Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3 Page 53

  I felt a tug on the hem of my jean skirt. I looked down to see Edwin staring up at me. He pointed at a juice box.

  “You already have one.” I pointed at his hand.

  He offered me the juice box in his hand.

  I took it and jiggled it. “Half full.” I attempted to hand it back but he wasn’t falling for that. He kept a steady finger pointing at a box of juice on the table. I glanced at Lakshmi who shrugged. I handed Edwin a new juice box. He solemnly shook his head, continuing to point.

  “This one?”

  He shook his head.

  “This one?”

  He shook his head again.

  I handed back his half full juice box. “Listen, Edwin, darling. If you want juice, you’ll drink this one. Now go away.”

  He took his old juice box from me, a stunned look on his face as he toddled away. Seems I was the only person in Edwin’s short life to tell him what’s what.

  She acknowledged my help with a tiny smile and an almost imperceptible nod.

  I accepted this as an invitation to speak to her. “Lakshmi, that woman out on the sidewalk. I’m looking for any information about her or about—” I remembered Ozzi’s admonition not to slander Lapaglia, which seemed like good advice since he was a bestselling author and I was in a library. I pulled his photo from my bag. “This man.”

  She glanced at the photo and sighed. “You’re another one.”

  “I’m another what?”

  Lakshmi continued placing vanilla wafers in a circular pattern on a plate. She spoke in her quiet, breathless voice. “I haven’t seen Rodney in a while, but maybe Cecilia has.”

  It sounded like she said Rodney instead of Rodolfo, but I didn’t correct her. “Cecilia?”

  “Cecilia Lindstrom. I introduced them a while back.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  “She’s a graphic designer at a print shop a few blocks away.”

  As she described the directions, I realized it was near the place where we bought the disguises. I stuffed the photo back in my bag. “Thanks, Lakshmi. Good luck with story time.” As I left, Edwin sucked his thumb while giving me the stink-eye.

  I walked to the print shop and spoke to an older woman with spiky hair sitting at a computer. “I’m looking for Cecilia Lindstrom. Would that be you?”

  I swear I saw her hair get spikier as her eyes widened. Without a word, she went through the door that separated the lobby of the print shop from the production area and closed it behind her. Was my wig that scary? It hadn’t seemed to bother Lakshmi or even Edwin. I waited, baffled, alone in the middle of the lobby for several minutes. I started for the door to the production area but there was an angry, all caps “Employees Only” sign on it. I stepped back. I stepped toward it again. Back again. Forward. Back. I did this weird print shop waltz for a long time. Finally, I had my hand on the knob. It turned from the other side and a man emerged.

  “Please leave before I call the cops.”

  “But—”

  “Please.”

  “But—”

  “Listen ....” He paused and studied my enormous drag wig. “Lady.” He shrugged. “We don’t want any trouble. Just leave.”

  “But—”

  “I’m asking nicely. Now go.” He strode to the front door and opened it. “Please.”

  I wondered what the spiky-hair lady told him. That I was going to rob a print shop in broad daylight in this wig? Did she think I had a weapon tucked up under that beehive? Was there anything to steal from a print shop anyway? I slipped one of their business cards out of a holder on the counter, keeping as much distance from the man as I could while I slunk out the door.

  A couple steps past the shop I stopped and patted my wig. It took the full length of my arms to reach the top. When I lowered them, I stroked the tendril hanging over my shoulder. This couldn’t have anything to do with a drag wig. It’s simply too ridiculous. If that spiky-haired lady was Cecilia Lindstrom and she knew Lapaglia, and Lakshmi knew them both AND Martina, I was sure this had something to do with Lapaglia.

  My wig and I trooped back to the library.

  The story time kids were running amok in the children’s area. Lakshmi half-heartedly tried to control them using her tiny voice. It did not appear to be working. This was probably how story time always played out because Lakshmi didn’t look too upset. But was that cause or effect?

  I gently maneuvered two boys fighting over a book away from where Lakshmi stood so I could talk to her more privately. I told her about what happened at the print shop. “Why was she being so weird?”

  Lakshmi shrugged. “Maybe she’s nervous about Tiffany.”

  “Tiffany who?”

  “Tiffany Isaac.”

  That name sounded familiar. Tiffany Isaac. Isaac Hayes. Theme from Shaft. I heard the synthesized keyboard riff. Shaft was a detective. Detective Ming! “That girl who was murdered?”

  “Miss Lakshmi, I have to go potty.” Lakshmi took the hand of a young girl and led her to the restroom. “Watch the kids,” she told me.

  The two boys who had been fighting over the book now stood before me staring at my wig. When they saw me looking at them, the floodgate of questions opened — “Can I touch that?” ... “Does that hurt?” ... “Do birds live in there?” ... “Why is your hair so big?” ... “Do you want to color with me?” ... “I don’t like apple juice. Will you get me root beer?” ... “Who’s your favorite Transformer?” — and didn’t stop until Lakshmi got back. How did parents and teachers do this all day, every day?

  The other children started to close in on me, trapping me like I was a wounded sparrow and they were a pack of feral cats. I handed the plate of cookies to the nearest one and took my chance to flee. “Hey, can I get your cell number so I don’t have to bother you at work in case I have questions?” I asked Lakshmi.

  She didn’t seem the least bit surprised by my request; she simply wrote her number on a sticky note for me.

  I detoured to the mystery section and looked to see if they had any of my books on the shelf. I grinned when I saw one copy each of my first three titles sandwiched between Nancy Picard and Dorothy L. Sayers. It always made me ridiculously happy to see my books on a store or library shelf, but it was silly because that meant nobody had bought or borrowed them. It should make me happy when my books weren’t on the shelf, but when that actually happened it hurt my feelings, proving once again what oddballs authors are.

  I snapped a picture of my books to post on social media. While my phone was out, I entered Lakshmi’s number and the print shop number into my contacts list, then dropped the sticky note and the business card into the trash.

  As I walked through the library I puzzled over the altercation between Martina and Lakshmi, Cecilia Lindstrom’s odd behavior at the print shop, and Lakshmi’s cryptic comment about the murdered woman, Tiffany Isaac. I toyed with the idea of returning to the children’s section to discuss it with her, but decided instead to call her later when it would be easier for us to talk.

  I also took a moment debating with myself whether to visit the card catalog to see if the copies of my other books were checked out or if the library never bought them. Sheesh. Writers. So needy. I was oddly proud of myself for not succumbing to the temptation. No good ever comes of that.

  The interior set of automatic doors whooshed open to release me from the library. I stepped into the vestibule between the two sets of doors. As soon as it whooshed shut behind me, I felt a hand grab the shank of synthetic hair that hung over my shoulder.

  Eight

  My head yanked backward. “Ow!” Instinctively I reached both hands on either side of my wig. I was immediately sorry I took the costumers advice about proper wig attachment. If they yanked hard enough, they might come away with not only the wig, but all of my real hair pinned underneath.

  Using my wig as their lever, my assailant spun me around until we were face to face.

  The mob guy from Union Station!

  He was wedg
ed in the corner facing out and maneuvered me so that my back was to the area between the two automatic doors. He was even shorter than I thought. I had at least thirty pounds on him, and a couple of inches. My hair, however, towered over him by more than a foot. If anyone came in from the street, I’m not sure they’d even see him behind me.

  I struggled to get away, but it was difficult since I was afraid to let go of my wig, lest he rip all my hair out. He might have been smaller than me, but he was wiry and strong and had the benefit of surprise.

  I managed to get one hand on his thin, gray braid and yanked it hard.

  “Ow!” He released the arm he’d used to encircle my shoulders and brought it up to the side of his head.

  We were now mirror images of each other, clutching shanks of hair and pulling each other round and round in the foyer, grunting and yelling.

  “Where is Lapaglia?” He spoke in a New Jersey accent that I may or may not have imagined.

  “No idea!”

  “Do not lie. You must know since you did that event with him. Everyone knows he does not do public stuff like that.”

  We’d come full circle again in our little corner. He yanked my hair harder, which I didn’t think possible, and his mouth was millimeters from my nose. He’d had garlic recently. I yanked his braid harder and forced him and his breath away from my nose.

  “I don’t know anything about Lapaglia. I’m looking for him myself.”

  “You tell him Square Face wants to chat with him. Or else.” He narrowed his eyes and looked at me from the weird angle I’d held his head. “Are you shaking him down?”

  “Blackmailing Lapaglia? Why would I do that?”

  “I bet you write those books. You know what he knows.” His sudden insight made him momentarily relax his grip.

  My complete bafflement rendered me unable to take advantage of his loosened grip. Instead, I relaxed my grip on his braid. “I must know what he knows about what?”

  “Everything. Me. My boss. The Family.” He didn’t miss the opportunity to take advantage of my relaxed grip. He yanked my hair so far I had to bend sideways at the waist. I watched his peacock blue alligator half-boots slip on the carpet, causing him to yank harder. I shrieked and he covered my mouth with the hand he’d been holding over mine on his braid. “I need to know how you know so much about us and our ... activities. Start with everything you know about my boss.”

  “Awf mrt een naw yu kwe fat mrch layth yaw boff!”

  He pulled his hand from my mouth. “What?”

  “I SAID, I don’t even know YOU, Square Face, much less your boss!”

  His eyes bulged and he seemed incapable of blinking. He let go of the handful of my hair completely. He whispered, like there were spies everywhere, “I am not Square Face!”

  I took the advantage this time and yanked his braid harder, so he had to bend at the waist and stare at my shoes. “What IS your name then, dillhole?”

  He flailed his arms to either grab my hair again or to get me to let go of his, but I used my superior height and weight, and his slick-soled shoes, to keep him off-balance. I saw someone round the corner to exit the library. I awkwardly held the Braid at bay and watched the woman walk toward us. I carefully timed the opening of the automatic door, or hoped I did, anyway.

  As soon as the door whooshed open, the woman gaped at us, planting herself directly in the path of the laser beam controlling the door. She tried to make sense of the scene in front of her. Drag queen beating up a tiny old man. I pulled the woman forward out of the way of the continuously opening and closing door and told her to run. As soon as she did, I kneed the Braid in the groin and pushed him inside the library where he sprawled on his back. The door whooshed closed and I ran out the second door.

  The woman raised her hand like she was going to take a picture on her phone. I shook my head at her. She made the right decision and lowered her phone. The last thing I needed was to get anyone else involved in whatever this was I was involved in.

  “You really need to get out of here,” I said, dragging her away. “That guy? He’s committing a hate crime against me.” I pointed to my wig. “But I have it under control.”

  She got a righteously woke look on her face and fist-bumped me. “You are the best drag queen I’ve seen in a long time. You go ... girl!” She hurried away from the library with her fist raised over her head, Angela Davis-style.

  I was glad nobody else had witnessed anything. The last thing I needed was a curious crowd.

  I hugged the side of the building, picking my way around blooming potentilla bushes that scratched my legs, peering carefully into the library windows as I went. I’d expected the Braid to race right out of the double doors after me, but he hadn’t. What was he doing in there?

  I got all the way to the end of the building with only a couple of people on the sidewalk staring at the drag queen sneaking through the bushes. Nobody inside seemed to have noticed me. I went to the very last window and cupped my hands so I could see inside better. The story time kids were even wilder than before, gobbling cookies and having juice squirting contests. I wondered where Lakshmi was.

  My heart vaulted into my throat when I saw her talking to the Braid away from the story time area. Lakshmi had her arms wrapped protectively around herself. He stood much too close, but didn’t seem to be touching her. The Braid must be involved in Lapaglia’s disappearance, despite his earlier questions of me. It must have been a ruse, some sort of scheme I didn’t yet understand. Clearly, the Braid had more information than he let on, if he was talking to Lakshmi.

  I emerged from the potentillas, brushing off their tiny yellow flowers clinging to my jean skirt. I zipped away from the library, scared that the Braid would come after me again and now more worried about Lapaglia. If there was foul play and the Braid was after Lapaglia, I had to redouble my efforts to find him. I simply wanted to get him to pay me back, but it seemed the Braid had more drastic, perhaps permanent, ideas for him.

  As I hurried back toward my car, I pulled out Martina McCarthy’s business card and called her. She had to be at the center of this. Voice mail. I decided not to leave a message she could easily ignore, instead veering toward the Pandora’s Mail Box.

  Eeyore Regina was working behind the counter again, but I didn’t care since I didn’t need her assistance today. I felt sorry for the line of customers who did need her assistance, though. I wanted to shout, “Run! Save yourselves!” but refrained. Instead, I pulled a small notebook and pen from my bag and with a shaky hand, scribbled a note. Please call me. I’m the woman you met at the train station. I signed it and added my number. I folded it in half and rechecked the address on Martina’s business card.

  I was attempting to shove it in her mailbox when the woman I saw unlocking the door earlier slapped my hand aside.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m ... uh ... leaving this note for one of your ... mailboxees.”

  “You can’t just shove mail in without a stamp.”

  “Then I’ll buy a stamp.” I glanced at the door, fully expecting the Braid to find me here. My heart raced, thumping so hard I couldn’t believe this woman didn’t hear it.

  “You’ll need an envelope, too.”

  I caught on to the manager’s upselling game. She was going to nickel and dime me to death. Maybe literally. Normally I would be happy to play Thwart a Power-Hungry Employee, but I was in a bit of a hurry. “Then I’ll also buy an envelope.”

  “You can’t just buy one envelope.”

  “Then I’ll buy a box of envelopes.”

  She pointed to a display. “Five hundred or a thousand?”

  “I just need one!”

  She shrugged.

  I walked to the display of stationary I’d perused when I was here with Ozzi on Sunday and plucked off the package closest to me, a mod hippie design with the ironic message Thinking of You. I tore it open, placed my note in one of the matching envelopes, and handed the stationary packag
e back to her. “This and a postage stamp, please.”

  “We don’t sell individual stamps. Smallest I have is a book of twenty.”

  “Fine. Ring up this stationary and a book of stamps.”

  She went to the register. “Cash or credit?”

  “Credit.” I handed her my card, glancing nervously at the door. At least she didn’t make me wait at the end of Eeyore Regina’s line.

  She swiped it through her credit card reader, frowned, swiped it again.

  I gulped. Had they locked my account since I was over my limit? Was I over my limit? Had all those event charges gone through?

  She wiped the magnetic strip with her finger and tried again. She shook her head and handed my card back. “Isn’t working.”

  Blushing, I pulled my last thirty dollars from my wallet. Why was it when your credit card didn’t work—through no fault of your own—you’re made to feel like a criminal?

  She finished with the transaction and handed me back a measly amount of change. I thanked her, trying to keep the sarcasm from my voice. Returning to Martina’s mailbox with my note inside an officially stamped and licked envelope, I again attempted to shove it in. The manager reappeared next to me. I pulled my hand back before she could slap it.

  “You can’t do that.”

  “You told me I needed an envelope and a stamp. Which, you might remember, I just bought.” My voice veered into shrill range.

  “And now it needs to be mailed.” She gestured toward the letter drop nearby.

  “How long will that take?”

  “Two days. You’re not special.”

  “Let me get this straight. I need to drop this”—I waved the envelope at her—“into that letter drop and you’ll collect it out of there, send it off to some processing center, and then it will come right back here, where you’ll put it in this”—I banged on it for effect—“mailbox?”

  “You need to address it first. Otherwise it’ll come back Undeliverable.”

  I had the feeling Eeyore Regina wouldn’t have been as strict as this lady. I took a deep breath and tried not to let frustration and panic overwhelm me. Pasting a fake, Miss Congeniality smile on my face, I said, “Can I give you five bucks to drop this into Miss McCarthy’s mailbox without going through this rigmarole? It’s important she gets it soon.”