Metaphor for Murder (Mystery Writer's Mysteries Book 3) Read online

  It had to be Lapaglia.

  I called our editor at Penn & Powell. “Steph, have you heard from Lapaglia in the last day or so?”

  “No. Why?”

  “He disappeared again. And did you hear that his wife was murdered?”

  Steph screeched into the phone. “Are you freakin’ kidding me? Charlee, I’ve got to go. Thanks for telling me.”

  The police hadn’t called Penn & Powell yet. What did that mean? Have they already caught him? Did they get my anonymous tip? Are they chasing him?

  I couldn’t fathom the answer but there was nothing I could do about that. I could, however, check the alibis of his girlfriends, now that I knew Annamaria’s time of death. With all the extra layers of scrutiny at the post office in recent years, I couldn’t see how a package bomb could go through the mail. It had to be delivered in person.

  I started with Lakshmi. “Where were you on Tuesday afternoon?”

  “At work until six. Why?”

  “Annamaria was killed at 4:00.”

  “And you think I did it?”

  Actually, the vision of mousey Lakshmi killing anyone was so far-fetched it was laughable. “Not really. But now will you go to the police with me? I really think it was Lapaglia. You might have information for them, or worse, be in danger.”

  “I’m not involved in this. And if you give them my name I’ll deny it.”

  For someone who most often resembled a doormat, she sounded quite adamant. Nothing I said could convince her and I think she actually hung up on me.

  Next, I called Cecilia.

  “I took the day off for my husband’s birthday. We went to Elitch’s. The water park and the rides. Sunburned my feet something awful. Why?”

  When I told her what I’d told Lakshmi, her voice pitched upward and her words came fast, tumbling over themselves. “I can’t get my name in the paper. My husband will kill me.”

  That didn’t seem like hyperbole. “Keep your park passes and we’ll take them to the police. There’s probably security cameras all over Elitch’s. Your alibi will be solid.”

  She calmed enough to put spaces between her words. “Charlee, there’s no way I’m going to the police. I’d be in more danger from my husband than I would Lapaglia or some random murderer. No way.”

  No amount of begging, lecturing, or cajoling could change her mind.

  I took a few deep breaths to prepare myself before I called Martina. I reminded myself I was doing all this to find Peter. And maybe to stop another murder.

  “What do you want?”

  “Where were you Tuesday afternoon?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  “Martina, look, I know you don’t like me, but two women have been murdered, possibly by the man you’re having an affair with. I’m worried you might be next.” I sounded more melodramatic than I wanted.

  Apparently she thought so too because she snorted. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a minute. But I think you might have information the cops can use to snag him. And if you’re not careful, they might sweep you up, too. You know, the girlfriend is always the prime suspect in the wife’s death.”

  “What’s your alibi?” She dragged the word out. “Aren’t you furious with Lapaglia for cheating you out of a ton of money?”

  A taste of bile crawled into my mouth. “That would make me kill him, not his wife.”

  “Says you. You better think long and hard about your intentions, missy.”

  Suddenly I didn’t care if she was swept up in this fiasco. “Fine. I’ll butt out.” I wanted to slam the phone down, but settled for the plink of disconnecting my iPhone.

  A rock formed in the pit of my stomach. Could a bomb get through the mail? It had happened before. And if it did, alibis didn’t matter.

  Not mine. Not anyone’s.

  Twenty-Four

  I washed my hands of Lapaglia and his girlfriends, leaving it up to the cops to follow up on my anonymous tip. I’d done everything I could.

  It was time to concentrate solely on finding Peter O’Drool.

  Even though he gave me the creeps, I emailed Archie Cruz through the Your Advocate tab on the Channel 29 website and asked if he had any information about where the Braid lived or visited when he was in Denver. If he’d been snooping around looking for a story, maybe he’d share. After all, he did say he owed me.

  While I waited for him to respond, I started calling local animal shelters. Halfway through the second one, my phone pinged with a new message.

  Archie Cruz responded. Mob connections everywhere. Like chain stores. Then he typed an address on east Colfax. I copied it into a search engine and up popped a map in a sketchy, mostly residential part of Denver. I raced over there.

  I double-checked the address then stepped into a scraggly yard. A rusty chain link gate hung by one hinge. I froze, hoping Peter would race out to greet me when he heard the metal-on-metal screech, and not a Rottweiler or Siberian tiger or something.

  Nothing raced out to greet me. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not.

  I picked my way up the cracked and weedy sidewalk. Pushed the doorbell and it fell off the wall. I knocked on the door, not entirely sure I wanted anyone to answer.

  Nobody did.

  Putting my ear to the door, I listened for any dog-like sounds, but heard nothing. I stepped to the picture window, covered on the inside with a droopy sheet. There was a gap in the corner where I thought maybe I could see inside. I cupped my hands and pressed close against the glass.

  “What are you doing?” A stern man’s voice behind me made me jump and bang my face on the window where I left a greasy nose print.

  I hurried away from the window, back toward the sidewalk. I was relieved it was just a man pushing a stroller. “I was looking for my dog.”

  “A pug?”

  “Yes! Do you know where he is?”

  “I saw it with the lady who lives here. Don't know her name. Redhead. She works at the liquor store on the corner.” He continued down the sidewalk.

  I wanted to hug him. Instead, I hollered after him, “Thank you!” and rushed off in the direction he’d indicated.

  I yanked open the door of the liquor store and was assaulted by the icy blast of a gung-ho air conditioner, but no Peter.

  “Help you?” A redhead stood behind the counter chewing something.

  “Yes. I’m looking for a cute little pug. I was told you might have seen him?” I was more than curious about any relationship she might have with the Braid. Was she part of the mob “chain stores” Archie Cruz alluded to? But I kept the focus on Peter. Besides, I was done—finis, kaput, pfft—with agonizing over some lowlife mobster. And what if she clammed up if I mentioned him? Who knows what he might have told her about me.

  She reached into a tin in front of her and plucked out a small pretzel. “Yeah, I seen him.” She popped it into her mouth. “Lived with him for a bit but he was too demanding. Always wanted to go out but my gate is busted so I had to go out too, to keep him from running off after a rabbit. He also kept begging for these.” She shook the tin. “And they’re expensive! From the health food store.” She held the tin out. “Want one?”

  When I shook my head and started to ask about Peter, she said, “Go ahead. Treat yo self.” She shook the tin at me again and I felt it was in Peter’s best interest—and perhaps mine—to go ahead and take one.

  “Mmm,” I said. “Good pretzel.” It was a perfectly ordinary pretzel but I didn’t want to offend someone who had info about Pete. I looked around. “So is Peter, the dog ... is he here?”

  “Nah. Gave him to my mom. She hates pretzels and has a fenced yard.”

  “Can I have her address?”

  She shook her very red head. “Don’t know it.”

  My heart sunk.

  “But it’s two blocks thataway, then one thataway,” she said, pointing. “Has a swing set in the yard. Can’t miss it.”

  I again resisted t
he almost overwhelming urge to hug my thanks. Instead, I jogged two thataways, keeping my eyes peeled for a swing set. Three blocks later I stood in front of a nicely maintained house and yard with what could only be described as a child’s utopia. A two-story wooden play structure complete with widow’s walk and pirate’s mast filled most of the yard. The swings, slide, and monkey bars were empty, the yard quiet.

  I rang the doorbell and heard the hopeful ding-dong inside. After a few moments, an elderly woman opened the door.

  “Where’s the kids?” She peered behind me.

  I peered behind me as well. “The kids?”

  “My nephew’s kids. You’re not delivering them today?”

  “No, sorry. I think you have me confused with someone else. I’m here because your daughter told me she gave you a dog ... a pug?”

  “She did do.”

  I grinned. “Is he here? Can I see him?”

  “Nope. Gave him to my nephew’s kids.” She wrinkled her nose then pushed her glasses back upward. “That dog was a snore factory. And gassy to boot.”

  That definitely sounded like Peter.

  “Can you tell me where I might find your nephew?”

  She pointed to the sidewalk. “Coming along now.”

  I followed the direction she pointed and saw a young man with three school-aged girls in tow. As soon as they got to the gate, they burst through it and ran for the play structure yelling and putting dibs on their favorite activities.

  “Where’s that dog? Why ain’t you walking him?” she asked her nephew.

  “Ran away. Seems he don’t like playing dress up.”

  I groaned. Back to square one.

  “This lady lookin’ for him.”

  He winced. “Sorry. He just bolted before I could get a leash on him. Cute little bugger too. Hope he’s alright.”

  “Me, too. Was it around here somewhere?” I hoped Peter hadn’t run out onto busy Colfax Avenue.

  He pointed. “I live over that way. On Walnut. Ain’t seen him since yesterday.” He saw my face and again said, “Sorry.”

  “Thanks anyway.” I gave them both my number in case Peter came back to either of them.

  I almost asked what, if any, connection they had to the Braid, but reminded myself I didn’t care and it might change their behavior toward me. But it sure didn’t seem like the Braid mentioned me to them. He either didn’t care if I found Peter on my own, or didn’t think it would be possible.

  I turned and left them, moving the direction the nephew had pointed. I didn’t hurry, though, worried what I might find. I decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask people I passed if they’d seen him. Five people in a row said they hadn’t, three ignored me completely, and one homeless guy called me “Mom” and tried to kiss me.

  But the next lady told me she had, in fact, seen a dog in a Bronco cheerleading outfit running down the street yesterday. She didn’t notice the breed, but confirmed it was pretty small. I followed the route she figured he took, after thanking her profusely.

  “Hope you find it,” she called after me. “But next time, afford that dog some dignity.”

  I didn’t give up despite the fact that Peter probably wouldn’t still be out here today if he’d been running around yesterday. I slowed my pace, trying to think like a pug. A flash of color in the gutter caught my eye. Wishing I had a stick, I cautiously poked it with my foot, knocking off a smashed Starbucks cup.

  My heart sunk. A tiny orange and blue cheerleader's outfit. I toed it one more time, as if by doing so I could magically conjure Peter wearing it, standing in front of me.

  I heard the squeal of brakes and an angry horn. I saw a brown blur race through the busy Colfax traffic and down an alley.

  “Pete! Peter O’Drool!” I couldn’t cross the heavy traffic in the middle of the street here, so I ran to the nearest intersection and jabbed the crosswalk signal until the light changed. I ran across, following the blur that could only have been Peter. I kept calling his name, but he didn’t come back to me. I wasn’t sure where he went, but I kept searching.

  I turned a corner and there he sat on the sidewalk, eating half a bagel.

  Relief flooded my body and tears flowed. “Peter! I’m so glad to see you!” He ignored me, intent on his street food. I knelt next to him and tried to pick him up, but he grabbed his bagel and danced out of reach.

  I took a couple of steps toward him, coming up behind him. I scooped him up with one arm and held the bagel in his mouth with the other. “I’m not going to take it away. Eat the whole thing if you want. I just want you.” I rubbed my cheek on his head.

  “Oh, my gosh! Rambo!” A twenty-something girl with a neck tattoo ran toward me, holding out her arms. “Thank you for catching my dog!” She tried to take Pete from my arms but I held tight.

  “This isn’t your dog.” We played tug-of-war with him.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Yes. It IS!”

  “No. It’s NOT!”

  We had a standoff, four hands on Peter, four eyes boring into each other. Pete continued to snarfle on his bagel, oblivious to the confrontation.

  “Prove he’s yours,” I said.

  The girl let go. “Okay. C’mon.” She jerked her head at me.

  I followed her, matching her pace, but then I slowed. Why did she agree so quickly? Was she leading me into a trap? Was she a cohort of the Braid? With every step I got more paranoid. I hugged Pete tighter, feeling watched. Head on a swivel, I scanned as we walked, seeing danger everywhere, jumping at shadows.

  I considered pivoting and taking off the opposite direction, but with an armful of Peter, I wouldn’t beat this girl in a foot race. I saw how fast she ran up to us. And if she, alone or with the Braid, was using Peter to lure me, then he was still in danger. No way would I let go of him.

  Maybe I could prove he was Peter, rather than having her prove he was Rambo.

  I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Wait. I don’t know where we’re going, but how ‘bout I prove this is Peter O’Drool right here.” I tapped my foot on the cement.

  “We’re just going there.” She pointed at a run-down apartment building.

  “Regardless.” I bobbled Peter while digging out my phone. She held out her arms to hold him, but I clutched him tighter. I scrolled through a series of photos of Peter I’d marked as favorites over the years, including the one I used for his Missing Dog poster.

  She shielded the phone from the glare of the setting sun and swiped through them. “Cute,” she finally said. “But not Rambo.”

  Peter looked up, finished with his bagel. The girl traced the perfect inverted Vs formed by the wrinkles over his eyes and the single ridge above them. Using two fingers, she enlarged one of my photos of Peter and traced the two upside-down Ys on Peter’s forehead.

  My eyes darted between the dog in my arms and the dog on my phone. She was right. This was not Peter. Plus, his face and fur were darker than Peter’s. The world began to get filmy. I used my shoulder to angrily brush away the tears that had sprung to my eyes.

  I handed Rambo back to his owner.

  She laid a hand gently on my forearm. “I’m sorry.”

  My mouth felt mushy. “Have you seen another pug around here?”

  She shook her head, nuzzling Rambo. She must have seen my face redden and lip start quivering because she stopped loving on her dog. “Check the park.” She gestured with Rambo. “You find stray dogs there all the time. Lots of good trash, isn’t there, big boy?” She spoke in baby talk to Rambo, who responded by belching in her face.

  I didn’t think I could reassemble my heart there on the sidewalk and began to walk in the direction of the park. I had to double back to find it, but soon enough I was trudging through the grass. I picked up the stick I’d wished for earlier and used it to rustle bushes. All that accomplished was scaring up some quaking rabbits who froze before darting past me.

  I plopped onto a bench and called Peter’s name a few t
imes, but I doubted he was here. I pictured him shimmying out of the cheerleading uniform and being so thrilled to be rid of it, he ran right into traffic. I closed my eyes against the dreadful image.

  What are the other possibilities? Maybe animal control picked him up? Some kind person collected him up off the street, took him to a vet to see if he’d been micro-chipped, and they were in the process of contacting Don and Barb at this very moment?

  I held tight to that image as I made my way back to my car.

  My stomach churned. I trudged along the sidewalk taking deep breaths until I got to my car, bumping into people I never even saw. I probably looked like a street junkie. Downcast eyes. Dejected. World-weary.

  If I’d only said no to that stupid event with Lapaglia none of this would have happened. Peter would still be safe with Barb and Don, Lapaglia wouldn’t have come to Denver, the Braid wouldn’t have used Peter as leverage over me. Maybe Annamaria would still be alive.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Peter all the way home. Where was he? I couldn’t bear to look up toward Barb and Don’s apartment when I got there. They would have called me if he’d been found. I kicked off my shoes and fell into bed, exhausted.

  Ozzi texted but I responded with a terse, “In bed” before shutting off my ringer.

  I slept like I had dengue fever. Tossing and turning, kicking the covers to the floor, punching my pillow. I dreamed of Peter, his stubby legs trotting through our neighborhood, around the Lost Valley Resort, in front of the Brickhouse Tavern in Nebraska. When his face morphed into the ghost face of Annamaria, I woke with a jolt, my chest heaving.

  It was the middle of the night, but I took a cool shower anyway.

  Afterward I sat at my kitchen table bundled up in my chenille robe, hands wrapped around the warmth of a cup of herbal tea. I couldn’t get the morphed image of Peter and Annamaria out of my mind. The tea wasn’t helping. I left it on the table and shuffled to my office in the spare bedroom of my apartment.

  Sitting at my desk in the dark, I opened my laptop. Something nagged at the periphery of me, some residue from my dreams. I wanted to see that photo of Annamaria at the Dark Dagger Awards with Lapaglia again. I couldn’t bear the thought of scrolling through photos of Peter, but maybe a photo of her would get the disturbing morphed image out of my mind. I scrolled through the website until I came to the photos from the banquet. I saw a couple of different pictures of her. In one, she and Lapaglia were holding hands and looking straight at the camera. In another, she was alone, looking away from the camera, seemingly unaware she was in the shot. She stood in the background, not the focus of the picture, up against a dark curtain.