by Becky Clark
“Love you too, Mom.”
The waitress brought our beers and I glared at Billy until she left. Then I glared at him some more while I took a long sip of my much-needed beer.
Finally I said, “Since my mom is going to pay your fee, and probably give you a nice tip, you’re going to do something to earn it.”
“What?”
“Help me find Clementine.” I wasn’t entirely sure he had told me the truth about what happened between them, but I was convinced he didn’t have it in him to kidnap anyone. “Tell me more about your argument.”
Billy sipped his beer, making a face that made me think it was his first taste of alcohol. “I told you. She figured out I was a PI. But she thought I was following you, not trying to protect you.”
“Why would she think I needed following?”
“Because of your dad.”
I sipped my beer and almost choked. “What about my dad?”
“She wanted to know what prison he was in.”
I swallowed hard. “Prison?”
“Yeah. For robbing a bank and killing the bank manager.”
Good grief. The lies and fairy tales that were out there! I fought to control my temper, taking another sip of beer to buy some time. “You are really bad at your job.” I said calmly. “There are articles and photos online of my dad’s funeral thirteen years ago.”
Billy’s face reddened. “That’s what I told Clementine! But she said they were obviously doctored.”
I didn’t explain any further about my dad but wondered where Clementine had gotten such bad information. I mulled it over while nursing my beer. Billy sipped his, too, making a sour face.
And then it came to me. Lily.
I drained my beer, then said, “You go find Clementine and bring her to me.” I stomped off to talk to Lily.
Billy called after me, “Can I finish my beer?”
“I doubt it!”
Eight
I went back to the workroom, where it was quiet now that everyone had gone home, and called Lily. Her voicemail came up. “Hi! It’s Lily! I will definitely call you back! Leave me a message! Have a GREAT DAY!”
I was not having a GREAT DAY and I didn’t want to leave a message.
I called Clementine’s number but she didn’t answer either. I wasn’t too concerned about her. First, because I didn’t think Billy was lying about her smoking a joint in the basement, and second, because I was fairly certain she could defend herself against the likes of Billy.
It was late. I gave up and went to my room. This whole situation was getting so weird. I picked up the phone to call my brother again, fully intending to tell him my theory about Viv’s intentions with the conference funds. But I didn’t. What if there really was a kidnapping and they found out I involved the police, even if it was just my brother in Colorado? A long shot, but ever since Melinda’s murder I was always on the verge of paranoia—taping over the camera on my laptop, changing my passwords obsessively, and scrutinizing every driver who passed me. And now I had to start worrying about my online trolls. If I called Lance, I’d have to tell him about Billy and the whole thing with Mom, and I really didn’t want to do that.
Instead, I called Ozzi. All I wanted was to hear his voice in my ear. I listened, contented, while he told me all the mundane details of his day. No Viv, no conference, no kidnappers, no hard questions, just normal conversation. We’d been dating long enough for convivial chatting, but not so long that we knew the entirety of each other’s stories. And certainly not long enough to finish each other’s sentences. He told me a funny story about Peter O’Drool. Seems the pug cornered a rabbit in the juniper bush under my kitchen window, but instead of running away like usual, the bunny made a stand against tyranny and it scared the bejeebers out of Peter. He ran, the rabbit chased him, and Peter ended up cowering on the third floor of Ozzi’s building in our sprawling apartment complex, afraid to come down.
“So I returned him to Don and Barb and they insisted on repaying me by making me dinner.”
“What did you have?”
“Meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Just like my grandma used to make.”
“I love having the Singers right upstairs. I pretend they’re my grandparents.”
“Barb made cherry pie, too, and told me how fond they are of you. Said to tell you they hope you’re having a marvelous time. So are you having a marvy time?”
I deflected, telling him, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I’m tired. Tell me what’s on TV.”
He flipped through channels until I stopped him at an episode of The Simpsons. He narrated the last half, complete with commercials.
I finally fell asleep after the longest Wednesday of my life. At least the longest one since I’d been a murder suspect. That was never far from my mind, but I’d been holding it at bay until Lily mentioned it. I could continue to ignore any questions or discussion on the topic, but it would be marvelous if she’d drop it—and any talk of my dad—completely.
I startled awake the next morning to loud, happy voices in the hallway discussing where to have breakfast. Food seemed a distant memory to me. My stomach rumbled but I couldn’t face another package of Oreos or granola bars. Twenty minutes later, I sat in the hotel restaurant trying to decide between the Baccon and Egg Speshal and the French Tost on the Thursday Breckfast Menu, not sure whether I should thank or curse those hallway voices for waking me.
I wondered if it was too early to call Lily. Not because it might be impolite, but because I wasn’t sure I could handle her so early without sustenance. I voted for sustenance.
While pouring my coffee, the waitress talked me into the bacon and eggs, commiserating with my horror at the awful spelling and reminding me of the power of protein to fuel my day.
“But the spelling! The terrible, terrible spelling!” I wanted to shout. I understood they’d had to simplify and print up a new menu due to the sudden loss of their regular chef, but how many writers at the conference would find their heads exploding as they read this? Every single one who found themselves reading it, that’s how many. I thrust the vile paper back into the waitress’s hands, glad to be free of such a demonic hellhound of a page.
I watched her refill mugs as she meandered around tables toward the kitchen. As she got there, the swinging doors came at her full-force and she had to jump away to avoid being hit.
Roz the catering manager stormed from the kitchen into the dining room, face so full of fury I don’t even think she saw the waitress standing, shocked, off to the side, coffeepot held aloft. Roz turned and held the swinging doors open while she argued with someone in the kitchen.
After a few moments Roz swiveled to the dining room, shouting, waving her arms in the air as if to clear it of stupidity. “—no proof they got food poisoning here. If I’d known they were going somewhere else, then I would have used my own—” Suddenly she noticed the waitress standing like a statue and all the breakfast diners watching the show. Her eyes raked the crowd, ending with me. She promptly reorganized her suit jacket and stormed out of the restaurant. I watched as she fled, but couldn’t tell if she left the hotel or not.
The pin-dropping silence ended as people went back to their breakfasts, clinking forks against plates and resuming their chatter. Someone else’s drama is never as riveting as a hot breakfast right in front of you. Unless you’re a mystery writer.
I replayed Roz’s scene while I waited for my food. Was any of it a clue to my real-life mystery? Was it simply a frustrated workplace outburst? Or did Roz know something about the food poisoning?
When the waitress brought my breakfast, I didn’t even wait for her to put it down before I peppered her with questions about the ruckus. “What was that all about? Why was Roz so mad? Who was she yelling at?”
The waitress looked around, then lowered her voice. “She just found out the chef was fired yesterday.” She put my plate in front of me.
Was it possible Roz had been truly unaware of this? I’d assumed she simply didn’t
want me to know. “She’s the catering manager. How come she just found out?”
“The general manager fired him, and he says he called her. But everyone knows—even the GM—that Roz always ignores his calls.” The waitress moved the ketchup and hot sauce closer to my plate.
I remembered the call Roz had ignored yesterday while Jack and I were with her. “Isn’t the GM her boss? He’s okay with her ignoring him?”
“He thinks it’s funny.” The waitress refilled my cup. “Or at least that’s the impression I get. He’s probably happy not to have to talk to her. Besides, he doesn’t need Roz’s permission to do anything.” She said Roz’s name with a sneer.
“You don’t like her?”
The waitress lowered her voice even further. “She’s awful.”
“Why do you say that?”
She shrugged as another waitress came out juggling plates for a nearby table. It was clear to me she didn’t want the other woman to know we were chatting about something other than breckfast speshals. “Is there anything else I can get you? Juice? Toast?” she asked loudly.
“No, that’s okay.”
She started to walk away, but I stopped her. If she was willing to talk about Roz this way, maybe I could get information about Jack and the mystery girl. “Wait. Toast actually sounds good. Sourdough when you get a minute? No rush.”
The restaurant got busier and busier, and the two waitresses raced around like roller derby jammers. I was finished with my bacon and eggs and down to the last cold swig of coffee but my toast hadn’t yet appeared. I gave up on it and instead tried to get someone’s attention to bring the check. While I waited, Lily plopped herself down at my table.
“Good morning, Charlee! How are you? Did you sleep okay?”
“Why did you tell Clementine my dad was in prison?” I whispered.
“Because she wanted to know,” Lily whispered back. “Why are we whispering?”
“He’s not in prison.”
“Are you sure? Because I think he is.”
“No, he’s not. My dad is dead.”
“Oh, Charlee! I’m so sorry! How awful! Was he shivved? Mob hit? Did he turn snitch?”
“No!”
The people at the table next to us stopped talking and stared at us.
I leaned closer to Lily and lowered my voice. “My dad was never in prison.”
Lily whispered back. “So he never robbed a bank, killed the bank manager, and got a life sentence in a federal penitentiary in New Jersey?”
“No!” I said loudly, drawing more stares from our neighbors.
“Hmm. I guess there must be another guy with his name!” Lily beamed at me.
“And you told all this to Clementine?” I asked.
Lily nodded. “Well, she saw it on my computer. She wanted to write a true crime story about it.”
“Why were you searching for my dad on the internet?”
She wrinkled her brow like the question confused her. “Because not all the information was in the newspapers.”
She was right. The information reported was a bit obscured by the police. And I sure wasn’t going to give any interviews—not now, not ever—to set the record straight. I pulled out my phone and searched my dad’s name. Yep, there was a guy with the same name whose story was exactly as Lily described.
“How was breakfast?” Lily pointed at my empty plate. “I’ve never eaten here before!”
So much energy. So early in the morning. “Hard to screw up scrambled eggs and bacon.”
“I guess!”
“Hey, Lily, speaking of screwing up food … when did everyone get food poisoning?”
“Hmm … pretty sure it was Tuesday.”
“Daytime? Were they here? Like at a meeting?”
“I don’t know. I thought I heard it was in the evening.” She smiled and waved at nearby diners.
I turned to look. “Conference buddies?”
“Nope. But they look like real nice folks.”
She truly was a people-person. I brought her back to the topic at hand. “Why do you think it was in the evening?”
“I don’t necessarily think it was in the evening. I might have been told that, but I don’t really remember. Why?”
“I don’t know. Just wondered.”
“There are lots of meetings in the evening. Most volunteers have day jobs.”
“Do you?”
“Yep. I get to play all day! I’m a buyer for a toy store!”
“Of course you are.” I tilted my head. “So why are you here today? And yesterday? Don’t you have to go to work?”
“I had vacation saved up since I never take it. But I figured I could help out more here. I love to help!”
“I know you do!” Her sweet enthusiasm was disturbingly contagious this morning. Must be the protein. “Well, if I’d ever get my bill, we could get back to it.” I waved again toward the servers.
“Oh! I almost forgot why I came over here! I didn’t really want to disturb your breakfast, but we got a phone call.”
“We?”
“Well, the conference. There was a note taped on the workroom door this morning.”
“A note? Who would have left a note?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the front desk?”
“Was this note on hotel stationary?”
Lily fished it out of her pocket and inspected it. “It was! No wonder you write mysteries! You’re so good at finding clues!” She handed it to me.
It read simply travel agent, with a local phone number underneath. I handed it back. “And?”
“And I called them!”
“And?”
“And they’re the conference travel agents!”
“And?”
“And there’s a big spring storm due to hit the East Coast tonight with, like, three feet of snow expected, and what did we want to authorize them to do?”
“About what?”
“The travel arrangements.”
“For who?”
“All the agents and editors who are supposed to fly in.”
“Are you trying to tell me that all of the agents and editors are stuck in a snow storm?”
Lily giggled. “No, silly goose. One is from San Diego! No snow there!”
“So how many from the East Coast?”
“Only, like, four or five.”
“Out of how many?” I’d seen the faculty list but couldn’t remember how many of the names belonged to agents and editors.
“Like, six.”
My words stuck in my throat. “Do you mean all but one of the editors and agents will be stuck in the snowstorm and won’t be able to get here tomorrow, and everyone who signed up for a critique or a pitch appointment will be disappointed?”
Lily blinked three times. “Not everyone. Some people signed up with the one from San Diego.”
“So. Just ninety percent of the people.”
“But ten percent will still be happy!”
Ah, Lily. So optimistic. So wrong. “What about the authors on the faculty?” I asked. “Are any of them stuck?”
“Two! Isn’t that great?”
“Great? Why?”
“Because it’s only two! And you’re so smart, you can teach their workshops!”
“What are their workshops?”
Lily consulted the conference schedule. “One is ‘Science Fiction Tropes’ and the other is ‘Compose Like a Renaissance Poet.’”
“Oh, good. At least those are my areas of expertise.”
“Really?”
“No!” I took a breath. “Can you please call the travel agent and tell them to get our faculty here? Make whatever arrangements have to be made. Tell them to shovel the runway if they have to. And if the editors and agents can be persuaded to leave New York before the storm hits, check with the front desk and make sure they have rooms.”
“If they don’t have any rooms available, they can stay with me!” Lily took the travel agent’s phone number from me and stood, no doubt alread
y planning the slumber party she was going to have with the East Coast faculty.
“And for heaven’s sake, find a Renaissance poet!”
As she turned to leave the restaurant, Lily almost ran down Orville, who had come up behind her. She gave him a hug and sat back down. “You don’t look good, Orville. Do you need some breakfast?”
“The wife made me oatmeal. Like always.” Orville pulled out the chair across from me. Before sitting he asked, “May I?”
“Sure, but I’m leaving as soon as they bring the check.” I waved at my server and at least got a head bob when I mimed signing my bill.
Orville sat down, moved the ketchup and hot sauce away from him, and leaned toward me, hands gripping the edge of the table.
“Are you okay, Orville?” I asked.
“Actually, I’m not having any luck with the registration website.”
“Did you call them?”
“Just now.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t understand a word they said.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. It was scribbled with notes. “Some nonsense about browsers and if I’ve plugged in and if my Earl was optimized.”
“Earl?”
He checked his notes and pointed. URL. He offered me the paper but when I shook my head, he crumpled it into a ball and flung it to the table. “And then they asked if I had any cookies. Like I’d offer them snacks after all that.”
I stared at him for a bit. “Orville, honey.” I patted his hand and spoke softly. “You don’t know anything about computers, do you? You’re not really what anyone would call a techie, are you?”
He sighed and straightened up in his seat. “I thought I did. I did spreadsheets all the time back before I retired. And I can do the Facebook.”
“You’re on Facebook?”
“More than a dozen friends.” His chest puffed up.
Lily pushed buttons on her phone. “I’m friending you right now!”
“I guess we can’t do much about the online registration this close to the start of the conference,” I said. “The people who already registered will show up and the people who had issues will probably email through the Stumptown Writers website—”