by Becky Clark
I felt and heard a squelch under my Keds. “Gross!” I lifted my foot and saw a big pile of dog poop with my footprint in the middle of it. The skulker got away from me, disappearing down a hallway.
“I’m so sorry!” A man hurried toward me waving a small plastic spatula. “Jean Louise!” A gorgeous black-and-tan German shepherd calmly walked toward him and he snapped a leash on her. She sat regally next to him, clearly unperturbed by her intestinal faux pas.
The man scooped the poop into an orange plastic bag he’d whipped out of his pocket.
I hadn’t moved. My sneaker hovered at an angle six inches off the floor. Seriously? Dog poop?
“It’s good luck, you know.” The man handed me a canister of disinfectant wipes from the small backpack he wore.
I plucked out four and began to wipe my shoe, hopping to a nearby chair for balance. “It’s good luck to step in dog poo? Says who?” I plopped down into the chair, trying to keep from touching anything gross.
“Me. And everyone else on the planet. Or maybe just those of us involved in dog shows.” The man plucked a couple of wipes for his spatula. “I’m Scott and this miscreant is Scout. Jean Louise when she’s in trouble.” At her name, the dog lifted her face angelically at him.
I looked around for someplace to put the wipes I’d used. Scott offered his hand and I gladly gave them to him.
He spoke to his dog. “Tell the nice lady you’re sorry.”
Scout placed her head under my hand and raised up slightly so it looked as if it was my idea to pet her.
“Jean Louise. That’s funny.” I fell in love immediately, putting hands on either side of the dog’s huge hairy face and forgetting all about my shoe. As I rubbed the fur on her face and neck, Scott untied my sneaker and pulled it off my foot.
He finished cleaning my shoe and the carpet, even pulling out a small carpet cleaner spray can. While he sprayed the area and white foam penetrated the spot, he apologized again. “We were headed out back, but I detoured to get a newspaper. Guess I took too long.”
We both looked down at Scout, who wagged the top inch of her tail, clearly acknowledging her innocence in this situation.
“She’s normally better at keeping her knees crossed, but I think she’s a little nervous.”
“She sure doesn’t look nervous. She’s gorgeous.”
“Thanks. Well, maybe it’s me that’s nervous. We’re competing in our first major agility competition in a couple of days.” He handed back my shoe. “Good as new.”
I crossed my ankle over my opposite knee and secured the sneaker on my foot. I stood and looked at Scott. “So, agility dogs. You guys are the ones they double-booked with our writing conference.”
“Seems so.” Scott held out the handle of Scout’s leash. “Could I ask you to hang on to her for a minute while I go throw all this away and confess our sins to housekeeping?”
“Sure.” I knew the man in the white shirt and paisley tie had disappeared, and Jack had long since left the portico out front so my surveillance of him and the mystery girl would have to wait anyway. Holding the leash, I walked Scout over toward the door to the patio and grass out back. Raining. “Sorry,” I said to her. She leaned her big head against my thigh and we watched the rain until Scott returned.
“Thanks so much.” He took the leash from me and the three of us watched the rain together.
“What’s involved in an agility competition?” I asked.
“It’s basically an obstacle course the dogs run.”
“Do you tell them how to do it?”
“Kind of. We move through the course with them, but they have to do it.”
“How does she know what to do?”
Scott let out a snort. “I’m not sure she does. It’s my job to teach her all the tricks and obstacles, so if there’s any failure, I’m sure it’ll be all mine.”
“Is every course the same?”
“No. The judge sets up the course and we won’t see it until the day of competition. It’ll have all the obstacles, but they’re never put together quite the same way. One competition may have hurdles, weave poles, A-frame, tunnel, dog walk, pause table, teeter-totter, and then end with a tire jump. The next time, an entirely new judge sets it up completely differently. All the same elements are there, but switched up.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“It can be, but so far Scout has really taken to it. She seems to love the mental workout as much as the physical.”
I thought about the double-booking. “And you have these competitions indoors?”
“Not very often. But the lady in charge of this competition is kind of a Nervous Nellie, so she likes to book an indoor arena in case the weather is bad.”
“Hotel conference rooms are considered an indoor arena?”
“Only in a pinch. Usually they use horse arenas, like at a fairground, but apparently those are expensive to rent. And this is a fledgling organization without much money. If they charged the participants fees high enough to cover the rental cost, nobody would come. There’s prize money, but not tall dough until you get to the bigger clubs and more prestigious events.” Scott scritched Scout behind the ears. “But Nervous Nellie has an aunt or someone who got her a deal on this place. Too bad they got the date wrong. I heard a rumor that the hotel called around and found a high school gym for us in case we can’t use a park or someplace outside. But not for the whole time. We still need to practice. At least Scout and I do.”
“Maybe the rain will stop before the competition.”
We watched the rain for a bit longer.
“I guess if it doesn’t let up, we’ll just have to practice in here.” Scott glanced around the lobby.
“Ha! I’d love to see that.” I rubbed the side of Scout’s big head. “A lobby full of German shepherds jumping hurdles.”
“Oh, they’re all different breeds.”
“So Scout might square off against a pug?” I smiled, thinking about my upstairs neighbors’ pug, Peter O’Drool.
“No, but I would pay to see that,” Scott said. “The dogs compete in height groups, measured at the shoulder. Doesn’t matter what breed, but each group is the same basic size. Then, of course, there’s novice, intermediate, and master courses.”
“You said there’s prize money for this?”
“Yeah, but not much. And there are plenty of costs involved with the dogs. But professional handlers who consistently win can earn big bucks from the dog owners, who really just want the prestige of the title.”
“Are you Scout’s owner or handler?”
“Both. I want to do well enough to earn better sponsorships and breeding fees. So far, she’s doing well, but we’ve added in the agility portion to the plain ol’ dog shows to see if we can pad our bank account a bit more. She’s already a pretty competitive show dog.”
I was impressed and a bit jealous of Scout. I wondered if I could make a living jumping over and crawling under things and standing really still for judging. Scott ran a hand along Scout’s coat. I smoothed my own hair.
“Wow. So much I didn’t know about dog agility competitions.”
“Probably because you have a more interesting life than I do.”
“Doubt it. But I probably should get back to it. It was nice talking to you.” I thumped Scout on her side. “And stepping in your good luck poop.”
“Again, we’re sorry about that, aren’t we, Jean Louise?” Scott lowered his voice a bit when he said her name, reminding her of her faux pas and causing her ears to flatten.
As Jean Louise looked up at me with sorrowful brown eyes, I immediately forgave all the dogs in my orbit who’d ever barked while I was trying to sleep, all the dogs who’d chased me on my bike as a kid, and all the dogs—past, present, and future—who’d deposited poop in a place where I might step in it.
Scott tugged
at Scout’s leash. “And we need to figure out how to practice for our big day.” They walked away, Scout’s tail sweeping magnificently from side to side with each step. I was sure she’d do well in an agility competition.
Scott and Scout going off to practice reminded me I still needed to memorize my mnemonic device for my keynote speech at the banquet on Saturday. I found a comfortable seat in the lobby but felt a pang of guilt as I settled in, having forgotten briefly that there might not even be a banquet. That is, if Viv came to her senses and cancelled it, or worse, if something truly awful had happened to her daughter. Many attendees, and likely all of the volunteers, were friends of hers. Writers take care of their own, and if word got out, none of them would want to enjoy a conference under those circumstances.
I still couldn’t quite wrap my brain around the kidnapping. Again I wondered, what kind of people know people who get kidnapped? I guess I’d have said the same thing three weeks earlier, about people knowing people who got murdered, and yet there I was, involved in a murder. And why Viv’s daughter? She hadn’t answered when I’d asked. Viv wasn’t rich, and she wasn’t powerful or from an important family, as far as I knew.
I felt another pang of guilt when the thought flitted through my brain, once more, that maybe this wasn’t really a kidnapping at all—just the book tour all over again with Viv making up more and more outlandish lies. But instead of scoring some free dinners and hotel upgrades like on the tour, what would her motive be this time?
I hated that this theory was now lodged in my brain. Had I watched too many movies? Read too many books? Fiction was so much easier than real life. My head began to throb, so I slid the elastic from my braid and raked my fingers through my hair several times. As expected, my hair had dried kinky from the wet braid, but I didn’t care how I looked. I finished my mini head massage and let my wild, witchy hair cascade down my back. I closed my eyes while rolling my neck and shoulders. I wasn’t relaxed in any sense of the word, but it was as close as I was going to get for now. I rebraided my hair.
Real life awaited me in the conference workroom. As I crossed the lobby, giving a wide berth to the dark circle of carpet cleaner, I scanned the area for the man in the white shirt and paisley tie, but he hadn’t returned. Neither had Jack. Since I couldn’t talk to them at the moment, I tried to remember my mnemonic device and what the letters of ACHIEVE stood for as I walked back toward the Clackamas Room. I got stuck on the A. I knew “agility” wasn’t correct, but it was all that came to mind. I gave up in disgust.
Jack came around the corner, chatting with Bernice and another employee. When they passed, only Bernice acknowledged me, with an automatic smile. I watched as they opened a door with a sign that said Employees Only.
If there wasn’t a kidnapping, what did the conversation between Jack and the mystery girl mean? Why would they mention Hanna’s name like that? It was a common enough name, but could it really have been a coincidence, given that my questions made Jack so nervous? Why had he lied about knowing her?
My steps slowed and finally stopped outside the Clackamas Room. I leaned against the wall opposite the closed workroom door.
The stories Viv had told me over the years about Hanna filled my head. Whether they were funny, sweet, or exasperating, she always spoke with lots of squishy love for her daughter. Maybe their relationship was in fact “complicated” for some reason at the moment, but how many mothers and daughters didn’t have a relationship complicated in some way? My mom and I did, on occasion. That didn’t mean anything.
I fished my phone from my bag, pulled up Facebook, and went to Viv’s page. I scrolled through her photos. Most were of her and Hanna, smiling, arms around waists or shoulders, heads touching. They didn’t look like they had any animosity between them, but everyone knows photos can lie.
I clicked out of Facebook and went to the saved photos in the “Favorites” album on my phone. There were a bunch of me and Viv at various conferences over the years. Viv had the same smile on her face in those photos as in the photos with Hanna, the one I used to see a lot but hadn’t seen today.
I regretted that there were no photos from our book tour, but that had been before camera phones were so ubiquitous. Such an adventure that was. We were both so new and dazzled by the book business. Several weeks sharing motel rooms also made you share much of your life. At the time, I’d wondered if that was what it felt like to have a sister. A much older sister, but still.
Viv had shared stories of Hanna’s teenage antics back then. Nothing she said had made me think she was anything but an excellent mother, despite the obvious financial difficulties of raising a kid on her own. Although, when the tour brought us to Portland and I stayed at Viv’s house for a couple of days, why hadn’t I met Hanna? I remembered joking about how neat and tidy everything was, no sign of a teen girl living there. Were they having more than just typical mother-daughter problems even back then?
I flushed with shame at my refusal to help Viv find Hanna, and at my persistent theory that one or both of them could have staged the kidnapping. But I still couldn’t wrap my brain around it, because really? A kidnapping? Yet what if it was? How could I ever look Viv in the eye again? And still, even if Hanna had not been kidnapped, something very weird was going on. Something Viv needed help with. And if I could team up with the guy skulking around in the white shirt and paisley tie, so much the better.
I made a call. After the beep I said, “Viv. I’m in. I’ll help you find Hanna.”
Five
I didn’t exactly know how I was going to help Viv find Hanna. And until I figured out how to investigate Jack and the girl, or otherwise brainstorm a plan, I still had to put on this conference.
As I pulled open the door to the Clackamas Room, I saw that Lily and Orville had been joined by another volunteer, who was also doing absolutely nothing. Lily jumped up when I entered and clapped the tips of her fingers together in front of her face. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to her exuberance at seeing me. Even Peter O’Drool was more sedate—sedate like a Maori war dance—and it’s kind of a dog’s job to adore people.
“Charlee! Clementine is here! Clementine, this is Charlemagne Russo. Charlee’s on the faculty, she’s giving the keynote on Saturday, AND she’s taking over for Viv.”
“I’m not actually taking over. I was here anyway, so I’m helping out since so many volunteers got sick. Hi, Clementine.” I smiled at the young woman and dropped my bag on a table still covered with piles, boxes, and bags.
Clementine was sitting on another table with her legs crossed in front of her. She didn’t smile back at me. Just tilted her head to the side as if studying an unusual human specimen.
While Lily chattered on about all the true-crime articles Clementine had written for magazines, Orville readjusted the Velcro on his sneakers by ripping the tabs over and over again until he was satisfied.
“—she interviewed this guy who lived in a tree house who—”
I studied Clementine’s asymmetrical hairdo. Pure Portland hipster. She was outfitted in a large man’s plaid flannel shirt belted over a white schoolgirl blouse with a black bow tie.
Lily prattled on. “And that great story you did about that girl who was killed at the Three Mouse Squeak rave!” She stared into the middle distance with a sudden frown on her face. “I forget how that one ended, though.”
Clementine adjusted her rhinestone-studded cat-eye glasses before removing them altogether. I noticed they had no lenses.
“Oh, yeah! Now I remember! It was the drummer who did it,” Lily said.
Clementine slid her glasses into a soft case made from Hello Kitty fabric. “Yes. He lost all credibility when he refused that Pabst.”
Before I could ask what in the world that meant, Lily squealed with excitement. “And the grandmother who murdered all those door-to-door salesmen! You have to read her article about that!”
“Yo
u write true crime, huh?” I said. “That must be interesting.”
Clementine unfurled her long legs and I saw that she also wore leggings with a frog pattern, pink leg warmers, and neon blue pointy-toed stilettos that matched the stripe in her hair. “Cute shoes.” I flashed the grin that girls flash when we compliment one another on our shoes. I expected her to compliment my pink Keds with the rainbow laces, especially since she was mercifully unaware they’d been covered in dog poo until very recently. Plus, they were kinda hip.
But she didn’t. All she said was “yes.”
I didn’t know if she was responding to my comment about her writing or her shoes. She didn’t even flash a courtesy grin. In fact, she hadn’t moved a facial muscle since I’d walked into the room. I vowed then and there to make it my life’s mission to make her smile. Most people can smile, right? Even hipsters?
Lily suddenly shrieked, causing me to jump. “I just had the best idea! Clementine should write about your dad, Charlee!”
Every muscle in my body tensed. I stared at her. What was she insinuating? I balled my fists. I refused to ask what she meant, and I certainly wasn’t going to get into an argument about my dead police officer dad. Besides, Clementine wrote true crime. Not related in any way to my dad. I was just going to pretend that Lily hadn’t spoken.
Zen-like, I willed myself to relax and changed the subject completely by asking Clementine, “Have you volunteered for this conference before?”
“Affirmative.”
“Oh, good. Lily, Orville, and I are all new to this. What needs to be done?”
“No idea.”
“But I thought you said …” I left my question hanging, assuming she’d fill us in. She didn’t. I tried again. “So, you’ve volunteered for Viv before?”
Clementine glanced from Lily to Orville to me before she sighed in an exaggerated manner, like she was on stage and had to play her emotions to the balcony. “I’ve tried to volunteer for years now. Viv is a real control freak. Does most everything herself. And what she doesn’t do, she stage directs and micromanages.”
