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

  I regretted telling her to lower her phone. In retrospect, a picture might have been a good idea. “No. And I don’t think it would do any good anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think her attention was completely focused on me.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “Because I was wearing a four-foot-tall wig in Ronald McDonald orange.”

  He paused exactly as I knew he would. “Of course you were.”

  “I can explain—”

  “I’m sure you can. Instead, just call 911 if you see him again.”

  “That’s it? Wait until he attacks me again?”

  “Miss Russo, this all sounds a bit far-fetched. A member of the mob is after you while you’re in costume—” He said the word like it was coated in olive oil.

  “Disguise.”

  “Either way, there’s not much to go on.”

  “Not much!”

  “Let me rephrase. There’s certainly a lot going on with your story, but not much that the Denver PD can take action on.”

  “I’m not making this up.”

  After a pause—or maybe a standoff—he said, “I’ll send it down to have patrol keep an eye out for a ... skinny guy with a long gray braid.”

  “And I’ll call 911 if I see him again.” Fat lot of good that will do me, sounds like.

  “You do that.”

  I meandered around the upscale business district wondering if Ming would actually tell the cops to watch out for the Braid, or if he really was just humoring me. And why would he have to humor me anyway? We have a history. I’m not some crazy, hysterical—I remembered the tone of his voice when he mentioned my disguise. Screw him.

  When I finally remembered where I parked my car, I was never so happy to see it in all its olive red glory. It was blazing hot inside, though, so I turned on the AC full blast and sat there with the windows down until I could touch the steering wheel and gearshift without blistering my hands.

  I mulled over everything I knew about these girlfriends of Lapaglia’s. It made sense that Martina was harboring Lapaglia, giving him a safe place to hide out, but from what? Me? His wife? The Braid? The other girlfriends? Cecilia didn’t know about Martina, but Lakshmi did. And Cecilia and Lakshmi both knew Tiffany. But so what? What did that mean?

  What if Martina wasn’t harboring Lapaglia? What if she was holding him hostage? There could be a million reasons for that. Jealousy. Ransom. In cahoots with the Braid. Maybe Martina was a mob moll. No, that couldn’t be, because then the Braid would know where Lapaglia was and wouldn’t be chasing me.

  Maybe Martina was just plain pissed off that he had all these other girlfriends. Maybe Martina just found out about them. Leading her on, playing her for a fool, taking advantage of her. Could she be involved with Tiffany’s death AND Lapaglia’s disappearance? Extreme jealousy would certainly explain Martina’s altercation at the train station with me and on the street with Lakshmi earlier.

  And what about Lakshmi? She knew Martina, Cecilia, and Tiffany and seemed perfectly fine with the other women. But she’s such a doormat, maybe someone forced her to do something she didn’t want to do. Or maybe she just got tired of being a doormat and snapped. She definitely had that defeated whatever sort of demeanor.

  Cecilia? With all that violent imagery? She seemed fairly forthcoming with me but maybe she was hiding something. Years of spousal abuse might twist you up in ways I probably couldn’t even imagine.

  I spent the rest of the drive home trying to figure out how I’d explain the motivation of these women in one of my mysteries. Which would I choose as my villain?

  When I pulled into my parking spot, I saw Don Singer from upstairs struggling to step over the knee-high decorative fence bordering the grassy area where Peter O’Drool liked to poop. I pulled out the plush rainbow-colored flamingo dog toy I bought earlier to give to Peter.

  “Hey, Don, need some help?”

  He turned. “Oh, hi, Charlee. I got all the way over here, climbed the fence, and realized I forgot a poop bag. Gotta head back up for one.”

  “Want me to get it for you?”

  “Nah. Barb always says I need more exercise.” He accepted my hand to steady his balance over the short fence. “She also says I always forget the poop bags.”

  “She’s not wrong.”

  “I know, gosh darn it.” He climbed the outside staircase to his apartment. “Interesting outfit, by the way. Love the hat.”

  I placed a hand on the top of my head. Oh, yeah. The turban. I kicked at the caftan and let it billow. “You should try something like this. Very comfy. Forgot I was even wearing it.” Unlike a drag wig.

  Don walked toward the stairs and I heard him say hello. I looked up to see a woman walking past him. I stifled a giggle because she was swaddled in a loud print scarf and oversized sunglasses, looking like Gloria Swanson on the set of Sunset Boulevard. Two of us in extreme outfits in one apartment complex.

  I turned back to Peter O’Drool and squeaked the flamingo. “Hey, Pete. I brought you a present.” I waved it at him.

  The pug burst out from under a juniper at the same moment a rabbit did. Peter ran straight at me, sailing over the decorative fence. The rabbit took off in the opposite direction. What goes on under that juniper? I wondered if this was a game Peter and the bunnies liked to play or if they really were mortal enemies.

  Peter danced around my feet, huffing and wheezing from the effort. I squeaked the toy again then tossed it to him. It bounced off his face and landed on the sidewalk between us. It was almost as long as he was. He scooped it up, biting it to make the squeaky noise. He dropped it on the sidewalk, did a little do-si-do of joy, then picked it up again, squeaking it over and over, perhaps keeping time to a song only he could hear.

  While I watched Peter play, a pair of peacock blue alligator half-boots appeared on either side of Peter O’Drool. I watched while two hands scooped up Peter from the sidewalk. The Braid!

  Peter happily chomped his toy, snuggled in the Braid’s arms. I saw the sneer on his face and froze.

  “You better find me Lapaglia before the cops do. Or you will be sorry.” The Braid made a knife action across Peter’s throat. “And let us keep this between you and me. No need to get others involved.” Pete let go of his toy and it dropped into the Braid’s arms, just long enough for him to lick the Braid’s face.

  The Braid ran with Peter O’Drool and his squeaky flamingo between the buildings and through the complex, disappearing while I remained rooted to the sidewalk, stunned into paralysis. I heard an engine roar to life from a parking lot in the back.

  Peter O’Drool had been dognapped!

  Ten

  “Sorry that took so long,” Don said. “I had to wait until Barb stopped laughing at me to help me find the new stash of poop bags.” Don frowned when he saw my face. “What’s the matter?”

  My throat worked up and down, but no sound came out.

  “Charlee?” When I couldn’t answer, Don called up to his balcony. “Barb! Something’s wrong with Charlee!”

  Barb called over the railing. “What’s all the ruckus?”

  I looked from Barb to Don to the direction the Braid had gone with Peter. While Don and Barb discussed whether they should call Ozzi or my brother or the paramedics, I forced my brain into gear. “No, I’m fine. But Peter ... it happened so fast ... I didn’t know what to ... I’m so sorry!”

  “What happened, Charlee?” Don’s voice was sharp.

  Using my entire arm, I pointed in the direction the Braid had run. He'd told me not to tell anyone, but surely that couldn't mean Don and Barb. “Peter just got dognapped!”

  “What? What are you talking about?” Barb hurried down the stairs to Don. “What is she talking about?”

  I covered my face with both hands and took a long shaky breath. “I don’t exactly know, but that author I was doing the workshop with on Saturday—”

  “He stole Peter?” Barb’s eyes went wide.

 
“No, no, no. He writes these books about the mob—”

  “Rodolfo Lapaglia. Yes, I’ve read all his books. What does this have to do with Pete?” Don’s words were clipped.

  “I’m not explaining this well.” I looked around frantically, hoping to see Peter and learn this was all just a joke.

  Don grabbed both my biceps. “Charlee. Where is Peter?”

  “Dognapped.”

  Barb gasped. Don ran his hands through the thin hair on top of his head.

  “Let me start at the beginning—”

  “But they’re getting away!” Barb wailed.

  I remembered the sound of the engine roaring away. “They’re already gone, Barb. Listen.” I wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing by telling them, but they had a right to know, despite the Braid’s threat. “I think the guy who took Pete has something to do with the mob that Lapaglia writes about. He stole Pete to force me to find Lapaglia. But he said he might hurt Pete if I told anyone, so you can’t do anything.”

  “But we have to call the police!” Barb’s nest of curls bounced with the force of her words.

  Don stared at me, then gently put an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “We can’t, Barb. We’ll handle this ourselves. You, me, and Charlee.” He looked at me. “You in?”

  “Completely! It’s my fault Peter’s gone!” I couldn’t hold it together any longer and the three of us huddled together there on the sidewalk, tears falling freely.

  I was glad Don didn’t want to call the police. Besides, what kind of priority would they give a dognapping? Low, I’m sure. Detective Ming barely cared about the Braid assaulting me. And if they didn’t care about a human kidnapping when I was in Portland, they sure weren’t going to care about a dognapping in Denver. Plus, I already knew who did it.

  I pulled away from our group hug and put my mind into cop-mode. What would they do, assuming they cared? If it was a kid snatched off the street they’d canvas the neighborhood for witnesses.

  Barb and Don continued to cry and console each other.

  “Don’t you worry,” I told them. “We’ll find him. I promise. I’m going to go follow the direction they went.”

  I ran off between the buildings. I stopped everyone I saw, asking if they’d seen a short, skinny man with a long gray ponytail carrying a pug.

  Nobody had seen anything. I was about to give up when I saw a man walking an Irish setter on the opposite side of the parking lot. I hurried over to him and described the Braid.

  “Yeah, I saw him. The dog had a toy he was squeaking. That’s what made me look up. They got in a black El Camino. Went that way.” He pointed.

  “Are you sure?” I felt a surge of hope.

  “Absolutely. This one here investigates every blade of grass twice a day, don’t you, King?” At the sound of his name, King raised his eyes while keeping his nose buried in the grass. “I have plenty of time to watch the world go by. Plus, you don’t see many classic El Caminos these days. Especially with matte paint.”

  “Did you get a license plate number?”

  “Nah, I was looking at the car. My buddy in high school had one. A bunch of us would sit in the bed while he and his girlfriend canoodled inside. This one time—”

  “I’d love to chat, but I have to find that guy.” Unlike him, I did not have plenty of time to watch the world go by.

  When I got back, Barb and Don had disappeared from the sidewalk, so I hurried inside my apartment and called my brother. I’d keep it vague. If Lance said the cops couldn’t help, I didn’t want any whiff that I’d called them to get back to the Braid. But if they could help....

  When Lance answered I asked, “What do you know about dognapping?”

  “Who got dognapped? A show dog? One of those dogs you met in Portland?” I didn’t actually answer, just made some noncommittal noises, so he continued. “Dogs are stolen for the reward money, especially show dogs. Huge rewards for those. Racing greyhounds, too. Dalmatians are stolen for their fur. Famous case some years back.”

  Lance laughed at his little joke. I did not. “Not funny.”

  “Whatev. Some dogs are stolen for medical research. And for dogfighting.”

  I gasped. If the Braid even thought about .... Tears sprang to my eyes and I angrily wiped them away. “What if they’re microchipped?”

  “That’s important, but only if you find the dog to reunite it with its owner. It’s not a GPS tracker.”

  “Will cops ever get involved?”

  “In a stolen dog? Rarely. It’s considered a property crime, and as much as someone loves their family pet, it’s not worth much.” I started to protest but he interrupted. “I know, I know. But sentimental value is different. And, Charlee, more than two million pets are stolen every year. That’s a seventy percent increase in the last few years. People could keep their pets safe if they’d quit letting them go off-leash or tying them to bike racks or lamp posts outside coffee shops and beer gardens. These are almost always crimes of opportunity.” He paused a beat. “Gives new meaning to the term hot dog, eh?”

  Again, he laughed, but I knew he wouldn’t if he realized we were talking about Peter O’Drool. I desperately wanted to tell Lance the whole truth, but he already said the police couldn’t do anything. And what if the Braid found out somehow? I could never forgive myself if my actions caused him to hurt Peter.

  I returned to what Lance was saying. “I had a case once where someone stole a service dog. Heartbreaking. We never found it.”

  “What if someone saw the car the dognapper was driving?”

  I heard the shrug in Lance’s voice. “If it’s a slow day they might broadcast the description and tell patrol to be on the lookout for it. But we don’t have many slow days these days. Why do you want to know? Researching a book?”

  I couldn’t bear any more information about dognapping. And I couldn’t shake the image of the Braid miming slitting Peter’s throat if I didn’t find Lapaglia before the cops did. “Never mind. No more dogs.”

  “You hear from your disappearing author yet?” he asked.

  “No, but I’ve been talking to all his Denver girlfriends. Or at least all the ones I know about. I don’t even know how many there are.”

  “You already know this, but it’s not a crime for a married man to disappear or to have girlfriends. And you don’t really know that anything happened to this guy. If the ticket guy told you somebody used his train ticket, there’s no reason to think it wasn’t him. The only crime I see is your embezzlement of funds.”

  “Not funny, dude. What about Lapaglia stiffing me on all this stuff? I could barely buy stamps this morning.” Ugh. On top of everything else, I needed to call my credit card company. Maybe I could get them to raise my limit.

  “I probably already know the answer to this, but did you and this Lapaglia guy have a contract of any kind?”

  “Are you trying to make me cry?”

  “Well, even if you did, it would only be civil anyway. No cops involved.” Quieter, he added, “Wish I could help more, Space Case. Do you need money? If you do, just say the word.”

  “Thanks, but I’m okay. I think. But when I lose everything, I reserve the right to camp in your living room.”

  “Give me some warning so I can change the locks.”

  “Will do. Oh, and I don’t need to tell you not to tell Mom about any of this, right?”

  “About any of what?”

  “Exactly. See you, Lance. Thanks.”

  For all the obvious reasons, I was in serious need of a grilled cheese sandwich. I slathered butter on two pieces of bread and sliced enough cheddar and jack cheese for three sandwiches. Then I proceeded to pile it all on top of the piece of bread I dropped in the pan. I turned the burner to medium low, the perfect temperature for optimum melting without the chance of burning. I carefully balanced the other piece of bread butter-side-up and pressed the sandwich with a spatula. I placed a lid on top to assist with the optimum melting, then leaned against the counter while it warmed
.

  I was glad I hadn’t blurted to Lance that it was Peter who’d been nabbed because then I would have had to tell him about the Braid. Lance couldn’t do anything and he’d only worry about me. That’s what brothers did. Plus, I didn’t want him to get tangled up in the mob, if that’s even what this was. Maybe it’s not even related to the mob. Maybe it’s just a squabble between the Braid and Lapaglia about something stupid that I inadvertently stepped in the middle of. I kind of have a history of doing that. Regardless, whatever it was, as soon as I find Lapaglia, it would all be over and I’d get Peter O’Drool back. I hoped.

  I checked the melt factor on my sandwich. Coming along nicely. I replaced the lid for a bit longer. Timing was important. Too long and the bread wouldn’t crisp and if that happened, I may as well toss it in the trash. Like that would ever happen. I grabbed a handful of chips from the bag while I waited. As I munched them, I mulled over everything Lance said about dognapping. I thought about Lavar and Tuttle’s stray, Nova. She looked kind of like a greyhound, with her long legs and sleek snout. I hope nobody thinks they stole her. They did everything imaginable to find her owners, starting with looking for that microchip. I knew Peter was chipped, but like Lance said, a microchip isn’t a GPS tracker. Wouldn’t that be great, though? To be able to dial up a Dog Find app and track Pete wherever he was? Why the nerds built Twitter instead of that was beyond me.

  My sandwich was grilled to perfection, golden and crisp on the outside, melty and soft on the inside. I cut it diagonally because I’m fancy like that, and cheese flowed out like lava. I ate it too fast to truly enjoy it. But I was used to that, seemed to be my modus operandi, especially when I was stressed. A defining characteristic, if I was sketching out a character in a book. That’s a laugh ... me, an interesting character in a book. Ha!

  As I finished up my chips, I made a quick brainstorming list of the things Lavar and Tuttle did to find Nova’s owners. I’d do the same to try and find Peter just in case the Braid released him somewhere. Craigslist, social media, our neighborhood online group, flyers.

  I wiped my greasy fingers on the kitchen towel and scanned through the photos on my phone for a good representative one of Peter. I downloaded it then designed a quick “Dog Lost” flyer on my computer. While I waited for my printer, I changed into a pair of shorts and a clean t-shirt. I added an oversized pair of sunglasses and tucked my hair into a baseball cap. I really wanted to lay low in my apartment, because I was scared of another run-in with the Braid, but I had to do something to find Peter. Besides, the Braid already knew where I live. I felt my forehead wrinkle. How in the world did he find out where I live, anyway?