Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  What was going on? The Universe seemed to enjoy messing with me lately. First, my agent’s murder, then that crazy kidnapping at the conference in Portland, and now this? What had I done to cause my easy, boring life to go so haywire? I thought about all the chaos I created for the heroes in my books and felt momentary guilt. But they really were heroes. They leaped to answer their call to action. They wanted to save the world and solve the mystery. I, on the other hand, was a textbook “reluctant hero.” To me, “call to action” was what happened when AmyJo wanted to go to a movie or when Ozzi wanted to go out to dinner. They call, and I spring into action.

  But this was too much. Too much action. Too much calling.

  I fiddled with my sunglasses. Didn’t seem like I had much choice, though. Pete’s life might be in danger, all because of me. I couldn’t rely on dumb luck or risk mistakes.

  Why couldn’t I outline my life like I outlined my books?

  I did formulate a plan, though. I’d go everywhere I’d ever seen the Braid, putting up flyers along the way. I started with our apartment complex, but I saw that Don and Barb beat me to it. Every surface that could hold a flyer had a big picture of Peter O’Drool smiling back.

  I walked across the street to Espresso Yourself and told Lavar and Tuttle that Peter was missing. I picked their brain about everything they did when they were trying to reunite Nova with her owners, hoping I was forgetting something obvious. No such luck.

  Nova greeted me while I’d been talking. She stood nearby and when I hadn’t taken the time to pet her, she nudged my thigh with her snout. I genuflected, resting one knee on the floor, nuzzling and rubbing her while the men and I talked. When I straightened, she wagged her tail softly then nudged me again before walking away. It seemed to be her way of thanking me, maybe the doggie version of See ya later or Have a nice day.

  When they’d told me everything they could think of, Lavar pressed a streusel-topped blueberry muffin into my hand. “It’s all I can do, Boo.”

  “What about one of those prayer bombs?”

  He raised his arms in praise. “Let the grace of our Lord rain down upon you!”

  “Wait. Was that it? I thought there was more.”

  “Recession must have hit the church.” Tuttle winked at me behind Lavar’s back.

  “Don’t you get all up in my face about the chur—” He saw the grin on Tuttle’s face and pulled back his wagging finger. “You’re going straight to hell, Tut. You mark my words.”

  “You’ll miss me.”

  “You’ll miss both of us,” I said.

  “Get on wit your bad selves.” Lavar hugged me. “And in answer to your question, no, that wasn’t your prayer bomb. I’ll submit the request to the congreeeegation first thing in the morning. Maybe we can get it scheduled for tomorrow.”

  “That would be great. Would they do one for Peter, too?”

  “If it’s good enough for St Francis of Assisi, it’s good enough for me. I’ll get it done most ricky tick.”

  I took that to be Marine for right away. I wasn’t entirely sure I believed that a congregation full of churchgoers could help deliver Peter O’Drool back safely to us simply by the force of their prayers, but I also wasn’t entirely sure they couldn’t. And maybe it was enough that Lavar believed.

  “Thanks, both of you.” I walked over to where Nova had curled up on the floor and rubbed her velvety ear. “And goodbye to you, sweet girl.” I lingered over her, hoping I’d be able to rub Peter’s ear soon.

  I returned to the apartment complex, grabbed the stack of flyers and a roll of packing tape, and got in my car. I geared up to go to all the places I’d seen the Braid. It was the only thing I could think to do. I kept an eye out for his black matte El Camino while I drove.

  The Cherry Creek shopping district was crowded with people taking advantage of the gorgeous summer day, winding down to meet friends for drinks or dinner, or to browse the high-end shops. Finally, though, I found street parking and headed for the library. Even though this was far from our apartment complex, the Braid had been here and might be back with Peter. I put up flyers wherever I could find space.

  When I got to the library, they told me Lakshmi had gone for the day. Pulling my baseball cap lower, I took a spin around the stacks. I didn’t really think the Braid would be in a comfy nook reading the latest bestseller, but since I didn’t understand anything that was going on, I certainly couldn’t rule it out.

  I walked over to the print shop, placing flyers as I went. When I got there, I saw it was closed for the day.

  No further plan came to mind, so I made my way back home. I trudged up the stairs to Don and Barb’s apartment and knocked lightly. Barb immediately threw the door open like she’d been waiting for someone. She looked so hopeful it broke my heart.

  I had no words, only managing a stiff shake of my head. She pulled me into a hug and we stood there, wrapped together.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” I said, my head buried in her shoulder. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  “Of course you didn’t, dear. It’s not your fault.”

  “It’s completely my fault.”

  “Now you stop talking like that this minute. I won’t hear another word.” Barb pulled a tissue from her sleeve to wipe her eyes and dab at her nose. We let go of each other and I sat down on their couch.

  Barb walked over to the recliner where Don sat and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He reached up and covered her hand with his. When he raised his hand, I saw one of Lapaglia’s books on his lap.

  We sat in silence for a while. Before I left, I heated up some soup for their dinner. I forced them to sit at the table and eat it, along with some crackers and jam I’d set out. I didn’t make it two steps before Barb handed me a plastic wrapped loaf of zucchini bread.

  “For you and your beau,” she said.

  I nodded. This was the only time in the history of our friendship that I didn’t want to devour her sweet treat immediately. My heart just wasn’t in it.

  Downstairs I called Ozzi and he came over.

  “How’d the rest of your day go, babe?” He pulled me in tight.

  I immediately started crying. I couldn’t help it.

  He pulled back to look me in the face. “What? What happened?”

  “Peter ... Peter was ...” I was crying so hard I struggled to get the words out. “Dognapped!”

  “What? When?”

  “This ... afternoon... a few hours ago.” I buried my face in his chest and he let me stand there until I was done. When I pulled away, there was a wet patch on his shirt. I wiped it ineffectively with my hand. “Sorry.” It almost made me start bawling again, but he just smiled at me.

  “I’ve had worse things spilled on me.” He led me to the couch. “Sit here. I’m getting you something to eat and then I want to hear everything.”

  I didn’t tell him about the grilled cheese earlier because I knew he was probably hungry. And just like me feeding Don and Barb, he wanted to nurture me. It’s what people do in times of crisis.

  He came out a few minutes later with some sliced gouda on a plate, along with some crackers, a few dill pickle spears, a handful of baby carrots, and the tin of chocolate covered almonds.

  I was surprised when my stomach rumbled. “You always know just what I need.” I crunched a carrot while I placed cheese on a cracker.

  Ozzi returned to the kitchen where I heard the distinctive pfft of bottles of craft brew being opened. He handed me a chocolate stout.

  I took a swig. “Mmm.” Some nibbles, some quaffs, and my man made everything a little easier to bear.

  He sat down next to me and I recounted my day. I toyed with the idea of not telling him about the Braid accosting me at the library, but decided I needed to. I was right on the button that he immediately became upset and worried. I tried to make light of it, for his sake, but maybe my own as well.

  “I gave as good as I got. Don’t worry about me.”

  “But—”
r />   “He doesn’t want to hurt me. If he did, I’d be hurt right now.”

  “But—”

  “He needs me to help him find Lapaglia.”

  “And then what will he do?”

  “I don’t know, Oz. But I can take care of myself.”

  “I think you should talk to Lance about everything.”

  “I already talked to him about dognapping. There’s not a thing the police can do.”

  Ozzi stared at me, not fooled for a minute. “I said, you should talk to him about everything. That includes the Braid.”

  “I told Ming. He’s on it.”

  “And now you should tell Lance.”

  “Tell him what? I don’t even know what’s going on. I’ll be fine. I just need to figure out about all these girlfriends. What was Lapaglia thinking? As soon as I find him, I’ll get Peter back. Whatever beef he has with the Braid is between them.”

  Eleven

  As soon as the alarm rang the next morning Ozzi resumed his personal quest to persuade me to tell Lance about the Braid. Once again I refused.

  “I’m not getting my brother mixed up in all this when I don’t even know what this is.” I kissed him and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. “But if you’re so worried about me, I wouldn’t mind your company today. I’m going to go stake out Martina’s mailbox place again and see if I can talk to her and/or maybe follow her. I can’t help but think she’s hiding Lapaglia.”

  Ozzi slipped his arms around my waist and pulled me back to bed. “I wish I could, babe, but—”

  “I know, I know. Your big project.” I pretended to pout. “You love your facial recognition project more than you love me.”

  “Yes, of course I do,” he murmured, nibbling my ear. “My project never says girly nonsense like that.”

  “Mmm ... maybe you should do this more often.” An inadvertent moan escaped my lips.

  Ozzi pulled back with mock horror on his face. “What? And make my project jealous?”

  I hit him with a pillow and we dissolved into sexual chaos for a few moments until he groaned and struggled from my bed. “I’ve got to take a shower. Come with?”

  I knew that would add at least half an hour to our morning, which neither of us could afford. “Sorry, love. But I’ll make coffee and slice some of that zucchini bread Barb gave me.”

  He pretended to weigh the options in his hands. “Soaped up Charlee or zucchini bread ... soaped up Charlee or zucchini bread.” He knew which way the wind was blowing this morning so his scales tipped heavier on the zucchini bread side. “Fine. Make me some breakfast, woman.”

  I hit him with the pillow again with feigned indignation before I left the room. But I wasn’t so indignant that I didn’t turn to watch his marvelous backside walking into the bathroom.

  As the coffee brewed and I scrambled some eggs to go with our breakfast cake, I thought about my plan for the day. I’ll get to the mailbox place early, like I did yesterday, and watch for Martina. But instead of speaking to her, I’m just going to follow her, and hope she goes to her house or wherever she works. Then I won’t have to get up at the crack of early to go on any more stakeouts.

  We ate quickly and Ozzi rushed to work, but not before pulling me close. “You know I’d rather be with you than at work, right?”

  “Yep. I was just teasing you. I know this project is important to you and you need to focus on it. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I’ll call you when I can.”

  “Don’t get freaked out if I don’t answer. Remember I’ll be on stake out. Undercover. Incognito. Very hush-hush.”

  “I never get freaked out.”

  That was true. He never did. Not outwardly anyway.

  “That’s why I love you. Now skeedaddle off to work, you technological wizard, you.”

  He grabbed another piece of zucchini bread on his way, blowing me a kiss full of crumbs.

  I reached for another piece as well, but startled and dropped it when the apartment door banged open. Ozzi heaved the bag of costumes on the couch. “Don’t forget to wear one of these.” He pointed a finger at me. “No excuses.”

  “No, sir!” After a snappy salute, I locked the door behind him, then went to take a shower. As I stood, naked, waiting for the hot water to make an appearance, my phone rang. I turned off the water and crossed to my nightstand to see who it was. My editor from Penn & Powell.

  “Steph? Have you found Lapaglia? Where is he?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Well in that case, hold on a sec.” I put the phone down and wrapped a towel around myself. “Okay, I’m back. What’s up then?”

  “You’re gonna hate me.”

  “Never.” But perhaps.

  “I tried to get upper management to reimburse that money for the event on Saturday, but they won’t budge.”

  “Can they just float me a loan or something? I’m sure Lapaglia will reimburse me just as soon as we find him.” I wasn’t at all sure of that, but I was desperate.

  “That’s what I said, but they refused.”

  “Will they reimburse the participants?” If they weren’t worried about me and my finances, maybe they’d worry about the reading public.

  Steph was quiet a long time. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “Nothing? Really?”

  “I don’t know where he is, Charlee.”

  “Can you give me his home phone number in Nebraska? I can try calling there. Maybe talk to his wife?”

  “I called her yesterday, but she never returned my call.”

  “Steph, I need to do something. I have to find him and it sounds like nobody wants to help me.”

  Another long silence stretched between us. I knew she was still there, though, because I heard her breathing. Then I heard what sounded like a file cabinet slamming.

  “I shouldn’t do this because of privacy issues, but I’m going to give you Lapaglia’s home number. You can talk to Annamaria yourself. But don’t tell her I gave you the number, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I mean it, Charlee. This could mean my job.”

  “If anyone asks, I’ll just say I’m a Google ninja.”

  I wrote down the number and disconnected. This wasn’t a call I wanted to make naked so I took a shower in record time and put on shorts and a t-shirt before I dialed.

  When a woman answered I said, “Is this Annamaria Lapaglia?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Charlee Rus—”

  “Whatever it is you’re selling, I don’t want it.”

  “Ma’am, I’m the author in Denver who was going to do that author event on Saturday with your husband.”

  “Was going to do? Didn’t you do it? What are you talking about?”

  “Mrs. Lapaglia, have you talked to your husband recently?”

  “Not since he left for the train station.”

  “So you don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “Um ...” It didn’t seem right that I was the one to give her this information.

  “Please tell me.”

  “Your husband never showed up in Denver. He missed the event.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Mrs Lapag—”

  “Call me Annamaria. Where is he?”

  “Annamaria, I’m sorry, but I don’t know where he is. I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “Why are you so concerned?”

  I paused. Her husband was missing and she hadn’t heard anything yet. I needed to tread lightly. “That event we were doing? Well, there were some ... costs involved. I put the food and the venue and the advertising on my credit card, but he took in all the money for the registrations.”

  “Sounds like something he’d do. He’s very … generous.”

  That was the opposite of what I’d been thinking, but okay, if she said so. “I’m hoping you can get into his online payment system and release those funds to me so I can pay the bills and reimburse the participants.�
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  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Yes, no.”

  “But ...”

  “Listen. I’m sure you’re another nice person that Rod met during one of his many trips to Denver. But I’m sure he has a good reason for not doing that event with you. And I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything about any online payment system—”

  “It’s the one on his website where he sells his tutorials and stuff. Maybe he has a place where he keeps his passwords?”

  “I must say, I find this very suspicious. You tell me my husband is missing—not the police—and now you’re asking me for money? This seems quite irregular.” Her voice was flat, calm. “Are you trying to blackmail me? Shake me down? If so, you are barking up the wrong tree.”

  Wow. Who was this woman? She didn’t even sound like she cared that her husband was missing. Maybe he disappeared a lot.

  I tried a different approach. “I’m absolutely not trying to shake you down. The money that he collected was to pay for the things we agreed to pay for.”

  “Do you have a contract with Lapaglia—my husband?”

  “We had a ... gentleman’s agreement. Can you at least confirm that your husband was on his way to our event in Denver when he got on the train? Is it possible he forgot?”

  “Anything is possible, Miss ...”

  “Russo. Charlemagne Russo.”

  “And you’re another author?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed. “Let me see if I understand you correctly. You’re telling me that my husband had some sort of rendezvous with you in Denver, and that he has a secret bank account? That’s very painful to hear, since I’ve done most of the work on his books. It would seem I deserve that money. Not him, and certainly not you. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to attend to. Oh, and if you hear from him, please tell him to call home immediately.”