Foul Play on Words

by Becky Clark

  “I don’t know.”

  “When did you last see her? Did you have a fight?”

  “No, nothing like that. We had a game night a couple weeks ago. She beat me at Scrabble. Everything seemed … fine.”

  “Why did you pause? What aren’t you saying?”

  “Things have been … challenging with Hanna the last few years, but I thought we’d turned a corner. Maybe I was wrong.” Viv changed lanes too fast and with barely enough room.

  With my eyes squinched tight, I asked, “Have you called her? Gone by her house?”

  “Of course I did. She’s not answering her phone and her car isn’t at her apartment.” Viv took her eyes off the traffic and stared at me. “Charlee, I need your help.”

  “I can’t do anything!” My voice pitched up two octaves. It was well documented that my sleuthing skills only worked in fiction, not real life. I’d just asked all the questions I could think of and no answers had clicked in my brain like you see on cop dramas. “I don’t want anything to do with this. I’m way out of my depth here. Take the next exit back to the airport.” I glanced over my right shoulder to see if she could change lanes. Pulling out my phone, I said, “I’ll call my brother Lance. He’s a Denver cop. He’ll know—”

  Viv leaned across and knocked the phone to the floor. “No! No cops. I’m sorry I said anything.” She kept one eye on traffic and the other on me groping around for my phone. When I came up with it, she stared fiercely until I shut it off and dropped it back into my bag.

  She groaned but calmed the teensiest bit, the fierceness replaced by concern. “You solved your agent’s murder. I need your help. I don’t know what’s happening. I can’t call the cops. Hanna is an adult—twenty-five years old—and she doesn’t even live with me. There’s nothing the cops can do since there’s no evidence of a crime. You should know that. I’m not even sure it’s true—maybe it’s a bad prank. It was a cryptic phone call from a blocked number.” She glanced at traffic beginning to move again, then back to me. “I told you, Hanna and I have a … difficult relationship these days. But I need to find her. I can’t risk anything happening to her. You have to help me. I’m begging you, Charlee.”

  I thought back to all the help Viv had given me with my career over the years. She’d taken me under her wing at that conference, introduced me to Melinda, who became my agent soon afterward. I’d always suspected Viv had pulled some strings and went out on a limb to get Melinda to agree to represent me. She was perhaps the spark that had ignited my career all those years ago.

  It broke my heart, but I said, “You know I’d do anything for you, but there’s nothing I can do about this.” I couldn’t look at her.

  “Yes, there is. The kidnappers don’t know you, so you can skulk around and help me find out what’s going on. They’re probably following me, watching my movements. I just know it.” Viv sped up, passing cars by narrow margins and finally shooting off at an exit into the city.

  Prickles formed on the back of my neck. “If they’re following you, they’ve already seen me. Besides, skulking around isn’t a big part of my skill set.” I glanced at the cars around us. Nobody looked kidnapper-ish. I didn’t want to tell her that my investigation into Melinda’s murder hadn’t gone very well and I was likely to get Hanna killed in the process. “I can’t, Viv. Call the cops. That’s their job.”

  She didn’t say another word until we’d skidded up under the circular portico at the Pacific Portland Hotel ten nerve-wracking minutes later. She popped the trunk but didn’t move from her seat, staring straight ahead. “Fine. If you’re not going to help me find Hanna, at least help me with the conference.”

  “The conference? You didn’t cancel the conference? You have to.”

  She snapped her head toward me. “I can’t. It’s too late. It starts in two days. I can’t afford to cancel this late.” She fluttered one hand at me, indicating I should get out. “Be there for me, since I can’t.”

  I collected my messenger bag from the floor, slid out of my seat, and stepped to the concrete. Holding open the door, I leaned in to try and talk sense into her, but I saw her pleading eyes and that pathetic lip line. “Fine. You concentrate on Hanna and I’ll help with the conference.”

  Viv expelled a big breath. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  Before I could ask about the specifics of what she needed me to do, she said, “Oh, and all my main volunteers got food poisoning, but I made some calls and think I got some others. And whatever you do, don’t tell anyone about Hanna. Especially not Jack, the concierge. They’re friends.”

  She zoomed away, only to back up ten seconds later with her trunk bobbing.

  I grabbed my suitcase and slammed the trunk. “Call me as soon as you—” She was gone before I straightened. The things we do for friends, indeed.

  I don’t know how long I stood in the middle of the lobby of the Pacific Portland Hotel. I still held the handle of my rolling suitcase, and my messenger bag was wadded up under my arm. My unfocused eyes gazed all the way across the lobby, through the floor-to-ceiling windows and past the patio area where I assumed the pool and hot tub lived. I wished a nice soak in the Jacuzzi could make all this disappear.

  Someone touched my elbow. “Ma’am? Ma’am, are you okay?”

  I blinked at the twenty-something man studying me with concern. His brown hair tousled with expert care, he looked like he belonged in a boy band. He wore a name tag that read Giacomo, Concierge.

  “Can I help you?”

  Glancing behind me toward the front door, then past Giacomo toward the registration desk, I assessed my options. Hightail it back to Denver or check into the hotel, the chaos, the drama, the trouble?

  “Ma’am?”

  The concern in his voice shook me awake. “I’m checking in.”

  “Very good.” He flashed his perfect boy band smile filled with perfect boy band teeth. He reached for the handle of my suitcase, which, as I knew it would, rattled in his hand, threatening to fall off. His smile disappeared but immediately returned as he got a practiced grip on the bag and pivoted me toward the registration desk. As we crossed the lobby, he said, “I’m Jack. Let me know if you need anything. I’m almost always here. If you don’t see me, the front desk will page me, or if it’s not urgent, feel free to leave a note on my desk.” He gestured to a small desk on our right, between the registration desk and the wide hallway near some conference rooms.

  I pointed at his name tag. “Jack?”

  He leaned toward me conspiratorially. “I get better tips as Giacomo.”

  Clearly this boy knew who had money and who didn’t, but I was grateful for his help and chose to ignore his unintended, I’m sure, insult.

  He hovered while I checked in, then took the key from the front desk clerk and led me toward the elevators, pulling my suitcase behind him. The wheels twisted and threatened to overturn the bag, but he simply righted it without missing a step.

  “You’re a true professional,” I said.

  He flashed that wide grin at me. “I do my best.”

  “I’m not a big tipper, though.”

  “My tip is to see you happy, Ms. Russo.”

  “Wow. Let me reiterate. Even when you say stuff like that, I’m still not a big tipper. And call me Charlee.”

  He laughed and pushed the elevator button to the eighth floor. As we waited, I watched a gawky young man in a white shirt and paisley tie sitting alone in the lobby, scrolling on his phone. He glanced up at me and quickly buried his nose back in his device.

  My paranoia was on heightened alert. Was he doing something like cyberstalking a celebrity on Instagram, or was he involved in a kidnapping? Whatever it was, he looked guilty. Across the lobby, the bartender chatted jovially with a couple of middle-aged guys sitting at the restaurant bar. While I kept an eye on the guy on his phone, I heard one of the guys at the bar say, “Trailbla
zers were the whup. Denver was the ass. I think the Nuggets showed up for cheerleader practice.” The other two men howled with laughter.

  “Basketball game last night,” Jack explained.

  “I figured.” I tore my eyes from the guy on the phone and glanced up at the elevator lights. “I’m from Denver.”

  “Basketball fan?”

  “Nope. Football. But my boyfriend watches the Nuggets sometimes.”

  The elevator doors opened and we stepped aside to let a couple off. Jack shook the man’s hand, greeted them both by name, and wished them a great afternoon. We rode up and got off at the eighth floor, and I followed him to my room. He unlocked the door and made a big show of handing me the key. He ushered me in and then followed, dragging my suitcase. He lifted it up onto a luggage rack next to one of those big rolling luggage carts, both of which had a home in an alcove near the door.

  “Let me show you around.”

  The room was a tastefully decorated suite, but not huge, and I was fairly certain I could find my way around it.

  I dropped my messenger bag on the loveseat. “Yep, looks like a junior suite.” Bedroom, bathroom, tiny living room, inadequate lighting, cootie-covered remote.

  Jack saw me looking at the large armoire and stepped efficiently toward it. He opened the cabinet doors. “TV,” which filled the entire space. Then, pointing below and to the right, “Mini-fridge.” Pointed to the left, “Minibar. Snacks, libations, and such.” He closed both cabinets, but the left one slowly drifted open again. Jack pivoted back toward the loveseat and pointed behind it. He twirled one arm above his head. “Free Wi-Fi, and you have a private balcony. Best view of the grounds from here. Word of advice, though. If you go out there, don’t pull the sliding door all the way closed. Sometimes they stick and you’d be stuck in the rain until housekeeping comes.”

  I crossed the living room and took in the view from the sliding door. “Hmm. Rain.” I glanced at the rectangular balcony and saw that the far corner had a small dry patch protected from the weather, but no chair. As if reading my mind, Jack said, “The furniture is bolted down. We get complaints from guests all the time about wanting to drag a chair to a dry spot, but we’ve had a couple of incidents.”

  “Do tell.”

  Jack leaned in conspiratorially. “Couple had a fight one time and the guy locked his wife on the balcony to get her to calm down—”

  “Sure. That always works.”

  “She said she started tossing chairs off to summon help.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Yep. Summoned help from police, three fire stations, the local news, and forty-eight psychologists here for a symposium.”

  “On-the-job training.” Eight floors below, I saw the pool and hot tub. Trees and shrubs surrounded the hot tub, rendering it very secluded. “Probably won’t be out there much.”

  Jack grinned. “The sun might come out while you’re here.”

  “Really?”

  “Maybe. How long are you staying?”

  “Just until Sunday.”

  “Oh. Then no. But if you were staying until August …” He moved toward the hallway door.

  I did too, walking past the desk and stopping at the armoire to close the left cabinet door. Again, it drifted open.

  A worried look crossed his face. “Let me get maintenance up here to fix that for you.”

  I waved him away. “Don’t bother. I won’t be up here much anyway. I’m on the faculty for the writers’ conference downstairs.”

  “Well, then you don’t have to worry about tipping.” He flashed that perfect smile. “The Stumptown Writers’ Conference takes very good care of us, and we in turn take very good care of their faculty. They’re the biggest annual conference we have here.” He put his hand to the side of his mouth and in an animated stage whisper said, “Minibar is on the house for faculty.” He pointed to the open door of the armoire. “It’s beckoning.”

  “Sweet.” I tugged the door of the minibar and saw plenty of tiny booze and snacks. “Want anything?”

  “Nah, I’m good.” Jack opened the door to the hallway. “The meeting rooms are in the area behind my desk in the lobby. The conference workroom is the Clackamas Room. Everything’s easy to find down there. The rooms all go in a big square.” He stepped into the hall. “And remember, if there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.” He pulled the door shut behind him.

  If they took such good care of the Stumptown Writers’ Conference faculty, why didn’t he already know I was one? It made me wonder if Jack was being truthful when he said there was no charge for the minibar items. Getting back at me for telling him I wasn’t a big tipper?

  I flipped the security lock across the door and scavenged in the minibar, grabbing the first quick food I came to. I poured eight-dollar roasted almonds into my mouth while I walked into the bedroom, but found them hard to swallow when I wondered if Hanna was hungry, wherever she was. I stopped mid-chew and mid-step when I heard my doorknob rattle. Tiptoeing back toward the door, I made sure I had indeed flipped the security bolt. I heard the noise again but didn’t see the knob rattle. I crept forward to the peephole in time to see a woman emerge from an alcove with a bucket full of ice.

  Great. Paper-thin walls and near the ice machine. I listened to her explain to someone about her travails in filling the container. “I had to push that darn button like a thousand times!”

  I sat at the end of the bed, chewing and searching for my phone. The distraction of Jack’s tour and Ice Bucket Lady disappeared and my anxiety about Viv and Hanna returned full-force. I finished the almonds, then called my brother. I knew Viv didn’t want me to tell anyone, especially the police, but Lance didn’t count. He was my brother before he was the police, and he never steered me wrong.

  “Hey, Space Case. What’s up?”

  Lance’s childhood nickname for me calmed me a bit, making me think things could be normal again. “Something weird happened.” I explained as best I could given my limited information about Hanna’s kidnapping.

  My brother let out a long whistle. “How do you get yourself into these messes?”

  “I didn’t do anything. I got off an airplane and stepped in it.”

  “Well, your friend is right that it’s useless going to the Portland cops. They can’t do anything.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Both. There’s no evidence or proof of a crime. Tell me again what the alleged kidnapper said on the phone.”

  “I don’t really know. I wasn’t there when she got the call.”

  “And the girl is an adult?”

  “Yes. Viv said she’s twenty-five.”

  “And she doesn’t live at home.”

  “No.”

  “Was there a ransom demand?”

  “Viv didn’t mention one.” I paused. “She also said it might have been a prank.” I began to feel silly. Was I overreacting?

  “All you can do is get some evidence of foul play.” I heard the skepticism in Lance’s voice. “And then if you’re lucky, you can involve the police.”

  “Could the police trace the phone call?”

  “Doubt it. Certainly not if she won’t tell them about it.”

  “That’s what I was afraid you’d say.”

  “Were you also afraid I’d tell you to stay out of it? This sounds like a squabble between a mom and a daughter. Are they on the outs? What do you know about them?”

  “I’ve never met Hanna. Viv said their relationship isn’t always that great, but she didn’t elaborate.”

  “All the more reason to butt out. Family issues can get ugly. Gotta go.” Lance hung up.

  I hadn’t even dropped my phone from my ear before my text ringtone played. And be careful, butthead, he wrote. Then he sent a poop emoji.

  I texted back. You’re a
butthead. And added kissy lips.

  No. You are. He punctuated it with two poops this time.

  Oddly, buttheads and poop made me feel better.

  I remained at the end of the bed, playing with the crinkly plastic packaging from the almonds. What kind of life did Viv and Hanna lead, where they’d be involved in a kidnapping? Why was their relationship difficult? And how difficult could it be if they played board games together?

  Was it an elaborate prank, like Viv had mentioned? I thought back to our book tour. All the tall tales. All the fake stories she’d told about us. All the pretending to be who we weren’t.

  On reflection, maybe Drama Queen Viv wasn’t completely credible.

  I used my phone to search online, typing “How to stage a kidnapping.” The first result was an article titled “Arranging Your Own Kidnapping for Fun and Profit.” The gist was that adrenaline junkies can arrange for customizable abductions for a fee.

  Had Viv and Hanna gotten bored with playing Scrabble on game night?

  Three

  After reading several pages of results from my internet search, each more horrifying than the last, I called Viv. She answered on the first ring. “Is it possible that Hanna staged this herself ?”

  “What? Why would you say that?”

  “Apparently it’s a thing people do. They pay a couple thousand dollars for someone to kidnap them.”

  After a moment, Viv spoke precisely, distinct spaces between each word. “First, Hanna would never do that to me. Second, she doesn’t have money to spend like that. And third, it’s simply ridiculous!” The last three words came out less precise, all as one word and a little screechy.

  “Viv, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  I heard her take a deep breath. “I thought you weren’t going to help me find Hanna.”

  Ugh. I was making everything worse. I felt foolish for suggesting Hanna would hire a kidnapper. I apologized again. Clearly I was ill-equipped to help her anyway. I should have learned my lesson after Melinda’s murder. I’m not an investigator. I’m a writer who knows fiction is so much easier than real life. But I could do one thing. “I’ll take care of the conference, like I said. You find Hanna.”