by Becky Clark
“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 Colombia.”
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.
But again, my speech was the least of my worries. What was I missing about Hanna and Viv? About Jack and saRAH? About Roz and the rehab place? About Garth?
Anything? Everything?
Writing it down would help. I’ve always thought more lucidly on paper. I turned to a fresh page on my yellow pad and doodled ACHIEVE down the side. I tried to clear my mind of everything, like I do when beginning to brainstorm the plot of a new novel.
I let my tongue droop from my mouth and shook my head like a basset hound until the creaks and pops in my neck quieted.
I opened my eyes only wide enough to get things in the right place. After the capital letters, I added:
A ll
C ops
H ate
I t when
E very
V ictim
E nds
I stared at the way my pen had manifested my subconscious. And stared. And kept staring until I accepted what my brain was telling me to do.
Right or wrong, I had to talk to the police.
But not in the lobby where I might alarm attendees, volunteers, or hotel staff. I topped off my coffee and headed upstairs to my room to make the call.
Halfway to the elevator, I heard Lily’s voice calling me. I turned and she caught up to me. Her enthusiastic arms were piled high with enthusiastic papers. “Hi, Charlee!”
I eyed the papers suspiciously. “Hi …”
“Remember that storm I told you about? That one headed for our East Coast faculty?” Her bright eyes danced. Because that’s a thing enthusiastic people can do to themselves.
A smile slowly spread across my lips. The storm must have veered away. Finally. A problem Mother Nature solved for us. “It didn’t hit?”
Lily’s grin never faded. “No! It hit! Dumped like two-and-a-half feet of snow!”
My smile faltered but I remained hopeful. “But it didn’t close airports or divert the agents and editors?”
“Oh, no! They’re completely stuck! Probably won’t get out of New York until late tonight or early Saturday morning!”
I gave her the classic palms upturned are-you-crazy gesture. “Then what are you so chipper about?”
Lily tilted her head. “Because we have you!”
“I’m not an editor or an agent. I can’t do what they do. Besides, I have something important to do.”
“It’ll have to wait!” Lily spoke in a singsong voice while handing me the stack of papers from her arms. “You have to do their critiques starting in”—she looked at her watch—“twenty-seven minutes.”
“Critiques?”
She nodded with gusto. “The attendees each submitted the first page of a manuscript and they want your input about it.”
“My input?”
“Well, no.” Lily looked pained. “They wanted the input from industry professionals.” Then she brightened. “But they got you!”
I didn’t want to do the critiques, but it nonetheless hurt my feelings that Lily didn’t consider me an industry professional.
“Lily, I’m not the right person for this job. I’m too blunt. My mind is too scattered this weekend … I’m going to traumatize somebody.”
“Don’t be silly! You’re fantastic! Everyone will be thrilled you stepped in!”
“I really don’t think—” I tried to hand the manuscript pages back, but she was smarter than that.
“You’re in the Multnomah Room from one until three, then from three fifteen until five fifteen in Deschutes.” I started to ask who else was available, but she stopped me with a perky, “And then you’re done!”
I realized arguing was pointless. “Fine.” I only had twenty-four minutes to call the police and prepare to dash the hopes and dreams of a room full of writers filled to the brim with shaky optimism. Scratch that. Two rooms. “I’ll take these upstairs to read. Where it’s quieter.”
“Oh, what a great idea! You ARE fantastic! I’m so glad you agreed!”
Agreed. Riiiight. Saying no to Lily seemed as likely as saying yes to Brad Pitt.
I got to my room and plopped the pages on the desk before returning to hang the Do Not Disturb sign out. Housekeeping hadn’t cleaned yet and I didn’t want the maid interrupting my call to the Portland Police. The stack of manuscripts made me feel guilty. I’d just have each writer read their own first page and improvise a critique during the session. I looked heavenward and whispered, “Please don’t let me make a bunch of writers want to quit writing. Or cry.”
I moved into the bedroom so I could concentrate on the job at hand without being judged by the stack of manuscripts. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, I found the number for the Portland Police Department. Before I could dial, I heard the door to my suite open.
I froze in place, a literal sitting duck. I very slowly straightened my legs. Silently scooted off the end of the bed. Tiptoed to the bedroom door. I stood behind it and peeked through the gap of the hinged side. All I could see was the alcove outside the bathroom, where the tall rolling luggage rack was parked. I heard indistinct noises. Was someone going through my things? Searching? For what? It must have something to do with the kidnapping, but what?
Suddenly a blast of dark blue passed by. I gasped and hit my head on the wall.
Somebody else gasped and glass shattered.
“Oh no!” The girl’s voice sounded familiar.
I slowly maneuvered my eye to see the alcove. saRAH knelt, plucking the large shards of a drinking glass off the tile and into her open palm. Next to her was a stack of towels with a set of tiny bottles of lotion, shampoo, and conditioner lying on top.
“Why didn’t you knock?” I peered at her from behind the door, through the gap.
She gasped again and dropped the shards, breaking two of the more sizeable ones. She looked into the bedroom, then into the bathroom, then back out toward the living area. She didn’t know where I was.
I cautiously stepped from behind the
door. She rose and moved into the bathroom, away from me. Without taking my eyes from hers, I slowly squatted and picked up the largest remaining shard of glass and held it like a weapon.
“Why didn’t you knock?” I repeated.
She shrank farther into the recesses of the bathroom. “I did knock. Nobody answered.”
I looked at the door to the suite, which she’d propped open using the security bolt. Keeping my eyes on her, I stepped over the broken glass in the alcove and sidled toward the living area. The curtains were pulled open all the way now, but everything else looked untouched. Had she been signaling someone, using my curtains?
“What were you doing out there?” I asked her.
“I opened the drapes.”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry. Did you want them closed?”
“Why’d you open them? Who are you signaling?”
“Signaling? Nobody.” She sniveled. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Trying to clean your room?” Sniff, sniff.
“Why would you clean my room when I left out the Do Not Disturb sign?”
“People leave it out all the time. But then I get in trouble for not cleaning.” She had moved even farther into the bathroom. “Please don’t tell.”
“Don’t tell what?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure what’s going on.”
I exhaled deeply. “I’m not either.” I crossed to the bathroom and dropped the piece of broken glass I held into the trash can.
saRAH jumped, eyes wide as Frisbees.
“Are you sure you’re just here to clean?”
She nodded so hard I was afraid her headwrap would fly across the room.
“Then let’s get this cleaned up.”
From her housekeeping cart she collected a whisk broom and dustpan, which I held as she swept up all the glass. She insisted on shining a flashlight around the alcove to make sure no slivers remained. I reached for the towels and toiletries to place into the bathroom, but she stopped me.
“Those might have glass in them.”