Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  I returned to my comfy chair in the lobby. No meals, no volunteers, and a dog show. This was shaping up to be a great conference. My stomach rumbled and I checked my watch. Three o’clock. No wonder I was starving. Or maybe all the snacks were rebelling. At any rate, I should eat real food. I headed toward the bar and slid into a stool away from the other patrons.

  The bartender came right over, wiping his hands on a bar towel that he then flipped onto his shoulder. He placed a cardboard coaster with an unfamiliar logo in front of me. “What can I get you?”

  “Can I get some healthy food here?”

  “Hm. Define healthy.”

  “Not Oreos or trail mix.”

  “I can probably find you something.”

  “Even without a chef ?”

  “Well, that does make it harder. How picky are you?”

  “Not very.”

  The man I’d seen earlier swiveled toward me from his barstool several seats away. “I had a pretty good frozen pizza earlier.”

  “I bet they could fry a burger,” the bartender said.

  My stomach told me it was not interested in either of those choices. “Perhaps something more, um, gentle? Think anyone back there can slap together a turkey sandwich with lettuce and tomatoes? On sourdough?”

  The bartender nodded. “I’m sure of it. And if not, maybe Jerry can call his mom to come help.”

  “I knew it. That kid should be in Earth Science class.”

  The bartender laughed. “Right? Apparently he’s actually old enough to drink. I’ve seen his ID. You want mustard and mayo on that sandwich?”

  “Just mustard.”

  “Anything to drink?”

  I toyed with the cardboard coaster. A girl can’t day-drink without a drink. “This Rogue stuff any good? I like ales, porters, stouts. Dark stuff.”

  “You’re in luck. Let me get this order in since it might take them a while. Then I’ll get you a Dead Guy Ale.” The bartender walked away.

  “You’ll like the Dead Guy. Rogue brews lots of good beers. They’re local. The Double Chocolate Stout is good too.” The man lifted his glass. “This is the Voodoo Doughnut Mango Astronaut Ale.”

  “Seriously? That’s a lot to unpack before I’ve had my Dead Guy, but I always try to drink locally, act globally.” I studied the cardboard coaster. “You’re local? I heard you trash talking the Nuggets earlier.”

  He stood up and I immediately regretted engaging him in conversation. I wasn’t in the mood to get hit on. Just wanted to eat in peace.

  He held out his hand. “Hi. I’m Brad Pitt.”

  I laughed out loud. As he moved closer to shake my hand, I saw he was at least twenty years older than me. Good-looking, but still, what a line. “That’s hilarious. Girls fall for that?”

  He slid into the stool next to me, placing his half-glass of beer in front of him. “I’ll have you know that I was Brad Pitt before Brad Pitt was Brad Pitt.” He pulled an Oregon driver’s license from his wallet and handed it to me.

  “Bradley Calvin Pitt, born June 14, 1963.” I handed it back. “I have no idea how old the real Brad Pitt is.”

  “I just told you, I’m the real Brad Pitt. I got him beat by six months.”

  The bartender brought me a gorgeous, deep orange colored beer, then turned toward my companion. “Ready for another, Brad?”

  “Are you kidding me?” I laughed. “You heard us talking.”

  The bartender looked confused, so Brad said, “She doesn’t believe that’s my real name.”

  “I saw his ID,” the bartender told me.

  “So did I. But I still don’t believe him.” I sipped my beer. A bit sweet. A bit fruity. Very mellow. Just what the doctor ordered.

  “And I don’t believe I’ll have another. Still have work to do.” The original Brad Pitt sipped his beer, then set it down and looked at me. “You won’t hurt my feelings if you tell me to shove off. I didn’t mean to insinuate myself into your very late lunch.”

  I decided it might be nice to have a little light conversation before I had to return to problem-solving mode. Since Brad’s driver’s license said he lived in Portland, I assumed he was here either for the conference or the dog show, neither of which I wanted to discuss. “Nah. Stay and finish your beer. I could use some company. But just so you know, I don’t want to talk about writing or dogs. And I have a boyfriend.”

  “Good to know. I won’t waste my A material on you.”

  “You have A material? Did you get it from your namesake?”

  “I told you, I’m older than him. And I notice you haven’t told me your name yet.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I held out my hand. “Angelina. Angelina Jolie. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Very funny.” He gently brushed my knuckles with his lips.

  “Très gallant.”

  “I need to step up my game for the beautiful Ms. Jolie. Wait.” He paused and squinted at me. “Hey, you’re not the actress.”

  “You found me out.”

  “You’re much more beautiful than she is.”

  I felt myself turn red. It’s so irritating to blush. “Actually, I’m just a lowly author. My name is really Charlemagne Russo.”

  He stared at me. “Charlemagne dares mock Brad’s name?”

  “Yep. My friends call me Charlee. But get this, my boyfriend’s name is Ozzi.”

  The bartender brought me a perfectly serviceable turkey sandwich on sourdough. They’d even remembered my plea for no mayo. Brad Pitt, the bartender, and I exchanged funny stories about funny names while I ate it. I found both of them charming and pleasant company. Again, just what the doctor ordered.

  I finished my sandwich and beer, wiped my mouth, and asked for my check. The bartender told me I could sign it to my room, so I did, being careful not to let Brad Pitt see my room number. Girl can’t be too careful. I handed the leather folder back to the bartender. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Pitt, but I’ve got a date with some conference volunteers.”

  “Lucky. I haven’t had a date in longer than I can remember. I have a roommate that cramps my style.”

  “Then it’s good you’re spending time at a hotel with a conference going on. Maybe you’ll get lucky.” I slid off the stool and collected my bag.

  “Doubt it. I have a roommate here too. Also cramping my style.”

  “You didn’t plan very well.”

  “I never had a room of my own.” He gave a comical pout. “Until I bought a house. And then almost immediately my loser brother moved in and started cramping my style.”

  “With the ladies?”

  “With everything. But how about you, Charlee?” He waggled his eyebrows at me. “Got a roommate here?”

  “Just Ozzi, my invisible one.”

  He laughed. “I’ll see you around.”

  “Maybe. Nice to meet you.”

  He waggled his fingers at me. “Love, peace, and bacon grease.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing. Just a silly thing my brother always says.”

  I spread the fingers on my right hand two-and-two, like Mr. Spock. “May the grease be with you, then.”

  “Wow. Wrong on so many levels.”

  As I made my way back to the workroom, fortified by food, beer, and a little light flirting, I heard Jack’s voice around the corner near the conference rooms. He was talking to a girl. I smiled, thinking they might be indulging in some light flirting of their own. But when I heard them mention Hanna’s name, I skidded to a stop and hugged the wall where they couldn’t see me. Bernice at the reception desk tugged the sleeves of her blazer, then returned to her computer.

  The female voice said, “I don’t care about that. Hanna’s not getting her way this time.”

  My mind raced. They both knew Viv’s daughter? Was that the same Hanna they were talking about? Did they know she’d been kidnapped? What didn’t the voice care about? And what could the ominous this time mean?

  By the time I’d focused myself to listen to more of the
ir conversation, they’d moved on. I peeked around the corner, but they’d disappeared. I knew they hadn’t come back toward the lobby, so I started down the hall. I took a veritable tour of Oregon while poking my head into each room: Columbia, Mount Hood, Deschutes, Clackamas. When I opened the door of the workroom, both Lily and Orville looked up expectantly and smiled at me. Lily started to speak, but I retreated and shut the door before she could engage me in a conversation, probably about more conference fiascoes. My search took precedence. I traced the path I presumed Jack and the girl had taken down the hallway, squaring the corner to the Tualatin, Multnomah, and Willamette rooms. All empty. Where had they gone?

  As I resigned myself to return to the workroom without learning anything about the mystery girl or the conversation about Hanna, Jack casually emerged from the Willamette Room. Alone.

  I jumped backward as my adrenaline spiked, and he immediately apologized for scaring me.

  “I’m just surprised. I thought I saw you over there talking to a girl.” I waved vaguely toward the lobby so he wouldn’t think I’d been spying on him, but I kept my eyes on his face. I was rewarded with a slight narrowing of his eyes. He recovered almost immediately, and I knew that if I hadn’t stared, I would have missed the flicker of whatever that was. Guilt? Wariness? Sneakiness?

  He didn’t respond, just moved toward his concierge desk.

  I followed him. “I bet you have a lot of friends here at work.”

  “Not really. I try to keep my work life and personal life separate.”

  Jack opened a drawer, then immediately shut it. Lined up the stapler with the phone. It seemed to me he was pretending to be busy.

  “Have you worked here long?”

  “A few years.” He moved his pen next to his business card holder so that it made a perfect right angle.

  He was clearly nervous, and I needed to figure out why. How were he and the girl and Hanna related?

  “This conference has been held at this hotel for a long time. Do you know my friend Viv Lundquist, who organizes it?”

  Jack looked up but immediately shifted his eyes from mine. “I’ve seen her around, I think.”

  “Do you know her daughter, Hanna? You guys are about the same age.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  A guest at the reception desk waved a luggage claim ticket at him. Jack called, “Be right there, sir!” and then turned to me again. “Excuse me. I’ve got work to do.”

  I could have sworn I heard him whisper, “Thank God.”

  He plastered a big smile on his face and scurried toward the guest. He schmoozed him for a bit, asking about his day while taking his luggage claim check. In a few moments, Jack returned with two suitcases, which he deposited in front of the man. He held out the claim tickets in his hand, next to the tickets attached to the bags. The guest nodded in acknowledgment that he had the correct bags and reached into his wallet. As he handed Jack some bills, he said, “Thank you for your excellent service during my stay, Giacomo.”

  Jack pocketed the cash without looking at it. “It’s been my delight, sir.” He picked up the bags and motioned the guest toward the revolving door where a cab awaited.

  I watched until the cab drove away, Jack waving from the portico. Why was he lying about knowing Hanna? Before she’d driven away, Viv had told me not to say anything to Jack about Hanna because they were friends. Was it possible Jack had something to do with her kidnapping? I vowed to keep an eye on him.

  I turned abruptly and almost crashed into the man in the white shirt and paisley tie from the lobby. Up close, he looked even younger than I’d thought.

  “Gosh, excuse me!” I said.

  He turned without a word and practically ran in the opposite direction.

  I don’t usually have that effect on people, and he kind of gave me the willies. I had a flash of Viv begging me to skulk around and help her figure out what was going on. Maybe she’d asked him to skulk around too. I hurried after the man, intending to find out.

  I felt and heard a squelch under my Keds. “Gross!” I lifted my foot and saw a big pile of dog poop with my footprint in the middle of it. The skulker got away from me, disappearing down a hallway.

  “I’m so sorry!” A man hurried toward me waving a small plastic spatula. “Jean Louise!” A gorgeous black-and-tan German shepherd calmly walked toward him and he snapped a leash on her. She sat regally next to him, clearly unperturbed by her intestinal faux pas.

  The man scooped the poop into an orange plastic bag he’d whipped out of his pocket.

  I hadn’t moved. My sneaker hovered at an angle six inches off the floor. Seriously? Dog poop?

  “It’s good luck, you know.” The man handed me a canister of disinfectant wipes from the small backpack he wore.

  I plucked out four and began to wipe my shoe, hopping to a nearby chair for balance. “It’s good luck to step in dog poo? Says who?” I plopped down into the chair, trying to keep from touching anything gross.

  “Me. And everyone else on the planet. Or maybe just those of us involved in dog shows.” The man plucked a couple of wipes for his spatula. “I’m Scott and this miscreant is Scout. Jean Louise when she’s in trouble.” At her name, the dog lifted her face angelically at him.

  I looked around for someplace to put the wipes I’d used. Scott offered his hand and I gladly gave them to him.

  He spoke to his dog. “Tell the nice lady you’re sorry.”

  Scout placed her head under my hand and raised up slightly so it looked as if it was my idea to pet her.

  “Jean Louise. That’s funny.” I fell in love immediately, putting hands on either side of the dog’s huge hairy face and forgetting all about my shoe. As I rubbed the fur on her face and neck, Scott untied my sneaker and pulled it off my foot.

  He finished cleaning my shoe and the carpet, even pulling out a small carpet cleaner spray can. While he sprayed the area and white foam penetrated the spot, he apologized again. “We were headed out back, but I detoured to get a newspaper. Guess I took too long.”

  We both looked down at Scout, who wagged the top inch of her tail, clearly acknowledging her innocence in this situation.

  “She’s normally better at keeping her knees crossed, but I think she’s a little nervous.”

  “She sure doesn’t look nervous. She’s gorgeous.”

  “Thanks. Well, maybe it’s me that’s nervous. We’re competing in our first major agility competition in a couple of days.” He handed back my shoe. “Good as new.”

  I crossed my ankle over my opposite knee and secured the sneaker on my foot. I stood and looked at Scott. “So, agility dogs. You guys are the ones they double-booked with our writing conference.”

  “Seems so.” Scott held out the handle of Scout’s leash. “Could I ask you to hang on to her for a minute while I go throw all this away and confess our sins to housekeeping?”

  “Sure.” I knew the man in the white shirt and paisley tie had disappeared, and Jack had long since left the portico out front so my surveillance of him and the mystery girl would have to wait anyway. Holding the leash, I walked Scout over toward the door to the patio and grass out back. Raining. “Sorry,” I said to her. She leaned her big head against my thigh and we watched the rain until Scott returned.

  “Thanks so much.” He took the leash from me and the three of us watched the rain together.

  “What’s involved in an agility competition?” I asked.

  “It’s basically an obstacle course the dogs run.”

  “Do you tell them how to do it?”

  “Kind of. We move through the course with them, but they have to do it.”

  “How does she know what to do?”

  Scott let out a snort. “I’m not sure she does. It’s my job to teach her all the tricks and obstacles, so if there’s any failure, I’m sure it’ll be all mine.”

  “Is every course the same?”

  “No. The judge sets up the course and we won’t see it until the day of compe
tition. It’ll have all the obstacles, but they’re never put together quite the same way. One competition may have hurdles, weave poles, A-frame, tunnel, dog walk, pause table, teeter-totter, and then end with a tire jump. The next time, an entirely new judge sets it up completely differently. All the same elements are there, but switched up.”

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “It can be, but so far Scout has really taken to it. She seems to love the mental workout as much as the physical.”

  I thought about the double-booking. “And you have these competitions indoors?”

  “Not very often. But the lady in charge of this competition is kind of a Nervous Nellie, so she likes to book an indoor arena in case the weather is bad.”

  “Hotel conference rooms are considered an indoor arena?”

  “Only in a pinch. Usually they use horse arenas, like at a fairground, but apparently those are expensive to rent. And this is a fledgling organization without much money. If they charged the participants fees high enough to cover the rental cost, nobody would come. There’s prize money, but not tall dough until you get to the bigger clubs and more prestigious events.” Scott scritched Scout behind the ears. “But Nervous Nellie has an aunt or someone who got her a deal on this place. Too bad they got the date wrong. I heard a rumor that the hotel called around and found a high school gym for us in case we can’t use a park or someplace outside. But not for the whole time. We still need to practice. At least Scout and I do.”

  “Maybe the rain will stop before the competition.” We watched the rain for a bit longer.

  “I guess if it doesn’t let up, we’ll just have to practice in here.” Scott glanced around the lobby.

  “Ha! I’d love to see that.” I rubbed the side of Scout’s big head. “A lobby full of German shepherds jumping hurdles.”

  “Oh, they’re all different breeds.”

  “So Scout might square off against a pug?” I smiled, thinking about my upstairs neighbors’ pug, Peter O’Drool.

  “No, but I would pay to see that,” Scott said. “The dogs compete in height groups, measured at the shoulder. Doesn’t matter what breed, but each group is the same basic size. Then, of course, there’s novice, intermediate, and master courses.”