Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  “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, “Trailblazers 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. 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 a
bout 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 could 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.”

  She disconnected without a goodbye.

  I washed my face and hung up the outfit I planned to wear for my keynote speech—assuming Viv really wasn’t going to cancel things and the conference would proceed as planned. I grabbed a five dollar package of neon-orange peanut butter crackers from the minibar and ate them while I stood in the only dry area of my balcony, making sure not to close the door behind me just in case.

  The grounds of the Pacific Portland Hotel were lovely. Rose gardens strategically placed for optimum viewing. Benches available to take advantage of on both sunny and cloudy days. The perfect number of trees and shrubs for seclusion yet still offering an open feel to the patio and pool areas. I stared out, trying to think of something— anything—to do to help Viv. Other than reporting this to the police, which Viv had made me promise not to do under any circumstances, I came up woefully empty.

  The pool was crystal clear, with only the tiniest ripples from the soft rain. I spotted a couple behind one of the shrubs, perhaps employees sneaking away for a furtive make-out session in the drizzle. Must be true love if neither of them cared about drippy clothes. As I stared, though, I saw they were not standing close enough to embrace. In fact, body language made it seem as if they were having a spat. She stood her ground, all feline grace and confidence. I assumed she was teeming with confidence, anyway, because not every woman can get away with a patterned African-motif headwrap over blue scrubs and sneakers. He appeared to be holding his own too, although at one point he ran an exasperated hand through the long hair flopping across his brow.

  I finished my crackers and stepped back inside, locking the door behind me, glad that Ozzi and I never argued. Well, almost never. There was that one time recently when we accused each other of being homicidal maniacs.

  I checked my teeth, dug the visible orange-colored globs from them, and headed down the hallway to the elevator. Back to reality. I wished my biggest problem was a tiff with my boyfriend.

  Whether Hanna’s kidnapping was real or not, Viv clearly was caught up in some sort of drama, so I figured I should just focus on helping the other volunteers put on the conference. I have a great affinity for writers’ conferences and hanging out with other writers; no reason to deny that experience to anyone. If the Stumptown Writers’ Conference was like others I’d been to, there would be a bunch of first-timers just realizing they wanted to be writers, come to explore what that might mean. It was the first step, maybe even a life-changing experience for some. But only if the conference went forward.

  I took the elevator to the lobby and glanced out the large windows. Still raining. So different from Colorado thunderstorms, which come and go so quickly. I crossed to the area where Jack had said the conference rooms were: behind his concierge desk and past a wide hallway running east and west. Out of view behind the registration desk was another hallway running north and south. I took that one, glancing at the signs for each room as I passed. Columbia. Mount Hood. Deschutes. The Clackamas Room was at the end, but I noticed the hallway continued to the right just past it. The rest of the conference rooms must be on the other side, like Jack had said, making the big square. It probably created a huge ballroom when all the accordion doors between them were open. Conference hotels were predictable in their uniformity, and in their choice of unfortunately designed carpet.

  The workroom was unlocked. I stepped in and saw six-foot tables around the perimeter, many of which were stacked high with boxes of office supplies, plastic file cases, bag
s and boxes of snacks, and a tower of shrink-wrapped cases of water bottles. In the center of the room were two tables pushed together with four chairs evenly spaced on one side, like an island in the middle of an ocean of debris. Two people sat side-by-side at one of them, doing absolutely nothing—a distinguished-looking older man and a smiling black-haired woman about my age, who jumped up and grinned wide when she saw me.

  “Hi! I’m Lily Matsuo! And this is Orville Baxter! Are you one of the new volunteers?” She spoke with such energy, her wispy bangs bounced.

  “Um, I guess. I’m Charlemagne Russo.”

  Lily squealed. “You’re one of our keynote speakers! And you’re teaching this weekend! I hope I get to go hear you! I’m so happy to meet you, Ms. Russo!”

  Her enthusiasm was the opposite of contagious. I felt my energy level cut in half. Was she perhaps sucking out my life force? “Relax, and please call me Charlee.”

  “I’m sorry. I get so darn excited.” Lily hurried back to where she’d been sitting, not taking the direct route. Halfway there she paused, then willed her feet to start again, slower.

  “She’s a little dynamo,” Orville said, patting Lily’s back as she sat down. He smiled up at me with a tiny mouth. He looked a bit like a cartoon mouse.

  “Are you still in trouble for your agent’s murder? Has that all been taken care of? Did you just get here? Have you checked in? Do you need water? Are you hungry?” Lily gestured toward a large carton on a table near me that was brimming with individual packages of cookies, crackers, and granola bars.

  I had hoped not to talk about my agent’s murder this weekend, assuming, wrongly it seemed, that it wasn’t common knowledge. Or that if it was common knowledge, at least people would have all the facts and know that Melinda’s killer had indeed been caught. I took the easy way out and pretended I hadn’t heard. I plucked a granola bar from the pile. As I opened it, I looked at Orville and stage-whispered, “Is she always like this?”