Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  I knew she couldn’t afford to do that. “No, Mom. I’ll figure something out.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll tell you if I get desperate.”

  “Charlee, call your brother. He’ll help.”

  “I’ve already talked to him. He’s on it.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her there wasn’t one darn thing he could do, however. “But, Mom, don’t call him. I don’t want to pressure him. He’s got so many other things on his plate.” Which was an absolutely true statement; it just didn’t have anything to do with me and this fiasco.

  I could hear the uncertainty in her voice. “If you think so, Bug.”

  “Absolutely. Listen, Mom, I’ve got to go.” I let her assume it was because I had so much to do, not because I was on the verge of hyperventilating and bawling my eyes out. I said goodbye and clicked away, cutting off the I love you, Bug I knew she’d add.

  I closed my eyes and tried to control my breath.

  When I could breathe halfway normally again, I stuffed my phone in the couch cushion and stood, vowing to do something normal. Then sat back down. Normal wasn’t a thing anymore, was it? What was normal anyway? It used to involve answering my phone and going on social media. Playing with Peter O’Drool. Using my credit card.

  I had a sudden thought. I hadn’t checked my mail since Friday. Maybe there was a letter from the college offering me that teaching job. That would help put a dent in my debt.

  I grabbed the mailbox key and opened my door inch by inch, ready to slam it shut the second I saw someone from the news with a camera or microphone. I peered around corners. No Archie Cruz. No Braid either. No angry mob with pitchforks and torches. I raced to the bank of mailboxes, relieved nobody was there. Small talk with neighbors seemed beyond my capabilities at the moment.

  I collected up all the mail in my box without looking at it, and raced back to my apartment. I skidded around the corner where I saw someone standing at my apartment door. Stringy hair tucked behind her ears, making them stick out. Baggy scrubs. Suzanne from next door.

  I groaned inwardly, knowing she was half-a-second from insinuating herself in my apartment.

  She heard me and turned. “There you are! I brought you something.”

  Suzanne had been thanking me for getting her that part-time job on the bookstore side at Espresso Yourself. Putting in a good word with Lavar and Tuttle was all it took. No real effort on my part, but I felt I owed her after getting her into trouble a while back. A couple of those blueberry butter braids would have sufficed, but it seemed every time I saw her she had a new book for me or another butter braid. The books I often slipped back on to the shelves at Espresso Yourself, because I never felt confident that Suzanne hadn’t swiped them, based on her history with petty theft and her casual relationship with the truth. The butter braids, however, I always kept. That was just gracious manners.

  This time, though, she didn’t have books or pastries. Instead, she held out some envelopes. “Got these in my mail by mistake.”

  “Thanks.” I took them from her, but made no attempt to open my door. I knew she’d wedge herself in like a matchbook under a wobbly table leg.

  “Two look like junk, but I don’t like to presume. What do I know, maybe you’re in need of laser hair removal or a new credit union. But one looks important. From a college.”

  I stepped past her and shoved my key in the lock. I tried to block the door, but somehow she got inside before I did. I’d have to figure out her trick. Then and only then could I thwart her overzealous neighborliness.

  As I ripped open the envelope from the college, she asked, “What is it? Is it important? It looks important.”

  I pulled out the single piece of paper and dangled the envelope toward her. She grabbed it from me, even though I knew for a fact she had memorized everything typed on it.

  I scanned the page, picking out words and phrases I didn’t want to see. Regret to inform ... very sorry ... the Board of Review ....

  My stomach flopped and the letter fluttered to the ground. Suzanne snatched it before it landed and read it.

  “Those idiots don’t know what they’re doing.” She shoved the letter back in the envelope, twisting and folding it until it fit. Kind of.

  I didn’t particularly want to share this moment with Suzanne, but it felt nice for a change to have someone on my side. “Thanks.” Maybe it wasn’t so bad that she shoved her way in. I could use a pal right now.

  “Oh! Almost forgot. I have something else for you.” She went next door, leaving my door wide open.

  I hoped with all my might it was a blueberry butter braid. That’s exactly what I needed. A little sugar salve for my wounds. Barb’s leftover zucchini bread seemed much too healthy for this situation.

  Suzanne came back with another envelope, larger and covered with the telltale green-and-white stickers signifying a certified letter. “I signed for it this morning while you were out.” She handed it to me.

  The return address was a four-name attorney’s office in Denver. Four names. That seemed important. And scary. I pushed the envelope back toward Suzanne who pushed it back.

  She frowned. “What do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know, but it can’t be good.”

  “Want me to open it?”

  “Yes.”

  She took it from me.

  “No.” I took it back.

  I changed my mind again. “Yes, you open it.” And again I took it back.

  “Give it here, you wuss.” She yanked it from my hand and ripped it open. She barely read it. “You’re gonna be sued. Probably by someone married to one of these weasels.” She pointed at the four names.

  “What?” I yelped, grabbing the papers from her.

  “No big whoop. Just small claims court.”

  “No big whoop?” I glared at her. “Huge whoop.” I read the first page. Halfway down I had to blink because the words began to swim. My arm swung limply to my side, packet of papers grasped tight. “I’m being sued for malfeasance with money because of that Lapaglia event.” I spoke out loud, not to tell Suzanne, but to try to make sense of it for myself.

  “Like I said, big whoop. Besides, didn’t you know this was going to happen when you stole all that money?”

  “Stole that money? I didn’t steal anybody’s money! Where did you hear that?”

  She shrugged. “It’s all over my Facebook feed. Bunch of people and at least four weasel attorneys think you did.”

  “But I didn’t.” My legs turned to rubber and I plopped on my couch.

  “Tell it to the judge.”

  Under normal circumstances, Suzanne’s flippancy would amuse me. These were not normal circumstances, however, and I was not amused. I shook my head like an Etch-A-Sketch. I could sit here like a victim, or I could fight back. I clenched my fists until my nails dug into my palms. This was the moment I had to choose. Be a man or a mouse. Pull up my big-girl undies. Fight back or take it on the chin. I’d been yelled at, unfairly accused, pushed around, bullied, ambushed, made a social media pariah, had my credit ruined, AND had my hair pulled.

  What was I going to do, fight back or take it?

  I opened my fist and saw my white palms with red half-moons gouged into them.

  I studied the place where I shoved my phone between the couch cushions.

  I narrowed my eyes at the letter from the attorney’s office.

  I slowly raised my eyes to meet hers.

  “Do you have a butter braid I can have?”

  Thirteen

  I didn’t feel good about wanting to wallow in self-pity, but after I sent Suzanne away, with an “I’m just joking” lie, I came very close to crawling into bed and burrowing under the covers. I knew that wouldn’t fix anything, but I was equally sure I didn’t know what would fix anything.

  I read the attorney’s letter more carefully. I wasn’t being sued. I was being threatened with being sued. That was a big difference. Suzanne was probably right. Somebody is married to,
or friends with, this attorney writing the letter. It’s a threat to show they’re serious about wanting their money back. If only they knew I was equally serious about getting their money back to them. I wished I could tell them, but decided not to respond. At least not right now.

  I think everyone involved wished it had never happened.

  I thought about Ozzi saying he wouldn’t mind having Lapaglia’s life. At the time I told him to be careful what he wished for, but at this moment, I’d be thrilled to have anyone else’s life. But whose?

  I didn’t have to contemplate the hypothetical for long because I heard the actual meep-meep of Ozzi’s Prius. He had the habit of honking when he got home from work and drove past my apartment. That meep-meep was the sweetest sound I could imagine. I was going to forget about all this for a little while and pretend my life wasn’t completely screwed up.

  I raced down the wide, curving sidewalk of the complex until I got to Ozzi’s building, climbed the three outdoor flights of stairs to his apartment, and raised my arm to knock. Before I did, though, his door flew open and he almost collided with me.

  “I was just coming over.”

  “I couldn’t wait that long.” I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him hard. I pushed him backward into his apartment where he fumbled to close the door behind us.

  Twelve minutes later, when we’d finished saying hello, he said, “I’m starving. Are you?”

  Queasiness tiptoed around my edges and I knew I had to return to my screwed-up life whether I wanted to or not. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Leftover meatloaf?” He pulled a clean t-shirt over his head. I loved the way the fabric stretched over his biceps.

  “I’m in.” I slipped on my clothes and followed him to the kitchen. “If you still have some of those heirloom tomatoes from the Farmers Market, I can’t be responsible for my actions.”

  He held out a bowl full of tomatoes. “Go crazy.”

  Ozzi rummaged through the refrigerator until he found the meatloaf and one piece of leftover corn on the cob. “Arm wrestle you for it.”

  “If you loved me, you’d cut it in half.”

  “I love you so much, I’d let you have the whole thing.”

  “Sure. But only if I beat you arm wrestling.”

  “And they say chivalry is dead.” He booped me on my nose with his nose, since his hands were both full.

  I sliced tomatoes. He boiled water for the corn then placed slices of meatloaf to be heated in the microwave. When the water was roiling, he dropped in the two halves of corn. He zapped the meatloaf and dropped a mini-cob on each plate. I slathered butter over the corn, watching it drip seductively down the sides, eventually disappearing under the sliced meatloaf. Then I forked tomatoes next to them.

  As we cooked and ate, I told Ozzi about my day, starting with the pregnancy suit and the Braid, and ending with Archie Cruz ambushing me and my social media blowing up this afternoon.

  He had a forkful of meatloaf halfway to his mouth, but stopped it in mid-air. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It just happened a couple hours ago. And I was trying to forget about it. Just wanted to have a nice, normal dinner with you.”

  Ozzi smiled, but said, “I think you won’t see many days of nice and normal until you find Lapaglia.”

  “I suspect you’re probably right.” I stabbed my last bite of tomato a bit too aggressively. “I hate him.”

  “I do too.” Ozzi made an elaborate show of stabbing his last bite of meatloaf over and over until it was a pile of crumbs on his plate.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “But aren’t you his Number One Fan and the keeper of his Wikipedia page?”

  “Not after this.” He used a finger to corral his meatloaf crumbs onto his fork. “I was, but no more.”

  I knew that to be the case after Saturday, but it was nice to hear him say it.

  “He’s dead to me.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know. But I’ve been thinking more and more that maybe he is ... hurt. I mean, nobody else seems to be worried about that, but what if he fell off the train, or was pushed off, or is shackled in some crazy girlfriend’s basement? What if I’m the only one concerned about him and not just because he owes me money? His wife doesn’t care. The train people don’t care. The cops don’t care. Maybe his girlfriends care, but I’m not seeing it.” Being with Ozzi and eating a good dinner had me in a sturdier state of mind. I planted my palms solidly on the table. “How ‘bout you use your vast Wikipedia knowledge for good and help me figure out where he might be?”

  Ozzi stood and carried our dishes to the sink. “I’ve been thinking about that.”

  “And?”

  “And I haven’t really come up with anything.”

  I helped him load the dishwasher. “Maybe you’re too close to all the facts you know about him. What if you just started telling me all the weird and arcane information you know, and we can try to sort it out together. See if it’s useless trivia or not.”

  “Okay. Like what?”

  “Like anything.” I washed off the table while he cracked his knuckles like he was preparing to play Rachmaninov’s Prelude in G Minor.

  “He was born in Paramus, New Jersey.”

  “Automatically makes him highly suspect.” We sat down next to each other on the couch. I tucked my legs up under me and leaned against him.

  “His mom was Dona Donatelli.” At my blank look he added, “A fairly influential watercolor artist. Left the family when Lapaglia was just a kid.”

  “Any siblings?”

  “Nope, just him.”

  “What else?”

  “Let’s see.” Ozzi stared into spaced, accessing his mental filing cabinet. “He writes his first drafts longhand with a blue Bic pen. After his assistant types it up, he destroys the handwritten version.”

  “Hm. That’s interesting. So there’s no actual proof he writes his books.” I told Ozzi about my conversation with Annamaria.

  “So his wife could be the actual author? That’s wild.”

  “Maybe. What else?”

  “His friends from high school grew up to have interesting careers, too, like—”

  “Butcher, baker, and candlestick maker?”

  “Close. Olympic swimmer, FBI agent, and one of the shuttle astronauts.”

  “Wow. I have a friend from high school who almost got to sing the National Anthem at a Sky Sox game. And another who got caught shoplifting. By my dad, actually. That was some special kind of drama.”

  “I can imagine. We weren’t friends or anything, but a guy I went to school with lost on Dancing With The Stars.”

  “Cool.”

  “Yes, but I don’t think this is getting us anywhere.” Ozzi stood to get his laptop. He sat back down and placed it on his right knee and my left. He pulled up the Wikipedia page, scrolling until he came to a list of live links to interviews Lapaglia had given over the years.

  “Here. Read these while I go whip up some brownies. Maybe they’ll tell you something.” He slid the laptop completely on to my thighs then kissed me. “Nuts, right?”

  I rolled my eyes at him. He knew very well my issue with nuts. It tickled him no end when I had to relinquish something delicious Barb had baked with nuts. A long time ago I’d told her I was allergic, but over the years she’d forgotten. In fact, she spun it all the way around and apologized to me when she baked something without nuts, thinking that I loved them. No way was I going to tell her, though. It wasn’t her job to remember my allergies.

  While Ozzi banged around his kitchen making nut-free brownies, I read online interviews with Rodolfo Lapaglia. They covered all the same basic information—age, education, titles and synopses of the many books he’d written—but some wanted to ask him more targeted questions. One wanted to focus on how he got his start in publishing. One wanted to focus on the niche he created for himself in writing thrillers about the mob. One was a round-up
piece of famous people from Paramus, New Jersey. Who knew there’d be so many? One even wanted his favorite recipe, clearly using Lapaglia’s celebrity to get more eyeballs on her cooking blog.

  By the time Ozzi got the pan of brownies in the oven and plopped down next to me, my eyes were crossing.

  “I’m not finding anything very useful.”

  Ozzi pulled the laptop toward him. “Want me to read to you?”

  “Mm-hm.” I pointed to the one I was going to read next. Then I closed my eyes and snuggled down so my head rested comfortably against the back of the couch.

  He began reading the next interview.

  I listened for a while, but the questions and answers sounded so similar to the other interviews I found it hard to pay attention. But something caught my attention. “Wait. Go back.”

  Ozzi read, “What is the biggest problem with being such a famous author? Lapaglia says, I’m pigeonholed. I’m stuck writing the same types of books over and over—”

  I pulled the laptop over so we were sharing it again. I scrolled up to the previous article. “Look. He says a version of that same thing in every interview, even when he’s not asked about it.” I pointed to some text. “I’d love to do something different, but I can’t.” I scrolled to the interview above that one. “My fans and my publisher expect the same thing from me each time.” I clicked on another interview. “And here. I can’t go anywhere, I can’t do anything. I’m just a hamster on a wheel.”

  I closed the lid of the computer and thought for a minute.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. But I think that’s important. He says it in every interview. He’s not happy. If I can believe his wife, they probably don’t have a very happy life in Nebraska.” I looked at Ozzi. “I think he disappeared himself.”

  Ozzi mulled over my words for a bit. “But why not just get a divorce and start a new life? Why all the drama?”

  “This mob guy ... the Braid. It’s probably no secret the mob is after him. I mean, his books are not at all complimentary to them and maybe he does know too much about them. That’s what the Braid accused me of when we got into that hair-pulling contest.”