by Becky Clark
My head spun. I remembered something the Braid said when we were pulling hair. Something about how I should know where Lapaglia was because I probably wrote those books with him. But now Annamaria was saying she did most of the work on the books? What did she mean, anyway ... transcribing? Editing? Is she actually the author of these books? Lots of time women feel they must disguise their names under the notion, often too true, that men won’t read thrillers written by a woman. Did she agree to have her husband’s name on the books? Does the Braid know this? Maybe not, if he’s after Lapaglia.
“Wait, Annamaria, one more question. Do you know an older man, kinda short and wiry, with a long gray ponytail?”
“Listen. If he’s going to come after my money like you are, just tell him to stay away. Don’t call here again.”
She hung up and I realized she never answered my question. Did she or did she not know the Braid?
I sat at my kitchen table tapping one fingernail, trying to make sense out of everything Annamaria told me. Her concern for her husband didn’t quite ring true. If someone told me Ozzi hadn’t shown up like that, I’d be beside myself with worry. Maybe the rumors about her having a boyfriend were true.
I logged into Rodolfo Lapaglia’s Wikipedia page and saw the ‘unconfirmed rumors’ section Ozzi had mentioned detailing Annamaria’s alleged affair with Thomas Percy. I clicked on his name and the embedded link took me to his Facebook profile. He listed his employment as Trainee Conductor with National Railroad. He worked for the railroad? Did the two of them kill Lapaglia to get him out of the picture? Would Annamaria have spoken with me at all if she had recently killed her husband? Maybe Thomas Percy took matters into his own hands. Was he on the train with Lapaglia on Saturday?
I looked up the National Railroad website and found the number for customer service. I asked for the human resources department and was put right through.
“This is Mavis. How may I help you?”
Mavis sounded like she hadn’t had enough coffee yet, so I was extra perky on her behalf, hoping it might rub off on her. “Good morning, Mavis. I’m trying to find one of your employees—”
“What’s his extension? I’ll put you through. Next time just dial it direct.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you. I don’t know—”
“If you don’t know his number, how am I supposed to connect you?”
After interacting with Eeyore Regina and Mavis, maybe we should be planning a funeral for customer service. It might really be irrevocably dead. “I don’t know where exactly he works, but his name is Thomas Percy. I need to know if he was working on Saturday, on the train coming from Nebraska into Denver.”
“What’s his name?”
“Thomas Percy.”
“Last name?”
“I'm confused.”
“Then what do you think I can do? Do you know how many people work for National Railroad?”
“A lot? And I’m trying to find out if one of them was working on Saturday.” I tried to rein in my irritation but wasn’t succeeding. Mavis was stealing my perkiness. I felt it ebbing away, like I was a pen losing its ink, each letter getting fainter and fainter until it becomes simply an indentation on the paper.
“Why?” she asked suspiciously.
This was going nowhere. Time for a little creativity. “Because ... because my elderly mother had a little accident on the train coming into Denver Saturday morn—”
“What’s the accident report number?”
“I don’t think one was taken.”
“Why not? What happened? If you’re calling for a settlement, you’ll need to speak to our attorneys AND have the accident report number.”
“No, nothing like that. There was no injury, but this Thomas Percy was very helpful and I wanted to show our gratitude, maybe mention the incident to the newspaper, perhaps a reward of some—”
“In that case, let me take a look. I remember hearing about that. I was the one called the doctor for your momma. Is she okay, by the way?”
“Yes, my mother is fine.” Not technically a lie. Unlike what Mavis said.
“That’s so good to hear. Can I put you on hold for the teensiest bit, hon?”
Either Mavis’ coffee kicked in or the idea of a citation and possible reward greased her wheels just enough so that some human decency could ooze out. I felt a renewed injection of ink in my pen.
“Okay, I’m back. You still with me, hon?”
“Yes. Still here.”
“I found one Thomas working that route between Omaha and Denver on Saturday. Last name is Percy.”
Like I said earlier.
“You can mention my name too. It’s Mavis, M-A-V—”
I hung up on her. “Sorry Mavis. You were snotty to me. No fake reward for you.” It irked me that she’d try to take credit for something she wasn’t even involved in, especially a completely fabricated story.
She did confirm, though, that Thomas Percy was on that train with Rodolfo Lapaglia. But was Thomas Percy really the secret paramour to Annamaria Lapaglia? And if so, did he have anything to do with Lapaglia’s disappearance? Was I just being paranoid?
Occam’s razor says that the simplest explanation is usually the right one. The more assumptions you had to make, the more unlikely the explanation. And with Thomas Percy, there were a lot of assumptions and explanations to make.
What if Lapaglia disappeared himself? That was a much simpler explanation. He’d stated on record in more than one interview that it’s really hard to be him, to go out in public, always whining that he was too famous. Barf. But maybe he got tired of it all, decided to use me and our event to chuck it all for a new life in Denver with his girlfriend. Or girlfriends, plural.
Which led me right back to Martina McCarthy. I checked the time. Still early enough to get down to the mailbox place before it opened. Maybe today I’d be luckier.
I pawed through the bags of costumes Ozzi brought up from his car. “Aha!” I remembered being denied toilet access on my stake out yesterday and pulled out the silicone and foam 9-month pregnancy bodysuit. “Nobody would deny a pregnant lady a bathroom.” And I couldn’t bear the thought of having to buy another squeaky dog toy at the pet store as thanks for the use of the facilities.
I also remembered what happened with the Braid yesterday and called AmyJo. “Are you working today?”
“Not until three. Why?”
“Want to help me do something?”
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
While I waited for AmyJo, I wiggled into the suit, which was surprisingly comfy, and pulled on a blond bob wig. I learned my lesson from the drag wig and didn’t pin this one on, just tucked my hair up into it. I gave it a final tug, arranging it convincingly enough. If the Braid accosted me again, I would be more than happy to have it come off in his hand while I ran away, much like a gecko escaping a snake.
I pulled the caftan over my head and tried to smooth it over my new belly. No can-do. It wasn’t quite big enough, which seemed unnecessarily discriminatory to pregnant ladies. Even fake ones. I struggled out of it and stood before my open closet door, assessing my options. I flung each hanger to the side until I was in the no-man’s-land of dusty clothes I hadn’t seen in ages.
“Score!” I brushed the dust off the shoulders of a tea length rose-colored sateen bridesmaid dress with an empire waist, flaring the skirt right under the bust. I threw it on over my body suit and looked in the mirror. It was not the effect Constance Duggan was going for when she picked it out for us to wear in her wedding, but it would do perfectly today. It was a little snug across the middle, and the fabric didn’t flow like it had the last time I wore it. I swayed and gave a little twirl. Hm. The fabric was less flow and more thunk today. I added a pair of canvas sneakers without socks and I was ready to go.
I thought about calling the phone number on Martina’s business card before going all the way over there, but what would I say? Better to surprise her. Get the drop on her. Meet h
er face-to-face. Or belly-to-belly, as the case may be. She’s got to be hiding Lapaglia. Why else would she have been at the train station to meet him? People don’t just up and disappear. They up and move in with their girlfriends.
The sooner I found him and delivered him to the Braid, the sooner I’d get Peter back. I’d happily give up my quest for reimbursement if only I could get Peter back to Barb and Don.
When AmyJo arrived she gaped at my enormous pregnant belly. “Does your mom know about this? And Ozzi? Wait. It is Ozzi’s, right?”
“Very funny.” I handed her the dowdy housecoat and Farrah Fawcett wig.
Her eyes lit up and she bounced up and down. “Are we going on another stakeout?”
The excitement in her voice made me laugh out loud.
“That’s why I like you, Ames. Always up for adventure.”
“Who is it this time? Is somebody breaking into Espresso Yourself again? Do Lavar and Tuttle know?” Her eyes widened. “Did they hire us?”
“Nope. I’m trying to talk to that lady who dropped the business card holder and threatened me at the train station. We’re going to surprise her when she picks up her mail.”
AmyJo shrugged off her disappointment.
It was later than I expected and I had to park two blocks from the mailbox store. AmyJo detoured into a deli for fortifications while I hurried around the corner. When I got there I saw the sidewalk was closed due to construction. The detour took me through an area where scaffolding and plywood rose up around the sidewalk. I emerged from that a few steps before reaching an alley. I was three-quarters of the way across when I heard an oily voice in my ear.
“Do not make a sound or the pooch gets it.” The Braid grabbed my upper arm from the back and steered me down the alley, away from the oblivious crowd on the street. Away from AmyJo. He stopped near a chain link fence.
“Look! It’s Lapaglia!” I shouted. When he turned to look at my fake-out, I shinnied up the fence.
When it was clear there was no Lapaglia, he turned back and saw me struggling on the fence, fingers and sneakers scrambling for purchase halfway up.
I squealed and almost fell when I saw he had Peter O’Drool tucked under one arm. With his other arm, he grabbed at my midsection, which was now higher than his head. All he could do was grab a handful of rose-colored sateen, along with my silicone and foam belly. I held on like a Cirque de Soleil trapeze artist. He couldn’t pull me down with one hand, no matter how hard he tried.
“Give me Peter O’Drool,” I demanded, aching fingers entwined in the wire fencing.
“Give me Lapaglia,” he countered.
Stalemate.
My fingers were on fire. I didn’t know whether to go the rest of the way up and over the top and get away, or to come back down into the alley and try to wrest Peter from his arms. I also didn’t know if I could do either of those things. All I knew was I had to get him to let go of my foam belly. No, I knew something else. AmyJo didn’t know where I was.
I had to stall until she got here. “How’d you recognize me?”
“That car of yours is an eyesore,” he grunted.
“Distinctive is the word you’re looking for.” My arms quivered with effort, but I couldn’t shake his grasp. I jammed my sneakers into the chain link openings, stepping and maneuvering until I had rotated and was perpendicular to the ground.
He was on his tiptoes, clutching me at a weird angle. He still squeezed Peter, but Pete didn’t seem to be in any distress. In fact, he looked like he enjoyed this game. At one point he licked the Braid’s face and my leg in one deft motion. The tickle sent my feet scrambling even higher on the fence. I was prone, sprawled sideways across the fence, my head now a bit lower than my feet.
“If you keep doing this, how am I supposed to find Lapaglia?” I yelled.
The Braid only grunted.
I held on, feeling like my fingers might slice right off my hands and be left dangling on this sad alleyway construction fence. My abs quivered but hung in there and I silently offered up thanks to Marcy, my occasional yoga instructor for all those planks and chaturangas.
Still only two directions I could go. Up and over the fence without Peter, or back down to the alley, with maybe a chance of grabbing Peter.
I had decided to take my chances in the alley and tried to figure out how to get down without falling when I felt the Braid let go of me.
“What’s going on here?” A man’s voice boomed down the alley.
“This man stole my dog! Grab him!” I yelled.
The Braid took off down the alley, still clutching Peter. The man hurried over, tool belt jangling, and helped me down.
“No, no! Go get my dog! I’m fine!”
“Lady, you’re pregnant. Let me help you.”
“I’m not! Go get Peter!” I dropped the rest of the way to my feet. My legs buckled and the man helped me up.
“See? You’re not fine. What’s Peter’s number?” He pulled out his phone while continuing to hold my arm.
“I don’t need an ambulance. I’m not pregnant, this is fake!” I poked myself in the belly.
AmyJo hurried over, carrying a bag in one hand and a cardboard tray with two cups in the other. “What’s going on here?” She swung the bag at him. “Let go of her!”
The man dropped my arm and stepped back from AmyJo who continued to pummel him with the bag of food.
“I’m calling the cops,” he said to AmyJo.
“No! I’m calling the cops. Hold my bagels.” She slapped the bag into my belly and thrust the coffees toward me.
I took them from her. “It’s okay, Ames. This guy was trying to help me.”
Keeping a wary eye on AmyJo, he explained to the 911 dispatcher what had happened, answered some questions, relayed my name, then listened. He rolled his eyes then said, “Well, if they ever decide to show up, I’m at the big Liberty job site. Ask for Larry.”
“Doubt they’ll come,” he said to me after he disconnected. “See something, say something, right? But when you do ....”
“Listen, Larry. You did exactly the right thing. You saw someone in trouble and you took action.”
“And I’m sorry about the bagels,” AmyJo said. “Here, you take them. Peace offering.”
He shook his head and took another step back from her. “Did that guy really steal your dog?”
I nodded.
“Bummer.” He pocketed his phone. “And you’re not really pregnant?”
“Nope.”
“And you’re not hurt?”
“Promise.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t chase the guy. Not gonna lie, I was a bit rattled. Nothing like this ever happened to me before.” Larry blotted his forehead with his arm.
“Me neither,” I said.
“Me neither.” AmyJo offered the bagels again.
Larry shook his head. “If the cops show up I’ll tell them everything.”
“I’ll call them, too.”
Larry only agreed to return to his job after insisting on walking us back to my car. I figured the Braid was still around here someplace, so it seemed prudent to allow an escort to my car.
After Larry left, I explained everything to AmyJo. “It’s probably not a good idea to wait around in front of the mailbox place all day for Martina with the Braid on my tail. Maybe she’ll respond to that note I sent her.”
We got in and locked all the doors even though it was stifling. I didn’t want to be surprised if the Braid was still lurking around. I blasted the air conditioning while AmyJo rooted around the bag of bagels.
“Sesame or blueberry?” she asked.
Accepting the blueberry with a grateful nod I said, “Sesame seeds always get stuck in my teeth.” I took a bite then a swig of coffee. I settled the bagel on one knee and set the cup in the console. “I think I should call Detective Ming. Keep an eye out.”
“For what?”
“Guy with a long silver braid carrying Peter O’Drool. Or, you know, anything else that seem
s weird.”
“On it.”
AmyJo swiveled all directions in her seat, then rearranged the mirrors for best advantage while I dialed Ming.
His voicemail came up. I rambled my message, buying time because I assumed he’d call me while I was leaving it like he had before. But he didn’t. Now he’d have to listen to my long, rambling message about how the Braid chased me up a fence. I had the feeling he wouldn’t take my call very seriously.
I had been so happy to see that Peter was safe, but now kicked myself for not trying harder to get him away from the Braid. I should have just belly-flopped down off the fence and landed—splat—right on top of the Braid, squishing him and his stupid hair flat as a pancake. But then I would have risked hurting Peter, too. For now, I guess I had to be happy with the knowledge that Peter was safe and seemed happy and taken care of. But I hated myself for losing him again.
I readjusted the mirrors and pulled away from the curb. I had to quit thinking about Pete because it was hard to drive when my eyes swam with tears. I wanted to quit thinking about everything, so I dropped AmyJo at her truck in the parking lot of the apartment complex without inviting her in, telling her I had some errands to run.
“Liquor store?”
“You know me too well.” I smiled at her. “Thanks for going with me today, Ames. You wield a mean bagel.” I finished mine.
“I could kick myself for not getting there in time. If only I hadn’t ordered those bagels—”
“You couldn’t have known. Besides, nothing bad happened.” At her skeptical look I added, “Nothing really bad, at least.”
She popped the last bite of bagel in her mouth while she pulled off the Farrah Fawcett wig. She dropped it on the seat as she stepped out and removed the housecoat which she tossed on top to the wig. “Call me later? I’m off at nine.”
I nodded and watched her climb into her truck. I waved as I headed to the liquor store.
It was actually a liquor superstore—a refurbished grocery store—and I pushed a cart up and down the aisles. I couldn’t seem to make any decisions. Beer? Mix-and-match local craft beer? Guinness? Something Japanese? Something on sale? Wine? Red or white? Australian? French? Italian? Colorado organic? I slowly and aimlessly wandered up and down, back and forth. People stared like they’d never seen anyone indecisive about their alcohol purchases.