by Becky Clark
“Hands in the air!”
Two police officers rounded the corner from the breezeway with guns drawn. A third escorted a handcuffed Velvet.
We immediately complied, me from my position flat on my back.
The one holding Velvet said, “We have a report of shots fired.”
With my hands straight up in the air, I used one finger to point into the fire pit. “The gun's in there.” I rotated my finger and pointed at Velvet. “It was her.”
Two more cops, one female, came around the corner, guns drawn. They patted us all down for weapons, then holstered their guns. One heaved me to my feet.
The first officer holstered his gun too. “What’s going on here?” he asked, staring straight at me. I didn’t know why I looked like the ringleader here.
“I think you’ll find that lady”—I pointed at Velvet—“has murdered Annamaria Lapaglia and probably has her passport, IDs, and credit cards in her possession somewhere. She also killed Tiffany Isaac.”
The officer pulled out a notepad.
Lapaglia looked as if he was going to throw up. “I’ve caused a lot of trouble, haven’t I?” he whispered.
“Ya think?”
Two of the officers carted Velvet away.
The female officer leaned close to Cecilia. “Where’d you get that shiner?”
Cecilia took a deep breath. “Husband.”
The officer glanced at Lapaglia. “Him?”
Cecelia shook her head and stared at the ground. Suddenly she looked up and said, “I want to press charges. I want him to pay. Just like him.” She jabbed a finger in Lapaglia’s direction.
The officer patted Cecelia’s shoulder then took some quick photos of her eye with a cell phone. “After we finish up here, we’ll take care of you.”
After making sure I didn’t need medical attention, they sat us down in lawn chairs while they processed the scene and asked us questions. I drew the short straw and ended up next to Lapaglia.
He leaned toward me. “As soon as they give me my phone back, I’m going to get those funds—and then some—transferred to you as thanks for saving my life.”
“But not because you owe me? Dillhole.”
Martina, Cecilia, and Lakshmi all chimed in, rallying to my defense, nonstop expletives rained down in a steady stream until the female cop raised a hand to quiet us.
“Why’s he a dillhole ... and all those other things?” she asked.
Martina told her the whole story of how he used each of them and lied to them, how he’d screwed me over with the workshop event, and ended with, “Can we burn his manuscript?”
The police officer looked each one of us in the eye and finally said, “I’ll help.”
She and Cecilia went inside to collect the pages.
I turned to Lapaglia. “If you never saw Velvet until today, how’d you get the bolo tie from her?”
“I didn’t get it from her. It was a gift from Tiffany. She said she asked a friend to make it. If only—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, if wishes were horses. Do you have any way to contact Cesare Silvio? Do you think he’d give back Peter even after I tied him up and accidentally cut off his braid?”
One of the cops, who I thought was engrossed in writing his report said, “You did what now?”
I sighed and told him the story of how the Braid was after Lapaglia and kidnapped Peter O’Drool to make me help locate him. “But even though I did, he disappeared instead of returning Peter to me.”
“No honor among thieves anymore.” The cop pursed his lips.
“That’s what I said!”
One of the other cops added, “Is he that mob guy? Didn’t we get a call about him?”
The female cop came out with Cecilia who carried the manuscript pages.
“Hey, Delgado.” He addressed the female cop. “What was that mob guy’s name the FBI called about?”
“Cesare Silvio,” she said.
“Where is he?” I shouted. “I need him to tell me where Peter is, the dog he kidnapped.”
“Long gone.” She helped herself to some pages from the stack of papers Cecilia held. Lakshmi and Martina did the same. “By the time the sheriff’s department near the resort called the task force, he’d already hopped a plane.”
“Back to Jersey?” Lapaglia asked.
“Nope. Direct from Denver to Frankfurt. Disappeared into eastern Europe by now, I bet.” She fed pages into the fire with the others. “He’ll turn up eventually.”
“Not soon enough for Peter, though.” I slumped in my seat.
After a few minutes of staring into the fire, I turned toward Lapaglia who flinched each time a page of his manuscript caught fire.
“Why did Alan Fraser at Lost Valley tell the cops not to come when he found out I’d called 911?”
Lapaglia didn’t take his eyes off the fire. “Didn’t want bad publicity, probably. Or maybe he has a healthy fear of the mob. Who knows.”
Who knows indeed.
“Why weren’t you a registered guest there?”
“Alan Fraser was using me, so I used him too. Told him I didn’t want anyone tracking me there.”
“That makes no sense. He wanted the publicity of having you there, but he wanted to keep it a secret?”
“He called Archie Cruz. He wanted to control the publicity.”
I shook my head, watching as the women burned Lapaglia’s manuscript and illustrations. Lakshmi, Cecilia, and Martina began dancing around the fire pit like the witches from Macbeth. They were truly enjoying themselves; this was a very cathartic experience for them.
The police officer tossed her remaining pages in the fire and grinned as they fluttered down and blazed. Then she turned away from the fire and leveled her index finger at Lapaglia. He had a resigned look on his face and I hoped he learned his lesson.
I was glad the murders were solved, the Braid was out of the country, and that everyone—me included—would get their money back from the cancelled workshop. Hopefully Lapaglia would honor his word to add a bit more so I could pay Ozzi back and cover all the overdraft fees sure to trickle in on my account.
But I’d give every dime back and live in abject poverty forever if only I could locate Peter. How could I go home and face Don and Barb? A tear slipped out of the corner of my eye and slid down my face before I could swipe it away.
The female cop noticed because she said, “Hey, Schwartzman, can these ladies be excused?”
“You got all their info?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then cut ‘em loose.”
I couldn’t bear going home so I steered my car toward the park where I’d unsuccessfully looked for Peter before. It was the only place I could think of to go. I parked on the street and walked the last couple of blocks. I passed a health food store and did a double-take when I saw a display of those tins of fancy pretzels that lady said Peter kept begging for. On a whim, I veered inside and with the last of the cash Ozzi had loaned me, bought one as a tribute to poor Peter.
The world had slowed and everything seemed cold, despite the summer weather.
The cashier chattered as she took Ozzi’s money from me but I didn’t hear a word she said. I was filled to the brim with melancholy and guilt that I didn’t know what to do with.
At the park I sat on a bench and watched ducks swim in the pond across the way. Beyond that was a pick-up game of basketball.
Watching the sunset normally made me feel so serene, but tonight it smothered me with gloom. I took the cellophane wrapper off the tin of pretzels. I popped open the lid and ate one. Maybe my blood sugar was too low.
On a whim, I shook the tin and called Peter’s name. If this was a movie, he’d come charging out of the lengthening shadows, backlit and beautiful, and make a slow-motion leap into my arms like he’d just been waiting for me to come and get him. I shook it again. Called him.
Nothing.
This was not a movie.
I ate a few more pretzels without tasting them
, staring at the basketball game until the players left the court. Despondent or not, I couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer. As nice as Barb and Don were, I’d have to move from the apartment complex. Every time we’d see one another, all those dreadful emotions would come roaring back. The stress of losing Peter would kill us all.
I stood from the bench and brushed salt and pretzel crumbs from my lap. The park was poorly lit and now with the sun mostly down, I had to walk carefully over the uneven grass.
A rabbit rocketed out from under a nearby bush and scared the bejeebers out of me. I twisted my ankle and bobbled the tin as I fell to my knees. The lid flew off. Pretzels rained down like a summer hailstorm.
A blur streaked by. Still on my hands and knees, I let loose a streak of inventive curses directed at those frolicking rabbits, but maybe bottled up and aimed at Lapaglia, the Braid, and Velvet, too. I collected my wits for a moment, then rolled to my butt so I could brush the dirt from my knees and check for bleeding. I pulled out my phone and shined the flashlight on my knees.
I heard snuffling behind me. Rabbit? Skunk? Raccoon? Slowly rotating the light toward the sound, I quickly ran through a mental checklist of weapons I could use to fight off whatever it was. Maybe my keys, but I’d have to dig them out. The quickest, handiest, and probably most ineffective was the pretzel tin. I transferred it to my right hand and raised it above my head.
When I’d fully rotated, I came face to face with Peter O’Drool, snarfing up pretzels from the grass.
“Peter!” I yelled.
He didn’t quit chewing but did a sort of wiggle-walk in my direction. I scooped him up and kissed him over and over on his wrinkled little snout. He licked my cheek then wiggled to get down, back to his treasure trove of treats. But before he did, he bounded under a bush and dragged his filthy rainbow-colored flamingo out, dropping it at my feet.
I sat next to him, hand on his collar, and called Barb and Don.
Acknowledgments
I’m very grateful I have talented and generous friends who agree to read drafts of my books and offer constructive—and oh-so kind—feedback to me. You’d be reading a very different book if not for MB Partlow, Jessie Cornwell, Karen Whalen, Trina Burgermeister, Ann Perramond, Amy Drayer, and my agent Jill Marsal. Any mistakes you find are obviously theirs and theirs alone ….
Subscribe to Becky Clark’s So Seldom It’s Shameful News for contests, giveaways, sales, sneak peeks, and other behind-the-scenes shenanigans at BeckyClarkBooks.com.
Also by Becky Clark
— Dunne Diehl Novels (with Ted Hardwick) —
Banana Bamboozle (#1)
Marshmallow Mayhem (#2)
— Mystery Writer’s Mysteries —
Fiction Can Be Murder (#1)
Foul Play on Words (#2)
Metaphor for Murder (#3)
— Crossword Puzzle Mysteries —
Puzzling Ink (#1)
Punning With Scissors (#2 May 2021)
Fatal Solutions (#3 Nov 2021)
— Nonfiction —
Eight Weeks to a Complete Novel—Write Better, Write Faster, Be More Organized
Lazy Low Cal Lifestyle Complete Cookbook
Reading Maniac—Fun Ways to Encourage Reading Success
About the Author
Becky Clark is the seventh of eight kids which explains both her insatiable need for attention and her atrocious table manners. She likes to read funny books so it felt natural to write them, too. She’s a native of Colorado, which is where she lives with her indulgent husband and quirky dog, who looks and acts remarkably like Nova in this book.
Becky loves to present workshops to writing groups and is a founding member of the Colorado Chapter of Sisters in Crime. Visit her on Facebook and at BeckyClarkBooks.com for all sorts of shenanigans.
Praise for Mystery Writer’s Mysteries
Foul Play on Words (#2)
“So good I wanted to read it twice! It has everything I love in a funny mystery: characters I care about, a plot that grabs me from page one, voice, and laughs galore. Clear your day, because this laugh-out-loud comic caper mystery is a one-sitting read!” —Jess Lourey, Anthony, Agatha, and Lefty Award–nominated author of the Mira James Mysteries
“Clark is the queen of the subtle misdirect and the casually dropped clue. I gave myself a resounding ‘I could have had a V-8’ head slap when I reached the end and realized she’d given me everything I needed to solve the mystery without me ever knowing it!”—Kristi Abbott, author of the Popcorn Shop Mysteries
“The backdrop for Clark’s witty, engaging mystery is a writers’ conference where everything that can go wrong does so, in a hilarious way. You’ll both sympathize and laugh along with heroine Charlemagne ‘Charlee’ Russo as she balances saving the conference from total disaster with the dangerous task of rescuing the kidnapped daughter of a close friend.” —Ellen Byron, award-winning author of the Cajun Country Mysteries
“Another winning entry in this wonderful series, Foul Play on Words is a clever, compelling mystery. The intriguing plot will pull you in immediately, and the engaging sleuth with quips at the ready will keep you laughing all the way through. A must-read for fans of humorous cozies!” —Cynthia Kuhn, award-winning author of the Lila Maclean Academic Mysteries
“Foul Play on Words is irresistible. A perfect combination of comedy and suspense. Mystery writer Charlee Russo narrows down a long list of oddball suspects at the wildest writers’ conference of all time. Every word is funnier than the word before. A must-read.” —Gretchen Archer, bestselling author of the Davis Way Crime Capers
“Foul Play on Words is hilariously quirky with a side of neurosis. The misadventures of being a mystery writer were never so much fun.” —Libby Klein, author of the Poppy McAllister Mystery Series
Fiction Can Be Murder (#1)
“A promising series debut.” —Booklist
“The charming heroine and the supporting cast shine in Clark’s fun and funny solo mystery debut...which doesn’t take anyone too seriously in the best way possible.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Cozy fans should enjoy this funny and affecting view into a mystery writer’s life.” —Publishers Weekly
Charlee Russo is my new favorite amateur sleuth! Wickedly witty author Charlee takes us along on her wild ride to prove her innocence in the murder of her literary agent, a murder based on the plot of one of her own books! Giving readers an inside look at the writer’s life, Becky Clark pens a funny, clever page-turner of a mystery and I can’t wait for the next one in this terrific new series!” —Jenn McKinlay, bestselling author of the Library Lover’s Mysteries
“Becky Clark wields a witty pen, writing about an author who is plunged into her own mystery.” —Marty Wingate, author of the Potting Shed mysteries
“Becky Clark is a hilarious new talent in mystery fiction. With a mixture of humor and plot, Fiction Can Be Murder pulls back the curtain on the creative writing process and exposes the homicidal thoughts that take place while writing a book.” —Diane Vallere, bestselling author of the Costume Shop mysteries
