by Becky Clark
“Or they’ll contact the registration place themselves.” Orville smiled. “Then I’ll be off the hook.”
“Or they’ll show up furious and ready to kill us.” I turned to Lily. “Is there some sort of website or message group or some way that all the Stumptown writers share information?”
“There’s a Facebook page and an email group.”
“Can you post a note in both places? Say something like we’re having registration problems, but regardless, come on down to the conference and we’ll get it straightened out.”
“Sure!”
“And maybe contact the website administrator for Stumptown Writers and get them to post something right on the front page of the website?”
“Absolutely!”
“Good. That way, anyone who is having trouble with late registration won’t have to miss the conference because of it.” I tipped my head back and briefly closed my eyes. Nice to have a victory—albeit a tiny one—and cross that problem off my list.
Before I could bask in the glow of dubious accomplishment, Clementine strolled into the restaurant looking in the opposite direction from where we sat, trailed by Billy. She was decked out in her hipster costume, today consisting of black leggings, lacy elastic top, chunky jewelry, crocheted beret, and Hello Kitty rain boots. She carried a very full canvas shopping bag from Fred Meyer and walked straight toward us without making eye contact. She only acknowledged our presence with a barely perceptible nod when Lily jumped up to hug her.
Without thinking, I stepped up to hug her, too. She made a sour face and stepped back.
“Where have you been?” I asked her. “I was worried.”
“Why?”
“I heard you … took that secret door down into the basement.” I was suddenly treading dangerously embarrassing waters. Busybody narc or concerned elder stateswoman?
“So?” She narrowed her slightly red eyes and adjusted her rhinestone-studded eyeglasses with no lenses. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I fired up a blunt there last night because I think my ferrets are allergic. Trying to keep my apartment a doobie-free zone. And then when I walked in this morning, this hired dick is waiting for me at the door and says I have to talk to you.”
I turned to Billy. “You just waited for her to come back? I could have done that.”
“Your mom told me not to leave you.”
I shook my head and turned to Clementine again. “My father is not in prison for killing some guy. You got faulty information.” I cut my eyes at Lily. She must not have caught my sarcasm because she simply smiled at me.
“Bummer.” Clementine rearranged her glasses on the bridge of her nose.
“Wait. How did you know this guy was a PI in the first place?”
“He looks exactly like that guy on Mindhunter.”
I had to think a minute before placing the show she referenced. “That guy was an FBI profiler.”
She flicked her hand dismissively. “Whatever.” She turned and held the shopping bag out toward Lily and Orville, who gathered around her to get a better look.
“Dude.” I pulled Billy a few steps from the table. “You need a better look. Especially since you’re working for me now.”
“Doing what?”
“Finding a kidnapper,” I whispered.
“No way. That sounds dangerous.” He pulled his phone from his pants pocket and pushed some buttons. “Mrs. Russo? I’m off the case. This was way out of my purview. I see that now … Yes, she’s fine … No, I won’t be back until Christmas … Yes, I absolutely will … That’s very generous of you. Thank you, Mrs. Russo. Good-bye.”
“You absolutely will what?” I asked.
“Go see her next time I visit my parents in Santa Fe.”
“So that’s it? You’re done? Just like that?” I sputtered in his ear. “You’re not going to keep an eye on me or help me find a kidnapper?”
Billy shook his head and rubbed his ear. “You should really call the police. That sounds pretty serious.” He turned and walked away.
Call the police. Gee, why hadn’t I thought of that?
Clementine stepped out of his way, then sat in the closest chair, arranging the overstuffed bag at her feet. Lily and Orville sat on either side of her. “So,” she said, picking up the hot sauce. She uncapped it and poured a few drops on her index finger. I thought she was going to taste it. Instead, she wiped it on a napkin. We watched as she did the same thing with the ketchup. When she noticed us staring, she said, “What? I wanted to compare the colors.”
“Okay ….” I said, desperate now for my breakfast bill.
Clementine stared at the finger she’d poured the condiments on, clean now. Without looking up, she said, “The books for the on-site bookstore haven’t all come in yet. People are mad.”
“What people?” I plopped wearily into my seat.
“People. You know. The authors, the bookseller. People.”
My mind raced. “Is there anything we can do?”
“Nope.”
I was oddly relieved, mentally crossing off a problem I didn’t even know I had. If only they were all like that. “Okay, then.” I stood to leave. Maybe if they thought I was going to dine-and-dash they’d finally allow me to pay.
Clementine pulled something from her Fred Meyer bag and I sat back down.
“What now?” I asked.
“I just found these in the Clackamas Room.” She held up a T-shirt in one hand and a patch with the Stumptown Writers’ Conference logo and tagline—Don’t be stumped by writing—in the other.
I recognized them from my exploration of the workroom last night. “Oh. Were they supposed to go in the swag bags?”
“Yes,” Clementine said.
“I’m sorry. I thought maybe they had to be bought separately. Luckily I didn’t get too far with filling the bags last night. We can all get that done today, though.” Finally a problem I could solve.
“They need to be ironed first.”
“What needs to be ironed?”
“They’re iron-on patches,” Lily explained.
“So?”
“Ironers got food poisoning,” Clementine said. “So these still need to be ironed onto the T-shirts.”
“No they don’t. Just plop ’em in each goodie bag. People can iron their own when they get home.”
“That’s not how we do it,” Clementine said. “That’s not how we’ve ever done it.”
“They won’t feel our love if they have to iron them on themselves!” Lily’s hands fluttered in the air like they wanted to leave her wrists.
“Get someone else, then. We have enough to worry about.”
“There’s nobody else.” Clementine picked up the bag, scooped out all the shirts and patches, and held them out to me. “These are yours.” Addressing Lily and Orville, she said, “Yours are still in the workroom.”
Lily nodded in the excited way she did. Like she was a Golden Retriever offered a tennis ball.
I shook my head. “I’m not good at ironing. I always make everything more wrinkled than when I started. I don’t even own an iron. When my clothes get wrinkled I throw them out.”
Lily laughed because she didn’t realize I wasn’t joking.
Orville buzzed his lips. “Send them to the dry cleaners. That’s what my wife does.”
“Will your wife pay for them?” I asked.
“No. We’re ironing,” Clementine said. “That’s that. We’re all helping out.”
“Can I have the bag?”
“No.”
I took the load of shirts and patches from her. Great. Someone was finally taking charge of something and this is what they chose. Extra work for everyone.
As we scooted away from the table and prepared to start our day of toil in the Clackamas Room, the middle-school-looking cook hurried over with a large tray.
“Wait, wait. You’re the conference people, right?”
“Yes. Like pod people but with better grammar.” I dropped the T-shirts
on the chair next to me.
“You came into the kitchen yesterday, right? I’ve been working on the food for the conference, using Chef ’s notes. He didn’t have recipes, but I think I figured it out.” The boy beamed and I wanted to pinch his widdle cheeks. “I’m Jerry, by the way.
“You’re the sous chef?” By elevating his possible job in the kitchen, I hoped to avoid being rude.
“What’s a sous chef?” Lily asked.
“Second-in-command in the kitchen,” Jerry said. “And, no. I’m part-time breakfast prep.” He must have seen my face change because he quickly added, “But I’ve stepped up when nobody else wanted to.”
He had me there. Clementine arched her eyebrows the teensiest bit at me. I was properly chagrined.
“What’s all that?” Orville eyed the tray brimming with plates and bowls.
Jerry’s grin split his face. “Your conference menu.” He set the tray on the table next to us and motioned us to sit back down. With a flourish he set each plate and bowl of food down while naming it. “Grilled Fennel and Lemon Tacos. Simmered Soy Lasagna. Baked Fennel and Orange Pie. Blanched Egg and Coconut Home Fries. Steamed Fennel, Cloves, and Mushrooms. Avocado Crumble.”
“Extra shipment of fennel this week?” I asked as he handed each of us silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin.
“This is gonna be great!” Lily said.
“Not what the wife cooks,” Orville said.
When everything was ready, Jerry swept his hand over the feast, took one step backward, and clasped his hands behind his lower back, awaiting our verdict.
We placed small dibs and dabs of everything on our plates and began sampling.
After a couple of bites Orville pushed his plate away. “The wife would kill me if she knew I was eating between meals.”
Clementine turned her fork over on her plate, then wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Gotta go.” She strode from the restaurant without a backward glance.
“You really tried hard!” Lily said. “Did you have any, um, help with this?”
“Not a bit.” Jerry beamed, still at attention, hands behind his back.
I took minuscule tastes from several plates, trying to formulate what I wanted to say. Couldn’t very well blurt out “Yuck!” Thanks to my cohorts taking the easy way out, the final decision was left to me. I eyed the samples and did some calculations. We needed lunch on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday and dinner Friday and Saturday. Breakfast was already scheduled to be continental—yogurt, pastries, and fruit.
“Jerry, this is all really … great. You went to a lot of trouble, but since we’re kind of in a time-and-effort crunch here, could we simplify this?”
“Of course. Which dish?”
“All of it?” I made an apologetic face. “And I hate to be that person, but I think I might be allergic to fennel.”
Jerry’s face fell.
“Continental breakfasts, right?” I asked. He nodded.
“And for lunches, since it’s so … um … rainy and dismal … what about a few huge pots of tomato soup with make-your-own-sandwich stations?” I knew it would screw up the timing of the day to have three hundred people making their own sandwiches, but it was better than fielding three hundred complaints about fennel tacos.
Orville and Lily nodded encouragingly, hoping Jerry would agree.
He spoke slowly. “People don’t want to make their own food when they go out to eat. They want—”
“They want autonomy,” I offered.
“Control!” Lily added.
“Something that tastes good.”
Lily and I shot Orville a look.
“He means,” I explained to Jerry, “something they feel comfortable with. After a hard day of learning, people want comfort food. Hey, I know! We can speed things up by having your staff—since you’re the boss now—slap together, er, make peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches to go with the tomato soup. Everybody likes those.”
“Some people are allergic to peanuts,” Lily said. “And we’ll need some gluten-free bread. And sugar-free jelly.”
I glared at her. “For anyone with dietary considerations, we can have them make their own sandwiches.” I turned to Jerry. “Would that work okay?”
“Sure, I guess. But I really thought those tacos were an excellent choice. I’m almost positive it’s why Chef had all that fennel. I don’t know what I’ll do with it now.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Lily said.
I was equally sure he would. But it wouldn’t taste good.
Jerry brightened. “Besides, there’s still both banquets.”
“Yeah, about that. I had a thought,” I said. “What if we did the banquets family-style? You could make each table a tuna-noodle casserole and they could serve each other.”
“That’s a great idea!” Lily clapped the tips of her fingers together.
“The wife buys ready-made stuff at Costco when we have the family over. Lasagna, enchiladas, twice-baked potatoes, fried chicken.”
“Orville, that’s genius!” I turned to Jerry. “That would be so easy!”
Jerry frowned. “No, it wouldn’t. How would I pay for that?”
“Good point.” I thought for a moment. “Could you and I go see what’s in your freezer? It must be full if the chef was getting ready for this conference.”
Jerry shrugged. “I don’t think he’d ordered everything yet. He was probably going to do it the day he got fired.”
“Then how were you going to make all this?” I swept my hand across the table.
“Oh, I made some substitutions. You know, just to get a feel for it.”
Ah, that explained why the Blanched Egg and Coconut Home Fries tasted like carrots.
“Can I please take a peek in the freezer?”
“I guess.”
We helped him clear the table.
When we finished, I loaded my pile of T-shirts and patches into Lily and Orville’s arms. “Please put these in the workroom for me. Then find Clementine and any other volunteers or friends of the conference you see.”
“Friends of the conference?” Lily asked.
“People who may not be technically volunteers but they come to all the Stumptown Writers’ events. People who know stuff. People who know people. People with nothing to do.”
Lily nodded knowingly.
Orville adjusted the Velcro on his shoe.
“We need to finish stuffing those bags,” I said. “But first, organize the faculty packets with their workshop schedules so they know where they’re supposed to be—assuming they get here before the storm hits. But first, call that travel agent. And make some signs so everyone knows which room each workshop is in. But first, see if you can find any documents about the workshops. Some of the rooms might need projectors …” Oy vey. We had too much to do today. I shooed them away.
Jerry and I went to the kitchen, where he showed me the walk-in freezer. I wondered again at the abrupt timing of the firing of the chef. Hadn’t Jack said this was the hotel’s biggest conference? Why would they fire their chef right before the big event? I couldn’t imagine in what way, but could his firing have had anything to do with the kidnapping? The timing was so coincidental.
I shook the thought from my head and pulled a small notepad from my bag. “Just start calling off what’s in there and I’ll write it down.”
When Jerry was finished, we toured the rest of the kitchen to see what he already had on hand. I added it all to my list. He explained what he knew about how the kitchen worked, what he could order and get right away, and how and where all the prep and cooking was handled.
We made some notes, ending with a plan we could both live with. Once the food was organized, I wondered again about the chef ’s firing and why Roz had apparently been caught completely by surprise by the news. It made no sense.
“So, Jerry, any more info about why the chef was fired?”
He shook his head. “Not a word.”
I returne
d to the Clackamas Room. Lily was dealing with the faculty travel issues, Orville and Clementine were designing and printing signs on the computer. Actually, Clementine was designing and printing signs. Orville was adjusting his Velcro and occasionally pointing out a spelling error.
The mountain of swag for the attendees’ bags remained piled on the table just as I’d left it the night before, so I again circled the table, dropping items in the bags and arranging bags in the corner.
It was hypnotic, brainless work and my mind drifted. The ACHIEVE acronym popped into my brain. Of course, I got stuck on the A. Like yesterday, again today all I could think of was agility. Forget the other letters.
I pulled out my phone to check my notes. A was for ability. Duh. I glanced at the entire acronym, then clicked away. But my thoughts were on Hanna, not my keynote speech. Maybe I could apply ACHIEVE to the kidnapping, perhaps finally making sense of it.
Ability—who had the ability to kidnap Hanna?
Courage—I hoped Hanna was being brave and not freaking out, wherever she was.
Hocus-Pocus—if Hanna was bound, I hope she could figure out how to remove the duct tape or whatever was securing her.
Imagination—I need to think outside the box if I want to figure anything out.
Editor—I need help.
Voice—If Hanna screamed, would anyone hear her?
Earnings—Was there a ransom note? Would the police have to get involved if there was a ransom? Surely Viv would have told me if she’d received a demand from the kidnappers since the original call. I made a mental note to ask her. If she’d got one, I could talk to Lance again. If it really was a kidnapping, not involving the police was a mistake. Why couldn’t Viv see that?
I went up and down and over and through the scant information I had. Why had I offered Viv my help? I barely had enough information to form questions, much less any answers. She’d said Hanna was kidnapped. She’d said her relationship with her daughter was complicated. But she’d never told me why anyone would want to kidnap Hanna. Viv owed the IRS money. She said the police couldn’t be involved. She didn’t get food poisoning when all her key conference volunteers did.
Jack told me he didn’t know Hanna, but Viv had said they were friends and I overheard Jack and that girl mention Hanna’s name. Was it a different Hanna? If so, that was a mighty weird coincidence on this particular weekend.