Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  So far, so good. No tears.

  Next up was an overwrought high fantasy, heavy on the world-building and Daddy issues. I didn’t know how to express how very terrible it all was. I stared at my page long after she’d finished reading. The hackneyed phrase “the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife” seemed very appropriate.

  Instead of offering a critique to her, I crossed the room. “I love the line about her clothes, but I need to think about this one a little more. Could you please email me the first three chapters? Put ‘Stumptown Writers’ Critique’ in the subject line. I’d like to read more before I formulate an opinion.” I wrote my email address on the dry erase board mounted to the wall. “That goes for all of you, by the way. One page is really hard to judge by, so I’d be happy to read more from all of you if you’d like me to. I know you paid for a critique, and if you want one from one of the other faculty members—you know, the industry professionals—I’ll see if I can make that happen.”

  “Even Garth?” someone asked.

  Garth? An industry professional? “Sure. Why not.”

  The author of the fantasy story smiled at me, relieved, perhaps knowing her work wasn’t ready for prime time yet. I wanted to tell her that that’s part of being a writer, too, but I didn’t want to embarrass her.

  We plowed through the rest of the submissions. More fantasy, more sci-fi, more young adult and middle grade, romance, memoirs, and mysteries—cozies, historical, and a private investigator premise that pissed me off due to no fault of the writer—read by all sorts of writers. Some overly confident, some so nervous it made me ache on their behalf. I had to restrain myself from wrapping them in a smothering hug and offering cocoa and a binky.

  Some excerpts sounded perfect to me, some far from it, but all showed flashes of brilliance, whether plot or character or language or voice.

  Five minutes after the session was supposed to end, we finished the last first page.

  “I’m impressed with the talent in this room. You are all writers and deserve a round of applause. For your writing and your bravery.” They clapped for themselves and each other, beaming and tittering with relief. “I want you all to remember that sometimes—whether you’ve written one manuscript or one hundred—you have to get the basic story down so you have something to revise. If there’s no glob of clay on the pottery wheel, there will never be a ceramic vase. If there’s no wool on the loom, there will never be a rug. The trick for a writer, of course, is to surround yourself with readers and writers who can help shape your work until it is a beautiful representation of what you envisioned. If you do nothing else this weekend, network with one another and organize a critique group if you don’t have one, either online or in person. Your writing pals will be some of the best instructors you’ll ever have.”

  I was sorry to have to end the session, and I think they were too, even though it had been mentally exhausting for all of us, but I had another session starting in five minutes. Most of the writers followed me to the Deschutes Room.

  I walked to the dry erase board and wrote my email. As before, I turned to the wide-eyed, obviously anxious writers already sitting there. I smiled in what I hoped was a calming rather than profoundly creepy way, waiting as the room filled with the attendees streaming in from my previous session. All the chairs were taken. People leaned carefully against the accordion walls or sat in the aisles and wrapped around the front wherever there was empty floor space. I hoisted myself to a sitting position on the table in the front of the room.

  “So, we’re going to do something a little different in this session. Every one of you is going to email me the first three chapters of your manuscript and I will critique it. And if you want a critique from a particular industry professional who got stuck in the storm, email me with their name and I’ll try to make that happen, too. But for this session, let’s talk about anything on your mind. You can read from your submission if you want, we can chat about the publishing business, you can ask me your burning questions about this crazy writing thing that turns otherwise normal and pleasant people into obsessive word zombies, or whatever else you want to talk about.”

  Nobody got filleted on my watch.

  Again, the session sped by. The attendees thanked me on their way out of the room, some stopping to ask follow-up questions, but eventually everyone trickled out to have a drink with their newfound friends before the opening night banquet.

  “Enjoy BarCon!” I called after them. Seasoned conference-goers know that all of the networking and most of the learning comes while hanging out with your tribe at the bar during a conference. Didn’t matter if you drank, just that you were there, soaking it all up.

  I considered joining them, but exhaustion slapped me silly. I needed to debrief the day to Ozzi, obsess over the weather back east, send snow-melting thoughts to the stranded faculty members, and then perhaps raid my minibar. Maybe not in that order.

  The lobby was packed with writers, dogs, and handlers. It felt like I could dip a bucket into the El Niño of words and noises shifting and surging around me and carry them all away with me.

  I picked my way through the thinnest part of the mob and saw what had drawn everyone’s attention. The agility course had grown more massive and elaborate. In addition to the hassock and pillow hurdles and the tunnel of chairs, there were now bedspreads draping the chairs instead of jackets, creating a more complete tunnel experience for the dogs. There was also an area with eight large, leafy ficus plants pulled from all over the hotel and set about two feet apart. Dogs weaved through them like on a slalom course. In another area there were ironing boards balanced on boxes and crates and used as fulcrums. I watched Scout run up one side of an ironing board, balance a bit in the center, and then use her weight to tip it the other direction so she could run down. She then shimmied through the tunnel, leaped over the hurdles, and ended the course by racing through the slaloms. She skidded to a stop near Scott and pranced around behind him, soaking up the applause.

  “She’s great!”

  I turned to see Brad Pitt next to me. I nodded. “Sure is. I’m glad it’s raining so they have to practice in here. Otherwise I never would have believed this.”

  “I know. I was talking to Jack, the concierge?” When I nodded, he continued. “He told me the hotel is happy to let the dogs practice in here as long as there’s no barking and they don’t go into the bar or restaurant. He told me almost everyone here is either a dog person or a writer person.”

  “That’s probably true. The dog people won’t care and we writers spend all our time in the bar anyway.”

  “I’m no writer, but I have grown fond of that bar.”

  “You’re not here for the conference?”

  “Nope.”

  “I just assumed, since you’re local. Why stay at a hotel in your own town?”

  “I’m from the Portland area, but not Portland per se.”

  “Per se … you sure you’re not a writer?”

  “Almost positive.”

  “Then you must be a dog guy.”

  “Nope. Cats, actually. And too many of them. Came with my brother.”

  “The cats also cramp your style?” Perhaps it was judgy of me, but Brad Pitt seemed too old to have roommates, even if some of them were of the unappreciated feline variety.

  He sighed. “Yep.”

  “Bummer.” I was curious about his living arrangements and wanted to ask more, but applause and cheering drowned out any further conversation. We turned our attention back to the dogs.

  We watched as a terrier, then Shasta the brindle greyhound, then Scout raced through the obstacle course. A basset hound overturned the tunnel obstacle by getting tangled first in his ears and then in the draped fabric, so all action ceased while someone fixed it. The ears remained unaffected.

  “She won the quarterfinals in her class today,” Brad said, flicking his chin toward Scout.

  “Oh, I was so busy with my own stuff I didn’t realize their competiti
on started already. They must have found some arena to use.”

  “Must have. Scott thinks she might take home some real prize money this weekend. Says it’s pretty tall dough, too.”

  “Good for them,” I said. “I know Scott was nervous about the competition.”

  “Speaking of competition … can I buy you dinner?”

  “You’re relentless, aren’t you?” Before I could make an excuse, a blonde pushed through the crowd toward us.

  “There you are! I thought you were taking me to dinner.” She spoke in a babydoll voice that made my skin crawl. I wanted to shake her and say, You’re a full-grown woman—don’t speak like a four-year-old, but I didn’t want to insult four-year-olds.

  “I was just looking for you, darlin’.” Brad Pitt took her arm and steered her away, but not before he turned back to wink at me.

  I shook my head after them, then negotiated my way to the elevator, ready to be alone in the quiet of my room. I sidestepped a knot of people. As one thanked me for my critique session earlier, I turned toward her but kept walking until I ran solidly into someone who let out a loud “Oof.”

  “I’m so sorry! I should have been watching—oh, it’s you.”

  Viv stood in front of me rubbing her shoulder. “Where are you going in such a hurry?” she asked.

  The sight of her made my earlier anger roar back. My face must have hardened because she stopped rubbing her shoulder and asked, “What?”

  “What?” I parroted. “Are you really going to ask me that?”

  She pulled me toward the wall, out of the traffic lane. “Charlee, I know you want answers from me, but I don’t have any to give. And you’ve made it abundantly clear you don’t like the way I’m handling this, but I’m doing what I think is right. I can’t talk about it now. I have things to deal with.” She stepped away from me, but I grabbed her arm.

  “What kind of things? Lying things? Secret things?” Viv didn’t respond, which infuriated me even more. I raised my voice. “Embezzlement things?”

  She shook off my grip. “Please keep your voice down.” She tried to steer me further away from the happy lobby people milling about, but I planted my feet.

  “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, Viv, but I’m done. Out. Kaput. I’ll help with this conference until the end of the weekend, but that’s it. We’re done. You’ve put me in the middle of your drama for the very last—”

  In the middle of my tirade, Viv quietly pulled out her phone. “Seriously?” I practically screamed at her rudeness, unconcerned about drawing attention.

  She thrust her phone at me. “Listen to that voicemail.” I put the phone to my ear.

  “Mom? I don’t know what’s happening. He wants me to remind you not to call the police. Do you have the money yet? I’m okay, just scared. I’m blindfolded and don’t know where I—”

  I heard a man’s muffled voice say “That’s enough” before the call disconnected.

  I felt the color drain from my face. “But … the police. Maybe they can trace that call.”

  Viv shook her head emphatically. “No. I’m not going to call them. I told you they said from the very start they’ll hurt her if I do. And you heard her. She said she’s okay. I told them I needed to hear her voice before I did anything else. Now I need to get that money.”

  So she hadn’t taken the conference money. Yet. “You need to call the police.”

  “No.”

  “Then I will.” But this time I can give them hard evidence.

  Viv stared at me, then plucked the phone from my hand. Finally! My relief turned to horror when I saw that she wasn’t calling the police. Instead, she tapped and deleted Hanna’s voicemail message.

  “No cops, Charlee. I’m going to pay the full ransom and get her back.”

  She turned away and stomped through the crowd. I stared until she left the building.

  Jack appeared from nowhere and asked if I was okay. Blinking at him, I said, “Did Hanna ever respond to you or saRAH on that social media … what was it? … SipSmell?”

  “Symwyf. Nope. Neither of us has heard from her.”

  “Can you check again?”

  He pulled out his phone, pushed some buttons, then shook his head. “Nope. Still no messages.”

  “Can I see?” I held my hand out for his phone. I could tell he didn’t want to give it to me, debating in his head if he’d rather have Hanna mad at him or me. I hardened my face, narrowed my eyes, and curled my lips into a snarl, trying to show him I was his biggest nightmare if he didn’t hand over that phone.

  Whether he was frightened for his life or because I looked dyspeptic didn’t matter. He handed over the phone. He showed me his direct message to her, with no reply.

  “Let me see her profile.”

  “Push where it says ‘Symwyf me.’ That’s her profile page.”

  Nobody should ever be commanded to simwhiff anyone, but that wasn’t my concern right now.

  It took a moment to load, but when it did, I gasped. A photo of me sitting next to Garth in the hotel lobby filled Hanna’s page. There was no caption, and no indication why a photo of Garth was taken or why it was posted there.

  Jack leaned over to see what I was staring at so intently. “Why is this photo of Garth on here?” I asked him.

  He cocked his head and pulled the phone closer. “That’s a picture of you.”

  I yanked the phone from him and held it in front of my face while I studied the photo. Garth’s presence had captured my attention right away, but I saw that I was centered in the frame, facing straight ahead. Garth was off to the side, with his head slightly turned, perhaps chatting with someone off camera? I tried to think back to my conversation with him. What had been going on?

  The acolytes sitting at his feet. I’d interrupted and gotten the stink-eye from them. Garth said something about a monk awaiting nirvana to one of them.

  Jack looked at me funny. “Is everything okay?”

  Why was someone taking my photo? Was it even a photo of me? Even though I was facing forward and centered in the frame, it was a more interesting photo of Garth. His hair flowed, his kaftan flowed. It could have been someone simply wanting to capture his weird ensemble to show their spouse when they got home, or as a cautionary tale to their kids to stay in school and off drugs. You don’t want to end up wearing a dress in the middle of a mid-price conference hotel in the heart of downtown Portland now, do you, little Johnny?

  Jack touched my elbow and repeated, “Is everything okay?”

  Not sure, I nonetheless nodded numbly, handing his phone back.

  He didn’t look like he believed me but excused himself and left through the same door Viv had.

  Who took that picture? Who posted it on Hanna’s page? And why? Jack had seemed as surprised as I was to see it there. But maybe it was a ruse. Maybe Jack was involved in this in ways I couldn’t even imagine. Was he trying to scare me off? What was in that duffel he’d put in the van? Why had saRAH really come into my room? Was she planting some kind of evidence? Money? Drugs? And what was Roz the catering manager’s interest in ReTurn A New Leaf, Hanna’s rehab place?

  I called Viv. She picked up immediately. “Are you sure Garth and Hanna don’t know about each other?”

  “Absolutely sure.”

  I explained about seeing the photo of Garth and me on Hanna’s Symwyf page. “Why do you think that is?”

  Viv stammered, trying to land on a coherent sentence. Finally she said, “Maybe it’s some subtle threat from the kidnappers, making sure we know they’re watching us.” She caught her breath. “Charlee! They must know you’re involved!”

  My mouth went dry. “But maybe it has something to do with Garth.”

  “Nobody but me and you know he’s Hanna’s father. He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

  I didn’t share her confidence. “Maybe he’s their next target.” Viv and I held silence.

  Then she said, “Charlee, I don’t know what to tell you. Let
me talk to Garth and I’ll get back to you.” She disconnected.

  Answers were elusive. No. Nonexistent. There was no way I could figure this out. In fiction, I worked backward, beginning with the ending, with all the answers. Nothing like this.

  I pushed the elevator button and breathed a sigh when the doors slid shut and I was mercifully alone. I slumped against the wall, berating the reflection I saw slumping back at me. Can’t find any answers, can’t find Hanna, can’t convince Viv to get help from the police, can’t help pay the ransom.

  My pulse quickened. I straightened. Goose bumps popped on my arms. I don’t have very many AHA! moments, but this was certainly one of them. Money. If I couldn’t find Hanna or figure out anything about this mystery, maybe I could at least raise the ransom money without Viv having to embezzle from the conference.

  The elevator dinged and I ran to my room, exhaustion gone.

  Fifteen

  With every step, my energy surged.

  My plan had become more focused by the time I jabbed the key card in my door. All those places Viv volunteered for—reading to the blind, teaching Sunday School, tutoring—they should be thrilled for a chance to help her.

  And that nonprofit. I racked my brain to remember what Clementine had called it. SIN was the acronym. I searched until I found the notepad I’d written the information on. Strength in Numbers. It taught groups to fundraise and organize letter-writing campaigns.

  That’s where I’d start. All those groups that Strength in Numbers had helped should be happy to return the favor, and those people probably had more disposable income than the blind or Sunday School kids did. It would be a modern day It’s a Wonderful Life moment, like when all of Bedford Falls turned out to help George Bailey.

  I got a little teary-eyed with the memory, and with the possibility of recreating such a feel-good moment in real life.

  While waiting for my computer to fire up, I saw a stunning sunset spreading sherbet hues across the sky. A bit of sky peeked through the clouds here and there. The rain had stopped, but the furniture on my balcony glistened with droplets. I grabbed a towel and my laptop and headed out there, thrilled to leave the hotel even if it was just three steps onto my balcony. I wiped off the filigree of the wrought-iron bistro table and one chair, opened my computer, and found the website for Strength in Numbers.