by Becky Clark
“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.
AmyJo 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 che
ese—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.
I stood, but AmyJo, bless her midwestern heart, stepped between me and the angry horde.
“Listen up, people. I know you’re mad, but we just can’t seem to find Mr. Lapaglia at this exact moment. He’s around somewhere, but his train was late, and now he seems to have gotten himself lost on the way to the suburbs.” She offered them her normally infectious, corn-fed, orthodontist-approved smile, but this crowd was well beyond that.
She tried again. “Charlee, here,” she gestured toward me, “has done everything in her power—”
“Except get him here!” someone in the back yelled.
“Or give us our money back!” another yelled.
“Yeah! Give us our money back!”
They all started chanting, “Money back, money back!”
I had to rescue AmyJo. I couldn’t expect her to protect me any longer. I wanted her to, don’t get me wrong, but it seemed selfish to expect it. I stepped in front of her and raised my hands. “Hang on, guys. Let me explain.” When they quieted, I took a deep, cleansing breath. “I can teach the workshops in his place, or just the Q&A. Show of hands?” I remembered how much the participants loved my sessions at the Stumptown Writer’s Conference in Portland a couple of months ago.
The crowd started up their chant again, but this time half of them chanted “Money back” and the other half chanted “Lapaglia.” The difference in syllables made my head throb almost immediately. Well, that, and the whole angry mob thing.
I raised my hands again until they quieted. “Listen. I don’t know what to tell you. Lapaglia isn’t here. I don’t know where he is—”
“Call him!”
“I don’t have his number.” And he didn’t have mine, I thought with dismay.
“Likely story!”
It sounded lame to me, too. I asked him for his cell number several times for just this reason, but he ignored my request. He probably thought I’d sell it on the black market. As God is my witness, I thought, if I had it, I would give it to every person in this room. For free.
“I really don’t have his number. I don’t know where he is—”
A woman in front turned to the crowd and said, “Lapaglia never does appearances like this. Why would he come all the way to Denver to do this one and then not show up?”
A man standing next to her took up the gauntlet. “Yeah. You made this whole thing up. You manufactured this event to steal our money!”
The crowd started another chant. “Steal our money ... steal our money!” Since it faded away fairly quickly, they must have realized it didn’t sound like the demand they wanted.
Ozzi stepped forward when the crowd began to surge. “Stop right there. Charlee Russo didn’t steal your money and she didn’t try to hoodwink you in any way. She’s just as much a victim as you are. Now, she’s trying to make it right by doing the workshops you paid to hear—”
“We PAID for Lapaglia!”
They started up the “Lapaglia” chant again. I wasn’t sure if they wanted him to actually teach now, or if they were so riled up they wanted his head on a pike instead. I preferred the pike, that’s for sure. Did he do all this on purpose to steal money from them? Is he purposely leaving me to hold the bag? Surely he’s rich, though, with all those bestsellers in print.
My head throbbed and I was weak with resignation. Why did stuff like this keep happening to me?
A refrigerator-sized man stepped forward and loomed over me before Ozzi could insert himself between us. He towered over Ozzi, too. “If you don’t refund our money right now, I’m going to call Archie Cruz.” He performed a quick-draw on his phone that made Ozzi and I both duck.
The crowd mumbled their approval for Archie Cruz. A few in the back even started chanting his name.
“Archie Cruz? Who’s that?” Ozzi whispered, straightening himself in that nonchalant way you do after you stumble over a shadow on the sidewalk.
“He’s that guy on the local news who does the Your Advocate segments. Little bit gossip, little bit consumer help for people who think they’ve been wronged somehow.” I kept my eye on Godzilla.
“Exactly.” Godzilla held out his phone to show me he was already on Archie Cruz’s website.
I took a deep breath. “For the last time, I don’t have your money. Rodolfo Lapaglia does.” Brainstorm like a thunderbolt shot through me. “Oh! We can start the bidding on the manuscript critiques Lapaglia was going to auction off!” I beamed at Godzilla who refused to beam back. “Then I can start reimbursing everyone!”
“What did she say?” a voice from the back called.
Godzilla turned. “She said she’s NOT giving us our MONEY back, but suggests we can give her MORE money for those manuscript critiques.”
The voice called, “You mean those manuscript critiques from someone who never even bothered to show up here? The ones we’re not likely to see in our short, sad lifetimes? Those manuscript critiques?”
Godzilla nodded. “Yep. The very same.”
“Well, when you put it like that ...” It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
The crowd began murmuring again, but this time they began to move apart. Some headed back to their seats to pick up notebooks and computers that wouldn’t be used today, except, perhaps, for composing furious missives soon to be posted on Archie Cruz’s website, and every social media platform known to humanity.
HashtagI’mScrewed.
As they filed past me, glaring or muttering under their breath or outright cursing me, I said, “Listen ... I’m sorry! This isn’t my fault! But I’ll figure it out and get you your refunds as soon as possible. Expect to hear from me with good news! Soon! Very soon.” I knew they didn’t believe me. I didn’t really believe myself either.
The caterers had wheeled in carts stacked with the box lunches. Many in the crowd veered toward them to grab a lunch, sometimes two, on their way out. The caterers had no idea what was happening, but pasted on their happy server smiles and said over and over until I wanted to throttle them, “Enjoy ... hope your event is going great ... enjoy ... have a great day!”
I heard more than one participant say, after grabbing a box, “Pretty expensive turkey sandwich!” But most of them said stuff I wouldn’t want my mother to hear.
Three
After they were all gone, Ozzi, AmyJo, and I plopped into chairs. They both wore dazed expressions, so I could only imagine how I looked. The caterers seemed confused by the fact everyone had streamed out the doors but they still had a hundred or so box lunches left over on their carts.
“Um, Miss Russo?” one of them said. “What should we do with these?” She gestured to the remaining boxes.
I stared at the still sizable stacks of boxes, turkey or ham or veggie sandwiches with chips and a dill pickle spear nestled inside. I bought all those. How long would it take me to eat them? Could I even finish them before they went bad? How much room did I have in my fridge? How fat would I get and how long would it take? Of course, I’d gi
ve some to Ozzi and AmyJo. And the rest of the members of my critique group. And anyone else I could think of.
“I could start my own deli.” I snorted. “Wait. I could start my own deli! Will you guys help me?” I turned away from the box lunches and back toward Ozzi and AmyJo.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” AmyJo said with a shrug.
“Whatever you need, babe.”
“Could you wheel a couple of these carts and try to sell these lunches at the park or someplace? At least I can start to recoup some of the money to reimburse everyone.”
“Sure.”
After promising the caterers that they’d get the carts back within an hour, AmyJo and Ozzi consolidated most of the boxes onto two of the rolling carts. Two of the catering staff, who were locals, pointed AmyJo toward the Parker Library where there was always a crowd of families playing in the splash fountain. Then they pointed Ozzi in the opposite direction, toward apartments, the three-block shopping district, and the park.
I held the doors for them as they left. “Thanks for doing this, guys. I owe you.”
“You’d do it for us,” AmyJo said.
“Neither of you would ever find yourself in a mess like this,” I said.
“But if we did, you would.” AmyJo bumped her cart over the threshold.
“I absolutely would.”
“Be back in a jiffy with pockets of cash.” Ozzi gave me a kiss I didn’t deserve. “What are you going to be doing?”
“Trying to find Lapaglia.”
He bumped over the threshold behind AmyJo and disappeared down the street.
I went back to the comfortable lobby chairs and collapsed into one. The catering staff stacked the remaining box lunches on the nearby table AmyJo had used for registration this morning. Was that only a few hours ago? Sitting there, I tried to organize my thoughts enough to figure out what to do. I was furious, anxious, exhausted, worried, and confused. I was the mulligatawny of stress.
And suddenly starving. I opened one of the lunches and removed the top slice of bread to see what I’d be eating. Figures. Veggie. I was going to eat it anyway when I realized I had, what, thirty lunches to choose from? I opened boxes until I found a ham sandwich and a turkey. I removed the smoked turkey from its nest of lettuce and bread and loaded it onto the top of the honey ham to make it a Charlee Russo Special. Took a bite. I didn’t know if it was dry because it didn’t have enough mayo or mustard, or if I was only tasting my anxiety.
