by Becky Clark
Lapaglia and the Braid kept a wary distance from each other.
I wasn’t sure what Alan Fraser was thinking. He called Archie Cruz to take paparazzi photos of Lapaglia ... were they both going to make money off them somehow? And even when he found out the Braid was in the mob and Lapaglia might be a murderer, he still untied them and told the police to stand down? Was he a bad businessman or a bad person? Or both?
Despite his phone call, I still expected the police to show up any minute. Would they really turn around and not investigate a call like mine?
Before I even saw him move, the Braid was in front of me.
I gasped.
He held out his hand.
I didn’t move.
He flicked his fingers toward my hands behind my back. I placed the braid in his hand. He removed the elastic and handed me back the shank of hair, which I immediately dropped on the patio, strands swirling and fluttering to the concrete. The undefined fluttering edges made it look like a discarded snakeskin. He studied it sadly, then walked away, using the elastic to make a puny ponytail of his hair. When he finished, he shook his head. Half the hair escaped from the elastic.
“Oh, that’s gold!” Archie Cruz exclaimed, hurrying after the Braid with his camera to his face.
The Braid grabbed Archie Cruz’ camera lens and shoved him, hard. Cruz slammed into the concrete.
The Braid pivoted toward Lapaglia, grabbed him by his tricep, and began marching him across the patio. “You are coming back to New Jersey with me and telling them everything.”
Lapaglia struggled to get away but the Braid held him tight.
“Okay, everyone stop right where they are. This has gone far enough!” Alan Fraser spoke loudly and with authority, but nobody stopped. He raised his voice. “I’m calling the cops!” He pulled out his phone, punched at it, then spoke into it. “I changed my mind. Get up here NOW!”
Lapaglia broke free from the Braid’s grip and ran, disappearing into the trees.
The Braid tried to go after him, but Archie Cruz got back in his face with the camera and began clicking. Alan Fraser race-walked toward the building, still talking into his phone.
The Braid got a wild look in his eye, finally accepting he wasn’t in charge of the situation. He began sprinting down the patio.
I chased after him. “Wait, wait! You have to tell me where Peter is! I got you to Lapaglia before the cops did.”
The Braid kept running. “I did not get the information I needed!”
“That’s not my fault!”
The Braid never broke stride and was almost to the corner of the building.
“Just tell me where Peter is and I’ll go get him. Please?” I yelled, running faster. I came around the corner and saw the Braid climbing into the driver’s seat of the shuttle van. “Is Peter at least safe?” I called to him.
“Of course he is. I am not a monster.” He started up the engine, floored it, and fishtailed away from the resort.
Alan Fraser burst out of the building and skidded to a stop. “Where are you?” he screamed into the phone. I wanted to point out they’d have been here by now if he hadn’t called them off earlier. He stalked back into the building.
I stood, sweating in the summer heat, trying to make sense of everything that just happened.
I worried about Peter O’Drool. Would the Braid return him, now that he’d found Lapaglia? I know he didn’t get the information he wanted, or Lapaglia, but that wasn’t Peter’s fault. Surely he wouldn’t hold all this against a fat little pug. Surely not. But might he be vindictive enough to hold everything against the woman who cut off his hair, even though she totally didn’t mean to? I groaned. Why did I have to threaten him with those shears? Why did that idiot Alan Fraser have to come around the corner right then? And why wouldn’t the Braid just tell me where Peter was? He was using him for leverage against me to find Lapaglia and I found him. Isn’t there some kind of gentlemen’s code? Honor among thieves and all that?
An odd sound captured my attention and I turned to see Lapaglia galloping through the scrub on a big brown horse. He held the reins in one hand and with the other hugged a suitcase precariously balanced across the saddle horn and his lap.
I screamed after him, “You are the worst thing to happen to the world since Twitter!”
After I told the sheriff’s deputies everything I knew—or at least thought I knew—I sat at an umbrella table and tried to work up the courage to call Ozzi and see if he’d come pick me up. He would, of course, no question, but he was upset with me. I knew this because he’d told me as much in the three increasingly frantic voicemails he’d left me. I had already texted him a quick, “I’m fine,” but still. He’d used words like reckless, stupid, and impulsive. More than once.
And he wasn’t wrong.
But I was so tired, and I knew I couldn’t make him understand why I’d even gone to Union Station today, much less explain how everything went sideways.
During the long drive back to Denver, I didn’t want to have to defend the indefensible, even though it had made so much sense at the time.
Instead I’d called AmyJo. I explained where I was, giving her the least amount of information I could get away with and still get a ride home. She said she’d be there as soon as she could.
I settled into a shady chaise lounge and called Ozzi. “Can you talk?”
“Where are you?”
“Still at the resort.”
“Do you want me to—”
“AmyJo’s on her way, but I’ll probably be home pretty late.”
“You know I’d come get you.”
“I know. But you’re so busy and …”
“And you don’t want me yelling at you.”
“Even if I deserve it.”
“You don’t deserve it. I was just worried about you. I’m not angry. So tell me everything.”
After I filled him in and he promised to be waiting at my apartment when I got home, I hung up, closed my eyes, and waited for AmyJo. The resort was so quiet and peaceful. I was the only one by the pool, or anywhere, for that matter. Those kids must have gone on their hike, otherwise I couldn’t imagine why they wouldn’t be splashing in this glorious pool. The family reunion family must still be on their trail ride or maybe at the chuckwagon dinner. I began to suspect this resort was much larger than I realized, with many more activities.
I listened to the sweet song of the meadowlarks, the chittering of the squirrels, and the gentle quaking of the aspen leaves in the breeze. But nothing drowned out the refrain I had them right here that kept whistling through my brain.
Reckless, stupid, and impulsive or not, I was so close to delivering Lapaglia to the Braid, allowing me to ransom Peter. Small consolation to think I might have helped the police solve a murder instead.
I heard footsteps pounding across the concrete. I opened one eye, knowing it wasn’t AmyJo, but hoping it was.
Geez. Archie Cruz. Why doesn’t he crawl back under his ambush-news rock and leave me alone?
I turned away from him and willed myself to be invisible. Didn’t work.
“Where is he? Lapaglia.” He was breathless.
“Gone. For good, I hope. Why?”
“His wife was murdered.”
Twenty-Two
“What?” An icy wave crashed over me. I just talked to her the other day. “Where? When?”
“At their house in Nebraska. Sometime Monday or Tuesday. Package bomb. Where is he?”
My mind skittered. Monday and Tuesday was when Lapaglia was unaccounted for. Unless he really had been at the Lost Valley Resort since Saturday. I jumped up and dashed to the ladies room for privacy from Archie Cruz’s stare. I called the number in my history that I used to order my sandwich and asked to speak to Alan Fraser.
I got transferred to the front desk.
“I’m sorry. He’s gone for the day,” Maggie said. “Might I be of assistance?”
It was probably better that way, what with Alan Fraser's priv
acy policy. “Can you tell me when Rodolfo Lapaglia checked in?”
“Um ... I’m not really supposed to—”
“He’s not a guest any longer. He’s checked out already.”
“Still ...”
“Listen, I understand there are privacy concerns and I appreciate you abiding by them, but this is serious. It’s a matter of life and death.” I hoped she heard the urgency in my voice and didn’t think too hard about how life and death would apply to someone’s check-in date. Especially if he’d already checked out. By now, surely she knew about the goings-on here today.
There was a long pause and I held my breath.
She spoke quietly, almost a whisper. “What was his name again?”
I whispered back, “Rodolfo Lapaglia.”
“Pardon me? I can’t hear you.”
I repeated it louder, which seemed wrong, since she was whispering.
Her keyboard clattered. “Nobody checked in with that name in the last month.”
I replied in a whisper. “He used a fake name.”
“What? A word game?”
She had misunderstood me, but yes, he was definitely playing games, and I had no idea what name he might have checked in under, so I said, “The guy who stole the horse. When did he check in? What name did he use?”
Maggie was quiet for a long time. I assumed she was looking up the information. Instead she whispered, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” then returned to her perky customer service voice. “Thank you for calling the Lost Valley Resort!”
I hung up and slumped against the wall. The Blow-O-Matic 3000 hand dryer roared to life. I jumped away from it and banged into a stall door, which slammed backward and then forward again, ricocheting into my face. I put my hand out to stop the door, then sat down on the closed toilet seat and readjusted my baseball cap.
I'd bet all the money Lapaglia owed me that he hadn’t been at the Lost Valley Resort since Saturday. Was Alan Fraser covering for him? Why? Did Lapaglia zip back to Nebraska to kill Annamaria? Did he actually mail a package bomb to his wife? Archie Cruz must have made that up. Nobody gets killed by a package bomb, especially in Nebraska.
Lapaglia’s voice prickled my memory. “Yeah, Annamaria is a saint.” His statement sounded much more sinister now. Did my imagination add a sneer to his voice?
Were his girlfriends involved in his wife’s murder? Did he convince one of them to go to Nebraska? Someone could drive to his house and be back in Denver the same day. But I couldn’t picture mousy doormat Lakshmi killing anyone. And Cecilia would have to explain to her controlling husband where she was going and where she’d been, unless she called in sick or something and did it during working hours.
And Martina? Who knows? Of the three girlfriends, my money was on her. I slid her business card from the small outside pocket of my purse and stared at it, waiting for it to offer up some answers. I stared at it so long that my vision swirled and my mind wandered, but suddenly everything snapped back into focus.
I knew what I had to do, even without complete information. I reached forward and locked the restroom stall door. I contemplated calling Detective Ming, but instead looked up the number for the Denver Police Department’s anonymous tip line.
“Are you investigating the Tiffany Isaac death as a murder or an accident?”
“Why do you need to know?”
“I might have information.”
“And your name is?”
“Isn’t this the anonymous tip line?” I took a deep breath, unsure if I was doing the right thing or not. “I heard that Annamaria Lapaglia was found dead in Nebraska and I just saw Rodolfo Lapaglia at the Lost Valley Resort outside Denver. I think maybe the two murders are connected.”
“How would he kill someone in Nebraska all the way from Denver?”
“That’s your job to figure out, isn’t it? I’m just giving you some information to investigate. Lapaglia might be on the train. Talk to Alan Fraser at the resort and the sheriffs up here. He stole a horse, but maybe just rode it to the station.”
“Who stole a horse?”
“Rodolfo Lapaglia!”
“Ma’am, I would really appreciate knowing your name.”
“I can’t ... not just yet.” I disconnected. Staying anonymous for now was the right thing to do, I was sure. I needed to talk to Lapaglia’s girlfriends before dragging them into something so potentially public. Maybe even dangerous.
I opened the restroom door and jumped when Archie Cruz loomed in front of me.
“Geez, you took long enough. You okay? Bad news gives me the runs, too.”
Ugh. I’d forgotten all about him. “That’s not what I was—never mind. Why are you still here?”
“Where should I be?”
“I don’t know.” I pushed past him. “Maybe finding some other poor slob to ambush?”
“Yeah, sorry about that. But you gotta admit, that was some good optics for the four o’clock news.”
I would admit nothing of the sort. “It was mean and unnecessary. I didn’t steal anyone’s money. It was all Lapaglia’s fault.”
“And now he’s disappeared and his wife is dead.” He stared intensely at me for an uncomfortably long time.
“You think I—”
“Nah, I’m just kidding.” He shrugged. “Hey, I was just doing my job. Got a tip from a viewer and then you show up nine months preggo and with beer, well, there’s not a producer on earth who wouldn’t run that. We couldn’t have staged it better if we tried.”
“Mean. And. Unnecessary.”
“Yeah, I owe you one.”
Twenty-Three
Even though I got home really late and Ozzi was sound asleep in my bed, I was up early the next day.
Driving home from the resort, AmyJo and I had talked through everything, trying to figure out what I should do next. We both agreed that locating Peter O’Drool was contingent on figuring out how all these puzzle pieces fit together. We just couldn’t figure out how. Or if we had all the puzzle pieces. Or what the final picture might look like.
This morning, I’d been guzzling coffee and using the full force of my research skills to find some link between Tiffany and any of the characters in my little drama.
Knowing that Tiffany Isaac was definitely involved, I began by searching for information about her. The recent articles about her murder popped up, but they had nothing I could use. But I also found a twelve-year-old society column article from a newspaper with the title Wedding of the Decade. It wasn’t Tiffany’s wedding, but she was one of the bridesmaids. There was a small photo online, showing eight bridesmaids paired up with eight groomsmen. The caption didn’t include everyone’s full name, just their first initial and last name. I found T Isaac, standing next to V Zaminsky. So she did know someone in the mob family.
I played a little mental Scattergories. Girl’s names that start with V—go. Vivian. Victoria. Valerie. Vanessa. Vera. Virginia.
As I sipped my coffee, I realized I had the full force of the internet at my fingers. I typed V Zaminsky in the search bar.
Several articles about Velvet Zaminsky filled the screen.
I thought about Cecilia’s pejorative velvet mafia comment. At the time I had assumed that’s what she’d meant, but she hadn’t actually said that. She’d actually said “Velvet’s mafia.”
Velvet Zaminsky. Definitely part of the crime family the Braid had mentioned.
I went back to the Wedding of the Decade photo. I tried to enlarge it but it only got fuzzy.
One thing that wasn’t fuzzy, though, was that Tiffany and Velvet knew each other.
I went back to the articles about Velvet Zaminsky. The first one that came up was about a mob trial in New Jersey where she had to testify. The trial was all about tax evasion, but as I scrolled, a large image filled the screen, making me gasp.
I opened a new tab and brought up the photo of Rodolfo and Annamaria Lapaglia at the Dark Dagger Awards. I put the photos side by side and studied them.
>
The resemblance between Annamaria Lapaglia and Velvet Zaminsky was remarkable.
I dug up more images of Velvet. Because she was from a prominent family, there were many photos of her through the years. I stacked them in age order on my computer desktop and clicked through them, like flipping pages of a photo album. The changes in her features over the years were subtle—thinning of the nose, cheek implants perhaps, hair color—but set out side-by-side like this they were obvious.
“First Tiffany and now Annamaria. This can’t be coincidence.”
I needed to set up a meeting with the girlfriends to tell them about Annamaria’s murder, Lapaglia’s disappearance, and Velvet’s potential involvement. They might be in danger. Unless they were involved. Either way, I had to know. If I did it in person, I could see their reactions. One of these women might be the key to finding Peter O’Drool.
I began with Lakshmi. I explained my plan and added, “And I need you to call Martina. Make sure she has my number and tell her it’s imperative she meet with us. At the very least, she must call me.” I had to find out the connection between her logo, Lapaglia’s bolo tie, and Tiffany’s necklace.
Since both Lakshmi and Cecilia were working today, we agreed to meet at noon at a restaurant near both of them.
I got a terse text from Martina. “You’re buying.”
“Absolutely,” I responded, even though I didn’t quite know how I’d swing that.
Ozzi padded into the kitchen wearing boxers and a stretched out t-shirt, rubbing his face. He looked surprised to see me. “I didn’t hear you come in last night.” He kissed me on the head. “Didn’t think you’d be up so early this morning.”
“I have stuff to do. I didn’t want to wake you up. I’m meeting Lapaglia’s girlfriends for lunch at El Señor’s.” Reassuring him it wasn’t reckless, stupid, or impulsive, I explained my plan while pouring him a cup of coffee and loading a plate with two slices of Barb’s zucchini bread. I added another slice. “Hey, handsome ...” I placed his breakfast on the table then rubbed my hands on his chest. “Do you have any money I can borrow?” I nibbled his ear.
