Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  I waved away his concern. “If they would talk to the cops, then I wouldn’t have to. I mean, two women have been murdered. I can’t just walk away from that.”

  “Then go to the police. Tell them what you know,” Ozzi said.

  I threw my hands into the air and accidentally banged my elbow on the table. “I’ve been talking to Ming and look where that’s gotten me.” I rubbed my elbow. “Besides, I’m not entirely sure what I do know. I told those deputies at Lost Valley everything I could about Lapaglia and the Braid, but what if I drag these women into this mess and get them targeted by someone? I couldn’t live with myself.”

  “Who would target them?” AmyJo asked.

  “I don’t know. Somebody. Maybe the Braid? Lapaglia? Somebody I don’t even know about?”

  “Maybe you’d solve the crimes, though,” Ozzi said quietly, covering my hand with his. “Maybe one of those women killed Lapaglia’s wife. Or that Tiffany. Or both.”

  “I considered that but discounted it before, but now, maybe you’re right. Maybe they did, with or without Lapaglia’s help.”

  AmyJo pushed her plate aside and flopped a notebook on the tabletop. “Who’s your best candidate?” Her pen was poised over the page.

  “I don’t know. Martina is crazy-jealous of everyone. The first time she saw me she told me to stay away from her boyfriend.”

  AmyJo scribbled notes then looked up. “Who else?”

  “Lakshmi—that little one with the cute glasses?—she is pushed around by everyone. A real doormat. Maybe she had enough and snapped. And Cecilia, the other one, is petrified her husband will find out about her affair with Lapaglia. She said he’s violent.”

  “Lapaglia?”

  “No, her husband.”

  While AmyJo scribbled, I stared at the oversized sombreros stapled to the wall for ambiance. “Lapaglia is über-suspicious, running away and being so vocal about wanting to live a different life. I did call the tip line yesterday to tell Denver PD that I saw him at Lost Valley. Maybe they’ll grab him up, he’ll confess, and this will be all done.”

  “You wouldn’t get your money back that way,” Ozzi said.

  “No, I sure wouldn’t.”

  “I can see Lapaglia killing his wife.” AmyJo tapped her pen on her bottom lip. “He’s a jerk.”

  “He is indeed.” I nodded. “But maybe it was the Braid. When I talked to Annamaria the other day she hinted that she did all the work on Lapaglia’s books. The Braid kept wanting to know how Lapaglia knew so much about the mob—the family, he called it. What if the Braid found out Annamaria wrote the books? He’d go after her instead of Lapaglia.”

  “But how would that involve Tiffany Isaac?” Ozzi asked. “Or whoever might be setting up the guy you scalped?”

  I let out a whoosh of air. “I don’t know. It probably wouldn’t. I need a nap.”

  “I need to get back to work,” Ozzi said, pushing his chair back.

  “Me, too.” AmyJo stood. “This was fun, though. Thanks for lunch, Oz.”

  “Fun?” I stood, too.

  “It’s always fun to go out to lunch,” AmyJo said. “Regardless of the reason. Plus, we didn’t have to swoop in and rescue you.”

  “I dunno. That sounds kinda fun to me.” Ozzi slipped his arm around my waist.

  “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunities in the future. If history is any indication.” I kissed him lightly on the lips.

  Driving home, I debated whether to call Lance. I changed my mind fourteen times, but by the time I plopped down on my couch, it was a firm negative. I’d have to tell him more than might be prudent about my activities, plus it wasn’t even a Colorado crime. Annamaria’s murder was for the great state of Nebraska to solve.

  Nebraska’s murder to solve. Hmm. Maybe I could talk to Annamaria’s boyfriend, Thomas Percy, and see if he knew anything I could use. Maybe he and Annamaria knew about Lapaglia’s girlfriends. Maybe he killed Annamaria. Maybe Peter O’Drool magically found his way there and he was just waiting for me to call to collect him. I had nothing to lose.

  Before I did, I called Barb and Don to see if Peter was back yet. Don answered.

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “Find out anything more from Lapaglia’s books?”

  “Working on it.”

  I asked Don if, in the books, there was anything about Taffeta, who might be our Tiffany, being set up by anyone in the crime family.

  “Charlee, these books are full of betrayals, double-crossings, set-ups, and all manner of skullduggery.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. Why couldn’t Lapaglia write cozy mysteries so the characters are quirky and fun?”

  “Mysteries have fun murderers?”

  I sighed. “No, I guess not. Well, let me know if something jumps out at you.”

  “Just a matter of time.”

  I wished I had his confidence. “Fingers crossed.”

  I poured myself a glass of iced tea then found the number my editor gave me for Lapaglia’s house in Nebraska. Maybe I’d get lucky and whoever answered would know how I could find this Thomas Percy.

  I dialed. While I waited for it to be picked up, I decided if anyone answered I’d ask for Lapaglia. If he was actually there, that might mean he didn’t kill her.

  “Thomas Percy speaking.”

  Annamaria’s boyfriend? “Um ... hi, Thomas. I was looking for Rodolfo Lapaglia.”

  “Not here.”

  “Not at the house or not in Nebraska?”

  “Who wants to know?” I could hear the venom in his voice.

  “My name is Charlee. I spoke to Annamaria a few days ago. I asked her if she knew where Rodolfo was, but I got the impression there was no love lost between them.”

  I heard him make a noise. Was he crying?

  “You know she’s ... dead,” he said.

  “Yes, I do. I’m so sorry.”

  “Did you know she was murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Killed exactly like in one of his books.”

  My stomach lurched. That hit too close to home. The memory of being told my agent had been killed exactly as I had written in a manuscript washed over me. I shook off the past and fought to return to the present.

  If Annamaria was responsible for Lapaglia’s books, as she’d said, was this some kind of evil retribution? Coincidence? Was it even true?

  The present swam back into clear focus. Thomas had apparently been speaking this whole time.

  “I’m sorry to go on like this, but I don’t really have anyone to talk to here. It’s nice to talk to one of her friends.”

  A flush of guilt buzzed through me, but I didn’t correct him.

  “Annamaria and I were serious, but for obvious reasons, weren’t really public about it.” He paused. “I wish I had come right home that day.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “There was a glitch in the schedule—I work for the railroad—and I got back in town a day early. I went out with the guys for a beer. Since she wasn’t expecting me, I didn’t think a couple of hours would matter. How wrong I was.”

  It didn’t seem that coming home any earlier would have stopped her from opening a package bomb. If anything, it might have killed him, too. But he didn’t need to hear that from me.

  “When was this, exactly?”

  “Tuesday around four.” He paused and I jotted a note to myself. “Thing is,” he paused again. “I saw her in town and waved at her but she didn’t seem to notice me. Later they told me that was impossible because it was an hour after she died.” Long pause. “I think it was her ghost looking for me to say goodbye. If I hadn’ta gone to the Brickyard this never would have happened.” His sobs broke my heart.

  I tried to console him through the phone but we both knew it was ineffective. Before he hung up he said, voice shaking, “If you see that son of a—if you see Lapaglia, you tell him I will hunt him down if it’s the last thing I do.”

  I sat, phone still in my hand for a long
time. If Thomas actually killed Annamaria, he was one excellent actor. I wish I could have seen his face while he told me all that. Then I realized I could check his alibi pretty easily. An internet search quickly brought up the Brickyard and I called them.

  I asked the man who answered, “Hey, were you working Tuesday afternoon?”

  “I work every afternoon. I own the place.”

  “Do you remember Thomas Percy in there that day?”

  “I already told some other cop yes, he was sitting here from at least two o’clock when I put in his order for a bacon cheeseburger and fries until he left around five. Thomas didn’t kill Annamaria. Now leave me alone and get busy finding out who did.”

  Again, a flush of guilt shot through me. I couldn’t help it if people made assumptions about me. I didn’t tell Thomas I was a friend of Annamaria’s and I didn’t tell this guy I was with the police. But still.

  I considered Thomas Percy’s alibi. Eating a burger and nursing a beer all afternoon didn’t preclude him from sending a package bomb to be delivered while he was conveniently out of the way. But his voice on the phone. His demeanor. His sobs. Nobody is that good an actor. I just couldn’t believe he killed Annamaria.

  It had to be Lapaglia.

  I called our editor at Penn & Powell. “Steph, have you heard from Lapaglia in the last day or so?”

  “No. Why?”

  “He disappeared again. And did you hear that his wife was murdered?”

  Steph screeched into the phone. “Are you freakin’ kidding me? Charlee, I’ve got to go. Thanks for telling me.”

  The police hadn’t called Penn & Powell yet. What did that mean? Have they already caught him? Did they get my anonymous tip? Are they chasing him?

  I couldn’t fathom the answer but there was nothing I could do about that. I could, however, check the alibis of his girlfriends, now that I knew Annamaria’s time of death. With all the extra layers of scrutiny at the post office in recent years, I couldn’t see how a package bomb could go through the mail. It had to be delivered in person.

  I started with Lakshmi. “Where were you on Tuesday afternoon?”

  “At work until six. Why?”

  “Annamaria was killed at 4:00.”

  “And you think I did it?”

  Actually, the vision of mousey Lakshmi killing anyone was so far-fetched it was laughable. “Not really. But now will you go to the police with me? I really think it was Lapaglia. You might have information for them, or worse, be in danger.”

  “I’m not involved in this. And if you give them my name I’ll deny it.”

  For someone who most often resembled a doormat, she sounded quite adamant. Nothing I said could convince her and I think she actually hung up on me.

  Next, I called Cecilia.

  “I took the day off for my husband’s birthday. We went to Elitch’s. The water park and the rides. Sunburned my feet something awful. Why?”

  When I told her what I’d told Lakshmi, her voice pitched upward and her words came fast, tumbling over themselves. “I can’t get my name in the paper. My husband will kill me.”

  That didn’t seem like hyperbole. “Keep your park passes and we’ll take them to the police. There’s probably security cameras all over Elitch’s. Your alibi will be solid.”

  She calmed enough to put spaces between her words. “Charlee, there’s no way I’m going to the police. I’d be in more danger from my husband than I would Lapaglia or some random murderer. No way.”

  No amount of begging, lecturing, or cajoling could change her mind.

  I took a few deep breaths to prepare myself before I called Martina. I reminded myself I was doing all this to find Peter. And maybe to stop another murder.

  “What do you want?”

  “Where were you Tuesday afternoon?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  “Martina, look, I know you don’t like me, but two women have been murdered, possibly by the man you’re having an affair with. I’m worried you might be next.” I sounded more melodramatic than I wanted.

  Apparently she thought so too because she snorted. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a minute. But I think you might have information the cops can use to snag him. And if you’re not careful, they might sweep you up, too. You know, the girlfriend is always the prime suspect in the wife’s death.”

  “What’s your alibi?” She dragged the word out. “Aren’t you furious with Lapaglia for cheating you out of a ton of money?”

  A taste of bile crawled into my mouth. “That would make me kill him, not his wife.”

  “Says you. You better think long and hard about your intentions, missy.”

  Suddenly I didn’t care if she was swept up in this fiasco. “Fine. I’ll butt out.” I wanted to slam the phone down, but settled for the plink of disconnecting my iPhone.

  A rock formed in the pit of my stomach. Could a bomb get through the mail? It had happened before. And if it did, alibis didn’t matter.

  Not mine. Not anyone’s.

  Twenty-Four

  I washed my hands of Lapaglia and his girlfriends, leaving it up to the cops to follow up on my anonymous tip. I’d done everything I could.

  It was time to concentrate solely on finding Peter O’Drool.

  Even though he gave me the creeps, I emailed Archie Cruz through the Your Advocate tab on the Channel 29 website and asked if he had any information about where the Braid lived or visited when he was in Denver. If he’d been snooping around looking for a story, maybe he’d share. After all, he did say he owed me.

  While I waited for him to respond, I started calling local animal shelters. Halfway through the second one, my phone pinged with a new message.

  Archie Cruz responded. Mob connections everywhere. Like chain stores. Then he typed an address on east Colfax. I copied it into a search engine and up popped a map in a sketchy, mostly residential part of Denver. I raced over there.

  I double-checked the address then stepped into a scraggly yard. A rusty chain link gate hung by one hinge. I froze, hoping Peter would race out to greet me when he heard the metal-on-metal screech, and not a Rottweiler or Siberian tiger or something.

  Nothing raced out to greet me. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not.

  I picked my way up the cracked and weedy sidewalk. Pushed the doorbell and it fell off the wall. I knocked on the door, not entirely sure I wanted anyone to answer.

  Nobody did.

  Putting my ear to the door, I listened for any dog-like sounds, but heard nothing. I stepped to the picture window, covered on the inside with a droopy sheet. There was a gap in the corner where I thought maybe I could see inside. I cupped my hands and pressed close against the glass.

  “What are you doing?” A stern man’s voice behind me made me jump and bang my face on the window where I left a greasy nose print.

  I hurried away from the window, back toward the sidewalk. I was relieved it was just a man pushing a stroller. “I was looking for my dog.”

  “A pug?”

  “Yes! Do you know where he is?”

  “I saw it with the lady who lives here. Don't know her name. Redhead. She works at the liquor store on the corner.” He continued down the sidewalk.

  I wanted to hug him. Instead, I hollered after him, “Thank you!” and rushed off in the direction he’d indicated.

  I yanked open the door of the liquor store and was assaulted by the icy blast of a gung-ho air conditioner, but no Peter.

  “Help you?” A redhead stood behind the counter chewing something.

  “Yes. I’m looking for a cute little pug. I was told you might have seen him?” I was more than curious about any relationship she might have with the Braid. Was she part of the mob “chain stores” Archie Cruz alluded to? But I kept the focus on Peter. Besides, I was done—finis, kaput, pfft—with agonizing over some lowlife mobster. And what if she clammed up if I mentioned him? Who knows what he might have told her about me
.

  She reached into a tin in front of her and plucked out a small pretzel. “Yeah, I seen him.” She popped it into her mouth. “Lived with him for a bit but he was too demanding. Always wanted to go out but my gate is busted so I had to go out too, to keep him from running off after a rabbit. He also kept begging for these.” She shook the tin. “And they’re expensive! From the health food store.” She held the tin out. “Want one?”

  When I shook my head and started to ask about Peter, she said, “Go ahead. Treat yo self.” She shook the tin at me again and I felt it was in Peter’s best interest—and perhaps mine—to go ahead and take one.

  “Mmm,” I said. “Good pretzel.” It was a perfectly ordinary pretzel but I didn’t want to offend someone who had info about Pete. I looked around. “So is Peter, the dog ... is he here?”

  “Nah. Gave him to my mom. She hates pretzels and has a fenced yard.”

  “Can I have her address?”

  She shook her very red head. “Don’t know it.”

  My heart sunk.

  “But it’s two blocks thataway, then one thataway,” she said, pointing. “Has a swing set in the yard. Can’t miss it.”

  I again resisted the almost overwhelming urge to hug my thanks. Instead, I jogged two thataways, keeping my eyes peeled for a swing set. Three blocks later I stood in front of a nicely maintained house and yard with what could only be described as a child’s utopia. A two-story wooden play structure complete with widow’s walk and pirate’s mast filled most of the yard. The swings, slide, and monkey bars were empty, the yard quiet.

  I rang the doorbell and heard the hopeful ding-dong inside. After a few moments, an elderly woman opened the door.

  “Where’s the kids?” She peered behind me.

  I peered behind me as well. “The kids?”

  “My nephew’s kids. You’re not delivering them today?”

  “No, sorry. I think you have me confused with someone else. I’m here because your daughter told me she gave you a dog ... a pug?”

  “She did do.”

  I grinned. “Is he here? Can I see him?”

  “Nope. Gave him to my nephew’s kids.” She wrinkled her nose then pushed her glasses back upward. “That dog was a snore factory. And gassy to boot.”