by Becky Clark
“No, I mean, I’m not expecting to stay.” I placed my bag of pharmaceuticals on the counter.
“Then ... why are you ... here?”
“It’s kind of a long story.”
She nodded, knowingly, but she couldn’t possibly know.
I didn’t want to tell her I was looking for Lapaglia, because if he was here, I’d want to catch him by surprise. “I actually just kinda got stuck on the train and ended up at the Lost Valley station. I didn’t know where else to go, so I was maybe going to hang out here and wait for my boyfriend to come pick me up? But he won’t even be off work for hours, and then to drive up here might take ….?”
“From Denver? Couple hours. More with traffic.”
I sighed. I wasn’t even sure Ozzi could get away, what with his integration problems and load testing. Either way, he wasn’t going to be happy with me, especially if I tried to confront Lapaglia on my own.
“Well, if you decide later you want a cabin, you just let me know and I’ll set you up right nice.”
“Would it be possible to get a sandwich or something out by the pool? It looks gorgeous out there.” I was hungry, but I also had a half-baked scheme maybe I could order food with Lapaglia’s name and they’d confirm he was here someplace. Or not. Regardless, I was still going to order something. I was starving. And if Lapaglia was here, he could sure as heck pay for my meal. He owed me that, at the very least.
“Absolutely.” She reached under the counter and handed me a menu. “Just take this out there and call whenever you’re ready. The number’s on the back.”
I traipsed down a long hallway, past the restaurant, past the bar, past the coffee kiosk, past the gift shop, head on a swivel watching for Lapaglia the entire time, but there was nobody around. Maggie was right. It was dead here.
When I exited at the far end of the building, I found myself on a wide concrete sidewalk that meandered through the trees, huge hundred-year-old pines, stately blue spruce, and stands of tall, skinny aspen with their peeling white bark and leaves shimmering and quaking despite very little breeze. The shady sidewalk led toward the cabins.
Wherever the sidewalk forked, there were wooden signs with the cabin names chiseled into them and an arrow directing guests the right way along a dirt path. The first cabin was just off the sidewalk, but the other three were hidden among the trees.
The first sign I came to listed Lodgepole, Spruce, Bristlecone, and Ponderosa. The sign reading Lodgepole was nailed over the door of the cabin closest to me. It was closed up tight and nobody was around. I followed the arrow down the dirt path toward Spruce. If I didn’t know three more cabins were back here I would never have guessed it.
The Lost Valley Resort was beginning to grow on me. This would be a great place for a writer’s retreat.
I found myself treading lightly, almost tiptoeing along the path. It was so tranquil out here. Suddenly, Spruce cabin loomed in front of me and I heard a woman gasp. I gasped in response.
“Oh my, you scared me!” A middle-aged woman sat on the porch clutching a paperback to her chest.
“I’m sorry!”
At the same time we both said, “It’s so quiet here!” then laughed.
I continued on toward Bristlecone and Ponderosa.
“Step on a twig next time,” she called after me.
“Will do!”
Both cabins seemed empty, so I took the path behind. I was glad I wouldn’t have to pass by Spruce again and disturb that poor woman trying to read. I picked up a twig and carried it, thinking if I needed to, I could warn someone of my presence by snapping it with my hands. I wasn’t sure that would be any less startling, though. Might even be more alarming. I tossed it aside and decided instead to simply swing my bag and the laminated menu in a slightly exaggerated manner. The slap and crinkle of the paper might do the trick. I didn’t want to be responsible for giving anyone a heart attack.
The next fork I came to pointed toward cabins named Penstemon, Lupine, Larkspur, and Columbine. This time, since I was behind the cabin area, Columbine was the most out-of-the-way of this pod. I heard kids playing. As I approached, five kids ranging in age from toddler to pre-teen, all completely covered in joyful vacation dirt, ran right up to me.
“Wanna buy a mud pie?” a boy around six asked.
“Or a moothie?” the toddler asked.
“Ssssmoothie,” a pre-teen girl corrected, elongating the missing sound.
“A mud pie and a smoothie,” I said. “Sounds delicious, but I don’t think so.” I patted my belly like I was Santa.
“Why not?” A little girl with half a front tooth sprouting put her hands on her hips and stared at me.
I knew her type. Bossy. Demanding. Awkward. She reminded me of me.
“Because I have work to do.”
“What work?” she asked.
I couldn’t very well tell her I was stalking someone so I said, “I’m a writer.”
“For books?”
“Yes, for books.”
“I like books. But only books with pictures. Do you draw pictures in your books?”
“Only when I was bored in Poly Sci.”
“What?”
“Nothing. No, I don’t draw pictures in my books.”
“Why not? Lots of people make pictures in their books. Like Mr. Ronny.”
“I don’t know Mr. Ronny.”
“Why not?” She stamped her bossy little foot.
The pre-teen rescued me from the interrogation. “He’s in that cabin over there.” She waved vaguely. “He’s an”—she struggled to come up with the word—“illustrator. That’s what he said it’s called when you draw pictures for kid books. He wanted our opinion on them the other day. Mom let us go.”
“He was a good draw-er,” the toddler said.
“Nuh uh. He was a poopy draw-er,” the bossy snaggle-toothed girl said.
A shy boy stepped around the pre-teen and pulled his finger from his mouth long enough to say, “He brung us ice cream.”
“Oh boy. I bet that was fun,” I said.
“We’re going on another hike today. I’m going to be Line Leader,” Little Miss Bossy said.
“That sounds like fun too.”
They all nodded and we stared at each other for a while, having run out of discussion topics. “Okay, I guess I better let you get back to your pie and smoothie making now.”
They ran back to the mud puddle they’d made and the older girl goosed it with a bit more water from a bucket.
I followed the path from the kids at Columbine to Larkspur, then Lupine, but they both seemed empty. When I got to Penstemon, I greeted a young couple watching me from their porch. A bottle of wine sat on the table between them. They both had their feet on the railing, she was barefoot with a bright red pedicure, he wore flip flops.
“Nice out here, eh?” I said.
“Sure is,” she said.
“We’re on our honeymoon,” he said, puffing out his chest a bit.
“Congratulations.” I continued on my way.
When I’d passed them I heard the girl say, “Geez, you don’t have to tell everyone. And would it kill you to wear a shirt sometimes?”
Yeah, that marriage was made in heaven.
Back on the concrete sidewalk, I had a choice to make. I could continue walking around all the cabins in a far-fetched attempt to see if Lapaglia was here, or I could head back toward the pool area and a sandwich. I decided on the sandwich since I didn’t know how many more cabins there were. I might need sustenance. Besides, the notion that Lapaglia decided to vacation here seemed more than a little ridiculous now that I was here. Just my imagination working overtime, and maybe a little wishful thinking.
I followed the sidewalk back toward the main building, where I’d seen some bistro tables earlier. I settled into one and opened my menu, deciding on the cheapest thing on the menu, an $18 Reuben sandwich. I called the number on the back of the menu and they told me it would be about fifteen minutes. I settled in
and tried to figure out what I’d say to Ozzi when I called him. I couldn’t put it off much longer. I thought about calling AmyJo instead, even though I was fairly certain she worked tonight. Would she want to drive all the way out here after work? I snorted. Regardless of what she wanted, I knew if I asked, she’d be here. That’s the kind of friend she was. Calling my brother was out of the question, though. Lance would interrogate me and wring every secret from my cold, dead body.
The reunion family from the train came and rearranged several tables and chairs, noisily scraping them on the concrete to form a massive compound worthy of Kennebunkport. The kids all wore swimsuits. The adults had a loud gossipy conversation about family members who hadn’t joined them for this reunion. The kids ran around giggling and bopping each other with pool noodles.
I picked up my things, trying to be inconspicuous and not rude, and moved to the opposite side of the huge patio area. I passed through the section with the three covered gas grills where Alan Fraser told me I could fry up any fish I caught. All the patio enclaves—the bistro tables, the pool, the grills with nearby picnic tables—were strategically designed so no matter where you were on the patio, each outdoor party still had privacy from other guests. It was truly a delightful and majestic space. I was headed for the umbrella-covered tables behind the huge outdoor kitchen, complete with two built-in smokers, a couple of stovetops, and an impressive pizza oven, outfitted for any guests who enjoyed cooking while on vacation. It was a gorgeous amenity, with its intricate brickwork running almost the length of the outdoor area, but I couldn’t imagine any scenario where I would be so inclined to utilize it. I barely cooked at home. And wasn’t the point of a vacation to go someplace where people did things for you?
As I arranged myself, I saw the happy noisy family walking toward the pool followed by a cadre of waiters from the restaurant carrying many silver trays of food. I couldn’t hear them at all anymore.
About a dozen tables away, I saw a man with his back to me, painting at an easel. He must be the illustrator the children had told me about.
I decided to introduce myself while I waited for my lunch and decide for myself whether he was a good or poopy draw-er. I scuffed my sneakers on the concrete to make a bit of noise so I wouldn’t startle him. I knew when I got in my ‘writing zone’ I fell into a kind of tunnel vision trance. More than once, someone had accidentally spoken too loudly, causing me to jump and shriek, scaring the bejeebers out of everyone in the vicinity.
I didn’t need to freak out some poor guy on vacation.
Scuff, scuff, scuff.
The man looked up at me.
I looked down at him. He wore a bolo tie with a silver clasp in the same design as Martina’s logo and Tiffany Isaac’s necklace in the photo Detective Ming showed us.
I felt my mouth turn into a cartoon O.
Nineteen
“Lapaglia?” I reached out for him, just to see if he was real. He flinched and drew back. “What are you—why are you—” I couldn’t settle on a single question until my gaze landed again on the bolo tie he was wearing. The silver slide was definitely the same curlicue design as Martina’s logo and Tiffany Isaac’s necklace. “Where did you get that tie?”
He hadn’t taken his eyes off me, but continued to shrink back. His hand fluttered to his tie. “It was a gift. It’s not for sale. Who are you?”
He didn’t even recognize me? “I’m Charlee Russo.”
He relaxed and broke eye contact, picking up his paintbrush. “Ah, Miss Russo. Enjoying the resort? I must say I quite—”
“What are you doing here? Why didn’t you show up at our event? You left me holding the bag for all those costs! I’m up to my eyeballs in debt now! Everyone hates me! I was on the news!” That last word came out more as a wail than a word. I didn’t mention Peter O’Drool being dognapped because I didn’t want to tip my hand that I was going to deliver Lapaglia directly into the Braid’s hands at the first opportunity. But it suddenly occurred to me I had no idea how to contact the Braid. A bridge to be crossed.
Regardless, I expected Lapaglia to be remorseful, concerned with the financial travails he caused, maybe not even understanding what had happened, jumping up to fix everything. But he was nonplussed. In fact, what’s less than nonplussed? Was that even possible? Because that’s what he was.
Staring at him brush vibrantly colored paint over his canvas, I could feel my rage beginning to grow. It began in my sweaty feet, tingling my toes, knocking my knees, clenching my butt, pounding my heart. My forearms pulsed with each squeeze of my fists.
I had to sit down. And far enough away that I wouldn’t inadvertently punch him in the throat. He continued to make nonplussed streaks of color while I pulled out a chair across from him.
Trying to keep my voice low and even I said, “How could you just ditch out on our event and leave me holding the bag? I don’t deserve that. And using all those women … Lakshmi, Martina, Cecelia? They don’t deserve that either. And your wife? Neither does she.”
“Yes, Annamaria is a saint.”
I wondered if she knew about his girlfriends. I thought about my conversation with her and how she used the term rendezvous and didn’t seem to care that he’d gone missing. “You need to come back to Denver with me. Today. Now. And make everything right.”
He tilted his head and assessed his work, teddy bears at a picnic. “Nah. I’m digging it here. Don’t want to go back. I wished for a different life and I got it.”
“A different life? Why? What’s wrong with your old life?”
“I’m tired of writing mob stories. But when I told my publisher, they said they didn’t care what I wanted. So I blogged to my fans, expecting them to rally to my defense so I could prove to Penn & Powell that they’d follow me. But those ingrates.” He held his brush in midair and looked over at me. “After all I did for them. All those books I wrote simply to entertain them. What did it get me?”
“A huge income? Fame? Accolades? World renown?”
Lapaglia stuck his tongue out and blew a raspberry. “Not everything it’s cracked up to be.”
“Some of us would like to see what fame and money is cracked up to be. But thanks to you, I probably never will.”
“Count yourself lucky, then.”
“I DON’T count myself LUCKY—” I felt my rage start tingling my toes and clenching my butt again so I took a deep breath. “What exactly is it you want?”
A ridiculous grin spread over his face. “I want to write and illustrate children’s picture books. Independently.”
A million thoughts jitterbugged in my brain. None of this made sense.
“What are you talking about? You did all this to me so you could—” I made a conscious effort to refrain from making fists. “You just want to write in a different genre?”
He nodded and went back to his painting, ridiculous grin still on his face.
“Lots of authors write in different genres.” I felt like I was explaining the alphabet to a coffee cup. “You just need a pseudonym for one of them. And authors publish books traditionally, like with Penn & Powell, but they also publish independently. They’re called ‘hybrid authors.’ You don’t need to go underground to do this. People do it every day.”
Lapaglia was so taken aback by this revelation he dropped the paintbrush in his lap but made no move to retrieve it. “What? People do this? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“Perhaps because you’re a huge recluse who goes out of his way not to meet anyone or involve yourself in the community of writers?” I concentrated on drawing slow, steady breaths in an effort to avoid an assault charge. Instead of punching him in the throat, I opened and closed my fists repeatedly.
He regarded me like a scientist might study microbes. After a few moments, he shrugged and picked up his paintbrush. “You don’t realize how hard it is for me—”
“I read your interviews where you moan about not being able to go out in public. What about traveling to Denver constantly? What ab
out being here? What about your girlfriends?”
He looked away, maybe with a flicker of regret or remorse on his face. “I’ll go back eventually. I need them.”
I let out a noise, part ill-humored laugh, part indignation. “Don’t get your hopes up. They all know each other now. Your jig, as they say, is up.” I waited for his denial or bluster or whatever philandering jerks do when they’re caught, but he didn’t react. Finally I said, “Why are you here? Why Lost Valley Resort if you need your girlfriends so much?” I stretched out need and girlfriends so sarcastically I felt like I was fourteen again. I wouldn’t be surprised if a full bloom of acne had erupted all over my face.
Lapaglia sighed and wiped his hands on a rag. “I knew my jig”—he paused and rolled his eyes—“was up when I saw you and Martina talking on Saturday when the train came in.”
So he was pretending not to recognize me. The weasel.
“Every time I come to Denver I see signs for this place so I got back on the train and hid in the restroom.”
One hundred percent of the participants in this conversation had hidden in the train restroom between Denver and the Lost Valley Resort. It made me wonder how many other people had done the same thing over the years.
A waiter carrying my food stopped near the table where I’d left my purse, the menu, and my pharmaceuticals. I called to him, “Yes, that’s me. Just leave it there.” He nodded and I saw him slip the bill underneath the tray.
“Martina thinks I’m your secret girlfriend and she wants to kill me.”
He waved my worry away. “A simple case of mistaken identity.”
“Easy for you to say. She looks mean.”
“Marty is a peach. A pussycat. A marshmallow.”
I let that roll around in my brain a bit. Marty does sound softer and nicer than Martina. I wonder what she calls him. Wait. I groaned, remembering how they all used different names to refer to him. “You gave all those women a different name for yourself. You’re just using them to help with this new picture book career of yours!” My hand fluttered to my throat as I put it all together. “Lakshmi is a children’s librarian, Cecilia is a graphic designer, Martina is a marketing expert. You ARE a jerk!” I stood up so fast I knocked my chair over. “You’re not interested in these women. You’re just picking their brains and using their skills to help you produce and sell your picture books!”