by Becky Clark
“Oh, I see how it is. You just love me for my wallet.” He sat at the kitchen table.
“Not true.” I cupped his pecs. “These are nice too.” I straddled him on his lap. “So ... do you?”
“Mmm?” His eyes had rolled back in his head a little.
“Have any money I can borrow?”
He opened one eye and grinned. “I don’t charge interest in the usual manner.”
“That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”
At 11:55 I pulled open the door to the El Señor Mexican restaurant and saw Lakshmi, Cecilia, and Martina waiting for me. They’d already eaten three-quarters of a basket of chips and salsa.
“Didn’t we say noon?” I asked.
“We needed a pre-meeting,” Martina said. “Not sure we know what’s going on. I never even knew about this one until yesterday.” She jerked her head toward Cecilia. “So talk,” she said to me. I felt resentment radiating off her.
Okay, so this is how it’s going to be. I pulled out the fourth chair and hooked my bag over the back. I scooped a chip through chunky salsa and chewed, gathering my thoughts. “I told you earlier that Annamaria Lapaglia has been murdered—”
“I don’t know who that is,” Cecilia interrupted.
“She’s the wife of the man you’ve all been having an affair with. You just know him by different names.” I rooted around my bag for the photo I tore from his book jacket and passed it around. Lakshmi and Cecilia had seen it before and knew who I meant. Martina looked at the photo, then back at me.
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Her eyes narrowed and I suddenly worried for Lapaglia if she ever got her hands on him again.
Before she could interrupt I said, “He’s an author of thrillers about the mob. I was supposed to do a writer’s event with him on Saturday but he never showed up.” I looked at Martina. “That’s why I was at Union Station. Why were you there?”
Martina’s gaze pierced right through me. I suddenly wished that she’d continued avoiding me and hadn’t showed up today. I nervously shoved chips and salsa into my mouth.
Finally Martina spoke. “I was there on Saturday to catch him in a lie. A few weeks ago he told me he was coming to Denver that day, but then hemmed and hawed and said he misspoke, that it was actually a month from Saturday, like he got the date wrong. Something about his voice on the phone made me suspicious so I did some digging. He told me his name was Ronald Donatelli. I didn’t find him but I found a woman named Dona Donatelli—”
I remembered what Ozzi had told me. “His mother.”
“—whose artistic style was very similar to his. And then I found out she had a son named Rodolfo Lapaglia, who, among other things”—Martina leveled her gaze and dropped an octave—“was coming to Denver to meet you.”
“Okay, one last time, he wasn’t coming to meet me. He was coming to do a writing workshop with me.” I thought back to waiting with Ozzi for the train. “Wait! You were eavesdropping on us!” Then I remembered Martina’s assault on me in the restroom. “I told you then that Ozzi was my boyfriend. Why didn’t you believe me?”
“He wasn’t acting like your boyfriend.”
“What was he supposed to do? Jump me right there in Union Station? Who did you think he was?”
“Your brother.”
“What? Why?” I was instantly skeeved out that Lance and I might ever act like we were—ugh—sweethearts.
“I Googled you too, when I saw about the workshop, and saw all that stuff about your family, you killing your literary agent—”
I looked at Lakshmi and Cecilia. “I did NOT kill my agent.” I spread my gaze around the table, to include them all. “Let’s get back to the matter at hand. By not showing up for that workshop on Saturday, Lapaglia made a ton of problems for me, so I’ve been looking for him. I found him yesterday but then he disappeared again. Afterward, I learned his wife had been murdered. I’m worried the three of you might be implicated and perhaps in danger yourselves.” I let that sink in for a minute, studying their faces while I scooped another chip. Before I finished, the server came to take our order. I hadn’t looked at the menu yet, but I didn’t want to take the time. I ordered a chicken chimichanga. I’d eaten here before, but even if they’d changed their menu since then, no self-respecting Mexican restaurant would remove that. Deep-fried burrito with guacamole and sour cream on top? Yes, please.
After the server left, I told them the story about going to Lost Valley and finding Lapaglia and the Braid there.
Lakshmi remembered seeing me get on the train and wondered why. “You said he was coming into town. That’s why I went down there. Why were you there?”
“I was trying to see which of you would come down. I thought one of you might be hiding him.”
Martina snorted. “Nancy Drew much?”
“I’m just trying to get my money back. And a dog.” Peter still hadn’t been returned like I’d hoped. I told them about the Braid dognapping him to coerce me to find Lapaglia before the cops did.
“Why would the cops be after him?” Cecilia asked.
“Honestly, I don’t even know anymore. It might have been a bluff. But when someone’s holding you by your drag wig upside down on a chain link fence, nothing much makes sense.”
They nodded knowingly as if they’d all been in a similar situation at some point in their pasts.
The server brought our food and we ate in silence for a bit.
“I said earlier that I’m worried you guys would be implicated in this. I know enough about murder investigations to know that the police will find you, so it’s better to get in front of this earlier rather than later. And I want you to do it yourselves. I don’t want to have to drag you into it.”
Lakshmi and Cecilia looked worried, but Martina said, “I got nothing to worry about.”
I wiped my mouth and fingers on a napkin then reached into my purse. I pulled out her business card. “I think you do. Maybe more than anyone. Your business logo is very similar to a bolo tie I saw Lapaglia wearing yesterday—”
“So?”
“And on a necklace worn by Tiffany Isaac, who, I think you all know, was also murdered recently.” I finished the last couple bites of my lunch, wondering if I should have mentioned Tiffany. My hands shook a bit as I dragged a fork full of fallen lettuce and tomatoes through a smear of guacamole and into my mouth. I didn’t really think one of these women was a murderer, but I’ve been monumentally wrong about people in the past.
Cecilia checked her watch. “I’ve got to get back.” She and Lakshmi began gathering their belongings.
I held up my hand. “Just one more thing. The reason I wanted you all here was to ask you to go to the police with me.”
“No way in hell,” Martina said.
“I can’t do that.” Cecilia noticeably paled.
Lakshmi just shook her head.
“No cops are going to be knocking on our doors about this,” Martina said. “We didn’t even know this Lapaglia’s real name until you told us. We’re invisible.” The server brought the bill and Martina handed it to me.
I put the leather check presenter on the table without looking at it. “Regardless, we all need to go to the police to tell them what we know.” Then all this would be someone else’s problem and I could look for Peter full-time.
“Nope.” Martina pushed her chair back, grabbed her wallet and phone and stood. She got right in my face. “And don’t even think about giving my name to the cops.” She left.
“You guys will, though, right?” I asked the others.
“I told you, I can’t,” Cecilia said.
Lakshmi just shook her head and hurried after Cecilia.
I stared after them, hoping maybe at least one of them would change her mind and come back. No such luck. I sighed and looked at the bill for lunch. A big smiley face covered it with a note that said Paid. I flagged down our server and asked about it.
“That couple over there paid it for you. Included the tip and e
verything.” She pointed to a corner table where two people sat with their menus concealing their faces.
I collected my purse and walked over to thank them and ask why. As soon as I got there, they lowered their menus. AmyJo yelled, “Surprise!” then clamped a hand over her mouth. “That was loud,” she whispered, blushing. Ozzi just grinned.
I pulled out a chair and sat. “What are you guys doing here?”
“I was worried when you told me what you were doing this morning so I invited AmyJo to lunch so we could spy on you. Figured you wouldn’t be mad at me in front of her,” Ozzi said.
“I’m not mad. And thank you.” I sighed. “None of that went like I expected.”
“What did you want to happen?” AmyJo asked.
“I wanted to scare them enough about Lapaglia, his wife getting murdered, the Braid, and Tiffany Isaac that they’d go to the police. But they won’t. And that big gal threatened me again.”
Ozzi rubbed brusquely at his stubble. “What did she say?”
I waved away his concern. “If they would talk to the cops, then I wouldn’t have to. I mean, two women have been murdered. I can’t just walk away from that.”
“Then go to the police. Tell them what you know,” Ozzi said.
I threw my hands into the air and accidentally banged my elbow on the table. “I’ve been talking to Ming and look where that’s gotten me.” I rubbed my elbow. “Besides, I’m not entirely sure what I do know. I told those deputies at Lost Valley everything I could about Lapaglia and the Braid, but what if I drag these women into this mess and get them targeted by someone? I couldn’t live with myself.”
“Who would target them?” AmyJo asked.
“I don’t know. Somebody. Maybe the Braid? Lapaglia? Somebody I don’t even know about?”
“Maybe you’d solve the crimes, though,” Ozzi said quietly, covering my hand with his. “Maybe one of those women killed Lapaglia’s wife. Or that Tiffany. Or both.”
“I considered that but discounted it before, but now, maybe you’re right. Maybe they did, with or without Lapaglia’s help.”
AmyJo pushed her plate aside and flopped a notebook on the tabletop. “Who’s your best candidate?” Her pen was poised over the page.
“I don’t know. Martina is crazy-jealous of everyone. The first time she saw me she told me to stay away from her boyfriend.”
AmyJo scribbled notes then looked up. “Who else?”
“Lakshmi—that little one with the cute glasses?—she is pushed around by everyone. A real doormat. Maybe she had enough and snapped. And Cecilia, the other one, is petrified her husband will find out about her affair with Lapaglia. She said he’s violent.”
“Lapaglia?”
“No, her husband.”
While AmyJo scribbled, I stared at the oversized sombreros stapled to the wall for ambiance. “Lapaglia is über-suspicious, running away and being so vocal about wanting to live a different life. I did call the tip line yesterday to tell Denver PD that I saw him at Lost Valley. Maybe they’ll grab him up, he’ll confess, and this will be all done.”
“You wouldn’t get your money back that way,” Ozzi said.
“No, I sure wouldn’t.”
“I can see Lapaglia killing his wife.” AmyJo tapped her pen on her bottom lip. “He’s a jerk.”
“He is indeed.” I nodded. “But maybe it was the Braid. When I talked to Annamaria the other day she hinted that she did all the work on Lapaglia’s books. The Braid kept wanting to know how Lapaglia knew so much about the mob—the family, he called it. What if the Braid found out Annamaria wrote the books? He’d go after her instead of Lapaglia.”
“But how would that involve Tiffany Isaac?” Ozzi asked. “Or whoever might be setting up the guy you scalped?”
I let out a whoosh of air. “I don’t know. It probably wouldn’t. I need a nap.”
“I need to get back to work,” Ozzi said, pushing his chair back.
“Me, too.” AmyJo stood. “This was fun, though. Thanks for lunch, Oz.”
“Fun?” I stood, too.
“It’s always fun to go out to lunch,” AmyJo said. “Regardless of the reason. Plus, we didn’t have to swoop in and rescue you.”
“I dunno. That sounds kinda fun to me.” Ozzi slipped his arm around my waist.
“I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunities in the future. If history is any indication.” I kissed him lightly on the lips.
Driving home, I debated whether to call Lance. I changed my mind fourteen times, but by the time I plopped down on my couch, it was a firm negative. I’d have to tell him more than might be prudent about my activities, plus it wasn’t even a Colorado crime. Annamaria’s murder was for the great state of Nebraska to solve.
Nebraska’s murder to solve. Hmm. Maybe I could talk to Annamaria’s boyfriend, Thomas Percy, and see if he knew anything I could use. Maybe he and Annamaria knew about Lapaglia’s girlfriends. Maybe he killed Annamaria. Maybe Peter O’Drool magically found his way there and he was just waiting for me to call to collect him. I had nothing to lose.
Before I did, I called Barb and Don to see if Peter was back yet. Don answered.
“Not yet,” he said.
“Find out anything more from Lapaglia’s books?”
“Working on it.”
I asked Don if, in the books, there was anything about Taffeta, who might be our Tiffany, being set up by anyone in the crime family.
“Charlee, these books are full of betrayals, double-crossings, set-ups, and all manner of skullduggery.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. Why couldn’t Lapaglia write cozy mysteries so the characters are quirky and fun?”
“Mysteries have fun murderers?”
I sighed. “No, I guess not. Well, let me know if something jumps out at you.”
“Just a matter of time.”
I wished I had his confidence. “Fingers crossed.”
I poured myself a glass of iced tea then found the number my editor gave me for Lapaglia’s house in Nebraska. Maybe I’d get lucky and whoever answered would know how I could find this Thomas Percy.
I dialed. While I waited for it to be picked up, I decided if anyone answered I’d ask for Lapaglia. If he was actually there, that might mean he didn’t kill her.
“Thomas Percy speaking.”
Annamaria’s boyfriend? “Um ... hi, Thomas. I was looking for Rodolfo Lapaglia.”
“Not here.”
“Not at the house or not in Nebraska?”
“Who wants to know?” I could hear the venom in his voice.
“My name is Charlee. I spoke to Annamaria a few days ago. I asked her if she knew where Rodolfo was, but I got the impression there was no love lost between them.”
I heard him make a noise. Was he crying?
“You know she’s ... dead,” he said.
“Yes, I do. I’m so sorry.”
“Did you know she was murdered?”
“Yes.”
“Killed exactly like in one of his books.”
My stomach lurched. That hit too close to home. The memory of being told my agent had been killed exactly as I had written in a manuscript washed over me. I shook off the past and fought to return to the present.
If Annamaria was responsible for Lapaglia’s books, as she’d said, was this some kind of evil retribution? Coincidence? Was it even true?
The present swam back into clear focus. Thomas had apparently been speaking this whole time.
“I’m sorry to go on like this, but I don’t really have anyone to talk to here. It’s nice to talk to one of her friends.”
A flush of guilt buzzed through me, but I didn’t correct him.
“Annamaria and I were serious, but for obvious reasons, weren’t really public about it.” He paused. “I wish I had come right home that day.”
“Where’d you go?”
“There was a glitch in the schedule—I work for the railroad—and I got back in town a day early. I went out with the guys
for a beer. Since she wasn’t expecting me, I didn’t think a couple of hours would matter. How wrong I was.”
It didn’t seem that coming home any earlier would have stopped her from opening a package bomb. If anything, it might have killed him, too. But he didn’t need to hear that from me.
“When was this, exactly?”
“Tuesday around four.” He paused and I jotted a note to myself. “Thing is,” he paused again. “I saw her in town and waved at her but she didn’t seem to notice me. Later they told me that was impossible because it was an hour after she died.” Long pause. “I think it was her ghost looking for me to say goodbye. If I hadn’ta gone to the Brickyard this never would have happened.” His sobs broke my heart.
I tried to console him through the phone but we both knew it was ineffective. Before he hung up he said, voice shaking, “If you see that son of a—if you see Lapaglia, you tell him I will hunt him down if it’s the last thing I do.”
I sat, phone still in my hand for a long time. If Thomas actually killed Annamaria, he was one excellent actor. I wish I could have seen his face while he told me all that. Then I realized I could check his alibi pretty easily. An internet search quickly brought up the Brickyard and I called them.
I asked the man who answered, “Hey, were you working Tuesday afternoon?”
“I work every afternoon. I own the place.”
“Do you remember Thomas Percy in there that day?”
“I already told some other cop yes, he was sitting here from at least two o’clock when I put in his order for a bacon cheeseburger and fries until he left around five. Thomas didn’t kill Annamaria. Now leave me alone and get busy finding out who did.”
Again, a flush of guilt shot through me. I couldn’t help it if people made assumptions about me. I didn’t tell Thomas I was a friend of Annamaria’s and I didn’t tell this guy I was with the police. But still.
I considered Thomas Percy’s alibi. Eating a burger and nursing a beer all afternoon didn’t preclude him from sending a package bomb to be delivered while he was conveniently out of the way. But his voice on the phone. His demeanor. His sobs. Nobody is that good an actor. I just couldn’t believe he killed Annamaria.
