Metaphor for Murder (Mystery Writer's Mysteries Book 3)

by Becky Clark

  I stood, but AmyJo, bless her midwestern heart, stepped between me and the angry horde.

  “Listen up, people. I know you’re mad, but we just can’t seem to find Mr. Lapaglia at this exact moment. He’s around somewhere, but his train was late, and now he seems to have gotten himself lost on the way to the suburbs.” She offered them her normally infectious, corn-fed, orthodontist-approved smile, but this crowd was well beyond that.

  She tried again. “Charlee, here,” she gestured toward me, “has done everything in her power—”

  “Except get him here!” someone in the back yelled.

  “Or give us our money back!” another yelled.

  “Yeah! Give us our money back!”

  They all started chanting, “Money back, money back!”

  I had to rescue AmyJo. I couldn’t expect her to protect me any longer. I wanted her to, don’t get me wrong, but it seemed selfish to expect it. I stepped in front of her and raised my hands. “Hang on, guys. Let me explain.” When they quieted, I took a deep, cleansing breath. “I can teach the workshops in his place, or just the Q&A. Show of hands?” I remembered how much the participants loved my sessions at the Stumptown Writer’s Conference in Portland a couple of months ago.

  The crowd started up their chant again, but this time half of them chanted “Money back” and the other half chanted “Lapaglia.” The difference in syllables made my head throb almost immediately. Well, that, and the whole angry mob thing.

  I raised my hands again until they quieted. “Listen. I don’t know what to tell you. Lapaglia isn’t here. I don’t know where he is—”

  “Call him!”

  “I don’t have his number.” And he didn’t have mine, I thought with dismay.

  “Likely story!”

  It sounded lame to me, too. I asked him for his cell number several times for just this reason, but he ignored my request. He probably thought I’d sell it on the black market. As God is my witness, I thought, if I had it, I would give it to every person in this room. For free.

  “I really don’t have his number. I don’t know where he is—”

  A woman in front turned to the crowd and said, “Lapaglia never does appearances like this. Why would he come all the way to Denver to do this one and then not show up?”

  A man standing next to her took up the gauntlet. “Yeah. You made this whole thing up. You manufactured this event to steal our money!”

  The crowd started another chant. “Steal our money ... steal our money!” Since it faded away fairly quickly, they must have realized it didn’t sound like the demand they wanted.

  Ozzi stepped forward when the crowd began to surge. “Stop right there. Charlee Russo didn’t steal your money and she didn’t try to hoodwink you in any way. She’s just as much a victim as you are. Now, she’s trying to make it right by doing the workshops you paid to hear—”

  “We PAID for Lapaglia!”

  They started up the “Lapaglia” chant again. I wasn’t sure if they wanted him to actually teach now, or if they were so riled up they wanted his head on a pike instead. I preferred the pike, that’s for sure. Did he do all this on purpose to steal money from them? Is he purposely leaving me to hold the bag? Surely he’s rich, though, with all those bestsellers in print.

  My head throbbed and I was weak with resignation. Why did stuff like this keep happening to me?

  A refrigerator-sized man stepped forward and loomed over me before Ozzi could insert himself between us. He towered over Ozzi, too. “If you don’t refund our money right now, I’m going to call Archie Cruz.” He performed a quick-draw on his phone that made Ozzi and I both duck.

  The crowd mumbled their approval for Archie Cruz. A few in the back even started chanting his name.

  “Archie Cruz? Who’s that?” Ozzi whispered, straightening himself in that nonchalant way you do after you stumble over a shadow on the sidewalk.

  “He’s that guy on the local news who does the Your Advocate segments. Little bit gossip, little bit consumer help for people who think they’ve been wronged somehow.” I kept my eye on Godzilla.

  “Exactly.” Godzilla held out his phone to show me he was already on Archie Cruz’s website.

  I took a deep breath. “For the last time, I don’t have your money. Rodolfo Lapaglia does.” Brainstorm like a thunderbolt shot through me. “Oh! We can start the bidding on the manuscript critiques Lapaglia was going to auction off!” I beamed at Godzilla who refused to beam back. “Then I can start reimbursing everyone!”

  “What did she say?” a voice from the back called.

  Godzilla turned. “She said she’s NOT giving us our MONEY back, but suggests we can give her MORE money for those manuscript critiques.”

  The voice called, “You mean those manuscript critiques from someone who never even bothered to show up here? The ones we’re not likely to see in our short, sad lifetimes? Those manuscript critiques?”

  Godzilla nodded. “Yep. The very same.”

  “Well, when you put it like that ...” It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  The crowd began murmuring again, but this time they began to move apart. Some headed back to their seats to pick up notebooks and computers that wouldn’t be used today, except, perhaps, for composing furious missives soon to be posted on Archie Cruz’s website, and every social media platform known to humanity.

  HashtagI’mScrewed.

  As they filed past me, glaring or muttering under their breath or outright cursing me, I said, “Listen ... I’m sorry! This isn’t my fault! But I’ll figure it out and get you your refunds as soon as possible. Expect to hear from me with good news! Soon! Very soon.” I knew they didn’t believe me. I didn’t really believe myself either.

  The caterers had wheeled in carts stacked with the box lunches. Many in the crowd veered toward them to grab a lunch, sometimes two, on their way out. The caterers had no idea what was happening, but pasted on their happy server smiles and said over and over until I wanted to throttle them, “Enjoy ... hope your event is going great ... enjoy ... have a great day!”

  I heard more than one participant say, after grabbing a box, “Pretty expensive turkey sandwich!” But most of them said stuff I wouldn’t want my mother to hear.

  Three

  After they were all gone, Ozzi, AmyJo, and I plopped into chairs. They both wore dazed expressions, so I could only imagine how I looked. The caterers seemed confused by the fact everyone had streamed out the doors but they still had a hundred or so box lunches left over on their carts.

  “Um, Miss Russo?” one of them said. “What should we do with these?” She gestured to the remaining boxes.

  I stared at the still sizable stacks of boxes, turkey or ham or veggie sandwiches with chips and a dill pickle spear nestled inside. I bought all those. How long would it take me to eat them? Could I even finish them before they went bad? How much room did I have in my fridge? How fat would I get and how long would it take? Of course, I’d give some to Ozzi and AmyJo. And the rest of the members of my critique group. And anyone else I could think of.

  “I could start my own deli.” I snorted. “Wait. I could start my own deli! Will you guys help me?” I turned away from the box lunches and back toward Ozzi and AmyJo.

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” AmyJo said with a shrug.

  “Whatever you need, babe.”

  “Could you wheel a couple of these carts and try to sell these lunches at the park or someplace? At least I can start to recoup some of the money to reimburse everyone.”

  “Sure.”

  After promising the caterers that they’d get the carts back within an hour, AmyJo and Ozzi consolidated most of the boxes onto two of the rolling carts. Two of the catering staff, who were locals, pointed AmyJo toward the Parker Library where there was always a crowd of families playing in the splash fountain. Then they pointed Ozzi in the opposite direction, toward apartments, the three-block shopping district, and the park.

  I held the doors fo
r them as they left. “Thanks for doing this, guys. I owe you.”

  “You’d do it for us,” AmyJo said.

  “Neither of you would ever find yourself in a mess like this,” I said.

  “But if we did, you would.” AmyJo bumped her cart over the threshold.

  “I absolutely would.”

  “Be back in a jiffy with pockets of cash.” Ozzi gave me a kiss I didn’t deserve. “What are you going to be doing?”

  “Trying to find Lapaglia.”

  He bumped over the threshold behind AmyJo and disappeared down the street.

  I went back to the comfortable lobby chairs and collapsed into one. The catering staff stacked the remaining box lunches on the nearby table AmyJo had used for registration this morning. Was that only a few hours ago? Sitting there, I tried to organize my thoughts enough to figure out what to do. I was furious, anxious, exhausted, worried, and confused. I was the mulligatawny of stress.

  And suddenly starving. I opened one of the lunches and removed the top slice of bread to see what I’d be eating. Figures. Veggie. I was going to eat it anyway when I realized I had, what, thirty lunches to choose from? I opened boxes until I found a ham sandwich and a turkey. I removed the smoked turkey from its nest of lettuce and bread and loaded it onto the top of the honey ham to make it a Charlee Russo Special. Took a bite. I didn’t know if it was dry because it didn’t have enough mayo or mustard, or if I was only tasting my anxiety.

  I dropped the double decker sandwich back in the box, gave the pickle a half-hearted lick, then shoved it all away.

  With no plan in mind, other than calling for help, I picked up my phone. Before I could dial, the pop-up bookstore staff of three rounded the corner. Two twenty-something men carried boxes. The other, the owner, pushed a fully loaded handcart. She looked as angry as her struggle bun, which defiantly clung to her head, albeit sliding down, with most of the hair hung in disarray around it.

  “There you are,” she said to me. The men stopped too, but she waved them away. “Go get that truck loaded. I need to have a little chat with Miss Russo here.”

  “Take a sandwich if you’re hungry,” I called after them. I waved my hand toward the box lunches. “Are you hungry, Dee?”

  “No, I’m not hungry.” Dee’s voice had an edge I’d never heard before. Probably because I’d never before made her spend hours setting up a pop-up bookstore, only to drive away every single potential customer.

  “Dee, listen, I’m—”

  “Yeah, sorry, I’m sure. But that doesn’t change the fact I’m out a day’s wages for those two, I missed my kid’s baseball game, I had to set all this up and then immediately tear it down ...” She grabbed the handle of her handcart and gave it an angry shake.

  I knew she really wanted to do that to me.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a—”

  “No!”

  “Dee, I promise I’ll make this up to you. I don’t know what to say. Lapaglia didn’t show up. I don’t know where he is. I don’t have his number. But as soon as all this is straightened out, I’ll come down to the store and do a huge book signing party. I’ll invite everyone I know, get all my author friends to sign too. You’ll make a ton of money.”

  “Do what you want. But nobody will find your books in my store ever again.” She pulled back on her handcart and started for the doors. “Ever. Again.” When she got there she turned back, “And you can tell your publisher to expect returns of all your books I have in stock.”

  Tears welled in my eyes but I blinked them away. I would not let her see me cry. But this was simply too much. I knew she and her staff would be wheeling back and forth past me through the lobby, so I grabbed my bag and found a quiet corner in the event room. I turned a folding chair with my back to the door so even if she came in here I wouldn’t have to see her. I still didn’t have much of a plan, since it was Saturday and I knew my editor wouldn’t be at her desk. I called anyway and when her voicemail came up I said, “Stephanie ... Steph ... listen. I’m in trouble here. I went to pick up Lapaglia from the train station and he wasn’t there and when I got here, everyone demanded a refund that I don’t have because Lapaglia has all the money and they threatened me with this news guy who I KNOW will ambush me when I’m stress-eating an entire box of doughnuts or something and Dee from the bookstore won’t carry my books anymore and I just bought a new car I can’t really afford and I had to pay for all this stuff and you TOLD me I wouldn’t LOSE any money only MAKE it and ... and ... so many sandwiches!” What little composure I had disappeared like a dandelion puff in a tornado and the message cut off mid-sob. I didn’t bother to call her back. I’m sure she understood.

  I took some deep breaths and eventually stopped crying. I dialed my agent, Piper O’Shaughnessy, the only other person who might possibly help me. Of course, it was still Saturday and she didn’t answer her phone either. I didn’t bother to leave a message. I’d only sob through my pitiful story anyway. Besides, what could Piper do about it? She was in New York and Lapaglia wasn’t even a client of hers.

  I sat and felt sorry for myself for eight more minutes but then snapped out of it. I didn’t want Ozzi and AmyJo to see me sniveling away like this while they were actually out trying to help me.

  From my bag, I removed the notepad I expected to use to take copious notes of Lapaglia’s words of writerly wisdom. I started scribbling some math instead. On the left side of the page I wrote the number of registered attendees and the registration amount they paid. On the right side, my costs. Venue, advertising, breakfast pastries and coffee, box lunches, wine and cheese—

  Wine and cheese! I jumped up and ran to find the caterer. She was putting a box into her van.

  “Charlee, I was just going to find you. Since whatever happened here ... happened ... what do you want me to do with the wine for tonight?”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you about. Can you pretend I never ordered it or the cheese?”

  She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes, studying me for an uncomfortably long time.

  “Please?”

  “Sure. Never happened. I’ll take it all to the wedding I’m doing tomorrow.”

  “Seriously? You will?” I wanted to hug her but I knew if I did I’d probably pop her like a tick. That’s how happy she made me.

  “Yeah. I didn’t open it. No harm, no foul. Besides, you look like you need a little good news.”

  “Ohmygawd, I DO! Thank you so much!”

  “But I’m still charging your credit card on file for everything else.”

  “I figured, but this means a lot. It really does.”

  She waved me away like a pesky gnat. Probably sensed I might hug her.

  After awarding her a deep and deeply ridiculous bow from the waist, complete with prayer hands that neither of us wanted to see, I went back to my notepad.

  I crossed off wine and cheese, which only left me on the hook for this venue, advertising, breakfast pastries and coffee, and the box lunches. I estimated the costs based on my memory, added in the registrations if I had to reimburse them, and groaned at the number. I didn’t have that kind of money. That was almost the cost of my car! Which I also owe! I began hyperventilating again and put my head between my knees.

  “Charlee? You okay?”

  I opened my eyes to see Ozzi’s shoes in front of me. I sat up. “Did you guys sell all those sandwiches?”

  “Um ...” Clearly, Ozzi didn’t want to tell me.

  “We sold a bunch of sandwiches!” AmyJo was too perky even for her so I knew she was lying.

  “How many?”

  “Sooo many!”

  “How many?”

  “Almost all of them.”

  “AmyJo, just tell her,” Ozzi said.

  “I sold ten and Ozzi sold three.” She saw me looking around for the carts. “We loaded the rest into your car and my truck and gave the carts back to the caterer.”

  I pulled my notepad toward me. “So how much did you sell them for? How much d
id we make?”

  “Fourteen dollars.” AmyJo wrinkled her face, as if that would keep the bad news in.

  “Fourteen dollars.” I tried to wrap my brain around the math, but couldn’t. I raised my hands in a what-the-what manner.

  “I sold two at five bucks each to a couple at the park, but they had a kid with them and they said he’d hardly eat any of his,” Ozzi said.

  “So?”

  “So I sold them his for a dollar. And then the restaurants down there found out what I was up to and chased me off.”

  I looked at AmyJo. “So that’s eleven bucks. You sold ten box lunches for three dollars?”

  “They were kids. Hungry kids. Kids don’t have any money when they’re playing in a splash pool. No pockets. No wallets.”

  “Okay. Fourteen dollars down, fourteen billion to go.” I plastered on my rah-rah cheerleader face, despite feeling like a just-sacked quarterback. “I have to do what I can to find Lapaglia, so let’s drop these sandwiches off somewhere. Then I can concentrate on salvaging my reputation and my bank account before the angry mob sics Archie Cruz on me and I have to see myself on the evening news.”

  “Pish,” AmyJo said. “That’s not going to happen. He’s after bigger fish than you.” She cringed. “Not that you’re a fish at all. Why would he go after you? You’re just a penny-ante—” She wrinkled up her face.

  “Thanks, Ames. I think.”

  We each grabbed an armful of the box lunches remaining on the table. I handed off two more to the bookstore employees as they passed. When I saw Dee pushing her handcart toward the side doors, I hurried the opposite direction toward the restrooms.

  When I finished in the restroom, the venue was practically deserted. The caterer had sent her staff away, closed up her truck, and driven off. Dee and her bookstore staff were finishing up loading their van. Ozzi and AmyJo were already in the parking lot making sure their loads were evenly balanced and they could see out the rearview mirrors. The lone janitor was happy to see the back of me because it must have meant he got the rest of the day off. As I handed him a box lunch and thanked him while hurrying out the door, I saw a man with a silver braid duck around the corner.