Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3 Page 51

  “Sorry, sweets. False alarm.” Tuttle rubbed her head. “She doesn’t like F-E-L-I-N-E-S or their owners. If a F-E-L-I-N-E owner comes in, she’ll sit near and watch them till they leave. Like security guards watch me in department stores.” Tuttle flashed his ultra-white teeth.

  “Who are you calling Sweets?” Lavar came up behind Tuttle, wrapped his arms around his abs, and kissed his cheek. Tuttle might have been chiseled from obsidian, but Lavar was molded in bronze. Not quite as big, but it was clear they both loved their free weights. And their free weights loved them back. And arms. And chest. “Hey, Oz. Hey, gorgeous.” He stepped from behind Tuttle, sat at our table, and kissed my hand.

  “Hey, yourself,” I said. “You look mighty spiffy this morning.” I indicated his teal-on-pink paisley bowtie over his pink Oxford.

  “Just came from church. That congreeegation was on fire! Praise Jesus! Sermon was all about—”

  “Uhn uhn uh.” Tuttle waggled his finger at him. “You know the rules. You can’t preach about Jesus in here unless I can preach about—”

  “I know,” Lavar said good-naturedly. “The Flying Spaghetti Monster.”

  “I was going to say ‘science,’ but okay. Now give me a kiss so I can go get these fine and deserving customers their breakfast.”

  Ozzi and I shared a smile at their antics and sipped our coffee.

  After Tuttle returned to the kitchen, Lavar said, “So what brings you two in so early on the Lord’s day, I mean Sunday?” He grinned.

  “I couldn’t sleep so I made my perfect boyfriend get up with me.” I flashed a silly grin at Ozzi.

  “Something worrying you?” Tuttle asked.

  “Um, yeah. If by worry you mean scaring the bejeebers out of me.”

  Lavar leaned toward me, wrapped his huge hands around mine. “Talk to me.”

  I told him everything.

  “So, this Lapaglia is missing? Have you told your brother?”

  Ozzi put down his coffee cup. “That’s a good idea.”

  I shrugged. I leaned on Lance’s police expertise for research purposes, and lately, all too often for personal problems. On more than one occasion, most recently in Portland, he had lectured me that adults enjoyed free will and just because we couldn’t locate them when we wanted, it didn’t mean they were technically missing persons. “He’s doing some sort of firearms training this weekend, but I was going to call him later. I know what he’ll say, though.” I mimicked his voice. “It’s no crime to ditch out of an author event.”

  Ozzi shook his head. “That’s a terrible impression.”

  “Don’t sound a thing like him,” Lavar agreed. “Tell me more about this Lapaglia fellow.”

  “Nothing more to tell, in case I forgot to mention that Rodolfo Lapaglia might be a world-class dillhole if he’s doing this on purpose.” At that last part, my voice got loud and screechy. I couldn’t help it. And it made me feel like a dillhole when I considered again that something might have happened to him.

  Lavar flashed his gap-toothed smile to reassure the other customers who turned toward my ruckus that all was well and to continue with their pastries and coffee.

  “Charlee,” Ozzi said. “I really think you should quit using his name so loudly and so ... so ... angrily. Everything you say might be slanderous and you can’t afford any more trouble right now. We don’t know what happened and until we do—”

  “He’s right. Y’all better pipe down or you may get lit up by someone.”

  I glanced at one, then the other and sighed, even though I wasn’t sure what getting lit up might entail. Didn’t sound good, though. “You’re right.” I dug around for Lapaglia’s book jacket in my bag and yanked it out, perhaps a little too roughly, because it tore. I finished the job, leaving just the ragged margins around his face on the author photo. I held it out to Lavar. “Here’s his picture.”

  Lavar put his finger on his chin and went full gay. “Ooh, gurl! He a purty one! Mm mm mmmm.”

  I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt my neck. “My mom always said pretty is as pretty does and right now I have no idea if what he’s doing is anywhere near pretty.” A guilty twinge rankled me when I again wondered whether he might actually be in trouble somewhere. I wadded up the scraps from the book jacket and threw them away in the big trashcan near the front door. I saw a familiar silver braid outside in front of Espresso Yourself. I hurtled myself out the door with a hysterical, “Who ARE you? Are you following me? What do you want?” But by the time I got there, he was gone. I ran to the corner near the alley but didn’t see him. When I got back to Espresso Yourself, Lavar and Ozzi both stood on the sidewalk poised for trouble.

  “What’s going on?” Ozzi was in a slight crouch, ready to spring.

  “That guy with the braid. I think I saw him again.”

  Lavar set his jaw and planted his feet in a wider stance. “Should I get Betty?” He kept his voice low.

  “No! You keep that thing locked up,” I said.

  “Who’s Betty?” Ozzi asked.

  “My gun.”

  Ozzi wrapped his arm around my shoulder and steered me back to our table. Lavar followed, telling customers everything was fine.

  “I think you should call Lance,” Ozzi said. “It does no good to have a brother on the police force if you won’t let him know what’s going on. You have a disappearance, perhaps theft or embezzlement or whatever they’d call it, and now some guy might be following you? Call Lance.”

  “Gotta agree with the bf on this one, Charlee. Make the call. I’ll go help Tut.”

  Lavar ducked into their office between the front counter and the kitchen. When he came out I saw he was untucking his shirt. He caught me looking and shrugged. Ex-combat Marines always felt safer with a gun.

  I dialed Lance’s number. As it rang, I said to Ozzi, “He won’t answer. He has that training—Oh. You answered. I thought you were in a class or something.”

  “On a break. Why’d you call if you knew I was busy?”

  “Ozzi made me.”

  Even through my cellphone I knew Lance had tensed. “What’s up, but make it quick.”

  I told him about Lapaglia. When I finished Ozzi whispered, “Don’t forget about the guy you keep seeing.” I shushed him.

  “Charlee, it’s no crime for the guy not to show up at your event.”

  “I KNEW you’d say that.” I bugged my eyes at Ozzi, feeling vindicated even though Oz hadn’t heard a word Lance said. But I’d tell him. You could be sure I’d tell him. “But should I report him as missing?”

  “What did the train people say?”

  “That he got on the train.”

  “And where did he get off?”

  “I didn’t ask specifically. I just assumed—”

  “That’s why you’d never make a good cop.”

  Brothers were infuriating sometimes. “Should I report him as missing?” I asked again, this time putting dramatic pauses between each word.

  “No. Is he married? Call his wife and get her to do it.”

  “I don’t know his wife.”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. What would a character in one of your books do?”

  “She’d ask her helpful contact at the police department to help her.”

  Lance laughed. “You always say fiction is easier than real life. Here’s another example.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “You’re welcome, Space Case. I gotta go.”

  Lance hung up before I could even say goodbye. But my alert rang with a text from him. “Be careful. Let me know if you need anything.” Then he added a couple of poop emojis.

  I responded with a thumbs-up, an okay sign, and kissy lips.

  Brothers were infuriating, but I knew this one had my back.

  I put my phone away.

  Ozzi said, “Why didn’t you tell him about the braid guy?”

  “Because it would just worry him.” I thought for a moment. “I don’t even know if that’s who I saw. Maybe it’s just
my imagination. I need to concentrate on problems I know I have. Like Lapag—the Author Who Shall Not Be Named.”

  Lavar brought out our food and poured us more coffee. I noticed he kept his back to the wall and his head on a swivel. I didn’t know if that made me feel protected or more anxious. I decided the best course of action was to ignore Lavar’s gun and instead, placed the bacon quiche on a paper napkin on the floor next to Nova. She graciously thanked me with a dainty lick to my fingers, then very delicately nibbled it with her tiny front teeth. Such a lady.

  While Ozzi and I ate, I considered my options. “The more I think about it, the more I’m sure that Martina woman with the business cards must be involved in this somehow. Otherwise why would she be at the station? Maybe she whisked him away right from under our noses.”

  “Or maybe they had a secret place to meet up, if they were having an affair like she said. Maybe he got off the train and never even came in the building. They could have met out on Wynkoop or he could have taken the light rail someplace.”

  I couldn’t remember if she had hurried outside after accosting me in the restroom. I pictured where people got off the train. Union Station was straight across the plaza, but if they veered to the right, they’d go around the building and be on Wynkoop Street, full of shops and restaurants to duck into. And if they’d doubled back, away from Union Station, they’d be able to catch a light rail train anywhere.

  I pulled out one of the business cards and placed it on the table between us, then typed in the URL of the website listed. “Under construction. Great.” I performed a search for her name. She didn’t seem to have the accent to be a realtor in Dublin, the address to be a Hollywood hair stylist, or the body type to be an Olympic sprinter. “I don’t have time to plow through 5,660,000 hits on her name. I have to talk to Martina McCarthy.”

  “What if she turns out to be a stalker?”

  “I doubt she’s going to tell us that.”

  “Probably not.”

  We finished breakfast staring at the card in the middle of the table. I willed it to talk to me and tell me everything I needed to know about Martina McCarthy. It remained silent.

  Five

  We drove in Ozzi’s Prius to the address on the card. It was in the Cherry Creek shopping district in the middle of a block flanked by a nail salon and boutique on one side, and a pet store and frozen yogurt place on the other. They all appeared to be open, since parking was scarce. We circled the block and parked.

  We walked past FroYolo and saw an employee writing flavors of the day on a chalkboard out front. The Furry Fiesta Pet Store was having a sale on puppies and puppy supplies and it was mobbed with excited kids and harried adults.

  “Nine hundred bucks for a puppy? Why don’t they go to the shelter and put those puppy mills out of business?” I grumbled, veering toward the door.

  Ozzi caught my hand and pulled me back. “Oh no you don’t. Only one crusade per day and you have a mystery to solve. Focus on Martina.”

  “Fine.” I dodged two adults with two little boys and a surly teenager heading past us toward the pet store. “But people should adopt dogs instead of buying them from pet stores!” I raised my voice so the family would be sure to hear.

  The teenager stopped on the sidewalk and stomped her foot. “See, Dad? I TOLD you this is bogus. We HAVE to go to the animal shelter. It’s a matter of LIFE and DEATH!”

  Nobody did drama better than a teenage girl on a mission. I stopped to watch.

  Her father clamped her on the shoulder and tried to steer her into the pet store. She wouldn’t budge. He gritted his teeth. “The boys have their hearts set on a pug puppy. And this store has three pug puppies. On sale. Right here. Where we are.” She still didn’t budge. The rest of the family entered the store. He pointed his finger at her. “Wait right here until we’re done.”

  “Done ruining the world, you mean.” She put her hands on her hips, clearly a pose her weary father had seen before. The girl looked at me. “What are ya gonna do? People refuse to be reasonable.”

  “Yes, they do,” I said. “But I will say, pugs have a certain charm. I have one in my life. He’s a mess. Can barely breathe since his face is so squished in, but his wheezing is second only to his capacity for unconditional love. You want my advice?”

  “Why not,” she said.

  “Whatever dog they get, love it with your whole heart, but keep working on your folks to adopt the next one. They’ll come around.”

  “I don’t know. They had three kids. I don’t think they’re very smart.” She leaned against the brick wall, one foot planted flat behind her. Cool as only a teenager could be.

  Ozzi and I both laughed. “Good luck to you.”

  “Whatev.” She turned her head, signaling the end of our encounter.

  Ozzi held his hand on the door of Martina’s business address but didn’t open it. “Are you ready for this?”

  “You mean do I have a plan?”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “No.” I crooked my finger at him. “Give me a minute.” He let go of the door and followed me back to the brick wall. I leaned against it. The teenage girl gave a loud “hmph” before moving away from us. I knew she kinda wanted to go in the pet store, but she couldn’t very well do so now, after her outburst. She sat on the curb instead.

  “What’s my plan ... what’s my plan,” I murmured, flicking the business card back and forth. It made a pleasing little fwoop sound between my fingers. The card fwooped right out of my hand. When I stooped to pick it up, I frowned. I walked toward the curb in front of the building and looked up at the sign. I looked at the card again. Ozzi joined me at the curb.

  “What?”

  “Look at the logos.” I handed him the card then nudged my chin skyward at the sign on the building. “They’re completely different.” The curlicue logo on Martina’s card did not match the stylized lettering spelling out Pandora’s Mail Box on the sign above us.

  “You’re right,” Ozzi said. “I was just looking at the address on the building.”

  “This must not be the right place.” I crossed the sidewalk and pulled open the door.

  We stood in the lobby surrounded by freestanding kiosks of packages of stationery and shipping supplies. Lining the walls were mailboxes, large and small. I had a flashback to where we picked up our mail in college, mostly scary stuff like financial aid notices, but sometimes cookies from home. In the rear of the store was a long counter with one employee helping a customer package up a box.

  “Oz, this isn’t her business. It’s just where she gets her mail.” I moved toward the counter in the back, waiting to speak with the employee. I watched her work. Her thin, mousey hair hung limply in her face. She didn’t even bother to brush it back or tuck it behind an ear. Like she and her hair had a fight and she’d lost. Badly.

  “Packing peanuts or craft paper?” she asked the customer in a voice that reminded me of Eeyore.

  “What’s the difference?” he asked.

  She didn’t look up. Just shrugged without answering. And they say customer service is dead.

  “Packing peanuts, I guess.”

  She maneuvered a huge, flexible tube over the man’s box, pulled the lever and held it as Styrofoam pellets poured into the box. By the time she’d let go of the lever, an equal number had poured onto the counter. She brushed them to the floor. Every time she moved I heard them squelch and crack under her feet.

  “Plastic, filament, or gummed tape?” Eeyore asked.

  The man laughed. “No idea. Which would you choose?”

  Again, she didn’t look up, just shrugged.

  The man looked at us for help.

  Ozzi said, “I’d go with plastic.”

  “Definitely plastic,” I said.

  “Plastic it is, then,” he told Eeyore.

  She taped his box, but their interaction was so painful I couldn’t watch anymore. I inspected the packages of stationary until the man left. Then I said to Eeyore, whose na
metag I could see now and showed REGINA, “I’m looking for someone.” I held Martina’s business card out to her.

  Eeyo—Regina simply stared at me through her curtain of hair.

  I tried again. “Martina McCarthy? She has a box here?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, she does? Or yeah, continue with your question?”

  She didn’t respond so I showed her I could win a staring contest with a bored employee any day of the week. The key was to sing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star over and over in your head.

  Finally she indicated the business card. “You know as much as I do.” The effort seemed to exhaust her and she had to brace herself by bending over the counter and resting her head on her arms.

  I shot Ozzi a will you get a load of this look. He clearly could not get a load of it either.

  “Regina, luv”—I don’t know why I thought channeling my inner Vera Stanhope would help—“I know this is hard on a wee bairn such as yourself, but I need you to answer my questions.”

  She raised her head, tucking her hair behind her ears. Vera Stanhope comes through again!

  “Luv, do you know Martina McCarthy?”

  “Seen her once or twice. Gets packages sometimes.”

  “Atta girl. Does she pick up her mail at a regular time every day?”

  “Shouldn’t say. Privacy stuff.”

  I felt as exhausted as she looked so I was happy to conclude this conversation, or whatever it was. “Thanks, luv, you’ve been a big help.” I kind of meant it, too. I feel like this was the longest, deepest, most intimate interaction she’d had in a very long time.

  As Ozzi and I left, I made note of the hours posted on the front door. We held hands as we walked back to the car.

  “I’m coming back here before they open tomorrow. I need to talk to this Martina McCarthy.”

  “Charlee, didn’t she threaten you at the train station?”

  “I suppose. But only to keep me away from Lapaglia. Obviously I’ve done that.”

  “Obviously.” He dropped my hand so he could slip his hand around my waist and pull me close. “I really think you should stay away from her. Wait until you can talk to Penn & Powell.”