Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3 Page 31

I cleared a table, then set up piles of the swag I’d found in the various boxes and bags—pens with the Stumptown Writers’ Conference logo, small composition books for note-taking in the workshops, individually wrapped assorted hard candies and mints, bookmarks, and the conference brochure listing all the faculty and workshops.

  Green reusable totes with the conference logo imprinted in white were stacked high at the end of a table. Placing my left arm through the handles of as many as would fit, I carried them to the table where I’d set out the swag. I shuffled around the table, one bag at a time, grabbing each item of swag and systematically, methodically, hypnotically dropping it in. In the corner of the room nearest the table, I stockpiled the loaded bags as neatly as possible, handles all pointing in one direction to make it easy to carry them out to the registration desk early Friday morning.

  Shuffling around the table, I was bent at an angle that would make my chiropractor cringe. I could hear him now. “Charlee, you’re over thirty now. Take care of yourself.” But this job needed to be done. Filling ten bags hurt my back. Twenty more made me dizzy. And by fifty, I was ready to quit. This was going to be a long evening.

  Just when I’d talked myself into a visit to the hotel bar, my phone rang.

  “Viv! What’s going on? Any news about Hanna?”

  “No. But the message you left earlier said you were in? You’re going to help find Hanna?”

  Viv sounded exhausted, so instead of telling her about the conversation I’d overheard between Jack and the mystery girl and his denial that he knew Hanna, I simply said, “Yes. Whatever you need me to do.” I’d tell her about Jack when I knew something concrete.

  “Thanks, Charlee. I wish I knew what to do.” She took a deep, shuddery breath and I knew she’d been crying. My heart broke for her.

  Neither of us spoke for a few moments. Then Viv said wearily, “So, tell me about the conference prep. Everything okay?”

  “Um … well, I found all the freebies and I’m putting them in the bags.”

  “By yourself ? That’ll take all night!”

  “Nah, it’s fine.” I rolled my shoulders and neck. “It was late so I sent the volunteers home. They’ll be here bright and early tomorrow to help fix the—” Oops. I hadn’t intended to tell her about the problems we were having.

  “What? Fix the what?”

  “Ah, it’s nothing.”

  “I don’t believe you. Tell me.” The exhaustion in her voice turned to panic.

  “First, you have to promise to stay calm. We have everything under control.”

  “If you don’t tell me right now, I’ll—”

  “Fine. There was this little problem with double-booking of the conference rooms.”

  “Another conference was booked at the same time as ours?”

  “Kind of … it’s a dog agility competition.”

  “A what?”

  “Dog agility. They jump over things and crawl through things—”

  “In a hotel?”

  “It’s a long story. But the hotel is working on it.” I should have checked on their progress earlier. “I’m sure we’ll be able to cross that off our list tomorrow.”

  “Your list? You have a list of problems?”

  “Not problems, exactly …” Oh, who was I kidding? We had problems and I decided to come clean with Viv. She couldn’t help, but maybe she had ideas for me. “Okay, yes. We have problems. The dogs, for one. And the chef was fired.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I don’t know, but his staff seems … capable. And they’re on it. He left his notes about the conference food.”

  “Oh, geez. Is that all?”

  “I wish.” I clamped a hand over my mouth.

  “Tell me.” Viv’s voice was back to sounding exhausted.

  “Computer glitch with the online registration provider. It’s billing people twice when they register. Unless it charges them four grand.” Viv remained silent, taking in all the bad news, I assumed.

  “Viv? You still there?”

  “Charlee, I’ve gotta go. Thanks for taking care of everything.”

  Taking care of everything? She must have had a different definition than I did.

  She’d hung up before I could ask if she had hired the guy in the white shirt and paisley tie. I sent her a text, then pocketed my phone and moved back to the swag table. At least rote activity wouldn’t tax my brain.

  I reached for more tote bags, but a memory stopped me mid-air. When I did a beta read for Viv’s most recent book, she’d told me that she needed my critique in a hurry so she could push the book through production to get the rest of her advance. Something about her screwing up her quarterly taxes and owing the IRS.

  Viv had been quick to end our conversation after I told her about the registration money. I boomeranged to an impossible thought that I tried to tamp down, push away, ignore. But I couldn’t.

  Was the kidnapping just some elaborate ruse to embezzle money from the conference? Was I being used?

  Six

  After Viv’s call, I talked myself back into a visit to the hotel bar. I made my way to the lobby, where I saw a commotion out of the corner of my eye. I expected it to involve one of the dogs and was surprised to see the guy in the white shirt and paisley tie grab Clementine’s arm. I gaped as she shook him off and marched away from him. He followed her and I wondered about their relationship. They certainly didn’t look friendly. I suddenly had the overwhelming sense that he had something to do with the kidnapping or whatever was going on. Which meant that Clementine did too.

  I had a terrible thought that shook me to my core. Maybe he was the kidnapper. And maybe Clementine was in danger.

  I hurried after them, no plan in mind other than finding them, or at least Clementine.

  Racing around the hallway, I poked my head in all the conference rooms. Unsuccessful, all I could think to do was travel the big square of conference rooms again, finally ending at the Clackamas Room. I opened the door again, poked my head in, and saw everything exactly as I had left it.

  Not knowing where else to look, I closed the workroom door and turned in time to see the guy in the white shirt and paisley tie exiting a hidden hallway door. Alone. I hadn’t noticed it before, even though I’d passed it several times. It was covered with the same wallpaper as the wall. The only thing that distinguished it from the wall was a practically invisible recessed handle, and even that was painted to match the wall.

  I froze. What was behind that door? Did it lead to Hanna? Was Clementine now with her?

  I knew I needed a plan, but had no time to think of a good one. So I settled for saying, “Hey. Are you here for the conference? One of the volunteers?” As if seeing it for the first time, I gestured to the hidden door. “Oh, where does that door go?”

  He didn’t respond, just cut his eyes both ways and scurried away like an enormous cockroach. As soon as he was out of sight, I yanked open the hidden door and immediately pulled it shut behind me.

  As my eyes adjusted to the dim light dribbling from a bulb in a wire cage high on the wall, I checked my phone battery. After all the time I’d spent using it today, I was down to 33 percent. I deployed my flashlight app and waved my phone around the short hallway. Surely there was a light switch somewhere.

  Maybe somewhere. But not here.

  My eyes had adjusted a bit, so I shut down my phone to save the battery and tiptoed down the stairs, keeping one hand on the wall for safety. As I got to the bottom, I stopped and listened for any sound that might guide me toward Clementine. I turned to the left, because it seemed as good a choice as any. I made my way through the labyrinth of the hotel basement, stopping every so often to listen for something, anything, to make me feel more confident I might find her.

  Suddenly a beam of light danced behind me. I watched in horror as it grew bigger. Whoever held that flashlight was coming closer.

  I hurried forward, my left hand feeling the way ahead along the wall about waist-high. If there was a doork
nob, I needed to find it, and fast.

  I didn’t even need to glance behind me to see the light from the flashlight bounce around me. I was just beyond its reach, but not for much longer. I broke into a trot. Footsteps thudded behind me.

  My thumb jammed into a doorknob and I cried out in surprise. I clamped my hand over my mouth and stumbled the few steps back to the door. I yanked it open and flung myself inside, closing it quickly and, I hoped, quietly behind me.

  I leaned with my back to the closed door, listening for the footsteps and waiting impatiently for my eyes to adjust to the pitch black. I opened them as wide as I could, willing my pupils to speed into night vision mode. My heavy breathing sounded like a freight train and I took a deep breath and held it, hoping whoever was following me would pass right on by.

  As I held my breath, I heard the footsteps stop outside. Light from a flashlight danced under the door at my feet.

  Seven

  I took a chance and turned on my flashlight app, quickly scanning the small room, taking care to steady my light high on the wall so it wouldn’t bleed under the door. Stacks and stacks of boxes, all with bright white labels marked Kitchen. I clawed at one on the top of the stack nearest me, which was held closed not by tape but by the flaps of the box. I popped it open, only to find it empty. I tore open the box next to it. Also empty.

  I glanced at the base of the door and saw the light growing dim, as if the person had moved down the hallway. They didn’t know I was in here! I scurried across the room and opened another box.

  Aha! This one was full of pots and pans. I dug out a wobbly-handled skillet, shoved my phone in my pocket, and waited behind the door. Relief flooded me as I watched and listened. The light and the footsteps faded to almost nothing. I slowly let out a breath, then sucked it in again as the light grew brighter and bolder under the door.

  I clenched my fists around the handle of the skillet, planted my feet in a wide stance, and choked up on it like it was the bat my dad gave me when he taught me how to play baseball.

  The doorknob turned slowly.

  The door opened inch by agonizing inch.

  I crouched down into my stance and bounced lightly, skillet up next to my ear.

  Bring it.

  Light blinded me and I swung wildly through the air. I swung again immediately and connected on the backswing.

  The flashlight dropped. There was a thud that made my stomach lurch and I saw, illuminated in the eerie glow, a paisley tie rippled on the floor.

  I scrabbled for the flashlight and shined it directly into the man’s face. He raised one arm to cover his eyes. He crossed his chest with his other arm and rubbed the arm he was using to shield his eyes.

  Simultaneously, I was relieved and dismayed that I hadn’t conked him upside the head. Still shining his flashlight into his eyes, I grilled him like he was a Soviet spy. “Why are you here? Where is Clementine? Is she down here somewhere? Where’s Hanna? Are they together?”

  He didn’t respond. Just squinted with his arm across his face. I took a threatening step toward him. “Well?”

  Still no answer.

  I thought I had the upper hand, but maybe I didn’t. My arm holding the skillet began to tire. Both hands began to sweat and shake, part tremor, part fatigue. Keeping the light in his eyes, I sidled around him toward the door, knowing I could make a run for it if I had to.

  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 eighty-seven 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 made me 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 r
ing. “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.”