Foul Play on Words

by Becky Clark

  When it deposited me in the lobby, I turned toward the restaurant, but a single bark drew my attention. Scout and Scott held court with a handful of people. I recognized some of the writers from yesterday. He was explaining something to them while Scout performed her repertoire of tricks. After each one, he gave her some of the lobby trail mix I’d been snacking on the last few days.

  Jack’s look of disgust as I’d crunched it that day—and every day since—made more sense now. I placed a hand protectively on my belly. I didn’t think anyone had ever died from eating doggie kibble. It was probably healthier for me than most snacks I ate.

  I continued on to get some breakfast but had to step aside for a large crowd emerging from a different elevator. As they passed, I yelped and stumbled, gawking as I watched Brad Pitt trailing behind them. He veered toward Scott and Scout when they greeted him.

  Dropping my armload of T-shirts on a nearby table, I hurried over.

  “Charlee, good morning,” Brad Pitt said.

  “I thought you—”

  “Shh. You’re just in time to see Scout’s new trick.”

  Scott pulled a six-foot-tall rolling luggage rack close to our small group. It matched the one in the alcove of my room upstairs: shiny gold rails curved over the top, a carpeted base, and many convenient hooks.

  Scout quivered with anticipation.

  Scott snapped his fingers and the dog hopped onto the cart. I maneuvered for a better view. Scott waved at Scout and she waved one paw back at him, eliciting laughs from the crowd. Then he said, “Sing, Scout.”

  And she did. A gloriously goofy cross between howling and bugling.

  The watching crowd laughed and cheered, as did people all across the lobby.

  But three hotel employees race-walked over, clearly not as charmed by Scout’s performance as we were. One was the bow-tied manager.

  “Quiet,” one of them scolded.

  “That’s enough,” said another.

  The manager adjusted his bow tie, turned to Scott, and spoke sternly. “While the Pacific Portland Hotel loves all God’s creatures, we cannot tolerate this type of disruption. All my employees have orders to report any noise infraction. We’ve been more than generous to our four-legged guests, but we must draw the line somewhere.” He reached a conciliatory hand to pat Scout on the head, but she ducked him.

  Good for you, Scout. Just because he wears a spiffy bow tie doesn’t make him any less of a meany.

  “You’re absolutely right,” Scott said. “I’m so sorry.” To the crowd he said, “We didn’t mean to disturb anyone. Forgive us.”

  Someone nearby said loudly, “Sing, Scout!”

  And she did. Still loud, still funny.

  I looked around to see who’d pranked the manager and saw Brad Pitt laughing behind his hand.

  Scott attached Scout’s leash to her collar and commanded, “Quiet,” but you could see his attempt at keeping a straight face wasn’t completely working. “On that note”—he paused to let the pun sink in—“we’ll be off to the morning competition. Wish Scout luck today!”

  He led her through the lobby, where everyone wanted to stop and pet her. Most everyone. A couple of handlers stood off to the side with their dogs, conspicuously withholding their love. Jealousy is an ugly creature, whether in man or beast.

  The crowd dispersed, leaving me with Brad Pitt. He offered me the bowl of kibble. “Hungry?”

  “I can’t believe you let me eat that.”

  “You seemed to enjoy it. Who am I to judge?”

  I took the bowl from him and walked across to a nearby table to set it down. It gave me the few moments I needed to decide to re-launch my plan. I had to ask him if he was the B. Pitt who wrote that comment on the Strength in Numbers website, and, if so, in what way did Viveka Lundquist ruin his life.

  “They told me at the desk you checked out,” I said.

  He waggled his eyebrows at me. “You were looking for me?”

  “Yes.” Seeing his grin, I quickly added, “No. Not like that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Sure of what?”

  “I’m sure it’s not like that.” I felt my face burn.

  “Charlee, I’m sorry. I was just teasing.”

  I took a breath. He looked fairly adorable standing there like a scolded puppy. My conviction last night that he was somehow tied to Hanna’s disappearance seemed so ridiculous this morning. My original assessment that he was a completely harmless flirt made much more sense.

  “I’d love to spend the day with you, lovely Charlemagne, but I have things to do.” Brad Pitt performed an exaggerated Shakespearean bow. “Love, peace, and bacon grease.”

  I wrinkled my brow. “Oh, like your brother always says.”

  I stopped myself from asking what his name really was. I wanted desperately to know, but if he said Greg, I might lose my mind. I needed to form a plan before losing my mind. And if I needed a plan, I needed some time. I couldn’t just blurt things. AmyJo would be so proud of me.

  “Hey, you want to have breakfast?” I asked.

  “I just told you I had things to do.” Brad Pitt gave a melodramatic pout. “You never listen to me.”

  “How about lunch?”

  “I won’t be back for a while. I have some business to attend to. Might be done around two. Late lunch?”

  “Sure. I’ll … um … look for you.”

  With a wave, he trotted to the revolving door.

  I stared after him for a long time. He was using a false name, I felt certain. But he’d shown me his driver’s license! I kicked myself for not asking his brother’s name. I could have done it in a conversational manner. Did it matter to him if I knew things? Especially if things were clues? Were they clues? Was the charming guy act simply an act? Sociopaths were charming. Narrators could be unreliable. But Brad Pitt wasn’t acting unreliable.

  Still. That comment on the website. Viv ruined B. Pitt’s life? Lost in thought, I chewed my lip until it hurt. He’d said he had important business to attend to this morning … right when the ransom was due. Was Brad Pitt the kidnapper after all? The enforcer? Some kind of hit man? Why else would he be hanging around the hotel under an assumed name? And if Brad Pitt was an assumed name, perhaps it had nothing to do with the B. Pitt on the website and the whole Greg Pitt annexation situation. Just a coincidence, right?

  My litany of what-ifs had spun me up into such a state, it wasn’t surprising that I jumped like one of the agility dogs when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  Clementine.

  “Do you have those T-shirts?”

  I pointed at the pile on the table, then raced for the door to the pool area. The sky was still overcast and drizzly, so I stuck to the covered portico near the building. I called Viv again to find out if Hanna was back. Still no answer. I fumbled through my caller history until I found the number for the Portland Police. I was glad that the desk sergeant from last night didn’t answer. I asked for Detective Kelly’s direct number, entered it into my contacts, and immediately called him.

  “Detective Kelly here.”

  “Remember when I called the other day about a kidnapping?”

  “Sure. The crime with no proof.”

  “Yes. I guess. But I think I have some now.”

  “Remind me of your name again?”

  “Charlemagne Russo.”

  “Okay, Ms. Russo. Dazzle me.”

  “Brad Pitt isn’t using his real name at the hotel.”

  I heard his long exhale and realized I sounded like a complete nutjob.

  “Wait. Let me start over.”

  “Ms. Russo, I don’t know much about the Hollywood scene, but I do know that celebrities never use their real names at hotels. I
t’s how they keep on the down-low.”

  “Somebody going by the name Brad Pitt is at this hotel, but not using his real name.”

  I heard Detective Kelly sigh again.

  I was just as frustrated. Which made me veer off topic and stamp my foot. “Why do parents name their kids after celebrities?” Way off topic, since Brad Pitt told me he was born before the actor was. Which probably wasn’t true anyway.

  “Maybe their mom was a fan?”

  “This Brad Pitt isn’t a celebrity.”

  “Now, you may not like his work, but that doesn’t make him less of a celebrity. I really enjoyed those Jack Reacher movies.”

  “That was Tom Cruise. But you’re missing the point.”

  “Which is?”

  “Brad Pitt isn’t using his real name at my hotel!”

  After ten seconds of silence, Detective Kelly said, “Ms. Russo. Are you calling to report a crime?”

  “Yes. I guess. Maybe.”

  “Do you have any sort of evidence of a crime?”

  I started to speak but he interrupted.

  “That doesn’t involve Brad Pitt?”

  I went through a mental checklist of all the strange behavior over the last few days. “No.”

  “Then you have a good day now.” Click.

  I stared at my “call ended” screen. Really? Nobody was the least bit curious that there might be a kidnapping happening right under their noses? Wasn’t that their job? It certainly wasn’t mine. In fact, none of this was, and yet….

  A rustling of bushes made me glance over in time to see saRAH and Michael Watanabe walking past the hot tub, away from me. What was going on with them? She had to be two-timing Jack. I considered a second possibility. What if saRAH was dealing drugs with Watanabe and participated in getting Hanna hooked again? If her suspicion that I was working with him was just a cover story, what was she really doing in my room?

  I gasped.

  I raced through the lobby and stabbed the elevator button continuously until the doors opened. Why, when you’re in a hurry, do elevator doors take an eternity to close? When they released me on the eighth floor, I flew down the hall to my room. Housekeeping had cleaned it already, but I tore it apart.

  If saRAH had planted evidence, I was going to find it.

  Searching every inch of the room and my belongings turned up nothing unexpected. Except eighty-nine cents in the couch cushions, a pair of sunglasses in the room safe, and a pizza flyer wedged way behind the extra pillows on a shelf in the closet.

  No drugs, no wads of cash, no fake ransom note in my handwriting. I had to believe there was no evidence planted in my room. Because the alternative was impossible.

  Back downstairs, I made my way toward the Clackamas Room. At least I could check in to see if there were any last conference-related emergencies.

  Volunteers manned the registration desk checking in last-minute Saturday morning attendees. Clementine stood ready to hand them their T-shirts. All seemed calm. Same in the workroom, assuming the locked door meant all was well. Hopefully the volunteers had finished their work and were off attending the workshops.

  I stared at Clementine calmly distributing the T-shirts. If it was true she’d lit up a joint after she and Billy the PI were in the basement, was it possible she was involved in harder drugs? Was she working with Michael Watanabe to deal drugs? Did she get Hanna hooked again? Maybe Clementine had a vendetta of some kind against Viv. Wasn’t it Clementine who’d told me Viv made a lot of people mad? The surly hipster persona would be excellent cover if someone wanted to be inscrutable.

  I thought harder about Clementine’s story about looking into my dad’s history to write some true crime article. Did that even make sense? Was that how writers researched for true crime? I racked my brain to conjure up someone I knew who wrote in that genre but came up empty. I couldn’t think who to ask.

  In the old days, a couple of months ago, I would have asked my agent. But with Melinda dead and her husband taking over the literary agency, my options were nil there too. I’d gotten off on the wrong foot with her husband and didn’t have any confidence in his literary acumen. There was no way he would have developed contacts like that already, and he probably wouldn’t tell me if I asked.

  Clementine saw me staring at her and cocked her head. If it was anyone else, I would have thought it was an unspoken way to ask if I needed something. Instead it looked more like a challenge. Keep staring and I will cut you into tiny pieces to put in my Hello Kitty purse, she was probably thinking.

  I turned away, unnerved. Still hadn’t even made her smile yet. I was fairly certain I could make her cut me, but what would it take to make her smile?

  There was still some time before I had to teach my workshop on dialogue, but I couldn’t get that feeling of a ticking clock out of my head. If there really had been a kidnapping, and if Viv didn’t get the ransom paid in the next couple of hours and the kidnappers weren’t bluffing about killing someone every hour starting at one o’clock, then one of these poor writers was going to get killed.

  And all I could do was teach them how to write compelling dialogue.

  I meandered in the vague direction of the room where my workshop was to be held. Halfway there I stopped short, the pit of my stomach dropping. I hadn’t called any of those people from Viv’s SIN website! Last night, when I’d assumed everything was over and done with, I’d abandoned my entire ransom fundraising plan. And now, the day the ransom was due, I wasn’t even sure Viv had raised it, and was equally uncertain about Hanna’s situation. Viv would have told me by now if they’d been reunited. And she would be here to micromanage what was left of the conference.

  The lobby held one more chance to determine if Brad Pitt was somehow involved in all this. I had a rudimentary plan that began with calmly asking him to tell me more about his brother. Beyond that, it was a bit fuzzier. Even though I’d seen Brad leave earlier, I searched his usual places and didn’t find him. He must not have been lying about having business to attend to. As I stood in the bar area contemplating my next move, I saw Bernice, the front desk clerk on duty, pull down the cuffs of her blue blazer and leave her post. The minute she did, Jack jumped up from his desk and hurried toward the meeting rooms.

  The way he kept glancing over his shoulder made it seem like he’d been waiting for her to disappear.

  He ducked down the hallway.

  I followed him. When I got to the start of the hallway, I peeked around the corner. Dammit. He’d disappeared. I didn’t think he would have had time to get all the way to the hidden door to the basement, but maybe he sprinted. Although with all these people milling about, wouldn’t that seem weird? Especially when it seemed he wanted to keep his activities on the down-low?

  He must have gone to the basement, though, because everything else in these hallways was related to the conference. I edged around the corner, trying to be invisible so nobody would stop me to chat or ask questions about writing or books or the publishing industry. I kept close to the wall farthest from the meeting rooms, watching my feet, letting my hair fall loose across the right side of my face to hide me. Past the Columbia Room. Past Mount Hood.

  “Miss Russo? Charlee?”

  I pretended I didn’t hear the woman’s voice behind me as I neared the door of the Deschutes Room.

  “Miss Russo? Can I ask you a quick question?”

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder at the same time that Jack scurried out of the Clackamas Room and disappeared around the far corner. Now he carried a plastic grocery bag.

  I turned. “I’m so sorry, I can’t talk right now. Come to my dialogue workshop and we can chat for a bit then.”

  The woman fumbled with unfolding her schedule, then grabbed me by the upper arm before I could follow Jack. “Is this it? Here? In the Tualatin Room? I wasn’t going to go to that one. I was planning on attending
Garth’s poetry writing workshop.” She looked accusingly at me. “Your workshop is at the same time as Garth’s.”

  I shook free of her grasp. Jack was getting away and I was being made second fiddle to Garth. As I hurried around the corner past the workroom, I called back to her, “I’ll be around. Find me later.”

  Of course, Jack was nowhere in sight by now. I pretended to tie my shoe until a group of three conference attendees passed, then grabbed the handle of the hidden door. Tentatively opening it, I saw the short hallway was empty and slipped in, closing the door quietly behind me. I waited until my eyes adjusted to the low light while listening for Jack descending the stairs. Why was there no switch for the fluorescent lights?

  I heard nothing but the hum of the behind-the-scenes workings of the hotel. Descending the stairs, I wondered what Jack had taken from the Clackamas Room. Was he a thief? Did he steal one of the volunteer’s purses or something? Was it a bag he’d stashed in there earlier? Were plastic bags even legal in ultra-environmentally conscious Portland? I didn’t think so.

  Everything about Jack’s behavior was suspicious. Add this disappearance to what I’d seen with the duffle bag in the parking lot on Thursday and the way he’d pocketed that man’s room key this morning, and my spidey senses were tingling.

  My knee buckled on the stairs. I wobbled but grabbed the railing before I fell. Was Jack’s plastic bag full of ransom money? That would explain his hurry and the worried look on his face as he left his desk. I knew I was almost to the bottom of the stairs because the hallway darkened. Ahead of me lurked Jack and perhaps the solution to this kidnapping. Perhaps even the kidnapper. I clutched the railing.

  Behind me was safety.

  Before me, a kidnapper.

  Kidnapper. Safety. Kidnapper. Safety.

  Whenever I watched one of those awful women-in-danger TV movies I invariably yelled at the screen, “Don’t be dumb! Why would you go in there? Run! Call for help!” And now here I was, being dumb.

  I pressed my hip against the railing for balance and fished out my phone. I opened up my contact list, but there was nobody I could call. They’d all tell me the same thing: “Get out of there.”