Death by Sudoku by Kaye Morgan

morning though, he was the one who looked caught. His horrified eyes went from the hulking, hungover Cal to his charred short-order masterpiece—and back again. Then, with an audible gulp, Hank picked up his knife and fork and began sawing away.
    As Cal turned away to get Liza’s coffee, an old codger sitting beside Hank reached up and gave him a comradely pat on the shoulder.
    How nice to see he’s finally being accepted by the natives , Liza thought.
    The café door banged open and in strode Lloyd Braeburn. That was a surprise. Braeburn, like most of the California transplants in town, got his caffeine fix at the brand-name latte palace on the other end of Main Street. The locals were just as glad—they tended to loathe the newcomers. Liza always guessed she was a fifty-fifty proposition—a local girl who’d joined the enemy and then came back. At least they didn’t ostracize her at Ma’s.
    Braeburn brushed past Liza’s stool as he bellied up to the counter. “I’ve got a half-finished deck behind my house, and I find you here instead of going to work finishing it up,” he said loudly.
    “Sorry, Mr. Braeburn,” Calvin began. “I can’t—”
    “If I had a nickel for every time I heard that from a contractor,” Braeburn butted in. “I know you small-time guys, always ready to take a vacation as the mood—or the morning after—dictates. If you need coffee that badly, fine. Get a thermos.” He banged on the counter. “You’re coming up—”
    He never got to finish. Calvin whirled around from the coffee urn, Liza’s cup in one meaty hand, the other shooting out with unexpected speed to pin Braeburn’s fist to the Formica. The startled Californian tried to pull back, but his wrist might as well have been nailed to the surface. Braeburn struggled mightily to get free, but neither Cal—nor the cup of coffee he still held—budged a millimeter.
    Liza sat nervously on her stool, staring. The Calvin she’d always known had left the building. Instead, a half-shaved stranger stood glaring at Lloyd Braeburn with bloodshot eyes—a stranger who was twice the Californian’s size.
    Then, Calvin was back, releasing Braeburn’s hand. “Ma’s sick,” he said mildly. “She says both knees have seized up. Tom Coughlin has the flu, so he can’t fill in. It’s up to me to mind the fort.”
    “I—ah, see,” Lloyd said, massaging his wrist. “Guess I’ll leave you to it.”
    “Thanks, Mr. Braeburn.” Calvin set down Liza’s coffee. He looked mild as ever, but she could see the little ripples in the liquid as his hand trembled in reaction.
    Liza knocked back her coffee quickly, risking a scorched mouth. Her stomach rumbled again, whether from hunger or protest. I can always catch something at the airport , she promised herself.
    She paid Cal and headed out of the coffee shop, finding Hank at her elbow as she opened the door. “Does that homicidal maniac come here often to cook?” Hank asked when they were safely outside.
    “Cal?” Liza laughed. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
    Except with his cooking , she amended silently.
    “Yeah. I guess the fly would barely feel it if it were just squashed flat.” Hank put one hand to his stomach and the other to his mouth, stifling a burp.
    Liza’s stomach let out a sympathetic gurgle.
    She glanced at her watch. Skipping breakfast had gained her a little time, and seeing Hank reminded her of something else to do before she left—besides, the satellite office of the Oregon Daily was right on Liza’s route out of town.
    Satellite office—that somehow reminded Liza of The Jetsons , as if she should be going into orbit when she went to work. Reality was considerably more down to earth. The paper’s local offices occupied the second floor of a strip mall near the entrance to the highway. After parking her car, Liza zipped up the stairs at the side of the sporting-goods shop and entered the reception area—two plastic chairs and a plywood partition. Janey