Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3 Read online

I rolled my eyes. My long-paid-off Kia had gone to the big scrap heap in the sky so I bought a used Chevy Sonic that, while cheap, still didn’t feel affordable. I stared at its backend. “It looks like they lopped off the rear to save money. Or maybe the previous owner got rear-ended and they just left it smushed in like that.”

  “If that’s true, they buffed out the accordion folds nicely.” He studied it for a minute. “What do they call that color?”

  “I don’t know. But I call it olive red.”

  When Ozzi and I got to Union Station in downtown Denver, I was frantic we had missed Lapaglia as it had taken us forever to find parking. I checked with the Amtrak employee in the booth who assured me the train had not come in yet, despite it being almost twenty minutes past its arrival time. I collapsed on one of the benches in the main hall to collect myself.

  The last thing I needed was to have to wrangle a furious Lapaglia all day.

  Ozzi sat down next to me on the wooden bench and immediately stood. “That is the most uncomfortable seat ever made.” He pulled me up. “Let’s sit on the comfy-looking chairs instead.”

  “I think these are the original benches. You know, from history.”

  “Doesn’t make them comfy.”

  “No, but I can see the door from here. I don’t want to miss him.”

  Ozzi gave me a kiss and a neck rub. “You can watch the door from here. Or we can go outside and wait.” He looked over my head and through the window to the tracks outside under the canopy.

  I nodded and followed him out the door. The huge canopy covered much of the plaza, casting it in a muted glow, like looking at the world through a gauzy soft focus.

  We wandered near track four where the train was to come in. At least two hundred people were queued up in a serpentine line, some with luggage, some without, waiting for the train to arrive to deliver them to points west. Several people wandered like we did, perhaps waiting for their own passenger to arrive.

  Even though the sun hadn’t been up long, it was hot and uncomfortable outside under the canopy. The planters overflowing with multi-hued petunias brightened the bland civic space, but the cloying sweetness of broiled petunias made me feel like I was drowning in saccharine. I liked that the train wouldn’t arrive in some dark underground tunnel, but didn’t like that it wasn’t even eight in the morning and already seemed to be ninety degrees.

  “Let’s go back in,” I said. Sweating through my sundress before the day even began seemed ill-advised. “You still want to go hiking tomorrow? I think it’s going to be hot.”

  “I guess the better question is, will you? We’ll have to get up early to beat the heat, but after today I bet you’ll want to sleep until noon.” He kissed her. “Maybe brunch at the Brown Palace instead?”

  “You’re the best boyfriend in the world.” I’d been dying to go to the ritziest brunch in Colorado at the historic Brown Palace Hotel. “Are you sure your project team won’t call you to bail them out of an emergency the minute we sit down?”

  “No.” Ozzi frowned. “Maybe a rain check for a better weekend. The project is hitting so many snags it’s like….” He struggled to find a metaphor.

  “A kitten playing with pantyhose?” I opened the door for him, then ushered him forward with my palm on his right butt cheek.

  He laughed. “Yes. That many snags. I wish I’d never heard the phrases facial recognition software, biometrics, principal component analysis, or—and this is the worst—the hidden Markov model before.”

  “Sounds positively dreadful at the hack factory these days.”

  “I’m not a hacker,” he said automatically.

  “Potato, tomahto.”

  A zaftig woman grudgingly made room for us on a squishy modern couch in the Great Hall. As she scooted over, I became concerned the bounce of her ample bosom might give her a concussion. I was unapologetic about making her move, however, because from this vantage point I had a view of the outside door to the left and Ozzi could see the door to the right. I could also observe anyone heading down the hallway to baggage claim. I checked the time. “Where is that train?”

  “Don’t worry. It’ll be here.”

  “Why couldn’t he just fly in the night before, stay in a fancy hotel, then get himself to the workshop like a normal person?” I tapped a fingernail on my knee.

  Ozzi placed his hand over mine to stop my tapping but as soon as he removed it, the tapping began again in earnest. I was barely aware of it.

  “In every interview Lapaglia rants about his hatred of air travel, but says it’s easy and relaxing to ride the train to Denver,” Ozzi said. “Apparently, he does it quite a bit.”

  “It sure says something about his level of fame that he can get most anything to happen within a short train ride from Podunk, Nebraska. I bet he tried to get the Dark Dagger Awards relocated to Omaha.” I laughed at the absurdity but Ozzi nodded.

  “Yeah, I read about that. Had to fact-check it before I allowed it to be posted on his Wikipedia page.”

  “Seriously? He tried that?”

  “He’s kind of a recluse.”

  “Understatement of the year. But I guess even The Great and Powerful Rodolfo Lapaglia has to do stuff to sell books once in a while.” I leaned close and whispered, “I hope he’s not a complete jerk. It’s kind of a smarmy move to come to town two hours before an important event like this.”

  “I wouldn’t mind having his life,” Ozzi said. “Getting to come and go as you please. Making crazy demands.”

  “Be careful what you wish for or you might accidentally turn into a jerk author.”

  My finger started tapping on my knee again. Clearly this event wasn’t nearly as important to Lapaglia as it was to me. He just needed to show up and give whatever stump speech he normally gives to writers—a little encouragement, a little how-to, a lot of malarkey. He wasn’t on the hook for the financials since I somehow got hoodwinked into signing all the contracts because I was local—the venue, the food, the wine and cheese for the book signing reception. It added up. Penn & Powell must have bought his train ticket and paid for his hotel after the workshop, so that was something. When I asked Stephanie Szabo about Penn & Powell fronting the money, she pooh-poohed the idea. “Charlee, this is a big event. It will definitely sell out. You won’t lose money, only make it.” I’m such a putz. If I didn’t need the money so badly, maybe I would have fought harder. He better not screw this up for me.

  I scooted away from Ozzi to see the door better. Ozzi had the good sense to leave his Lapaglia first edition in the car so I dug through my bag and pulled out the book jacket from his most recent bestseller. I studied the photo of him, refreshing my memory so I would be sure to recognize him. Handsome enough, I guess, with that distinguished-looking, but generic salt-and-pepper-at-the-temples hairstyle middle-aged men had going on. But certainly not swoon-worthy. He looked a little smug. Or sad. Or like he knew a secret nobody else was privy to. I was sure I’d recognize him. The full-figured gal next to me was craning her neck, staring at the photo. I refolded the book jacket and returned it to my purse, twisting slightly to keep her from eavesdropping any more than she already was.

  “I tried to get him to come in last night,” I told Ozzi in a quiet voice. “I mean, c’mon. This train is coming from where, Chicago? And stopping in every podunk town along the way? How could it ever be on time?” I checked the clock for the forty-leventh time.

  The woman shot daggers at me then heaved herself from the couch. She turned, giving me one more once-over. So, a twice-over, I guess.

  As she walked away, under my breath I said, “Geez, lady, I’m sorry if my perfectly modulated conversation disturbed you.” I turned to Ozzi. “I was using my indoor voice, wasn’t I?”

  “Yes. You’re imagining things. People are always stressed out when they travel.” He rubbed my knee. “Let’s talk about something else. Oh, have you heard about that teaching job?”

  I brightened a bit. Teaching at the community college wasn’t going to
make me rich, but it would certainly ease my financial pain a bit. “Not yet, but I heard that I’m a shoo-in. I’ve already started working on the curriculum.”

  As I was telling him the books I wanted to teach, we were interrupted by a man walking up to us.

  “Excuse me, can I have a minute?”

  I looked up and saw Detective Ming-Like-The-Vase’s extra slick hair. He was one of the detectives who questioned me in the murder of Melinda Walter. I immediately retraced the path of my whereabouts for the last few days. My pulse quickened at the memory of throwing a movie stub in the trash at the theater as we were leaving the other night. A perfectly good alibi, wasted. You’d think I’d learn.

  “Detective Ming!” I spoke too loud and too fast.

  He obviously didn’t recognize me. I stood. “I’m Charlee Russo. You thought I killed my agent?” I stuck out my hand, hoping it wasn’t dripping with guilty-level amounts of sweat.

  “How could I forget?” he said, shaking my hand.

  “And you remember Ozzi Rabbinowitz?” Ozzi stood and offered his hand.

  “You’re not after me for something else now, are you?” I regretted it as soon as I said it. Ming wasn’t exactly known for his sense of humor.

  He frowned. “Should I be?”

  “No, of course not.” I sat down then bounced back up. “Of course not.”

  Ming allowed a tiny inscrutable smile to twist the corners of his mouth. “Actually I’m here asking people if they recognize this woman.” He handed me a photo of a woman in her 30s, maybe her 40s. I held it so Ozzi could see, too.

  I knew this poor woman had to be missing. Or worse. I closed my eyes. Took a deep calming breath before studying her photo. “Doesn’t look familiar to me,” I said.

  “Me either,” Ozzi said.

  “Are you here often?” Ming asked.

  “Here? At the train station?” I asked.

  Ming nodded. “Meeting this train.”

  “No, first time meeting the train,” Ozzi said.

  “We come down here to eat sometimes when we’re downtown. The Sixteenth Street Mall shuttle comes down here.” I babbled a string of words that ran together about restaurants we liked. Will Ming always have this effect on me? I forced myself to slow down. This was not about me. “Why? Who is she?”

  “Her name is Tiffany Isaac. Murder victim. We have reason to believe she’s met this train before. Just trying to find out if anyone knows or recognizes her.”

  “Oh, that’s sad.” I studied the photo again with this new information in mind, but I still didn’t recognize her. “That’s an interesting necklace she’s wearing. If it was in one of my books it would be a clue.”

  “Why’s that?” Ming asked.

  “Because it’s such an interesting, unique design. Look at those delicate curlicues. It looks like a flower.”

  Ozzi inspected it closer. “I see letters. Like a fancy monogram.”

  “Looks like a squiggle to me,” Ming said.

  “It’s probably handmade. I bet if you find out who made it, you can find out more about your victim.”

  Ming seemed unimpressed by my logic. “Indeed.” He held out his hand for the photo. “Thanks for your time.” He moved on to a group of people nearby.

  “He didn’t seem like he wanted your help to crack his case,” Ozzi said.

  “I know, right? What’s up with that?”

  I checked the time and glanced toward the doors again. Still no train. My eyes wandered around the large room. “Look over there. Standing at the Terminal Bar. It’s the King and Queen of Herzegovina. They’re here on vacation.”

  Ozzi looked where I indicated a tall blond couple. “That’s not the Royal Herzegovenes. That’s the entire Herzegovinian summer Olympics team. She’s a pole vaulter. He’s—”

  “Their water polo team.”

  Ozzi grinned.

  “He’s really good.”

  Ozzi searched the room to continue our game of “What’s Their Story?” We played it whenever we had time to kill in public. He pointed to a woman with a huge pile of luggage and stepping stone kids—an infant, a toddler, a preschooler, and a first grader. “She’s sending the older one off to Hogwarts.”

  “She’ll need a luggage cart. And I don’t see the right platform.”

  I pointed at a wiry old man with silver hair. It was shaved two-thirds up the sides of his head, but the top was left long. Really long. He wore it in a braid that fell halfway down his back.

  Ozzi followed my pointing finger. “He’s here to whack someone. They shouldn’t have ratted him out after that shakedown.” He pretended to hide behind me as the man’s eyes raked the room. “Oh no! Now he’s seen us. We need Witness Protection.”

  “Fuggedaboutit.” I feigned disinterest by cleaning my thumbnail. “He’s not very big. I can take him. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Oz. But look over there.” I indicated the buxom woman from earlier, leaning against the wall, staring at us.

  “What? She’s waiting for the train too.”

  “She’s staring at us.”

  “No, she’s not. She’s staring at the door, just like we are, using the full force of her mind to get the train here faster.”

  I stared at her, trying not to be obvious about it. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but that woman seemed full of power and confidence. She certainly exuded more than I did. “I think she must be Israeli special ops.” I watched her reach into her purse and without even looking, pull out a pair of dark aviator glasses and slide them on her face in one deft movement. She didn’t stab herself in the eye or anything. I reached for Ozzi’s arm but he was too far away so I swatted the air between us. “Oz, did you see that? How cool was that ... just reaching in and finding what she needed in her purse without searching or pawing through geologic layers of crap? Wow. Definitely special ops. And she’s cool enough to wear sunglasses indoors. Not many people can do that.”

  Ozzi put on his sunglasses.

  “Like I said...”

  “I don’t look like special ops?”

  “No. You look like a frat boy after a night of binge-drinking.”

  He pretended to guzzle from a bottle then took his sunglasses off.

  “I wonder how people see us,” I said.

  “Political power couple.” He sat up straight and smoothed his wavy brown hair. Then he gathered it up in a messy man-bun with his hand. “Or maybe college drop-outs here for the legal weed.”

  It was remarkable how he could go from buttoned-up to skuzzy so quickly. “You’re a master of disguise, Mr. Rabbinowitz ... if that’s your real name.”

  I studied the Great Hall, crowded with people, some waiting to travel, some waiting for travelers, some guests of the swanky hotel having their morning coffee, and some just sightseeing the historic old building. “Despite the fact nobody is interested in us and our activities, I’m sure, if they thought about it, they’d decide we were world famous sleuths only called in on the very toughest cases, like Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot.”

  “Like the Case of the Very, Very Late Train from Nebraska.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Or the case of why I always have to pee so much.”

  “Oh, that’s easy. Weak will, too much coffee, and lentil-sized bladder.”

  “You are an excellent sleuth. But now, if you’ll excuse me and my tiny bladder.” I hurried to the restroom.

  As I was struggling with the soap dispenser, I felt a presence behind me. I looked up and in the reflection of the mirror saw the zaftig woman so close she might have been my shadow. She pinned me to the sink, her enormous boobs and belly squishy against my spine. She put her mouth next to my ear. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but stay away from my man.”

  I pushed her away and lunged for the paper towel dispenser. “Ozzi? He’s your man? I don’t think so.” I quickly dried my hands while hurrying toward the exit. How can there be nobody in the women’s room right now?

  As if on cue, the door
pushed open and a woman with two young girls came in. I scurried past them down the hallway back to the Great Hall, the buxom woman bouncing at my heels.

  I kept moving toward the Great Hall, but said, over my shoulder, “Lady, Ozzi and I have been dating for more than three years. I think you’re mistaken.”

  “I heard you talking about him. I’m just warning you. Stay away from him. He’s mine.”

  Talking about him? Oh, good grief. She was talking about Lapaglia. That’s why she was shooting daggers at me earlier. When I emerged from the hallway to the Great Hall, I was relieved to see the crowd surging. The train finally arrived and we could gather Lapaglia and get out of here. I kept one eye looking for Ozzi who wasn’t on the couch any longer, and one eye on the crazy lady so she didn’t sneak up behind me again. I saw her pull her phone from her back pocket and when she did, something fell to the floor. It looked like a business card holder. She pivoted away from me, talking on her phone. I rushed over and scooped up what she’d dropped. Wouldn’t hurt to know who she was, just in case. I was right, it was a plastic case with a red-on-red raised logo on the front. I rubbed my thumb over it while I watched her fade into the crowd.

  Should I ask Lapaglia about her? Not sure how I’d broach that subject, since he was married, but he should probably be warned that his girlfriend was accosting strangers. Or maybe she was a stalker and he didn’t even know her. I glanced over my shoulder in the direction she’d gone.

  I dropped the business card case in my bag while I searched the crowd for either Ozzi or Lapaglia. We had to get to our event. If we left in the next five minutes and I drove fast, we could still get there on time. But just barely.

  Ozzi came up behind me and I jumped. “Oh! I thought you were that crazy lady again!”

  “What crazy lady?” He craned his neck to see over the crowd.

  “That Israeli special ops lady. Seems Lapaglia is a bigger jerk than I thought because she’s claiming to be his girlfriend and warned me away from him.”

  “But he’s married!” Ozzi looked like he did when he found out Red Velvet Cake was made with beet juice. The ultimate betrayal.

  “I know. And she’s not the lady I saw in the photos from when he won the Dark Dagger Award a few weeks ago.”