by Becky Clark
Volunteers manned the registration desk checking in last-minute Saturday morning attendees. Clementine stood ready to hand them their T-shirts. All seemed calm. Same in the workroom, assuming the locked door meant all was well. Hopefully the volunteers had finished their work and were off attending the workshops.
I stared at Clementine calmly distributing the T-shirts. If it was true she’d lit up a joint after she and Billy the PI were in the basement, was it possible she was involved in harder drugs? Was she working with Michael Watanabe to deal drugs? Did she get Hanna hooked again? Maybe Clementine had a vendetta of some kind against Viv. Wasn’t it Clementine who’d told me Viv made a lot of people mad? The surly hipster persona would be excellent cover if someone wanted to be inscrutable.
I thought harder about Clementine’s story about looking into my dad’s history to write some true crime article. Did that even make sense? Was that how writers researched for true crime? I racked my brain to conjure up someone I knew who wrote in that genre but came up empty. I couldn’t think who to ask.
In the old days, a couple of months ago, I would have asked my agent. But with Melinda dead and her husband taking over the literary agency, my options were nil there too. I’d gotten off on the wrong foot with her husband and didn’t have any confidence in his literary acumen. There was no way he would have developed contacts like that already, and he probably wouldn’t tell me if I asked.
Clementine saw me staring at her and cocked her head. If it was anyone else, I would have thought it was an unspoken way to ask if I needed something. Instead it looked more like a challenge. Keep staring and I will cut you into tiny pieces to put in my Hello Kitty purse, she was probably thinking.
I turned away, unnerved. Still hadn’t even made her smile yet. I was fairly certain I could make her cut me, but what would it take to make her smile?
There was still some time before I had to teach my workshop on dialogue, but I couldn’t get that feeling of a ticking clock out of my head. If there really had been a kidnapping, and if Viv didn’t get the ransom paid in the next couple of hours and the kidnappers weren’t bluffing about killing someone every hour starting at one o’clock, then one of these poor writers was going to get killed.
And all I could do was teach them how to write compelling dialogue.
I meandered in the vague direction of the room where my workshop was to be held. Halfway there I stopped short, the pit of my stomach dropping. I hadn’t called any of those people from Viv’s SIN website! Last night, when I’d assumed everything was over and done with, I’d abandoned my entire ransom fundraising plan. And now, the day the ransom was due, I wasn’t even sure Viv had raised it, and was equally uncertain about Hanna’s situation. Viv would have told me by now if they’d been reunited. And she would be here to micromanage what was left of the conference.
The lobby held one more chance to determine if Brad Pitt was somehow involved in all this. I had a rudimentary plan that began with calmly asking him to tell me more about his brother. Beyond that, it was a bit fuzzier. Even though I’d seen Brad leave earlier, I searched his usual places and didn’t find him. He must not have been lying about having business to attend to. As I stood in the bar area contemplating my next move, I saw Bernice, the front desk clerk on duty, pull down the cuffs of her blue blazer and leave her post. The minute she did, Jack jumped up from his desk and hurried toward the meeting rooms.
The way he kept glancing over his shoulder made it seem like he’d been waiting for her to disappear.
He ducked down the hallway.
I followed him. When I got to the start of the hallway, I peeked around the corner. Dammit. He’d disappeared. I didn’t think he would have had time to get all the way to the hidden door to the basement, but maybe he sprinted. Although with all these people milling about, wouldn’t that seem weird? Especially when it seemed he wanted to keep his activities on the down-low?
He must have gone to the basement, though, because everything else in these hallways was related to the conference. I edged around the corner, trying to be invisible so nobody would stop me to chat or ask questions about writing or books or the publishing industry. I kept close to the wall farthest from the meeting rooms, watching my feet, letting my hair fall loose across the right side of my face to hide me. Past the Columbia Room. Past Mount Hood.
“Miss Russo? Charlee?”
I pretended I didn’t hear the woman’s voice behind me as I neared the door of the Deschutes Room.
“Miss Russo? Can I ask you a quick question?”
Someone tapped me on the shoulder at the same time that Jack scurried out of the Clackamas Room and disappeared around the far corner. Now he carried a plastic grocery bag.
I turned. “I’m so sorry, I can’t talk right now. Come to my dialogue workshop and we can chat for a bit then.”
The woman fumbled with unfolding her schedule, then grabbed me by the upper arm before I could follow Jack. “Is this it? Here? In the Tualatin Room? I wasn’t going to go to that one. I was planning on attending Garth’s poetry writing workshop.” She looked accusingly at me. “Your workshop is at the same time as Garth’s.”
I shook free of her grasp. Jack was getting away and I was being made second fiddle to Garth. As I hurried around the corner past the workroom, I called back to her, “I’ll be around. Find me later.”
Of course, Jack was nowhere in sight by now. I pretended to tie my shoe until a group of three conference attendees passed, then grabbed the handle of the hidden door. Tentatively opening it, I saw the short hallway was empty and slipped in, closing the door quietly behind me. I waited until my eyes adjusted to the low light while listening for Jack descending the stairs. Why was there no switch for the fluorescent lights?
I heard nothing but the hum of the behind-the-scenes workings of the hotel. Descending the stairs, I wondered what Jack had taken from the Clackamas Room. Was he a thief ? Did he steal one of the volunteer’s purses or something? Was it a bag he’d stashed in there earlier? Were plastic bags even legal in ultra-environmentally conscious Portland? I didn’t think so.
Everything about Jack’s behavior was suspicious. Add this disappearance to what I’d seen with the duffle bag in the parking lot on Thursday and the way he’d pocketed that man’s room key this morning, and my spidey senses were tingling.
My knee buckled on the stairs. I wobbled but grabbed the railing before I fell. Was Jack’s plastic bag full of ransom money? That would explain his hurry and the worried look on his face as he left his desk. I knew I was almost to the bottom of the stairs because the hallway darkened. Ahead of me lurked Jack and perhaps the solution to this kidnapping. Perhaps even the kidnapper. I clutched the railing.
Behind me was safety. Before me, a kidnapper.
Kidnapper. Safety. Kidnapper. Safety.
Whenever I watched one of those awful women-in-danger TV movies I invariably yelled at the screen, “Don’t be dumb! Why would you go in there? Run! Call for help!” And now here I was, being dumb. I pressed my hip against the railing for balance and fished out my phone. I opened up my contact list, but there was nobody I could call.
They’d all tell me the same thing: “Get out of there.”
Detective Kelly wouldn’t do anything, especially if he knew it was me. But what if I called 911? I could make an anonymous call and tell them something so they’d come down this stairway. I pushed the three numbers and my phone lit up. A bright red FAILED TO CONNECT filled my screen.
I checked for service and had none today either. Clearly it was a sign for me to get out of there, and I almost made the move back upstairs. Until I heard voices ahead of me. Was it Jack? Who was he talking to?
Suddenly I felt a blush creep up from my toes. Jack was down here to meet saRAH. He’d grabbed some munchies from the workroom and hurried away for a quick tryst. He had to sneak because it wasn’t his break time. I pivoted and had my foot on the step when I heard another voice. A man’s voice. Deep. Definitely not saRAH’s.
I pivoted again. They kept talking, so I tiptoed down the steps, thinking I’d stop when I got close enough to hear their conversation. Their murmur was low. I couldn’t make out any words.
The stairs ended and I continued down the dim hallway toward the indistinguishable voices. I followed the maze with an ear toward the murmur. Even though I couldn’t hear what he was saying, I felt certain that one of the voices belonged to Jack. I continued toward it, formulating a lie if he caught me.
As I passed the storage rooms deep in the bowels of the hotel, the sounds from the voices echoed and bounced above my head. I passed the small room I’d ducked into on my first visit. I glanced inside at the boxes. The skillet I’d thrown at Billy was still on the ground. I picked it up.
I came to a room with the door closed, while all the other doors were wide open. I stopped and had a quick conversation with my gut. It told me Hanna could be hidden in this room. My head told me to run far and fast, to get back upstairs to civilization.
Without permission from my brain, my hand slowly reached for the doorknob. Grabbed. Pushed forward. I listened. Nothing. I stuck my head in. Just a bunch of broken banquet tables and stained chairs. But what was behind the stack of tables? I gripped the skillet tighter.
“Hanna,” I whispered. Nothing. “Are you in here? I’m a friend of your mom’s.” I stood frozen, straining to hear the smallest movement.
She wasn’t there. I backed out of the room. Jack and the man were still conversing in low tones. I crept toward them. I came to a T-intersection and peeked right. Empty.
I peeked left in time to see Jack give the bag to someone in an open doorway. He pulled the door shut and it clicked. He turned my way, and his mouth became thinner and straighter than the blade of a knife. In three strides he was in my face. I didn’t even have time to raise the skillet. He stood so close my skin buzzed.
“Charlee.” He spoke quietly. “What are you doing down here?”
This time my story bubbled up, unbidden and so speedy I wondered if it was actually true. “I thought I might want to set a scene in my next novel in a place like this. When you brought me down here before, I—”
“What are you doing with that?” He gestured at the pan in my hand.
“Um. Nothing. Just found it by one of the rooms.”
He took it from me. “You shouldn’t be here.” He grabbed my arm and spun me back the way I’d come. “It’s not safe.”
When I wavered as to which direction to go, he stepped in front of me to lead the way. I had trouble keeping up with him.
“Why isn’t it safe?”
He didn’t answer right away and I thought maybe he hadn’t heard me. But then he said, “Homeless people sometimes find their way in here and camp out in the dark corners.” We reached the room with the kitchen storage. He stepped in and placed the skillet on top of one of the boxes, then glanced around the room, studying it like he was taking inventory.
Suddenly he whirled to face me. I could smell the detergent he used to wash his clothes. “People can be violent if they’re spooked or cornered.”
It sounded more like a threat than a warning. And the rough way he propelled me through the rest of the maze and up the stairs didn’t seem like concern for my safety. In fact, he shoved me around a corner, where I ran smack-dab into saRAH coming down the stairs.
Even in the dim light I could tell she was flustered. She didn’t look excited to see her boyfriend, like I would expect. Of course, she probably also didn’t expect her boyfriend to be with me in the dark basement.
“What are you doing down here?” Jack asked.
“I was … looking for you.”
I’d heard many lies in my day, and told my share too, so I felt confident this was hogwash. And I’d had enough.
“Were you coming down here to meet Watanabe?” I asked. When saRAH didn’t respond, I turned back to Jack. “I think they’ve got a little hanky-panky going on.” Deflecting from any mention of drug dealing seemed prudent in this unnerving passageway.
“How dare you!” saRAH said.
Jack pushed ahead of me on the stairs. “What’s she talking about?” he asked saRAH.
“I don’t know, Jack.”
“You don’t know? Really?” I elbowed Jack to the side so I could stand on the same step to confront her. “You don’t know why you’ve been huddled with Michael Watanabe down by the pool area?” I sighed. “Just yank that boyfriend Band-aid off. If Jack’s not the right guy for you, then call it quits. Better for both of you.”
saRAH took Jack’s hand. “Jack, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“Have you been meeting him in secret?” Jack’s voice was low and quiet.
I was surprised when she immediately admitted she had been. The implication dawned on me. “You ARE dealing drugs with him! Did you get Hanna using again?”
“What? What’s she saying, saRAH?”
saRAH glared at me. “Why don’t you shut up?”
“Why don’t you tell us what’s going on?” I wished I still had the skillet. It was wobbly, but it was something. Plus it had worked with Billy the PI, although he was a bit of a sissy. saRAH was no sissy.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but Michael and I have been trying to find Hanna.”
Jack started to speak but she cut him off.
“You and I both know one of us should have heard from her by now. Michael has been checking his contacts and I’ve been checking with everyone I know.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jack asked.
“I didn’t want to worry you.” Even in the bad lighting, I knew she was crying by the way her voice hitched. Jack moved up the stairs to hug her.
I took the opportunity to flee upstairs, mind whirring. Was saRAH that good of an actress? Was she telling the truth? Jack sure seemed to believe her. Had she been on the way downstairs to meet someone? Watanabe?
Reversing my steps, I returned to where they still embraced on the stairs. “saRAH, who were you meeting down here?”
She didn’t lift her face from Jack’s shoulder so her words were muffled. It sounded like she said, “Trombone Bill.” I didn’t pursue it because the look Jack shot me felt like it left a mark.
I made my way up the stairs and opened the camouflaged door into the hallway near the Clackamas Room.
“There you are!” Lily squealed when she saw me. “You’re late for your dialogue workshop! Hurry!”
All through my presentation about dialogue, my mind wandered to Jack and saRAH, to Clementine and Watanabe, to Brad and Greg Pitt. My workshop notes were not only useful but absolutely necessary. During the question-and-answer time at the end, I had to ask them to repeat every single question. My brain refused to focus. Who was that man with Jack in the basement? What was in that bag Jack carried? Was saRAH telling the truth about Watanabe? Who was Trombone Bill? A real person or the kidnapper’s code name?
By the time the workshop ended, I’d convinced myself that the man Jack met, and who saRAH was on her way to meet, must have been Brad Pitt.
As soon as I’d answered last-minute questions from the attendees, I claimed starvation and ditched the hallway for the restaurant, ignoring the fact that the conference lunch was in the opposite direction. Halfway across the lobby, I spied Brad talking to one of the dog handlers and hurried over. I checked the time: 11:35. Brad wasn’t supposed to be back until 2:00.
“Hi, Charlee,” he said. “Have you met Mr. Sparkles?”
I looked from the terrier to the handler, not sure which one he meant. But I recognized them as the hotel guests from my hallway this morning.
“Mr. Sparkles is my dog,” the handler said. “I’m Carl. And Brad here was trying to put a positive spin on the fact that we’re already out of the agility contest.” He nuzzled the terrier in his arms and spoke in baby talk that insulted every baby, every canine, every dog-lover, and most cats. “Poor widdle Sparky-poo snapped at the judge during the walk-through before our competition even
began.”
Brad Pitt turned to me. “I offered to buy them both a drink, but they refused.”
“Enough liquor to drown my sorrows would cost you a pretty penny, my fine sir.”
“No worries. I foresee a windfall in my future. Besides, I’d like the company.”
Brad Pitt was coming into some money? Like a plastic bag full of cash? But if he did have it, where was it? And if he didn’t have the money, then—ohmygosh. He wasn’t Trombone Bill. He was the muscle. The hit man. The one getting his hands dirty.
But he looked nothing like a hit man. Not that I knew any, except fictional ones. But still. He wasn’t a muscle-bound goon. All that charm would be wasted as a hit man.
If Brad was the kidnapper, he needed the ransom paid soon or he’d make the call to start having people whacked. If he was the kidnapper’s hit man, the one doing the whacking, he’d have to receive that call. And if I was completely wrong and he was neither, then I had nothing to worry about. I swallowed hard. Was the business he had to attend to—which supposedly would keep him away until 2:00—delivering the ransom Jack had given him in the basement? Was it over? Had the ransom been paid and Hanna freed? I checked my phone. Nothing from Viv. I had to know which scenario was real. I couldn’t wait much longer if the clock was still ticking.
“I’m afraid I’d be bad company, Brad, and Mr. Sparkles can’t be trusted to hold his liquor.” Carl nuzzled the dog again. “Isn’t that right, Sparky-poo? We came back with the other handlers on lunch break. We might have recovered enough to go back for the rest of the competition later this afternoon.” He booped noses with Mr. Sparkles.
The dog, clearly embarrassed by the fuss, growled at him. When that didn’t keep Carl out of his face, Mr. Sparkles turned and growled at me. He must have thought as an outsider I’d have special abilities to terminate such outrages.
I took a half-step closer to Brad Pitt. “I’ll have a drink with you.” Before he could respond, I turned toward Mr. Sparkles and said in a singsong voice, “You shouldn’t growl at me. Don’t you know who I am? I’m the famous mystery writer, Charlemagne Russo.” I figured if this went very, very badly, maybe Carl would remember my name and that he was the last person to see me alive. Just before I went to have a drink with Brad Pitt, kidnapper or hit man.