Foul Play on Words

by Becky Clark

  I expected a tearful confession to tumble out, but he just sat there.

  “Okay, spill. What’s all this about? You really were the B. Pitt on that comment on the Strength in Numbers website, weren’t you?” I demanded.

  He didn’t respond.

  “So how does that tie in with you whacking writers at Viv’s conference?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Whacking?”

  “Killing, offing, making them swim with the fishies.”

  “You watch too many movies. Besides, I told you that was my brother’s problem.”

  We glared at each other. The longer we stared, the angrier I got.

  “You have two seconds to tell me why you kidnapped Hanna. She was found tied up in your hotel room—” I gasped. “That first day, you said you had a roommate here at the hotel! And that the roommate was cramping your style. Like your brother cramped your style at home. Hanna was here all along and you weren’t the least bit nervous about it! How dare you!”

  “How dare me? How dare Viv?”

  “What did my mom ever do to you?” Hanna asked.

  “I’ll tell you what she did … just ruined my life, is all.” His voice was hard as gravel.

  “How’d she do that?”

  Brad Pitt looked at each one of us in anger. Then his shoulders slumped and he looked at his feet. His voice softened. “I’m sorry, Hanna. I didn’t mean to scare you. I wasn’t going to hurt you—”

  She started to speak but I shook my head to silence her. I didn’t want his confession interrupted by an angry outburst from her. Plenty of time for that later.

  “What were you trying to do?” I asked.

  He sighed. “I wasn’t going to hurt her. I only wanted Viv to pay for what she did to my brother … and me. When Strength in Numbers helped defeat that annexation proposal my brother was involved in, it ruined him. He lost his law practice, his family, his home. He had to move in with me, which just about ruined me. He couldn’t get another job, sunk into a depression. A crowbar wouldn’t have pried him off my couch. I needed him out. But the only way to do that was to get him his own place to live. Then he could waste away on his own couch and leave me out of it.”

  A revelation slowly dawned on me. “The $339,000 ransom. Is that the price of a house?”

  He nodded. “A nice one. He’d be happy there. Or as happy as Greg can be. On the other side of Oregon from me.”

  “You kidnapped me to get my mom to buy your brother a house?” On the last few words, Hanna raised her voice and lunged for Brad Pitt, pushing his shoulders, slamming him flat on the bed.

  Jack pulled her away as she drew her fist back to punch him again. When she was safely restrained, Brad Pitt rolled to one elbow.

  “Scout.” She and I were on the same wavelength and she bounded up on the bed, nose to nose with Brad Pitt. We left Scout to guard him and the rest of us moved to the living room.

  Hanna was wobbly and needed to sit. Jack helped her to the loveseat, then got her another glass of water. He reached for something on the floor by the wall. He picked up Brad’s phone, which must have landed there in our scuffle.

  The manager stood where he could listen for the police. He noticed the armoire cabinet door hanging open and closed it. We all watched while it meandered open again.

  I took a deep breath and said to the manager, “I think Jack’s involved in this too. I don’t think Brad Pitt has told us everything.”

  Scott moved between Jack and the door, crouching a bit and raising his arms in a karate stance.

  Jack didn’t move. “What?”

  I ignored him and spoke again to the manager. I told him about the duffle bag I saw Jack carry to the hotel van. I told him about Jack pocketing Carl’s room key that morning. And I told him how I’d followed Jack as he snuck through the bowels of the hotel and handed a bag to a mystery man in the shadows.

  “You mean when I gave a bag of food to Trombone Bill? What does that have to do with anything?”

  I turned to Jack. “What about Carl’s room key?”

  “Who?”

  “The guy with Mr. Sparkles.”

  “You mean the key that didn’t work? That one?”

  Scott inched away from Jack and looked at me with concern. Neither one of us was sure of what we were doing.

  “Okay, then what about that duffle you snuck out for Roz?” I sounded more accusatory than I felt. None of this was going as I’d expected.

  The manager groaned. “So it’s true. She was stealing from the hotel to start her own restaurant. I didn’t want to believe the kitchen staff.”

  Jack’s eyes widened. “She was doing what? I’m so sorry! I didn’t know. She told me she was taking that stuff to be cleaned with an ionizer.”

  “An ionizer?”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Probably nonexistent,” Jack said glumly. He slapped his forehead. “I noticed a bunch of kitchen stuff missing from storage the last time I was in the basement.” He cut his eyes at me. “I should have realized.”

  I stared at Jack. So when I’d wondered if he was taking inventory when he’d returned the skillet, that’s really what he was doing.

  “Did you follow me to Watanabe’s in the rain?” I asked him.

  “Yes, but not on purpose. It’s on my way home.”

  I stared at him for a bit, then said to the manager, “Maybe he’s not involved after all.”

  There was a commotion in the hallway. Viv rushed in, followed by Lily, Orville, and Clementine. The three of them hung back while Hanna melted into Viv’s arms.

  saRAH poked her head in the room but hovered in the doorway. Hanna reached out to her and they hugged and cried a bit. When they moved apart, saRAH stepped over to Jack. He reached for her hand. Hanna raised her eyebrows at their public display of affection. Jack shrugged and Hanna smiled at him.

  I asked Viv, “Did you know about Roz’s new restaurant?”

  She pursed her lips and then turned to the manager, looking him directly in the shoes. “I’m sorry, Dale. I hated what she was doing, but I couldn’t convince her to come clean.”

  “Yeah, I hate when people don’t listen to good advice from their friends.” I elbowed her.

  “I’m sorry about that too,” she said. “And some of it we don’t really need to discuss ever again, right?”

  “Right.” I knew she was talking about how she had come this close to embezzling from the conference. Heck, maybe she actually already transferred the funds, but I didn’t want to know. “Is that why you were arguing with her in the parking lot?”

  “Yeah. Normally it wouldn’t have been a big deal, but she wanted me to move the conference to someplace where she could do the food, and she was hounding me for all my other contacts. And for the record, it wasn’t a restaurant. She was starting a catering company so she could go all over to set up small satellite companies. She didn’t want to have only one place. She wanted to be able to work and play all over Oregon. Go down to Eugene and hang out during the Asian festival, and Ashland for the Shakespeare Festival, and to the mountains and the coast.”

  I thought back to my search of Roz’s office. “Why do you think she wrote ‘never again’ at the top of the contract for this conference?” My eyes widened at my inadvertent confession that I’d searched Roz’s office. In fact, the three items I’d swiped were still in my messenger bag.

  My friend raised her eyebrows at me, but she didn’t ask the obvious question of how I’d seen the contract. I’m sure she already knew the answer. Luckily, nobody else asked either.

  “I know exactly why she wrote that on the contract,” Viv said. “When we were hashing out the details, she wanted this to be the last contract between the Pacific Portland Hotel and the Stumptown Writers’ Conference. She even showed me some photos of the servers she was interviewing and the kitchens
she was looking at renting.”

  “Of course.” I nodded. “The photos I found in her desk.” I clamped a hand over my mouth.

  “You searched her desk?” the manager asked.

  Viv helped deflect his question. “What Roz didn’t understand—no matter how many times I told her—was that a conference is so much more than food.” She touched the manager on his sleeve. “It’s the space here that I like.”

  I smacked a palm on my forehead. “That’s also why she was in touch with the rehab place. She’d have a reason to hang out on the beach for a few days while she set up and serviced their catering contract.”

  Viv nodded. “When I went there, they gave me the third degree—”

  “You went to ReTurn A New Leaf?” Hanna asked.

  “I’m sorry, baby.” Viv put an arm around her shoulder.

  “You thought I was using again.” Hanna’s voice wasn’t much more than a whisper.

  “Hanna.” I spoke gently. “We just wanted to find you. The important thing is that we did.”

  “And that you weren’t using,” Jack said.

  “I would have told you if she was using.” Garth appeared in the doorway. When he spied Hanna, he rushed to her, brushing Viv aside. “I was so worried when you didn’t answer my calls or respond on Symwyf.”

  Viv’s jaw went slack. “You … knew?”

  I stepped toward Viv to catch her as she wobbled. I eased her into a seat and then turned toward Garth.

  “You were the one who posted that photo of me?” I asked.

  He scowled at me over the top of Hanna’s head. “That”—he paused—“was a photo of me. I grabbed a screenshot from a fan’s page. I wanted to let Hanna know I was at the conference so she could contact me. I thought maybe she’d lost her phone.”

  “Since you lied about traveling the world, what’s the truth? Where have you been?” I asked him.

  “I’ve been right here. I have an apartment in Beaverton.”

  Viv gasped and turned toward Hanna, who simply nodded.

  I still didn’t understand. “How could you not be”—I waved a hand up and down his flowing kaftan—“recognized?”

  Garth batted away the excess fabric of his kaftan until he could reach into the back pocket of his matching harem pants. He flipped open his wallet to expose his driver’s license photo: clearly his face, but also a tidy man-bun and a buttoned up Oxford shirt with a boring, diagonal-striped tie. Probably khakis and tassled loafers, too.

  “You look like you work at a marketing firm.”

  “Close.” He pocketed the wallet. “Attorney’s office.”

  “Viv led me to believe you were a criminal.”

  “Lots of people think attorneys are criminals.”

  Nobody laughed at his joke.

  “You’re an attorney?” I asked.

  “Nah. I’ve had enough run-ins with the law that I don’t think they’d take me. I’m a worker’s comp investigator for the firm.”

  “You’ve been in Oregon all this time?” Viv asked.

  “How else could I have breakfast with my daughter every Sunday?”

  Incredulous, Viv looked from one to the other. “You knew?”

  “That’s what fathers and daughters do, Viv,” Garth said.

  Hanna nodded.

  “You knew.” The reality slowly settled over Viv’s face.

  “Of course. But it was clear you didn’t want me to know, so Hanna and I decided it was easier on everyone if you thought I was out of the country.” Garth crossed the room and touched his forehead to Hanna’s, then to Viv’s. He held it there. “You should have told me what was going on, Viv. But the important thing is that our daughter is safe.”

  “She’s safe,” Viv repeated, hugging Hanna tight as Garth stepped aside.

  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—”r />
  “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 98 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—”