Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3 Read online

  “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 formal name, reminding her of her faux pas and causing her ears to flatten.

  As she 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 Viv 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 a
nyway, 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!”

  “You 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.”

  “Oh. That sounds … unpleasant,” I said.

  “Not at all. I waited years before someone stepped aside so I could take their job.” Clementine must have seen the confusion on my face because she sighed again. “It’s a coveted position to be in the inner sanctum of volunteers. Perks without works. Food poisoning seems to be our way in.” She indicated Lily and Orville.

  Orville smiled vaguely. I wasn’t sure he knew what was going on, but Lily nodded emphatically. “I’m so proud that Viv called me to help! Aren’t you?” she asked Clementine.

  Clementine maintained her mask of ennui, but I could tell she felt the same as Lily. “Meh. I just wish she were here. Viv makes a lot of people mad, but she solves problems. But I guess it probably sucks to have food poisoning.”

  I was still processing the statement that Viv made lots of people mad, so didn’t think before I said, “Viv doesn’t have food poisoning.” Ugh. Now I’d have to come up with some other reason why Viv wasn’t at the conference. She didn’t want me to mention the kidnapping but she didn’t have food poisoning. Wait. Why didn’t Viv have food poisoning if all of her key volunteers got it?

  Lily rescued me by telling Clementine that Viv was probably busy with all of her other volunteer activities.

  “What else does Viv volunteer for?” I asked, glad for the change of topic.

  Lily ticked them off with her fingers. “Reads to the blind. Teaches Sunday school. Tutors at a middle school. And her nonprofit, of course.”

  Orville had returned to adjusting the Velcro on his shoes. Riiiiiip. Was this his first experience with the magic that was Velcro? Was he bored? Did he need precise angles for his rebellious feet?

  I tried to ignore another irritating riiiip. “Nonprofit?”

  “I don’t know much about it—” Lily began.

  “It’s called Strength in Numbers,” Clementine said. “It teaches people to write fundraising appeals and how to organize letter-writing campaigns.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  “All kinds of groups ask for their help. Neighborhood groups. People who don’t want fracking. Parents fighting with the school board.”

  Orville piped up from his bent-over position. “Basically Little Guys trying to protect themselves from Big Guys.”

  I pulled a small notebook from my bag and jotted “Strength in Numbers” to remind myself to look it up online later. I’d never heard Viv mention it. Circling it with my pen, I noticed the acronym was SIN.

  Relieved I hadn’t had to make up a lie about why Viv was going to be absent from her own conference this weekend, I asked Orville how things were coming with the registration problem.

  “Still broken.” Riiiiip.

  “What did they say about it? Is it a server problem? Software? Hardware? What?”

  He sat up straight. “Didn’t say.”

  “Wait. They didn’t say or you didn’t ask?”

  “Yep.” He motioned to Lily’s closed laptop and she slid it toward him. He opened the lid and slid it back to her. “Where’s that place…?”

  I felt my eyes bug. “You mean the website? The registration website?”

  “I’ve got it right here.” Lily clicked some keys and slid it back to Orville.

  He looked at the screen, turned it so I could see, and then turned it back in front of himself. He hovered a finger over the keyboard and glanced at Lily for confirmation. When she nodded, he pressed a key and peered at the screen.

  Lily grinned up at me. “Orville is a genius with computers. Before he retired he was an expert in Excel!”

  “So I hear.”

  Orville kept his eyes on the laptop but nodded in acknowledgment of his accomplishment.

  He clicked a couple more keys. “People have been emailing and saying they’ve been billed twice. And a few people who’ve registered in the last day or so are telling me they’ve been charged $3,999.”

  “Four thousand dollars?”

  “Glad I got my fees comped,” Clementine said.

  “I am almost positive this conference does not cost four grand,” I said.

  Lily solemnly agreed.

  “Can I see?” I asked Orville.

  He slid the laptop toward me and I saw he was in the backroom administration area of the registration website, not the place where people would go to register for the
conference. That he’d managed to get there was a good sign, I thought. I went to a different page, which showed the number of people who had registered, along with the money deposited directly into the Stumptown Writers’ Conference online bank account.

  I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing. Every time I looked at the number of registrants, it fluctuated wildly, like there was a chimpanzee spinning a number wheel. “This makes no sense,” I said, scrolling through the pages. “There’s gotta be something wrong on their end.” I slid the computer back to Orville. “You have to call their tech support and figure this out. We need to know how many people are going to show up here on Friday and how much money we have. And if people have been overcharged, where is that money? Is it real money in the account or is it fake numbers on the screen?” I started to hyperventilate a bit. “You have to call them.”

  “Can’t,” Clementine said.

  “Why not?”

  She tapped the oversized pocket watch dangling from her belt. “After six. Closed.”

  “Tech support is usually twenty-four hours—”

  “Nope.” Orville squinted at the screen. “Eight a.m. until four p.m. Eastern time. I’ll call tomorrow. Figure it out.” He stretched and gathered his things. Lily and Clementine did the same.

  I wished I had his confidence. That left one day until the conference began. I looked around the room, knowing there was much to be done, but I didn’t feel comfortable asking them to stay and work. Especially when I really had no idea what specifically needed to be accomplished. I’d been to many writers’ conferences before, but I regretted not asking Viv for a list of the important tasks that needed to be done. Seemed like a no-brainer. You know. In retrospect.

  I waved them out the door and let Lily hug me on her way out. When they were gone, I systematically worked my way around the room looking in each box and bag, finally determining that much of it was the swag that belonged in the tote that each attendee received upon checking in for the conference.