by Becky Clark
Metaphor for Murder
Mystery Writer’s Mystery #3
Becky Clark
Copyright © 2021 by Becky Clark
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Any references to historical events, real people, products, or places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.
Cover design by Steven Novak
ISBN: 978-1-7346893-7-2 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-7346893-8-9 (ebook)
www.BeckyClarkBooks.com
For everyone who got mad at me when they saw themselves in my previous books. Brace yourselves.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Acknowledgments
Also by Becky Clark
About the Author
One
I jumped when he licked my calf. Behind me I heard the wheezing and huffing that signified the unmistakable arrival of Peter O’Drool.
“Hey, Pete,” Ozzi said. “You trying to steal my girl?” He bent to pet the rambunctious pug who lived upstairs with Don and Barb Singer.
“Oh, honey,” I said to Ozzi, squatting down to rub Peter’s face. “That ship sailed. I fell in love with Pete long before I met you.” Peter rubbed his face on my leg before bouncing back toward Ozzi. I locked the front door of my apartment.
Peter dashed away then came right back, impossibly but valiantly chasing his minuscule tail that curved up toward his back, and finally, as his big flourish, got down in the play position, butt in the air, front legs on the ground. Well, that was the play position for normal sized dogs. Pete had so little clearance he was already mostly on the ground. But I knew what he meant.
“I wish I could, Pete, but I’ll be dead if I screw this up. I promise I’ll see you later and we’ll have a romp.” I gave him a chuff under his nutmeg-colored chin.
“Big day, eh?” My eighty-something neighbor Don Singer descended the outside stairs and met us at the bottom.
“Today is Charlee’s big workshop and book signing with Rodolfo Lapaglia.” Ozzi held out a book he was hoping to get autographed. “He’s coming into town just for this. We’re on our way to meet his train at Union Station.” Ozzi could hardly contain his excitement, eyes bright, butt wiggling. He looked remarkably similar to Peter. Not nearly as much drool, though.
“That’s a good boyfriend, going with her.” Don nodded approvingly at Ozzi. “Baby Boomers get a bad rap, but you’re all right.”
“Geez, Don, how old do you think I am? My parents are Boomers!” Ozzi said with a chuckle.
Don shrugged. “We’re the Greatest Generation. That’s where I quit paying attention.”
I barked out a too-loud laugh. “You ARE the greatest. And while Ozzi is a good boyfriend, he’s not going to this event for me. He’s got an enormous man-crush on Rodolfo Lapaglia and can’t wait to meet him.” I tugged at Ozzi’s sleeve but he gave me a reassuring pat on the arm, as if that would banish the butterflies in my stomach. The only thing I had control over today was not being late to the train station, and that ticked away the longer we stayed here chatting with Don.
This entire event today was the brain child of Stephanie Szabo, my new editor at Penn & Powell. She was also Lapaglia’s editor. After all the turmoil from the murder of my agent and the withdrawal of my manuscript “Mercury Rising,” she thought it would boost buzz for me, maybe sell some of my back titles. And I had to agree, since my agent had been completely ineffective in selling any of my new book proposals. Henry had learned nothing from his wife before he cavalierly assumed control of her literary agency after her murder. Melinda was tough and unlikeable, but fully professional and astute in the realm of book publishing. Henry, on the other hand, made completely unreasonable demands and editors—even Stephanie who had worked with me before—wouldn’t agree to take on any of my new work. She told me in no uncertain terms that as long as Henry Walter was my agent, I’d never sell another manuscript. I was keeping my fingers crossed I could just run out the clock on my contract with him.
But then a bona fide miracle happened. Not one the Pope would bless, but still. Henry Walter closed up shop and sent letters to all of Melinda’s clients that he was going back to his tech business and releasing us from our contracts. Apparently my editor wasn’t the only one he’d antagonized.
Then the next thing I knew, my friend Viv Lundquist had signed with a new agent and convinced her to sign me as well. As relieved as I was, though, you can be sure I scrutinized every word of that contract.
But when both my new agent and editor thought this event would be a boost for my career, I believed them. Plus, I wanted them to know I was a team player and not some literary diva.
Stephanie confided that she was keeping her fingers crossed for a miracle that our event today would not only raise my profile, but also humanize the reclusive Lapaglia a bit, make him less of a jerk.
Seemed like a lot of pressure for a one-day workshop for writers. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’d already been the recent recipient of a miracle.
“Who is this Lapaglia?” Don asked. He pronounced it “La-page-lie-ya.”
“Lapaglia. Just the best thriller writer who ever put pen to paper, that’s who,” Ozzi said, puffing out his chest.
“Told you. Man-crush.”
Don raised his eyebrows.
“Seriously? You’ve never heard of him?” Ozzi asked.
Don screwed up his face in an exaggerated manner to mimic extra-hard concentration. I hid my grin by bending down to rub Peter’s belly.
“You’re killing me, Don! Rodolfo Lapaglia ... has thirteen books in his Mob Busters series? Won the most Dark Dagger Awards ever? Bestsellers in like, every country you’ve ever heard of and some you haven’t?”
After each fact, Don looked even more quizzical. I was afraid Ozzi might hyperventilate. And then we’d really be late.
I knew Don was pulling Ozzi’s leg because I’d seen Lapaglia’s books on his shelves. I hung around Don and Barb more than Ozzi did, so I was a bit more immune to Don’s pranks. Not that he didn’t fool me on occasion. The most recent time was when he had me convinced that a house being built near us had actually been blown down in a recent windstorm. I believed it longer than I cared to admit.
Don slapped his thigh and guffawed. “Of course I know Lapaglia’s work. I own most of his books. Been reading them since you were still in knee-britches.”
“Pretty sure I’ve never worn knee-britches,” Ozzi said.
“I bet you’d rock them. I’d kinda like to see you try.” I waggled my eyebrows and gave him a lascivious leer.
Ozzi shot me a pin-up girl pose, complete with pout and finger in dimple.
“On second thought, no time. We should go.” I held out my hand to him.
Ozzi scritched Peter O’Drool once more then took my hand.
I let him lead me across the sidewalk toward the apartment complex parking lot, calling over my shoulder, “See you, Don. Stay out of trouble, Pete.”
“Can I ride in your new car?” Ozzie headed toward my covered parking spot.
I rolled my eyes. My long-paid-off Kia had gone to the big scrap heap in the sky so I bought a used Chevy Sonic that, while cheap, still didn’t feel affordable. I stared at its backend. “It looks like they lopped off the rear to save money. Or maybe the previous owner got rear-ended and they just left it smushed in like that.”
“If that’s true, they buffed out the accordion folds nicely.” He studied it for a minute. “What do they call that color?”
“I don’t know. But I call it olive red.”
When Ozzi and I got to Union Station in downtown Denver, I was frantic we had missed Lapaglia as it had taken us forever to find parking. I checked with the Amtrak employee in the booth who assured me the train had not come in yet, despite it being almost twenty minutes past its arrival time. I collapsed on one of the benches in the main hall to collect myself.
The last thing I needed was to have to wrangle a furious Lapaglia all day.
Ozzi sat down next to me on the wooden bench and immediately stood. “That is the most uncomfortable seat ever made.” He pulled me up. “Let’s sit on the comfy-looking chairs instead.”
“I think these are the original benches. You know, from history.”
“Doesn’t make them comfy.”
“No, but I can see the door from here. I don’t want to miss him.”
Ozzi gave me a kiss and a neck rub. “You can watch the door from here. Or we can go outside and wait.” He looked over my head and through the window to the tracks outside under the canopy.
I nodded and followed him out the door. The huge canopy covered much of the plaza, casting it in a muted glow, like looking at the world through a gauzy soft focus.
We wandered near track four where the train was to come in. At least two hundred people were queued up in a serpentine line, some with luggage, some without, waiting for the train to arrive to deliver them to points west. Several people wandered like we did, perhaps waiting for their own passenger to arrive.
Even though the sun hadn’t been up long, it was hot and uncomfortable outside under the canopy. The planters overflowing with multi-hued petunias brightened the bland civic space, but the cloying sweetness of broiled petunias made me feel like I was drowning in saccharine. I liked that the train wouldn’t arrive in some dark underground tunnel, but didn’t like that it wasn’t even eight in the morning and already seemed to be ninety degrees.
“Let’s go back in,” I said. Sweating through my sundress before the day even began seemed ill-advised. “You still want to go hiking tomorrow? I think it’s going to be hot.”
“I guess the better question is, will you? We’ll have to get up early to beat the heat, but after today I bet you’ll want to sleep until noon.” He kissed her. “Maybe brunch at the Brown Palace instead?”
“You’re the best boyfriend in the world.” I’d been dying to go to the ritziest brunch in Colorado at the historic Brown Palace Hotel. “Are you sure your project team won’t call you to bail them out of an emergency the minute we sit down?”
“No.” Ozzi frowned. “Maybe a rain check for a better weekend. The project is hitting so many snags it’s like….” He struggled to find a metaphor.
“A kitten playing with pantyhose?” I opened the door for him, then ushered him forward with my palm on his right butt cheek.
He laughed. “Yes. That many snags. I wish I’d never heard the phrases facial recognition software, biometrics, principal component analysis, or—and this is the worst—the hidden Markov model before.”
“Sounds positively dreadful at the hack factory these days.”
“I’m not a hacker,” he said automatically.
“Potato, tomahto.”
A zaftig woman grudgingly made room for us on a squishy modern couch in the Great Hall. As she scooted over, I became concerned the bounce of her ample bosom might give her a concussion. I was unapologetic about making her move, however, because from this vantage point I had a view of the outside door to the left and Ozzi could see the door to the right. I could also observe anyone heading down the hallway to baggage claim. I checked the time. “Where is that train?”
“Don’t worry. It’ll be here.”
“Why couldn’t he just fly in the night before, stay in a fancy hotel, then get himself to the workshop like a normal person?” I tapped a fingernail on my knee.
Ozzi placed his hand over mine to stop my tapping but as soon as he removed it, the tapping began again in earnest. I was barely aware of it.
“In every interview Lapaglia rants about his hatred of air travel, but says it’s easy and relaxing to ride the train to Denver,” Ozzi said. “Apparently, he does it quite a bit.”
“It sure says something about his level of fame that he can get most anything to happen within a short train ride from Podunk, Nebraska. I bet he tried to get the Dark Dagger Awards relocated to Omaha.” I laughed at the absurdity but Ozzi nodded.
“Yeah, I read about that. Had to fact-check it before I allowed it to be posted on his Wikipedia page.”
“Seriously? He tried that?”
“He’s kind of a recluse.”
“Understatement of the year. But I guess even The Great and Powerful Rodolfo Lapaglia has to do stuff to sell books once in a while.” I leaned close and whispered, “I hope he’s not a complete jerk. It’s kind of a smarmy move to come to town two hours before an important event like this.”
“I wouldn’t mind having his life,” Ozzi said. “Getting to come and go as you please. Making crazy demands.”
“Be careful what you wish for or you might accidentally turn into a jerk author.”
My finger started tapping on my knee again. Clearly this event wasn’t nearly as important to Lapaglia as it was to me. He just needed to show up and give whatever stump speech he normally gives to writers—a little encouragement, a little how-to, a lot of malarkey. He wasn’t on the hook for the financials since I somehow got hoodwinked into signing all the contracts because I was local—the venue, the food, the wine and cheese for the book signing reception. It added up. Penn & Powell must have bought his train ticket and paid for his hotel after the workshop, so that was something. When I asked Stephanie Szabo about Penn & Powell fronting the money, she pooh-poohed the idea. “Charlee, this is a big event. It will definitely sell out. You won’t lose money, only make it.” I’m such a putz. If I didn’t need the money so badly, maybe I would have fought harder. He better not screw this up for me.
I scooted away from Ozzi to see the door better. Ozzi had the good sense to leave his Lapaglia first edition in the car so I dug through my bag and pulled out the book jacket from his most recent bestseller. I studied the photo of him, refreshing my memory so I would be sure to recognize him. Handsome enough, I guess, with that distinguished-looking, but generic salt-and-pepper-at-the-temples hairstyle middle-aged men had going on. But certainly not swoon-worthy. He looked a little smug. Or sad. Or like he knew a secret nobody else was privy to. I was sure I’d recognize him. The full-figured gal next to me was craning her neck, staring at the photo. I refolded the book jacket and returned it to my purse, twisting slightly to keep her from eavesdropping any more than she already was.
“I tried to get him to come in last night,” I told Ozzi in a quiet voice. “I mean, c’mon. This train is coming from where, Chicago? And stopping in every podunk town along the way? How could it ever be on time?” I checked the clock for the forty-leventh time.
The woman shot daggers at me then heaved herself from the couch. She turned, giving me one more once-over. So, a twice-over, I guess.
As she walked away, under my breath I said, “Gee
z, lady, I’m sorry if my perfectly modulated conversation disturbed you.” I turned to Ozzi. “I was using my indoor voice, wasn’t I?”
“Yes. You’re imagining things. People are always stressed out when they travel.” He rubbed my knee. “Let’s talk about something else. Oh, have you heard about that teaching job?”
I brightened a bit. Teaching at the community college wasn’t going to make me rich, but it would certainly ease my financial pain a bit. “Not yet, but I heard that I’m a shoo-in. I’ve already started working on the curriculum.”
As I was telling him the books I wanted to teach, we were interrupted by a man walking up to us.
“Excuse me, can I have a minute?”
I looked up and saw Detective Ming-Like-The-Vase’s extra slick hair. He was one of the detectives who questioned me in the murder of Melinda Walter. I immediately retraced the path of my whereabouts for the last few days. My pulse quickened at the memory of throwing a movie stub in the trash at the theater as we were leaving the other night. A perfectly good alibi, wasted. You’d think I’d learn.
“Detective Ming!” I spoke too loud and too fast.
He obviously didn’t recognize me. I stood. “I’m Charlee Russo. You thought I killed my agent?” I stuck out my hand, hoping it wasn’t dripping with guilty-level amounts of sweat.
“How could I forget?” he said, shaking my hand.
“And you remember Ozzi Rabbinowitz?” Ozzi stood and offered his hand.
