Metaphor for Murder (Mystery Writer's Mysteries Book 3) Page 8

  I knew I had to try once more to talk to Cecilia at the print shop. I just hoped she wouldn’t hide from me again.

  As I was walking, Ozzi called. “I just have a quick minute before I need to get back, but I wanted to know how it went with Martina.”

  “I missed her, but found more of his girlfriends.”

  “Plural? Geez, I misjudged this guy.”

  “I’m on my way to talk to one of them right now.”

  “Are you driving?” He had a thing about cellphone use in the car.

  “Nope. Hoofing it. You should know me better than that.”

  “I do. I guess I’m just braindead from this project. I’ll make it up to you later.”

  I made some yummy noises. “Promise?”

  “Absolutely. But now I’ve gotta go.”

  “How’s your thing going?”

  “Jury’s still out. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I reached the print shop and saw Cecilia through the window loading paper into a copier. I took a deep breath and pulled open the door. At the bell, she turned to greet me.

  “Hi! How can I help you today?” She sounded very pleasant and enthusiastic. Clearly, she hadn’t recognized me.

  “You’re Cecilia, right?” She nodded so I continued. “I need to ask you about Rodol—” I remembered Ozzi’s admonition about slander. I dug in my purse and pulled out Lapaglia’s photo. “I need to ask you about this guy.”

  I expected her to bolt, but she didn’t. She sounded a tad less enthusiastic, though.

  “What about him?” She suddenly narrowed her eyes and stared closer at my face. “You were here earlier.”

  I nodded.

  “Okay. So what do you want?”

  This conversation was not going how I expected. At all. My curiosity got the better of me. “Why did you hide from me before?”

  She finished loading the paper and closed the doors of the copier. She glanced around the empty shop, as if she expected someone to have miraculously appeared. She put her fingers to her lips then pointed at Lapaglia’s photo. “We’re having an affair,” she whispered. “I’m married and so is he.”

  That didn’t explain it. “But why—”

  “I don’t know what his wife looks like. He said she had long hair, I don’t know. But I know for a fact she wouldn’t be caught dead in that outfit.” She waved a hand up and down at me. I decided not to take offense.

  “So, earlier you thought I was his”—I waggled the photo—“wife?”

  She nodded. “Scared the sh—scared me a lot. He says she’s the jealous type. Has a temper.”

  “What about Martina and Lakshmi?”

  “Don’t know any Martina.” She raised her eyebrows. “Is Lakshmi involved with him too?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Never mind. I don’t care. I’d prefer it if he had another girlfriend. Lots of them, in fact. It would keep him from getting too attached to me. My husband isn’t the most ... understanding man.” She touched the side of her face but just as quickly lowered her hand when she noticed me staring. “Lakshmi, though. That kind of surprises me.”

  “But you’d be okay with that?” This was a very weird conversation.

  “Absolutely. The more, the merrier. You, me, Lakshmi, this Martina you mentioned, Tiffany. Velvet’s mafia is alive and well.” Cecelia barked out a laugh.

  I tried not to react to her gay slur, thinking the pejorative phrase for the “gay agenda” had been retired long ago. She hadn’t even used the Velvet Mafia idiom correctly.

  Cecelia was still talking. “—an hour or two away from my husband every so often, be with a man who doesn’t smack me around, and he’d”—she gestured at the photo—“get away from his shrew of a wife.” She must have seen judgment on my face. “Everyone deserves to be happy, you know.”

  “Of course they do,” I said, wanting to retort she should include LGBTQ people in the pool of folks deserving of happiness. I held my tongue, though. I was curious about who she meant. None of my business, not really. But maybe. “For the record, I am definitely NOT having an affair with him. I need to find him about some business we had together. And just so I’m clear, you don’t know Martina McCarthy?” She shook her head. “And this Tiffany you mentioned—”

  “So sad. Total computer geek. I introduced Ron and Tiff. She and I were taking a computer class together in the evening to learn how to create ebooks. Formatting and designing book covers and stuff. I didn’t really understand the formatting stuff, but she caught on real fast. I refer customers to her all the time.” Cecilia corrected herself. “Referred. She died recently. Some kind of accident, I heard. Like I said, sad.”

  “Very.” I didn’t want to be the one to tell her that Tiffany was murdered, but what if Lapaglia was somehow involved and Cecilia was in danger? Or maybe Cecilia had more current information and Detective Ming’s investigation showed it was an accident? I made a mental note to call him when I got home. If it was still a murder investigation, I could just tell him I met someone who knew Tiffany and then he could talk to Cecilia himself. And if it was an accident, then maybe I could quit thinking I’d stumbled into yet another murder situation. Win-win for me either way.

  I decided to change the subject and get more information about Lapaglia, since Cecilia was happy to talk to me. “How often do you see him?”

  “I don’t know. Every six weeks or so?”

  “When was the last time?”

  “Maybe a month ago. He brought in some of his work. I like it well enough. Little simplistic. But I’ve only seen a couple of signatures.”

  I didn’t know what his signature had to do with anything, but I’d never heard his thrillers called simplistic. The ones I had read seemed to weave in lots of story threads. But to each his own, I guess. That’s why there were so many books in the world. I felt more than a little nosy, but if she was going to keep answering my questions, I was going to keep asking them. “So if it’s not his work that drew you to him, then what?”

  She got a wistful, dreamy, somewhat sad smile on her face. “He’s interested in me. It’s fun. I feel I can relax around him. He always asks about my job, what I’m working on.”

  “Which is?”

  Cecilia explained a bit about what she does as a graphic designer at a print shop, then her voice took on a hard edge. “My husband doesn’t know or care how good I am at matching my PMS book, or setting up bleeds, or how I just learned to die cut. Nor would he even listen to an explanation, unless I tied him to a chair and held a gun to his head.”

  I tried not to be too judgmental about the violent imagery, but I guess I could understand her attraction to Lapaglia. Contrasted with Cecilia’s husband, he sounded like the perfect man.

  The tinkly bell chimed and a customer entered the shop, requiring Cecilia’s attention.

  “Thanks for the info, Cecilia, but I’ll let you get back to work now.” I started to leave, but turned around. “Hey. Could I get your direct number in case I have more questions?”

  She selected a business card from the plastic holder on the front counter and scribbled a number on the back. “That’s my cell.”

  While I walked to my car, I called Detective Ming and left a message linking Cecilia to Tiffany. “But, please, don’t tell her you got the info from me, okay?” I didn’t know if he would or not, but decided it would ultimately be fine either way. I mean, I was potentially keeping her safe from a murderer. Whether that was a valid reason for her abusive husband maybe finding out she was having an affair was a bridge to cross another day. “And there’s something else I want to report. This skinny guy with a long gray braid attacked me and maybe followed me around Cherry Creek this morn—” My phone beeped and I looked to see who was calling ... Detective Ming. “Gosh, that was quick,” I said.

  “You were attacked?”

  “Yeah. He grabbed me at a library.”

  “Where?”

  “By my hair.”

  “No, whe
re is this library?”

  “Oh. Steele Street in Cherry Creek.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Was he?”

  “I’d like to think so, but probably not. Maybe his feelings, getting beat up by a girl.”

  “Got a description?”

  “Like I said. Skinny. Wiry. Long gray braid. Hair shaved up the sides. Peacock blue alligator half-boots.”

  “Random or targeted?”

  “Targeted. Definitely. He was talking nonsense about this author I know, Rodolfo Lapaglia and the mob. This braid guy wants me to tell him where he is. And he thinks I’m blackmailing him.”

  “Are you?”

  “What? No.” It seemed like Ming was just humoring me now, not actually taking any kind of report. “Oh! And the Braid was at Union Station on Saturday. You might have seen him yourself.”

  “Hmm.”

  I wondered what that hmm might mean.

  “Any witnesses to the altercation?”

  “No. Wait, a lady saw us right before I kneed him in the ... groin.”

  “Did you get her name?”

  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?”r />
  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.