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

by Becky Clark

  When I got to the car, I asked Ozzi, “Did you see that guy with the long braid?”

  He looked around then returned to his task. “What guy?”

  “He looked just like the guy from the train station we pretended was in the mob.”

  Ozzi snapped his head up. “Could it have been Lapaglia?”

  “No. Too small and skinny. Don’t you remember him from the station? It was just a couple hours ago.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It was probably just one of the janitors anyway.” I glanced over my shoulder but didn’t see anyone. A slight uneasiness pricked at me. Was it possible Lapaglia wasn’t just being a jerk? Could something have actually happened to him? It seemed unlikely. I brushed it from my mind.

  AmyJo took her truckload of sandwiches to the food bank attached to her mega-church while Ozzi drove my car to Samaritan House to unload. When we finished I asked if he’d drive home too, so I could make some phone calls while on the road. I didn’t know if it would help, but I felt like I had to do something.

  As he drove back to our apartment complex I placed several calls, none of which were answered. I left increasingly frantic, and often duplicate, messages explaining that Lapaglia was missing and asking for any information about his whereabouts or his contact information. I started with my agent, then moved down practically the entire contact list at Penn & Powell Publishing. I began at the top with the publisher himself, the contracts department, the editorial director, my editor, her assistant, the publicity guy, both his part-time assistants, and the sales department, just for good measure. If I knew who scrubbed the corporate toilets I’d probably have called them, too.

  By the time I finished, we were home. As Ozzi pulled into my parking space, I dug around my bag for my house keys. I felt something I couldn’t identify and pulled it out. It was the business card holder that woman at the train station dropped a thousand years ago this morning. I opened it and saw five identical business cards. The logo on the cards matched the one on the plastic case. I read the name. Martina McCarthy, Marketing Expert. That must be her name. Nobody carries around multiple copies of someone else’s business card.

  I studied the familiar-looking red-on-red logo but couldn’t decide if it was really familiar, or just familiar because I saw the case at the train station. I held it out to Ozzi. “Look at this logo. Is it familiar to you?”

  It took him all of two seconds to respond. “Yeah,” he said, matter-of-factly. “It’s the same design as that necklace on the dead girl in the photo Detective Ming showed us.”

  Four

  Sleep had eluded me and I waited in bed for the sun to make an appearance, signifying an appropriate time to get out of bed. I had checked my phone obsessively the rest of the day and all night to see if there was any word from Lapaglia or anyone from Penn & Powell. Nothing. Unless you count the angry emails and social media posts from people asking me for their money back from the workshop. I sent them all the same message. I’m sorry. This is frustrating for everyone. I’m trying to fix it.

  There wasn’t even anything from my agent, who I was fairly certain remained tethered to her phone most of the time. I splayed my legs out from under the sheets, then pulled them back under again. I didn’t know what to do about my situation or my personal comfort.

  Ozzi woke up, pulled me close and nuzzled my neck. I got that familiar tingle, but couldn’t sustain it. “Sorry. My mind is elsewhere.”

  “Not after your mind.” He licked my ear.

  The tingle rushed back, but again, sadly, faded. I sat up and sighed. “Raincheck?”

  “Always.” He knelt behind me and rubbed my neck. “Did you sleep?”

  “Not really.” I turned toward him. “I’m worried about Lapaglia. It seems weird he hasn’t called anyone at Penn & Powell yet. And last night, late, I called the hotel Steph booked for him and they said he hadn’t checked in.”

  “Agreed. Very weird. But I’m sure he’s fine and this is all just a misunderstanding. Maybe he got the dates mixed up.”

  “Maybe.” I sighed. “I feel bad being so worried about something as mundane as money when maybe something really bad happened to him.”

  “Nothing happened to him. And it’s normal to worry about this. It’s a lot of money!”

  “I just don’t know what to do. I can’t afford any of this right now, even when I get that teaching job.”

  He kissed my shoulder. “I know how you could save some money.”

  “How?”

  “Move in with me.”

  “What?” His apartment was on the third floor of Building JJ in the back of the complex, mine was on the ground floor of Building D in the front of the complex. We watched the sun rise from his bed and watched it set from mine. We both liked this arrangement, or so I thought. Together, but with some elbow room. “You love having your own place.”

  “But I love you more.”

  “Ohferpetesake, you’re killin’ me with adorableness here!” I planted one right on his mouth, tongue and everything. “I love you more than grilled cheese sandwiches, and you know how much I love grilled cheese sandwiches”—he nodded—“but I can’t let you do that. First, because you don’t really want to live with me—” He tried to protest but I put one finger on his lips. “Right now. And besides, it still wouldn’t be enough money. Not soon enough, anyway.”

  The relief on his face would have made a lesser woman angry, but I found it endearing. Because I felt the same way. I had no doubt we’d move in together at some point—some future point in the future a long time in the future—but for now, this arrangement was perfect. We were perfect. And I wasn’t going to let this fiasco screw it up for us.

  “No. I’ve got to figure this out, find Lapaglia, and get him to reimburse me and all those participants. But thank you for the offer. You are a true gentleman.” I slipped him some more tongue. “But how ‘bout we go get some breakfast, then visit Miss Martina McCarthy at the address on her business card?”

  “It’s Sunday. She’s probably not there.”

  “I know. But I have to do something or I’m going to go crazy.”

  Ozzi stepped into the shower with me and my engine revved. We got a little dirty before we got clean, but in short order were presentable enough to make our way to Espresso Yourself, our favorite coffee shop slash bookstore across the street from our apartment complex. I glanced up as I always did and smiled at the handmade wooden sign painted in bright, cheerful colors with their tagline, for when you have a latte on your mind.

  We were up and at ‘em a bit earlier than usual on a Sunday so the crowd was sparse. We were greeted by the forty-pound strawberry-blonde canine hostess, Nova. I bent to rub her velvety ears and kiss her in the middle of the white blaze on her snout. “Hello, sweet girl. Got a table for us today?”

  She accepted my love, waited for some sort of benediction from Ozzi, and after she got a chin chuff and a couple of loving thumps on her side, led us to a table in the corner. She curled up, nose to tail, on the floor next to me. She and I had an unbreakable bond since I was the one who rescued her from a bitterly cold snowstorm over the winter and introduced her to Lavar and Tuttle, the owners here. They cleaned her up and got her a check-up with the vet who also checked her for a microchip. When he found none, Lavar and Tuttle kept her while performing their due diligence to find her owners. They put up posters, put photos and notes all over social media and the neighborhood online group, but nobody claimed her. They named her Nova because that’s the sudden appearance of a bright new star. And she was.

  Tuttle came out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a towel, which he then flipped over one shoulder. It looked tiny compared to his bulging pec and bicep. He’d retired from the Marines several years earlier, but he was still the poster boy for Uncle Sam’s muscular fighting machine. He brought two mugs and the coffeepot. “Hey, you two lovebirds. Want your regular?”

  “Hi, Tut. I do,” I said, while he poured our coffee. “And throw in a mini bacon quic
he for my little friend.”

  “I don’t want a mini bacon quiche,” Ozzi said, confused.

  “Not you. Nova!” At the sound of her name, she lifted her head. I bent to pet her. “Who’s a hungry girl?”

  Ozzi said, “I doubt she’s hungry, cleaning up all the dropped food around here.”

  Tuttle’s free hand fluttered to his throat. “Sugar honey ice tea, boy!” A Marine who cursed in code always made me laugh. “That dog wouldn’t deign eat a crumb from the floor. She patrols all day, and if she sees some spill, she stands at attention near it until we clean it up. Improvise, adapt, and overcome.”

  Ozzi laughed. “Are you sure she’s really a dog? Maybe she’s actually an oversized cat.”

  At the word, Nova scrambled to her feet and raced around the cafe.

  “Nova. Stand down,” Tuttle commanded.

  Nova glared at Ozzi then sat at Tuttle’s feet, staring up at him. If she could talk she would have said, “Why are you discussing the lowest species of the animal kingdom if there isn’t one to dispatch?”

  “Sorry, sweets. False alarm.” Tuttle rubbed her head. “She doesn’t like F-E-L-I-N-E-S or their owners. If a F-E-L-I-N-E owner comes in, she’ll sit near and watch them till they leave. Like security guards watch me in department stores.” Tuttle flashed his ultra-white teeth.

  “Who are you calling Sweets?” Lavar came up behind Tuttle, wrapped his arms around his abs, and kissed his cheek. Tuttle might have been chiseled from obsidian, but Lavar was molded in bronze. Not quite as big, but it was clear they both loved their free weights. And their free weights loved them back. And arms. And chest. “Hey, Oz. Hey, gorgeous.” He stepped from behind Tuttle, sat at our table, and kissed my hand.

  “Hey, yourself,” I said. “You look mighty spiffy this morning.” I indicated his teal-on-pink paisley bowtie over his pink Oxford.

  “Just came from church. That congreeegation was on fire! Praise Jesus! Sermon was all about—”

  “Uhn uhn uh.” Tuttle waggled his finger at him. “You know the rules. You can’t preach about Jesus in here unless I can preach about—”

  “I know,” Lavar said good-naturedly. “The Flying Spaghetti Monster.”

  “I was going to say ‘science,’ but okay. Now give me a kiss so I can go get these fine and deserving customers their breakfast.”

  Ozzi and I shared a smile at their antics and sipped our coffee.

  After Tuttle returned to the kitchen, Lavar said, “So what brings you two in so early on the Lord’s day, I mean Sunday?” He grinned.

  “I couldn’t sleep so I made my perfect boyfriend get up with me.” I flashed a silly grin at Ozzi.

  “Something worrying you?” Tuttle asked.

  “Um, yeah. If by worry you mean scaring the bejeebers out of me.”

  Lavar leaned toward me, wrapped his huge hands around mine. “Talk to me.”

  I told him everything.

  “So, this Lapaglia is missing? Have you told your brother?”

  Ozzi put down his coffee cup. “That’s a good idea.”

  I shrugged. I leaned on Lance’s police expertise for research purposes, and lately, all too often for personal problems. On more than one occasion, most recently in Portland, he had lectured me that adults enjoyed free will and just because we couldn’t locate them when we wanted, it didn’t mean they were technically missing persons. “He’s doing some sort of firearms training this weekend, but I was going to call him later. I know what he’ll say, though.” I mimicked his voice. “It’s no crime to ditch out of an author event.”

  Ozzi shook his head. “That’s a terrible impression.”

  “Don’t sound a thing like him,” Lavar agreed. “Tell me more about this Lapaglia fellow.”

  “Nothing more to tell, in case I forgot to mention that Rodolfo Lapaglia might be a world-class dillhole if he’s doing this on purpose.” At that last part, my voice got loud and screechy. I couldn’t help it. And it made me feel like a dillhole when I considered again that something might have happened to him.

  Lavar flashed his gap-toothed smile to reassure the other customers who turned toward my ruckus that all was well and to continue with their pastries and coffee.

  “Charlee,” Ozzi said. “I really think you should quit using his name so loudly and so ... so ... angrily. Everything you say might be slanderous and you can’t afford any more trouble right now. We don’t know what happened and until we do—”

  “He’s right. Y’all better pipe down or you may get lit up by someone.”

  I glanced at one, then the other and sighed, even though I wasn’t sure what getting lit up might entail. Didn’t sound good, though. “You’re right.” I dug around for Lapaglia’s book jacket in my bag and yanked it out, perhaps a little too roughly, because it tore. I finished the job, leaving just the ragged margins around his face on the author photo. I held it out to Lavar. “Here’s his picture.”

  Lavar put his finger on his chin and went full gay. “Ooh, gurl! He a purty one! Mm mm mmmm.”

  I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt my neck. “My mom always said pretty is as pretty does and right now I have no idea if what he’s doing is anywhere near pretty.” A guilty twinge rankled me when I again wondered whether he might actually be in trouble somewhere. I wadded up the scraps from the book jacket and threw them away in the big trashcan near the front door. I saw a familiar silver braid outside in front of Espresso Yourself. I hurtled myself out the door with a hysterical, “Who ARE you? Are you following me? What do you want?” But by the time I got there, he was gone. I ran to the corner near the alley but didn’t see him. When I got back to Espresso Yourself, Lavar and Ozzi both stood on the sidewalk poised for trouble.

  “What’s going on?” Ozzi was in a slight crouch, ready to spring.

  “That guy with the braid. I think I saw him again.”

  Lavar set his jaw and planted his feet in a wider stance. “Should I get Betty?” He kept his voice low.

  “No! You keep that thing locked up,” I said.

  “Who’s Betty?” Ozzi asked.

  “My gun.”

  Ozzi wrapped his arm around my shoulder and steered me back to our table. Lavar followed, telling customers everything was fine.

  “I think you should call Lance,” Ozzi said. “It does no good to have a brother on the police force if you won’t let him know what’s going on. You have a disappearance, perhaps theft or embezzlement or whatever they’d call it, and now some guy might be following you? Call Lance.”

  “Gotta agree with the bf on this one, Charlee. Make the call. I’ll go help Tut.”

  Lavar ducked into their office between the front counter and the kitchen. When he came out I saw he was untucking his shirt. He caught me looking and shrugged. Ex-combat Marines always felt safer with a gun.

  I dialed Lance’s number. As it rang, I said to Ozzi, “He won’t answer. He has that training—Oh. You answered. I thought you were in a class or something.”

  “On a break. Why’d you call if you knew I was busy?”

  “Ozzi made me.”

  Even through my cellphone I knew Lance had tensed. “What’s up, but make it quick.”

  I told him about Lapaglia. When I finished Ozzi whispered, “Don’t forget about the guy you keep seeing.” I shushed him.

  “Charlee, it’s no crime for the guy not to show up at your event.”

  “I KNEW you’d say that.” I bugged my eyes at Ozzi, feeling vindicated even though Oz hadn’t heard a word Lance said. But I’d tell him. You could be sure I’d tell him. “But should I report him as missing?”

  “What did the train people say?”

  “That he got on the train.”

  “And where did he get off?”

  “I didn’t ask specifically. I just assumed—”

  “That’s why you’d never make a good cop.”

  Brothers were infuriating sometimes. “Should I report him as missing?” I asked again, this time putting dramatic pauses between each
word.

  “No. Is he married? Call his wife and get her to do it.”

  “I don’t know his wife.”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. What would a character in one of your books do?”

  “She’d ask her helpful contact at the police department to help her.”

  Lance laughed. “You always say fiction is easier than real life. Here’s another example.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “You’re welcome, Space Case. I gotta go.”

  Lance hung up before I could even say goodbye. But my alert rang with a text from him. “Be careful. Let me know if you need anything.” Then he added a couple of poop emojis.

  I responded with a thumbs-up, an okay sign, and kissy lips.

  Brothers were infuriating, but I knew this one had my back.

  I put my phone away.

  Ozzi said, “Why didn’t you tell him about the braid guy?”

  “Because it would just worry him.” I thought for a moment. “I don’t even know if that’s who I saw. Maybe it’s just my imagination. I need to concentrate on problems I know I have. Like Lapag—the Author Who Shall Not Be Named.”

  Lavar brought out our food and poured us more coffee. I noticed he kept his back to the wall and his head on a swivel. I didn’t know if that made me feel protected or more anxious. I decided the best course of action was to ignore Lavar’s gun and instead, placed the bacon quiche on a paper napkin on the floor next to Nova. She graciously thanked me with a dainty lick to my fingers, then very delicately nibbled it with her tiny front teeth. Such a lady.

  While Ozzi and I ate, I considered my options. “The more I think about it, the more I’m sure that Martina woman with the business cards must be involved in this somehow. Otherwise why would she be at the station? Maybe she whisked him away right from under our noses.”

  “Or maybe they had a secret place to meet up, if they were having an affair like she said. Maybe he got off the train and never even came in the building. They could have met out on Wynkoop or he could have taken the light rail someplace.”