Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  I dropped the double decker sandwich back in the box, gave the pickle a half-hearted lick, then shoved it all away.

  With no plan in mind, other than calling for help, I picked up my phone. Before I could dial, the pop-up bookstore staff of three rounded the corner. Two twenty-something men carried boxes. The other, the owner, pushed a fully loaded handcart. She looked as angry as her struggle bun, which defiantly clung to her head, albeit sliding down, with most of the hair hung in disarray around it.

  “There you are,” she said to me. The men stopped too, but she waved them away. “Go get that truck loaded. I need to have a little chat with Miss Russo here.”

  “Take a sandwich if you’re hungry,” I called after them. I waved my hand toward the box lunches. “Are you hungry, Dee?”

  “No, I’m not hungry.” Dee’s voice had an edge I’d never heard before. Probably because I’d never before made her spend hours setting up a pop-up bookstore, only to drive away every single potential customer.

  “Dee, listen, I’m—”

  “Yeah, sorry, I’m sure. But that doesn’t change the fact I’m out a day’s wages for those two, I missed my kid’s baseball game, I had to set all this up and then immediately tear it down ...” She grabbed the handle of her handcart and gave it an angry shake.

  I knew she really wanted to do that to me.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a—”

  “No!”

  “Dee, I promise I’ll make this up to you. I don’t know what to say. Lapaglia didn’t show up. I don’t know where he is. I don’t have his number. But as soon as all this is straightened out, I’ll come down to the store and do a huge book signing party. I’ll invite everyone I know, get all my author friends to sign too. You’ll make a ton of money.”

  “Do what you want. But nobody will find your books in my store ever again.” She pulled back on her handcart and started for the doors. “Ever. Again.” When she got there she turned back, “And you can tell your publisher to expect returns of all your books I have in stock.”

  Tears welled in my eyes but I blinked them away. I would not let her see me cry. But this was simply too much. I knew she and her staff would be wheeling back and forth past me through the lobby, so I grabbed my bag and found a quiet corner in the event room. I turned a folding chair with my back to the door so even if she came in here I wouldn’t have to see her. I still didn’t have much of a plan, since it was Saturday and I knew my editor wouldn’t be at her desk. I called anyway and when her voicemail came up I said, “Stephanie ... Steph ... listen. I’m in trouble here. I went to pick up Lapaglia from the train station and he wasn’t there and when I got here, everyone demanded a refund that I don’t have because Lapaglia has all the money and they threatened me with this news guy who I KNOW will ambush me when I’m stress-eating an entire box of doughnuts or something and Dee from the bookstore won’t carry my books anymore and I just bought a new car I can’t really afford and I had to pay for all this stuff and you TOLD me I wouldn’t LOSE any money only MAKE it and ... and ... so many sandwiches!” What little composure I had disappeared like a dandelion puff in a tornado and the message cut off mid-sob. I didn’t bother to call her back. I’m sure she understood.

  I took some deep breaths and eventually stopped crying. I dialed my agent, Piper O’Shaughnessy, the only other person who might possibly help me. Of course, it was still Saturday and she didn’t answer her phone either. I didn’t bother to leave a message. I’d only sob through my pitiful story anyway. Besides, what could Piper do about it? She was in New York and Lapaglia wasn’t even a client of hers.

  I sat and felt sorry for myself for eight more minutes but then snapped out of it. I didn’t want Ozzi and AmyJo to see me sniveling away like this while they were actually out trying to help me.

  From my bag, I removed the notepad I expected to use to take copious notes of Lapaglia’s words of writerly wisdom. I started scribbling some math instead. On the left side of the page I wrote the number of registered attendees and the registration amount they paid. On the right side, my costs. Venue, advertising, breakfast pastries and coffee, box lunches, wine and cheese—

  Wine and cheese! I jumped up and ran to find the caterer. She was putting a box into her van.

  “Charlee, I was just going to find you. Since whatever happened here ... happened ... what do you want me to do with the wine for tonight?”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you about. Can you pretend I never ordered it or the cheese?”

  She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes, studying me for an uncomfortably long time.

  “Please?”

  “Sure. Never happened. I’ll take it all to the wedding I’m doing tomorrow.”

  “Seriously? You will?” I wanted to hug her but I knew if I did I’d probably pop her like a tick. That’s how happy she made me.

  “Yeah. I didn’t open it. No harm, no foul. Besides, you look like you need a little good news.”

  “Ohmygawd, I DO! Thank you so much!”

  “But I’m still charging your credit card on file for everything else.”

  “I figured, but this means a lot. It really does.”

  She waved me away like a pesky gnat. Probably sensed I might hug her.

  After awarding her a deep and deeply ridiculous bow from the waist, complete with prayer hands that neither of us wanted to see, I went back to my notepad.

  I crossed off wine and cheese, which only left me on the hook for this venue, advertising, breakfast pastries and coffee, and the box lunches. I estimated the costs based on my memory, added in the registrations if I had to reimburse them, and groaned at the number. I didn’t have that kind of money. That was almost the cost of my car! Which I also owe! I began hyperventilating again and put my head between my knees.

  “Charlee? You okay?”

  I opened my eyes to see Ozzi’s shoes in front of me. I sat up. “Did you guys sell all those sandwiches?”

  “Um ...” Clearly, Ozzi didn’t want to tell me.

  “We sold a bunch of sandwiches!” AmyJo was too perky even for her so I knew she was lying.

  “How many?”

  “Sooo many!”

  “How many?”

  “Almost all of them.”

  “AmyJo, just tell her,” Ozzi said.

  “I sold ten and Ozzi sold three.” She saw me looking around for the carts. “We loaded the rest into your car and my truck and gave the carts back to the caterer.”

  I pulled my notepad toward me. “So how much did you sell them for? How much did we make?”

  “Fourteen dollars.” AmyJo wrinkled her face, as if that would keep the bad news in.

  “Fourteen dollars.” I tried to wrap my brain around the math, but couldn’t. I raised my hands in a what-the-what manner.

  “I sold two at five bucks each to a couple at the park, but they had a kid with them and they said he’d hardly eat any of his,” Ozzi said.

  “So?”

  “So I sold them his for a dollar. And then the restaurants down there found out what I was up to and chased me off.”

  I looked at AmyJo. “So that’s eleven bucks. You sold ten box lunches for three dollars?”

  “They were kids. Hungry kids. Kids don’t have any money when they’re playing in a splash pool. No pockets. No wallets.”

  “Okay. Fourteen dollars down, fourteen billion to go.” I plastered on my rah-rah cheerleader face, despite feeling like a just-sacked quarterback. “I have to do what I can to find Lapaglia, so let’s drop these sandwiches off somewhere. Then I can concentrate on salvaging my reputation and my bank account before the angry mob sics Archie Cruz on me and I have to see myself on the evening news.”

  “Pish,” AmyJo said. “That’s not going to happen. He’s after bigger fish than you.” She cringed. “Not that you’re a fish at all. Why would he go after you? You’re just a penny-ante—” She wrinkled up her face.

  “Thanks, Ames. I think.”

  We each grabbed an a
rmful of the box lunches remaining on the table. I handed off two more to the bookstore employees as they passed. When I saw Dee pushing her handcart toward the side doors, I hurried the opposite direction toward the restrooms.

  When I finished in the restroom, the venue was practically deserted. The caterer had sent her staff away, closed up her truck, and driven off. Dee and her bookstore staff were finishing up loading their van. Ozzi and AmyJo were already in the parking lot making sure their loads were evenly balanced and they could see out the rearview mirrors. The lone janitor was happy to see the back of me because it must have meant he got the rest of the day off. As I handed him a box lunch and thanked him while hurrying out the door, I saw a man with a silver braid duck around the corner.

  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 microc
hip. 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 quiche 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?”