by Becky Clark
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, bags 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. “Sorry.”
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?”
“Yup.”
Lily giggled and bounced in her seat. “My husband says that when he met me, he had to triple his nap quotient.”
“I get that,” I said with a smile. “You’re what I think is called a people person.” I bit into the granola bar, dropping oat crumbs everywhere.
“Yes!” Lily clapped her hands.
“Well, stop it. It’s exhausting.”
Her face fell.
“Oh my gosh. Lily, I’m sorry. I was just joking.”
She grinned at me and clapped some more. “I know! Me too!”
“This is going to be an interesting weekend,” I said.
“I know!”
I wanted to give Lily a chance to settle down, if that was possible, so I ate the granola bar while I pushed aside a few boxes and bags, making room to perch myself on the edge of the table across from their island. Lily held out her hand for my empty wrapper and I dropped it into her palm. “Thanks, Mom.”
She giggled.
“So, Orville,” I asked. “You’re one of the volunteers for the conference?”
“I am.”
I eyed the empty table in front of them. “And what is it you’re doing?”
“At the moment? Nothing. We’re waiting for instructions.”
Lily nodded emphatically.
I glanced around the room, mentally noting a dozen tasks they could be accomplishing. “Have you two ever been to a writers’ conference before?”
“Yes, of course!” Lily said. “I’ve been to this one three times, and to a children’s conference twice. I write for kids.”
“Of course you do.” She might as well have informed me that water was wet.
“And Orville’s been here longer than me,” she added while I rooted through the box of snacks near me, scoring a package of Oreos.
As I fished a cookie out, I asked Orville, “And what is it you write?”
“Medical thrillers.”
“Ooh, are you a doctor?” I bit the Oreo in half, then popped both halves into my mouth. It seemed more demure than cramming the whole thing in at once. But it wasn’t.
“No. Retired engineer. I’m more of a computer guy. Kinda techie. Branching out.”
A computer guy writing a medical thriller. It could certainly happen, but the advice we always heard as writers was write what you know. That’s easiest, of course, but many gripping page-turners have been written
by authors who twisted that advice into write what you want to know. Done right, that’s what allows a computer guy to write medical thrillers. “Done right” being the operative phrase. Research is tricky. You need enough to make the reader believe you know what you’re talking about, but not give them a huge info dump that makes them want to fake their own death so as not to have to finish your book. I’d be interested to see which kind of writer Orville was.
“But neither of you have volunteered behind the scenes at a conference before?”
They both shook their heads.
“And nobody told you what needed to be done?”
Lily glanced around the room as if looking to see one of the nobodies to whom I’d referred. Orville frowned, as if he’d just that moment realized volunteers might actually work in the workroom we sat in.
“Are all of the main volunteers down with food poisoning?”
“Yes, that’s what Viv said when she called me.” Lily pointed at a large whiteboard mounted on the wall. On it were eight or ten names and phone numbers with a line through each. At the bottom were Lily and Orville’s names and phone numbers, as well as Clement!ne Sm!th and her phone number. I laughed at the exclamation marks and assumed Lily added them.
“How in the world did everyone get food poisoning? At the tasting for the meals?” I finished the Oreos. Again, Lily held out her hand for my wrapper.
“No, that was way last week.” Lily dropped the wrapper in a nearby trash can. “If it was that, everyone would be better by now.”
“They probably had a final meeting with food served,” Orville said.
Lily snapped her fingers. “I bet you’re right.” She beamed at him like he’d won a gold medal at the Volunteer Olympics.
“Well, at least that’s the only major problem. We can handle that.” It was the best rallying cry I could summon right then.
I saw Lily and Orville exchange a look. “What? Is there something else?” I asked.
Lily’s arm shot up like she had the correct answer in school. Which she probably did. A lot. “Nothing major. Just a little glitch we heard about with the online registration.”
“Computer glitch? Sounds right up your alley, Orville.” I tipped my head at Lily. “Lucky we have a computer geek here, eh?”
She beamed at him again and nodded hard.
“Can you show me the website?” I asked him.
“I don’t have a computer. Do you?”
“No, I didn’t bring mine down. It’s still up in my room.”
“I have one.” Lily dragged a laptop case from the floor by her feet up to the tabletop. She pulled it out, tapped some keys, and slid it toward Orville.
He pulled it closer and adjusted his glasses while looking up and down at the screen. He hovered one finger over the keyboard. “I just touch that one?” he asked Lily. She nodded. Then he asked, “And how do I … interweb?”
“Wait,” I said. “You don’t have a computer with you … or you don’t have one at all?” Hadn’t he called himself a computer guy? A techie?
“I worked mostly with spreadsheets,” he said, not answering my question.
Lily pulled the computer back toward her and tapped more keys. Finally she turned the screen around so we could all see the website that was set up for people to register and pay for the conference. Filling the screen in big red letters loomed the words, “Website down for unscheduled maintenance. Try back in an hour.”
I relaxed. “Just an hour. Must not be a big deal.”
“It’s been on there since yesterday,” Lily said. “But probably!”
I thought for a minute. “It’s Wednesday afternoon. Most everyone is already signed up by now anyway, since the conference starts on Friday, so our only real problem is the loss of our main volunteers.”
“True!” Lily grinned. “Except for the double-booking!”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “The what now?”
“The hotel double-booked the conference rooms,” she explained.
“There’s a bunch of people expecting to share the conference meeting space with us?”
Lily laughed. “Don’t be silly. Half of them are dogs! They double-booked a dog show!”
The Oreos backed up into my throat. Without a word I opened a shrink-wrapped package of water bottles and took a swig from one, wishing it was vodka. I set it down, then walked to the whiteboard and reluctantly wrote my name and cell number under Clementine’s. Then I copied Lily’s and Orville’s numbers into the contact list in my phone. I added Clementine’s without the exclamation marks. This was going to be an interesting weekend. I pushed up my sleeves, glad I’d agreed to help Viv. There was no way she could handle things here and also take care of her problem with Hanna.
I took a deep breath. “Orville, you need to call the registration website people. Lily, you need to get some more volunteers here. I’ll go talk to the front desk about whether we have to make our coats glossy for judging or if we need to teach dogs to write.”
Four
I braced myself with both hands on the reception desk and felt my neck and shoulders tense. “So”—I glanced at the clerk’s name tag—“Bernice. What’s this I hear about the Stumptown Writers’ Conference having to share space with a dog show this weekend?”
I expected the smile to slide right off her face and land somewhere in Guatemala, but it did the exact opposite. Got bigger and faker. She was a true hospitality industry professional.
She gave a dainty, Southern belle flip of her wrist. “That just dills my pickles! That is not what’s going on. Who told you that? Whoever it was has entirely misunderstood the situation.”
“Oh good.” I felt the tension leave my neck. “What exactly is the situation, then?”
“There’s no situation”—this time she flipped both wrists—“at all.”
I cut my eyes at her but continued to grip the marble countertop.
The corners of the huge fake smile twitched.
“Aha! I knew it. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing. Nothing at all. Really. Nothing.”
“Nothing?” I used my mother’s glare on her. It had always worked to make me confess.
She assessed my determination, but when I didn’t flinch, she wrinkled her nose as if smelling a whiff of bad hospitality. Or maybe now her pickles were extremely dilled. She looked both ways before leaning in close to me. “Just the teensiest little something. Hardly anything.”
“Would you please tell me already?” I felt my neck and shoulders tighten up again, this time worse. It’s been my experience that when someone goes to this much trouble to tell you everything is hunky-dory, it’s probably not.
“We double-booked the conference rooms this weekend.”
“So, exactly the situation I asked you about a minute ago.”
“Yes, but you made it sound so … so—”
“Like a situation?”
“Yes. No. Here’s the thing. Whoever booked the dog show input the wrong date. We expected they would be here next year on this weekend. But it was this year. Isn’t that silly?”
“Not the word I’d use. My real question is, what are you doing about it? Am I going to have a doggie beauty pageant in the middle of my workshop about how to write dialogue?”
Bernice’s face lit up. “It’s actually not a regular dog show like what you’re thinking. It’s an agility competition.”
My mouth dropped open. “That’s even worse. Are you telling me we’re going to have dogs jumping through hoops and spinning plates while we’re trying to learn the ten elements of a good plot?”
She flipped that wrist again. “You’re thinking of, like, a Vegas thing or the old Ed Sullivan show. This is different.”
I wanted to grab her by her navy blue blazer and shake out all the information she was withholding from me. I wanted to se
e it scattered across her marble reception desk so I could piece it together myself. But I didn’t. Instead, I took a deep, cleansing breath like my yoga instructor taught. I held it for a count of five, then released it for a count of five.
“I don’t get to Vegas much. But now I’d really love to hear what you plan to do about this fiasco.”
Again with the wrist and the Hospitality Smile. “Pshaw. It’s not a fiasco! I’m making some calls.” As if to illustrate how she’d go about this Herculean task, she picked up the hotel phone and waved it at me. “We’ll get it all taken care of. You won’t notice a thing. It’s completely under control.”
I released my grip on the smooth marble counter and flexed my hands to get the feeling back. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Completely under control. Completely.”
I didn’t believe her, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. “How ’bout if I check back with you later and you can tell me about those phone calls?”
“That would be super. Super duper!” She used her Hospitality Smile on me, flashing every single one of her teeth.
I was not fooled.
I crossed the lobby and sank into a soft upholstered armchair, trying to decide how much to worry about the agility dogs. The lobby was calm and quiet. A few people nursed drinks across the room, two at the restaurant bar and three at a high-top table in the corner. The young man in the white shirt and paisley tie I’d seen earlier still sat nearby. This time, instead of his phone, he had a newspaper open in front of his face, reminding me of a spy in an old Cold War movie. He kind of creeped me out. Who just sits around a hotel lobby? Besides me, that is.
Jack the concierge crossed the room carrying a plastic bag the size of ten pounds of flour. When he got to the large glass table in the center of the lobby, he stopped and poured some of the contents into small bowls. Perhaps peanuts for the bar. It reminded me I needed to talk to someone about the food for the conference.
