Cold Smoked

by K. K. Beck

  “Hi,” Carla said in a sad little voice.

  “I was wondering how you were getting along,” began Jane.

  “I’m not getting on very well at all,” Carla said. “My whole life has been turned upside down.”

  “Oh, I know, it was awful,” said Jane, alarmed.

  “It isn’t just that,” said Carla. “Even though I’m still upset, naturally. It’s that after that happened, I was let go.”

  “You mean fired?” Jane said.

  “I guess you’d call it that. I’ve devoted my life to seafood, and Norm just went ahead and fired me. Because of that dead woman.”

  It took a while to get the story out of her. Carla had been fired because an advertiser, a smoked salmon company, objected to her piece on the Seattle Seafood Show, specifically the sidebar entitled “Tartan Tarts? Is This Really the Way to Sell Seafood?” The piece had apparently included a long statement from the Women’s Seafood Network about tasteless exploitation of women at trade shows.

  Carla had written it before making her ghastly discovery in her hotel room. The magazine’s editor, Norman Carver, hadn’t bothered to read it. Norman never bothered reading any editorial material, because he was really only interested in selling ad pages.

  He had, however, faxed the copy to an advertiser, the smoked salmon company that had hired Marcia, so they could read what had been written about them before it went to press.

  The company had complained that the whole thing was in poor taste, considering what had happened to its hapless demo girl. They had canceled a four-color insert. Norman had fired Carla immediately, citing the cancellation and other complaints from advertisers who felt Carla wasn’t as interested in providing editorial support for their businesses as she should be. Norm had to be a first-class idiot, faxing the story without reading it.

  “Now I won’t get that trip to the Norwegian cod grounds I lined up at the seafood show,” said Carla. “I was really looking forward to it.” Her heartfelt sigh was clearly audible over the phone.

  Jane offered some sympathy and worked the conversation around to Marcia. Carla, it turned out, had been working on writing up the murder for the magazine until about an hour before she was fired. “I knew it wasn’t strictly seafood oriented, but I thought people in the industry would want to know what happened,” she explained.

  Jane wanted to hear all about Carla’s investigation. “Listen,” she said, “I got fired, too. How about if I use my last check to take us out to lunch to cheer us up. To be honest, I’m kind of curious about Marcia. Maybe you could fill me in. It would take my mind off my own troubles.”

  “Wow, that would be great,” Carla said, her voice taking on a new animation.

  Jane suggested her own favorite restaurant, Ray’s Boat house, in Carla’s neighborhood. She thought Carla would approve, as seafood was their specialty.

  “Good idea,” said Carla, sounding even happier. “I think they have some great Copper River salmon, and some of the Canadian halibut that’s just been landed.”

  Jane cut her off before she had a chance to give more details of the menu or went into how the catch of the day had been bled and gutted; she arranged to meet Carla at one, then called and made a reservation.

  Jane was eager to talk to Carla in person. She was a firm believer in in-person interviews. It was much easier to get things out of people face-to-face.

  Feeling pushy, but sticking by her tried-and-true method, Jane decided she should also try to touch base with Marcia’s boyfriend in person, on her way to the restaurant.

  She showed up twenty minutes later on the porch of a surprisingly elegant old house on Capitol Hill, not far from her own house on Federal Avenue. She hoped he’d be home.

  It was a big square house, painted white and embellished with lots of fancy moldings, classical columns along the deep front porch, leaded diamond-shaped windowpanes and a couple of Moorish keyhole windows thrown in for good measure. There were lots of houses like this in Seattle, dating from the early decades of the century and nicknamed “classic boxes.” There was a big, messy garden around it and a curving driveway leading to a porte-cochère.

  What was Marcia St. Francis, cheesy model, doing living in a place like this? It seemed a more suitable home for a blue-haired lady who belonged to the Sunset Club, or some youngish yuppie couple who would have the landscaping all redone and a paint job in three colors picking out all the little details. Rich people, in any case. Maybe Curtis Jeffers was some well-heeled doctor or dentist who had ditched his wife and been shacked up with a younger blonde. But no, the Hunters had called him “that boy.”

  She rang the bell. The door had a big oval of beveled glass in its center, and she tried to peer through a heavy, yellowish lace curtain into the hall. All she could make out was a human shape coming toward the door.

  The man who answered looked about twenty-five. He had oily-looking dark curls that hung to just below his earlobes, a thin, intense-looking face and olive skin. He wore a woven cotton tunic in purple and red that Jane guessed came from Central America, over what looked like pajama bottoms. On his feet were black cloth slippers.

  From behind him came the powerful smell of cat. More than one, judging by the intensity, Jane imagined.

  “Are you Curtis Jeffers?” She tried to look sympathetic yet firm and businesslike.

  “Yes, I am.” He blinked slowly. There was a strange passivity to his voice.

  “I’m glad I caught you at home,” she began.

  “I don’t work,” he said in that strange, flat voice. “I’m always here.”

  “My name is Jane da Silva,” she said. “Marcia’s family . . .”

  At that he scowled. “Her parents?” he demanded.

  “Yes. They—”

  “They have blood on their hands,” he said. “Tell them I said so.”

  Maybe he’d gone crazy with grief, she reflected, hesitating. Then: “I wonder if I could ask you a few questions,” she ventured. “The Hunters—”

  “Ha!” he said in some strange little cry of triumph.

  “They’re very upset, as I’m sure you are,” Jane said.

  Curtis Jeffers’s face changed suddenly. The anger drained away, and Jane thought he was now on the verge of tears. The sudden shift was slightly scary, but she thought she had an opening now.

  “They’re wondering about a lot of things,” she said. “They’d lost touch. They want to know what she was up to.”

  “Marcia was a saint,” he said. “A wonderful, brave person. Ethical and decent. They wouldn’t understand that.”

  “They’re wondering about her death, too,” she said.

  He stepped back a pace, then whined: “No, I’m not talking about it.”

  Now he acted as if she were accusing him. “There was a Norwegian,” she began, thinking to deflect attention from him.

  “What about him?” said Curtis.

  “Her family wonders—”

  “He has blood on his hands, too. They can all go to hell,” he said.

  This wasn’t going anywhere. Jane sighed and took a card from her purse. “I know this is a terrible time for you,” she said. “Maybe later you might want to talk. Other people cared about Marcia, too.”

  He took the card, stared at it, then thrust it back at her. “Go away,” he said quietly, and then he slammed the door. Hard. The glass shuddered and the lace shook.

  Jane stood on the porch for a second, feeling like a failed door-to-door salesman. Thank God she hadn’t put her foot in the door. That heavy slam could have done some real damage. And it had come without any accompanying physical signs of anger. Curtis Jeffers seemed to be wired rather differently from other human beings. He gave her the creeps.

  It wasn’t until she was back at the curb that her feeling of painful rejection subsided. After all, it had been pretty aggressive to just show up without an appointment and expect someone who might well have been grieving to confide in her.

  At the restaurant, Carla was w
aiting eagerly for Jane, carrying a large tote bag with a stenciled crab on the side and wearing a T-shirt with a salmon and the words “Protect the Resource” on it. Ray’s was a nice, airy restaurant right on the water. Jane loved it because the food was simple and beautifully prepared, and the atmosphere was low key and unpretentious. If the place hadn’t been in Seattle, it might have been tarted up and snobbish.

  They got a nice table by the window, where they could watch an occasional fishing boat or green-and-white tugboat go by and admire the misty hills over the water.

  After a lengthy discussion with the waiter over the provenance of all the specials, Carla settled for some Alaska rex sole. To avoid further fishy discussion, Jane ordered the same thing.

  “Tell me what you found out,” said Jane, digging into her first course—a salad of wild tasting greens with a wonderful walnut vinaigrette dressing.

  Carla said her informants from the Fountain Room (she’d made about thirty calls to conventioneers who’d been hanging around the Meade that night) told her that Marcia and Trygve Knutsen, a Norwegian Fisheries Ministry official, were seen pawing each other in the bar. He was very drunk. They left the hotel together at one point in the evening. He later returned alone. His room was next door to the hospitality suite.

  Carla already knew that there was a connecting door between his room and the suite. It had been open earlier that evening when the magazine had hosted a cocktail party.

  Jane was beginning to see why the Hunters wondered why the police had let Trygve Knutsen fly out of Seattle a few hours after talking to the police.

  “Did you find anything out about Marcia herself?” said Jane. “What kind of person was she?”

  “I talked to her boyfriend,” Carla said. “Twice. The first time I just called and said I’d found her and I was sorry and he said he thought this Norwegian guy killed her and—”

  “He said that?” said Jane, startled.

  “Yes,” said Carla. “He said he knew they were together and that the guy was drunk, and that he was a sociopathic killer.”

  Carla had gotten more out of Curtis than Jane had. “How would he know?” Jane said. “Did she call him and say she was groping around with this guy and he seemed homicidal and she’d be home a little late? What kind of a boyfriend is he, anyway?”

  “He’s very weird,” said Carla. “The second time I called, I told him I was writing the story for the magazine, and he said he had nothing to say to the press and that I had blood on my hands or something. Maybe because he knew she was found in our hospitality suite. He was kind of scary, but I guess he’s in terrible shape.”

  Curtis Jeffers seemed to see blood on everyone’s hands.

  “I also called Trygve Knutsen in Norway,” continued Carla. “I’ve interviewed him plenty of times, and he is usually pretty friendly, but he said he had nothing to say and hung up on me.”

  “What I still don’t understand,” said Jane, “is why you were staying at the hotel? You live here in Seattle.”

  “I know,” said Carla, “but I wanted to be sort of in the middle of the action. Norm has a suite there he uses for entertaining clients, and sometimes I interview people there. He gets some freebie from the hotel for plugging it in our Seattle Seafood Show issue.” Jane noted that poor Carla had used “our” when referring to the magazine. She still hadn’t fully realized she wasn’t working for them anymore.

  “Anyway, he said I could spend the night there. I pick up a lot just hanging around the hotel. And that way I can socialize more and hit all the parties.” Carla sounded as if the seafood show were the highlight of her social year. Hmm . . . like the dreary salmon exporters reception, thought Jane. Carla had hardly wowed them there, as she recalled.

  “You said room two ten was sort of a corporate suite. Who else had a key to it?”

  “I don’t know. Norman gave me the key. He had a bunch of them and sort of handed them around. It was one of those cards with holes punched in them. It was when I started to ask him about it that he told me not to write about the murder, just to forget about the whole thing. Then those smoked salmon people called about an hour later and he fired me.”

  Jane produced another soothing murmur and then said: “Did you talk to the police?”

  “That Detective Olson wouldn’t tell me anything. The public affairs department just told me what I’d read in the Seattle Times. She was shot and no weapon was found.

  “But I did get the name of the other girl dressed in that stupid outfit from the demo agency.” The Hunters had managed to do that, too, Jane recalled. “I was all set to interview her, but I had to cancel when Norm killed the story.” Carla broke off to inspect the sole, which had just arrived. She smiled down at it happily, took a bite, looked thoughtful, nodded her approval and went on. “Norm said it was a downer and we were a trade publication and we were supposed to elevate the industry and not accentuate the negative.”

  “I’m hardly surprised,” said Jane, who had already formed the impression that if Norm could sell an inside back cover to Jack the Ripper, he’d suppress the White-chapel killings. Besides, the fact that Marcia had been found in his hospitality suite hardly reflected well on the publication.

  “It’s really a shame,” said Carla. “I think there are some really interesting stories out there, but I’ve never really been able to tackle them. Norm’s had me so busy with all this advertorial stuff.”

  “You know, Carla,” said Jane, “I got kind of close to Marcia’s parents. They came to see me. I promised them I’d check into this whole thing for them. Do you think Norm would answer some of my questions?”

  “If he thought there was something in it for him,” she said. “He’s a total creep.” Her voice caught a little, and she said, “If you do, find out if he’s found my replacement. They’ll probably get that trip to the cod grounds.”

  Jane had an idea. If it worked, she could get in to talk to Norm, get herself to Norway to check out Trygve Knutsen without pushing the limits of her Visa card and give Carla some freelance work.

  “Carla,” she said, “if you briefed me, do you think I could get your old job? I’d let you ghost-write everything, and I’d hand over what he paid me to you. It might help while you’re looking. Frankly, I could use that trip to Norway myself. To check things out for Marcia’s parents.”

  “Make yourself a freelance, and he might go for it,” said Carla. “He always likes to save money.”

  “Do you think we could fool Norman?” said Jane.

  “No problem,” Carla said, sounding enthusiastic. “He’s majorly stupid.” She sniffed contemptuously. “He doesn’t even know that much about fish.”

  “Maybe you could prep me. Tell me what to say. Help me fake a résumé or something,“ said Jane.

  “I took all my reference books and the Rolodex when I cleaned out the place, so we have everything we need to get you going.” Carla sounded happy all of a sudden. “I can start you on a cram course this afternoon. You’ll love this industry.”

  “Great,” said Jane, who supposed it could be worse. Carla could have been a writer for an industrial zipper and fastener magazine or Linoleum World or something. “But let me get the appointment with Norm first.” There was no way she was going to fill her head with fish facts unless she really had to.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  During the next few days Jane tried to get in touch with Norm, who never returned her calls, and Stacy, the other tartan tart from the seafood show. Stacy’s machine was always on, leaving a squeaky little recording asking for callers to leave a message. Jane didn’t, thinking it was too easy for Stacy not to call back. She’d keep trying until she got her in person.

  Jane also called Trygve Knutsen in Norway. Carla had given her his office number. She said she was a friend of Marcia St. Francis’s family, calling from Seattle, and he replied, sounding as if he meant it: “I have spoken to the police. I have nothing to say to anyone else. Good-bye.” As he had done with Carla, he hung up.


  When Jane called Lisa Rogers, Marcia’s sister in Kent, she got her husband. He said his wife was east of the mountains with her parents, who were in pretty bad shape, but that she would be back in a week or so, “or whenever she thinks her mom will be okay. This has been hell for all of us.” Jane halfheartedly thought of asking him a few questions, but he sounded weary and worn out, so she decided to wait until Lisa came back to town.

  The person Jane most wanted to interview, however, was Trygve Knutsen, and the way she planned to get to him was through the magazine. Finally, after leaving a message saying she wanted to buy the back cover, Norm returned her call.

  “We can draw up a contract right away,” he said.

  “There must be some mistake,” said Jane. “Actually I was calling about something else.”

  “My God,” said Norm. “I wonder who does want the back cover.”

  After he recovered from the possibility of a botched sale, Jane managed to get an appointment with him, then bit the bullet and called Carla for her cram course.

  A few days later, as ready as she’d ever be, Jane found herself in the offices of Seafood Now. Norm Carver was much as Carla had described him: a weedy, self-important man with a dense thatch of hair that Jane thought might well be a toupee. “So how did you know we were looking for a writer?”

  Jane went into her story. She hadn’t rehearsed it too well. She’d discovered that her lies sounded better if she improvised the details. “Well, I was at the Seattle Seafood Show, covering it for a European seafood magazine, and I ran into Carla. She told me you’d come to a parting of the ways.” She shrugged, as if to indicate she wasn’t really a friend of Carla’s and couldn’t care less if she’d been fired. “I was interested in leaving Europe and coming back to Seattle, and I thought if you needed a stringer or a freelancer here, we might work something out.”

  She looked around his untidy office. It had a nice view of the docks and the fleet of fishing boats across the street at Fisherman’s Terminal. There were some framed charts of fish species on the wall and a bulletin board with overlapping scrawled notes and computer printouts. On the desk and the table next to it were nests of files and memos spilling from in and out boxes. The whole thing had the look of a collection of fungal masses growing toward each other to become one whole sometime in the near future. A flurry of yellow Post-it notes, like wind-tossed leaves, embellished the whole composition.