Metaphor for Murder (Mystery Writer's Mysteries Book 3) Page 11

  “Who is it this time? Is somebody breaking into Espresso Yourself again? Do Lavar and Tuttle know?” Her eyes widened. “Did they hire us?”

  “Nope. I’m trying to talk to that lady who dropped the business card holder and threatened me at the train station. We’re going to surprise her when she picks up her mail.”

  AmyJo shrugged off her disappointment.

  It was later than I expected and I had to park two blocks from the mailbox store. AmyJo detoured into a deli for fortifications while I hurried around the corner. When I got there I saw the sidewalk was closed due to construction. The detour took me through an area where scaffolding and plywood rose up around the sidewalk. I emerged from that a few steps before reaching an alley. I was three-quarters of the way across when I heard an oily voice in my ear.

  “Do not make a sound or the pooch gets it.” The Braid grabbed my upper arm from the back and steered me down the alley, away from the oblivious crowd on the street. Away from AmyJo. He stopped near a chain link fence.

  “Look! It’s Lapaglia!” I shouted. When he turned to look at my fake-out, I shinnied up the fence.

  When it was clear there was no Lapaglia, he turned back and saw me struggling on the fence, fingers and sneakers scrambling for purchase halfway up.

  I squealed and almost fell when I saw he had Peter O’Drool tucked under one arm. With his other arm, he grabbed at my midsection, which was now higher than his head. All he could do was grab a handful of rose-colored sateen, along with my silicone and foam belly. I held on like a Cirque de Soleil trapeze artist. He couldn’t pull me down with one hand, no matter how hard he tried.

  “Give me Peter O’Drool,” I demanded, aching fingers entwined in the wire fencing.

  “Give me Lapaglia,” he countered.

  Stalemate.

  My fingers were on fire. I didn’t know whether to go the rest of the way up and over the top and get away, or to come back down into the alley and try to wrest Peter from his arms. I also didn’t know if I could do either of those things. All I knew was I had to get him to let go of my foam belly. No, I knew something else. AmyJo didn’t know where I was.

  I had to stall until she got here. “How’d you recognize me?”

  “That car of yours is an eyesore,” he grunted.

  “Distinctive is the word you’re looking for.” My arms quivered with effort, but I couldn’t shake his grasp. I jammed my sneakers into the chain link openings, stepping and maneuvering until I had rotated and was perpendicular to the ground.

  He was on his tiptoes, clutching me at a weird angle. He still squeezed Peter, but Pete didn’t seem to be in any distress. In fact, he looked like he enjoyed this game. At one point he licked the Braid’s face and my leg in one deft motion. The tickle sent my feet scrambling even higher on the fence. I was prone, sprawled sideways across the fence, my head now a bit lower than my feet.

  “If you keep doing this, how am I supposed to find Lapaglia?” I yelled.

  The Braid only grunted.

  I held on, feeling like my fingers might slice right off my hands and be left dangling on this sad alleyway construction fence. My abs quivered but hung in there and I silently offered up thanks to Marcy, my occasional yoga instructor for all those planks and chaturangas.

  Still only two directions I could go. Up and over the fence without Peter, or back down to the alley, with maybe a chance of grabbing Peter.

  I had decided to take my chances in the alley and tried to figure out how to get down without falling when I felt the Braid let go of me.

  “What’s going on here?” A man’s voice boomed down the alley.

  “This man stole my dog! Grab him!” I yelled.

  The Braid took off down the alley, still clutching Peter. The man hurried over, tool belt jangling, and helped me down.

  “No, no! Go get my dog! I’m fine!”

  “Lady, you’re pregnant. Let me help you.”

  “I’m not! Go get Peter!” I dropped the rest of the way to my feet. My legs buckled and the man helped me up.

  “See? You’re not fine. What’s Peter’s number?” He pulled out his phone while continuing to hold my arm.

  “I don’t need an ambulance. I’m not pregnant, this is fake!” I poked myself in the belly.

  AmyJo hurried over, carrying a bag in one hand and a cardboard tray with two cups in the other. “What’s going on here?” She swung the bag at him. “Let go of her!”

  The man dropped my arm and stepped back from AmyJo who continued to pummel him with the bag of food.

  “I’m calling the cops,” he said to AmyJo.

  “No! I’m calling the cops. Hold my bagels.” She slapped the bag into my belly and thrust the coffees toward me.

  I took them from her. “It’s okay, Ames. This guy was trying to help me.”

  Keeping a wary eye on AmyJo, he explained to the 911 dispatcher what had happened, answered some questions, relayed my name, then listened. He rolled his eyes then said, “Well, if they ever decide to show up, I’m at the big Liberty job site. Ask for Larry.”

  “Doubt they’ll come,” he said to me after he disconnected. “See something, say something, right? But when you do ....”

  “Listen, Larry. You did exactly the right thing. You saw someone in trouble and you took action.”

  “And I’m sorry about the bagels,” AmyJo said. “Here, you take them. Peace offering.”

  He shook his head and took another step back from her. “Did that guy really steal your dog?”

  I nodded.

  “Bummer.” He pocketed his phone. “And you’re not really pregnant?”

  “Nope.”

  “And you’re not hurt?”

  “Promise.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t chase the guy. Not gonna lie, I was a bit rattled. Nothing like this ever happened to me before.” Larry blotted his forehead with his arm.

  “Me neither,” I said.

  “Me neither.” AmyJo offered the bagels again.

  Larry shook his head. “If the cops show up I’ll tell them everything.”

  “I’ll call them, too.”

  Larry only agreed to return to his job after insisting on walking us back to my car. I figured the Braid was still around here someplace, so it seemed prudent to allow an escort to my car.

  After Larry left, I explained everything to AmyJo. “It’s probably not a good idea to wait around in front of the mailbox place all day for Martina with the Braid on my tail. Maybe she’ll respond to that note I sent her.”

  We got in and locked all the doors even though it was stifling. I didn’t want to be surprised if the Braid was still lurking around. I blasted the air conditioning while AmyJo rooted around the bag of bagels.

  “Sesame or blueberry?” she asked.

  Accepting the blueberry with a grateful nod I said, “Sesame seeds always get stuck in my teeth.” I took a bite then a swig of coffee. I settled the bagel on one knee and set the cup in the console. “I think I should call Detective Ming. Keep an eye out.”

  “For what?”

  “Guy with a long silver braid carrying Peter O’Drool. Or, you know, anything else that seems weird.”

  “On it.”

  AmyJo swiveled all directions in her seat, then rearranged the mirrors for best advantage while I dialed Ming.

  His voicemail came up. I rambled my message, buying time because I assumed he’d call me while I was leaving it like he had before. But he didn’t. Now he’d have to listen to my long, rambling message about how the Braid chased me up a fence. I had the feeling he wouldn’t take my call very seriously.

  I had been so happy to see that Peter was safe, but now kicked myself for not trying harder to get him away from the Braid. I should have just belly-flopped down off the fence and landed—splat—right on top of the Braid, squishing him and his stupid hair flat as a pancake. But then I would have risked hurting Peter, too. For now, I guess I had to be happy with the knowledge that Peter was safe and seemed happy and tak
en care of. But I hated myself for losing him again.

  I readjusted the mirrors and pulled away from the curb. I had to quit thinking about Pete because it was hard to drive when my eyes swam with tears. I wanted to quit thinking about everything, so I dropped AmyJo at her truck in the parking lot of the apartment complex without inviting her in, telling her I had some errands to run.

  “Liquor store?”

  “You know me too well.” I smiled at her. “Thanks for going with me today, Ames. You wield a mean bagel.” I finished mine.

  “I could kick myself for not getting there in time. If only I hadn’t ordered those bagels—”

  “You couldn’t have known. Besides, nothing bad happened.” At her skeptical look I added, “Nothing really bad, at least.”

  She popped the last bite of bagel in her mouth while she pulled off the Farrah Fawcett wig. She dropped it on the seat as she stepped out and removed the housecoat which she tossed on top to the wig. “Call me later? I’m off at nine.”

  I nodded and watched her climb into her truck. I waved as I headed to the liquor store.

  It was actually a liquor superstore—a refurbished grocery store—and I pushed a cart up and down the aisles. I couldn’t seem to make any decisions. Beer? Mix-and-match local craft beer? Guinness? Something Japanese? Something on sale? Wine? Red or white? Australian? French? Italian? Colorado organic? I slowly and aimlessly wandered up and down, back and forth. People stared like they’d never seen anyone indecisive about their alcohol purchases.

  After an excruciatingly long time, I filled two mix-and-match craft beer six-packs with two different brands each of red ales, chocolate porters, summer lagers, IPAs, stouts, and a couple of hard ciders — the ultimate in non-decision making.

  I trudged up the sidewalk toward my apartment, six-pack in each hand. For a split-second, I expected to be ambushed by Peter O’Drool racing toward me like he had so many times in the past, tail wagging so hard his hind legs lifted off the ground. But just as quickly I remembered.

  Instead, I was ambushed by two men, one with a huge camera on his shoulder, the other with a huge microphone which he shoved in my face.

  “Are you Charlemagne Russo?”

  “Uh ...” He looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. He fell in step beside me as I continued toward my apartment. He kept the microphone thrust in my face, but it had turned and I now saw the Channel 29 logo. Ugh. Archie Cruz from the consumer Your Advocate segments. I picked up my pace.

  He did too. “Why did you steal all those people’s money from the event you held on Saturday? Was Rodolfo Lapaglia ever actually scheduled to appear? Was it some sort of bait-and-switch scam? False advertising? Embezzlement plot?”

  I stopped, dumbfounded by his allegations. I should have sprinted for my door without a backward glance. Instead, I allowed the cameraman to frame up the shot perfectly, probably with Archie Cruz centered next to me, microphone shoved in my face at a practiced angle which did not, unfortunately, obscure it. Cruz looked pompous and indignant on behalf of whoever had tipped him off to the fiasco on Saturday.

  I should have smiled enigmatically and sauntered away, impervious to his false allegations and insinuations. However, I chose a different strategy. “I never .... I didn’t .... You can’t just .... I have no idea ....”

  My statement was probably verbatim what all of his ambushees muttered, so he didn’t miss a beat. “Clearly, you have something to hide, Ms. Russo. Why are you wearing a disguise?”

  I looked down and saw my pregnant belly. Suddenly all the stares at the liquor store made perfect sense. But nothing else did. I looked up at Archie Cruz. I looked at the camera. I looked back at my belly. I looked at the six-packs in my hands. I looked at Archie. Camera. Belly. Beer. Camera. Beer. Belly. Archie.

  Then I did what any sensible, innocent person would do when confronted by a local TV news bully like Archie Cruz. I ran to my apartment, fumbled with my beer so I could find my keys, then slammed the door behind me.

  Twelve

  I left the beer on the floor by the front door, then thought better of it and placed the six packs in the refrigerator. Warm ale would never cure what ailed me now. I shimmied out of the pregnancy bodysuit, flung it across my bedroom, and stood under the hot, steamy pulse of the shower, silently begging it to wash away the memory of this morning.

  But it didn’t. All it did was crystallize all the things I should have calmly said to Archie Cruz and his cameraman. “No, Mr. Cruz, there was absolutely no bait-and-switch or any misappropriation of any funds for the writer’s event I was supposed to hold with Mr. Lapaglia on Saturday. The fact is, Mr. Lapaglia never showed up, something that worries me and our joint publisher very much, and should worry his fans. Your time would be better spent trying to help us locate him so we can find out what happened and offer reimbursement to everyone who signed up. And while this pregnancy suit and short blonde wig might be a disguise in the broadest of terms, it is not an attempt to dodge creditors, if that’s what you’re insinuating. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have no further comment. Good day to you, sir.” And then if he tried speaking again, I’d simply hold up my hand and say, “I said good day.” And then I’d glide serenely to my door where it would magically open so I wouldn’t have to fumble with the beer or my keys.

  I let the hot water try to massage the memory from my neck and shoulders, knowing full well that memory was etched there, perhaps forever. I consoled myself that it was just a brutal interview with only two witnesses, Archie Cruz and the cameraman. Since I didn’t really say anything, it wasn’t very compelling footage. Surely they wouldn’t actually run something so boring on the news.

  Feeling better after that insight and my shower, I went upstairs to tell Don and Barb that I saw Peter and he seemed safe and happy.

  They sat me down, offering tea and Barb’s homemade frosted sugar cookies. The TV was on in the background. Don lowered the sound.

  I told them what had happened. They were happy to hear about Peter, but worried about me, even though I downplayed the confrontation. I left out the fence completely.

  “Please don’t worry about me.”

  “And you called the police?” Don asked.

  “Yes. I left a message with the detective I’d spoken to about the Braid before.” That seemed to placate them. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that Ming thought I was a dingbat and probably didn’t even listen to the entirety of my message.

  Barb said, “Don had a good idea.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “He’s rereading all of the Rodolfo Lapaglia books, looking for some kind of clue.” She looked at Don with soft eyes. “He’s a genius.”

  He blushed. “Well, everybody knows that these books are thinly-veiled true stories about the mob. If this braid guy is involved somehow, maybe I can find some kind of reference and use it to track him down.”

  I stared at Don. “That’s kind of brilliant. You could be a detective. Have you found anything yet?”

  “Maybe. There’s a recurring character, I forget his name, but he has this mohawk haircut—”

  “And our guy has a long mohawk braid!”

  Don shuffled through the pile of books on the table next to him. “He’s mostly just a background character, but in this book”—he pulled one out and handed it to me—“they carry the subplot. I haven’t read it in awhile, but it was something about him screwing up. Mohawk needs to make things right with the mob, but his girlfriend, Taffeta, double crosses him.”

  “The character’s name is Taffeta?” I sat up straighter and flipped through the pages, remembering my conversation with Cecelia. “I heard someone mention velvet recently. Do you think that’s a name? Could it be our Taffeta?”

  Don shrugged. “Maybe. In the book Taffeta is killed.”

  “Oh. There goes that theory, admittedly not much of one.” I thought for a minute then slapped my palm on the open book. “Maybe the fictional Taffeta is our real Tiffany. Maybe the Braid
killed Tiffany because she double crossed him somehow!” I felt my heart rate quicken.

  Barb blanched. “Do you really think the man who has our Peter is a killer for the mob?”

  “Now, dear, don’t get yourself all worked up,” Don said in a soothing voice.

  “Yeah, Barb, it’s just a theory.” Although I thought it was a pretty exciting one. “We need to cover all bases.” Even though I wanted to explore this further with Don, I saw that it upset Barb so I let it drop for now. I knew Don would keep at it.

  The conversation hit a lull. We all stared at the TV, listening to the quiet hum of the news anchor. My eyes glassed over while I munched a cookie and worried about Peter. Suddenly I snapped into focus when on the screen I saw the same photo of Tiffany Isaac that Detective Ming showed us at Union Station. I lunged for the remote and turned up the volume.

  “Denver PD continues to search for leads in the murder of Tiffany Isaac. If you have any information, you’re urged to call the number below. It’s also listed on our website.”

  I exchanged a glance with Don.

  The image faded and was replaced by Archie Cruz’s face and the Your Advocate logo. That was replaced by an even more disturbing image—me, a hunk of blueberry between my two front teeth, looking like a pregnant alcoholic and guilty as hell. The three of us watched the entire clip with mouths agape. I couldn’t process all of it, due to the way my brain squeezed down to a pinprick of computing power, but the gist appeared to be that he was looking into my “suspicious behavior” and offering to help “all those affected by the cancelled event.” Presumably that did not include me.

  When the segment was over and they’d cut to commercial, Barb said, “Well, at least it was just a short segment on the 4:00 news. Only us old people watch that.”

  Even though I had ditched the pregnancy suit, Don pointed to my belly. “Anything you need to tell us, dear?”

  I blushed and shook my head. “No, nothing like that. Just ... um ... research for a book.” My standard excuse when caught doing something anyone might think was weird.

  “Then why didn’t you tell Archie Cruz that?”