by Becky Clark
Next, I sent a group text to Lakshmi, Cecilia, and Martina, giving them one last opportunity to do the right thing. I typed:
You can’t deny that the man you now know as Rodolfo Lapaglia is a creep. He cheated me out of a big chunk of money, he cheated his fans who came to hear him teach a workshop, he cheated on his wife and each of you, he lied to you about his identity, and I’m pretty sure he’s a murderer, maybe twice over. I think we can prove this, and if my plan works, you can be long gone before the cops get there. If you don’t step forward, some other poor woman may die ... maybe even one of you. Do you want that on your conscience? And even if he’s not involved in murder, should he get away with making you all look like fools and using you the way he did??
I held my breath and hit send. I didn’t care if the cops nabbed Lapaglia or if we did, but it was clear someone had to and it didn’t seem like the cops were on it.
The first response came from Cecilia, a selfie with her eye blackened and the message, Bad guys deserve bad things. I’m in.
Ten minutes later Martina texted. Fine.
After I’d showered, Lakshmi’s response awaited. Okay, if you all think that’s best.
Tepid, but I’d take it.
The first step was for someone to contact him. Cecilia volunteered and told him his page proofs were ready and they needed to meet. He replied to her message so quickly that it was clear to me he’d circled back to Denver after he escaped the Lost Valley Resort. I wondered where he parked the horse.
The trap was set to lure Lapaglia to the Aurora Motor Coachettes, a vintage motel I drove by all the time. It wasn’t seedy enough to be worrisome, hadn’t turned into weekly housing for the almost-homeless, nor had it been gentrified by hipsters. Best of all, it had a secluded barbecue area behind the corner room, which I booked for Friday night. The owner had seemed especially grateful when I offered an extra twenty to keep the rooms on either side empty as well.
When I got there, I could have saved my twenty bucks. Saved Ozzi’s twenty bucks, that is. The only people on the premises were a retired couple who had parked their RV at the far end of the property.
I circled the motel by foot, making sure my plan would work exactly as I’d imagined. Sturdy chairs around the fire pit. Easy access from the motel room. Quiet.
I passed through a breezeway to the front of the motel and wiggled the key in the room door. I glanced at my car parked several spaces away, not that Lapaglia knew what kind of car I drove, but I didn’t want to spook him with too much activity.
The room was tidy, but smelled musty. All the furnishings were out of date, spanning many decades and design trends. I had no doubt that sleeping in that bed would send me straight to a chiropractor. Luckily, I’d be doing no sleeping here.
I closed the door and kept the curtains drawn. The room was gloomy so I turned on both the heavy baroque-style lamp on the nightstand, and the macramé swag lamp hanging over the small table in the corner.
Hands on hips, I walked through my plan to make sure it would work, now that I’d seen this long, narrow room. Bathroom and closet in the rear on either side, and the sliding patio door almost directly opposite the front door.
It was perfect.
Cecilia would greet him at the front door, but Martina, Lakshmi and I would be waiting out back.
We planned to tie Lapaglia up out there to force him to watch his three girlfriends symbolically and literally destroy his picture book—at least in print shop proof form—in the fire pit as punishment for lying and using the three of them. After that, I was going to send the women on their way, then call the cops to come get him. I flipped open the lock on the patio door. We’d want to head out back as soon as we heard Lapaglia show up.
The other women arrived well ahead of time, making sure to park at the far end of the motel like I’d asked. Martina brought pizza and beer while we waited for him. Cecilia and I sat at the wobbly mismatched chairs on either side of a scratched table. Lakshmi sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, and Martina leaned against the headboard.
We went over the plan one last time. I was in the middle of explaining how the zip ties worked to lash him to a chair when Cecilia expressed doubts.
“Do you really think he killed somebody?” She stretched the really from here to Kansas.
“Yes, absolutely,” I said. “There’s that bolo tie he was wearing that matched the design on Tiffany’s necklace, those silver combs, and—” I turned to Martina. “And the logo on your business cards. Why do they all match? What’s the significance?”
Martina stiffened. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing. I’m just asking a question.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but he was wearing that tie when I met him. I liked the design, so I copied it for my logo.”
I studied her face. Was she lying? “I thought Lapaglia started his relationship with you because you had a marketing business?”
Martina reddened. “He did.”
“Then why didn’t you already have a logo?” Cecilia asked suspiciously.
We all stared at Martina until she knew she had to answer. “Okay, fine. I wasn’t a marketing professional”—she used air quotes—“at all until someone introduced me to him that way. I worked at a big marketing firm, but in the payroll department.” She shrugged. “I’d been toying with the idea so I thought this would be as good a time as any to start my own business.”
“So you plopped a logo on a business card and rented a post office box at Pandora’s.” I bit the point off a slice of pizza and tried to hide my envy at her audacity.
Martina shrugged again.
“Ballsy,” Cecilia said.
Quiet until now, Lakshmi said, “How else do people start businesses?”
She got me there, but that wasn’t the point. “Regardless of how Martina started her marketing business, there’s still the question of the bolo tie, the combs, and that necklace. There’s a link there and the only possible explanation is Lapaglia.”
“I still can’t see him killing anyone, much less two people,” Cecilia said.
“Me neither,” Lakshmi added quietly.
“Gotta agree,” Martina said, mouth full of pizza. “I’ve been thinking about it since you called, and it just doesn’t make sense to me. Yes, he’s a piece of .... philanderer and user of our good natures for which I’m willing to punish him, but I don’t think we should get the cops involved.”
“Me neither,” Lakshmi said again, a little bit louder. She wiped her mouth on a paper napkin and began clearing the trash.
“That’s what I’ve been thinking, too,” Cecilia said. “I don’t mind if you guys want to punish him by destroying his manuscript and illustrations, but I think we should leave it at that. Not go to the police.” She paused. “He was actually really nice to me, even with all the using and lying. Way nicer than my husband.” Her fingers brushed her black eye. “And I seriously doubt that our names will come up at any point.” She handed Lakshmi her plate and crumpled napkin. Lakshmi nodded and smiled.
I felt my fists clench. “I don’t think Tiffany or Annamaria would say he was actually really nice to them while he was killing them.”
“Show us your proof,” Martina said, holding out her hand. When I didn’t place anything in it she said, “Exactly. You have nothing. You’re playing a dangerous game of chicken, and I’m the head hen.”
Whatever that means. “You guys are missing the point. We’re not going to execute the guy. All we’re going to do is get the three of you some well-deserved revenge, and then I’m calling the cops to come and pick him up. They’ll investigate and gather the rest of the evidence.”
“And we'd be part of the evidence,” Cecilia said softly.
“He can’t be a murderer,” Lakshmi said. “He just can’t.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because ... because ...” She swept her arm to include everyone. “Because we know him! We can’t possibly know a murderer!”
Cecilia and Martina murmured and nodded their agreement.
I stared at them, stunned. How could they not see what I see? And how could I possibly make them understand that everyone had secrets, even people close to you.
I took a swig from my beer bottle and told them the story about the murder of my agent. Satisfied that would illustrate my point, I let them chew on that while I stood up and added my trash to the pile Lakshmi collected. When I turned back, Martina had slipped into the chair I’d been sitting in.
“Sorry,” she said. “My back’s killing me. That bed sucks.” She picked up my phone lying on the table and squinted at it. “You were right,” she read. “Different women.” She set it back down. “What kind of name is Ozzi?”
He fixed the software glitch! I was right. Velvet was at the Dark Dagger Awards that night too. I had no time to celebrate or figure out what to do with that information because in the next breath Martina said, “Let’s take a vote. All in favor of not calling the cops tonight raise your hand.”
Three hands shot up in the air.
“We have to!” I said.
“No,” Martina said. “We don’t.”
I paced the length of the small room, twice, stopping in front of Lakshmi. “You can’t go along with them,” I said.
“I don’t want to be involved with the police,” she said.
I turned toward Cecilia who looked away and said, “If my husband finds out about any of this ....”
I knew it was futile, but I stepped toward Martina and held out my hands, palms up. “I’m begging you.”
She stared at me long enough that I thought she might change her mind. But then she rolled her eyes and said, “You’re such a drama queen. Besides, if the cops take him, you’ll never see a dime of any reimbursement from him.”
Crossing my arms, I felt my fingernails dig into my palms. Of course she was probably right about never seeing that money, but this has gone beyond that now. What about the greater good of humanity? My money problem wasn’t as important as putting a murderer behind bars. Why couldn’t they see that?
I needed to get out of there, get some air, clear my head. I stuffed the plates and napkins into the empty pizza box. I removed the two remaining beers from the cardboard carrier and filled the spaces with empties. I reached for Martina’s but she grabbed it first.
“I’m not done!”
I snatched up the trash and slammed the motel door behind me, knowing that I didn’t have much time to convince them. I just had to figure out a more compelling argument. I stomped down the sidewalk toward the dumpster. The clanging of the dumpster lid when I deposited our trash caught the attention of the retired couple sitting under an awning in canvas camp chairs in the weeds. I returned their wave but veered away, taking the well-trod dirt path leading behind the motel.
I was still furious and hadn’t formulated a more compelling argument, so I kicked and chased a rusted can the length of the motel, not stopping until I reached the fire pit behind the room where the backstabbing, scaredy-cat women waited.
I dragged off the plywood square used to keep unobservant people from falling in the open pit, which I presumed was not building code compliant. I stared into the abyss of the brick-lined pit dug into the ground. Layers of black soot lined the inside. How many fires had been laid in here? How many ritual manuscript cremations?
How was I going to convince them to let me call the cops? Could I do this without them? Would the cops even believe me? What if we tied him up, burned his manuscript, and then we all left? Then I could still call the cops and the women would be none the wiser.
That might work. No, it wouldn't. He'd be screaming all our names at the top of his lungs. I shook my head. Lapaglia was going to be here soon. I had to get everyone back on track with some kind of plan. The fire was the key. I needed to remind them what he did, how he abused their trust. Once we started with the ritual burning of his manuscript, they’d remember what a deplorable human he really was.
I searched the area looking for the woodpile the motel owner had alluded to when I told her we’d want a fire tonight. I felt in my pocket for the matchbook with the motel’s name on it that she’d tossed to me earlier. I carried four skinny logs and an old newspaper to the fire pit. I crisscrossed the logs like I remember my dad doing when we went camping. I wadded sheets of yellowed newsprint, brittle with age, poking them strategically under the logs.
I briefly admired my handiwork, wondering if my dad would have been proud, then struck a match, lighting each wad of paper in turn. It was time to convince them our scheme was solid and get Martina and Lakshmi out of the room before Lapaglia got here. They’ll see this bonfire blazing and remember why they wanted to do this in the first place.
Tires crunched over the asphalt of the parking lot. I hurried to the corner of the breezeway and peeked out. I saw Lapaglia get out of the driver’s seat of an El Camino with a black matte paint job. The Braid's car? A woman slid across the front seat and followed him out the driver’s side.
When I saw her face, I clamped a hand over my mouth.
Twenty-Seven
Annamaria? Velvet? The woman turned sharply toward the breezeway, as if she’d heard me. I ducked further back, keeping my hand over my mouth.
She was pressed up tight next to Lapaglia and speaking to him in a quiet voice. I strained to hear. It was all mumbling until I heard him say, “Velvet, please don’t do this.”
I peeked around the corner again and saw her hold out her hand. Lapaglia dropped the keys in her palm. She pocketed them then slipped her arm through his, leading him to the door of the motel room.
Suddenly Thomas Percy’s words made perfect sense. He hadn’t been seeing Annamaria’s ghost, he was seeing Velvet. Velvet was pretending to be Annamaria and they were falling for it. She fed the mob stories to Lapaglia. She set up the Braid. But why? Why was she here? Why were they in the Braid’s car? Because they killed him too?
Lapaglia and this Velvet were clearly in cahoots.
Now the two of them show up here, together. Why? To murder Cecilia? She was the only one Lapaglia expected to be here tonight. I offered a silent prayer of thanks that Lakshmi and Martina were both still in there with her. I hoped they were anyway. I hurried back to the greenbelt and peeked in the sliding door at the back of the room. They were all there.
I studied the scene, trying to imprint everything on my memory so I could give the police a perfect description when I called them. Lapaglia wore a gray golf shirt and black trousers. Velvet wore a pale pink stylish capri-style pantsuit, with a dark pink shell, and matching slingbacks.
I’d left my phone inside, but I knew there had to be a phone nearby, in the office, or maybe with the RV couple. I knew I had to call immediately, since Cecilia—perhaps all the women—were in danger.
I peered more intently through the sliding glass door. Something didn’t seem right. Cecilia didn’t look like she was in danger, in fact, nobody did. Lapaglia and Velvet stood so close they looked like conjoined twins. Glacially slow and church mouse silent, I slid open the patio door so I could hear what they were saying.
“Does it look like I’m dead?” Velvet laughed. “Don’t be silly. Just a huge misunderstanding. My boyfriend was just being dramatic because I got back together with my husband, Rodolfo, and went on a romantic getaway. Thomas freaked out. That’s why Rod and I vowed no more affairs. Only the straight and narrow for us now. Right, dear?”
Lapaglia mumbled something but he did not look like he was back in some happy marital bliss. In fact, he looked a little like he might throw up.
“And when Rod told me he was meeting you here, Cecilia, I had to tag along and explain that your affair must come to an end, now that we’re working on our marriage. How lucky I am that you’re all here at once!”
Martina explained to her how they had all been duped by Lapaglia and hadn’t even learned his real name until recently. She started explaining the bonfire plan.
Suddenly Ve
lvet raised her index finger to interrupt. Then she sneezed. Sneezes were like fingerprints. No two were alike and I’d heard that sneeze before ... at Espresso Yourself!
Velvet was the psychic who met with Don and Barb that day. She had been trying to track Lapaglia. And now she had, along with all of his girlfriends.
My pulse quickened. For whatever reason, Velvet killed Annamaria and was pretending to be her. And now she was going to kill Lapaglia and his girlfriends!
I needed to get the cops here right now. I pushed back from the sliding door but must have given it a little shove. It squeaked. Everyone turned toward the sound.
I didn’t have time to get away. I zipped toward the fire and grabbed a smoldering twig, using it as a poker by the time Velvet came out the sliding door.
“Oh, hi!” I gushed, overly friendly. My only hope was to pretend I’d been out here the whole time and that I was oblivious.
She stood a few steps away, hands in her pockets, watching me stoke the fire. Showers of sparks danced on an arc into the air. I kept tight hold of the smoldering stick.
I poked at the fire a few more times. When I looked up, I saw the necklace around her throat. It was exactly like Tiffany’s in the photo. I willed myself to remain perky and calm. “Ooh! Love your necklace! Where’d you get it?”
“I made it. It’s my own design. I make jewelry.” She glanced back through the sliding door and gave a slight wave.
They must have been watching us. I hoped one of them would call the cops, but the women thought she was Annamaria. But surely Lapaglia would tell them she wasn’t. Would they believe him?
“You’re a jewelry designer?”
“Just a side business.” She glanced again at the patio door.
