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

by Becky Clark

  I stared at Don and let his perfectly reasonable question hang in the air.

  “I have absolutely no idea.”

  It didn’t take long before I was back in my apartment drinking a well-deserved red ale. Instead of calling the number on the Denver Police Department website, I called Detective Ming. He answered on the first ring and it surprised me so much I blurted, “My braid guy might have murdered Tiffany Isaac.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s Charlee Russo.”

  “Of course it is. Who else would I know who has a ‘braid guy’ and wants to tell me about a murder?”

  Ming never joked, but this sounded kind of like a joke, so I was confused. “Let me start over.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Rodolfo Lapaglia writes fiction about the mob. Have you read any of his books?”

  “No.”

  “Well, they’re eerily current. Like, the opposite of ‘ripped from the headlines.’ He writes stuff and then almost as soon as the book is out, the same stuff starts happening.”

  “Copycats. So?”

  “My point is, they’re very true to life. And a friend of mine has been rereading his collection of these books and he found this subplot in one of them with two characters—get this—one with a crazy mohawk hairdo, and the other, his girlfriend named Taffeta who he kills because she double crossed him!”

  “Now I don’t have to read it.”

  “It’s not a spoiler. It’s just like the Braid who has been bothering me, and I think his double crossing girlfriend is … was … Tiffany Isaac.”

  Ming was quiet long enough for me to become uncomfortable. But then he said, “Let me get this straight. You think Rodolfo Lapaglia wrote a book, however long ago, with a plot that follows real life within the last couple of weeks.”

  When he put it like that, no. No, I did not. “But there’s no other explanation!” I knew I sounded petulant, but if the shoe fit ....

  “Of course there is. Authors don’t put real life events, especially true crime, in their fiction. That’s just ridiculous. Never happens.”

  Was he kidding? “Always happens. Authors mine their own lives for all kinds of stuff.”

  “So, in your next book there will be a scene with a fake pregnant lady stuck in a fence at a construction site?”

  “You heard about that.”

  “I did.”

  “I can explain—”

  “I’m sure you can, because you have a very nimble imagination, but I don’t want to hear your stories. Around here we deal in facts and proof and evidence. Let me know when you have some of that. Goodbye, Ms Russo.”

  As soon as he hung up, my phone lit up with phone calls and texts.

  The first call was from AmyJo. “Any publicity is good publicity, eh?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh. You haven’t checked social media.”

  A little piece of me died. “What.” I said it like a thud, not a question.

  “Apparently you were on the four o’clock news.”

  “That I knew.”

  “The clip is all over Facebook, probably Twitter and Instagram, too.”

  Another little piece of me died. “Who posted it?” I scrambled for my computer.

  “Let’s see ... nobody I know ... nine, ten, eleven ... people—”

  “Eleven people posted it? On my page?” Every few seconds my phone beeped with an incoming call or text. This was bad. So very bad. Everyone I knew was going to see this. Friends, colleagues, fans. Ohmygosh, my mom!

  “Let’s see ... nope, fourteen, fifteen ... and they’re getting comments. Hiding something ... bait-and-switch ... stealing our money ... financial shenanigans. They all seem to be from people angry about the event on Saturday. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Geez, Charlee, didn’t you give anyone their money back yet?”

  I felt a tightness across my chest and had trouble breathing. “I don’t have any money, AmyJo. And I can’t find Lapaglia, and Penn & Powell won’t help and ... and ...” I took big gulping breaths, trying to jumpstart my lungs.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to spring this on you. I assumed you would have seen it already. Get off the phone and start deleting those posts. You’ve got to do some damage control. I’ll see what I can do on my end.”

  I knew there wasn’t a thing AmyJo could do, but I thanked her and hung up. She was right. I needed to do some damage control. I scrolled on my computer, deleting what Facebook posts and comments I could, but they kept popping up faster and faster. I realized I had to lock down my profile, kept public to remain accessible to my fans. Look what that got me. Nobody was sticking up for me. Before I switched pages to change all my privacy settings, my stomach dropped through my shoes. So many of those posts had already been shared—eight times in five minutes—once by a prominent and prolific blogger with a huge following in the mystery community.

  There was no way to get this genie back in the bottle.

  I silenced my phone and finished locking down my personal Facebook profile and my author page, then moved on to my Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest pages. Next I disabled all comments on my website pages and posts. And finally I shut down everything I could think of on my Goodreads account, short of deleting it completely. I knew it was only a matter of time, though, before the various online communities would start seeing posts and sharing them directly. Locking down my accounts was busy work, completely ineffective to contain the damage.

  Goodbye funny videos and hilariously snarky memes my friends and fans sent me. Goodbye inspirational quotes about writing and life in general. Goodbye adorable pictures of babies and animals. Goodbye book reviews. Goodbye photos of my books in the wild sent to me by fans. Goodbye links to interesting articles. Goodbye delicious recipes I’ll never make.

  Goodbye digital life.

  I peeked at the calls and texts on my phone. My heart sank and I wanted to turn it off completely but couldn’t because like an excessively helpful dummy, I put my phone number on the Lost Dog flyers instead of Barb and Don’s. I had to listen to each message from complete strangers to make sure they weren’t calling about Peter. I also expected Martina McCarthy to call me when she got the note I sent her. And what if Lapaglia or my editor at Penn & Powell called? Or my agent?

  I listened to and blocked at least thirty voice mails and texts. None were about Peter. How were these crazy people getting my number?

  I needed some friendly words of encouragement, so I read texts and listened to voicemails from my friends.

  First, Heinrich Gottlieb from my critique group. I pressed play and heard him take a big drag from his cigar. His words traveled through the smoke, something I’d seen in person a million times. “Ach, liebling. Don’t let the idioten get you down.”

  Next I listened to Cordelia Hollister-Fiske, also one of my critique partners. “Charlee, I don’t know if you’re aware, but people are saying all sorts of things about you online. Call me if you’d like details.”

  Thanks, Cordelia, but I have all the details I need. I switched over to text messages.

  From AmyJo, “I’m deleting everything I can and the rest I’m telling people none of this is true and to Snopes it. Lock your accounts down!” Then she added the Scream face emoji.

  Exactly how I feel too, Ames.

  From Jenica Jahns a simple, “People suck.”

  More scream emojis from AmyJo.

  None of this was helping.

  Just as I considered flinging my phone across the room, a call from my mom popped up. I grabbed it before it could go to voice mail. “I’m not pregnant, Mom!” I yelped.

  “I figured. I have faith that you would have told me before you were ready to pop. What was with that outfit, anyway? Research?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What’s all this I’ve been seeing on Facebook about you?”

  “Oh, Mom.” I honestly didn’t know where to start so I kept it simple. “You know that big event
I was doing last Saturday with that author, Rodolfo Lapaglia?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He never showed up.”

  “Oh no! What happened to him?”

  “That’s what I want to know. He kept all the money, but I put all the costs on my credit card and—”

  “Do you need money, Bug?”

  “No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know, Mom. I’m still trying to figure out what’s going on. But since that smarmy Archie Cruz ambushed me and put me on the news, I’m really going to have to figure it out.”

  “How?”

  “Good question.” I snuggled into the corner of the couch. Mom’s voice had relaxed me a teensy bit. “Even if I come up with the money, I don’t even know who I should give reimbursement to. Everyone who signed up just brought their receipt as their ticket to show AmyJo to get in. I thought I had everyone’s email address, but now I don’t think I do. The registrations went through Lapaglia and I don’t think AmyJo kept any of the confirmations from people.” I started having trouble breathing again. “Mom, I honestly don’t know what to do.”

  “Give me your bank account number. I’m transferring money right now.”

  I knew she couldn’t afford to do that. “No, Mom. I’ll figure something out.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll tell you if I get desperate.”

  “Charlee, call your brother. He’ll help.”

  “I’ve already talked to him. He’s on it.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her there wasn’t one darn thing he could do, however. “But, Mom, don’t call him. I don’t want to pressure him. He’s got so many other things on his plate.” Which was an absolutely true statement; it just didn’t have anything to do with me and this fiasco.

  I could hear the uncertainty in her voice. “If you think so, Bug.”

  “Absolutely. Listen, Mom, I’ve got to go.” I let her assume it was because I had so much to do, not because I was on the verge of hyperventilating and bawling my eyes out. I said goodbye and clicked away, cutting off the I love you, Bug I knew she’d add.

  I closed my eyes and tried to control my breath.

  When I could breathe halfway normally again, I stuffed my phone in the couch cushion and stood, vowing to do something normal. Then sat back down. Normal wasn’t a thing anymore, was it? What was normal anyway? It used to involve answering my phone and going on social media. Playing with Peter O’Drool. Using my credit card.

  I had a sudden thought. I hadn’t checked my mail since Friday. Maybe there was a letter from the college offering me that teaching job. That would help put a dent in my debt.

  I grabbed the mailbox key and opened my door inch by inch, ready to slam it shut the second I saw someone from the news with a camera or microphone. I peered around corners. No Archie Cruz. No Braid either. No angry mob with pitchforks and torches. I raced to the bank of mailboxes, relieved nobody was there. Small talk with neighbors seemed beyond my capabilities at the moment.

  I collected up all the mail in my box without looking at it, and raced back to my apartment. I skidded around the corner where I saw someone standing at my apartment door. Stringy hair tucked behind her ears, making them stick out. Baggy scrubs. Suzanne from next door.

  I groaned inwardly, knowing she was half-a-second from insinuating herself in my apartment.

  She heard me and turned. “There you are! I brought you something.”

  Suzanne had been thanking me for getting her that part-time job on the bookstore side at Espresso Yourself. Putting in a good word with Lavar and Tuttle was all it took. No real effort on my part, but I felt I owed her after getting her into trouble a while back. A couple of those blueberry butter braids would have sufficed, but it seemed every time I saw her she had a new book for me or another butter braid. The books I often slipped back on to the shelves at Espresso Yourself, because I never felt confident that Suzanne hadn’t swiped them, based on her history with petty theft and her casual relationship with the truth. The butter braids, however, I always kept. That was just gracious manners.

  This time, though, she didn’t have books or pastries. Instead, she held out some envelopes. “Got these in my mail by mistake.”

  “Thanks.” I took them from her, but made no attempt to open my door. I knew she’d wedge herself in like a matchbook under a wobbly table leg.

  “Two look like junk, but I don’t like to presume. What do I know, maybe you’re in need of laser hair removal or a new credit union. But one looks important. From a college.”

  I stepped past her and shoved my key in the lock. I tried to block the door, but somehow she got inside before I did. I’d have to figure out her trick. Then and only then could I thwart her overzealous neighborliness.

  As I ripped open the envelope from the college, she asked, “What is it? Is it important? It looks important.”

  I pulled out the single piece of paper and dangled the envelope toward her. She grabbed it from me, even though I knew for a fact she had memorized everything typed on it.

  I scanned the page, picking out words and phrases I didn’t want to see. Regret to inform ... very sorry ... the Board of Review ....

  My stomach flopped and the letter fluttered to the ground. Suzanne snatched it before it landed and read it.

  “Those idiots don’t know what they’re doing.” She shoved the letter back in the envelope, twisting and folding it until it fit. Kind of.

  I didn’t particularly want to share this moment with Suzanne, but it felt nice for a change to have someone on my side. “Thanks.” Maybe it wasn’t so bad that she shoved her way in. I could use a pal right now.

  “Oh! Almost forgot. I have something else for you.” She went next door, leaving my door wide open.

  I hoped with all my might it was a blueberry butter braid. That’s exactly what I needed. A little sugar salve for my wounds. Barb’s leftover zucchini bread seemed much too healthy for this situation.

  Suzanne came back with another envelope, larger and covered with the telltale green-and-white stickers signifying a certified letter. “I signed for it this morning while you were out.” She handed it to me.

  The return address was a four-name attorney’s office in Denver. Four names. That seemed important. And scary. I pushed the envelope back toward Suzanne who pushed it back.

  She frowned. “What do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know, but it can’t be good.”

  “Want me to open it?”

  “Yes.”

  She took it from me.

  “No.” I took it back.

  I changed my mind again. “Yes, you open it.” And again I took it back.

  “Give it here, you wuss.” She yanked it from my hand and ripped it open. She barely read it. “You’re gonna be sued. Probably by someone married to one of these weasels.” She pointed at the four names.

  “What?” I yelped, grabbing the papers from her.

  “No big whoop. Just small claims court.”

  “No big whoop?” I glared at her. “Huge whoop.” I read the first page. Halfway down I had to blink because the words began to swim. My arm swung limply to my side, packet of papers grasped tight. “I’m being sued for malfeasance with money because of that Lapaglia event.” I spoke out loud, not to tell Suzanne, but to try to make sense of it for myself.

  “Like I said, big whoop. Besides, didn’t you know this was going to happen when you stole all that money?”

  “Stole that money? I didn’t steal anybody’s money! Where did you hear that?”

  She shrugged. “It’s all over my Facebook feed. Bunch of people and at least four weasel attorneys think you did.”

  “But I didn’t.” My legs turned to rubber and I plopped on my couch.

  “Tell it to the judge.”

  Under normal circumstances, Suzanne’s flippancy would amuse me. These were not normal circumstances, however, and I was not amused. I shook my head like an Etch-A-Sketch. I could sit here like a victim, or I could fight back. I clenched my fists until m
y nails dug into my palms. This was the moment I had to choose. Be a man or a mouse. Pull up my big-girl undies. Fight back or take it on the chin. I’d been yelled at, unfairly accused, pushed around, bullied, ambushed, made a social media pariah, had my credit ruined, AND had my hair pulled.

  What was I going to do, fight back or take it?

  I opened my fist and saw my white palms with red half-moons gouged into them.

  I studied the place where I shoved my phone between the couch cushions.

  I narrowed my eyes at the letter from the attorney’s office.

  I slowly raised my eyes to meet hers.

  “Do you have a butter braid I can have?”

  Thirteen

  I didn’t feel good about wanting to wallow in self-pity, but after I sent Suzanne away, with an “I’m just joking” lie, I came very close to crawling into bed and burrowing under the covers. I knew that wouldn’t fix anything, but I was equally sure I didn’t know what would fix anything.

  I read the attorney’s letter more carefully. I wasn’t being sued. I was being threatened with being sued. That was a big difference. Suzanne was probably right. Somebody is married to, or friends with, this attorney writing the letter. It’s a threat to show they’re serious about wanting their money back. If only they knew I was equally serious about getting their money back to them. I wished I could tell them, but decided not to respond. At least not right now.

  I think everyone involved wished it had never happened.

  I thought about Ozzi saying he wouldn’t mind having Lapaglia’s life. At the time I told him to be careful what he wished for, but at this moment, I’d be thrilled to have anyone else’s life. But whose?

  I didn’t have to contemplate the hypothetical for long because I heard the actual meep-meep of Ozzi’s Prius. He had the habit of honking when he got home from work and drove past my apartment. That meep-meep was the sweetest sound I could imagine. I was going to forget about all this for a little while and pretend my life wasn’t completely screwed up.

  I raced down the wide, curving sidewalk of the complex until I got to Ozzi’s building, climbed the three outdoor flights of stairs to his apartment, and raised my arm to knock. Before I did, though, his door flew open and he almost collided with me.