Foul Play on Words

by Becky Clark

  I walked over to him. He acknowledged my presence with a smile but concentrated on his task. I glanced at the label on the bag. Canidae Organic Bakery.

  “Hey, Ms. Russo. Everything okay?”

  “Ask me again later. And please call me Charlee. I’m not that much older than you.”

  He finished filling a bowl, then pushed it toward me as he filled another. It was some kind of trail mix, not peanuts, so I scooped up a handful in my palm before plucking out a nice-sized nugget and popping it in my mouth. As I chewed I pointed at the label. “Yum. Latin for hotel snacks?”

  Jack frowned slightly and I noticed the miniature scoops near the bowls. This wasn’t my first party foul and certainly wouldn’t be my last. Same with ice tongs. I never remembered to use them. Just dug my hand into the ice bucket to extract what I needed. “Oops. Sorry. Too hungry, I guess.”

  He kept working but asked, “Can I help you with anything?”

  How nice of him to gloss over my faux pas with the trail mix. “Actually, yes. I need to talk to the catering manager about food for the conference. Can you point me toward her office?”

  “I can do better than that. I can point right at her.” He settled the bag of trail mix on the table before pointing at a woman hurrying toward the exit carrying a large box. He called out “Roz!” and motioned her to come over.

  She didn’t break stride. “I’m in a hurry, Giacomo. Can it wait?”

  Jack and I hurried toward her. As we crossed the lobby, he said, “Roz Zwolinski, this is Charlee Russo. She needs to talk to you about the food for the writers’ conference this weekend.”

  As we neared, Roz fumbled with the flaps of her box. She positioned it away from us but didn’t stop walking. Jack reached out to carry the box for her, but she jerked it away. It seemed like a rude, unnecessary reaction to his helpful gesture and I disliked her immediately. From across the lobby she’d looked well put together, but up close I saw that her charcoal power suit was frayed at the cuffs and her gray roots were showing. She was a Suicide Blonde, dyed by her own hand.

  “I just need a couple of minutes to make sure everything is okay for the conference. I understand many of the volunteers got food poisoning recently—”

  Roz stopped abruptly. “Viv? Did Viv get food poisoning?”

  “No, I don’t think so—”

  Her phone chirped and she bobbled the box as she checked the screen. Jack again offered to help her but she ignored him. She also ignored the call. She pocketed her phone and finally looked at me as though she saw me as a person, not simply an obstacle keeping her from exiting. “Who are you?”

  “This is Charlee Russo, Roz,” Jack patiently explained again. “She needs a couple of minutes for an update of the menu for the conference.”

  Roz waved Jack away, but he stayed by my side.

  “Everything is fine for the conference. We had the tasting last week with Viv and her volunteers and they signed off on everything.” Roz hastened toward the exit again, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t worry. It’ll all work out. The chef and kitchen staff are good. It’s not their first rodeo.” Then she entered the revolving door and it spit her out on the other side.

  I looked at Jack, who shrugged. “She’s pretty busy,” he said.

  “Clearly. Can I talk to the chef ?”

  Jack pointed past the bar and to the right. “Kitchen’s back there.”

  I followed his directions, passing the bar. I saw the same guy who’d been talking about basketball earlier still talking to the bartender. I made my way through the dining room, weaving through the tables, most of them empty at this time of the afternoon.

  I pushed open the swinging doors, expecting to find dishes being washed and dinner prepped. Instead, six or eight employees in aprons sat or leaned on the stainless steel countertops. Nobody worked.

  “Um … can I talk to the chef ?”

  “Nope,” one said.

  “He’s not here,” said another.

  “He got fired,” said a third.

  Roz should have led with that. But it explained her rush. She had to go find a new chef, pronto. But telling me the chef and staff were good and it wasn’t their first rodeo? That was some hard-core lying. She’d never even flinched, although she hadn’t looked me in the eye while she said it.

  “Did Roz fire him?”

  I heard some indistinct mutterings—“probably” … “wouldn’t doubt it” … “ruthless bitch” … “always gets her way” … “wanted him out.”

  Finally, a fresh-faced kid who looked like he belonged in middle school Earth Science rather than a hotel kitchen waved them to be quiet. “Who are you?” he asked me.

  “My name is Charlee Russo and I’m helping with the writers’ conference this weekend.”

  A voice popped up from the back. “One of the lucky ones who didn’t get food poisoning, eh?”

  “Roz probably poisoned them herself,” a different voice said.

  I swiveled toward the voice. “What makes you say that?”

  The fresh-faced kid stepped toward me after giving the voice behind him a warning glance. “Don’t mind them. We’re all a little upset. Spouting off. Venting. We don’t know anything. Just that Chef was supposed to be here for his shift, but he came an hour late, cleaned out his desk, and left. Didn’t say anything except that he’d been fired. That’s all we know.” He glanced around the room. As a warning for them to be quiet? Not to air their employer’s dirty laundry to the guests? Not to contradict him? I couldn’t tell.

  I didn’t know what to think, but my curiosity had been piqued. Why hadn’t Roz mentioned it? What was in that box? Did she get fired also? Was she cleaning out her desk?

  I relaxed my clinched fists. None of my business. I needed to focus on my mission. “So what happens about the conference meals? How are you going to feed three hundred people all weekend without a chef ?”

  None of them had an answer for me.

  I returned to my comfy chair in the lobby. No meals, no volunteers, and a dog show. This was shaping up to be a great conference. My stomach rumbled and I checked my watch. Three o’clock. No wonder I was starving. Or maybe all the snacks were rebelling. At any rate, I should eat real food. I headed toward the bar and slid into a stool away from the other patrons.

  The bartender came right over, wiping his hands on a bar towel that he then flipped onto his shoulder. He placed a cardboard coaster with an unfamiliar logo in front of me. “What can I get you?”

  “Can I get some healthy food here?”

  “Hmm. Define healthy.”

  “Not Oreos or trail mix.”

  “I can probably find you something.”

  “Even without a chef ?”

  “Well, that does make it harder. How picky are you?”

  “Not very.”

  The man I’d seen earlier swiveled toward me from his barstool several seats away. “I had a pretty good frozen pizza earlier.”

  “I bet they could fry a burger,” the bartender said.

  My stomach told me it was not interested in either of those choices. “Perhaps something more, um, gentle? Think anyone back there can slap together a turkey sandwich with lettuce and tomatoes? On sourdough?”

  The bartender nodded. “I’m sure of it. And if not, maybe Jerry can call his mom to come help.”

  “I knew it. That kid should be in Earth Science class.”

  The bartender laughed. “Right? Apparently he’s actually old enough to drink. I’ve seen his ID. You want mustard and mayo on that sandwich?”

  “Just mustard.”

  “Anything to drink?”

  I toyed with the cardboard coaster. A girl can’t day-drink without a drink. “This Rogue stuff any good? I like ales, porters, stouts. Dark stuff.”

  “You’re in luck. Let me get this order in since it might tak
e them a while. Then I’ll get you a Dead Guy Ale.” The bartender walked away.

  “You’ll like the Dead Guy. Rogue brews lots of good beers. They’re local. The Double Chocolate Stout is good too.” The man lifted his glass. “This is the Voodoo Doughnut Mango Astronaut Ale.”

  “Seriously? That’s a lot to unpack before I’ve had my Dead Guy, but I always try to drink locally, act globally.” I studied the cardboard coaster. “You’re local? I heard you trash talking the Nuggets earlier.”

  He stood up and I immediately regretted engaging him in conversation. I wasn’t in the mood to get hit on. Just wanted to eat in peace.

  He held out his hand. “Hi. I’m Brad Pitt.”

  I laughed out loud. As he moved closer to shake my hand, I saw he was at least twenty years older than me. Good-looking, but still, what a line. “That’s hilarious. Girls fall for that?”

  He slid into the stool next to me, placing his half-glass of beer in front of him. “I’ll have you know that I was Brad Pitt before Brad Pitt was Brad Pitt.” He pulled an Oregon driver’s license from his wallet and handed it to me.

  “Bradley Calvin Pitt, born June 14, 1963.” I handed it back. “I have no idea how old the real Brad Pitt is.”

  “I just told you, I’m the real Brad Pitt. I got him beat by six months.”

  The bartender brought me a gorgeous, deep orange colored beer, then turned toward my companion. “Ready for another, Brad?”

  “Are you kidding me?” I laughed. “You heard us talking.”

  The bartender looked confused, so Brad said, “She doesn’t believe that’s my real name.”

  “I saw his ID,” the bartender told me.

  “So did I. But I still don’t believe him.” I sipped my beer. A bit sweet. A bit fruity. Very mellow. Just what the doctor ordered.

  “And I don’t believe I’ll have another. Still have work to do.” The original Brad Pitt sipped his beer, then set it down and looked at me. “You won’t hurt my feelings if you tell me to shove off. I didn’t mean to insinuate myself into your very late lunch.”

  I decided it might be nice to have a little light conversation before I had to return to problem-solving mode. Since Brad’s driver’s license said he lived in Portland, I assumed he was here either for the conference or the dog show, neither of which I wanted to discuss. “Nah. Stay and finish your beer. I could use some company. But just so you know, I don’t want to talk about writing or dogs. And I have a boyfriend.”

  “Good to know. I won’t waste my A material on you.”

  “You have A material? Did you get it from your namesake?”

  “I told you, I’m older than him. And I notice you haven’t told me your name yet.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I held out my hand. “Angelina. Angelina Jolie. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Very funny.” He gently brushed my knuckles with his lips.

  “Très gallant.”

  “I need to step up my game for the beautiful Ms. Jolie. Wait.” He paused and squinted at me. “Hey, you’re not the actress.”

  “You found me out.”

  “You’re much more beautiful than she is.”

  I felt myself turn red. It’s so irritating to blush. “Actually, I’m just a lowly author. My name is really Charlemagne Russo.”

  He stared at me. “Charlemagne dares mock Brad’s name?”

  “Yep. My friends call me Charlee. But get this, my boyfriend’s name is Ozzi.”

  The bartender brought me a perfectly serviceable turkey sandwich on sourdough. They’d even remembered my plea for no mayo. Brad Pitt, the bartender, and I exchanged funny stories about funny names while I ate it. I found both of them charming and pleasant company. Again, just what the doctor ordered.

  I finished my sandwich and beer, wiped my mouth, and asked for my check. The bartender told me I could sign it to my room, so I did, being careful not to let Brad Pitt see my room number. Girl can’t be too careful. I handed the leather folder back to the bartender. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Pitt, but I’ve got a date with some conference volunteers.”

  “Lucky. I haven’t had a date in longer than I can remember. I have a roommate that cramps my style.”

  “Then it’s good you’re spending time at a hotel with a conference going on. Maybe you’ll get lucky.” I slid off the stool and collected my bag.

  “Doubt it. I have a roommate here too. Also cramping my style.”

  “You didn’t plan very well.”

  “I never had a room of my own.” He gave a comical pout. “Until I bought a house. And then almost immediately my loser brother moved in and started cramping my style.”

  “With the ladies?”

  “With everything. But how about you, Charlee?” He waggled his eyebrows at me. “Got a roommate here?”

  “Just my invisible one, Ozzi.”

  He laughed. “I’ll see you around.”

  “Maybe. Nice to meet you.”

  He waggled his fingers at me. “Love, peace, and bacon grease.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing. Just a silly thing my brother always says.”

  I spread the fingers on my right hand two-and-two, like Mr. Spock. “May the grease be with you, then.”

  “Wow. Wrong on so many levels.”

  As I made my way back to the workroom, fortified by food, beer, and a little light flirting, I heard Jack’s voice around the corner near the conference rooms. He was talking to a girl. I smiled, thinking they might be indulging in some light flirting of their own. But when I heard them mention Hanna’s name, I skidded to a stop and hugged the wall where they couldn’t see me. Bernice at the reception desk tugged the sleeves of her blazer, then returned to her computer.

  The female voice said, “I don’t care about that. Hanna’s not getting her way this time.”

  My mind raced. They both knew Viv’s daughter? Was that the same Hanna they were talking about? Did they know she’d been kidnapped? What didn’t the voice care about? And what could the ominous this time mean?

  By the time I’d focused myself to listen to more of their conversation, they’d moved on. I peeked around the corner, but they’d disappeared. I knew they hadn’t come back toward the lobby, so I started down the hall. I took a veritable tour of Oregon while poking my head into each room: Columbia, Mount Hood, Deschutes, Clackamas. When I opened the door of the workroom, both Lily and Orville looked up expectantly and smiled at me. Lily started to speak, but I retreated and shut the door before she could engage me in a conversation, probably about more conference fiascoes. My search took precedence. I traced the path I presumed Jack and the girl had taken down the hallway, squaring the corner to the Tualatin, Multnomah, and Willamette rooms. All empty. Where had they gone?

  As I resigned myself to return to the workroom without learning anything about the mystery girl or the conversation about Hanna, Jack casually emerged from the Willamette Room. Alone.

  I jumped backward as my adrenaline spiked, and he immediately apologized for scaring me.

  “I’m just surprised. I thought I saw you over there talking to a girl.” I waved vaguely toward the lobby so he wouldn’t think I’d been spying on him, but I kept my eyes on his face. I was rewarded with a slight narrowing of his eyes. He recovered almost immediately, and I knew that if I hadn’t stared, I would have missed the flicker of whatever that was. Guilt? Wariness? Sneakiness?

  He didn’t respond, just moved toward his concierge desk.

  I followed him. “I bet you have a lot of friends here at work.”

  “Not really. I try to keep my work life and personal life separate.” Jack opened a drawer, then immediately shut it. Lined up the stapler with the phone. It seemed to me he was pretending to be busy.

  “Have you worked here long?”

  “A few years.” He moved his pen next to his busi
ness card holder so that it made a perfect right angle.

  He was clearly nervous, and I needed to figure out why. How were he and the girl and Hanna related?

  “This conference has been held at this hotel for a long time. Do you know my friend Viv Lundquist, who organizes it?”

  Jack looked up but immediately shifted his eyes from mine. “I’ve seen her around, I think.”

  “Do you know her daughter, Hanna? You guys are about the same age.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  A guest at the reception desk waved a luggage claim ticket at him. Jack called, “Be right there, sir!” and then turned to me again. “Excuse me. I’ve got work to do.”

  I could have sworn I heard him whisper, “Thank God.”

  He plastered a big smile on his face and scurried toward the guest. He schmoozed him for a bit, asking about his day while taking his luggage claim check. In a few moments, Jack returned with two suitcases, which he deposited in front of the man. He held out the claim tickets in his hand, next to the tickets attached to the bags. The guest nodded in acknowledgment that he had the correct bags and reached into his wallet. As he handed Jack some bills, he said, “Thank you for your excellent service during my stay, Giacomo.”

  Jack pocketed the cash without looking at it. “It’s been my delight, sir.” He picked up the bags and motioned the guest toward the revolving door where a cab awaited.

  I watched until the cab drove away, Jack waving from the portico. Why was he lying about knowing Hanna? Before she’d driven away, Viv had told me not to say anything to Jack about Hanna because they were friends. Was it possible Jack had something to do with her kidnapping? I vowed to keep an eye on him.

  I turned abruptly and almost crashed into the man in the white shirt and paisley tie from the lobby. Up close, he looked even younger than I’d thought.

  “Gosh, excuse me!” I said.

  He turned without a word and practically ran in the opposite direction.

  I don’t usually have that effect on people, and he kind of gave me the willies. I had a flash of Viv begging me to skulk around and help her figure out what was going on. Maybe she’d asked him to skulk around too. I hurried after the man, intending to find out.