Metaphor for Murder (Mystery Writer's Mysteries Book 3) Page 17

  As I arranged myself, I saw the happy noisy family walking toward the pool followed by a cadre of waiters from the restaurant carrying many silver trays of food. I couldn’t hear them at all anymore.

  About a dozen tables away, I saw a man with his back to me, painting at an easel. He must be the illustrator the children had told me about.

  I decided to introduce myself while I waited for my lunch and decide for myself whether he was a good or poopy draw-er. I scuffed my sneakers on the concrete to make a bit of noise so I wouldn’t startle him. I knew when I got in my ‘writing zone’ I fell into a kind of tunnel vision trance. More than once, someone had accidentally spoken too loudly, causing me to jump and shriek, scaring the bejeebers out of everyone in the vicinity.

  I didn’t need to freak out some poor guy on vacation.

  Scuff, scuff, scuff.

  The man looked up at me.

  I looked down at him. He wore a bolo tie with a silver clasp in the same design as Martina’s logo and Tiffany Isaac’s necklace in the photo Detective Ming showed us.

  I felt my mouth turn into a cartoon O.

  Nineteen

  “Lapaglia?” I reached out for him, just to see if he was real. He flinched and drew back. “What are you—why are you—” I couldn’t settle on a single question until my gaze landed again on the bolo tie he was wearing. The silver slide was definitely the same curlicue design as Martina’s logo and Tiffany Isaac’s necklace. “Where did you get that tie?”

  He hadn’t taken his eyes off me, but continued to shrink back. His hand fluttered to his tie. “It was a gift. It’s not for sale. Who are you?”

  He didn’t even recognize me? “I’m Charlee Russo.”

  He relaxed and broke eye contact, picking up his paintbrush. “Ah, Miss Russo. Enjoying the resort? I must say I quite—”

  “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you show up at our event? You left me holding the bag for all those costs! I’m up to my eyeballs in debt now! Everyone hates me! I was on the news!” That last word came out more as a wail than a word. I didn’t mention Peter O’Drool being dognapped because I didn’t want to tip my hand that I was going to deliver Lapaglia directly into the Braid’s hands at the first opportunity. But it suddenly occurred to me I had no idea how to contact the Braid. A bridge to be crossed.

  Regardless, I expected Lapaglia to be remorseful, concerned with the financial travails he caused, maybe not even understanding what had happened, jumping up to fix everything. But he was nonplussed. In fact, what’s less than nonplussed? Was that even possible? Because that’s what he was.

  Staring at him brush vibrantly colored paint over his canvas, I could feel my rage beginning to grow. It began in my sweaty feet, tingling my toes, knocking my knees, clenching my butt, pounding my heart. My forearms pulsed with each squeeze of my fists.

  I had to sit down. And far enough away that I wouldn’t inadvertently punch him in the throat. He continued to make nonplussed streaks of color while I pulled out a chair across from him.

  Trying to keep my voice low and even I said, “How could you just ditch out on our event and leave me holding the bag? I don’t deserve that. And using all those women … Lakshmi, Martina, Cecelia? They don’t deserve that either. And your wife? Neither does she.”

  “Yes, Annamaria is a saint.”

  I wondered if she knew about his girlfriends. I thought about my conversation with her and how she used the term rendezvous and didn’t seem to care that he’d gone missing. “You need to come back to Denver with me. Today. Now. And make everything right.”

  He tilted his head and assessed his work, teddy bears at a picnic. “Nah. I’m digging it here. Don’t want to go back. I wished for a different life and I got it.”

  “A different life? Why? What’s wrong with your old life?”

  “I’m tired of writing mob stories. But when I told my publisher, they said they didn’t care what I wanted. So I blogged to my fans, expecting them to rally to my defense so I could prove to Penn & Powell that they’d follow me. But those ingrates.” He held his brush in midair and looked over at me. “After all I did for them. All those books I wrote simply to entertain them. What did it get me?”

  “A huge income? Fame? Accolades? World renown?”

  Lapaglia stuck his tongue out and blew a raspberry. “Not everything it’s cracked up to be.”

  “Some of us would like to see what fame and money is cracked up to be. But thanks to you, I probably never will.”

  “Count yourself lucky, then.”

  “I DON’T count myself LUCKY—” I felt my rage start tingling my toes and clenching my butt again so I took a deep breath. “What exactly is it you want?”

  A ridiculous grin spread over his face. “I want to write and illustrate children’s picture books. Independently.”

  A million thoughts jitterbugged in my brain. None of this made sense.

  “What are you talking about? You did all this to me so you could—” I made a conscious effort to refrain from making fists. “You just want to write in a different genre?”

  He nodded and went back to his painting, ridiculous grin still on his face.

  “Lots of authors write in different genres.” I felt like I was explaining the alphabet to a coffee cup. “You just need a pseudonym for one of them. And authors publish books traditionally, like with Penn & Powell, but they also publish independently. They’re called ‘hybrid authors.’ You don’t need to go underground to do this. People do it every day.”

  Lapaglia was so taken aback by this revelation he dropped the paintbrush in his lap but made no move to retrieve it. “What? People do this? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “Perhaps because you’re a huge recluse who goes out of his way not to meet anyone or involve yourself in the community of writers?” I concentrated on drawing slow, steady breaths in an effort to avoid an assault charge. Instead of punching him in the throat, I opened and closed my fists repeatedly.

  He regarded me like a scientist might study microbes. After a few moments, he shrugged and picked up his paintbrush. “You don’t realize how hard it is for me—”

  “I read your interviews where you moan about not being able to go out in public. What about traveling to Denver constantly? What about being here? What about your girlfriends?”

  He looked away, maybe with a flicker of regret or remorse on his face. “I’ll go back eventually. I need them.”

  I let out a noise, part ill-humored laugh, part indignation. “Don’t get your hopes up. They all know each other now. Your jig, as they say, is up.” I waited for his denial or bluster or whatever philandering jerks do when they’re caught, but he didn’t react. Finally I said, “Why are you here? Why Lost Valley Resort if you need your girlfriends so much?” I stretched out need and girlfriends so sarcastically I felt like I was fourteen again. I wouldn’t be surprised if a full bloom of acne had erupted all over my face.

  Lapaglia sighed and wiped his hands on a rag. “I knew my jig”—he paused and rolled his eyes—“was up when I saw you and Martina talking on Saturday when the train came in.”

  So he was pretending not to recognize me. The weasel.

  “Every time I come to Denver I see signs for this place so I got back on the train and hid in the restroom.”

  One hundred percent of the participants in this conversation had hidden in the train restroom between Denver and the Lost Valley Resort. It made me wonder how many other people had done the same thing over the years.

  A waiter carrying my food stopped near the table where I’d left my purse, the menu, and my pharmaceuticals. I called to him, “Yes, that’s me. Just leave it there.” He nodded and I saw him slip the bill underneath the tray.

  “Martina thinks I’m your secret girlfriend and she wants to kill me.”

  He waved my worry away. “A simple case of mistaken identity.”

  “Easy for you to say. She looks mean.”

  “Marty is a peach. A pussycat. A marshmallow.
”

  I let that roll around in my brain a bit. Marty does sound softer and nicer than Martina. I wonder what she calls him. Wait. I groaned, remembering how they all used different names to refer to him. “You gave all those women a different name for yourself. You’re just using them to help with this new picture book career of yours!” My hand fluttered to my throat as I put it all together. “Lakshmi is a children’s librarian, Cecilia is a graphic designer, Martina is a marketing expert. You ARE a jerk!” I stood up so fast I knocked my chair over. “You’re not interested in these women. You’re just picking their brains and using their skills to help you produce and sell your picture books!”

  He ignored my outburst and went back to painting, swizzling his brush in a dab of paint the color of blood. “Says you.”

  I had to move away from him because a thick rage was bubbling up and I didn’t think I could control it right now. Before I went back to my table, I leaned in close to Lapaglia’s ear. “I will get the money you owe me”—I silently added and I will get Peter—“today.”

  He never turned around, just continued painting. Either he had no intention of reimbursing me or he was just waiting for me to tell him how much. Or maybe I had terrified him. I doubted it, but it gave me a little puff of satisfaction.

  I bit into my Reuben while I calculated what he owed me, both compensatory damages as well as punitive. He owed me, dammit.

  At one point I thought he was getting up to come over and beg my forgiveness, throwing himself on my righteous mercy, but he only angled his chair to get out of the sun. He didn’t even seem concerned that I might broadcast his location to the world. He should care about that, if he’d been the one to come face-to-face with all those furious workshop participants.

  I was too livid to call Ozzi or anyone else to come get me, or Penn & Powell to tell them I found their Golden Boy Jerk. I needed to wait until I could modulate my tone and my words, and probably not in public, just in case I misjudged. I ate half my sandwich, but didn’t taste any of it, while I stared daggers into Lapaglia’s back.

  The family reunion family made a noisy departure as they hurried to get to their trail ride on time. Watching them with their easy camaraderie and playfulness as they chased each other out of the area calmed me down the teensiest bit. Not everyone was horrible. Just Lapaglia.

  As I picked up the other half of my $18 Reuben, dangling a single strand of sauerkraut, I saw a flick of silver way up near the front of the outdoor kitchen. Something about it told me it wasn’t a bird. It seemed familiar somehow. I stared, straining to identify whatever it was.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  The Braid was sneaking up on Lapaglia from around the front of the outdoor kitchen. He hugged the brick. Lapaglia painted, oblivious to his presence. I reached up slowly and tilted the umbrella over my table so it blocked me completely. Then I slid out from behind it and moved quickly, with my head down, to the opposite side of the outdoor kitchen. I tiptoed the entire length of it hoping the Braid wouldn’t double back and run into me.

  I reached the short end of the brick structure. Unless he’d moved, which I didn’t suspect since I hadn’t heard any voices or scuffling, the Braid was still peering around the corner to the left, while I was on the right. Only about eight feet of brick wall separated us.

  I pressed my back against the bricks and squinched my eyes. There was no one in the long patio area or beyond it outside the main building. I knew if I screamed or caused a ruckus, both men would disappear. But if I could deliver Lapaglia to the Braid, he’d give me back Peter O’Drool. He promised. That was the deal.

  Slowly, like a well-trained ninja, I inched forward.

  Twenty

  I realized I didn’t want to hide from the Braid. I wanted to sneak up behind that jerk Lapaglia and deliver him into the Braid’s grateful hands. I reversed direction and snuck back the way I’d come. I crossed the patio toward the table where my lunch sat but I didn’t stop. Instead I continued on to where Lapaglia sat, preoccupied with painting his teddy bears.

  By the time I reached Lapaglia from behind, the Braid had sprinted up to him from the side. We each clamped a hand on his shoulders at the same time.

  “Here he is!” I raised my free hand, offering the Braid a high five.

  Lapaglia tried to stand but we both pushed him back into his seat.

  “What are you doing here?” The Braid scorched me with his eyes.

  “I found him for you.”

  “You did not do jack. I found him myself.” The Braid pushed me away and I fell to the concrete.

  This was the last straw on my last nerve. I was done being pushed around by old men, literally and figuratively. I scrambled to my feet, looking, I’m certain, like a honey badger with nothing left to lose. The full fury of my frustration and rage shot through me, bestowing Wonder Woman strength which I used to leap onto the Braid’s back and ride him like a rodeo bull, one arm around his throat, the other wrapped around his hair like reins.

  The faces of all those judgmental cops at my Dad’s funeral all those years ago flashed across my memory. Detectives Ming-Like-The-Vase and Campbell-Like-The-Soup, smug and condescending, questioning me about the murder of my agent. Those patronizing cops in Portland assuming I was a nut-job who watched too many movies. Lapaglia, entitled and arrogant, ruining my career, my credit, and maybe my entire life with his selfishness. And now the Braid, dognapping, backstabbing, double-crossing mobster, clearly with no intention of keeping his promise to me.

  I held tight to that ponytail, surprised that my fury hadn’t ripped it from his head completely. I never asked for any of this and I was sick of being dropped into circumstances out of my wheelhouse. How dare these men shake my comfort zone to the core!

  We galloped all over that patio with him trying to buck me off. I was a bitch on wheels with a full tank of gas. Lapaglia simply stared, mouth wide open.

  The Braid lost his balance when I hooked my foot around the leg of one of the propane grills and knocked his legs out from under him. I collapsed on top of him. His face smushed into the hot concrete. I straddled his back, my knees pinning his arms. I attempted to loosen the bungee cord holding the cover on the grill but couldn’t quite reach. I didn’t dare lift a knee off the thrashing mobster beneath me.

  I yelled to Lapaglia to grab the cord. He did so without a word, still gaping at the scene before him. I tied the Braid’s hands behind him. With my newfound superhuman strength, I yanked him to his feet by the back of his collar and dropped him into a chair. I splayed one palm on the Braid’s chest, commanding Lapaglia to grab another bungee. I used it to lash the Braid to the chair, winding it tight around his chest. Breathing hard, I got the third bungee and fastened his ankles to the legs of the chair.

  Leaving him in the sun, I stepped into the shade of an umbrella, Lapaglia at my side.

  I brought the thunder, I thought, chest heaving, quoting AmyJo’s favorite song. She’d be proud. I began to collect myself, willing my breathing to slow.

  The complacency had finally disappeared from Lapaglia’s face. It thrilled me to see he was now a cross between terror and shame, and what I hoped was culpability. All of this was his fault and the sooner he recognized that, the better off we’d both be.

  The Braid, however, had pasted a sneer on his face. I needed him to understand the depth of my emotion at this moment. But how? Then I spied a pair of gardening shears propped in one of the many alcoves of the brick kitchen structure. I walked casually to it, praying my hands wouldn’t shake as I picked it up, and that my voice would work when I figured out what to say.

  As I ambled toward the Braid, opening and closing the shears with my hand, testing them out, Lapaglia’s eyes widened. When I stopped next to the Braid, my knee almost touching his, I thought I saw a flicker of concern pass over his face. At least he’s paying attention.

  I bent down, my mouth next to his ear. “Where’s Peter O’Drool?” I spoke in my normal voice, swollen with pride I hadn’t squeak
ed.

  The Braid turned his face toward mine. I saw no worry or concern anywhere on it. He stared in an alpha dog manner, but I held his gaze, no worry or concern on my face either. I hoped. Then he made a dismissive pfft sound and turned his attention to Lapaglia.

  “Rodolfo.” The Braid stretched out the second syllable. “It is time to confess.”

  I couldn’t believe the Braid was trussed up like a Christmas goose and still thought he was in charge. Curious about the confession, however, I kept my mouth shut. But I did snap the shears a couple of times to remind them both that technically, I still had the upper hand.

  “Confess what?” Lapaglia’s face had returned to his previous nonchalance.

  “Confess that you murdered my cousin.”

  “What?” Lapaglia blanched.

  “He murdered who?” I asked, stunned.

  “My cousin, Tiffany.” The Braid kept his eyes on Lapaglia but spoke to me. “She called me, but I couldn’t talk and let it go to voicemail. When I listened to it, she mentioned Lapaglia’s name. The next day I learned she had been found murdered in Denver.”

  I looked from the Braid to Lapaglia who hadn’t moved a muscle. I realized he might try to bolt at any moment. I stepped toward him, waving the pruning shears. “Get me those other bungee cords.”

  Lapaglia never looked at me, just moved mechanically toward the other grill and removed the cords securing the cover. He handed them to me, still without meeting my eyes.