Metaphor for Murder (Mystery Writer's Mysteries Book 3) Page 10

  “I told Ming. He’s on it.”

  “And now you should tell Lance.”

  “Tell him what? I don’t even know what’s going on. I’ll be fine. I just need to figure out about all these girlfriends. What was Lapaglia thinking? As soon as I find him, I’ll get Peter back. Whatever beef he has with the Braid is between them.”

  Eleven

  As soon as the alarm rang the next morning Ozzi resumed his personal quest to persuade me to tell Lance about the Braid. Once again I refused.

  “I’m not getting my brother mixed up in all this when I don’t even know what this is.” I kissed him and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. “But if you’re so worried about me, I wouldn’t mind your company today. I’m going to go stake out Martina’s mailbox place again and see if I can talk to her and/or maybe follow her. I can’t help but think she’s hiding Lapaglia.”

  Ozzi slipped his arms around my waist and pulled me back to bed. “I wish I could, babe, but—”

  “I know, I know. Your big project.” I pretended to pout. “You love your facial recognition project more than you love me.”

  “Yes, of course I do,” he murmured, nibbling my ear. “My project never says girly nonsense like that.”

  “Mmm ... maybe you should do this more often.” An inadvertent moan escaped my lips.

  Ozzi pulled back with mock horror on his face. “What? And make my project jealous?”

  I hit him with a pillow and we dissolved into sexual chaos for a few moments until he groaned and struggled from my bed. “I’ve got to take a shower. Come with?”

  I knew that would add at least half an hour to our morning, which neither of us could afford. “Sorry, love. But I’ll make coffee and slice some of that zucchini bread Barb gave me.”

  He pretended to weigh the options in his hands. “Soaped up Charlee or zucchini bread ... soaped up Charlee or zucchini bread.” He knew which way the wind was blowing this morning so his scales tipped heavier on the zucchini bread side. “Fine. Make me some breakfast, woman.”

  I hit him with the pillow again with feigned indignation before I left the room. But I wasn’t so indignant that I didn’t turn to watch his marvelous backside walking into the bathroom.

  As the coffee brewed and I scrambled some eggs to go with our breakfast cake, I thought about my plan for the day. I’ll get to the mailbox place early, like I did yesterday, and watch for Martina. But instead of speaking to her, I’m just going to follow her, and hope she goes to her house or wherever she works. Then I won’t have to get up at the crack of early to go on any more stakeouts.

  We ate quickly and Ozzi rushed to work, but not before pulling me close. “You know I’d rather be with you than at work, right?”

  “Yep. I was just teasing you. I know this project is important to you and you need to focus on it. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I’ll call you when I can.”

  “Don’t get freaked out if I don’t answer. Remember I’ll be on stake out. Undercover. Incognito. Very hush-hush.”

  “I never get freaked out.”

  That was true. He never did. Not outwardly anyway.

  “That’s why I love you. Now skeedaddle off to work, you technological wizard, you.”

  He grabbed another piece of zucchini bread on his way, blowing me a kiss full of crumbs.

  I reached for another piece as well, but startled and dropped it when the apartment door banged open. Ozzi heaved the bag of costumes on the couch. “Don’t forget to wear one of these.” He pointed a finger at me. “No excuses.”

  “No, sir!” After a snappy salute, I locked the door behind him, then went to take a shower. As I stood, naked, waiting for the hot water to make an appearance, my phone rang. I turned off the water and crossed to my nightstand to see who it was. My editor from Penn & Powell.

  “Steph? Have you found Lapaglia? Where is he?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Well in that case, hold on a sec.” I put the phone down and wrapped a towel around myself. “Okay, I’m back. What’s up then?”

  “You’re gonna hate me.”

  “Never.” But perhaps.

  “I tried to get upper management to reimburse that money for the event on Saturday, but they won’t budge.”

  “Can they just float me a loan or something? I’m sure Lapaglia will reimburse me just as soon as we find him.” I wasn’t at all sure of that, but I was desperate.

  “That’s what I said, but they refused.”

  “Will they reimburse the participants?” If they weren’t worried about me and my finances, maybe they’d worry about the reading public.

  Steph was quiet a long time. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “Nothing? Really?”

  “I don’t know where he is, Charlee.”

  “Can you give me his home phone number in Nebraska? I can try calling there. Maybe talk to his wife?”

  “I called her yesterday, but she never returned my call.”

  “Steph, I need to do something. I have to find him and it sounds like nobody wants to help me.”

  Another long silence stretched between us. I knew she was still there, though, because I heard her breathing. Then I heard what sounded like a file cabinet slamming.

  “I shouldn’t do this because of privacy issues, but I’m going to give you Lapaglia’s home number. You can talk to Annamaria yourself. But don’t tell her I gave you the number, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I mean it, Charlee. This could mean my job.”

  “If anyone asks, I’ll just say I’m a Google ninja.”

  I wrote down the number and disconnected. This wasn’t a call I wanted to make naked so I took a shower in record time and put on shorts and a t-shirt before I dialed.

  When a woman answered I said, “Is this Annamaria Lapaglia?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Charlee Rus—”

  “Whatever it is you’re selling, I don’t want it.”

  “Ma’am, I’m the author in Denver who was going to do that author event on Saturday with your husband.”

  “Was going to do? Didn’t you do it? What are you talking about?”

  “Mrs. Lapaglia, have you talked to your husband recently?”

  “Not since he left for the train station.”

  “So you don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “Um ...” It didn’t seem right that I was the one to give her this information.

  “Please tell me.”

  “Your husband never showed up in Denver. He missed the event.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Mrs Lapag—”

  “Call me Annamaria. Where is he?”

  “Annamaria, I’m sorry, but I don’t know where he is. I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “Why are you so concerned?”

  I paused. Her husband was missing and she hadn’t heard anything yet. I needed to tread lightly. “That event we were doing? Well, there were some ... costs involved. I put the food and the venue and the advertising on my credit card, but he took in all the money for the registrations.”

  “Sounds like something he’d do. He’s very … generous.”

  That was the opposite of what I’d been thinking, but okay, if she said so. “I’m hoping you can get into his online payment system and release those funds to me so I can pay the bills and reimburse the participants.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Yes, no.”

  “But ...”

  “Listen. I’m sure you’re another nice person that Rod met during one of his many trips to Denver. But I’m sure he has a good reason for not doing that event with you. And I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything about any online payment system—”

  “It’s the one on his website where he sells his tutorials and stuff. Maybe he has a place where he keeps his passwords?”

  “I must say, I find this very suspicious. You tell me my husba
nd is missing—not the police—and now you’re asking me for money? This seems quite irregular.” Her voice was flat, calm. “Are you trying to blackmail me? Shake me down? If so, you are barking up the wrong tree.”

  Wow. Who was this woman? She didn’t even sound like she cared that her husband was missing. Maybe he disappeared a lot.

  I tried a different approach. “I’m absolutely not trying to shake you down. The money that he collected was to pay for the things we agreed to pay for.”

  “Do you have a contract with Lapaglia—my husband?”

  “We had a ... gentleman’s agreement. Can you at least confirm that your husband was on his way to our event in Denver when he got on the train? Is it possible he forgot?”

  “Anything is possible, Miss ...”

  “Russo. Charlemagne Russo.”

  “And you’re another author?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed. “Let me see if I understand you correctly. You’re telling me that my husband had some sort of rendezvous with you in Denver, and that he has a secret bank account? That’s very painful to hear, since I’ve done most of the work on his books. It would seem I deserve that money. Not him, and certainly not you. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to attend to. Oh, and if you hear from him, please tell him to call home immediately.”

  My head spun. I remembered something the Braid said when we were pulling hair. Something about how I should know where Lapaglia was because I probably wrote those books with him. But now Annamaria was saying she did most of the work on the books? What did she mean, anyway ... transcribing? Editing? Is she actually the author of these books? Lots of time women feel they must disguise their names under the notion, often too true, that men won’t read thrillers written by a woman. Did she agree to have her husband’s name on the books? Does the Braid know this? Maybe not, if he’s after Lapaglia.

  “Wait, Annamaria, one more question. Do you know an older man, kinda short and wiry, with a long gray ponytail?”

  “Listen. If he’s going to come after my money like you are, just tell him to stay away. Don’t call here again.”

  She hung up and I realized she never answered my question. Did she or did she not know the Braid?

  I sat at my kitchen table tapping one fingernail, trying to make sense out of everything Annamaria told me. Her concern for her husband didn’t quite ring true. If someone told me Ozzi hadn’t shown up like that, I’d be beside myself with worry. Maybe the rumors about her having a boyfriend were true.

  I logged into Rodolfo Lapaglia’s Wikipedia page and saw the ‘unconfirmed rumors’ section Ozzi had mentioned detailing Annamaria’s alleged affair with Thomas Percy. I clicked on his name and the embedded link took me to his Facebook profile. He listed his employment as Trainee Conductor with National Railroad. He worked for the railroad? Did the two of them kill Lapaglia to get him out of the picture? Would Annamaria have spoken with me at all if she had recently killed her husband? Maybe Thomas Percy took matters into his own hands. Was he on the train with Lapaglia on Saturday?

  I looked up the National Railroad website and found the number for customer service. I asked for the human resources department and was put right through.

  “This is Mavis. How may I help you?”

  Mavis sounded like she hadn’t had enough coffee yet, so I was extra perky on her behalf, hoping it might rub off on her. “Good morning, Mavis. I’m trying to find one of your employees—”

  “What’s his extension? I’ll put you through. Next time just dial it direct.”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you. I don’t know—”

  “If you don’t know his number, how am I supposed to connect you?”

  After interacting with Eeyore Regina and Mavis, maybe we should be planning a funeral for customer service. It might really be irrevocably dead. “I don’t know where exactly he works, but his name is Thomas Percy. I need to know if he was working on Saturday, on the train coming from Nebraska into Denver.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Thomas Percy.”

  “Last name?”

  “I'm confused.”

  “Then what do you think I can do? Do you know how many people work for National Railroad?”

  “A lot? And I’m trying to find out if one of them was working on Saturday.” I tried to rein in my irritation but wasn’t succeeding. Mavis was stealing my perkiness. I felt it ebbing away, like I was a pen losing its ink, each letter getting fainter and fainter until it becomes simply an indentation on the paper.

  “Why?” she asked suspiciously.

  This was going nowhere. Time for a little creativity. “Because ... because my elderly mother had a little accident on the train coming into Denver Saturday morn—”

  “What’s the accident report number?”

  “I don’t think one was taken.”

  “Why not? What happened? If you’re calling for a settlement, you’ll need to speak to our attorneys AND have the accident report number.”

  “No, nothing like that. There was no injury, but this Thomas Percy was very helpful and I wanted to show our gratitude, maybe mention the incident to the newspaper, perhaps a reward of some—”

  “In that case, let me take a look. I remember hearing about that. I was the one called the doctor for your momma. Is she okay, by the way?”

  “Yes, my mother is fine.” Not technically a lie. Unlike what Mavis said.

  “That’s so good to hear. Can I put you on hold for the teensiest bit, hon?”

  Either Mavis’ coffee kicked in or the idea of a citation and possible reward greased her wheels just enough so that some human decency could ooze out. I felt a renewed injection of ink in my pen.

  “Okay, I’m back. You still with me, hon?”

  “Yes. Still here.”

  “I found one Thomas working that route between Omaha and Denver on Saturday. Last name is Percy.”

  Like I said earlier.

  “You can mention my name too. It’s Mavis, M-A-V—”

  I hung up on her. “Sorry Mavis. You were snotty to me. No fake reward for you.” It irked me that she’d try to take credit for something she wasn’t even involved in, especially a completely fabricated story.

  She did confirm, though, that Thomas Percy was on that train with Rodolfo Lapaglia. But was Thomas Percy really the secret paramour to Annamaria Lapaglia? And if so, did he have anything to do with Lapaglia’s disappearance? Was I just being paranoid?

  Occam’s razor says that the simplest explanation is usually the right one. The more assumptions you had to make, the more unlikely the explanation. And with Thomas Percy, there were a lot of assumptions and explanations to make.

  What if Lapaglia disappeared himself? That was a much simpler explanation. He’d stated on record in more than one interview that it’s really hard to be him, to go out in public, always whining that he was too famous. Barf. But maybe he got tired of it all, decided to use me and our event to chuck it all for a new life in Denver with his girlfriend. Or girlfriends, plural.

  Which led me right back to Martina McCarthy. I checked the time. Still early enough to get down to the mailbox place before it opened. Maybe today I’d be luckier.

  I pawed through the bags of costumes Ozzi brought up from his car. “Aha!” I remembered being denied toilet access on my stake out yesterday and pulled out the silicone and foam 9-month pregnancy bodysuit. “Nobody would deny a pregnant lady a bathroom.” And I couldn’t bear the thought of having to buy another squeaky dog toy at the pet store as thanks for the use of the facilities.

  I also remembered what happened with the Braid yesterday and called AmyJo. “Are you working today?”

  “Not until three. Why?”

  “Want to help me do something?”

  “I’ll be there in twenty.”

  While I waited for AmyJo, I wiggled into the suit, which was surprisingly comfy, and pulled on a blond bob wig. I learned my lesson from the drag wig and didn’t pin this one on,
just tucked my hair up into it. I gave it a final tug, arranging it convincingly enough. If the Braid accosted me again, I would be more than happy to have it come off in his hand while I ran away, much like a gecko escaping a snake.

  I pulled the caftan over my head and tried to smooth it over my new belly. No can-do. It wasn’t quite big enough, which seemed unnecessarily discriminatory to pregnant ladies. Even fake ones. I struggled out of it and stood before my open closet door, assessing my options. I flung each hanger to the side until I was in the no-man’s-land of dusty clothes I hadn’t seen in ages.

  “Score!” I brushed the dust off the shoulders of a tea length rose-colored sateen bridesmaid dress with an empire waist, flaring the skirt right under the bust. I threw it on over my body suit and looked in the mirror. It was not the effect Constance Duggan was going for when she picked it out for us to wear in her wedding, but it would do perfectly today. It was a little snug across the middle, and the fabric didn’t flow like it had the last time I wore it. I swayed and gave a little twirl. Hm. The fabric was less flow and more thunk today. I added a pair of canvas sneakers without socks and I was ready to go.

  I thought about calling the phone number on Martina’s business card before going all the way over there, but what would I say? Better to surprise her. Get the drop on her. Meet her face-to-face. Or belly-to-belly, as the case may be. She’s got to be hiding Lapaglia. Why else would she have been at the train station to meet him? People don’t just up and disappear. They up and move in with their girlfriends.

  The sooner I found him and delivered him to the Braid, the sooner I’d get Peter back. I’d happily give up my quest for reimbursement if only I could get Peter back to Barb and Don.

  When AmyJo arrived she gaped at my enormous pregnant belly. “Does your mom know about this? And Ozzi? Wait. It is Ozzi’s, right?”

  “Very funny.” I handed her the dowdy housecoat and Farrah Fawcett wig.

  Her eyes lit up and she bounced up and down. “Are we going on another stakeout?”

  The excitement in her voice made me laugh out loud.

  “That’s why I like you, Ames. Always up for adventure.”