Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  I replied in a whisper. “He used a fake name.”

  “What? A word game?”

  She had misunderstood me, but yes, he was definitely playing games, and I had no idea what name he might have checked in under, so I said, “The guy who stole the horse. When did he check in? What name did he use?”

  Maggie was quiet for a long time. I assumed she was looking up the information. Instead she whispered, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” then returned to her perky customer service voice. “Thank you for calling the Lost Valley Resort!”

  I hung up and slumped against the wall. The Blow-O-Matic 3000 hand dryer roared to life. I jumped away from it and banged into a stall door, which slammed backward and then forward again, ricocheting into my face. I put my hand out to stop the door, then sat down on the closed toilet seat and readjusted my baseball cap.

  I'd bet all the money Lapaglia owed me that he hadn’t been at the Lost Valley Resort since Saturday. Was Alan Fraser covering for him? Why? Did Lapaglia zip back to Nebraska to kill Annamaria? Did he actually mail a package bomb to his wife? Archie Cruz must have made that up. Nobody gets killed by a package bomb, especially in Nebraska.

  Lapaglia’s voice prickled my memory. “Yeah, Annamaria is a saint.” His statement sounded much more sinister now. Did my imagination add a sneer to his voice?

  Were his girlfriends involved in his wife’s murder? Did he convince one of them to go to Nebraska? Someone could drive to his house and be back in Denver the same day. But I couldn’t picture mousy doormat Lakshmi killing anyone. And Cecilia would have to explain to her controlling husband where she was going and where she’d been, unless she called in sick or something and did it during working hours.

  And Martina? Who knows? Of the three girlfriends, my money was on her. I slid her business card from the small outside pocket of my purse and stared at it, waiting for it to offer up some answers. I stared at it so long that my vision swirled and my mind wandered, but suddenly everything snapped back into focus.

  I knew what I had to do, even without complete information. I reached forward and locked the restroom stall door. I contemplated calling Detective Ming, but instead looked up the number for the Denver Police Department’s anonymous tip line.

  “Are you investigating the Tiffany Isaac death as a murder or an accident?”

  “Why do you need to know?”

  “I might have information.”

  “And your name is?”

  “Isn’t this the anonymous tip line?” I took a deep breath, unsure if I was doing the right thing or not. “I heard that Annamaria Lapaglia was found dead in Nebraska and I just saw Rodolfo Lapaglia at the Lost Valley Resort outside Denver. I think maybe the two murders are connected.”

  “How would he kill someone in Nebraska all the way from Denver?”

  “That’s your job to figure out, isn’t it? I’m just giving you some information to investigate. Lapaglia might be on the train. Talk to Alan Fraser at the resort and the sheriffs up here. He stole a horse, but maybe just rode it to the station.”

  “Who stole a horse?”

  “Rodolfo Lapaglia!”

  “Ma’am, I would really appreciate knowing your name.”

  “I can’t ... not just yet.” I disconnected. Staying anonymous for now was the right thing to do, I was sure. I needed to talk to Lapaglia’s girlfriends before dragging them into something so potentially public. Maybe even dangerous.

  I opened the restroom door and jumped when Archie Cruz loomed in front of me.

  “Geez, you took long enough. You okay? Bad news gives me the runs, too.”

  Ugh. I’d forgotten all about him. “That’s not what I was—never mind. Why are you still here?”

  “Where should I be?”

  “I don’t know.” I pushed past him. “Maybe finding some other poor slob to ambush?”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. But you gotta admit, that was some good optics for the four o’clock news.”

  I would admit nothing of the sort. “It was mean and unnecessary. I didn’t steal anyone’s money. It was all Lapaglia’s fault.”

  “And now he’s disappeared and his wife is dead.” He stared intensely at me for an uncomfortably long time.

  “You think I—”

  “Nah, I’m just kidding.” He shrugged. “Hey, I was just doing my job. Got a tip from a viewer and then you show up nine months preggo and with beer, well, there’s not a producer on earth who wouldn’t run that. We couldn’t have staged it better if we tried.”

  “Mean. And. Unnecessary.”

  “Yeah, I owe you one.”

  Twenty-Three

  Even though I got home really late and Ozzi was sound asleep in my bed, I was up early the next day.

  Driving home from the resort, AmyJo and I had talked through everything, trying to figure out what I should do next. We both agreed that locating Peter O’Drool was contingent on figuring out how all these puzzle pieces fit together. We just couldn’t figure out how. Or if we had all the puzzle pieces. Or what the final picture might look like.

  This morning, I’d been guzzling coffee and using the full force of my research skills to find some link between Tiffany and any of the characters in my little drama.

  Knowing that Tiffany Isaac was definitely involved, I began by searching for information about her. The recent articles about her murder popped up, but they had nothing I could use. But I also found a twelve-year-old society column article from a newspaper with the title Wedding of the Decade. It wasn’t Tiffany’s wedding, but she was one of the bridesmaids. There was a small photo online, showing eight bridesmaids paired up with eight groomsmen. The caption didn’t include everyone’s full name, just their first initial and last name. I found T Isaac, standing next to V Zaminsky. So she did know someone in the mob family.

  I played a little mental Scattergories. Girl’s names that start with V—go. Vivian. Victoria. Valerie. Vanessa. Vera. Virginia.

  As I sipped my coffee, I realized I had the full force of the internet at my fingers. I typed V Zaminsky in the search bar.

  Several articles about Velvet Zaminsky filled the screen.

  I thought about Cecilia’s pejorative velvet mafia comment. At the time I had assumed that’s what she’d meant, but she hadn’t actually said that. She’d actually said “Velvet’s mafia.”

  Velvet Zaminsky. Definitely part of the crime family the Braid had mentioned.

  I went back to the Wedding of the Decade photo. I tried to enlarge it but it only got fuzzy.

  One thing that wasn’t fuzzy, though, was that Tiffany and Velvet knew each other.

  I went back to the articles about Velvet Zaminsky. The first one that came up was about a mob trial in New Jersey where she had to testify. The trial was all about tax evasion, but as I scrolled, a large image filled the screen, making me gasp.

  I opened a new tab and brought up the photo of Rodolfo and Annamaria Lapaglia at the Dark Dagger Awards. I put the photos side by side and studied them.

  The resemblance between Annamaria Lapaglia and Velvet Zaminsky was remarkable.

  I dug up more images of Velvet. Because she was from a prominent family, there were many photos of her through the years. I stacked them in age order on my computer desktop and clicked through them, like flipping pages of a photo album. The changes in her features over the years were subtle—thinning of the nose, cheek implants perhaps, hair color—but set out side-by-side like this they were obvious.

  “First Tiffany and now Annamaria. This can’t be coincidence.”

  I needed to set up a meeting with the girlfriends to tell them about Annamaria’s murder, Lapaglia’s disappearance, and Velvet’s potential involvement. They might be in danger. Unless they were involved. Either way, I had to know. If I did it in person, I could see their reactions. One of these women might be the key to finding Peter O’Drool.

  I began with Lakshmi. I explained my plan and added, “And I need you to call Martina. Make sure she has my nu
mber and tell her it’s imperative she meet with us. At the very least, she must call me.” I had to find out the connection between her logo, Lapaglia’s bolo tie, and Tiffany’s necklace.

  Since both Lakshmi and Cecilia were working today, we agreed to meet at noon at a restaurant near both of them.

  I got a terse text from Martina. “You’re buying.”

  “Absolutely,” I responded, even though I didn’t quite know how I’d swing that.

  Ozzi padded into the kitchen wearing boxers and a stretched out t-shirt, rubbing his face. He looked surprised to see me. “I didn’t hear you come in last night.” He kissed me on the head. “Didn’t think you’d be up so early this morning.”

  “I have stuff to do. I didn’t want to wake you up. I’m meeting Lapaglia’s girlfriends for lunch at El Señor’s.” Reassuring him it wasn’t reckless, stupid, or impulsive, I explained my plan while pouring him a cup of coffee and loading a plate with two slices of Barb’s zucchini bread. I added another slice. “Hey, handsome ...” I placed his breakfast on the table then rubbed my hands on his chest. “Do you have any money I can borrow?” I nibbled his ear.

  “Oh, I see how it is. You just love me for my wallet.” He sat at the kitchen table.

  “Not true.” I cupped his pecs. “These are nice too.” I straddled him on his lap. “So ... do you?”

  “Mmm?” His eyes had rolled back in his head a little.

  “Have any money I can borrow?”

  He opened one eye and grinned. “I don’t charge interest in the usual manner.”

  “That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

  At 11:55 I pulled open the door to the El Señor Mexican restaurant and saw Lakshmi, Cecilia, and Martina waiting for me. They’d already eaten three-quarters of a basket of chips and salsa.

  “Didn’t we say noon?” I asked.

  “We needed a pre-meeting,” Martina said. “Not sure we know what’s going on. I never even knew about this one until yesterday.” She jerked her head toward Cecilia. “So talk,” she said to me. I felt resentment radiating off her.

  Okay, so this is how it’s going to be. I pulled out the fourth chair and hooked my bag over the back. I scooped a chip through chunky salsa and chewed, gathering my thoughts. “I told you earlier that Annamaria Lapaglia has been murdered—”

  “I don’t know who that is,” Cecilia interrupted.

  “She’s the wife of the man you’ve all been having an affair with. You just know him by different names.” I rooted around my bag for the photo I tore from his book jacket and passed it around. Lakshmi and Cecilia had seen it before and knew who I meant. Martina looked at the photo, then back at me.

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” Her eyes narrowed and I suddenly worried for Lapaglia if she ever got her hands on him again.

  Before she could interrupt I said, “He’s an author of thrillers about the mob. I was supposed to do a writer’s event with him on Saturday but he never showed up.” I looked at Martina. “That’s why I was at Union Station. Why were you there?”

  Martina’s gaze pierced right through me. I suddenly wished that she’d continued avoiding me and hadn’t showed up today. I nervously shoved chips and salsa into my mouth.

  Finally Martina spoke. “I was there on Saturday to catch him in a lie. A few weeks ago he told me he was coming to Denver that day, but then hemmed and hawed and said he misspoke, that it was actually a month from Saturday, like he got the date wrong. Something about his voice on the phone made me suspicious so I did some digging. He told me his name was Ronald Donatelli. I didn’t find him but I found a woman named Dona Donatelli—”

  I remembered what Ozzi had told me. “His mother.”

  “—whose artistic style was very similar to his. And then I found out she had a son named Rodolfo Lapaglia, who, among other things”—Martina leveled her gaze and dropped an octave—“was coming to Denver to meet you.”

  “Okay, one last time, he wasn’t coming to meet me. He was coming to do a writing workshop with me.” I thought back to waiting with Ozzi for the train. “Wait! You were eavesdropping on us!” Then I remembered Martina’s assault on me in the restroom. “I told you then that Ozzi was my boyfriend. Why didn’t you believe me?”

  “He wasn’t acting like your boyfriend.”

  “What was he supposed to do? Jump me right there in Union Station? Who did you think he was?”

  “Your brother.”

  “What? Why?” I was instantly skeeved out that Lance and I might ever act like we were—ugh—sweethearts.

  “I Googled you too, when I saw about the workshop, and saw all that stuff about your family, you killing your literary agent—”

  I looked at Lakshmi and Cecilia. “I did NOT kill my agent.” I spread my gaze around the table, to include them all. “Let’s get back to the matter at hand. By not showing up for that workshop on Saturday, Lapaglia made a ton of problems for me, so I’ve been looking for him. I found him yesterday but then he disappeared again. Afterward, I learned his wife had been murdered. I’m worried the three of you might be implicated and perhaps in danger yourselves.” I let that sink in for a minute, studying their faces while I scooped another chip. Before I finished, the server came to take our order. I hadn’t looked at the menu yet, but I didn’t want to take the time. I ordered a chicken chimichanga. I’d eaten here before, but even if they’d changed their menu since then, no self-respecting Mexican restaurant would remove that. Deep-fried burrito with guacamole and sour cream on top? Yes, please.

  After the server left, I told them the story about going to Lost Valley and finding Lapaglia and the Braid there.

  Lakshmi remembered seeing me get on the train and wondered why. “You said he was coming into town. That’s why I went down there. Why were you there?”

  “I was trying to see which of you would come down. I thought one of you might be hiding him.”

  Martina snorted. “Nancy Drew much?”

  “I’m just trying to get my money back. And a dog.” Peter still hadn’t been returned like I’d hoped. I told them about the Braid dognapping him to coerce me to find Lapaglia before the cops did.

  “Why would the cops be after him?” Cecilia asked.

  “Honestly, I don’t even know anymore. It might have been a bluff. But when someone’s holding you by your drag wig upside down on a chain link fence, nothing much makes sense.”

  They nodded knowingly as if they’d all been in a similar situation at some point in their pasts.

  The server brought our food and we ate in silence for a bit.

  “I said earlier that I’m worried you guys would be implicated in this. I know enough about murder investigations to know that the police will find you, so it’s better to get in front of this earlier rather than later. And I want you to do it yourselves. I don’t want to have to drag you into it.”

  Lakshmi and Cecilia looked worried, but Martina said, “I got nothing to worry about.”

  I wiped my mouth and fingers on a napkin then reached into my purse. I pulled out her business card. “I think you do. Maybe more than anyone. Your business logo is very similar to a bolo tie I saw Lapaglia wearing yesterday—”

  “So?”

  “And on a necklace worn by Tiffany Isaac, who, I think you all know, was also murdered recently.” I finished the last couple bites of my lunch, wondering if I should have mentioned Tiffany. My hands shook a bit as I dragged a fork full of fallen lettuce and tomatoes through a smear of guacamole and into my mouth. I didn’t really think one of these women was a murderer, but I’ve been monumentally wrong about people in the past.

  Cecilia checked her watch. “I’ve got to get back.” She and Lakshmi began gathering their belongings.

  I held up my hand. “Just one more thing. The reason I wanted you all here was to ask you to go to the police with me.”

  “No way in hell,” Martina said.

  “I can’t do that.” Cecilia noticeably paled.

  Lakshmi just shook h
er head.

  “No cops are going to be knocking on our doors about this,” Martina said. “We didn’t even know this Lapaglia’s real name until you told us. We’re invisible.” The server brought the bill and Martina handed it to me.

  I put the leather check presenter on the table without looking at it. “Regardless, we all need to go to the police to tell them what we know.” Then all this would be someone else’s problem and I could look for Peter full-time.

  “Nope.” Martina pushed her chair back, grabbed her wallet and phone and stood. She got right in my face. “And don’t even think about giving my name to the cops.” She left.

  “You guys will, though, right?” I asked the others.

  “I told you, I can’t,” Cecilia said.

  Lakshmi just shook her head and hurried after Cecilia.

  I stared after them, hoping maybe at least one of them would change her mind and come back. No such luck. I sighed and looked at the bill for lunch. A big smiley face covered it with a note that said Paid. I flagged down our server and asked about it.

  “That couple over there paid it for you. Included the tip and everything.” She pointed to a corner table where two people sat with their menus concealing their faces.

  I collected my purse and walked over to thank them and ask why. As soon as I got there, they lowered their menus. AmyJo yelled, “Surprise!” then clamped a hand over her mouth. “That was loud,” she whispered, blushing. Ozzi just grinned.

  I pulled out a chair and sat. “What are you guys doing here?”

  “I was worried when you told me what you were doing this morning so I invited AmyJo to lunch so we could spy on you. Figured you wouldn’t be mad at me in front of her,” Ozzi said.

  “I’m not mad. And thank you.” I sighed. “None of that went like I expected.”

  “What did you want to happen?” AmyJo asked.

  “I wanted to scare them enough about Lapaglia, his wife getting murdered, the Braid, and Tiffany Isaac that they’d go to the police. But they won’t. And that big gal threatened me again.”

  Ozzi rubbed brusquely at his stubble. “What did she say?”