Foul Play on Words

by Becky Clark

  Detective Kelly wouldn’t do anything, especially if he knew it was me. But what if I called 911? I could make an anonymous call and tell them something so they’d come down this stairway. I pushed the three numbers and my phone lit up. A bright red FAILED TO CONNECT filled my screen.

  I checked for service and had none today either. Clearly it was a sign for me to get out of there, and I almost made the move back upstairs. Until I heard voices ahead of me. Was it Jack? Who was he talking to?

  Suddenly I felt a blush creep up from my toes. Jack was down here to meet saRAH. He’d grabbed some munchies from the workroom and hurried away for a quick tryst. He had to sneak because it wasn’t his break time. I pivoted and had my foot on the step when I heard another voice. A man’s voice. Deep. Definitely not saRAH’s. I pivoted again. They kept talking, so I tiptoed down the steps, thinking I’d stop when I got close enough to hear their conversation. Their murmur was low. I couldn’t make out any words.

  The stairs ended and I continued down the dim hallway toward the indistinguishable voices. I followed the maze with an ear toward the murmur. Even though I couldn’t hear what he was saying, I felt certain that one of the voices belonged to Jack. I continued toward it, formulating a lie if he caught me.

  As I passed the storage rooms deep in the bowels of the hotel, the sounds from the voices echoed and bounced above my head. I passed the small room I’d ducked into on my first visit. I glanced inside at the boxes. The skillet I’d thrown at Billy was still on the ground. I picked it up.

  I came to a room with the door closed, while all the other doors were wide open. I stopped and had a quick conversation with my gut. It told me Hanna could be hidden in this room. My head told me to run far and fast, to get back upstairs to civilization.

  Without permission from my brain, my hand slowly reached for the doorknob. Grabbed. Pushed forward. I listened. Nothing. I stuck my head in. Just a bunch of broken banquet tables and stained chairs. But what was behind the stack of tables? I gripped the skillet tighter.

  “Hanna,” I whispered.

  Nothing.

  “Are you in here? I’m a friend of your mom’s.” I stood frozen, straining to hear the smallest movement.

  She wasn’t there. I backed out of the room. Jack and the man were still conversing in low tones. I crept toward them. I came to a T intersection and peeked right. Empty.

  I peeked left in time to see Jack give the bag to someone in an open doorway. He pulled the door shut and it clicked. He turned my way, and his mouth became thinner and straighter than the blade of a knife. In three strides he was in my face. I didn’t even have time to raise the skillet. He stood so close my skin buzzed.

  “Charlee.” He spoke quietly. “What are you doing down here?”

  This time my story bubbled up, unbidden and so speedy I wondered if it was actually true. “I thought I might want to set a scene in my next novel in a place like this. When you brought me down here before, I—”

  “What are you doing with that?” He gestured at the pan in my hand.

  “Um. Nothing. Just found it by one of the rooms.”

  He took it from me. “You shouldn’t be here.” He grabbed my arm and spun me back the way I’d come. “It’s not safe.”

  When I wavered as to which direction to go, he stepped in front of me to lead the way. I had trouble keeping up with him.

  “Why isn’t it safe?”

  He didn’t answer right away and I thought maybe he hadn’t heard me. But then he said, “Homeless people sometimes find their way in here and camp out in the dark corners.” We reached the room with the kitchen storage. He stepped in and placed the skillet on top of one of the boxes, then glanced around the room, studying it like he was taking inventory.

  Suddenly he whirled to face me. I could smell the detergent he used to wash his clothes. “People can be violent if they’re spooked or cornered.”

  It sounded more like a threat than a warning. And the rough way he propelled me through the rest of the maze and up the stairs didn’t seem like concern for my safety. In fact, he shoved me around a corner, where I ran smack-dab into saRAH coming down the stairs.

  Even in the dim light I could tell she was flustered. She didn’t look excited to see her boyfriend, like I would expect. Of course, she probably also didn’t expect her boyfriend to be with me in the dark basement.

  “What are you doing down here?” Jack asked.

  “I was … looking for you.”

  I’d heard many lies in my day, and told my share too, so I felt confident this was hogwash. And I’d had enough.

  “Were you coming down here to meet Watanabe?” I asked. When saRAH didn’t respond, I turned back to Jack. “I think they’ve got a little hanky-panky going on.” Deflecting from any mention of drug dealing seemed prudent in this unnerving passageway.

  “How dare you!” saRAH said.

  Jack pushed ahead of me on the stairs. “What’s she talking about?” he asked saRAH.

  “I don’t know, Jack.”

  “You don’t know? Really?” I elbowed Jack to the side so I could stand on the same step to confront her. “You don’t know why you’ve been huddled with Michael Watanabe down by the pool area?” I sighed. “Just yank that boyfriend Band-aid off. If Jack’s not the right guy for you, then call it quits. Better for both of you.”

  saRAH took Jack’s hand. “Jack, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “Have you been meeting him in secret?” Jack’s voice was low and quiet.

  I was surprised when she immediately admitted she had been. The implication dawned on me. “You ARE dealing drugs with him! Did you get Hanna using again?”

  “What? What’s she saying, saRAH?”

  saRAH glared at me. “Why don’t you shut up?”

  “Why don’t you tell us what’s going on?” I wished I still had the skillet. It was wobbly, but it was something. Plus it had worked with Billy the PI, although he was a bit of a sissy. saRAH was no sissy.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but Michael and I have been trying to find Hanna.”

  Jack started to speak but she cut him off.

  “You and I both know one of us should have heard from her by now. Michael has been checking his contacts and I’ve been checking with everyone I know.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” Jack asked.

  “I didn’t want to worry you.” Even in the bad lighting, I knew she was crying by the way her voice hitched. Jack moved up the stairs to hug her.

  I took the opportunity to flee upstairs, mind whirring. Was saRAH that good of an actress? Was she telling the truth? Jack sure seemed to believe her. Had she been on the way downstairs to meet someone? Watanabe?

  Reversing my steps, I returned to where they still embraced on the stairs. “saRAH, who were you meeting down here?”

  She didn’t lift her face from Jack’s shoulder so her words were muffled. It sounded like she said, “Trombone Bill.” I didn’t pursue it because the look Jack shot me felt like it left a mark.

  I made my way up the stairs and opened the camouflaged door into the hallway near the Clackamas Room.

  “There you are!” Lily squealed when she saw me. “You’re late for your dialogue workshop! Hurry!”

  All through my presentation about dialogue, my mind wandered to Jack and saRAH, to Clementine and Watanabe, to Brad and Greg Pitt. My workshop notes were not only useful but absolutely necessary. During the question-and-answer time at the end, I had to ask them to repeat every single question. My brain refused to focus. Who was that man with Jack in the basement? What was in that bag Jack carried? Was saRAH telling the truth about Watanabe? Who was Trombone Bill? A real person or the kidnapper’s code name?

  By the time the workshop ended, I’d convinced myself that the man Jack met, and who saRAH was on her way to meet, must have
been Brad Pitt.

  As soon as I’d answered last-minute questions from the attendees, I claimed starvation and ditched the hallway for the restaurant, ignoring the fact that the conference lunch was in the opposite direction. Halfway across the lobby, I spied Brad talking to one of the dog handlers and hurried over. I checked the time: 11:35. Brad wasn’t supposed to be back until 2:00.

  “Hi, Charlee,” he said. “Have you met Mr. Sparkles?”

  I looked from the terrier to the handler, not sure which one he meant. But I recognized them as the hotel guests from my hallway this morning.

  “Mr. Sparkles is my dog,” the handler said. “I’m Carl. And Brad here was trying to put a positive spin on the fact that we’re already out of the agility contest.” He nuzzled the terrier in his arms and spoke in baby talk that insulted every baby, every canine, every dog-lover, and most cats. “Poor widdle Sparky-poo snapped at the judge during the walk-through before our competition even began.”

  Brad Pitt turned to me. “I offered to buy them both a drink, but they refused.”

  “Enough liquor to drown my sorrows would cost you a pretty penny, my fine sir.”

  “No worries. I foresee a windfall in my future. Besides, I’d like the company.”

  Brad Pitt was coming into some money? Like a plastic bag full of cash? But if he did have it, where was it? And if he didn’t have the money, then—ohmygosh. He wasn’t Trombone Bill. He was the muscle. The hit man. The one getting his hands dirty.

  But he looked nothing like a hit man. Not that I knew any, except fictional ones. But still. He wasn’t a muscle-bound goon. All that charm would be wasted as a hit man.

  If Brad was the kidnapper, he needed the ransom paid soon or he’d make the call to start having people whacked. If he was the kidnapper’s hit man, the one doing the whacking, he’d have to receive that call. And if I was completely wrong and he was neither, then I had nothing to worry about. I swallowed hard. Was the business he had to attend to—which supposedly would keep him away until 2:00—delivering the ransom Jack had given him in the basement? Was it over? Had the ransom been paid and Hanna freed? I checked my phone. Nothing from Viv. I had to know which scenario was real. I couldn’t wait much longer if the clock was still ticking.

  “I’m afraid I’d be bad company, Brad, and Mr. Sparkles can’t be trusted to hold his liquor.” Carl nuzzled the dog again. “Isn’t that right, Sparky-poo? We came back with the other handlers on lunch break. We might have recovered enough to go back for the rest of the competition later this afternoon.” He booped noses with Mr. Sparkles.

  The dog, clearly embarrassed by the fuss, growled at him. When that didn’t keep Carl out of his face, Mr. Sparkles turned and growled at me. He must have thought as an outsider I’d have special abilities to terminate such outrages.

  I took a half-step closer to Brad Pitt. “I’ll have a drink with you.” Before he could respond, I turned toward Mr. Sparkles and said in a singsong voice, “You shouldn’t growl at me. Don’t you know who I am? I’m the famous mystery writer, Charlemagne Russo.” I figured if this went very, very badly, maybe Carl would remember my name and that he was the last person to see me alive. Just before I went to have a drink with Brad Pitt, kidnapper or hit man.

  “You two enjoy yourselves. Mr. Sparkles and I will be revisiting his obedience training.” Carl lowered the terrier to the floor.

  “We’ll be in the bar if you change your mind,” Brad Pitt called.

  Carl gave a wave and Mr. Sparkles snarled at me as they walked toward the patio area.

  Brad Pitt moved in the direction of the bar, but stopped when he realized I wasn’t with him. He circled back to where I stood. “Coming?” he asked.

  “I have some nice wine in my minibar.”

  Seventeen

  As Brad Pitt and I walked across the lobby, my stomach churned and my tremor became more pronounced. I was equal parts terror and righteousness. I knew in my gut that Brad held the key to Hanna’s disappearance. Unless Jack did. Or Viv. Or Roz. Or Michael Watanabe.

  Brad was the only one I could concentrate on right now. I reminded myself that he was either the kidnapper, the muscle, or just a harmless flirt. Regardless, I had a foolproof plan.

  Beginning with Clementine. Mr. Sparkles’s handler might or might not remember me if all this went sideways, but Clementine would. I saw her leaning against a table sipping from a Hello Kitty thermos. I gestured comically to her to come over to us. She ignored me. I tried again. She puckered up her face and spread her hands, palms up.

  “Come here.”

  Clementine did some loud staring at me. I knew what she was thinking: that if I wanted to talk to her, politeness and protocol dictated I go over there. But I knew if I did, Brad Pitt wouldn’t follow. I needed him to hear our conversation. I gestured again.

  With body language that would make any recalcitrant teen proud, she heaved herself from the table, made a show of recapping the lid to her thermos, and shuffled over to us.

  “Just a sec,” I said to Brad Pitt while we waited for her.

  When she reached us, I said, “Hey, Clementine. I wanted to tell you that since I don’t have anything else on my conference schedule today, I’m going to chill in my room. Upstairs. Maybe do some writing.” I desperately hoped she would pick up on the fact that I had to present another workshop that afternoon and deliver my keynote speech tonight. I clenched my fists to control my tremor and hoped she wouldn’t call me out on my lie. I purposely avoided mentioning Brad Pitt’s name so he wouldn’t get suspicious that I was setting him up or leading him into a trap.

  “That’s why you called me all the way over here,” she stated rather than asked.

  “Yep. Just wanted you to … you know … know.”

  With an eye roll and a tug at her beret, she turned away from us and I was left alone with my plan.

  Brad Pitt had been checking his phone while he waited for me, and now he slid it into the pocket of his khakis and smiled at me. “Ready?”

  As I’d ever be. “Yeppers.” What the hell? Chill, Charlee.

  We got to my room and I ushered him inside. I immediately excused myself to the restroom and splashed cold water on my face. When I returned, he was standing behind the loveseat staring out the sliding door. I glanced at the digital clock on the desk: 11:45. Perfect.

  “Nice view.” He moved toward me. “Nice view in here, too.”

  His voice was like honey and I had to remind myself of my purpose. And my boyfriend. For a million different reasons, Ozzi would hate this plan. Unless it worked.

  I let Brad Pitt grope me long enough to steal his phone and slide it into my back pocket. I couldn’t run the risk he’d call for help or make the call to have someone kill Hanna or a conference attendee, since time was almost up. I had to separate him from his phone and keep him sequestered. There was only one place I could do that.

  “Slow down, cowboy. We’ve got all afternoon.” I disentangled myself and handed him two hand towels from the bathroom. “The sun’s finally out. Go dry off the furniture while I get us some wine.”

  “Whatever you say. I’m all about the slow and easy.”

  “And we don’t really know each other. Let’s talk for a while.”

  He slid open the patio door and stepped out, one towel in each hand.

  I found a demi-bottle of Malbec that looked to hold probably two glasses of wine. I knew I’d be drinking it alone. He glanced at me, grinned, and went back to drying one of the wrought-iron chairs.

  As he maneuvered around the patio, the sun played tricks, shooting silvery rays in unnatural directions that made me dizzy and left a sour taste in my mouth.

  Now or never.

  I placed a plastic cup upside down over the top of the bottle and walked with elaborate nonchalance to the balcony door. As I passed the coffee table in front of the loveseat, I bent my knees to set d
own the wine. Three seconds later I’d closed and locked the balcony door.

  Brad Pitt hadn’t noticed. He kept drying the tabletop. The eighth floor was too high for him to jump, and I knew the furniture was bolted down so he couldn’t cause mischief out there. We’d both be safe until the police arrived and I could show them the Strength in Numbers website comments.

  Sitting on the loveseat with my back to the balcony, I dialed Viv’s number over and over until she picked up.

  “Good grief, Charlee. What?”

  “Is Hanna back yet?”

  “No, what—”

  “Hang on. We’re doing a conference call.” Before she could speak, I put her on hold and dialed Detective Kelly. I clicked them both in. “Detective Kelly, it’s me, Charlee Russo. I have evidence of that kidnapping I was telling you about. Viv Lundquist is on the line with me. Her daughter, Hanna Lundquist, was the one kidnapped. They want a ransom of $339,000 and said if it’s not paid by noon today, they’re going to start killing people at the writers’ conference at the Pacific Portland Hotel.”

  “Is that true, Ms. Lundquist?”

  Viv didn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely not. Charlee is overreacting. She doesn’t have kids—do you have kids, Detective?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you know that twenty-five-year-olds have lives of their own and don’t have to tell us where they go. Charlee is just overprotective and an imaginative novelist. I’m so sorry she’s wasted your time.”

  Detective Kelly was quiet for a moment, then said, “Ms. Russo, you are this close to being charged with false reporting. Watch yourself.” He disconnected.

  Viv stayed on the line, though, to shriek at me. “You’re going to get Hanna killed! I have this under control. The kidnapper said he’d call me, but not when. That’s why I haven’t been answering your calls. Time’s almost up and if he tried to call just now—” Viv released a strangled cry. “I’m going to offer him all the money from the conference fund. It’s not as much as he wanted, but it’s all I can get my hands on. Maybe it’ll be enough if I promise him the rest later. Besides, he can’t expect me to get to the bank on Saturday!”