by Becky Clark
Garth then touched his forehead to mine. “Thank you for saving Hanna.”
“I wish I could take credit, but most of it was dumb luck.”
Scott smiled. “I told you stepping in dog poop was lucky.”
“It wasn’t luck.” Clementine pushed away from where she was leaning on the wall, her multitude of plastic beads clattering. She picked up the iron from the floor where I’d dropped it. She used its heft for a few biceps curls. “Seems Charlee does know how to use an iron.”
Then she did the most remarkable thing. Without prompting, cajoling, begging, or straining any muscles, Clementine smiled. A big, goofy, full-toothed grin. Almost as if she’d known how to do it all along.
Before I could whip out my camera to preserve this remarkable phenomenon, three uniformed police officers arrived, followed by two EMTs and a man wearing a wrinkled shirt and a loosened tie. He flashed a badge and asked, “Which one of you is Charlemagne Russo?”
His authoritative tone made my scalp prickle, but I slowly raised my hand.
He thrust out one hand. “I’m Detective Kelly.” Pause. “Gene Kelly.” He saw my eyes widen. “My mom was a fan.”
Nineteen
I wiped my mouth after finishing every last bite on my plate at the banquet that night. The people at my table were chattering happily about the conference—who they met, what they learned, gossip they’d heard. Everyone knew the full story of Hanna’s kidnapping roughly ten minutes after we rescued her. Something to do with the celebratory haiku Garth had composed about it.
I let the noise from three hundred diners wash over me as I glanced around the room. Garth caught my eye and raised a glass of water in my direction. I wondered if it was artisanal, or at least free-range and cage-free. I raised my glass in return, relieved that everything had worked out.
All the East Coast faculty members had made it to the conference by the time the banquet started. The ones too tardy for their workshops either rescheduled or arranged times to meet with the writers who had requested appointments with them, either here in Portland or by phone the next week.
Even the food managed to be delicious. I spied Jerry standing near the kitchen with his hands behind his back and a self-satisfied grin on his boyish face as the wait staff scurried in and out.
I pushed back from my seat and dropped my napkin over my empty plate before crossing over to him. “You should be proud of yourself. Dinner was delicious.”
“Right?” Then he blushed. “I mean, thanks.” He leaned toward me. “I had help.”
“Clearly.” I swept my arm toward a waiter carrying a tray piled high with dirty plates.
“No. I mean, yes. But I want you to meet my Uncle Moe. You made me start thinking differently about my job here. I didn’t have to do what Chef did, even if I could. So I called Moe.” He held up one finger, and I waited until he returned with an older man wearing a trucker hat emblazoned with the slogan, Don’t make me burn your wiener. The man also wore a truly magnificent apron.
Uncle Moe noticed me staring at it. “I’m a Tactical Grill Sergeant.” He proceeded to give me a tour of the pockets of his camouflage apron. Six cans of beer—four full, two empty—in the ammo belt draped like a bandolier across his chest. Four sauce pockets with colorful bottles peeking out. Spice pockets packed with mysterious shaker tops. Tool pockets holding spatulas, tongs, long forks, and basting brushes. And an easy-to-reach squirt bottle on his hip that he explained was for flare-ups on the grill. His arsenal was easy to deploy as the situation warranted.
I wanted to find out more about Uncle Moe, but I remembered there was one detail I still didn’t know. “Why did the chef get fired?”
“Because all those people got food poisoning from him,” Jerry explained. “Chef was cutting corners for a long time. That lady in charge”—he indicated Viv in the back of the room—“made a complaint to corporate. She said it was a good thing she didn’t eat anything at the meeting or there would have been hell to pay—pardon my French. That won’t happen on my watch.”
“You mean—”
“Yep,” he said proudly. “I got a promotion.”
“Good for you, Jerry. Congratulations.”
Lily caught my eye and gave me the “okay” sign before climbing the three stairs to the dais.
“That’s my cue,” I told Jerry, pulling a nervous face.
“Good luck,” he said.
“I’ll need it.” I returned to my seat while Lily introduced me.
She ran through the list of my credentials and said many complimentary things, politely leaving out how I’d been questioned in the murder of my agent. “Please help me welcome the savior of this conference and all-around good egg, Charlemagne Russo.” She gave a gleeful sweep of her arm, and I rose from the table clutching both my phone and my printed notes.
Lily waited until I reached the podium and we shared a brief hug.
She whispered, “You’re gonna kill ’em!”
I giggled nervously as I organized my notes. While the applause died down, I pushed the button on my phone and proudly noted ninety-eight percent power. I set it to one side, smoothed my papers, and skimmed my title—ACHIEVE: Seven Things I Know About Writing—and the notes that reminded me what the acronym stood for.
My hands trembled, so I gripped the sides of the wooden lectern with both hands. The clapping slowly stopped and people shifted in their seats.
I looked at the packed room of writers sitting at banquet tables expectantly awaiting my words of writerly wisdom. Viv and Hanna stood at the back of the room with their arms around each other’s waist. Viv gave me an encouraging thumbs-up.
Clementine smiled at me and gave me a good-natured hurry-it-up gesture.
I glanced at my notes again, then lifted my eyes and grinned at the crowd. Shifting my weight, I jutted out my left hip. I let go of the lectern and leaned one elbow on it. “I’m not gonna lie. On Wednesday when I flew in, I was scared to death to give this speech, but a helpful stranger at the airport showed me a simple trick to organize my thoughts. But now, only three days later, that all seems like a lifetime ago. Isn’t it fascinating how we humans are capable of compartmentalizing our lives? We expand and contract to allow new information and experiences in. So tonight, after everything that’s happened, I want to step back into my writer’s box and talk about the seven things I know to be true about writing. I’m using an acronym, ACHIEVE, which you can use too.” I slid my notes and phone to the side. I didn’t need them. “A is for ability, to craft a story. C is for courage, to put yourself out there. H is for hocus-pocus—”
The audience laughed.
“We all know sometimes you need magic to make it all work right. I is for imagination, E is for editing, V is for voice, and last but definitely important, E is for earnings.”
A woman whooped her agreement and a man shouted, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”
I explained the seven ideas in more detail and included some helpful hints and funny anecdotes, with a generous dose of encouragement. I ended my speech by reminding them that it wasn’t so long ago that I sat where they sat, looking to launch my own career.
“If I can do it, you can do it.”
The room erupted in thunderous applause. I wiped a tear before Lily jumped to the stage to present me with a leather notebook tied with a pretty bow.
The next day, I walked through the Portland airport talking to Ozzi on my phone. I’d caught him up on everything after the banquet. Today was a bit more subdued, given my attendance at BarCon last night. People had wanted to buy me drinks. Lots of drinks. How could I refuse them that pleasure?
“So I’m through security and almost to my gate. Looks like the flight will be on time. You’ll be at DIA to pick me up?”
“Absolutely. Can’t wait to see you. I have a surprise for you.” He made some sexy noises in my ear.
“Is it ice cream? You know how I love that salted caramel swirl,” I teased.
“Correction. I’ll see
you in Denver with two surprises. I love you, Charlee. I’m glad you’re safe.”
“Love you more. See you in three hours and fifty-two minutes.”
I dropped my phone into my bag and wandered around, looking for something to eat before I got on the plane. One kiosk looked interesting, but there was a man in line blocking my view of the menu board. He picked up his order and turned around. It was the man who’d helped me with the acronym for my speech.
“Sir Robin of Locksley! Pip, pip, cheerio and all that rot.”
He frowned, then grinned in recognition. “Charlemagne Russo! Fancy meeting you here today.”
“What? No accent?”
“Nope. I’m just plain ol’ Ricky today. Too exhausted to pretend.”
“So I take it the wedding was fun?”
“A little too much fun.” Ricky rubbed his head with his free hand. “And it cost me a small fortune.” He tipped his head toward some seating nearby. “Care to join me?”
“Yeah, let me grab a sandwich.”
When I sat down, he said, “I’m dying to know. How did your speech go?”
“I don’t even know where to start.” I told him the entire story of the conference while we ate.
When I finished, he stared at me, stunned.
I laughed at the incredulous expression on his face. “The things we do for friends, right?”
Acknowledgments
I’ve been haunting writers’ conferences since 1999, often as a member of the faculty. While they’ve never been quite like the fictional Stumptown Conference, they are always filled with characters, laughter, and learning. BarCon, you’ll be happy to know, is a real thing. After-hours at the hotel bar is when so much magic happens. If you’re a writer, aspiring or otherwise, I encourage you to find a conference to attend. Go hang out with your tribe. And if they’ve double-booked a dog show, you better send me photos.
If you’re strictly a reader, there are mystery conferences for you too. If you’ve never attended Left Coast Crime, Malice Domestic, or Bouchercon, put them on your bucket list. Enjoy hanging out with your favorite authors, meeting new ones, and attending panels on all facets of crime fiction. And don’t forget to add BarCon to your schedule!
Reviews make the world go ‘round … and I’d love it if you’d post a quick review of Foul Play on Words.
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Copyright © 2021 by Becky Clark
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Any references to historical events, real people, products, or places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.
Cover design by Steven Novak
ISBN: 978-1-7346893-7-2 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-7346893-8-9 (ebook)
www.BeckyClarkBooks.com
For everyone who got mad at me when they saw themselves in my previous books. Brace yourselves.
One
I jumped when he licked my calf. Behind me I heard the wheezing and huffing that signified the unmistakable arrival of Peter O’Drool.
“Hey, Pete,” Ozzi said. “You trying to steal my girl?” He bent to pet the rambunctious pug who lived upstairs with Don and Barb Singer.
“Oh, honey,” I said to Ozzi, squatting down to rub Peter’s face. “That ship sailed. I fell in love with Pete long before I met you.” Peter rubbed his face on my leg before bouncing back toward Ozzi. I locked the front door of my apartment.
Peter dashed away then came right back, impossibly but valiantly chasing his minuscule tail that curved up toward his back, and finally, as his big flourish, got down in the play position, butt in the air, front legs on the ground. Well, that was the play position for normal sized dogs. Pete had so little clearance he was already mostly on the ground. But I knew what he meant.
“I wish I could, Pete, but I’ll be dead if I screw this up. I promise I’ll see you later and we’ll have a romp.” I gave him a chuff under his nutmeg-colored chin.
“Big day, eh?” My eighty-something neighbor Don Singer descended the outside stairs and met us at the bottom.
“Today is Charlee’s big workshop and book signing with Rodolfo Lapaglia.” Ozzi held out a book he was hoping to get autographed. “He’s coming into town just for this. We’re on our way to meet his train at Union Station.” Ozzi could hardly contain his excitement, eyes bright, butt wiggling. He looked remarkably similar to Peter. Not nearly as much drool, though.
“That’s a good boyfriend, going with her.” Don nodded approvingly at Ozzi. “Baby Boomers get a bad rap, but you’re all right.”
“Geez, Don, how old do you think I am? My parents are Boomers!” Ozzi said with a chuckle.
Don shrugged. “We’re the Greatest Generation. That’s where I quit paying attention.”
I barked out a too-loud laugh. “You ARE the greatest. And while Ozzi is a good boyfriend, he’s not going to this event for me. He’s got an enormous man-crush on Rodolfo Lapaglia and can’t wait to meet him.” I tugged at Ozzi’s sleeve but he gave me a reassuring pat on the arm, as if that would banish the butterflies in my stomach. The only thing I had control over today was not being late to the train station, and that ticked away the longer we stayed here chatting with Don.
This entire event today was the brain child of Stephanie Szabo, my new editor at Penn & Powell. She was also Lapaglia’s editor. After all the turmoil from the murder of my agent and the withdrawal of my manuscript “Mercury Rising,” she thought it would boost buzz for me, maybe sell some of my back titles. And I had to agree, since my agent had been completely ineffective in selling any of my new book proposals. Henry had learned nothing from his wife before he cavalierly assumed control of her literary agency after her murder. Melinda was tough and unlikeable, but fully professional and astute in the realm of book publishing. Henry, on the other hand, made completely unreasonable demands and editors—even Stephanie who had worked with me before—wouldn’t agree to take on any of my new work. She told me in no uncertain terms that as long as Henry Walter was my agent, I’d never sell another manuscript. I was keeping my fingers crossed I could just run out the clock on my contract with him.
But then a bona fide miracle happened. Not one the Pope would bless, but still. Henry Walter closed up shop and sent letters to all of Melinda’s clients that he was going back to his tech business and releasing us from our contracts. Apparently my editor wasn’t the only one he’d antagonized.
Then the next thing I knew, my friend Viv Lundquist had signed with a new agent and convinced her to sign me as well. As relieved as I was, though, you can be sure I scrutinized every word of that contract.
But when both my new agent and editor thought this event would be a boost for my career, I believed them. Plus, I wanted them to know I was a team player and not some literary diva.
Stephanie confided that she was keeping her fingers crossed for a miracle that our event today would not only raise my profile, but also humanize the reclusive Lapaglia a bit, make him less of a jerk.
Seemed like a lot of pressure for a one-day workshop for writers. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’d already been the recent recipient of a miracle.
“Who is this Lapaglia?” Don asked. He pronounced it “La-page-lie-ya.”
“Lapaglia. Just the best thriller writer who ever put pen to paper, that’s who,” Ozzi said, puffing out his chest.
“Told you. Man-crush.”
Don raised his eyebrows.
“Seriously? You’ve never heard of him?” Ozzi asked.
Don screwed up his face in an exaggerated manner to mimic extra-hard concentration. I hid my grin by bending down to rub Peter’s belly.
“You’re killing me, Don! Rodolfo Lapaglia ... has thirteen books in his Mob Busters series? Won the most Dark Dagger Awards ever? Bestsellers in like, every country you’ve ever heard of and some you haven’t?”
After each fact, Don looked even more quizzical. I was afraid Ozzi might hyperventilate. And then we’d really be late.
I knew Don was pulling Ozzi’s leg because I’d seen Lapaglia’s books on his shelves. I hung around Don and Barb more than Ozzi did, so I was a bit more immune to Don’s pranks. Not that he didn’t fool me on occasion. The most recent time was when he had me convinced that a house being built near us had actually been blown down in a recent windstorm. I believed it longer than I cared to admit.
Don slapped his thigh and guffawed. “Of course I know Lapaglia’s work. I own most of his books. Been reading them since you were still in knee-britches.”
“Pretty sure I’ve never worn knee-britches,” Ozzi said.
“I bet you’d rock them. I’d kinda like to see you try.” I waggled my eyebrows and gave him a lascivious leer.
Ozzi shot me a pin-up girl pose, complete with pout and finger in dimple.
“On second thought, no time. We should go.” I held out my hand to him.
Ozzi scritched Peter O’Drool once more then took my hand.
I let him lead me across the sidewalk toward the apartment complex parking lot, calling over my shoulder, “See you, Don. Stay out of trouble, Pete.”
“Can I ride in your new car?” Ozzie headed toward my covered parking spot.