Lie Catchers

by Anderson, Rolynn

  “Were you aware of Peterson being questioned by the marshal?”

  Jenny shook her head. “No, and Greta never mentioned it.”

  “What happened to the guy?”

  Closing her eyes, Jenny said, “She married him and they went to Juneau. He walked out on her after she had their second child.” She opened her eyes. “Thank God, her second husband was a decent fellow and adopted the children as his own.”

  “Good. So the marshal might not have questioned Tor Peterson. I wonder why. He interviewed anyone who knew Sing Lee, including Greta, right?”

  “As far as I know. Greta felt sorry for the marshal because he worked so hard but couldn’t get anywhere on the case. A lot like Parker.”

  “You said before you didn’t know Sing Lee very well, but Greta did because she saw him twice a day. Did Greta like him?”

  Jenny straightened the front of her sweater and spoke slowly. “She talked about Lee’s generosity with struggling fishermen. But at the core, he was very conservative and followed his Chinese teachings.”

  “How’s that?”

  She reached for a rosette and broke it apart on her plate, carefully shaking off the extra powdered sugar. “Oh, he’d spout quotes, preach about giving to others and talk about how the man had to be the leader of the family. Very old world.”

  “So as much as Sing Lee tried to fit in the Norwegian culture, he continued to abide by his Chinese beliefs.”

  “Exactly.”

  “People didn’t mind that?”

  Jenny shrugged. “Lots of people respect someone who holds fast to a philosophy or religion when there are so many others adrift without a belief system.” Eyes narrowed, Jenny said, “Witness the popularity of televangelists.”

  “Do you think his beliefs put some people on edge?”

  Looking at her hands, Jenny said, “I suppose so. I’m sure Sing Lee wasn’t comfortable in a town run by women.”

  “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go with your idea a clash of cultures might be afoot. The Marshal gets that clue from something Greta says. Okay with you?”

  Jenny sighed and looked at Liv with tired eyes. “Do what you have to do, dear. Your guesses are as good as anyone’s, so many years after the fact.”

  Liv took Jenny’s hand. “You’ve given me the burst of energy I need to finish the articles.” She brushed powdered sugar from her sweater at the same time Chet ambled into the living room. “Here’s my escort, come to walk me home. I appreciate your letting me talk about Greta in my column, Jenny; I’m trying to be as accurate as I can, but with so little information, I have to guess at some of the details. I want to help Petersburg understand how hard it is to solve crimes and let go of the guilt.” She hesitated. “You probably think I’m crazy.”

  Jenny shook her head slowly and repeated, “Liv, dear, follow your heart.” She squeezed Liv’s hand. “And I’m sorry about you and Parker. I thought you made a lovely couple.”

  Smiling, Liv put down her coffee cup and rose. She conjured her anti-detective feature and used a line from it: “The man is addicted to his job, Jenny. I’d like a man who is addicted to me.”

  Jenny chuckled. “That’s the way to think about it. Are you going to talk to Nels and Anette again?”

  “I am. One more time before I finish the series on Sing Lee’s death. Thanks for all your help.”

  The old woman’s expression clouded for a moment before she responded. “Memories are tricky, Liv. As much as I want to recall the good times, it’s the painful events that whirl in my mind.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  Jenny flicked her hand. “Don’t apologize. Your way of deliberately focusing on the pain, may be healthier in the long run.”

  ****

  Dear Parker,

  Letters have super powers only if they’re saved. You made me flush mine down the toilet and now I’m troubled because I remember only some of your points, and must second-guess nuances I might have imagined. Yes, my memory failed me this time, perhaps because you threw me too many curves last night. My jade ensemble was overwhelmed and the weather changed by the minute. God, I hate disorder.

  Example: I’m sure you mentioned at least two times, maybe even on three occasions, your deep desire to dance in the darkness with me. Next: You spoke, at some length of my intelligence along with my quick wit and splendid acting ability... four or five paragraphs of these plaudits, enough to swell any woman’s head. I thank you for the compliments.

  The sentences you devoted to describing our charade were duly noted. We already agreed I can act. Do not, however, equate me with Kate, the shrill shrew. Relax. I will most definitely underplay the role you assigned me.

  I promise to use Chet’s Escort’s Service any time I leave my apartment and during my clerking hours in the store. By the way, I’ve had to drag Chet to my mother’s so many times that the two of them have become good friends. Maybe more than friends. Thought you should know.

  The part of your letter that is sketchy for me centers on hidden chasms minus bridges. Now, I might be a natural actress, but bridge-building could take some training. Constructing a bridge over a hidden chasm? There’s a challenge.

  As for love lost. My heart goes out to you, Parker, along with a pang of envy. You have had a great love and lost it. I have never loved.

  Back to dancing with me in the darkness. I remember, now. You wrote that sentence four times, and in the last phrasing, we’d stopped moving altogether, but held each other so tightly our hearts beat as one .

  I am off to locate that thing you said I was hiding. Thanks for remembering the last time I wore jade.

  Burn this!

  Liv

  ****

  “They meant well,” Ivor said gruffly, as he stood at the door of Parker and Nilson’s makeshift office, the gray décor dreary on a rainy afternoon. “Nilson and I had been chasing our tails for the last week, so the women decided on a letter-writing campaign.”

  The agents sat at a long gun-metal desk, papers piled high on both ends. While Ivor spoke, Nilson focused on the gray tile floor, eyes narrowed.

  Parker raised a hand of acknowledgement. “Women might be used to running this town, but we’re in charge of the investigation. I’m sorry I had to be a little sharp with Liv, but I figured she’d want me to be direct. Nilson and I want two things from your sister: All the information she can muster, along with her promise to keep safe. She could still be a target.”

  A nod from Ivor, half-way mollified. Nilson sat straighter.

  Parker cleared his throat, covering his satisfaction at bringing the two men on board. “Liv is intelligent and doesn’t like to be coddled. She appreciates candor. Add to that, she’s a key witness to Barber’s movements.” He raised his eyebrows. “She’d go ballistic if we stalled the investigation by not asking for her help.”

  Ivor threw him a dirty look and shuffled to the window, where Parker joined him. Rain sheeted down the glass, mottling the view of Nordic Drive, its buildings disappearing over and over again, as their images coursed to the bottom pane.

  “We’d like to use Liv as a resource if she’s willing to follow our rules to keep safe.”

  Ivor nodded and mumbled something, turning his back to Parker.

  “What?” Parker asked.

  Louder, Ivor said, “She’s not as tough as she appears.”

  “Point taken. Want to sit down with us?” He pointed Ivor to the chair next to Nilson and sat across from the two men. “We’ve taken you off the suspect list based on what we found out in Seattle along with a review of your finances. Now, we’re ready to tell you all that we know.”

  Parker opened an evidence box and removed a small yellow tablet. “This is the reason we set up the Seattle PD and Treasury Task Force. In Everett Olson’s back pocket was a Rite in the Rain waterproof notebook, with a cover and pages that stay intact in wet conditions. We thought we could figure out exactly how long Olson was dead, based on soaking a new Rite in the Rain tablet in sea w
ater. We wrote on it with pen and pencil before we dunked it in saltwater.” He held up the product and made a face. “Our experiment with a new notebook didn’t tell us a damn thing. After soaking a week it still looks new, with neither ink nor pencil notations affected by salt water.” Parker riffled through the pages of Everett Olson’s notepad. “It’s full of women’s names, phone numbers and addresses; we’ve checked them out with zero success. He had his wallet in his other pocket. Credit cards and driver’s licenses survived as did the money, so this wasn’t a simple robbery.”

  Ivor took the tablet from Parker. “These Rite in the Rain notepads are sold in Petersburg. Fishermen use them to keep track of their catches.”

  With a nod, Parker said, “I bought two as soon as I got to town. In this weather, I’ll bet every guy has one in his back pocket.”

  Ivor held the yellow pad aloft. “You said the Seattle cops summoned the Treasury Department because of what’s in this?”

  Taking the tablet from Ivor, Parker began to turn the thick pages, pointing out a number or a letter of the alphabet on twenty or so pages, all in the right hand corner. He pulled out a piece of paper with all the numbers and letters strung together. CA WEST 3345 2491 7642 80, followed by $3.2. “This is why Seattle PD called in Treasury. I’ve been working on the bank number in Fresno, long enough to know several things about the account,” said Parker. “First, the number is legit, with the right amount of characters in the correct order. CA stands for the Caymans.”

  Ivor shook his head. “Everett had three million plus in the Grand Caymans? Where the hell did he get it?”

  “Good question,” said Nilson. “Tuck Barber vacationed in the Caribbean; we know this from his ledgers. Others could have ‘visited’ that account, as well.”

  Pointing to the number, Parker said, “To further analyze the account, protocol calls for us to take the CA and the first two numbers and transfer them to the right hand side of the number. Now we convert all the letters of the alphabet to integers, with A equal to 10, B, 11 and so on. At this point we have to apply a module 97 and do some intricate calculations. If the number we extract, finally, is 1, we have a bona fide account number.”

  “So there’s 3.2 million in the Cayman Bank?”

  “The U.S. government doesn’t use IBAN numbers,” said Nilson. “The Feds can easily find out the holdings of American citizens in this country, but our hands are mostly tied when it comes to money owned by Americans in foreign countries.”

  “You mean we aren’t sure if Everett’s name was on that account in the Grand Cayman bank?”

  “Nope,” said Nilson, making a derisive noise in his throat. “But if we have good cause and if the Caymans want a favor from the U.S., sometimes we can barter for bank account details.”

  “And are we?” Ivor asked. “Going to barter for the information?”

  Parker exhaled. “Not yet.”

  “Why? He had the number.”

  “But we don’t know how he got the money to put into the account.”

  “And,” said Nilson, dramatically.

  “And?” asked Ivor.

  “And,” said Parker. “We don’t know how many other good citizens of Petersburg contributed to the off-shore stash Everett Olson intended to confiscate.”

  Chapter Twelve

  By the time she and Chet dropped in on her mom’s, Liv had worked herself into a quiet funk. Seeming to sense Liv’s need to be alone with her thoughts, Harriet put her to work at the stove stirring the rommegrot. “Don’t let it burn,” she admonished with an eyebrow up in warning. “I’m going to teach Chet how to barbeque salmon on cedar planks.” Looking happy and young, Harriet had made drinks and pulled Chet out to the patio for his lesson, while Liv remained in the big family kitchen, a gas fire dancing merrily in the river-rock faced fireplace.

  Liv stirred the sour cream, butter, and flour concoction, a favorite of her father’s. He liked it warm, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. Strange how having Chet in the house made Liv miss her Dad more, not less.

  And Parker. Chet’s presence underlined his son’s absence. Did she wish Parker were here? Yes and no. Yes, for the look of him, tall and broad-shouldered and heart-stopping handsome. Yes, for the chance to talk to him about Chet and Harriet’s budding relationship. No, for his antagonist role-playing and intense gaze, in search of her hidden self.

  We’re allowed to keep some things to ourselves, aren’t we?

  Roasting cedar wafted into the kitchen, mixing with cinnamon, cardamom, and cooking potatoes. Liv gazed at the leather recliner, her father’s favorite chair, reminded of the simple life he’d lived, focused on fishing and the routines of daily living. A man comfortable with children who were seen, not heard. No sass. No questioning of adults. Toe the line set by the head of the family, even if he were absent half the year.

  Ivor was inculcated with Dad’s principles and by the time her brother was eleven years old and Liv was only five, Ivor took it upon himself to teach Liv how to behave. “They’re wrong, Ivor,” she’d said, in the quiet of the basement playroom. “We stayed at the Matthews in Ballard for two days, May 11th and 12th. I remember how the sun shined both days and I played with my Barbies outside. They think we visited the Matthews the week after.”

  “Shut up,” he said. “Who cares what days we stayed with them? Who made you the calendar expert anyway?”

  “I just know it, Ivor. I’m sure my dates are right and Dad’s wrong.”

  “Well, keep it to yourself, nimrod. Dad doesn’t like it when you argue with him.”

  “Why?”

  “If you know what’s good for you, shut up. For one thing, you’re only five. For another, you’re a girl,” he said in a smug voice.

  When she started school, she discovered her classmates had dim recollections of events they shared in common, but they argued about details anyway. At first, Liv would weigh in, fighting for correct times and dates. When they disregarded her, she stopped offering, altogether. In fact, all her life she’d encountered people who confused dates or lied about them. Liv learned from her brother and her dad to keep her opinions to herself. She made more friends if she kept her mouth shut.

  “No!” she said aloud.

  “No, what?” her mother asked as she walked into the kitchen.

  Liv smiled. “I was thinking about Dad. There was a lot about him I didn’t know and vice versa. Typical Tlingwegian, hmm?”

  Frowning, Harriet asked, “Is this uncomfortable for you, having Chet around?”

  Liv held up her hand. “Absolutely not. I’m happy you’ve found a new friend, Mom. Really.” She dug the wooden spoon across the bottom of the rommegrot pan. “Dad was such an introvert. Am I the same way?”

  Harriet threw ice cubes into her drink. “You are a writer, which makes you positively loquacious compared to your dad. Why do you ask, dear?”

  “Parker. He thinks I keep stuff to myself.”

  Harriet squinted at her. “I thought you were on the outs with him.”

  “I am. His criticism of me is one of the reasons.”

  Pointing to the pudding, Harriet ordered, “Stir.”

  Liv turned down the burner and did what she was asked.

  Harriet took a swallow of her drink and picked up Liv’s empty glass. At Liv’s nod, her mother added ice to Liv’s drink and poured in gin until Liv gestured for her to stop. Harriet patted Liv’s cheek. “You have a thing about dates.”

  Liv stopped stirring until her mother pointed to the pan, a silent order to keep at it. “I learned to keep quiet about them.”

  With a sigh, Harriet said, “Your dad didn’t like being corrected by a child.”

  “He was horrible at remembering dates.”

  Harriet shrugged.

  “Why didn’t you back me up, Mom?”

  She exhaled, heavily. “He was raised to believe he had to show strength and leadership as a father, doubling those efforts since he was gone fishing half the year. When he came home, I liked to step back
and let him play his role.”

  Liv nodded, memories storming into her consciousness. “Once we went to the Juneau electronics store to return a radio without a sales slip. I remember the exact date we bought that radio, because I was with Dad that day. I was twelve years old, Mom, not a baby. But when I tried to convince him of the real date and time, he looked exasperated and waved me away as if I were some irritating gnat.”

  “He got his money back.”

  “Mom, you can’t imagine how it feels to be disregarded that way. I mean all through school I had to keep my mouth shut about details I was sure of. I thought I was a freak.”

  “We all have our areas of expertise. I happen to have a second sense about cooking and gardening; your dad could always locate prime fishing holes; you remember dates. Doesn’t make you better than me or your dad, just smarter in an area that’s become more and more important in modern life than gardening, say. What I mean by that is, a skill for growing food for a family used to be vital; today, it’s kind of a hobby, as is cooking.” She paused. “I always wondered why you didn’t go to law school, where your ability to sort dates could come in handy.”

  “You never told me.”

  “It’s not how we do things, honey. You live your life the way you want to.”

  “Come on, Mom. I could have used some help handling my so-called expertise.”

  With an eyebrow up, Harriet asked, “Did you know Dad loved you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he proud of your grades in school, all the way through college?”

  “He was.”

  Harriet stuck a fork in the boiling potatoes. “Done. Drain those, please. I better check on Chet.”

  “Mom?”

  With a hint of exasperation in her voice, Harriet said, “You developed other skills, honey. You became a writer and you’re expanding our business with the salmon oil pills.” She took a swallow of her drink. “There’s a little part of your brain that’s more exacting about dates than anyone else in Petersburg. You learned early on that your righteousness irritated people, like my innate skill at making rommegrot bugs you. You hate having me hover over your work at the stove, don’t you?”