Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  “Are you bribing a postal employee?”

  Defeated by bureaucracy, I wrote Martina’s address on the envelope and dropped it in the letter drop under the withering scrutiny of the manager.

  “Two days?”

  “Give or take,” she said.

  “But you said—”

  “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

  I wanted to say she hadn’t helped me at all. But I didn’t. “No, nothing else. I’m good. Thanks.” I turned toward the door in time to see what I’d been dreading through this entire transaction—the Braid heading this way. I pivoted and wrenched open the door with the Employees Only sign. I’d seen an alley behind this block of buildings so I knew there had to be a back door.

  “You can’t go through there!”

  “Lady, I’m going through this door and out your back door,” I called over my shoulder. “You can watch me do it, if you like, but that’s what I’ll be doing.”

  She followed me through and chased me all the way down the corridor to the back door. I started running down the alley, sandals slapping the pavement, and she took a few steps after me. I heard the door bang shut, then an angry, “Dammit!” I turned and saw her tugging on the handle to get back in.

  I hated to revel in the schadenfreude of the moment, but I kinda did. If she’d only let me shove my note in Martina’s mailbox in the first place, none of this would have happened. She wouldn’t have to walk all the way around the block to get back to work, and I wouldn’t have to hoof it down this disgusting alley. It was probably best that she would be delayed getting back to work. The Braid might even be gone before she did so. I wondered if he was looking for me or if he was there to ask questions about Martina like I had. If so, I hoped he waited in Eeyore Regina’s line and didn’t speak to the manager about me. All he’d have to do is ask, “Seen a lady in a huge orange wig come in here?”

  I hurried toward my car, hoping they weren’t going to have that conversation. Or, frankly, any conversation.

  All I wanted to do was go home, dive under my covers, and stay there for a thousand years. But I knew I couldn’t. Lakshmi was in danger, perhaps because of me. I was certainly in danger and maybe Lapaglia was too. Until I figured out what was going on, I couldn’t be sure. I was almost to my car, but I changed direction and headed to the costume shop.

  I race-walked while trying to unattach my wig from my head. Easier said than done. I didn’t know if it would have been better or worse for the Braid to have yanked it off as I was leaving the library. Maybe then I would have been able to run away immediately. Unless keeping me at the library in our hair-pulling contest kept me safe. Perhaps it was better not to know.

  Even though people on the street didn’t really react to me properly wearing a tangerine drag wig, they did tend to gape at me wearing a tangerine drag wig sliding down the side of my head. I couldn’t quite get all the pins out. Darn that costume guy and his excellent instructions.

  I gave up about half a block from the shop, knowing I would be demanding immediate help from the first employee I saw. The wig bounced just over my ear as I hurried along. I couldn’t even imagine what I looked like. Wait. Yes, I could. I looked like an arrow on one of those neon signs along a country highway, my hair pointing the way to a roadside honky tonk or a diner serving all-you-can-eat biscuits and gravy.

  I had to get to the store before the Braid saw me and before my beehive poked out someone’s eye.

  Nine

  Bursting into the costume shop, I didn’t even wait for my eyes to adjust to the darker interior. Just barreled toward the stairs where I knew the costumes were. I only stopped when I ran into the concave chest of the employee who helped us on Sunday.

  “Hey, hey, hey. What happened here?” He gestured to my collapsing hair.

  “Get me out of this thing. Please.”

  He marched me toward his desk tucked in the far corner and sat me in his swivel chair. He began plucking out pins. It felt like I was being attacked by crows.

  “You didn’t answer me. What happened to you?”

  “I thought it would be easier to get off than it was so I started on it as I was walking.”

  “Why didn’t you wait until you got home?” Pluck, peck, pluck.

  I knew I couldn’t tell him the complete truth, so I told him a different truth. “Because I’m an idiot.”

  He swung my chair around and squatted so he was right in my face. “You are NOT an idiot. Now, quit talking nonsense.”

  I knew he was simply worried about my self-esteem, but it was hard to explain to people that I really didn’t think I was an idiot when I called myself an idiot. It was just shorthand for when I did something stupid. Although, really, was it technically stupid that I was trying to un-disguise myself?

  “You’re absolutely right. I’m not an idiot. But I probably could have thought this through a little bit better.”

  He peck-pluck-pecked me until I was finally freed. I rolled my neck, which felt a thousand pounds lighter.

  “Thanks ... I don’t even know your name and I feel like we’ve just had an intimate moment.”

  He laughed. “Harland.”

  “I’m Charlee. Happy to officially meet my new best friend.” I ran my fingers through my temples until they met in the back and massaged my scalp. Practically orgasmic. I stopped before I embarrassed myself. “But now, Harland, I need another disguise.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Disguise?”

  “Costume,” I corrected, even though we both knew I hadn’t misspoken.

  “What about all those you bought the other day?”

  “They’re locked in my boyfriend’s car and he’s at work—”

  “And you’re running from someone.”

  I didn’t want to confirm the obvious. “Don’t be silly. I’m going to a ... costume party.”

  “On a Monday afternoon.” I must have made a face because he added, “Not that I don’t believe you. But no matter. It’s none of my beeswax.” He walked over to the six-foot-tall rack of costumes and started flipping through them. I liked a stylish carnation pink flight attendant outfit that reminded me of one my Barbie had. It matched her sporty pink convertible.

  “Can I change into it now?”

  “Sure. I’ll ring it up so you can skeedaddle on your way.”

  The top was a little too small and the bottom a little too big, but so was I, so who was I to complain?

  I handed Harland my credit card and kept my fingers crossed behind my back. My hopes sank as he pulled it out of the reader and tried to swipe it. He rubbed it on his shirt and tried to swipe it again. He gave me a weak smile and spoke gently. “Sorry. Declined. Do you have another card?” He handed it back.

  “I have a library card and a loyalty card from the hot dog place on Colfax. Will you take either one of them?” I slid the useless card back in my wallet then dug in my cash pocket. I glanced at the register, then rifled through my bills. “Not enough.” I sighed, then went back to change out of the Barbie outfit.

  When I came out in my t-shirt and jean skirt, I handed him the suit neatly draped on the hanger. He handed me a flowing caftan on a hanger and a puddle of multi-colored fabric I assumed might be some kind of hat. “Try this,” he said.

  I stuck my hand in the puddle of soft fabric and a turban with a huge bow on the front sprung to life. I wondered how many people had been treated for lice either before or after wearing this. “I don’t think I can afford it.”

  “Yes, you can. This was a rental that came back to us in pretty bad shape. I never even put it back on the rack. Try it.” He must have seen the revulsion on my face because he added, “Don’t be a ninny. It’s been washed. Perfectly clean.”

  With only a small shudder that I tried to keep hidden, I tucked my hair up into the turban and threw the roomy caftan on over my clothes. “Ugly, but it might do. How much?”

  “How much you got?”

  I fanned my bills in my hand. “Eight dollars.”


  Harland plucked out the three ones, leaving the five with me.

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s three more bucks than we ever would have gotten for this.” He pointed out stains and tears in the caftan. “And that turban is butt-ugly. I never liked having it in the store.”

  “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Harland. I’ll send everyone here for their costuming needs.”

  “Thanks. Wear it in good health.” He cocked his head. “Be careful out there, Charlee.”

  “I will.” I felt better knowing I still had work to do and the Braid would be looking for a towering head of tangerine hair—if the Braid was looking for me at all. I hoped that wasn’t the case, but I felt more confident in my ugly turban and stained caftan.

  I knew I had to try once more to talk to Cecilia at the print shop. I just hoped she wouldn’t hide from me again.

  As I was walking, Ozzi called. “I just have a quick minute before I need to get back, but I wanted to know how it went with Martina.”

  “I missed her, but found more of his girlfriends.”

  “Plural? Geez, I misjudged this guy.”

  “I’m on my way to talk to one of them right now.”

  “Are you driving?” He had a thing about cellphone use in the car.

  “Nope. Hoofing it. You should know me better than that.”

  “I do. I guess I’m just braindead from this project. I’ll make it up to you later.”

  I made some yummy noises. “Promise?”

  “Absolutely. But now I’ve gotta go.”

  “How’s your thing going?”

  “Jury’s still out. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I reached the print shop and saw Cecilia through the window loading paper into a copier. I took a deep breath and pulled open the door. At the bell, she turned to greet me.

  “Hi! How can I help you today?” She sounded very pleasant and enthusiastic. Clearly, she hadn’t recognized me.

  “You’re Cecilia, right?” She nodded so I continued. “I need to ask you about Rodol—” I remembered Ozzi’s admonition about slander. I dug in my purse and pulled out Lapaglia’s photo. “I need to ask you about this guy.”

  I expected her to bolt, but she didn’t. She sounded a tad less enthusiastic, though.

  “What about him?” She suddenly narrowed her eyes and stared closer at my face. “You were here earlier.”

  I nodded.

  “Okay. So what do you want?”

  This conversation was not going how I expected. At all. My curiosity got the better of me. “Why did you hide from me before?”

  She finished loading the paper and closed the doors of the copier. She glanced around the empty shop, as if she expected someone to have miraculously appeared. She put her fingers to her lips then pointed at Lapaglia’s photo. “We’re having an affair,” she whispered. “I’m married and so is he.”

  That didn’t explain it. “But why—”

  “I don’t know what his wife looks like. He said she had long hair, I don’t know. But I know for a fact she wouldn’t be caught dead in that outfit.” She waved a hand up and down at me. I decided not to take offense.

  “So, earlier you thought I was his”—I waggled the photo—“wife?”

  She nodded. “Scared the sh—scared me a lot. He says she’s the jealous type. Has a temper.”

  “What about Martina and Lakshmi?”

  “Don’t know any Martina.” She raised her eyebrows. “Is Lakshmi involved with him too?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Never mind. I don’t care. I’d prefer it if he had another girlfriend. Lots of them, in fact. It would keep him from getting too attached to me. My husband isn’t the most ... understanding man.” She touched the side of her face but just as quickly lowered her hand when she noticed me staring. “Lakshmi, though. That kind of surprises me.”

  “But you’d be okay with that?” This was a very weird conversation.

  “Absolutely. The more, the merrier. You, me, Lakshmi, this Martina you mentioned, Tiffany. Velvet’s mafia is alive and well.” Cecelia barked out a laugh.

  I tried not to react to her gay slur, thinking the pejorative phrase for the “gay agenda” had been retired long ago. She hadn’t even used the Velvet Mafia idiom correctly.

  Cecelia was still talking. “—an hour or two away from my husband every so often, be with a man who doesn’t smack me around, and he’d”—she gestured at the photo—“get away from his shrew of a wife.” She must have seen judgment on my face. “Everyone deserves to be happy, you know.”

  “Of course they do,” I said, wanting to retort she should include LGBTQ people in the pool of folks deserving of happiness. I held my tongue, though. I was curious about who she meant. None of my business, not really. But maybe. “For the record, I am definitely NOT having an affair with him. I need to find him about some business we had together. And just so I’m clear, you don’t know Martina McCarthy?” She shook her head. “And this Tiffany you mentioned—”

  “So sad. Total computer geek. I introduced Ron and Tiff. She and I were taking a computer class together in the evening to learn how to create ebooks. Formatting and designing book covers and stuff. I didn’t really understand the formatting stuff, but she caught on real fast. I refer customers to her all the time.” Cecilia corrected herself. “Referred. She died recently. Some kind of accident, I heard. Like I said, sad.”

  “Very.” I didn’t want to be the one to tell her that Tiffany was murdered, but what if Lapaglia was somehow involved and Cecilia was in danger? Or maybe Cecilia had more current information and Detective Ming’s investigation showed it was an accident? I made a mental note to call him when I got home. If it was still a murder investigation, I could just tell him I met someone who knew Tiffany and then he could talk to Cecilia himself. And if it was an accident, then maybe I could quit thinking I’d stumbled into yet another murder situation. Win-win for me either way.

  I decided to change the subject and get more information about Lapaglia, since Cecilia was happy to talk to me. “How often do you see him?”

  “I don’t know. Every six weeks or so?”

  “When was the last time?”

  “Maybe a month ago. He brought in some of his work. I like it well enough. Little simplistic. But I’ve only seen a couple of signatures.”

  I didn’t know what his signature had to do with anything, but I’d never heard his thrillers called simplistic. The ones I had read seemed to weave in lots of story threads. But to each his own, I guess. That’s why there were so many books in the world. I felt more than a little nosy, but if she was going to keep answering my questions, I was going to keep asking them. “So if it’s not his work that drew you to him, then what?”

  She got a wistful, dreamy, somewhat sad smile on her face. “He’s interested in me. It’s fun. I feel I can relax around him. He always asks about my job, what I’m working on.”

  “Which is?”

  Cecilia explained a bit about what she does as a graphic designer at a print shop, then her voice took on a hard edge. “My husband doesn’t know or care how good I am at matching my PMS book, or setting up bleeds, or how I just learned to die cut. Nor would he even listen to an explanation, unless I tied him to a chair and held a gun to his head.”

  I tried not to be too judgmental about the violent imagery, but I guess I could understand her attraction to Lapaglia. Contrasted with Cecilia’s husband, he sounded like the perfect man.

  The tinkly bell chimed and a customer entered the shop, requiring Cecilia’s attention.

  “Thanks for the info, Cecilia, but I’ll let you get back to work now.” I started to leave, but turned around. “Hey. Could I get your direct number in case I have more questions?”

  She selected a business card from the plastic holder on the front counter and scribbled a number on the back. “That’s my cell.”

  While I walked to my car, I called Detective Ming
and left a message linking Cecilia to Tiffany. “But, please, don’t tell her you got the info from me, okay?” I didn’t know if he would or not, but decided it would ultimately be fine either way. I mean, I was potentially keeping her safe from a murderer. Whether that was a valid reason for her abusive husband maybe finding out she was having an affair was a bridge to cross another day. “And there’s something else I want to report. This skinny guy with a long gray braid attacked me and maybe followed me around Cherry Creek this morn—” My phone beeped and I looked to see who was calling ... Detective Ming. “Gosh, that was quick,” I said.

  “You were attacked?”

  “Yeah. He grabbed me at a library.”

  “Where?”

  “By my hair.”

  “No, where is this library?”

  “Oh. Steele Street in Cherry Creek.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Was he?”

  “I’d like to think so, but probably not. Maybe his feelings, getting beat up by a girl.”

  “Got a description?”

  “Like I said. Skinny. Wiry. Long gray braid. Hair shaved up the sides. Peacock blue alligator half-boots.”

  “Random or targeted?”

  “Targeted. Definitely. He was talking nonsense about this author I know, Rodolfo Lapaglia and the mob. This braid guy wants me to tell him where he is. And he thinks I’m blackmailing him.”

  “Are you?”

  “What? No.” It seemed like Ming was just humoring me now, not actually taking any kind of report. “Oh! And the Braid was at Union Station on Saturday. You might have seen him yourself.”

  “Hmm.”

  I wondered what that hmm might mean.

  “Any witnesses to the altercation?”

  “No. Wait, a lady saw us right before I kneed him in the ... groin.”

  “Did you get her name?”