Four

I braced myself with both hands on the reception desk and felt my neck and shoulders tense. “So”—I glanced at the clerk’s name tag—“Bernice. What’s this I hear about the Stumptown Writers’ Conference having to share space with a dog show this weekend?”

I expected the smile to slide right off her face and land somewhere in Guatemala, but it did the exact opposite. Got bigger and faker. She was a true hospitality industry professional.

She gave a dainty, Southern belle flip of her wrist. “That just dills my pickles! That is not what’s going on. Who told you that? Whoever it was has entirely misunderstood the situation.”

“Oh good.” I felt the tension leave my neck. “What exactly is the situation, then?”

“There’s no situation”—this time she flipped both wrists—“at all.”

I cut my eyes at her but continued to grip the marble countertop.

The corners of the huge fake smile twitched.

“Aha! I knew it. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing. Nothing at all. Really. Nothing.”

“Nothing?” I used my mother’s glare on her. It had always worked to make me confess.

She assessed my determination, but when I didn’t flinch, she wrinkled her nose as if smelling a whiff of bad hospitality. Or maybe now her pickles were extremely dilled. She looked both ways before leaning in close to me. “Just the teensiest little something. Hardly anything.”

“Would you please tell me already?” I felt my neck and shoulders tighten up again, this time worse. It’s been my experience that when someone goes to this much trouble to tell you everything is hunky-dory, it’s probably not.

“We double-booked the conference rooms this weekend.”

“So, exactly the situation I asked you about a minute ago.”

“Yes, but you made it sound so … so—”

“Like a situation?”

“Yes. No. Here’s the thing. Whoever booked the dog show input the wrong date. We expected they would be here next year on this weekend. But it was this year. Isn’t that silly?”

“Not the word I’d use. My real question is, what are you doing about it? Am I going to have a doggie beauty pageant in the middle of my workshop about how to write dialogue?”

Bernice’s face lit up. “It’s actually not a regular dog show like what you’re thinking. It’s an agility competition.”

My mouth dropped open. “That’s even worse. Are you telling me we’re going to have dogs jumping through hoops and spinning plates while we’re trying to learn the ten elements of a good plot?”

She flipped that wrist again. “You’re thinking of, like, a Vegas thing or the old Ed Sullivan show. This is different.”

I wanted to grab her by her navy blue blazer and shake out all the information she was withholding from me. I wanted to see it scattered across her marble reception desk so I could piece it together myself. But I didn’t. Instead, I took a deep, cleansing breath like my yoga instructor taught. I held it for a count of five, then released it for a count of five.

“I don’t get to Vegas much. But now I’d really love to hear what you plan to do about this fiasco.”

Again with the wrist and the Hospitality Smile. “Pshaw. It’s not a fiasco! I’m making some calls.” As if to illustrate how she’d go about this Herculean task, she picked up the hotel phone and waved it at me. “We’ll get it all taken care of. You won’t notice a thing. It’s completely under control.”

I released my grip on the smooth marble counter and flexed my hands to get the feeling back. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Completely under control. Completely.”

I didn’t believe her, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. “How ’bout if I check back with you later and you can tell me about those phone calls?”

“That would be super. Super duper!” She used her Hospitality Smile on me, flashing every single one of her teeth.

I was not fooled.

I crossed the lobby and sank into a soft upholstered armchair, trying to decide how much to worry about the agility dogs. The lobby was calm and quiet. A few people nursed drinks across the room, two at the restaurant bar and three at a high-top table in the corner. The young man in the white shirt and paisley tie I’d seen earlier still sat nearby. This time, instead of his phone, he had a newspaper open in front of his face, reminding me of a spy in an old Cold War movie. He kind of creeped me out. Who just sits around a hotel lobby? Besides me, that is.

Jack the concierge crossed the room carrying a plastic bag the size of ten pounds of flour. When he got to the large glass table in the center of the lobby, he stopped and poured some of the contents into small bowls. Perhaps peanuts for the bar. It reminded me I needed to talk to someone about the food for the conference.

I walked over to him. He acknowledged my presence with a smile but concentrated on his task. I glanced at the label on the bag. Canidae Organic Bakery.

“Hey, Ms. Russo. Everything okay?”

“Ask me again later. And please call me Charlee. I’m not that much older than you.”

He finished filling a bowl, then pushed it toward me as he filled another. It was some kind of trail mix, not peanuts, so I scooped up a handful in my palm before plucking out a nice-sized nugget and popping it in my mouth. As I chewed I pointed at the label. “Yum. Latin for hotel snacks?”

Jack frowned slightly and I noticed the miniature scoops near the bowls. This wasn’t my first party foul and certainly wouldn’t be my last. Same with ice tongs. I never remembered to use them. Just dug my hand into the ice bucket to extract what I needed. “Oops. Sorry. Too hungry, I guess.”

He kept working but asked, “Can I help you with anything?”

How nice of him to gloss over my faux pas with the trail mix. “Actually, yes. I need to talk to the catering manager about food for the conference. Can you point me toward her office?”

“I can do better than that. I can point right at her.” He settled the bag of trail mix on the table before pointing at a woman hurrying toward the exit carrying a large box. He called out “Roz!” and motioned her to come over.

She didn’t break stride. “I’m in a hurry, Giacomo. Can it wait?”

Jack and I hurried toward her. As we crossed the lobby, he said, “Roz Zwolinski, this is Charlee Russo. She needs to talk to you about the food for the writers’ conference this weekend.”

As we neared, Roz fumbled with the flaps of her box. She positioned it away from us but didn’t stop walking. Jack reached out to carry the box for her, but she jerked it away. It seemed like a rude, unnecessary reaction to his helpful gesture and I disliked her immediately. From across the lobby she’d looked well put together, but up close I saw that her charcoal power suit was frayed at the cuffs and her gray roots were showing. She was a Suicide Blonde, dyed by her own hand.

“I just need a couple of minutes to make sure everything is okay for the conference. I understand many of the volunteers got food poisoning recently—”

Roz stopped abruptly. “Viv? Did Viv get food poisoning?”

“No, I don’t think so—”

Her phone chirped and she bobbled the box as she checked the screen. Jack again offered to help her but she ignored him. She also ignored the call. She pocketed her phone and finally looked at me as though she saw me as a person, not simply an obstacle keeping her from exiting. “Who are you?”

“This is Charlee Russo, Roz,” Jack patiently explained again. “She needs a couple of minutes for an update of the menu for the conference.”

Roz waved Jack away, but he stayed by my side.

“Everything is fine for the conference. We had the tasting last week with Viv and her volunteers and they signed off on everything.” Roz hastened toward the exit again, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t worry. It’ll all work out. The chef and kitchen staff are good. It’s not their first rodeo.” Then she entered the revolving door and it spit her out on the other side.

I looked at Jack, who shrugged. “She’s pretty busy,” he said.

“Clearly. Can I talk to the chef ?”

Jack pointed past the bar and to the right. “Kitchen’s back there.”

I followed his directions, passing the bar. I saw the same guy who’d been talking about basketball earlier still talking to the bartender. I made my way through the dining room, weaving through the tables, most of them empty at this time of the afternoon.

I pushed open the swinging doors, expecting to find dishes being washed and dinner prepped. Instead, six or eight employees in aprons sat or leaned on the stainless steel countertops. Nobody worked.

“Um … can I talk to the chef ?”

“Nope,” one said.

“He’s not here,” said another.

“He got fired,” said a third.

Roz should have led with that. But it explained her rush. She had to go find a new chef, pronto. But telling me the chef and staff were good and it wasn’t their first rodeo? That was some hard-core lying. She’d never even flinched, although she hadn’t looked me in the eye while she said it.

“Did Roz fire him?”

I heard some indistinct mutterings—“probably” … “wouldn’t doubt it” … “ruthless bitch” … “always gets her way” … “wanted him out.”

Finally, a fresh-faced kid who looked like he belonged in middle school Earth Science rather than a hotel kitchen waved them to be quiet. “Who are you?” he asked me.

“My name is Charlee Russo and I’m helping with the writers’ conference this weekend.”

A voice popped up from the back. “One of the lucky ones who didn’t get food poisoning, eh?”

“Roz probably poisoned them herself,” a different voice said.

I swiveled toward the voice. “What makes you say that?”

The fresh-faced kid stepped toward me after giving the voice behind him a warning glance. “Don’t mind them. We’re all a little upset. Spouting off. Venting. We don’t know anything. Just that Chef was supposed to be here for his shift, but he came an hour late, cleaned out his desk, and left. Didn’t say anything except that he’d been fired. That’s all we know.” He glanced around the room. As a warning for them to be quiet? Not to air their employer’s dirty laundry to the guests? Not to contradict him? I couldn’t tell.

I didn’t know what to think, but my curiosity had been piqued. Why hadn’t Roz mentioned it? What was in that box? Did she get fired also? Was she cleaning out her desk?

I relaxed my clinched fists. None of my business. I needed to focus on my mission. “So what happens about the conference meals? How are you going to feed three hundred people all weekend without a chef ?”

None of them had an answer for me.

I returned to my comfy chair in the lobby. No meals, no volunteers, and a dog show. This was shaping up to be a great conference. My stomach rumbled and I checked my watch. Three o’clock. No wonder I was starving. Or maybe all the snacks were rebelling. At any rate, I should eat real food. I headed toward the bar and slid into a stool away from the other patrons.

The bartender came right over, wiping his hands on a bar towel that he then flipped onto his shoulder. He placed a cardboard coaster with an unfamiliar logo in front of me. “What can I get you?”

“Can I get some healthy food here?”

“Hmm. Define healthy.”

“Not Oreos or trail mix.”

“I can probably find you something.”

“Even without a chef ?”

“Well, that does make it harder. How picky are you?”

“Not very.”

The man I’d seen earlier swiveled toward me from his barstool several seats away. “I had a pretty good frozen pizza earlier.”

“I bet they could fry a burger,” the bartender said.

My stomach told me it was not interested in either of those choices. “Perhaps something more, um, gentle? Think anyone back there can slap together a turkey sandwich with lettuce and tomatoes? On sourdough?”

The bartender nodded. “I’m sure of it. And if not, maybe Jerry can call his mom to come help.”

“I knew it. That kid should be in Earth Science class.”

The bartender laughed. “Right? Apparently he’s actually old enough to drink. I’ve seen his ID. You want mustard and mayo on that sandwich?”

“Just mustard.”

“Anything to drink?”

I toyed with the cardboard coaster. A girl can’t day-drink without a drink. “This Rogue stuff any good? I like ales, porters, stouts. Dark stuff.”

“You’re in luck. Let me get this order in since it might take them a while. Then I’ll get you a Dead Guy Ale.” The bartender walked away.

“You’ll like the Dead Guy. Rogue brews lots of good beers. They’re local. The Double Chocolate Stout is good too.” The man lifted his glass. “This is the Voodoo Doughnut Mango Astronaut Ale.”

“Seriously? That’s a lot to unpack before I’ve had my Dead Guy, but I always try to drink locally, act globally.” I studied the cardboard coaster. “You’re local? I heard you trash talking the Nuggets earlier.”

He stood up and I immediately regretted engaging him in conversation. I wasn’t in the mood to get hit on. Just wanted to eat in peace.

He held out his hand. “Hi. I’m Brad Pitt.”

I laughed out loud. As he moved closer to shake my hand, I saw he was at least twenty years older than me. Good-looking, but still, what a line. “That’s hilarious. Girls fall for that?”

He slid into the stool next to me, placing his half-glass of beer in front of him. “I’ll have you know that I was Brad Pitt before Brad Pitt was Brad Pitt.” He pulled an Oregon driver’s license from his wallet and handed it to me.

“Bradley Calvin Pitt, born June 14, 1963.” I handed it back. “I have no idea how old the real Brad Pitt is.”

“I just told you, I’m the real Brad Pitt. I got him beat by six months.”

The bartender brought me a gorgeous, deep orange colored beer, then turned toward my companion. “Ready for another, Brad?”

“Are you kidding me?” I laughed. “You heard us talking.”

The bartender looked confused, so Brad said, “She doesn’t believe that’s my real name.”

“I saw his ID,” the bartender told me.

“So did I. But I still don’t believe him.” I sipped my beer. A bit sweet. A bit fruity. Very mellow. Just what the doctor ordered.

“And I don’t believe I’ll have another. Still have work to do.” The original Brad Pitt sipped his beer, then set it down and looked at me. “You won’t hurt my feelings if you tell me to shove off. I didn’t mean to insinuate myself into your very late lunch.”

I decided it might be nice to have a little light conversation before I had to return to problem-solving mode. Since Brad’s driver’s license said he lived in Portland, I assumed he was here either for the conference or the dog show, neither of which I wanted to discuss. “Nah. Stay and finish your beer. I could use some company. But just so you know, I don’t want to talk about writing or dogs. And I have a boyfriend.”

“Good to know. I won’t waste my A material on you.”

“You have A material? Did you get it from your namesake?”

“I told you, I’m older than him. And I notice you haven’t told me your name yet.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I held out my hand. “Angelina. Angelina Jolie. Pleased to meet you.”

“Very funny.” He gently brushed my knuckles with his lips.

“Très gallant.”

“I need to step up my game for the beautiful Ms. Jolie. Wait.” He paused and squinted at me. “Hey, you’re not the actress.”

“You found me out.”

“You’re much more beautiful than she is.”

I felt myself turn red. It’s so irritating to blush. “Actually, I’m just a lowly author. My name is really Charlemagne Russo.”

He stared at me. “Charlemagne dares mock Brad’s name?”

“Yep. My friends call me Charlee. But get this, my boyfriend’s name is Ozzi.”

The bartender brought me a perfectly serviceable turkey sandwich on sourdough. They’d even remembered my plea for no mayo. Brad Pitt, the bartender, and I exchanged funny stories about funny names while I ate it. I found both of them charming and pleasant company. Again, just what the doctor ordered.

I finished my sandwich and beer, wiped my mouth, and asked for my check. The bartender told me I could sign it to my room, so I did, being careful not to let Brad Pitt see my room number. Girl can’t be too careful. I handed the leather folder back to the bartender. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Pitt, but I’ve got a date with some conference volunteers.”

“Lucky. I haven’t had a date in longer than I can remember. I have a roommate that cramps my style.”

“Then it’s good you’re spending time at a hotel with a conference going on. Maybe you’ll get lucky.” I slid off the stool and collected my bag.

“Doubt it. I have a roommate here too. Also cramping my style.”

“You didn’t plan very well.”

“I never had a room of my own.” He gave a comical pout. “Until I bought a house. And then almost immediately my loser brother moved in and started cramping my style.”

“With the ladies?”

“With everything. But how about you, Charlee?” He waggled his eyebrows at me. “Got a roommate here?”

“Just my invisible one, Ozzi.”

He laughed. “I’ll see you around.”

“Maybe. Nice to meet you.”

He waggled his fingers at me. “Love, peace, and bacon grease.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. Just a silly thing my brother always says.”

I spread the fingers on my right hand two-and-two, like Mr. Spock. “May the grease be with you, then.”

“Wow. Wrong on so many levels.”

As I made my way back to the workroom, fortified by food, beer, and a little light flirting, I heard Jack’s voice around the corner near the conference rooms. He was talking to a girl. I smiled, thinking they might be indulging in some light flirting of their own. But when I heard them mention Hanna’s name, I skidded to a stop and hugged the wall where they couldn’t see me. Bernice at the reception desk tugged the sleeves of her blazer, then returned to her computer.

The female voice said, “I don’t care about that. Hanna’s not getting her way this time.”

My mind raced. They both knew Viv’s daughter? Was that the same Hanna they were talking about? Did they know she’d been kidnapped? What didn’t the voice care about? And what could the ominous this time mean?

By the time I’d focused myself to listen to more of their conversation, they’d moved on. I peeked around the corner, but they’d disappeared. I knew they hadn’t come back toward the lobby, so I started down the hall. I took a veritable tour of Oregon while poking my head into each room: Columbia, Mount Hood, Deschutes, Clackamas. When I opened the door of the workroom, both Lily and Orville looked up expectantly and smiled at me. Lily started to speak, but I retreated and shut the door before she could engage me in a conversation, probably about more conference fiascoes. My search took precedence. I traced the path I presumed Jack and the girl had taken down the hallway, squaring the corner to the Tualatin, Multnomah, and Willamette rooms. All empty. Where had they gone?

As I resigned myself to return to the workroom without learning anything about the mystery girl or the conversation about Hanna, Jack casually emerged from the Willamette Room. Alone.

I jumped backward as my adrenaline spiked, and he immediately apologized for scaring me.

“I’m just surprised. I thought I saw you over there talking to a girl.” I waved vaguely toward the lobby so he wouldn’t think I’d been spying on him, but I kept my eyes on his face. I was rewarded with a slight narrowing of his eyes. He recovered almost immediately, and I knew that if I hadn’t stared, I would have missed the flicker of whatever that was. Guilt? Wariness? Sneakiness?

He didn’t respond, just moved toward his concierge desk.

I followed him. “I bet you have a lot of friends here at work.”

“Not really. I try to keep my work life and personal life separate.” Jack opened a drawer, then immediately shut it. Lined up the stapler with the phone. It seemed to me he was pretending to be busy.

“Have you worked here long?”

“A few years.” He moved his pen next to his business card holder so that it made a perfect right angle.

He was clearly nervous, and I needed to figure out why. How were he and the girl and Hanna related?

“This conference has been held at this hotel for a long time. Do you know my friend Viv Lundquist, who organizes it?”

Jack looked up but immediately shifted his eyes from mine. “I’ve seen her around, I think.”

“Do you know her daughter, Hanna? You guys are about the same age.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

A guest at the reception desk waved a luggage claim ticket at him. Jack called, “Be right there, sir!” and then turned to me again. “Excuse me. I’ve got work to do.”

I could have sworn I heard him whisper, “Thank God.”

He plastered a big smile on his face and scurried toward the guest. He schmoozed him for a bit, asking about his day while taking his luggage claim check. In a few moments, Jack returned with two suitcases, which he deposited in front of the man. He held out the claim tickets in his hand, next to the tickets attached to the bags. The guest nodded in acknowledgment that he had the correct bags and reached into his wallet. As he handed Jack some bills, he said, “Thank you for your excellent service during my stay, Giacomo.”

Jack pocketed the cash without looking at it. “It’s been my delight, sir.” He picked up the bags and motioned the guest toward the revolving door where a cab awaited.

I watched until the cab drove away, Jack waving from the portico. Why was he lying about knowing Hanna? Before she’d driven away, Viv had told me not to say anything to Jack about Hanna because they were friends. Was it possible Jack had something to do with her kidnapping? I vowed to keep an eye on him.

I turned abruptly and almost crashed into the man in the white shirt and paisley tie from the lobby. Up close, he looked even younger than I’d thought.

“Gosh, excuse me!” I said.

He turned without a word and practically ran in the opposite direction.

I don’t usually have that effect on people, and he kind of gave me the willies. I had a flash of Viv begging me to skulk around and help her figure out what was going on. Maybe she’d asked him to skulk around too. I hurried after the man, intending to find out.

I felt and heard a squelch under my Keds. “Gross!” I lifted my foot and saw a big pile of dog poop with my footprint in the middle of it. The skulker got away from me, disappearing down a hallway.

“I’m so sorry!” A man hurried toward me waving a small plastic spatula. “Jean Louise!” A gorgeous black-and-tan German shepherd calmly walked toward him and he snapped a leash on her. She sat regally next to him, clearly unperturbed by her intestinal faux pas.

The man scooped the poop into an orange plastic bag he’d whipped out of his pocket.

I hadn’t moved. My sneaker hovered at an angle six inches off the floor. Seriously? Dog poop?

“It’s good luck, you know.” The man handed me a canister of disinfectant wipes from the small backpack he wore.

I plucked out four and began to wipe my shoe, hopping to a nearby chair for balance. “It’s good luck to step in dog poo? Says who?” I plopped down into the chair, trying to keep from touching anything gross.

“Me. And everyone else on the planet. Or maybe just those of us involved in dog shows.” The man plucked a couple of wipes for his spatula. “I’m Scott and this miscreant is Scout. Jean Louise when she’s in trouble.” At her name, the dog lifted her face angelically at him.

I looked around for someplace to put the wipes I’d used. Scott offered his hand and I gladly gave them to him.

He spoke to his dog. “Tell the nice lady you’re sorry.”

Scout placed her head under my hand and raised up slightly so it looked as if it was my idea to pet her.

“Jean Louise. That’s funny.” I fell in love immediately, putting hands on either side of the dog’s huge hairy face and forgetting all about my shoe. As I rubbed the fur on her face and neck, Scott untied my sneaker and pulled it off my foot.

He finished cleaning my shoe and the carpet, even pulling out a small carpet cleaner spray can. While he sprayed the area and white foam penetrated the spot, he apologized again. “We were headed out back, but I detoured to get a newspaper. Guess I took too long.”

We both looked down at Scout, who wagged the top inch of her tail, clearly acknowledging her innocence in this situation.

“She’s normally better at keeping her knees crossed, but I think she’s a little nervous.”

“She sure doesn’t look nervous. She’s gorgeous.”

“Thanks. Well, maybe it’s me that’s nervous. We’re competing in our first major agility competition in a couple of days.” He handed back my shoe. “Good as new.”

I crossed my ankle over my opposite knee and secured the sneaker on my foot. I stood and looked at Scott. “So, agility dogs. You guys are the ones they double-booked with our writing conference.”

“Seems so.” Scott held out the handle of Scout’s leash. “Could I ask you to hang on to her for a minute while I go throw all this away and confess our sins to housekeeping?”

“Sure.” I knew the man in the white shirt and paisley tie had disappeared, and Jack had long since left the portico out front so my surveillance of him and the mystery girl would have to wait anyway. Holding the leash, I walked Scout over toward the door to the patio and grass out back. Raining. “Sorry,” I said to her. She leaned her big head against my thigh and we watched the rain until Scott returned.

“Thanks so much.” He took the leash from me and the three of us watched the rain together.

“What’s involved in an agility competition?” I asked.

“It’s basically an obstacle course the dogs run.”

“Do you tell them how to do it?”

“Kind of. We move through the course with them, but they have to do it.”

“How does she know what to do?”

Scott let out a snort. “I’m not sure she does. It’s my job to teach her all the tricks and obstacles, so if there’s any failure, I’m sure it’ll be all mine.”

“Is every course the same?”

“No. The judge sets up the course and we won’t see it until the day of competition. It’ll have all the obstacles, but they’re never put together quite the same way. One competition may have hurdles, weave poles, A-frame, tunnel, dog walk, pause table, teeter-totter, and then end with a tire jump. The next time, an entirely new judge sets it up completely differently. All the same elements are there, but switched up.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“It can be, but so far Scout has really taken to it. She seems to love the mental workout as much as the physical.”

I thought about the double-booking. “And you have these competitions indoors?”

“Not very often. But the lady in charge of this competition is kind of a Nervous Nellie, so she likes to book an indoor arena in case the weather is bad.”

“Hotel conference rooms are considered an indoor arena?”

“Only in a pinch. Usually they use horse arenas, like at a fairground, but apparently those are expensive to rent. And this is a fledgling organization without much money. If they charged the participants fees high enough to cover the rental cost, nobody would come. There’s prize money, but not tall dough until you get to the bigger clubs and more prestigious events.” Scott scritched Scout behind the ears. “But Nervous Nellie has an aunt or someone who got her a deal on this place. Too bad they got the date wrong. I heard a rumor that the hotel called around and found a high school gym for us in case we can’t use a park or someplace outside. But not for the whole time. We still need to practice. At least Scout and I do.”

“Maybe the rain will stop before the competition.”

We watched the rain for a bit longer.

“I guess if it doesn’t let up, we’ll just have to practice in here.” Scott glanced around the lobby.

“Ha! I’d love to see that.” I rubbed the side of Scout’s big head. “A lobby full of German shepherds jumping hurdles.”

“Oh, they’re all different breeds.”

“So Scout might square off against a pug?” I smiled, thinking about my upstairs neighbors’ pug, Peter O’Drool.

“No, but I would pay to see that,” Scott said. “The dogs compete in height groups, measured at the shoulder. Doesn’t matter what breed, but each group is the same basic size. Then, of course, there’s novice, intermediate, and master courses.”

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

As Jean Louise 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 she 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.”