by Becky Clark
As I took a step, my foot jammed into a stack of boxes. The surprise jolted me and I lost my balance. I dropped the skillet and it crashed to the floor next to his head. I jumped back as he rolled into the doorway and stood up, blocking any escape I thought I had.
I managed to keep hold of his flashlight and continued to shine it in his eyes. The skillet was at his feet, and I expected him to grab it and come up swinging. Instead, he kicked it behind him, out into the hallway.
“Why are you so mean?” he said, rubbing his arm again. “That hurt.”
I opened and closed my mouth seven thousand times. Finally I said, “Why did you follow me down here?”
“It’s my job. Can you get that light out of my eyes?”
His whiny voice took away 87 percent of my fear. The tears welling up in his eyes took away the rest. I placed the flashlight on a stack of boxes near me so it shined at the ceiling.
“Your job is to follow me to the basement?”
“Not just the basement. Wherever you go.”
“Why?”
“I told you, it’s my job.”
“I’m losing patience with this game. Explain yourself. Now.”
“Your mom hired me to watch out for you.”
“My mom? Why?”
“Because she was worried about you because of the trolls online.”
“What trolls?”
“The ones she was arguing with on Twitter—”
“My mom’s on Twitter?”
“Apparently.”
“Let me get this straight. My mom got into an online fight with Twitter trolls?” This made less sense than her being on Twitter to begin with. “That’s ridiculous.” I reached into the box where I’d found the wobbly-handled skillet and pulled out what I believed to be a wobbly-handled crepe pan. I planted my feet and choked up on it. “Keep talking. But understand that this crepe pan has no more patience.”
He took a strangled breath and let it out. “I’m a private investigator hired by your mother. After your agent was killed and you got all those crazy comments, your mom started replying to them—”
I let the crepe pan fall to my side and he flinched.
“She was trying to change their minds or something. But it just escalated. And there were threats—”
“To my mom?”
“No. To you. So she hired me to keep an eye on you here in Portland. Just in case.”
“Just in case,” I repeated, staring at him.
He swiped at his eyes.
“You’re a private eye?”
He nodded and sniveled.
“Where’s Clementine?”
“I don’t know.”
“I saw you grab her arm in the lobby. Where’d you guys go?”
“Down here.”
“Why?”
“She made me.”
“She what?”
“She made me. You know, figured out I was a PI and started grilling me right there in public about my job. I told her I couldn’t talk about that. She said yes I could and then forced me to follow her. She said something about the cloak of secrecy and the next thing I knew, we were down here.” He looked at me with wide eyes. “She scared me.”
“Yeah, she kinda scares me too. But where is she?”
“Probably still down here somewhere. She lit up a joint and I hightailed it outta here. Then I saw you in the hall and you started asking me questions. I didn’t want to, but I had to come back down here after you to make sure you were okay.” He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his white shirt and looked like he was eight years old.
I felt sorry for him. But just for a moment. He could be an accomplished liar for all I knew. I dug out my phone and checked for a signal. None.
“What’s your name?”
“Billy.”
Oh my God. He was eight years old. I thought for a minute.
“Well … Billy … here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to walk slowly in front of me while I use your flashlight to light the way. When we get to the top of those stairs, you’re going to open the door very carefully. You’re not going to talk to anyone. You’re not going to run. You’re not going to do anything but walk into the restaurant where we’re going to sit and call my mother. Do you understand?”
He nodded forlornly.
“Okay, let’s go. And no monkey business.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Billy said.
He did exactly as I instructed. In the restaurant, I ordered another Dead Guy Ale, and Billy did too after showing both me and the waitress his ID.
I dialed my mom’s number. She answered on the second ring. “Bug? Is everything okay?”
“You tell me, Mom. Did you hire a child named Billy to follow me?”
“He’s a private investigator with good references.”
“Really? Good references?” I shrugged apologetically at Billy, who shrugged back.
She paused. “Well, he’s my friend Linda’s boy. He’s just starting out and he was pretty cheap …” She trailed off.
My feelings were a bit hurt that she’d hired a cut-rate PI to keep me safe. I shook it off. “Mom, why were you fighting with trolls?”
“After that ugliness with your agent—”
“You mean the ugliness of her murder?”
“Yes, and how everyone was thinking you did it—”
“Not everyone.”
“No, dear, not everyone. But lots of people. Well, they were just saying such rude things about you online and I was afraid it would make people not buy your books, so I tried to reason with them and get them to change their minds.”
“Only you would try to change the minds of online trolls.”
“They threatened you, Bug! You should read some of the horrid things they said. And then, out of spite, they started posting bad reviews—”
“Why do you think I don’t read my reviews, Mom?”
She didn’t answer.
“Mom, did you tell Lance about any of this? If there were threats, you should have reported it to the police.”
“I didn’t want to worry him. Besides, I’m sure they didn’t mean those things they wrote.”
“Then why am I looking across the table at a private investigator?”
“Maybe I believed them a little.”
Billy leaned across the table and spoke loudly. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Russo. I told you I’ve never tailed anyone before when you hired me. Will I still get paid?”
“Don’t you pay him one dime, Mom.”
“Oh, Bug, that’s not fair. What would I tell his mother? I’d never be able to show my face at book club if I stiffed him.”
I sighed. “Mom, we’ll talk about this later. But quit worrying about me. Everything’s fine.”
“Okay, Bug. Love you.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
The waitress brought our beers and I glared at Billy until she left. Then I glared at him some more while I took a long sip of my much-needed beer.
Finally I said, “Since my mom is going to pay your fee, and probably give you a nice tip, you’re going to do something to earn it.”
“What?”
“Help me find Clementine.” I wasn’t entirely sure he had told me the truth about what happened between them, but I was convinced he didn’t have it in him to kidnap anyone. “Tell me more about your argument.”
Billy sipped his beer, making a face that made me think it was his first taste of alcohol. “I told you. She figured out I was a PI. But she thought I was following you, not trying to protect you.”
“Why would she think I needed following?”
“Because of your dad.”
I sipped my beer and almost choked. “What about my dad?”
“She wanted to know what prison he was in.”
&n
bsp; I swallowed hard. “Prison?”
“Yeah. For robbing a bank and killing the bank manager.”
Good grief. The lies and fairy tales that were out there! I fought to control my temper, taking another sip of beer to buy some time. “You are really bad at your job.” I said calmly. “There are articles and photos online of my dad’s funeral thirteen years ago.”
Billy’s face reddened. “That’s what I told Clementine! But she said they were obviously doctored.”
I didn’t explain any further about my dad but wondered where Clementine had gotten such bad information. I mulled it over while nursing my beer. Billy sipped his, too, making a sour face.
And then it came to me. Lily.
I drained my beer, then said, “You go find Clementine and bring her to me.” I stomped off to talk to Lily.
Billy called after me, “Can I finish my beer?”
“I doubt it!”
Eight
I went back to the workroom, where it was quiet now that everyone had gone home, and called Lily. Her voicemail came up. “Hi! It’s Lily! I will definitely call you back! Leave me a message! Have a GREAT DAY!” I was not having a GREAT DAY and I didn’t want to leave a message.
I called Clementine’s number but she didn’t answer either. I wasn’t too concerned about her. First, because I didn’t think Billy was lying about her smoking a joint in the basement, and second, because I was fairly certain she could defend herself against the likes of Billy.
It was late. I gave up and went to my room. This whole situation was getting so weird. I picked up the phone to call my brother again, fully intending to tell him my theory about Viv’s intentions with the conference funds. But I didn’t. What if there really was a kidnapping and they found out I involved the police, even if it was just my brother in Colorado? A long shot, but ever since Melinda’s murder I was always on the verge of paranoia—taping over the camera on my laptop, changing my passwords obsessively, and scrutinizing every driver who passed me. And now I had to start worrying about my online trolls. If I called Lance, I’d have to tell him about Billy and the whole thing with Mom, and I really didn’t want to do that.
Instead, I called Ozzi. All I wanted was to hear his voice in my ear. I listened, contented, while he told me all the mundane details of his day. No Viv, no conference, no kidnappers, no hard questions, just normal conversation. We’d been dating long enough for convivial chatting, but not so long that we knew the entirety of each other’s stories. And certainly not long enough to finish each other’s sentences. He told me a funny story about Peter O’Drool. Seems the pug cornered a rabbit in the juniper bush under my kitchen window, but instead of running away like usual, the bunny made a stand against tyranny and it scared the bejeebers out of Peter. He ran, the rabbit chased him, and Peter ended up cowering on the third floor of Ozzi’s building in our sprawling apartment complex, afraid to come down.
“So I returned him to Don and Barb and they insisted on repaying me by making me dinner.”
“What did you have?”
“Meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Just like my grandma used to make.”
“I love having the Singers right upstairs. I pretend they’re my grandparents.”
“Barb made cherry pie, too, and told me how fond they are of you. Said to tell you they hope you’re having a marvelous time. So are you having a marvy time?”
I deflected, telling him, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I’m tired. Tell me what’s on TV.”
He flipped through channels until I stopped him at an episode of The Simpsons. He narrated the last half, complete with commercials.
I finally fell asleep after the longest Wednesday of my life. At least the longest one since I’d been a murder suspect. That was never far from my mind, but I’d been holding it at bay until Lily mentioned it. I could continue to ignore any questions or discussion on the topic, but it would be marvelous if she’d drop it—and any talk of my dad—completely.
I startled awake the next morning to loud, happy voices in the hallway discussing where to have breakfast. Food seemed a distant memory to me. My stomach rumbled but I couldn’t face another package of Oreos or granola bars. Twenty minutes later, I sat in the hotel restaurant trying to decide between the Baccon and Egg Speshal and the French Tost on the Thursday Breckfast Menu, not sure whether I should thank or curse those hallway voices for waking me.
I wondered if it was too early to call Lily. Not because it might be impolite, but because I wasn’t sure I could handle her so early without sustenance. I voted for sustenance.
While pouring my coffee, the waitress talked me into the bacon and eggs, commiserating with my horror at the awful spelling and reminding me of the power of protein to fuel my day.
“But the spelling! The terrible, terrible spelling!” I wanted to shout. I understood they’d had to simplify and print up a new menu due to the sudden loss of their regular chef, but how many writers at the conference would find their heads exploding as they read this? Every single one who found themselves reading it, that’s how many. I thrust the vile paper back into the waitress’s hands, glad to be free of such a demonic hellhound of a page.
I watched her refill mugs as she meandered around tables toward the kitchen. As she got there, the swinging doors came at her full-force and she had to jump away to avoid being hit.
Roz the catering manager stormed from the kitchen into the dining room, face so full of fury I don’t even think she saw the waitress standing, shocked, off to the side, coffeepot held aloft. Roz turned and held the swinging doors open while she argued with someone in the kitchen.
After a few moments Roz swiveled to the dining room, shouting, waving her arms in the air as if to clear it of stupidity. “—No proof they got food poisoning here. If I’d known they were going somewhere else, then I would have used my own—” Suddenly she noticed the waitress standing like a statue and all the breakfast diners watching the show. Her eyes raked the crowd, ending with me. She promptly reorganized her suit jacket and stormed out of the restaurant. I watched as she fled, but couldn’t tell if she left the hotel or not.
The pin-dropping silence ended as people went back to their breakfasts, clinking forks against plates and resuming their chatter. Someone else’s drama is never as riveting as a hot breakfast right in front of you. Unless you’re a mystery writer.
I replayed Roz’s scene while I waited for my food. Was any of it a clue to my real-life mystery? Was it simply a frustrated workplace outburst? Or did Roz know something about the food poisoning?
When the waitress brought my breakfast, I didn’t even wait for her to put it down before I peppered her with questions about the ruckus. “What was that all about? Why was Roz so mad? Who was she yell-ing at?”
The waitress looked around, then lowered her voice. “She just found out the chef was fired yesterday.” She put my plate in front of me.
Was it possible Roz had been truly unaware of this? I’d assumed she simply didn’t want me to know. “She’s the catering manager. How come she just found out?”
“The general manager fired him, and he says he called her. But everyone knows—even the GM—that Roz always ignores his calls.” The waitress moved the ketchup and hot sauce closer to my plate.
I remembered the call Roz had ignored yesterday while Jack and I were with her. “Isn’t the GM her boss? He’s okay with her ignoring him?”
“He thinks it’s funny.” The waitress refilled my cup. “Or at least that’s the impression I get. He’s probably happy not to have to talk to her. Besides, he doesn’t need Roz’s permission to do anything.” She said Roz’s name with a sneer.
“You don’t like her?”
The waitress lowered her voice even further. “She’s awful.”
“Why do you say that?”
She shrugged as another waitress came out juggling plates for a nearby
table. It was clear to me she didn’t want the other woman to know we were chatting about something other than breckfast speshals. “Is there anything else I can get you? Juice? Toast?” she asked loudly.
“No, that’s okay.”
She started to walk away, but I stopped her. If she was willing to talk about Roz this way, maybe I could get information about Jack and the mystery girl. “Wait. Toast actually sounds good. Sourdough when you get a minute? No rush.”
The restaurant got busier and busier, and the two waitresses raced around like roller derby jammers. I was finished with my bacon and eggs and down to the last cold swig of coffee but my toast hadn’t yet appeared. I gave up on it and instead tried to get someone’s attention to bring the check. While I waited, Lily plopped herself down at my table.
“Good morning, Charlee! How are you? Did you sleep okay?”
“Why did you tell Clementine my dad was in prison?” I whispered.
“Because she wanted to know,” Lily whispered back. “Why are we whispering?”
“He’s not in prison.”
“Are you sure? Because I think he is.”
“No, he’s not. My dad is dead.”
“Oh, Charlee! I’m so sorry! How awful! Was he shivved? Mob hit? Did he turn snitch?”
“No!”
The people at the table next to us stopped talking and stared at us.
I leaned closer to Lily and lowered my voice. “My dad was never in prison.”
Lily whispered back. “So he never robbed a bank, killed the bank manager, and got a life sentence in a federal penitentiary in New Jersey?”
“No!” I said loudly, drawing more stares from our neighbors.
“Hmm. I guess there must be another guy with his name!” Lily beamed at me.
“And you told all this to Clementine?” I asked.
Lily nodded. “Well, she saw it on my computer. She wanted to write a true crime story about it.”
“Why were you searching for my dad on the internet?”
She wrinkled her brow like the question confused her. “Because not all the information was in the newspapers.”
She was right. The information reported was a bit obscured by the police. And I sure wasn’t going to give any interviews — not now, not ever —to set the record straight. I pulled out my phone and searched my dad’s name. Yep, there was a guy with the same name whose story was exactly as Lily described.
