair of crows were having a disagreement over something. When a magpie joined in, the eagle decided to leave. She watched him fly across the treetops and out of sight.

  Movement under the pines drew her attention. A man sitting in a silver pickup parked under the trees was watching her.

  CHAPTER 19

  Murphy was about to turn and run when the man got out of the pickup. Joshua Ward. In uniform.

  When he came close enough so she didn’t have to shout, she said, “I hope you’re not here to arrest me.”

  “Should I arrest you?” He smiled, displaying perfect teeth. The sleeves of his black uniform stretched across his well-muscled arms.