Metaphor for Murder (Mystery Writer's Mysteries Book 3)

by Becky Clark

  “You’re not after me for something else now, are you?” I regretted it as soon as I said it. Ming wasn’t exactly known for his sense of humor.

  He frowned. “Should I be?”

  “No, of course not.” I sat down then bounced back up. “Of course not.”

  Ming allowed a tiny inscrutable smile to twist the corners of his mouth. “Actually I’m here asking people if they recognize this woman.” He handed me a photo of a woman in her 30s, maybe her 40s. I held it so Ozzi could see, too.

  I knew this poor woman had to be missing. Or worse. I closed my eyes. Took a deep calming breath before studying her photo. “Doesn’t look familiar to me,” I said.

  “Me either,” Ozzi said.

  “Are you here often?” Ming asked.

  “Here? At the train station?” I asked.

  Ming nodded. “Meeting this train.”

  “No, first time meeting the train,” Ozzi said.

  “We come down here to eat sometimes when we’re downtown. The Sixteenth Street Mall shuttle comes down here.” I babbled a string of words that ran together about restaurants we liked. Will Ming always have this effect on me? I forced myself to slow down. This was not about me. “Why? Who is she?”

  “Her name is Tiffany Isaac. Murder victim. We have reason to believe she’s met this train before. Just trying to find out if anyone knows or recognizes her.”

  “Oh, that’s sad.” I studied the photo again with this new information in mind, but I still didn’t recognize her. “That’s an interesting necklace she’s wearing. If it was in one of my books it would be a clue.”

  “Why’s that?” Ming asked.

  “Because it’s such an interesting, unique design. Look at those delicate curlicues. It looks like a flower.”

  Ozzi inspected it closer. “I see letters. Like a fancy monogram.”

  “Looks like a squiggle to me,” Ming said.

  “It’s probably handmade. I bet if you find out who made it, you can find out more about your victim.”

  Ming seemed unimpressed by my logic. “Indeed.” He held out his hand for the photo. “Thanks for your time.” He moved on to a group of people nearby.

  “He didn’t seem like he wanted your help to crack his case,” Ozzi said.

  “I know, right? What’s up with that?”

  I checked the time and glanced toward the doors again. Still no train. My eyes wandered around the large room. “Look over there. Standing at the Terminal Bar. It’s the King and Queen of Herzegovina. They’re here on vacation.”

  Ozzi looked where I indicated a tall blond couple. “That’s not the Royal Herzegovenes. That’s the entire Herzegovinian summer Olympics team. She’s a pole vaulter. He’s—”

  “Their water polo team.”

  Ozzi grinned.

  “He’s really good.”

  Ozzi searched the room to continue our game of “What’s Their Story?” We played it whenever we had time to kill in public. He pointed to a woman with a huge pile of luggage and stepping stone kids—an infant, a toddler, a preschooler, and a first grader. “She’s sending the older one off to Hogwarts.”

  “She’ll need a luggage cart. And I don’t see the right platform.”

  I pointed at a wiry old man with silver hair. It was shaved two-thirds up the sides of his head, but the top was left long. Really long. He wore it in a braid that fell halfway down his back.

  Ozzi followed my pointing finger. “He’s here to whack someone. They shouldn’t have ratted him out after that shakedown.” He pretended to hide behind me as the man’s eyes raked the room. “Oh no! Now he’s seen us. We need Witness Protection.”

  “Fuggedaboutit.” I feigned disinterest by cleaning my thumbnail. “He’s not very big. I can take him. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Oz. But look over there.” I indicated the buxom woman from earlier, leaning against the wall, staring at us.

  “What? She’s waiting for the train too.”

  “She’s staring at us.”

  “No, she’s not. She’s staring at the door, just like we are, using the full force of her mind to get the train here faster.”

  I stared at her, trying not to be obvious about it. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but that woman seemed full of power and confidence. She certainly exuded more than I did. “I think she must be Israeli special ops.” I watched her reach into her purse and without even looking, pull out a pair of dark aviator glasses and slide them on her face in one deft movement. She didn’t stab herself in the eye or anything. I reached for Ozzi’s arm but he was too far away so I swatted the air between us. “Oz, did you see that? How cool was that ... just reaching in and finding what she needed in her purse without searching or pawing through geologic layers of crap? Wow. Definitely special ops. And she’s cool enough to wear sunglasses indoors. Not many people can do that.”

  Ozzi put on his sunglasses.

  “Like I said...”

  “I don’t look like special ops?”

  “No. You look like a frat boy after a night of binge-drinking.”

  He pretended to guzzle from a bottle then took his sunglasses off.

  “I wonder how people see us,” I said.

  “Political power couple.” He sat up straight and smoothed his wavy brown hair. Then he gathered it up in a messy man-bun with his hand. “Or maybe college drop-outs here for the legal weed.”

  It was remarkable how he could go from buttoned-up to skuzzy so quickly. “You’re a master of disguise, Mr. Rabbinowitz ... if that’s your real name.”

  I studied the Great Hall, crowded with people, some waiting to travel, some waiting for travelers, some guests of the swanky hotel having their morning coffee, and some just sightseeing the historic old building. “Despite the fact nobody is interested in us and our activities, I’m sure, if they thought about it, they’d decide we were world famous sleuths only called in on the very toughest cases, like Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot.”

  “Like the Case of the Very, Very Late Train from Nebraska.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Or the case of why I always have to pee so much.”

  “Oh, that’s easy. Weak will, too much coffee, and lentil-sized bladder.”

  “You are an excellent sleuth. But now, if you’ll excuse me and my tiny bladder.” I hurried to the restroom.

  As I was struggling with the soap dispenser, I felt a presence behind me. I looked up and in the reflection of the mirror saw the zaftig woman so close she might have been my shadow. She pinned me to the sink, her enormous boobs and belly squishy against my spine. She put her mouth next to my ear. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but stay away from my man.”

  I pushed her away and lunged for the paper towel dispenser. “Ozzi? He’s your man? I don’t think so.” I quickly dried my hands while hurrying toward the exit. How can there be nobody in the women’s room right now?

  As if on cue, the door pushed open and a woman with two young girls came in. I scurried past them down the hallway back to the Great Hall, the buxom woman bouncing at my heels.

  I kept moving toward the Great Hall, but said, over my shoulder, “Lady, Ozzi and I have been dating for more than three years. I think you’re mistaken.”

  “I heard you talking about him. I’m just warning you. Stay away from him. He’s mine.”

  Talking about him? Oh, good grief. She was talking about Lapaglia. That’s why she was shooting daggers at me earlier. When I emerged from the hallway to the Great Hall, I was relieved to see the crowd surging. The train finally arrived and we could gather Lapaglia and get out of here. I kept one eye looking for Ozzi who wasn’t on the couch any longer, and one eye on the crazy lady so she didn’t sneak up behind me again. I saw her pull her phone from her back pocket and when she did, something fell to the floor. It looked like a business card holder. She pivoted away from me, talking on her phone. I rushed over and scooped up what she’d dropped. Wouldn’t hurt to know who she was, just in case. I was right, it was a plastic
case with a red-on-red raised logo on the front. I rubbed my thumb over it while I watched her fade into the crowd.

  Should I ask Lapaglia about her? Not sure how I’d broach that subject, since he was married, but he should probably be warned that his girlfriend was accosting strangers. Or maybe she was a stalker and he didn’t even know her. I glanced over my shoulder in the direction she’d gone.

  I dropped the business card case in my bag while I searched the crowd for either Ozzi or Lapaglia. We had to get to our event. If we left in the next five minutes and I drove fast, we could still get there on time. But just barely.

  Ozzi came up behind me and I jumped. “Oh! I thought you were that crazy lady again!”

  “What crazy lady?” He craned his neck to see over the crowd.

  “That Israeli special ops lady. Seems Lapaglia is a bigger jerk than I thought because she’s claiming to be his girlfriend and warned me away from him.”

  “But he’s married!” Ozzi looked like he did when he found out Red Velvet Cake was made with beet juice. The ultimate betrayal.

  “I know. And she’s not the lady I saw in the photos from when he won the Dark Dagger Award a few weeks ago.”

  “What photos?” he asked.

  “Online. From the group that puts on the awards. I saw them when I was looking for info to write my introduction of him for today.”

  “I’ve heard rumors for months that their marriage was a disaster and I keep getting community edits on Lapaglia’s Wikipedia page that his wife has this boyfriend, Thomas Percy—”

  “You remember his name?”

  “So many community edits,” he moaned. “I kept deleting them but they kept popping up. I was forced to make an ‘unconfirmed rumors’ section and just let it stay there. I hope nobody sues me for defamation or whatever.”

  “Why do the fans of Lapaglia’s thrillers care about the state of his marriage?”

  “Same reason there are Peeping Toms, I guess.”

  Ozzi and I stood right in the stream of traffic as the crowd surged around us. Two boulders in a swirling confluence of humanity. People entered from the outside door as well as from the hallway where baggage claim was located. “Regardless of what we think, we have to find him, and soon, to get to this event.” I stood on tiptoes trying to peer in every direction. A meerkat during a wildebeest migration.

  Ozzi slowly rotated in the heavy foot traffic. We both searched for Lapaglia.

  The crowd became thicker so I stood on a wooden bench against the wall. I scanned every man’s face while I mentally kicked myself for not making a big sign to hold up with his name in large print AND for believing Ozzi when he assured me that he’d recognize him right away and that Lapaglia would hate seeing a big sign with his name on it.

  The crowd thinned but still no sign of him. Ozzi indicated that he’d walk outside to the track to check out there. I stayed up on the bench. Now the crowd had ebbed to barely a trickle. I hopped from the bench and followed the hallway to baggage claim. Only a couple of people milled there by the big open window that served as the luggage pass-through. I stuck my head in so far that a burly railroad employee pulled me back into the hallway.

  “I’ll get your bags, ma’am.”

  “No, I’m looking for a passenger on the train.”

  “This is for baggage, lady, not people. They come in through the door. Sheesh.”

  “I know, but I—”

  The employee busied himself with wrangling two oversized bags for a couple. I glanced through the window again but only saw three bags: one with purple flowers, one covered with the Denver Broncos logo, and one child-sized Curious George roller bag. I didn’t think any of those were Lapaglia’s. I returned to the Great Hall. It made sense that he wouldn’t check a bag, since he was only staying overnight. He probably only had a small carry-on.

  Ozzi had surely run into him outside by now so I went there. No Ozzi, no Lapaglia. Just the stragglers getting on the train so it could continue on its way to California, with people seeing them off.

  I raced back indoors where I ran into Ozzi hurrying out.

  “Did you find him?” We spoke at the same time. “No, did you? No, did you?”

  I turned in a helpless circle in the Great Hall. Where was he?

  “I’ll go check the restroom,” Ozzi said.

  I walked in an aimless path around the flower stand and a coffee kiosk. I saw the National Railroad logo on a large window. I hurried around the corner to talk to the clerk. There were two people in front of me. One was finishing up a loud complaint about the cleanliness of the restroom on the train. The clerk calmed her down by promising to submit her complaint form to the proper person. The next person in line took so long asking about directions to the Brown Palace Hotel, I was ready to drive him there myself.

  Eventually it was my turn. “Can you tell me if someone was definitely on that train that just got here?”

  The clerk, a no-nonsense, no-neck kinda guy, looked at me suspiciously. “Why?”

  “Because I was supposed to meet someone and he never got off the train.”

  “Are you sure he got on the train?”

  Not really, but since that thought never crossed my mind, and carried the potential to send me into a full-fledged meltdown, I wasn’t about to tell him that. “Absolutely sure.”

  He stared at me so long I felt a trickle of sweat sneak down my butt crack. Finally he said, “Name.”

  “Charlemagne Russo.”

  He typed. “Nobody by that name.”

  “Oh. That’s my name. Your passenger is Rodolfo Lapaglia.”

  He rolled his eyes then typed again. “Yes, that ticket got lifted.”

  “Lifted?”

  “He was on the train.”

  “But I never saw him get off.”

  “Not my problem, lady.”

  “Where could he be?” I knew the guy didn’t care and that clearly we just missed him in the crowd. But that didn’t make me any less whiny.

  A woman cleared her throat. I turned and saw five impatient people behind me. “I’m sorry.” I stepped out of line and made my way back to the Great Hall.

  I dug the photo out of my purse again. Unfolding it, I showed it to the barista. “Did this guy buy coffee in the last half hour?”

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  Half an hour ago I wouldn’t have thought Lapaglia was the type to buy flowers, but now that I knew he had a girlfriend, I asked the teenage girl minding the flower kiosk if she’d seen him.

  She barely looked at the photo. “Not likely.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She waved an arm around the flowers. “You think I’m so busy I wouldn’t notice a customer?”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “Whatev.”

  I saw Ozzi walking toward me. Alone.

  “I checked the restroom and all the shops. No sign.”

  “He probably headed straight out to get a cab or went out to eat or something, even though he knew we were picking him up.” My stomach rolled and I hugged myself. “I knew he was going to turn out to be a jerk. I just knew it.”

  Two

  “Take a breath. It’ll be fine. I’m sure he either forgot or didn’t know we were picking him up and went straight to the cab stand. We just didn’t see him in the crowd.”

  “Probably.” My phone rang and I checked the caller ID. “It’s AmyJo. I hope she’s got everything under control there.” I answered. “Hey, Ames.”

  “Where are you? People are getting anxious.”

  “Little glitch, but don’t worry. The train was late and we missed Lapaglia. We’re thinking he hurried off to find a cab. Probably get there before we do. We’re on our way.”

  It took us forty-eight minutes to jog to the car and speed down Interstate 25, merge on the tollway to the Parker Arts, Culture, and Events Center—commonly called the PACE Center—where I’d rented the space for today’s event. I screeched up, parked where I shouldn’t, and we ran inside.

  Am
yJo met us in the lobby. Her mascara had worked its way from her lashes to form dark half-moons under her eyes. She had either just taken a Zumba class or she was very, very nervous. We spoke in unison.

  “He isn’t here?”

  “He isn’t with you?”

  “Oh, no!” I checked the time. It was after ten. Lapaglia was supposed to give a two-hour workshop beginning at nine o’clock. Then a box lunch Q&A period with us both from eleven until one, another workshop with Lapaglia from one until three, and then the public book signing, complete with wine and cheese reception, until five o’clock, the culmination of which was to be the highly anticipated live auction of five manuscript critiques from him.

  I put my head in my hands and tried to wake myself up from this nightmare.

  “Charlee, what do you want us to do?”

  I heard AmyJo but didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. My first instinct was to march into the room, and tell the two hundred angry people sitting in there what a jerk Rodolfo Lapaglia is, then give them their money back. But I couldn’t do that because I didn’t have their money. I signed all the contracts—for this place, breakfast pastries and coffee, the box lunches, the wine and cheese—and put all the deposits on my credit card. But all the registrations went through Lapaglia’s website. He already had an online payment system set up because he sold downloads of his “How To Write” tutorials, as well as t-shirts and ugly trucker hats that say Read More, Mob Less.

  Lapaglia has all the money and I have all the bills.

  I started to hyperventilate. “I ... can’t ... breathe!” I reached for Ozzi who walked me to a lobby chair, sat me down, and bent my head toward my feet.

  “Deep breaths, Charlee. Iiiiiiiin ..... oooooooout. Iiiiiiin .....oooout. That’s right. In .... and out. Just like that.”

  “Uh oh,” AmyJo said.

  I kept my elbows on my knees and raised only my head. Red-faced, curl-lipped, vein-twitching people were streaming from the event room. Right at me. The only thing missing from this scene were the pitchforks.

  Ozzi held my upper arm and urged me to my feet. It took some effort on his part because all I wanted to do was hide under the cushion and pretend this was all a dream.