Foul Play on Words

by Becky Clark

  “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 farther 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

  W ith 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 re-creating 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.

  As I began to read, mist fell on my head, and I glanced across the balcony to the dry spot in the corner. I grabbed my chair to move out of the rain, which was picking up in intensity now. I tried to lift my chair twice before I remembered that everything was bolted down. Luckily I didn’t have a sudden urge to hurl a bistro table through my balcony door.

  I reassembled myself back inside the suite, at the desk. I scrolled through the comments and testimonials on all the posts on the SIN website, listing names on my notepad of everyone who had complimented and thanked Viv for her help with their various causes. I put an asterisk by the names of people who’d commented how they couldn’t have reached their goals without Viv’s help.

  One of the project summaries caught my eye when it mentioned the name Greg Pitt. A quick image flashed in my mind of the actor Brad Pitt’s less-famous, less-handsome, less-everything brother standing next to him.

  I read that a little over three years ago, Greg Pitt, an attorney, had instigated a small-town neighborhood annexation fight. He wanted his neighborhood annexed into the town and finagled a vote on it, costing the town $15,000 that it couldn’t afford. Nobody else wanted the annexation because their taxes would have gone up and the quality of their services down. But Greg wanted to live within the town limits so he could run for mayor. A group of neighbors asked if SIN could help them organize their fight to stop Greg and his proposal. With Viv’s help, the annexation was ultimately voted down by a huge majority. Greg was made a laughingstock, and during his campaign for annexation he had pulled some stunts and made some claims that got him disbarred. The most egregious of his activities was a series of frivolous lawsuits against his neighbors, presumably to intimidate and shut them up.

  According to a comment thread on the website, Greg had to move out of his neighborhood. The specifics were unclear, but I could certainly see how it would be beyond uncomfortable to run into the very people you’d sued, lied to, and tried to hoodwink whenever you met them at the mailboxes or out walking your dog.

  Do unto others, like Mom used to say. Or what goes around comes around to bite you in the ass, like Grandma used to say.

  The last comment in the thread read, “Always remember, for every group SIN and Viveka Lundquist help, there’s someone on the other side whose life is ruined. Like mine.” It was signed B. Pitt.

  Brad Pitt?

  My brain buzzed.

  It wasn’t far-fetched to think the Brad Pitt I’d met here knew Viv. He was hanging around enough. He said he wasn’t here for the conference, and he certainly wasn’t here with an agility dog. But he’d never actually explained to me why he would be staying at a hotel near his home.

  I reread the project summary, thinking about everything Brad Pitt had said over the last few days. I kept circling back to him telling me that his brother had moved in with him and was “cramping his style.”

  Did Brad’s style have anything to do with holding young women for ransom?

  The more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself that it was the only answer. The Brad Pitt staying here at the Pacific Portland Hotel—the charming man who kept flirting with me—was a kidnapper.

  Otherwise, it was too coincidental. Again I read the pertinent parts of the Strength in Numbers website, taking screenshots of the pages, solidifying my theory with each click.

  Brad Pitt was a kidnapper. He said right there in his online comment that Viv had ruined his life, which must be why he targeted Hanna.

  I called Viv and cursed loudly when it went straight to voicemail. I left a message that sounded at least 27 percent more hysterical than I wanted. “Call me as soon as you get this.”

  After about ninety seconds of holding my face in my hands, pressing my fingers into my forehead, I called the Portland Police. A desk sergeant answered. I asked for Detective Kelly, the one I’d spoken to earlier.

  “Gone for the day. Can I help?”

  “I really need to speak to him.”

  “And still, he’s not here.”

  “Can you page him?”

  “What’s this about?”

  The commanding tone of voice worked on me and I blurted, “I think Brad Pitt is a kidnapper!”

  “And Tom Cruise is an axe murderer. I think I saw that one.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Charlemagne Russo.”

  “Charlemagne?”

  “Charlee. Two E’s. But—”

  “Listen, Charlee with two E’s.” His voice was less commanding now, and more soothing. “I need you to go look at your TV or your computer or whatever it is you’re watching. Press pause. Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

  “I’m not watching TV and you’re wasting time. Didn’t you hear me say there’s a kidnapping?”

  “Humor me. When you press pause—have you pressed it?—you’ll see everything stops. Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise and everyone else will stop moving and talking. That’s how you know it’s pretend.”

  The hypnotic, dulcet tones of his voice made me reach for the TV remote until I realized the TV wasn’t even on. It became clear to me that this officer had recently been through some de-escalation training and was practicing his skills on me.

  “No, no, no, no, no. I’m not crazy! This is not a movie.” My chest heaved and I tried to control my huffing and puffing since I was sure it would
not move things in the direction I intended. I held the phone out to my right side and turned my head to the left. I took a huge breath and slowly released it.

  “Let me start over.” I explained the situation to him as I’d explained to Detective Kelly earlier, but this time I used names. “And please don’t tell me there’s been no evidence of a crime.”

  “But there’s not.”

  “But isn’t it weird that someone with the same name as that guy in the comments is staying at the very hotel where Viv is having her conference?”

  “I thought you said that comment was signed with just the initial B.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Hang on.”

  I heard typing in the background. Finally. Someone was taking a police report. Unless he truly thought I was a nut and had decided to trace this call. Could they trace my cell phone? Here, to the hotel? I heard my heartbeat pulsing in my ears and glanced at the door, expecting a SWAT team to break it down. Exactly like a movie with Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise.

  I almost hung up, but then the officer spoke again. “There are 10,376 people in the United States with the last name Pitt.”

  “But how many in Oregon? Or Portland? Or this hotel? With the first initial B?” My voice fetched up at the end and I knew I sounded crazed.

  “Ma’am? Charlee with two E’s? I think your imagination is running away with you. Tell you what. Why don’t you take a nice hot bath and get a good night’s sleep. And in the morning, if you still think Brad Pitt has kidnapped someone, you come on in to the station and we’ll get someone to talk to you about it.”

  “Look, mister. I am not crazy.” Although I was beginning to doubt it the teensiest bit. “My imagination has not taken over my brain. I know what I know and—”

  “And I know that nothing you’ve said constitutes evidence of any kind of crime. Quit wasting our time. Brad Pitt. Sheesh.” The desk sergeant’s dulcet tone and de-escalation training had disappeared. He hung up.

  I tossed my phone to the loveseat with a bit more fury than planned and stomped back and forth in front of it. A few minutes of cardio raised my heart rate but lowered my resolve.