Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  “Where have you been traveling?” Lily asked him.

  “Let’s see.” Garth stroked his beard exactly like I knew he would. “Kathmandu, Kyoto, Caracas.” He held up one finger. “And Cartagena.” He rolled his R from here to Colombia and stretched out the second half of the word exactly like I knew he would.

  “On a comedy tour of the world?” I asked.

  “Um…”

  “Everyone knows that words with K sounds are the funniest.”

  “Phuket.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Phuket.”

  “You don’t need to be so—”

  “On the Bay of Bengal. Bewitching place.”

  “Ah.”

  He toyed with his cup, clearly miffed that we had no follow-up questions, or much interest in his travels.

  But I didn’t want him to clam up despite how annoying this conversation was. Maybe he was an important key to unlocking the things I didn’t understand about Viv. Plus, I really wanted to know whether he was aware that Hanna was his daughter. I knew I couldn’t ask, though, so I tried a different approach, something all writers love to talk about. “So, Garth, what do you write?”

  Lily giggled, and Garth smiled at her like they shared a secret. “You mean books?”

  I nodded, sipping my perfectly acceptable coffee.

  “I haven’t written any books. It’s all in here.” He tapped the side of his head with his index finger.

  “Not even travel guides?” I rolled my R in solidarity.

  “Travel guides are for flabby American tourists who simply want to say they’ve traveled but aren’t willing to step away from their comfortable bourgeoise lives.”

  “Oh.” Jerk. “So you don’t write, but you speak every year at a writers’ conference?”

  He shrugged while smiling at Lily benevolently. “What can I say? I resonate with the masses.”

  I tried to wrap my brain around that.

  Clementine appeared at Garth’s side and collected him for a sound check for the opening night banquet. I turned and watched them walk out of the restaurant and through the growing number of writers milling about in the lobby. Garth worked the crowd like he was Jesus—greeting everyone, patting heads, bestowing benedictions, embracing, awarding air kisses. Everyone, men and women alike, visibly swooned.

  I turned back to Lily, who had a look of pure rapture on her face. I snapped my fingers in her face until her trance was broken. “What’s his speech tonight … the Sermon on the Mount?”

  “It’s called ‘The World Is Your Frog, Lick It.’” Lily’s glassy eyes sought out Garth. She was a junky in need of a fix.

  “Why does he speak at a writers’ conference if he’s not even a writer?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head as if to prevent his aura from taking complete control of her. “But he’s so deep I wouldn’t be able to understand half of what he wrote anyway.”

  Something was deep, anyway. Like what I’d stepped in the other day.

  Lily stood to leave. “I need to … I just want …”

  “Yes, go.” I shooed her away and she scurried off. Follow him. Hang on his every word. Let him baptize you with his Zen-like arrogance.

  I waved for the check, still wondering about Garth. He was Hanna’s father but didn’t know it. Or did he? He was traveling all the time. Did the weird ransom amount have something to do with a foreign currency exchange rate?

  I began googling the countries and exchange rates he’d mentioned.

  Kathmandu, Nepal. One dollar equaled 107.89 Nepalese rupees, so $339,000 would be 36,575,998.2 rupees.

  Kyoto, Japan. One dollar equaled 114.13 yen, so $339,000 would be 38,690,578.5 yen.

  Caracas, Venezuela. One dollar equaled 9,946.86 Venezuelan bolivars, so $339,000 would be 3,371,986,557 bolivars.

  Cartagena, Colombia. One dollar equaled 3,003.76 Colombian pesos, so $339,000 would be 1,018,274,640 pesos.

  Absolutely no useful information except that now I knew how to work my currency converter app. What I’d hoped to find was that $339,000 was exactly one million of one of the other currencies.

  I had one left, but my currency calculator needed to know the country and I was woefully ignorant about where exactly “fuk-et” was or how to spell it. I typed “Bay of Bengal” into the magic machine I held in my hand and enlarged the map until it told me that Phuket was part of Thailand. It also told me it was pronounced “poo-ket” and not “fuk-et,” like Garth had said.

  Had he actually traveled there? It didn’t seem so, given that he didn’t know how to pronounce it. Had he been to any of the places he’d mentioned? If not, where had he been? And why would he lie?

  Thirteen

  I called Viv. “We have to talk about Garth.”

  “Well, come to the workroom. I’m trying to track down a gluten-free bakery.”

  “You’re at the hotel? Again?” But she’d hung up.

  I scribbled my room number on the bill as Brad Pitt walked up.

  “Can I join you?” he asked.

  “I’m just finished. And now I have work to do. No rest for the weary.”

  “I thought it was no rest for the wicked.”

  “Same thing.” I hurried away but heard him call out for a rain check. “Maybe!” I flapped one hand over my shoulder.

  I dodged writers and agility dogs through the lobby, passing the bow-tied hotel manager, who was chastising a woman with a standard poodle on a leash. He didn’t know whether to speak to the dog or the woman, so he switched every other word. “I know it was our mix-up, but we simply can’t conduct our business with this cacophony of barking. I must put my foot down.”

  I didn’t hear any barking, but the noise from the writers could be described as a cacophony. I guessed it was easier to keep dogs quiet than writers.

  In the hallway near the Columbia Room, I passed the conference registration desk, where volunteers scurried like mad even while attendees waited in line to check in.

  “Just give us a little bit longer, folks,” one harried woman called out. “We need to finish getting these bags stuffed.” She waved her hand at half a dozen volunteers violently throwing pens, notepads, brochures, and bookmarks into the swag bags.

  I hurried down the hallway to the Clackamas Room, where more volunteers buzzed around, caroming off tables and each other like a bunch of drunken toddlers. I pulled a folding chair close to Viv and plopped into it. She was scrolling on a laptop through a listing of Portland-area bakeries.

  “You’re here?” I whispered. “Working on the conference? Not trying to find your daughter? Not cancelling the conference so none of these nice people get murdered? What is wrong with you?”

  Viv didn’t look up, didn’t seem surprised at my outburst. “My therapist says it’s my default coping mechanism. I’m sick with worry but not coping well.” She stopped and met my eyes with hers. “I think I’m disassociating a bit.”

  “Ya think?”

  “I need to do stuff I have control over, Charlee.”

  “Like cancelling the conference?”

  She returned to the laptop. “I told you I can’t do that. Please don’t bring it up again.”

  “Okay, then let’s talk about Garth.” I tried to control the anger in my voice. “He told me he’s been all over the world, but didn’t know how to pronounce Phuket.”

  “So?”

  “So he obviously has never been there.”

  “So?”

  “So why would he lie?”

  “I told you. Small-time hoodlum.”

  “That’s not what hoodlums do. They steal bikes or hit people over the head for their wallet or leave the liquor store without paying for their six-pack of Pabst. Now you tell me the truth. If Garth wasn’t in Thailand or Japan or Venezuela, where was he?”

  We had a stare-down, eyes narrowed.

  Finally Viv said, “How would I know? You should ask him.”

  An involuntary gurgle of frustration escaped from deep in my throa
t. Next thing I knew, all my questions poured out like a gush of water from a rusty pipe that snapped. “How come you didn’t get food poisoning, Viv? Why aren’t you more worried? Why are you HERE? What are you doing to find Hanna? What’s with you and Garth? What were you and Roz arguing about? Tell me about Hanna’s rehab. Do you need money for another stint at ReTurn a New Leaf ?”

  Viv glanced around the room to make sure no one was listening. “How do you know about that?”

  “Is she using again?”

  She glared at me. “Fine. I’ll tell you.” She swallowed hard, wet her lips, and spoke quietly. “I went out to the rehab place after I dropped you off from the airport, but Hanna isn’t there, or so they said. They’ve lied to me before, though, at Hanna’s request.”

  “Do you think she’s using?” I asked again.

  Viv slumped in her seat, eyes welling with tears. “I don’t know. She didn’t seem to be the last time I saw her.”

  “Would she have gone to a different place for rehab?”

  “No way. She liked them there. They really helped her.”

  I cocked my head. “If she didn’t seem to be using, why did you think she’d gone back out there?”

  Viv didn’t answer, just rubbed her hands like they ached.

  I placed a hand on her forearm and asked, quieter, “What does Roz have to do with Hanna’s rehab?”

  “What?” Anger flashed across Viv’s face and she straightened up. “I don’t know. Nothing.” She paused, probably trying to make some connection between Roz and the rehab place. Finally she shook her head and pleaded with me. “Please lay off the questions about rehab. People might get the wrong impression.”

  This had gone far enough. Maybe if I pushed her, I’d have enough evidence to go to the police. “The wrong impression of what? Hanna? Roz? Rehab?” I raised my voice, then glanced around to see which volunteers were listening. No one paid us any attention, lost in their own tasks.

  Again, tears sprang to Viv’s eyes. “Please, Charlee. I know I asked you to help find Hanna, but now I don’t think it’s a good idea. Besides, I told you. I have a plan. Could you just help with the conference? Please?” She used a knuckle to staunch a tear that threatened to spill. I didn’t know what to do. Clearly, Viv was in over her head with something and didn’t want me to know what. But it was equally clear she needed help. I gave her a feeble nod.

  She turned back to the computer, then jotted something onto a small notepad. She tore it off, grabbed her purse, and yelled, probably for show, “Found a gluten-free bakery! I’ll be back later.” Nobody responded, everyone busy with their own crises.

  I considered chasing after her, to once again try to talk her into reporting everything to the police, and/or cancelling the conference, and/or asking my unanswered questions again, but I knew it was all pointless. Viv had an agenda and she would not be swayed.

  My feeble nod was not a binding agreement. If Viv could have a plan, so could I.

  Now I really wanted to know if there was a relationship between Roz and Hanna’s rehab place. I used the computer to look up the phone number for ReTurn a New Leaf, jotting it on the pad Viv had left behind. I called and asked for Hanna Lundquist.

  The voice on the other end said, “I’m sorry. I don’t recognize this number. Who are you?”

  I hung up, since they clearly used Caller ID to screen incoming calls.

  On a hunch, I went to Roz’s office. The light was off and I assumed that meant she hadn’t come to work yet. At least I hoped that’s what it meant. Using her office phone, I called the number for ReTurn a New Leaf. The person who answered didn’t even wait for me to ask to speak to anyone. Simply said, “I’ll put you right through, Roz.” I listened to the voicemail for the Operations Manager at ReTurn a New Leaf, but I didn’t leave a message.

  How could this have nothing to do with Hanna?

  Fourteen

  Three hours after I’d stopped sleuthing, we’d finally finished stuffing freebie bags, gotten all the signs listing the weekend’s workshops hung outside all the rooms, compiled information for all the faculty and moderators, and gotten the early arrivals checked in for the conference. We did not, however, finish ironing logos onto the T-shirts, but we had enough, and a few to spare, for everyone who wanted one today. When I handed the ones I’d completed to Clementine, she pursed her lips while shooting me a disappointed stink-eye, which only intensified when I suggested we could have the rest done by Sunday lunch, just before everyone left.

  But now I needed more coffee, since I wasn’t quite nervous or jittery enough. I grabbed a yellow legal pad and headed out to the bottomless hotpot in the lobby. I debated between the paper cup and the ceramic mug. It seemed that the paper cup was bigger, so I chose it, silently promising the environmental gods that I’d reduce and reuse something else to make up for it. I could at least rebel, rebuke, and repent if it would help. I’d certainly refill.

  Garth sat in the center of an overstuffed loveseat in the far corner of the lobby, away from the dogs and their trainers. Three women and two men sat at his feet, looking every bit like apostles learning life lessons as they gulped in the words from the Parable of the Hippies. I let him finish making his point before I interrupted. “Garth, could I speak with you for a minute?”

  He gestured with an open palm at the floor next to his chair.

  “In private?” No way was I kneeling at his arrogant, patronizing, and presumably unwashed feet.

  If narrowed eyes shot bullets, I would have immediately needed to plug ten gaping holes in my chest. But he rubbed the back of the woman closest to him and said, “We’ll continue this later.”

  His disciples stood and brushed themselves off, each one shooting me a silent curse.

  I moved closer to the loveseat. Garth didn’t move, fully expecting me to sit at his feet. He was as wacky as his apostles. I smiled and pointed at one end of the seat. With a resigned grunt, he slid over. At the last second before my butt landed, he yanked the flowing edge of his kaftan around him. Clearly he didn’t want me to sit on it and trap him into a conversation he might otherwise flee from.

  “We’ll save you a place, Garth,” one of his acolytes called to him.

  He turned to her and raised his hand in benediction. “I will look forward to it like a monk awaits nirvana.”

  Gag.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Charlemagne?”

  “Charlee.”

  “Ah, yes. The diminutive.”

  Uncalled for, but I chose to ignore his comment.

  “I’m interested in hearing about your travels. Tell me again where you’ve been these last few months?”

  “Malaysia, Japan, South America. I met the most fascinating character there named El Guapo. He and I—”

  “Where were you in Malaysia?”

  “Phuket.” He pronounced it incorrectly again.

  “What is their currency there?”

  “Currency?”

  “Yes. What’s their money called?”

  “Are you writing an international banking mystery?” He gave me a condescending smile while he picked some fluff from his kaftan.

  “No.” I condescended right back, but he was too engrossed in his fluff to notice. “I was thinking they use shillings in Phuket.” I pronounced it as he had.

  Garth nodded, still plucking at fluff.

  “Or do they use bahts?”

  “Perhaps for baseball.”

  “Perhaps, but also for money?”

  “They’d need very large wallets.” He smiled at his witticism.

  He wasn’t going to make this easy. I flashed him a smile so sweet and fake it could have been made out of aspartame. “I have to check, otherwise this is going to bug me.” I pulled up the currency converter for Thailand on my phone and pointed to where it showed bahts as the currency. “And you should probably know that Phuket is in Thailand, not Malaysia, and it’s pronounced poo-ket.”

  He stood, placed his hands in prayer position, and gave
me a slight bow. “If you say so.”

  As he turned to walk away, I jumped up and held his arm. “You’ve never been to Phuket, have you? Or to Thailand or Malaysia or Venezuela or Columbia.”

  His eyes pierced mine until it felt like he was probing my brain.

  Finally he said, “But I have been to British Columbia.”

  I pulled him back to the loveseat. “Where were you? Why lie?”

  He gave a wide sweep of his arm toward the gaggle of writers knotted across the lobby staring at us. “These people expect me to come here every year and regale them with epic tales of adventure and intrigue. I couldn’t … wouldn’t … disappoint them.”

  “Why would they be disappointed?”

  “I don’t understand your question.”

  I tried to be as precise as possible. “Why … would the people at the Stumptown Writers’ Conference … be disappointed … if you didn’t travel?”

  He furrowed his brow. “Because I’m Garth.”

  “But … why?”

  “I just am.”

  “No, not why are you Garth. Why would they care?”

  “That I’m Garth? I don’t know, child, they just do.”

  His circular argument made me dizzy. I sat gaping for long enough that he must have believed the conversation was finished. He waved his acolytes back over and they plopped down at his feet, not before giving me another stink-eye for the interruption. I excused myself as they peppered him with questions about his upcoming banquet speech.

  Phuket. I was halfway across the lobby before I realized he never gave me any answers.

  Where was he, if not traveling? And why lie to me about it?

  I found a quiet corner where I could see the dogs running through their paces but couldn’t hear the commands from their trainers. I sipped my now-tepid coffee and tried to make sense of my conversation with Garth. Unfortunately, it made no sense. Would his banquet speech tonight be any more coherent?

  I supposed it couldn’t be any worse than mine would be on Saturday night. Oh my gosh, that was tomorrow. I hadn’t really put any brain cells toward ACHIEVE since I’d arrived, what with all the chaos. Plus, I was quite disappointed that the keywords to match the acronym hadn’t stuck in my brain or helped me clarify any ideas. I’d really thought that the guy at the airport was on to something. He had made it sound so perfect. So simple. Just think of stuff for each letter, he’d said. You’ll remember your entire speech, he’d said. It’ll be easy, he’d said.