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

  He fixed the software glitch! I was right. Velvet was at the Dark Dagger Awards that night too. I had no time to celebrate or figure out what to do with that information because in the next breath Martina said, “Let’s take a vote. All in favor of not calling the cops tonight raise your hand.”

  Three hands shot up in the air.

  “We have to!” I said.

  “No,” Martina said. “We don’t.”

  I paced the length of the small room, twice, stopping in front of Lakshmi. “You can’t go along with them,” I said.

  “I don’t want to be involved with the police,” she said.

  I turned toward Cecilia who looked away and said, “If my husband finds out about any of this ....”

  I knew it was futile, but I stepped toward Martina and held out my hands, palms up. “I’m begging you.”

  She stared at me long enough that I thought she might change her mind. But then she rolled her eyes and said, “You’re such a drama queen. Besides, if the cops take him, you’ll never see a dime of any reimbursement from him.”

  Crossing my arms, I felt my fingernails dig into my palms. Of course she was probably right about never seeing that money, but this has gone beyond that now. What about the greater good of humanity? My money problem wasn’t as important as putting a murderer behind bars. Why couldn’t they see that?

  I needed to get out of there, get some air, clear my head. I stuffed the plates and napkins into the empty pizza box. I removed the two remaining beers from the cardboard carrier and filled the spaces with empties. I reached for Martina’s but she grabbed it first.

  “I’m not done!”

  I snatched up the trash and slammed the motel door behind me, knowing that I didn’t have much time to convince them. I just had to figure out a more compelling argument. I stomped down the sidewalk toward the dumpster. The clanging of the dumpster lid when I deposited our trash caught the attention of the retired couple sitting under an awning in canvas camp chairs in the weeds. I returned their wave but veered away, taking the well-trod dirt path leading behind the motel.

  I was still furious and hadn’t formulated a more compelling argument, so I kicked and chased a rusted can the length of the motel, not stopping until I reached the fire pit behind the room where the backstabbing, scaredy-cat women waited.

  I dragged off the plywood square used to keep unobservant people from falling in the open pit, which I presumed was not building code compliant. I stared into the abyss of the brick-lined pit dug into the ground. Layers of black soot lined the inside. How many fires had been laid in here? How many ritual manuscript cremations?

  How was I going to convince them to let me call the cops? Could I do this without them? Would the cops even believe me? What if we tied him up, burned his manuscript, and then we all left? Then I could still call the cops and the women would be none the wiser.

  That might work. No, it wouldn't. He'd be screaming all our names at the top of his lungs. I shook my head. Lapaglia was going to be here soon. I had to get everyone back on track with some kind of plan. The fire was the key. I needed to remind them what he did, how he abused their trust. Once we started with the ritual burning of his manuscript, they’d remember what a deplorable human he really was.

  I searched the area looking for the woodpile the motel owner had alluded to when I told her we’d want a fire tonight. I felt in my pocket for the matchbook with the motel’s name on it that she’d tossed to me earlier. I carried four skinny logs and an old newspaper to the fire pit. I crisscrossed the logs like I remember my dad doing when we went camping. I wadded sheets of yellowed newsprint, brittle with age, poking them strategically under the logs.

  I briefly admired my handiwork, wondering if my dad would have been proud, then struck a match, lighting each wad of paper in turn. It was time to convince them our scheme was solid and get Martina and Lakshmi out of the room before Lapaglia got here. They’ll see this bonfire blazing and remember why they wanted to do this in the first place.

  Tires crunched over the asphalt of the parking lot. I hurried to the corner of the breezeway and peeked out. I saw Lapaglia get out of the driver’s seat of an El Camino with a black matte paint job. The Braid's car? A woman slid across the front seat and followed him out the driver’s side.

  When I saw her face, I clamped a hand over my mouth.

  Twenty-Seven

  Annamaria? Velvet? The woman turned sharply toward the breezeway, as if she’d heard me. I ducked further back, keeping my hand over my mouth.

  She was pressed up tight next to Lapaglia and speaking to him in a quiet voice. I strained to hear. It was all mumbling until I heard him say, “Velvet, please don’t do this.”

  I peeked around the corner again and saw her hold out her hand. Lapaglia dropped the keys in her palm. She pocketed them then slipped her arm through his, leading him to the door of the motel room.

  Suddenly Thomas Percy’s words made perfect sense. He hadn’t been seeing Annamaria’s ghost, he was seeing Velvet. Velvet was pretending to be Annamaria and they were falling for it. She fed the mob stories to Lapaglia. She set up the Braid. But why? Why was she here? Why were they in the Braid’s car? Because they killed him too?

  Lapaglia and this Velvet were clearly in cahoots.

  Now the two of them show up here, together. Why? To murder Cecilia? She was the only one Lapaglia expected to be here tonight. I offered a silent prayer of thanks that Lakshmi and Martina were both still in there with her. I hoped they were anyway. I hurried back to the greenbelt and peeked in the sliding door at the back of the room. They were all there.

  I studied the scene, trying to imprint everything on my memory so I could give the police a perfect description when I called them. Lapaglia wore a gray golf shirt and black trousers. Velvet wore a pale pink stylish capri-style pantsuit, with a dark pink shell, and matching slingbacks.

  I’d left my phone inside, but I knew there had to be a phone nearby, in the office, or maybe with the RV couple. I knew I had to call immediately, since Cecilia—perhaps all the women—were in danger.

  I peered more intently through the sliding glass door. Something didn’t seem right. Cecilia didn’t look like she was in danger, in fact, nobody did. Lapaglia and Velvet stood so close they looked like conjoined twins. Glacially slow and church mouse silent, I slid open the patio door so I could hear what they were saying.

  “Does it look like I’m dead?” Velvet laughed. “Don’t be silly. Just a huge misunderstanding. My boyfriend was just being dramatic because I got back together with my husband, Rodolfo, and went on a romantic getaway. Thomas freaked out. That’s why Rod and I vowed no more affairs. Only the straight and narrow for us now. Right, dear?”

  Lapaglia mumbled something but he did not look like he was back in some happy marital bliss. In fact, he looked a little like he might throw up.

  “And when Rod told me he was meeting you here, Cecilia, I had to tag along and explain that your affair must come to an end, now that we’re working on our marriage. How lucky I am that you’re all here at once!”

  Martina explained to her how they had all been duped by Lapaglia and hadn’t even learned his real name until recently. She started explaining the bonfire plan.

  Suddenly Velvet raised her index finger to interrupt. Then she sneezed. Sneezes were like fingerprints. No two were alike and I’d heard that sneeze before ... at Espresso Yourself!

  Velvet was the psychic who met with Don and Barb that day. She had been trying to track Lapaglia. And now she had, along with all of his girlfriends.

  My pulse quickened. For whatever reason, Velvet killed Annamaria and was pretending to be her. And now she was going to kill Lapaglia and his girlfriends!

  I needed to get the cops here right now. I pushed back from the sliding door but must have given it a little shove. It squeaked. Everyone turned toward the sound.

  I didn’t have time to get away. I zipped toward the fire and grabbed a smoldering twig, using it as a poker by the
time Velvet came out the sliding door.

  “Oh, hi!” I gushed, overly friendly. My only hope was to pretend I’d been out here the whole time and that I was oblivious.

  She stood a few steps away, hands in her pockets, watching me stoke the fire. Showers of sparks danced on an arc into the air. I kept tight hold of the smoldering stick.

  I poked at the fire a few more times. When I looked up, I saw the necklace around her throat. It was exactly like Tiffany’s in the photo. I willed myself to remain perky and calm. “Ooh! Love your necklace! Where’d you get it?”

  “I made it. It’s my own design. I make jewelry.” She glanced back through the sliding door and gave a slight wave.

  They must have been watching us. I hoped one of them would call the cops, but the women thought she was Annamaria. But surely Lapaglia would tell them she wasn’t. Would they believe him?

  “You’re a jewelry designer?”

  “Just a side business.” She glanced again at the patio door.

  “Do you have this design on ... other pieces? I don’t really, um, wear necklaces.” Lame. She was going to get suspicious.

  “Yes. I can stamp it on any of my silver pieces, earrings, bracelet cuffs, hair accessories.”

  I needed to make sure. “My friend Tiffany has a necklace just like this one.” Present tense.

  “Yes, that poor girl loved my designs.”

  Past tense. Aha! Trapped her with my cunning rhetoric. But wait. Tiffany’s murder was on the news. I poked the fire again while I thought of my next move.

  Time ran out, though, because at that moment Velvet pulled a gun from her pocket and waved it at me.

  Without thinking I said, “You’re going to kill me like you did Tiffany?”

  “She was annoyingly nosy, too.” Velvet aimed right at me. “Too smart for her own good. She figured it out.”

  “Figured what out?” If there was one thing I’d learned recently, it was that criminals liked to brag about, or at least explain, their crimes. They all seemed to think somehow they were the victims.

  “She figured out I wanted to escape my life and start over.”

  I remembered at Lost Valley how Lapaglia told me and the Braid about his last conversation with Tiffany. “You’ve wanted someone else’s life since that day in the sushi restaurant in college. You’re playing the long game.”

  She laughed. “You might be too smart for your own good too. Did you figure out I even got a nose job?” She caressed the side of her nose.

  “But why? Why not just move to Wisconsin or Berlin or wherever? Open your jewelry store and live your life.”

  Velvet grimaced. “If only I could. The Family wouldn’t allow it. I know too much about too many things. If they thought I was dissatisfied or worse, disgruntled, they’d kill me to keep me quiet.”

  “So you had to make it look like the Braid, er, Cesare Silvio was feeding information to Lapaglia.”

  She pointed the gun at me. “I recognize you now. You were at that coffee shop with the old couple.”

  I pointed my stick at her. “Yes. And you were trying to find Lapaglia. So now that you have, why don’t you take him and get out of here?” The smoldering stick trembled in my hand. “And could you quit pointing that at me?” I gestured at the gun.

  She looked at the gun in her hand, shrugged, and lowered it. Now she aimed it at my foot. “My work here isn’t quite finished.”

  “What work is that?” I shuffled a bit to the side so the gun aimed at the ground next to me.

  “Well, for starters, I’d like to kill Lapaglia and pin it on his harem. Just like I’m pinning Tiffany’s murder on him.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t need the details, but let’s just say I was a bad girl and he’s the only one who might tell my family.”

  “Yeah, families can be ... unforgiving.”

  “Ha! You don’t know the half of it.” Her brittle laugh hung in the air.

  “But at least they let you borrow the family car.” I thought about the Braid accusing me of knowing so much about the mob. “Did you kill Annamaria because she actually wrote the books?”

  Anger flashed on Velvet’s face. “I was the one who wrote those books. I planned out every line, delivered every story to him.” She waved her gun toward Lapaglia unseen in the motel room behind us. “I should have won that Dark Dagger award.”

  “Then why kill Annamaria?”

  “That was actually a mistake. Why would someone open a package bomb addressed Personal and Confidential to someone else?”

  “Because they didn’t know it was a bomb?”

  “I suppose. It was unfortunate, though. I regret that. I don’t often make such mistakes. Gruesome business, murder.”

  “Why’d you go to Nebraska if you sent a package bomb?”

  “Oh, honey, don’t mess with the U. S. Postal Service. They will catch you every time. The only way to deliver a package bomb is in person.” She smiled indulgently like she was explaining the ABCs to a toddler.

  My skin turned to gooseflesh. This lady was a cold-blooded killer. And I was having a conversation with her. Maybe that meant she liked me and wasn’t planning on killing me. After all, I wasn’t part of Lapaglia’s harem.

  “But like I said, Tiffany was annoyingly nosy, too.” She raised the gun again and pointed it at my face.

  I lunged to the side and snatched up a folding aluminum lawn chair, holding it in front of me like a shield. Like that would protect me. I held it rigidly between us, wildly hoping she was bluffing. At the exact moment I saw Velvet’s finger twitch, I dove out of the way, chucking the lawn chair sideways at her.

  She was knocked off balance and stumbled right into the fire pit. She shrieked. I heard a whoosh and saw flames licking at her pantsuit.

  I screamed and dragged her out by her arms, rolling her in the grass, batting out the flames. I sprawled on top of her, pinned her tight, now that her capris weren’t burning.

  Popcorn noises and the acrid smell of hot metal assailed my senses. The gun was in the fire.

  “How many bullets?” I screamed in her ear. I flattened myself on top of her, not really caring what the number was at this point, not really. I restrained her in my terrified superhuman pancake embrace until the popcorn noises dissipated and I was sure all the bullets had discharged.

  Martina sidled out the sliding door holding Lapaglia as her shield. Lakshmi and Cecilia inched forward behind them.

  Lakshmi and Cecilia spoke simultaneously.

  “Are you okay?”

  “What happened?”

  Martina peered around Lapaglia into the flames. “Thank God for deep fire pits.”

  “Get off me!” Velvet struggled under my weight.

  “No. Not until I know what’s going on. And I’m sure no more ammo will go off.” I twisted my head to look at Lapaglia, still being held hostage in front of Martina. “You start.”

  “I don’t know what’s—” he started.

  Martina shook him. “Don’t you dare lie to us.”

  Lapaglia looked at me sitting on Velvet. “Fine. It was Velvet feeding me all that information about the mob so I could write my books. But somebody found out so she double-crossed Silvio—the Braid—and pinned it on him. He wanted me to go back to Jersey and confess to clear his name. But I’m pretty sure even if I did, he would have whacked me.”

  “Did you know she wants to whack you, too?” I asked him.

  “The gun in my ribs gave me a clue,” he said.

  I remembered seeing them get out of the car and how they stood so close together in the motel room. She was holding that gun on him the whole time. What a cool customer she was.

  “Why does she want to kill him?” Martina asked.

  “If I had to guess, it’s because he’s the only one who can blab that she was doing the informing on the mob. She’s ruined the Braid’s credibility, maybe even killed him too,” I said, thinking about her driving up in his car.

  Velvet bucked hard unde
r me, trying to throw me off. When she couldn’t, she wrenched her head sideways.

  I bent toward her face. “Unless Lapaglia was wearing your fancy hair comb, I bet most of the evidence points to you being at the crime scene in Nebraska. And I bet package bombs throw off a lot of other evidence. Plus, you have all of us as witnesses to your confession.” I pressed her more firmly into the weedy grass. She snuffled and sneezed as the individual blades poked into her nose.

  Velvet struggled to get away but I held her tight. She seemed to relax a bit, probably coming to grips with the fact she was trapped.

  “You really killed Annamaria and Tiffany?” Lapaglia asked her. “I thought you were different. What kind of monster are you?” Lapaglia’s question came out like a whine.

  “Different than other mob killers?” I looked at him, incredulous. “And while we’re asking questions, how did you not notice the resemblance between Velvet and your wife?”

  “I never saw her until today when she accosted me on the way here.”

  I must have loosened my grip on Velvet at this surprising statement because the next thing I knew I was seeing stars, just like in a cartoon. The back of her head came up again, this time catching my nose instead of my forehead. Nausea gripped me as my vision narrowed to a pinprick. I’d never felt so much pain before. My muscles turned to pudding and I rolled off her. She scrambled away before Lakshmi or Cecilia even knew what had happened and could react.

  She sneered at me. “Big mistake. Watch your back.” Velvet disappeared around the corner of the breezeway.

  Nobody spoke for several moments. Martina kept a tight hold of Lapaglia’s upper arms.

  When my pinpoint of vision widened a bit, Lakshmi and Cecilia helped me struggle to my feet. I probed my nose to see if it was broken. It didn’t seem to be bleeding, but I couldn’t believe that was possible, based on the pain factor.

  The fire crackled, sending me back to the grass, belly first, hands over my head. When I realized it was just a knot in one of the logs, I slowly pushed myself up to a sitting position. The bright white from the shower of sparks disappeared and it seemed darker than ever, even though the sun hadn’t set yet. Maybe I was blacking out. I rolled onto my back and closed my eyes.