Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  “Do you have this design on ... other pieces? I don’t really, um, wear necklaces.” Lame. She was going to get suspicious.

  “Yes. I can stamp it on any of my silver pieces, earrings, bracelet cuffs, hair accessories.”

  I needed to make sure. “My friend Tiffany has a necklace just like this one.” Present tense.

  “Yes, that poor girl loved my designs.”

  Past tense. Aha! Trapped her with my cunning rhetoric. But wait. Tiffany’s murder was on the news. I poked the fire again while I thought of my next move.

  Time ran out, though, because at that moment Velvet pulled a gun from her pocket and waved it at me.

  Without thinking I said, “You’re going to kill me like you did Tiffany?”

  “She was annoyingly nosy, too.” Velvet aimed right at me. “Too smart for her own good. She figured it out.”

  “Figured what out?” If there was one thing I’d learned recently, it was that criminals liked to brag about, or at least explain, their crimes. They all seemed to think somehow they were the victims.

  “She figured out I wanted to escape my life and start over.”

  I remembered at Lost Valley how Lapaglia told me and the Braid about his last conversation with Tiffany. “You’ve wanted someone else’s life since that day in the sushi restaurant in college. You’re playing the long game.”

  She laughed. “You might be too smart for your own good too. Did you figure out I even got a nose job?” She caressed the side of her nose.

  “But why? Why not just move to Wisconsin or Berlin or wherever? Open your jewelry store and live your life.”

  Velvet grimaced. “If only I could. The Family wouldn’t allow it. I know too much about too many things. If they thought I was dissatisfied or worse, disgruntled, they’d kill me to keep me quiet.”

  “So you had to make it look like the Braid, er, Cesare Silvio was feeding information to Lapaglia.”

  She pointed the gun at me. “I recognize you now. You were at that coffee shop with the old couple.”

  I pointed my stick at her. “Yes. And you were trying to find Lapaglia. So now that you have, why don’t you take him and get out of here?” The smoldering stick trembled in my hand. “And could you quit pointing that at me?” I gestured at the gun.

  She looked at the gun in her hand, shrugged, and lowered it. Now she aimed it at my foot. “My work here isn’t quite finished.”

  “What work is that?” I shuffled a bit to the side so the gun aimed at the ground next to me.

  “Well, for starters, I’d like to kill Lapaglia and pin it on his harem. Just like I’m pinning Tiffany’s murder on him.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t need the details, but let’s just say I was a bad girl and he’s the only one who might tell my family.”

  “Yeah, families can be ... unforgiving.”

  “Ha! You don’t know the half of it.” Her brittle laugh hung in the air.

  “But at least they let you borrow the family car.” I thought about the Braid accusing me of knowing so much about the mob. “Did you kill Annamaria because she actually wrote the books?”

  Anger flashed on Velvet’s face. “I was the one who wrote those books. I planned out every line, delivered every story to him.” She waved her gun toward Lapaglia unseen in the motel room behind us. “I should have won that Dark Dagger award.”

  “Then why kill Annamaria?”

  “That was actually a mistake. Why would someone open a package bomb addressed Personal and Confidential to someone else?”

  “Because they didn’t know it was a bomb?”

  “I suppose. It was unfortunate, though. I regret that. I don’t often make such mistakes. Gruesome business, murder.”

  “Why’d you go to Nebraska if you sent a package bomb?”

  “Oh, honey, don’t mess with the U. S. Postal Service. They will catch you every time. The only way to deliver a package bomb is in person.” She smiled indulgently like she was explaining the ABCs to a toddler.

  My skin turned to gooseflesh. This lady was a cold-blooded killer. And I was having a conversation with her. Maybe that meant she liked me and wasn’t planning on killing me. After all, I wasn’t part of Lapaglia’s harem.

  “But like I said, Tiffany was annoyingly nosy, too.” She raised the gun again and pointed it at my face.

  I lunged to the side and snatched up a folding aluminum lawn chair, holding it in front of me like a shield. Like that would protect me. I held it rigidly between us, wildly hoping she was bluffing. At the exact moment I saw Velvet’s finger twitch, I dove out of the way, chucking the lawn chair sideways at her.

  She was knocked off balance and stumbled right into the fire pit. She shrieked. I heard a whoosh and saw flames licking at her pantsuit.

  I screamed and dragged her out by her arms, rolling her in the grass, batting out the flames. I sprawled on top of her, pinned her tight, now that her capris weren’t burning.

  Popcorn noises and the acrid smell of hot metal assailed my senses. The gun was in the fire.

  “How many bullets?” I screamed in her ear. I flattened myself on top of her, not really caring what the number was at this point, not really. I restrained her in my terrified superhuman pancake embrace until the popcorn noises dissipated and I was sure all the bullets had discharged.

  Martina sidled out the sliding door holding Lapaglia as her shield. Lakshmi and Cecilia inched forward behind them.

  Lakshmi and Cecilia spoke simultaneously.

  “Are you okay?”

  “What happened?”

  Martina peered around Lapaglia into the flames. “Thank God for deep fire pits.”

  “Get off me!” Velvet struggled under my weight.

  “No. Not until I know what’s going on. And I’m sure no more ammo will go off.” I twisted my head to look at Lapaglia, still being held hostage in front of Martina. “You start.”

  “I don’t know what’s—” he started.

  Martina shook him. “Don’t you dare lie to us.”

  Lapaglia looked at me sitting on Velvet. “Fine. It was Velvet feeding me all that information about the mob so I could write my books. But somebody found out so she double-crossed Silvio—the Braid—and pinned it on him. He wanted me to go back to Jersey and confess to clear his name. But I’m pretty sure even if I did, he would have whacked me.”

  “Did you know she wants to whack you, too?” I asked him.

  “The gun in my ribs gave me a clue,” he said.

  I remembered seeing them get out of the car and how they stood so close together in the motel room. She was holding that gun on him the whole time. What a cool customer she was.

  “Why does she want to kill him?” Martina asked.

  “If I had to guess, it’s because he’s the only one who can blab that she was doing the informing on the mob. She’s ruined the Braid’s credibility, maybe even killed him too,” I said, thinking about her driving up in his car.

  Velvet bucked hard under me, trying to throw me off. When she couldn’t, she wrenched her head sideways.

  I bent toward her face. “Unless Lapaglia was wearing your fancy hair comb, I bet most of the evidence points to you being at the crime scene in Nebraska. And I bet package bombs throw off a lot of other evidence. Plus, you have all of us as witnesses to your confession.” I pressed her more firmly into the weedy grass. She snuffled and sneezed as the individual blades poked into her nose.

  Velvet struggled to get away but I held her tight. She seemed to relax a bit, probably coming to grips with the fact she was trapped.

  “You really killed Annamaria and Tiffany?” Lapaglia asked her. “I thought you were different. What kind of monster are you?” Lapaglia’s question came out like a whine.

  “Different than other mob killers?” I looked at him, incredulous. “And while we’re asking questions, how did you not notice the resemblance between Velvet and your wife?”

  “I never saw her until today when she accosted me
on the way here.”

  I must have loosened my grip on Velvet at this surprising statement because the next thing I knew I was seeing stars, just like in a cartoon. The back of her head came up again, this time catching my nose instead of my forehead. Nausea gripped me as my vision narrowed to a pinprick. I’d never felt so much pain before. My muscles turned to pudding and I rolled off her. She scrambled away before Lakshmi or Cecilia even knew what had happened and could react.

  She sneered at me. “Big mistake. Watch your back.” Velvet disappeared around the corner of the breezeway.

  Nobody spoke for several moments. Martina kept a tight hold of Lapaglia’s upper arms.

  When my pinpoint of vision widened a bit, Lakshmi and Cecilia helped me struggle to my feet. I probed my nose to see if it was broken. It didn’t seem to be bleeding, but I couldn’t believe that was possible, based on the pain factor.

  The fire crackled, sending me back to the grass, belly first, hands over my head. When I realized it was just a knot in one of the logs, I slowly pushed myself up to a sitting position. The bright white from the shower of sparks disappeared and it seemed darker than ever, even though the sun hadn’t set yet. Maybe I was blacking out. I rolled onto my back and closed my eyes.

  “Hands in the air!”

  Two police officers rounded the corner from the breezeway with guns drawn. A third escorted a handcuffed Velvet.

  We immediately complied, me from my position flat on my back.

  The one holding Velvet said, “We have a report of shots fired.”

  With my hands straight up in the air, I used one finger to point into the fire pit. “The gun's in there.” I rotated my finger and pointed at Velvet. “It was her.”

  Two more cops, one female, came around the corner, guns drawn. They patted us all down for weapons, then holstered their guns. One heaved me to my feet.

  The first officer holstered his gun too. “What’s going on here?” he asked, staring straight at me. I didn’t know why I looked like the ringleader here.

  “I think you’ll find that lady”—I pointed at Velvet—“has murdered Annamaria Lapaglia and probably has her passport, IDs, and credit cards in her possession somewhere. She also killed Tiffany Isaac.”

  The officer pulled out a notepad.

  Lapaglia looked as if he was going to throw up. “I’ve caused a lot of trouble, haven’t I?” he whispered.

  “Ya think?”

  Two of the officers carted Velvet away.

  The female officer leaned close to Cecilia. “Where’d you get that shiner?”

  Cecilia took a deep breath. “Husband.”

  The officer glanced at Lapaglia. “Him?”

  Cecelia shook her head and stared at the ground. Suddenly she looked up and said, “I want to press charges. I want him to pay. Just like him.” She jabbed a finger in Lapaglia’s direction.

  The officer patted Cecelia’s shoulder then took some quick photos of her eye with a cell phone. “After we finish up here, we’ll take care of you.”

  After making sure I didn’t need medical attention, they sat us down in lawn chairs while they processed the scene and asked us questions. I drew the short straw and ended up next to Lapaglia.

  He leaned toward me. “As soon as they give me my phone back, I’m going to get those funds—and then some—transferred to you as thanks for saving my life.”

  “But not because you owe me? Dillhole.”

  Martina, Cecilia, and Lakshmi all chimed in, rallying to my defense, nonstop expletives rained down in a steady stream until the female cop raised a hand to quiet us.

  “Why’s he a dillhole ... and all those other things?” she asked.

  Martina told her the whole story of how he used each of them and lied to them, how he’d screwed me over with the workshop event, and ended with, “Can we burn his manuscript?”

  The police officer looked each one of us in the eye and finally said, “I’ll help.”

  She and Cecilia went inside to collect the pages.

  I turned to Lapaglia. “If you never saw Velvet until today, how’d you get the bolo tie from her?”

  “I didn’t get it from her. It was a gift from Tiffany. She said she asked a friend to make it. If only—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, if wishes were horses. Do you have any way to contact Cesare Silvio? Do you think he’d give back Peter even after I tied him up and accidentally cut off his braid?”

  One of the cops, who I thought was engrossed in writing his report said, “You did what now?”

  I sighed and told him the story of how the Braid was after Lapaglia and kidnapped Peter O’Drool to make me help locate him. “But even though I did, he disappeared instead of returning Peter to me.”

  “No honor among thieves anymore.” The cop pursed his lips.

  “That’s what I said!”

  One of the other cops added, “Is he that mob guy? Didn’t we get a call about him?”

  The female cop came out with Cecilia who carried the manuscript pages.

  “Hey, Delgado.” He addressed the female cop. “What was that mob guy’s name the FBI called about?”

  “Cesare Silvio,” she said.

  “Where is he?” I shouted. “I need him to tell me where Peter is, the dog he kidnapped.”

  “Long gone.” She helped herself to some pages from the stack of papers Cecilia held. Lakshmi and Martina did the same. “By the time the sheriff’s department near the resort called the task force, he’d already hopped a plane.”

  “Back to Jersey?” Lapaglia asked.

  “Nope. Direct from Denver to Frankfurt. Disappeared into eastern Europe by now, I bet.” She fed pages into the fire with the others. “He’ll turn up eventually.”

  “Not soon enough for Peter, though.” I slumped in my seat.

  After a few minutes of staring into the fire, I turned toward Lapaglia who flinched each time a page of his manuscript caught fire.

  “Why did Alan Fraser at Lost Valley tell the cops not to come when he found out I’d called 911?”

  Lapaglia didn’t take his eyes off the fire. “Didn’t want bad publicity, probably. Or maybe he has a healthy fear of the mob. Who knows.”

  Who knows indeed.

  “Why weren’t you a registered guest there?”

  “Alan Fraser was using me, so I used him too. Told him I didn’t want anyone tracking me there.”

  “That makes no sense. He wanted the publicity of having you there, but he wanted to keep it a secret?”

  “He called Archie Cruz. He wanted to control the publicity.”

  I shook my head, watching as the women burned Lapaglia’s manuscript and illustrations. Lakshmi, Cecilia, and Martina began dancing around the fire pit like the witches from Macbeth. They were truly enjoying themselves; this was a very cathartic experience for them.

  The police officer tossed her remaining pages in the fire and grinned as they fluttered down and blazed. Then she turned away from the fire and leveled her index finger at Lapaglia. He had a resigned look on his face and I hoped he learned his lesson.

  I was glad the murders were solved, the Braid was out of the country, and that everyone—me included—would get their money back from the cancelled workshop. Hopefully Lapaglia would honor his word to add a bit more so I could pay Ozzi back and cover all the overdraft fees sure to trickle in on my account.

  But I’d give every dime back and live in abject poverty forever if only I could locate Peter. How could I go home and face Don and Barb? A tear slipped out of the corner of my eye and slid down my face before I could swipe it away.

  The female cop noticed because she said, “Hey, Schwartzman, can these ladies be excused?”

  “You got all their info?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then cut ‘em loose.”

  I couldn’t bear going home so I steered my car toward the park where I’d unsuccessfully looked for Peter before. It was the only place I could think of to go. I parked on the street and walked the l
ast couple of blocks. I passed a health food store and did a double-take when I saw a display of those tins of fancy pretzels that lady said Peter kept begging for. On a whim, I veered inside and with the last of the cash Ozzi had loaned me, bought one as a tribute to poor Peter.

  The world had slowed and everything seemed cold, despite the summer weather.

  The cashier chattered as she took Ozzi’s money from me but I didn’t hear a word she said. I was filled to the brim with melancholy and guilt that I didn’t know what to do with.

  At the park I sat on a bench and watched ducks swim in the pond across the way. Beyond that was a pick-up game of basketball.

  Watching the sunset normally made me feel so serene, but tonight it smothered me with gloom. I took the cellophane wrapper off the tin of pretzels. I popped open the lid and ate one. Maybe my blood sugar was too low.

  On a whim, I shook the tin and called Peter’s name. If this was a movie, he’d come charging out of the lengthening shadows, backlit and beautiful, and make a slow-motion leap into my arms like he’d just been waiting for me to come and get him. I shook it again. Called him.

  Nothing.

  This was not a movie.

  I ate a few more pretzels without tasting them, staring at the basketball game until the players left the court. Despondent or not, I couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer. As nice as Barb and Don were, I’d have to move from the apartment complex. Every time we’d see one another, all those dreadful emotions would come roaring back. The stress of losing Peter would kill us all.

  I stood from the bench and brushed salt and pretzel crumbs from my lap. The park was poorly lit and now with the sun mostly down, I had to walk carefully over the uneven grass.

  A rabbit rocketed out from under a nearby bush and scared the bejeebers out of me. I twisted my ankle and bobbled the tin as I fell to my knees. The lid flew off. Pretzels rained down like a summer hailstorm.

  A blur streaked by. Still on my hands and knees, I let loose a streak of inventive curses directed at those frolicking rabbits, but maybe bottled up and aimed at Lapaglia, the Braid, and Velvet, too. I collected my wits for a moment, then rolled to my butt so I could brush the dirt from my knees and check for bleeding. I pulled out my phone and shined the flashlight on my knees.