Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  “I do not know. She was a good person. She drove for the senior center. She volunteered at the food bank. She recorded books for the blind. She had a podcast!” he wailed.

  I recalled Detective Ming telling me and Ozzi that Tiffany had been seen around Union Station before she’d been found dead. I turned toward Lapaglia. “Perhaps she was waiting for someone to get off the train.”

  “Now you wait one second. You don’t think I—”

  “Was she another of your girlfriends? Did you kill her because she double-crossed you somehow?”

  “Double-crossed me how?”

  I thought for a minute. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe she knew you were double-crossing the Braid here.”

  “Again, how exactly would that work? Somebody was feeding me information about the Zaminsky family, so logically the info had to come from there.”

  I was getting confused. “Maybe if Tiffany knew who was feeding you the info, and she confronted them, maybe they killed her?”

  Lapaglia made a frustrated chuffing noise, but the Braid had a realization.

  “If Tiffany found out that the information leaked to Lapaglia was being blamed on me, and if she knew who really leaked it, she would try to make it right. She would confront them.” He looked stricken. “It is my fault she is dead. She was trying to protect me. She knew who was behind those ‘Silver Fox’ emails to Lapaglia.”

  “And it got her killed,” I added.

  The Braid began fighting against his restraints as he shouted at Lapaglia. “If you had a better imagination and came up with stories of your own, none of this would have happened!” He tried bump-bump-bumping his chair closer to Lapaglia.

  I moved toward him, waving the shears to remind him I still had them.

  He took a deep breath and stopped moving around. “Again, Lapaglia. I ask you to confess. Do not make me break your kneecaps,” the Braid snarled.

  “It doesn’t look like you’re in any position to break anybody’s anything.” I waved my hand at all the bungee cord.

  The Braid and Lapaglia bantered back and forth about people I didn’t know and things I didn’t understand about the mob. While they accused, threatened, and cajoled, I kept an eye on them, but stepped away, set the shears on a table, and pulled out my phone. I very calmly explained to the 911 dispatcher that two men at the Lost Valley Resort might have information about a murder that occurred in Denver and they should send someone out right away. I added that one of them was also a dognapper.

  The dispatcher seemed completely unfazed by our conversation—but that was her job. She said she’d send someone right out.

  I was happy to wait for officers to take these two off my hands. Let them sort it all out.

  But I still needed to know where the Braid stashed Peter. I interrupted their bickering. “Where are you hiding Peter?”

  “Who’s Peter?” Lapaglia asked.

  “The dog he kidnapped to force me to find you.” I glared at the Braid and he glared back. “Which I did, by the way.”

  “He stole your dog?” He glared at the Braid too. “That’s low man, even for a mobster.”

  “Pete’s not my dog.” I jabbed a finger in the Braid’s direction. “He stole a precious pet from an elderly couple. Peter is their only joy.”

  “They will get over it.” The Braid broke eye contact and looked at his feet.

  “Low, man.” Lapaglia slowly shook his head. “Low indeed.”

  “Almost as low as you leaving me holding the debt and the PR mess from the event you ditched,” I snapped.

  “Actually, I think stealing a dog is much, much lower.” Lapaglia turned to the Braid. “You should give that dog back.”

  “You should give her money back.”

  I scooped up the shears from where I’d left them on the table, then opened and closed them. The raspy, grating sound caused the Braid to flinch.

  I could use his fear to get answers about Peter O’Drool.

  Twenty-One

  I raised the clippers, pretending to inspect them. “Sharp,” I said. I lovingly turned them over and over, purposely keeping them very near his face. I had absolutely no intention of using them. What was I gonna do, lop off his fingers? Impale him? The idea was laughable, but I didn’t want either of these two men to know that.

  I also didn’t want either of them to see my hands begin to shake so I sidled around behind the Braid. He twisted his head to keep me in view, but he couldn’t. He snapped his head the other direction and his long silver braid hit my arm. I grabbed it near the base of his scalp. With my other hand I made the snip-snip of the shears near his ear, where he was sure to hear it.

  “Do not even think about doing that,” he said.

  “Tell me where Peter is.” I pulled his hair tighter and rested it inside the shears.

  “Nev—”

  “What’s going on here?” Alan Fraser, the owner of the resort came around the side of the outdoor kitchen and bellowed.

  Startled, I snipped off the Braid’s braid.

  I stared at it in my hand. It was like holding half a rat. I thought about my hair looped through the opening in the back of my baseball cap. The urge to touch my own ponytail was overwhelming, but my hands were full of shears and half a rat so I had to settle for shaking my head and feeling the comfort of my hair tickle my shoulders and back.

  Archie Cruz, that smarmy news guy, pushed his way around Alan Fraser. I saw the 35mm camera around his neck and quickly hid the shank of hair behind my back.

  Alan Fraser reached for Archie Cruz’ arm. He hissed, “You were supposed to stay out of sight!” But Archie Cruz kept coming.

  Alan Fraser gaped at us, his face blotchy with anger. “I said, what’s going on here? I got a report of some kind of ruckus.”

  Gone was the mild-mannered guy who brought me from the station earlier. He noticed the gardening shears in my hand. I could tell he wasn’t sure of what I’d done—or was about to do—but he knew he didn’t want whatever it was to happen.

  “Hey,” Archie Cruz said, peering closer at the Braid tied up in the chair. “You’re that mob guy from the wanted posters. Cesare Silvio, right?” He moved closer and grasped what he could of the Braid’s hand pinned behind him. “Thrilled to meet you, sir.”

  “Likewise.” The Braid gave a diminutive wiggle of his fingers.

  “Thought your hair was longer.” He studied the Braid’s head, whose hair now fell in an uneven pageboy around his face.

  Alan Fraser held out his hand for the shears and I placed them in his hand. “This is the last time I’m going to ask. What ... is going ... on?”

  I stepped away from the Braid, hiding the braid behind me. “This man has attacked me on more than one occasion.”

  “This woman has attacked me on more than one occasion. And she assaulted my hair!”

  “It was an accident, but I’m not sorry. This man stole a dog from an elderly couple.”

  “I never!”

  “You did, you liar. And this man—” I gestured at Lapaglia— “might have murdered a woman in Denver.”

  “I did no such thing. And I demand you untie me.”

  “Wait for the police,” I told Alan Fraser. “I already called them.”

  “You did what?” Alan Fraser already had his phone out. He dialed, then after a moment spoke into it. “Hey, Michaelson. Did you just get a call from up here?” He listened for a bit, then said, “Tell them to turn around. It was just a misunderstanding. Everything here is fine.”

  “No, it’s not!” I yelled toward the phone, but he’d already disconnected.

  Alan Fraser knelt to untie the Braid’s feet. “This will not do,” he said to me. “I cannot have you tying up people on the patio of the Lost Valley Resort. That would be very bad for business.”

  “Where would you like me to tie them up, then? These are bad guys!”

  “I can’t have this kind of publicity.” Alan Fraser kicked the first loose bungee away from the Braid’s chair and worked on
the bungee wrapped around his torso.

  “I thought that’s why you called me, to get publicity,” Archie Cruz said.

  Alan Fraser pulled the second bungee off and kicked it aside. “Yes, to show that the reclusive Rodolfo Lapaglia chooses Lost Valley Resort to write his books.” He shot Lapaglia a dirty look then tapped the Braid on the shoulder to indicate he should lean forward. “NOT to rendezvous with low-level mobsters.” He finished untying the Braid’s hands and rested a hand on his shoulder. “No offense ... Mr. Silvio, was it?”

  “None taken.” The Braid rubbed his wrists as he stood.

  “What about your very strict privacy policy?” I asked sarcastically.

  I received no answer from Alan Fraser, just a silent blush running up the back of his neck.

  “You can’t have it both ways,” I said. “You can’t claim to give your guests privacy, and then call the media up here to report on it.”

  “And you can’t tie up my guests right on my patio!” Alan Fraser’s face was like an overripe tomato as he untied Lapaglia. It clashed with his hair.

  Lapaglia and the Braid kept a wary distance from each other.

  I wasn’t sure what Alan Fraser was thinking. He called Archie Cruz to take paparazzi photos of Lapaglia ... were they both going to make money off them somehow? And even when he found out the Braid was in the mob and Lapaglia might be a murderer, he still untied them and told the police to stand down? Was he a bad businessman or a bad person? Or both?

  Despite his phone call, I still expected the police to show up any minute. Would they really turn around and not investigate a call like mine?

  Before I even saw him move, the Braid was in front of me.

  I gasped.

  He held out his hand.

  I didn’t move.

  He flicked his fingers toward my hands behind my back. I placed the braid in his hand. He removed the elastic and handed me back the shank of hair, which I immediately dropped on the patio, strands swirling and fluttering to the concrete. The undefined fluttering edges made it look like a discarded snakeskin. He studied it sadly, then walked away, using the elastic to make a puny ponytail of his hair. When he finished, he shook his head. Half the hair escaped from the elastic.

  “Oh, that’s gold!” Archie Cruz exclaimed, hurrying after the Braid with his camera to his face.

  The Braid grabbed Archie Cruz’ camera lens and shoved him, hard. Cruz slammed into the concrete.

  The Braid pivoted toward Lapaglia, grabbed him by his tricep, and began marching him across the patio. “You are coming back to New Jersey with me and telling them everything.”

  Lapaglia struggled to get away but the Braid held him tight.

  “Okay, everyone stop right where they are. This has gone far enough!” Alan Fraser spoke loudly and with authority, but nobody stopped. He raised his voice. “I’m calling the cops!” He pulled out his phone, punched at it, then spoke into it. “I changed my mind. Get up here NOW!”

  Lapaglia broke free from the Braid’s grip and ran, disappearing into the trees.

  The Braid tried to go after him, but Archie Cruz got back in his face with the camera and began clicking. Alan Fraser race-walked toward the building, still talking into his phone.

  The Braid got a wild look in his eye, finally accepting he wasn’t in charge of the situation. He began sprinting down the patio.

  I chased after him. “Wait, wait! You have to tell me where Peter is! I got you to Lapaglia before the cops did.”

  The Braid kept running. “I did not get the information I needed!”

  “That’s not my fault!”

  The Braid never broke stride and was almost to the corner of the building.

  “Just tell me where Peter is and I’ll go get him. Please?” I yelled, running faster. I came around the corner and saw the Braid climbing into the driver’s seat of the shuttle van. “Is Peter at least safe?” I called to him.

  “Of course he is. I am not a monster.” He started up the engine, floored it, and fishtailed away from the resort.

  Alan Fraser burst out of the building and skidded to a stop. “Where are you?” he screamed into the phone. I wanted to point out they’d have been here by now if he hadn’t called them off earlier. He stalked back into the building.

  I stood, sweating in the summer heat, trying to make sense of everything that just happened.

  I worried about Peter O’Drool. Would the Braid return him, now that he’d found Lapaglia? I know he didn’t get the information he wanted, or Lapaglia, but that wasn’t Peter’s fault. Surely he wouldn’t hold all this against a fat little pug. Surely not. But might he be vindictive enough to hold everything against the woman who cut off his hair, even though she totally didn’t mean to? I groaned. Why did I have to threaten him with those shears? Why did that idiot Alan Fraser have to come around the corner right then? And why wouldn’t the Braid just tell me where Peter was? He was using him for leverage against me to find Lapaglia and I found him. Isn’t there some kind of gentlemen’s code? Honor among thieves and all that?

  An odd sound captured my attention and I turned to see Lapaglia galloping through the scrub on a big brown horse. He held the reins in one hand and with the other hugged a suitcase precariously balanced across the saddle horn and his lap.

  I screamed after him, “You are the worst thing to happen to the world since Twitter!”

  After I told the sheriff’s deputies everything I knew—or at least thought I knew—I sat at an umbrella table and tried to work up the courage to call Ozzi and see if he’d come pick me up. He would, of course, no question, but he was upset with me. I knew this because he’d told me as much in the three increasingly frantic voicemails he’d left me. I had already texted him a quick, “I’m fine,” but still. He’d used words like reckless, stupid, and impulsive. More than once.

  And he wasn’t wrong.

  But I was so tired, and I knew I couldn’t make him understand why I’d even gone to Union Station today, much less explain how everything went sideways.

  During the long drive back to Denver, I didn’t want to have to defend the indefensible, even though it had made so much sense at the time.

  Instead I’d called AmyJo. I explained where I was, giving her the least amount of information I could get away with and still get a ride home. She said she’d be there as soon as she could.

  I settled into a shady chaise lounge and called Ozzi. “Can you talk?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Still at the resort.”

  “Do you want me to—”

  “AmyJo’s on her way, but I’ll probably be home pretty late.”

  “You know I’d come get you.”

  “I know. But you’re so busy and …”

  “And you don’t want me yelling at you.”

  “Even if I deserve it.”

  “You don’t deserve it. I was just worried about you. I’m not angry. So tell me everything.”

  After I filled him in and he promised to be waiting at my apartment when I got home, I hung up, closed my eyes, and waited for AmyJo. The resort was so quiet and peaceful. I was the only one by the pool, or anywhere, for that matter. Those kids must have gone on their hike, otherwise I couldn’t imagine why they wouldn’t be splashing in this glorious pool. The family reunion family must still be on their trail ride or maybe at the chuckwagon dinner. I began to suspect this resort was much larger than I realized, with many more activities.

  I listened to the sweet song of the meadowlarks, the chittering of the squirrels, and the gentle quaking of the aspen leaves in the breeze. But nothing drowned out the refrain I had them right here that kept whistling through my brain.

  Reckless, stupid, and impulsive or not, I was so close to delivering Lapaglia to the Braid, allowing me to ransom Peter. Small consolation to think I might have helped the police solve a murder instead.

  I heard footsteps pounding across the concrete. I opened one eye, knowing it wasn’t AmyJo, but hoping it was.

/>   Geez. Archie Cruz. Why doesn’t he crawl back under his ambush-news rock and leave me alone?

  I turned away from him and willed myself to be invisible. Didn’t work.

  “Where is he? Lapaglia.” He was breathless.

  “Gone. For good, I hope. Why?”

  “His wife was murdered.”

  Twenty-Two

  “What?” An icy wave crashed over me. I just talked to her the other day. “Where? When?”

  “At their house in Nebraska. Sometime Monday or Tuesday. Package bomb. Where is he?”

  My mind skittered. Monday and Tuesday was when Lapaglia was unaccounted for. Unless he really had been at the Lost Valley Resort since Saturday. I jumped up and dashed to the ladies room for privacy from Archie Cruz’s stare. I called the number in my history that I used to order my sandwich and asked to speak to Alan Fraser.

  I got transferred to the front desk.

  “I’m sorry. He’s gone for the day,” Maggie said. “Might I be of assistance?”

  It was probably better that way, what with Alan Fraser's privacy policy. “Can you tell me when Rodolfo Lapaglia checked in?”

  “Um ... I’m not really supposed to—”

  “He’s not a guest any longer. He’s checked out already.”

  “Still ...”

  “Listen, I understand there are privacy concerns and I appreciate you abiding by them, but this is serious. It’s a matter of life and death.” I hoped she heard the urgency in my voice and didn’t think too hard about how life and death would apply to someone’s check-in date. Especially if he’d already checked out. By now, surely she knew about the goings-on here today.

  There was a long pause and I held my breath.

  She spoke quietly, almost a whisper. “What was his name again?”

  I whispered back, “Rodolfo Lapaglia.”

  “Pardon me? I can’t hear you.”

  I repeated it louder, which seemed wrong, since she was whispering.

  Her keyboard clattered. “Nobody checked in with that name in the last month.”