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

by Becky Clark

  After it was properly pinned and secured, I gave a yank on the tendril that hung over the front of my left shoulder. The enormous updo didn’t budge. I placed the rhinestone glasses on my face and studied my new look in the mirror. Striking a pose, I spoke to the vamp in the mirror. “I’m not invisible, but I sure don’t look like I did on Saturday.” Let’s hope nobody paid any attention to me today either, including the mob guy. I had second thoughts about the rhinestone glasses and tossed them in my bag instead. No reason to go over the top.

  I waved goodbye to my reflection and headed for my stakeout of Martina McCarthy.

  I slid into my car, but my hair barely fit. I lowered the seat and scrunched down to drive. I got there before the shops had opened, and scored Hollywood parking, right on the street in front of the mailbox store. I shut off the engine, rolled down my window for some air, and sat in my car, waiting.

  I checked the time. My car heated up fast on this summer morning even with the window open, and I had to pee. Only eight minutes had passed. Ten more minutes until the place even opened. This was going to be a long day.

  A woman shoved a key in the lock on the glass door, twisted it, and went inside. It wasn’t Eeyore Regina, who, I suspect, must be weekend help. If “help” was the right word. An hour and fifteen minutes passed. I lost count of how many people entered Pandora’s Mail Box who weren’t Martina. Where was she? My bladder couldn’t wait much longer. Sweat trickled down my temples. How did people wear wigs? These things were hot.

  I couldn’t take it anymore and went inside to ask if I could use their restroom. The woman behind the counter was weighing boxes and adding shipping labels. She looked up when I neared and blinked twice. “Can I help you?” She was easily four thousand times perkier than Regina. And she definitely noticed my wig.

  “Can I use your restroom?”

  “Sorry. Employees only.”

  “Really? It’s kind of an emergency.”

  “Try the pet store next door.”

  I hurried out the door and into the pet store. I didn’t break stride, but figured it was toward the back. “Restroom?” I wasn’t about to take no for an answer. Situation dire.

  The man cleaning the fish tanks just pointed in the direction I was already heading.

  When I finished, I grabbed a plush toy for Peter O’Drool as my thanks for the use of the facilities. The man never took his eyes off my tangerine updo, but while he rang me up told me his daughter made the rainbow-colored flamingo in my hand. He squeaked it at me as I handed him my credit card. “One of a kind.” I wasn’t sure if he meant me or the toy.

  On my way back to my car, I peeked in Pandora’s Mail Box in case Martina had snuck in while I was otherwise preoccupied. All clear. Just as I finished wrangling my wig into the car, I caught a glimpse of a woman walking away from me halfway down the street. She was poured into the tightest polyester dress I’d ever seen. So tight you could probably read the washing instructions on her undies. I squinted. Was it? I stepped out of my car and strained my neck. I think it was! Martina had come and gone while I was piddling. Damn my lentil-sized bladder.

  Dodging gaping shoppers and tourists, I sprinted down the sidewalk after her, trying to finalize what I wanted to say to her. For a large woman, she sure hustled. Martina had crossed the street, but I missed the light and waited impatiently at the crosswalk. I didn’t take my eyes off her. She was not going to get away from me before I could ask what she knew about Rodolfo Lapaglia and his whereabouts.

  The light changed and I jogged across the street. The wig felt like thirty pounds of concrete slamming my spine with each step. I was more than a block away, but I saw her red dress bobbing in the crowd. She turned a corner. I hurried to catch up.

  When I rounded the corner I saw the neighborhood had changed from shopping to office buildings and there were very few pedestrians. I was only about half a block behind Martina. An impossibly tiny woman with long black hair wearing one of those colorful Indian-looking outfits, kind of a cross between a sari and a pantsuit, walked toward Martina, about half a block from her. The woman looked up, adjusted her glasses, and abruptly pivoted away from Martina. It was plain she was trying to avoid running into Martina, but her short legs were no match for Martina’s long strides.

  Martina caught up with her in no time at all. I could see Martina talking and gesturing, but couldn’t make out any words. I debated whether to get closer to them, but I was intimidated, drag wig notwithstanding. I pulled out my phone and got ready to dial 911 if things turned violent. I crept closer, trying to hear what Martina was saying.

  The tiny woman wasn’t doing any talking, just listening to Martina. I couldn’t see Martina’s face anymore, but even from behind, her body language showed she was angry. Even her red dress seemed angry. Fingers jabbed, legs firmly planted, boobs and belly almost touching the woman. The woman was clearly frightened. She leaned backward at every jab, the exact inverse of Martina’s posture toward her. Behind her glasses, her eyes were wide, and her mouth hung slack.

  But just like that, Martina finished her tirade. She brushed past the woman, walked a short distance, then heaved herself into a pickup truck parked at the curb. The woman and I both watched Martina drive away. Then the woman came toward me, continuing on her journey. I waited for her, intent on asking about Martina when she reached me, but she veered into one of the buildings before she got to where I waited on the sidewalk.

  I debated whether or not to follow her in but ultimately decided I had to know what the altercation was about. Since my plan of confronting Martina had been thwarted, I wanted at least some kind of information for all my trouble this morning.

  Before the first set of automatic doors whooshed open, I saw “Steele Street Library” and their hours posted in vinyl letters on the door. I paused in the irregular polygon-shaped vestibule between the two sets of doors. I stepped to the larger area on the side, probably built to encourage people to take phone calls outside the main part of the library. I used the space to take a moment out of the way to allow my eyes to adjust from the bright sunshine and to think about what I might say to her. I needed to play it cool, try not to alarm her. She already had one scare this morning.

  After the second set of automatic doors whooshed closed behind me, shutting out the glare of the sun, I glanced around but couldn’t find her. I wandered the library, past the new fiction section, the computers for book check out, the DVDs and music CDs, ending at the children’s section in the back, where I found her adjusting a nametag on her top.

  She was even tinier than I thought, not much bigger than the kids pulling books off the shelves and stepping on the alphabetical carpet squares making up an enormous dragon on the floor. Up close I saw she was wearing eyeglasses painted to look like a ladybug, complete with little antennas over the bridge of her nose.

  “Cute glasses,” I said.

  “Thanks.” She cut her eyes at my wig, tilting her head to see the very top.

  It occurred to me that she was so tiny, she probably had to shop in the children’s section at the optometrist.

  She didn’t look at me and continued fiddling with her nametag. I saw that her hands were shaking the teensiest bit.

  I peered at her nametag. “Lakshmi, I couldn’t help but notice that lady yelling at you outside.”

  “Yes. She does that.” She had a quiet, high-pitched voice. Like a cartoon pixie.

  “So, you know her?”

  “I have to get ready for story time.” I watched as she arranged cookies and apple juice boxes on a table near a comfy-looking wooden rocking chair.

  I followed her over, but before I could ask anything else, one of her co-workers intercepted her and said, “Lakshmi, as soon as you’re done with story time, I need you to re-shelve nonfiction.”

  Lakshmi replied so quietly I could barely hear her. “The volunteers are doing that.”

  The woman waved a hand at Lakshmi like she was a pesky mosquito. “I need them for something else,” sh
e said, then turned with a flounce, giving me and my wig a very judgmental once-over.

  “Bosses can be awful,” I said after the woman was out of earshot.

  Lakshmi looked at my feet. “She’s not my boss.”

  A stylish woman in a business suit marched up holding a toddler’s hand. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” She transferred the boy’s hand to Lakshmi’s hand. “Be a dear and watch Edwin until I get back.” The woman addressed Edwin before leaving. “Behave yourself. Tell Miss Lakshmi if you need anything.”

  After she left, Edwin looked up at Lakshmi. “Give cookie. And juice.”

  Lakshmi did.

  Wow. Could anyone be more passive? I felt bad that she might not want to talk to me, but I had to do what I had to do. I came around the back of the table and helped her by removing the remaining juice boxes from a cooler and placing them on the table while she arranged cookies on a plate.

  I felt a tug on the hem of my jean skirt. I looked down to see Edwin staring up at me. He pointed at a juice box.

  “You already have one.” I pointed at his hand.

  He offered me the juice box in his hand.

  I took it and jiggled it. “Half full.” I attempted to hand it back but he wasn’t falling for that. He kept a steady finger pointing at a box of juice on the table. I glanced at Lakshmi who shrugged. I handed Edwin a new juice box. He solemnly shook his head, continuing to point.

  “This one?”

  He shook his head.

  “This one?”

  He shook his head again.

  I handed back his half full juice box. “Listen, Edwin, darling. If you want juice, you’ll drink this one. Now go away.”

  He took his old juice box from me, a stunned look on his face as he toddled away. Seems I was the only person in Edwin’s short life to tell him what’s what.

  She acknowledged my help with a tiny smile and an almost imperceptible nod.

  I accepted this as an invitation to speak to her. “Lakshmi, that woman out on the sidewalk. I’m looking for any information about her or about—” I remembered Ozzi’s admonition not to slander Lapaglia, which seemed like good advice since he was a bestselling author and I was in a library. I pulled his photo from my bag. “This man.”

  She glanced at the photo and sighed. “You’re another one.”

  “I’m another what?”

  Lakshmi continued placing vanilla wafers in a circular pattern on a plate. She spoke in her quiet, breathless voice. “I haven’t seen Rodney in a while, but maybe Cecilia has.”

  It sounded like she said Rodney instead of Rodolfo, but I didn’t correct her. “Cecilia?”

  “Cecilia Lindstrom. I introduced them a while back.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  “She’s a graphic designer at a print shop a few blocks away.”

  As she described the directions, I realized it was near the place where we bought the disguises. I stuffed the photo back in my bag. “Thanks, Lakshmi. Good luck with story time.” As I left, Edwin sucked his thumb while giving me the stink-eye.

  I walked to the print shop and spoke to an older woman with spiky hair sitting at a computer. “I’m looking for Cecilia Lindstrom. Would that be you?”

  I swear I saw her hair get spikier as her eyes widened. Without a word, she went through the door that separated the lobby of the print shop from the production area and closed it behind her. Was my wig that scary? It hadn’t seemed to bother Lakshmi or even Edwin. I waited, baffled, alone in the middle of the lobby for several minutes. I started for the door to the production area but there was an angry, all caps “Employees Only” sign on it. I stepped back. I stepped toward it again. Back again. Forward. Back. I did this weird print shop waltz for a long time. Finally, I had my hand on the knob. It turned from the other side and a man emerged.

  “Please leave before I call the cops.”

  “But—”

  “Please.”

  “But—”

  “Listen ....” He paused and studied my enormous drag wig. “Lady.” He shrugged. “We don’t want any trouble. Just leave.”

  “But—”

  “I’m asking nicely. Now go.” He strode to the front door and opened it. “Please.”

  I wondered what the spiky-hair lady told him. That I was going to rob a print shop in broad daylight in this wig? Did she think I had a weapon tucked up under that beehive? Was there anything to steal from a print shop anyway? I slipped one of their business cards out of a holder on the counter, keeping as much distance from the man as I could while I slunk out the door.

  A couple steps past the shop I stopped and patted my wig. It took the full length of my arms to reach the top. When I lowered them, I stroked the tendril hanging over my shoulder. This couldn’t have anything to do with a drag wig. It’s simply too ridiculous. If that spiky-haired lady was Cecilia Lindstrom and she knew Lapaglia, and Lakshmi knew them both AND Martina, I was sure this had something to do with Lapaglia.

  My wig and I trooped back to the library.

  The story time kids were running amok in the children’s area. Lakshmi half-heartedly tried to control them using her tiny voice. It did not appear to be working. This was probably how story time always played out because Lakshmi didn’t look too upset. But was that cause or effect?

  I gently maneuvered two boys fighting over a book away from where Lakshmi stood so I could talk to her more privately. I told her about what happened at the print shop. “Why was she being so weird?”

  Lakshmi shrugged. “Maybe she’s nervous about Tiffany.”

  “Tiffany who?”

  “Tiffany Isaac.”

  That name sounded familiar. Tiffany Isaac. Isaac Hayes. Theme from Shaft. I heard the synthesized keyboard riff. Shaft was a detective. Detective Ming! “That girl who was murdered?”

  “Miss Lakshmi, I have to go potty.” Lakshmi took the hand of a young girl and led her to the restroom. “Watch the kids,” she told me.

  The two boys who had been fighting over the book now stood before me staring at my wig. When they saw me looking at them, the floodgate of questions opened — “Can I touch that?” ... “Does that hurt?” ... “Do birds live in there?” ... “Why is your hair so big?” ... “Do you want to color with me?” ... “I don’t like apple juice. Will you get me root beer?” ... “Who’s your favorite Transformer?” — and didn’t stop until Lakshmi got back. How did parents and teachers do this all day, every day?

  The other children started to close in on me, trapping me like I was a wounded sparrow and they were a pack of feral cats. I handed the plate of cookies to the nearest one and took my chance to flee. “Hey, can I get your cell number so I don’t have to bother you at work in case I have questions?” I asked Lakshmi.

  She didn’t seem the least bit surprised by my request; she simply wrote her number on a sticky note for me.

  I detoured to the mystery section and looked to see if they had any of my books on the shelf. I grinned when I saw one copy each of my first three titles sandwiched between Nancy Picard and Dorothy L. Sayers. It always made me ridiculously happy to see my books on a store or library shelf, but it was silly because that meant nobody had bought or borrowed them. It should make me happy when my books weren’t on the shelf, but when that actually happened it hurt my feelings, proving once again what oddballs authors are.

  I snapped a picture of my books to post on social media. While my phone was out, I entered Lakshmi’s number and the print shop number into my contacts list, then dropped the sticky note and the business card into the trash.

  As I walked through the library I puzzled over the altercation between Martina and Lakshmi, Cecilia Lindstrom’s odd behavior at the print shop, and Lakshmi’s cryptic comment about the murdered woman, Tiffany Isaac. I toyed with the idea of returning to the children’s section to discuss it with her, but decided instead to call her later when it would be easier for us to talk.

  I also took a moment debating with myself whether to visit
the card catalog to see if the copies of my other books were checked out or if the library never bought them. Sheesh. Writers. So needy. I was oddly proud of myself for not succumbing to the temptation. No good ever comes of that.

  The interior set of automatic doors whooshed open to release me from the library. I stepped into the vestibule between the two sets of doors. As soon as it whooshed shut behind me, I felt a hand grab the shank of synthetic hair that hung over my shoulder.

  Eight

  My head yanked backward. “Ow!” Instinctively I reached both hands on either side of my wig. I was immediately sorry I took the costumers advice about proper wig attachment. If they yanked hard enough, they might come away with not only the wig, but all of my real hair pinned underneath.

  Using my wig as their lever, my assailant spun me around until we were face to face.

  The mob guy from Union Station!

  He was wedged in the corner facing out and maneuvered me so that my back was to the area between the two automatic doors. He was even shorter than I thought. I had at least thirty pounds on him, and a couple of inches. My hair, however, towered over him by more than a foot. If anyone came in from the street, I’m not sure they’d even see him behind me.

  I struggled to get away, but it was difficult since I was afraid to let go of my wig, lest he rip all my hair out. He might have been smaller than me, but he was wiry and strong and had the benefit of surprise.

  I managed to get one hand on his thin, gray braid and yanked it hard.

  “Ow!” He released the arm he’d used to encircle my shoulders and brought it up to the side of his head.

  We were now mirror images of each other, clutching shanks of hair and pulling each other round and round in the foyer, grunting and yelling.

  “Where is Lapaglia?” He spoke in a New Jersey accent that I may or may not have imagined.

  “No idea!”