Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  I nodded. “I’ll call them first thing tomorrow. Since they’re in New York, I can call really early. But I doubt they’re going to help.”

  “But they might. Or maybe they’ve already heard from him.”

  “Maybe. But don’t get your hopes up.” We walked a little further. “I have to find him. I need that money, despite any vague threat from her.”

  “Just do me a favor and don’t do anything until you talk to your editor.”

  “That’s my plan. But if they can’t or won’t help, I’ll be waiting for Martina McCarthy starting at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ll wait there as long as I have to.” I saw the look on his face. “You can come with me if you want.”

  “I can’t. I have that presentation tomorrow.” Ozzi stopped walking as a cocky grin spread across his face. “But I have an idea.” He led me across the street and zigzagged through the short blocks of the shopping district until we got to a huge toy store.

  “This is your idea? Buying a game?” I gave him a sidelong glance. “Do you think I’ll be bored on my stake out?”

  “No, but I think you might not be safe.” He opened the door for me. “They sell costumes here. Let’s look for disguises. If I can’t be there with you, I’d feel better if I knew you might not be recognized.”

  “I’m going to talk to her, Oz. Pretty sure she’ll recognize me. And don’t you think she’d turn and run if she saw a naughty nurse coming at her?” I didn’t say anything about that mob guy, because I didn’t want to worry Ozzi any more than he already was, but I wouldn’t mind being incognito if he really was skulking around after me and not just a figment of my imagination.

  We got upstairs to the costume department and the first one I saw was the naughty nurse outfit. I held it up. The dress barely covered my lady bits. “Like this?”

  Ozzi leered. “Let’s hold on to that one.”

  “Not.”

  “Aww.”

  “Isn’t the idea to blend in? Not be noticed?”

  “I suppose.” He pulled a melodramatic sad face.

  We shopped for more than two hours, having fun but also collecting some solid disguises—hats, wigs, dowdy housecoat, a baker’s outfit that made me look like Lucy Ricardo at the chocolate factory (or maybe Ethel Mertz; it was pretty dowdy), and my favorite ... a pregnancy suit. Ozzi pulled out his credit card. He laughed and nodded at the rhinestone cat-eye glasses and a huge tangerine-colored drag wig I had donned. Sure, they were more noticeable, but lordy, they were fun to wear.

  In fact, I wore the glasses and drag wig home while Ozzi wore my new Farrah Fawcett wig. I didn’t know if it was the innate politeness and tolerance of the populace of Colorado, but nobody even looked twice at us.

  Maybe this disguise thing really was a good idea.

  Six

  At six on the dot Monday morning, I dialed Stephanie Szabo’s number at the New York offices of Penn & Powell Publishing. I knew she’d be at her desk an hour before everyone else got there. I was miffed she hadn’t responded to my frantic messages over the weekend, but she once told me she could get half a manuscript edited in that hour before her day really began, which was probably what she was trying to do today. Tough luck.

  “Charlee! I was just getting ready to call you, but I didn’t know if you’d be up this early.”

  “Hey, Steph. So you got my messages?”

  “Yes, but just a few minutes ago. I turned my phone off. My sisters and nieces were here for the weekend. I feel just awful!”

  Now I felt awful for thinking she was ignoring me. It’s hard to remember some people have actual lives that didn’t revolve around my drama. “No, it’s fine, but I need to find Lapaglia. Have you heard from him?”

  “No. I called him and left a message but he hasn’t called back. Still never showed up at the hotel. I don’t know what else to do.”

  “What would really help me is if you could reimburse the money all those participants paid for his workshop, and the money I fronted for all the costs.”

  “Me personally?”

  “No. Penn & Powell. It was your idea, after all. You said it would be good for my career. And his.”

  Steph was silent long enough for me to wonder if the call dropped.

  “Are you there?”

  “Charlee, I can’t do that. I don’t have the authority and I know my boss wouldn’t agree to it.”

  “But it was your idea!”

  “I know. And I feel terrible.”

  “Well, that doesn’t help me in the least.” I was trying to keep my anger and frustration in check. I didn’t need to lose another editor.

  “I know! What can I do to help?”

  “Front the money.”

  I heard her take a deep breath and whoosh it out. “Here’s the thing. I didn’t run this workshop event of yours up the chain of command here. Nobody signed off on it because nobody knew.”

  “But didn’t you guys pay for his train ticket and hotel?”

  “No. I told him I’d try to submit it afterward … because I knew they wouldn’t go for it. I figured he’d forget about it because the event would go so well.”

  “Steph!”

  “I know, I know. But I really thought it was a slam-dunk, that nothing could go wrong.”

  A series of squeaky frustration noises escaped from my mouth before I could control myself. “Stuff went wrong. Stuff went very wrong.”

  “I know. And I feel terrible.”

  “So I’ve heard.” I didn’t really have a Plan B for Steph so I wracked my brain. How else could she help? “What you have to do, then, is find Lapaglia, and pronto. Give me his cell number. And do you have his home number in Nebraska?”

  “Um ... Charlee, I can’t give you his number.”

  “Why?”

  “Client confidentiality. I signed a paper.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You SIGNED a PAPER? What about all the papers I signed? You know, the ones that promised to pay a gazillion dollars THAT I DON’T HAVE?”

  “I’m sorry!”

  I took a deep breath to control my temper and my tremor. Luckily these days it only showed up under extreme duress. Like when I’d exhausted all options and my cause seemed lost. “Okay. Can you give me his agent’s info?”

  “Um—”

  “You have GOT to be kidding me!”

  “I can call Lapaglia’s agent and explain the situation. We have a working relationship so maybe I can get through to Lapaglia that way. I doubt his agent would talk to you anyway.”

  She was probably right. “Okay, fine. You keep trying to call Lapaglia and his agent and get my money back. And let me know the minute you find out anything.”

  “You know I will, Charlee. And believe me, I feel just awful.”

  Fat lot of good that does me. “I know, Steph. Just get me my money.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  I hung up, had a good cry, then called my agent.

  Her assistant answered. “Piper O’Shaughnessy’s office.”

  “Hey Tina. Is she in? It’s Charlee Russo.”

  “Oh, Charlee.” Tina’s voice changed in a way that made my stomach lurch. “She’s in the middle of a conference call—”

  “Can you give her a message?”

  “No, she told me to interrupt if you called. Hang on.”

  That did not sound good. But at least I knew she got my messages.

  “Hey, Charlee, I just have a minute.”

  “Thanks for taking my call, Piper.”

  “I just wish I had better news for you.”

  “What—”

  “I can’t do anything to help except maybe lean on Penn & Powell to reimburse you. I’m calling them as soon as this conference call is over.”

  My heart sunk even lower, if that was possible.

  “Don’t bother. I just talked to Stephanie. She won’t help.” I had a brainstorm. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to represent Rodolfo Lapaglia, would you?”

  “No. So
rry.”

  Maybe less of a brainstorm and more of a drizzle. “Do you know who does?”

  “No, but I can try to find out.” I heard fuzzy mumbling, like she’d covered the phone to talk to someone. “Charlee, I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch.”

  She was gone and I was on my own to solve this.

  Looked like I had to talk to Martina McCarthy after all.

  Seven

  We forgot to bring the bags of disguises up from Ozzi’s trunk yesterday so I headed to his apartment to borrow his keys. I got three-quarters of the way there and saw his empty parking space. He must have left early for his big presentation. I toyed with the idea of not using a disguise, but Ozzi would be mad, and truth be told, a disguise probably was a good idea.

  I returned to my apartment and donned the rhinestone cat-eye glasses and tangerine-colored drag wig. I followed the intricate steps the salesclerk gave me to properly attach the wig, since it threatened to fall off so many times yesterday, even when it was wedged between my head and the ceiling in Ozzi’s car.

  After it was properly pinned and secured, I gave a yank on the tendril that hung over the front of my left shoulder. The enormous updo didn’t budge. I placed the rhinestone glasses on my face and studied my new look in the mirror. Striking a pose, I spoke to the vamp in the mirror. “I’m not invisible, but I sure don’t look like I did on Saturday.” Let’s hope nobody paid any attention to me today either, including the mob guy. I had second thoughts about the rhinestone glasses and tossed them in my bag instead. No reason to go over the top.

  I waved goodbye to my reflection and headed for my stakeout of Martina McCarthy.

  I slid into my car, but my hair barely fit. I lowered the seat and scrunched down to drive. I got there before the shops had opened, and scored Hollywood parking, right on the street in front of the mailbox store. I shut off the engine, rolled down my window for some air, and sat in my car, waiting.

  I checked the time. My car heated up fast on this summer morning even with the window open, and I had to pee. Only eight minutes had passed. Ten more minutes until the place even opened. This was going to be a long day.

  A woman shoved a key in the lock on the glass door, twisted it, and went inside. It wasn’t Eeyore Regina, who, I suspect, must be weekend help. If “help” was the right word. An hour and fifteen minutes passed. I lost count of how many people entered Pandora’s Mail Box who weren’t Martina. Where was she? My bladder couldn’t wait much longer. Sweat trickled down my temples. How did people wear wigs? These things were hot.

  I couldn’t take it anymore and went inside to ask if I could use their restroom. The woman behind the counter was weighing boxes and adding shipping labels. She looked up when I neared and blinked twice. “Can I help you?” She was easily four thousand times perkier than Regina. And she definitely noticed my wig.

  “Can I use your restroom?”

  “Sorry. Employees only.”

  “Really? It’s kind of an emergency.”

  “Try the pet store next door.”

  I hurried out the door and into the pet store. I didn’t break stride, but figured it was toward the back. “Restroom?” I wasn’t about to take no for an answer. Situation dire.

  The man cleaning the fish tanks just pointed in the direction I was already heading.

  When I finished, I grabbed a plush toy for Peter O’Drool as my thanks for the use of the facilities. The man never took his eyes off my tangerine updo, but while he rang me up told me his daughter made the rainbow-colored flamingo in my hand. He squeaked it at me as I handed him my credit card. “One of a kind.” I wasn’t sure if he meant me or the toy.

  On my way back to my car, I peeked in Pandora’s Mail Box in case Martina had snuck in while I was otherwise preoccupied. All clear. Just as I finished wrangling my wig into the car, I caught a glimpse of a woman walking away from me halfway down the street. She was poured into the tightest polyester dress I’d ever seen. So tight you could probably read the washing instructions on her undies. I squinted. Was it? I stepped out of my car and strained my neck. I think it was! Martina had come and gone while I was piddling. Damn my lentil-sized bladder.

  Dodging gaping shoppers and tourists, I sprinted down the sidewalk after her, trying to finalize what I wanted to say to her. For a large woman, she sure hustled. Martina had crossed the street, but I missed the light and waited impatiently at the crosswalk. I didn’t take my eyes off her. She was not going to get away from me before I could ask what she knew about Rodolfo Lapaglia and his whereabouts.

  The light changed and I jogged across the street. The wig felt like thirty pounds of concrete slamming my spine with each step. I was more than a block away, but I saw her red dress bobbing in the crowd. She turned a corner. I hurried to catch up.

  When I rounded the corner I saw the neighborhood had changed from shopping to office buildings and there were very few pedestrians. I was only about half a block behind Martina. An impossibly tiny woman with long black hair wearing one of those colorful Indian-looking outfits, kind of a cross between a sari and a pantsuit, walked toward Martina, about half a block from her. The woman looked up, adjusted her glasses, and abruptly pivoted away from Martina. It was plain she was trying to avoid running into Martina, but her short legs were no match for Martina’s long strides.

  Martina caught up with her in no time at all. I could see Martina talking and gesturing, but couldn’t make out any words. I debated whether to get closer to them, but I was intimidated, drag wig notwithstanding. I pulled out my phone and got ready to dial 911 if things turned violent. I crept closer, trying to hear what Martina was saying.

  The tiny woman wasn’t doing any talking, just listening to Martina. I couldn’t see Martina’s face anymore, but even from behind, her body language showed she was angry. Even her red dress seemed angry. Fingers jabbed, legs firmly planted, boobs and belly almost touching the woman. The woman was clearly frightened. She leaned backward at every jab, the exact inverse of Martina’s posture toward her. Behind her glasses, her eyes were wide, and her mouth hung slack.

  But just like that, Martina finished her tirade. She brushed past the woman, walked a short distance, then heaved herself into a pickup truck parked at the curb. The woman and I both watched Martina drive away. Then the woman came toward me, continuing on her journey. I waited for her, intent on asking about Martina when she reached me, but she veered into one of the buildings before she got to where I waited on the sidewalk.

  I debated whether or not to follow her in but ultimately decided I had to know what the altercation was about. Since my plan of confronting Martina had been thwarted, I wanted at least some kind of information for all my trouble this morning.

  Before the first set of automatic doors whooshed open, I saw “Steele Street Library” and their hours posted in vinyl letters on the door. I paused in the irregular polygon-shaped vestibule between the two sets of doors. I stepped to the larger area on the side, probably built to encourage people to take phone calls outside the main part of the library. I used the space to take a moment out of the way to allow my eyes to adjust from the bright sunshine and to think about what I might say to her. I needed to play it cool, try not to alarm her. She already had one scare this morning.

  After the second set of automatic doors whooshed closed behind me, shutting out the glare of the sun, I glanced around but couldn’t find her. I wandered the library, past the new fiction section, the computers for book check out, the DVDs and music CDs, ending at the children’s section in the back, where I found her adjusting a nametag on her top.

  She was even tinier than I thought, not much bigger than the kids pulling books off the shelves and stepping on the alphabetical carpet squares making up an enormous dragon on the floor. Up close I saw she was wearing eyeglasses painted to look like a ladybug, complete with little antennas over the bridge of her nose.

  “Cute glasses,” I said.

  “Thanks.” She cut her eyes at my wig, tilting her head to s
ee the very top.

  It occurred to me that she was so tiny, she probably had to shop in the children’s section at the optometrist.

  She didn’t look at me and continued fiddling with her nametag. I saw that her hands were shaking the teensiest bit.

  I peered at her nametag. “Lakshmi, I couldn’t help but notice that lady yelling at you outside.”

  “Yes. She does that.” She had a quiet, high-pitched voice. Like a cartoon pixie.

  “So, you know her?”

  “I have to get ready for story time.” I watched as she arranged cookies and apple juice boxes on a table near a comfy-looking wooden rocking chair.

  I followed her over, but before I could ask anything else, one of her co-workers intercepted her and said, “Lakshmi, as soon as you’re done with story time, I need you to re-shelve nonfiction.”

  Lakshmi replied so quietly I could barely hear her. “The volunteers are doing that.”

  The woman waved a hand at Lakshmi like she was a pesky mosquito. “I need them for something else,” she said, then turned with a flounce, giving me and my wig a very judgmental once-over.

  “Bosses can be awful,” I said after the woman was out of earshot.

  Lakshmi looked at my feet. “She’s not my boss.”

  A stylish woman in a business suit marched up holding a toddler’s hand. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” She transferred the boy’s hand to Lakshmi’s hand. “Be a dear and watch Edwin until I get back.” The woman addressed Edwin before leaving. “Behave yourself. Tell Miss Lakshmi if you need anything.”

  After she left, Edwin looked up at Lakshmi. “Give cookie. And juice.”

  Lakshmi did.

  Wow. Could anyone be more passive? I felt bad that she might not want to talk to me, but I had to do what I had to do. I came around the back of the table and helped her by removing the remaining juice boxes from a cooler and placing them on the table while she arranged cookies on a plate.