by Becky Clark
“How was breakfast?” Lily pointed at my empty plate. “I’ve never eaten here before!”
So much energy. So early in the morning. “Hard to screw up scrambled eggs and bacon.”
“I guess!”
“Hey, Lily, speaking of screwing up food … when did everyone get food poisoning?”
“Hmm … pretty sure it was Tuesday.”
“Daytime? Were they here? Like at a meeting?”
“I don’t know. I thought I heard it was in the evening.” She smiled and waved at nearby diners.
I turned to look. “Conference buddies?”
“Nope. But they look like real nice folks.”
She truly was a people-person. I brought her back to the topic at hand. “Why do you think it was in the evening?”
“I don’t necessarily think it was in the evening. I might have been told that, but I don’t really remember. Why?”
“I don’t know. Just wondered.”
“There are lots of meetings in the evening. Most volunteers have day jobs.”
“Do you?”
“Yep. I get to play all day! I’m a buyer for a toy store!”
“Of course you are.” I tilted my head. “So why are you here today? And yesterday? Don’t you have to go to work?”
“I had vacation saved up since I never take it. But I figured I could help out more here. I love to help!”
“I know you do!” Her sweet enthusiasm was disturbingly contagious this morning. Must be the protein. “Well, if I’d ever get my bill, we could get back to it.” I waved again toward the servers.
“Oh! I almost forgot why I came over here! I didn’t really want to disturb your breakfast, but we got a phone call.”
“We?”
“Well, the conference. There was a note taped on the workroom door this morning.”
“A note? Who would have left a note?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the front desk?”
“Was this note on hotel stationary?”
Lily fished it out of her pocket and inspected it. “It was! No wonder you write mysteries! You’re so good at finding clues!” She handed it to me.
It read simply travel agent, with a local phone number underneath.
I handed it back. “And?”
“And I called them!”
“And?”
“And they’re the conference travel agents!”
“And?”
“And there’s a big spring storm due to hit the East Coast tonight with, like, three feet of snow expected, and what did we want to authorize them to do?”
“About what?”
“The travel arrangements.”
“For who?”
“All the agents and editors who are supposed to fly in.”
“Are you trying to tell me that all of the agents and editors are stuck in a snow storm?”
Lily giggled. “No, silly goose. One is from San Diego! No snow there!”
“So how many from the East Coast?”
“Only, like, four or five.”
“Out of how many?” I’d seen the faculty list but couldn’t remember how many of the names belonged to agents and editors.
“Like, six.”
My words stuck in my throat. “Do you mean all but one of the editors and agents will be stuck in the snowstorm and won’t be able to get here tomorrow, and everyone who signed up for a critique or a pitch appointment will be disappointed?”
Lily blinked three times. “Not everyone. Some people signed up with the one from San Diego.”
“So. Just ninety percent of the people.”
“But ten percent will still be happy!”
Ah, Lily. So optimistic. So wrong. “What about the authors on the faculty?” I asked. “Are any of them stuck?”
“Two! Isn’t that great?”
“Great? Why?”
“Because it’s only two! And you’re so smart, you can teach their workshops!”
“What are their workshops?”
Lily consulted the conference schedule. “One is ‘Science Fiction Tropes’ and the other is ‘Compose Like a Renaissance Poet.’ ”
“Oh, good. At least those are my areas of expertise.”
“Really?”
“No!” I took a breath. “Can you please call the travel agent and tell them to get our faculty here? Make whatever arrangements have to be made. Tell them to shovel the runway if they have to. And if the editors and agents can be persuaded to leave New York before the storm hits, check with the front desk and make sure they have rooms.”
“And if they don’t have any rooms available, they can stay with me!” Lily took the travel agent’s phone number from me and stood, no doubt already planning the slumber party she was going to have with the East Coast faculty.
“And for heaven’s sake, find a Renaissance poet!”
As she turned to leave the restaurant, Lily almost ran down Orville, who had come up behind her. She gave him a hug and sat back down. “You don’t look good, Orville. Do you need some breakfast?”
“The wife made me oatmeal. Like always.” Orville pulled out the chair across from me. Before sitting he asked, “May I?”
“Sure, but I’m leaving as soon as they bring the check.” I waved at my server and at least got a head bob when I mimed signing my bill.
Orville sat down, moved the ketchup and hot sauce away from him, and leaned toward me, hands gripping the edge of the table.
“Are you okay, Orville?” I asked.
“Actually, I’m not having any luck with the registration website.”
“Did you call them?”
“Just now.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t understand a word they said.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. It was scribbled with notes. “Some nonsense about browsers and if I’ve plugged in and if my Earl was optimized.”
“Earl?”
He checked his notes and pointed. URL. He offered me the paper but when I shook my head, he crumpled it into a ball and flung it to the table. “And then they asked if I had any cookies. Like I’d offer them snacks after all that.”
I stared at him for a bit. “Orville, honey.” I patted his hand and spoke softly. “You don’t know anything about computers, do you? You’re not really what anyone would call a techie, are you?”
He sighed and straightened up in his seat. “I thought I did. I did spreadsheets all the time back before I retired. And I can do the Facebook.”
“You’re on Facebook?”
“More than a dozen friends.” His chest puffed up.
Lily pushed buttons on her phone. “I’m friending you right now!”
“I guess we can’t do much about the online registration this close to the start of the conference,” I said. “The people who already registered will show up and the people who had issues will probably email through the Stumptown Writers website—”
“Or they’ll contact the registration place themselves.” Orville smiled. “Then I’ll be off the hook.”
“Or they’ll show up furious and ready to kill us.” I turned to Lily. “Is there some sort of website or message group or some way that all the Stumptown writers share information?”
“There’s a Facebook page and an email group.”
“Can you post a note in both places? Say something like we’re having registration problems, but regardless, come on down to the conference and we’ll get it straightened out.”
“Sure!”
“And maybe contact the website administrator for Stumptown Writers and get them to post something right on the front page of the website?”
“Absolutely!”
“Good. That way, anyone who is having trouble with late registration won’t have to miss the c
onference because of it.” I tipped my head back and briefly closed my eyes. Nice to have a victory—albeit a tiny one—and cross that problem off my list.
Before I could bask in the glow of dubious accomplishment, Clementine strolled into the restaurant looking in the opposite direction from where we sat, trailed by Billy. She was decked out in her hipster costume, today consisting of black leggings, lacy elastic top, chunky jewelry, crocheted beret, and Hello Kitty rain boots. She carried a very full canvas shopping bag from Fred Meyer and walked straight toward us without making eye contact. She only acknowledged our presence with a barely perceptible nod when Lily jumped up to hug her.
Without thinking, I stepped up to hug her, too. She made a sour face and stepped back.
“Where have you been?” I asked her. “I was worried.”
“Why?”
“I heard you … took that secret door down into the basement.” I was suddenly treading dangerously embarrassing waters. Busybody narc or concerned elder stateswoman?
“So?” She narrowed her slightly red eyes and adjusted her rhinestone-studded eyeglasses with no lenses. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I fired up a blunt there last night because I think my ferrets are allergic. Trying to keep my apartment a doobie-free zone. And then when I walked in this morning, this hired dick is waiting for me at the door and says I have to talk to you.”
I turned to Billy. “You just waited for her to come back? I could have done that.”
“Your mom told me not to leave you.”
I shook my head and turned to Clementine again. “My father is not in prison for killing some guy. You got faulty information.” I cut my eyes at Lily. She must not have caught my sarcasm because she simply smiled at me.
“Bummer.” Clementine rearranged her glasses on the bridge of her nose.
“Wait. How did you know this guy was a PI in the first place?”
“He looks exactly like that guy on Mindhunter.”
I had to think a minute before placing the show she referenced. “That guy was an FBI profiler.”
She flicked her hand dismissively. “Whatever.” She turned and held the shopping bag out toward Lily and Orville, who gathered around her to get a better look.
“Dude.” I pulled Billy a few steps from the table. “You need a better look. Especially since you’re working for me now.”
“Doing what?”
“Finding a kidnapper,” I whispered.
“No way. That sounds dangerous.” He pulled his phone from his pants pocket and pushed some buttons. “Mrs. Russo? I’m off the case. This was way out of my purview. I see that now … Yes, she’s fine … No, I won’t be back until Christmas … Yes, I absolutely will … That’s very generous of you. Thank you, Mrs. Russo. Goodbye.”
“You absolutely will what?” I asked.
“Go see her next time I visit my parents in Santa Fe.”
“So that’s it? You’re done? Just like that?” I sputtered in his ear. “You’re not going to keep an eye on me or help me find a kidnapper?”
Billy shook his head and rubbed his ear. “You should really call the police. That sounds pretty serious.” He turned and walked away.
Call the police. Gee, why hadn’t I thought of that?
Clementine stepped out of his way, then sat in the closest chair, arranging the overstuffed bag at her feet. Lily and Orville sat on either side of her. “So,” she said, picking up the hot sauce. She uncapped it and poured a few drops on her index finger. I thought she was going to taste it. Instead, she wiped it on a napkin. We watched as she did the same thing with the ketchup. When she noticed us staring, she said, “What? I wanted to compare the colors.”
“Okay ….” I said, desperate now for my breakfast bill.
Clementine stared at the finger she’d poured the condiments on, clean now. Without looking up, she said, “The books for the on-site bookstore haven’t all come in yet. People are mad.”
“What people?” I plopped wearily into my seat.
“People. You know. The authors, the bookseller. People.”
My mind raced. “Is there anything we can do?”
“Nope.”
I was oddly relieved, mentally crossing off a problem I didn’t even know I had. If only they were all like that. “Okay, then.” I stood to leave. Maybe if they thought I was going to dine-and-dash they’d finally allow me to pay.
Clementine pulled something from her Fred Meyer bag and I sat back down.
“What now?” I asked.
“I just found these in the Clackamas Room.” She held up a T-shirt in one hand and a patch with the Stumptown Writers’ Conference logo and tagline—Don’t be stumped by writing—in the other.
I recognized them from my exploration of the workroom last night. “Oh. Were they supposed to go in the swag bags?”
“Yes,” Clementine said.
“I’m sorry. I thought maybe they had to be bought separately. Luckily I didn’t get too far with filling the bags last night. We can all get that done today, though.” Finally a problem I could solve.
“They need to be ironed first.”
“What needs to be ironed?”
“They’re iron-on patches,” Lily explained.
“So?”
“Ironers got food poisoning,” Clementine said. “So these still need to be ironed onto the T-shirts.”
“No they don’t. Just plop ’em in each goodie bag. People can iron their own when they get home.”
“That’s not how we do it,” Clementine said. “That’s not how we’ve ever done it.”
“They won’t feel our love if they have to iron them on themselves!” Lily’s hands fluttered in the air like they wanted to leave her wrists.
“Get someone else, then. We have enough to worry about.”
“There’s nobody else.” Clementine picked up the bag, scooped out all the shirts and patches, and held them out to me. “These are yours.” Addressing Lily and Orville, she said, “Yours are still in the workroom.”
Lily nodded in the excited way she did. Like she was a Golden Retriever offered a tennis ball.
I shook my head. “I’m not good at ironing. I always make everything more wrinkled than when I started. I don’t even own an iron. When my clothes get wrinkled I throw them out.”
Lily laughed because she didn’t realize I wasn’t joking.
Orville buzzed his lips. “Send them to the dry cleaners. That’s what my wife does.”
“Will your wife pay for them?” I asked.
“No. We’re ironing,” Clementine said. “That’s that. We’re all helping out.”
“Can I have the bag?”
“No.”
I took the load of shirts and patches from her. Great. Someone was finally taking charge of something and this is what they chose. Extra work for everyone.
As we scooted away from the table and prepared to start our day of toil in the Clackamas Room, the middle-school-looking cook hurried over with a large tray.
“Wait, wait. You’re the conference people, right?”
“Yes. Like pod people but with better grammar.” I dropped the T-shirts on the chair next to me.
“You came into the kitchen yesterday, right? I’ve been working on the food for the conference, using Chef’s notes. He didn’t have recipes, but I think I figured it out.” The boy beamed and I wanted to pinch his widdle cheeks. “I’m Jerry, by the way.
“You’re the sous chef ?” By elevating his possible job in the kitchen, I hoped to avoid being rude.
“What’s a sous chef ?” Lily asked.
“Second-in-command in the kitchen,” Jerry said. “And, no. I’m part-time breakfast prep.” He must have seen my face change because he quickly added, “But I’ve stepped up when nobody else wanted to.”
He had me there. Clement
ine arched her eyebrows the teensiest bit at me. I was properly chagrined.
“What’s all that?” Orville eyed the tray brimming with plates and bowls.
Jerry’s grin split his face. “Your conference menu.” He set the tray on the table next to us and motioned us to sit back down. With a flourish he set each plate and bowl of food down while naming it. “Grilled Fennel and Lemon Tacos. Simmered Soy Lasagna. Baked Fennel and Orange Pie. Blanched Egg and Coconut Home Fries. Steamed Fennel, Cloves, and Mushrooms. Avocado Crumble.”
“Extra shipment of fennel this week?” I asked as he handed each of us silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin.
“This is gonna be great!” Lily said.
“Not what the wife cooks,” Orville said.
When everything was ready, Jerry swept his hand over the feast, took one step backward, and clasped his hands behind his lower back, awaiting our verdict.
We placed small dibs and dabs of everything on our plates and began sampling.
After a couple of bites Orville pushed his plate away. “The wife would kill me if she knew I was eating between meals.”
Clementine turned her fork over on her plate, then wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Gotta go.” She strode from the restaurant without a backward glance.
“You really tried hard!” Lily said. “Did you have any, um, help with this?”
“Not a bit.” Jerry beamed, still at attention, hands behind his back.
I took miniscule tastes from several plates, trying to formulate what I wanted to say. Couldn’t very well blurt out “Yuck!” Thanks to my cohorts taking the easy way out, the final decision was left to me. I eyed the samples and did some calculations. We needed lunch on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday and dinner Friday and Saturday. Breakfast was already scheduled to be continental—yogurt, pastries, and fruit.
“Jerry, this is all really … great. You went to a lot of trouble, but since we’re kind of in a time-and-effort crunch here, could we simplify this?”
“Of course. Which dish?”
