Thirteen

I called Viv. “We have to talk about Garth.”

“Well, come to the workroom. I’m trying to track down a gluten-free bakery.”

“You’re at the hotel? Again?” But she’d hung up.

I scribbled my room number on the bill as Brad Pitt walked up.

“Can I join you?” he asked.

“I’m just finished. And now I have work to do. No rest for the weary.”

“I thought it was no rest for the wicked.”

“Same thing.” I hurried away but heard him call out for a rain check. “Maybe!” I flapped one hand over my shoulder.

I dodged writers and agility dogs through the lobby, passing the bow-tied hotel manager, who was chastising a woman with a standard poodle on a leash. He didn’t know whether to speak to the dog or the woman, so he switched every other word. “I know it was our mix-up, but we simply can’t conduct our business with this cacophony of barking. I must put my foot down.”

I didn’t hear any barking, but the noise from the writers could be described as a cacophony. I guessed it was easier to keep dogs quiet than writers.

In the hallway near the Columbia Room, I passed the conference registration desk, where volunteers scurried like mad even while attendees waited in line to check in.

“Just give us a little bit longer, folks,” one harried woman called out. “We need to finish getting these bags stuffed.” She waved her hand at half a dozen volunteers violently throwing pens, notepads, brochures, and bookmarks into the swag bags.

I hurried down the hallway to the Clackamas Room, where more volunteers buzzed around, caroming off tables and each other like a bunch of drunken toddlers. I pulled a folding chair close to Viv and plopped into it. She was scrolling on a laptop through a listing of Portland-area bakeries.

“You’re here?” I whispered. “Working on the conference? Not trying to find your daughter? Not cancelling the conference so none of these nice people get murdered? What is wrong with you?”

Viv didn’t look up, didn’t seem surprised at my outburst. “My therapist says it’s my default coping mechanism. I’m sick with worry but not coping well.” She stopped and met my eyes with hers. “I think I’m disassociating a bit.”

“Ya think?”

“I need to do stuff I have control over, Charlee.”

“Like cancelling the conference?”

She returned to the laptop. “I told you I can’t do that. Please don’t bring it up again.”

“Okay, then let’s talk about Garth.” I tried to control the anger in my voice. “He told me he’s been all over the world, but didn’t know how to pronounce Phuket.”

“So?”

“So he obviously has never been there.”

“So?”

“So why would he lie?”

“I told you. Small-time hoodlum.”

“That’s not what hoodlums do. They steal bikes or hit people over the head for their wallet or leave the liquor store without paying for their six-pack of Pabst. Now you tell me the truth. If Garth wasn’t in Thailand or Japan or Venezuela, where was he?”

We had a stare-down, eyes narrowed.

Finally Viv said, “How would I know? You should ask him.”

An involuntary gurgle of frustration escaped from deep in my throat. Next thing I knew, all my questions poured out like a gush of water from a rusty pipe that snapped. “How come you didn’t get food poisoning, Viv? Why aren’t you more worried? Why are you HERE? What are you doing to find Hanna? What’s with you and Garth? What were you and Roz arguing about? Tell me about Hanna’s rehab. Do you need money for another stint at ReTurn a New Leaf ?”

Viv glanced around the room to make sure no one was listening. “How do you know about that?”

“Is she using again?”

She glared at me. “Fine. I’ll tell you.” She swallowed hard, wet her lips, and spoke quietly. “I went out to the rehab place after I dropped you off from the airport, but Hanna isn’t there, or so they said. They’ve lied to me before, though, at Hanna’s request.”

“Do you think she’s using?” I asked again.

Viv slumped in her seat, eyes welling with tears. “I don’t know. She didn’t seem to be the last time I saw her.”

“Would she have gone to a different place for rehab?”

“No way. She liked them there. They really helped her.”

I cocked my head. “If she didn’t seem to be using, why did you think she’d gone back out there?”

Viv didn’t answer, just rubbed her hands like they ached.

I placed a hand on her forearm and asked, quieter, “What does Roz have to do with Hanna’s rehab?”

“What?” Anger flashed across Viv’s face and she straightened up. “I don’t know. Nothing.” She paused, probably trying to make some connection between Roz and the rehab place. Finally she shook her head and pleaded with me. “Please lay off the questions about rehab. People might get the wrong impression.”

This had gone far enough. Maybe if I pushed her, I’d have enough evidence to go to the police. “The wrong impression of what? Hanna? Roz? Rehab?” I raised my voice, then glanced around to see which volunteers were listening. No one paid us any attention, lost in their own tasks.

Again, tears sprang to Viv’s eyes. “Please, Charlee. I know I asked you to help find Hanna, but now I don’t think it’s a good idea. Besides, I told you. I have a plan. Could you just help with the conference? Please?” She used a knuckle to staunch a tear that threatened to spill.

I didn’t know what to do. Clearly, Viv was in over her head with something and didn’t want me to know what. But it was equally clear she needed help. I gave her a feeble nod.

She turned back to the computer, then jotted something onto a small notepad. She tore it off, grabbed her purse, and yelled, probably for show, “Found a gluten-free bakery! I’ll be back later.” Nobody responded, everyone busy with their own crises.

I considered chasing after her, to once again try to talk her into reporting everything to the police, and/or cancelling the conference, and/or asking my unanswered questions again, but I knew it was all pointless. Viv had an agenda and she would not be swayed.

My feeble nod was not a binding agreement. If Viv could have a plan, so could I.

Now I really wanted to know if there was a relationship between Roz and Hanna’s rehab place. I used the computer to look up the phone number for ReTurn a New Leaf, jotting it on the pad Viv had left behind. I called and asked for Hanna Lundquist.

The voice on the other end said, “I’m sorry. I don’t recognize this number. Who are you?”

I hung up, since they clearly used Caller ID to screen incoming calls.

On a hunch, I went to Roz’s office. The light was off and I assumed that meant she hadn’t come to work yet. At least I hoped that’s what it meant. Using her office phone, I called the number for ReTurn a New Leaf. The person who answered didn’t even wait for me to ask to speak to anyone. Simply said, “I’ll put you right through, Roz.” I listened to the voicemail for the Operations Manager at ReTurn a New Leaf, but I didn’t leave a message.

How could this have nothing to do with Hanna?