Citizen Insane (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #2) (2 page)

“Hey! Bunny!” I shouted.

She stopped turning, but her gaze was still fixed on the ground.

“Barb!” Roz whispered. “Be careful. She might be in shock.”

I waved a dismissive hand. I knew what I was doing. Maybe.

Moving closer, I shouted again.

“Bunny!”

She looked at me and the tiny hairs on my neck sprung upright. It was the creepiest stare I’d ever seen. The proverbial lights were on but no one was in the
casa
. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought we were in a low-budget zombie movie.

Now, I’m a true believer that life imitates art, and I love the art of film. That’s why, when in doubt, I imitate the movies. This particular situation called for a little maneuver from one of my all time favorites,
Moonstruck
. Grabbing Bunny’s face with both hands, I looked straight into her eerie, zombie eyes, and pulled out an impressive Cher impression. “Snapoutuvit!” I yelled.

Bingo! Like magic, Bunny’s face changed and I knew she finally recognized me. Always trust a good screenwriter to get you out of a sticky situation.

“Barb?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s Barb. Listen, Bunny, you need to go home. We’ve got an appointment for pedicures.”

“Barb!” Roz’s forehead was all scrunched-up and screaming disapproval. She moved in to take control.

“Bunny,” she said in a soothing, motherly voice, “What happened?”

Ah geez. She’d gone and done it. Not only was I feeling guiltier than the dog that ate the birthday cake, but I was fairly sure the very saintly and patient Roz was going to make us late for our Sweet Tangerine Spice Ultra-Ultimate Pedicures. Yes, she was probably doing the right thing, and yes, she was a wonderful person for it, but truth be told, I just didn’t care for Bunny Bergen.

First, there was her name. Come on. Bunny? What grown woman allows herself to be called Bunny? Supposedly, her real name was Bertha. Okay, not so good, but really—isn’t Bert or Bertie better than Bunny? Eesh.

Then there was her obsequious and always-happy attitude, not to mention the fact that she had the body of a super-model. No single person should be that happy and stunning to boot, especially after giving birth twice. It threw off the balance of nature.

Finally, there was the issue of her questionable source of income. She was a Marrier—she married then made her money from the subsequent divorces. No one knew for sure, but it had been estimated that she had four divorces under her diamond-studded Gucci belt. Supposedly she had more lawyers than Joan Rivers had plastic surgeons.

So, yes, I had trouble working up enough sympathy to justify missing my special treat-of-the-year. It was, after all, a Sweet Tangerine Spice Ultra-Ultimate Pedicure. Ultra-Ultimate.

Problem was, Roz was making me look bad. Rubbing Bunny on the back, talking in soothing tones. Being nice. I finally decided I had no alternative other than to join Roz and see the Bunny rescue to the end.

“Bunny?” Roz was asking, “Do you know where you are?”

Bunny did a visual scan of the area, then nodded and sniffed a little. “This is Barb’s house, right?”

“Yeah, it’s my house. That’s good, we’re making progress,” I said, still having trouble feeling the moment. “What’s your problem?”

Roz shot me a glare fit to kill.

I reworded the question. “I mean, are you okay?”

“I . . . hit a bunny,” she whispered after a moment of silence, as if she was sharing a terrible secret.

“A rabbit?” Roz whispered back. “You hit a rabbit?”

Bunny nodded and tears started rolling down her cheeks.

I’m a sucker for tears, and I had to admit, this poor woman was starting to get to me. “How?” I asked.

“With my car.”

I looked around. You couldn’t miss it—brand spanking new, gold Jaguar convertible. No Jag in my driveway or on the street.

“Where?” I asked.

The Bunn-ster went all glassy on us again. I threw my arms in the air, exasperated. Roz took over. She moved closer and attempted to put an arm around Bunny’s shoulders, which wasn’t easy, since Bunny was about seven inches taller than her. The whole thing was just too awkward, so she eventually settled for patting Bunny lightly on the lower back.

“Bunny?” Roz’s tone was far calmer and more comforting than mine. “Bunny? Where did you hit the bunny?”

“I was driving home. I turned into my driveway then it was just there. Like out of nowhere. And there was nothing I could do. I hit the bunny.”

Bunny hit a bunny. See? This is what I mean. How can a person take such a scenario seriously? People with animal names risk this ridiculous sort of redundancy, that’s all I’m saying.

“How did you end up here?” Roz asked.

“I walked through the woods,” she continued. “I needed Howard. Is he here?”

Howard? My blood started to boil. Why did she want my husband? Wasn’t 911 good enough for her?

First that blond bimbo in the restaurant last night, now Bunny Bergen. It seemed that Howard had become The Roaming Romancer of Rustic Woods, Virginia. I had lost him to skanky tramps on the prowl for handsome, lonely husbands.

While deciding whether to answer Bunny’s question or land a hard fist onto her pretty, plump, collagen-injected kisser, a cell phone started to ring. It was coming from Roz’s sweater.

“Get that, will you?” She was still patting Bunny’s back.

I slipped the phone out of her pocket and took a quick peek at the caller ID. It was our friend Peggy who was joining us for pedicure day.

“Hey,” I answered, hand on my hip and grumpy frown on my face.

“Ciao, baby,” she answered back in her usual bouncy tone. Peggy is a woman who embraces people, ideas and cultures with a passion. She converted to Judaism before marrying Simon Rubenstein, then after honeymooning across Italy, my red-headed, fair skinned, Irish-descended friend took to the Italian culture as if she’d been born into it. She often forgets that her maiden name was O’Malley, not Minnelli. Like most Italians, Peggy has a vivacious joy for life.

“I’m just leaving my house,” she continued, “You want I should drive around and pick up you two lovely Signoras?”

“Come on over, but we’ve encountered a bit of a . . . problem,” I said.

“Problem? Please tell me you haven’t found more monkeys!” She was laughing.

“Not monkeys. Bunnies.”

Just then Bunny started wailing again.

“What was that?” Peggy asked.

I circled around and lowered my voice. “Just get over here. You can see for yourself.”

“Be there in a flash.”

Peggy lived two streets over on Dogwood Blossom Court. She would probably be in my driveway before I could dial the zoo to tell them I’d found their lost cuckoo bird.

Meanwhile, Roz, the ever wonderful and patient mother, patted and cooed and eventually soothed the unstable Bunny. I looked at my watch. Twenty after eleven. Forty minutes until our appointments. We still had time to wrap up this fruit cake, whip her home in Peggy’s van, tear off to La Voila Day Spa, and plant our tooshies into those cozy massage chairs with just seconds to spare. Sweet Tangerine Spice Ultra-Ultimate Pedicures could still be ours. There is a God.

Peggy’s green Town and Country van turned into the driveway.

“Okay,” I said, turning back to Roz and Bunny. “Here’s the plan. Bunny, you need rest. You come with Roz, okay? We’re going to take you home. Is that okay with you?”

She nodded. It was a slow, sort of half-nod, but I was taking it.

“Roz, stay here with Bunny for just a minute, I’m going to convince Peggy to help us take Bunny back to her house.”

I popped over to Peggy’s van. She had rolled her window down. I didn’t waste any time. “Here’s the scoop: Bunny Bergen ran over a rabbit with her Jag and snapped. Meltdown. She came looking for Howard. I’d kill her, but we don’t have time—I want my pedicure. If we can take her back to her house in your van, we can still make it to La Voila in time—you game?”

Peggy didn’t answer, just stared at Bunny. Admittedly, it was a lot to throw at a person all at once.

“Peggy—they’re Ultra-Ultimate Pedicures. Ultra. Ultra. They’ll soak our feet in that warm wax, then rub them and scrub them until we’re almost asleep in those womb-like chairs. Remember what it was like, before kids? When we had money to throw away on luxuries? We can’t miss this. I’m all for leaving her here, but Roz has this whole Mother Teresa thing going on . . .”

“Yeah, get her in the van. Do you have the gift certificates?”

“I’ll get them. You help Roz.”

Peggy helped Roz guide Bunny into the back seat while I ran into the house and grabbed my purse and the ever precious gift certificates. I locked up the house lickety-split.

By the time I got back Peggy was in the driver’s seat buckling up and Roz and Bunny were seated awkwardly on the middle bench. I hopped into the front passenger seat.

Bunny’s house was less than a minute away. With just some extra gas to the engine, we could be there in no time, then on our way to Heaven.

“Come on Peggy,” I said. “I feel the need! The need for speed!”

Peggy put her gear shift into reverse and we were on our way.

Roz rolled her eyes. “You and your
Shot Gun
quotes. Do you think we should be leaving her alone?”

“First off, it’s
Top Gun
,” I corrected her. “Don’t you EVER watch movies?” It was my turn to roll some eyes. “Secondly, she’s looking much better to me. We’ll sit her down with a cup of tea and she’ll be fine.” I looked at Bunny who was rubbing her head. “Bunny, you okay?”

Her response, although slower than I would have liked, was positive.

“Yeah. I’m . . . I’m okay. I’m . . . well . . . I’m, you know . . . embarrassed. I just don’t understand.”

“Don’t understand what?”

“Why I’m . . . in this van.”

“Do you remember walking through the woods?”

She shook her head.

“Do you remember a rabbit?”

She shook her head again.

“Do you remember asking about Howard?”

Her face went red. She shook her head yet again. “Why would I . . . ask about Howard? He’s your husband.”

“Yeah, my thoughts exactly.” Suppressing an urge to reach back and strangle her skinny little neck, I started to query her further, but was interrupted by Peggy.

“Uh oh,” she said. “This can’t be good.”

Scooting back around, I agreed. Either an accident had occurred or else someone’s house was on fire. Red lights flashed on fire trucks—I counted two of them. There was also a fire rescue vehicle and an ambulance. As we got closer, I realized they were parked right in front of Bunny’s house. Two black sedans with more antennae than a radio station and a Fairfax County police car topped off the circus.

All of this for a dead rabbit?

I put the gift certificates to my mouth and kissed those Sweet Tangerine Spice Pedicures goodbye.

Chapter Two

“I THOUGHT I HEARD SIRENS a few minutes ago,” Roz said.

“Who could hear anything with Bunny wailing like a cat in heat?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. The comment was unkind. Roz shot me a look to shame, and rightly so. I whispered under my breath. “Sorry.”

Peggy slowed to a near crawl and whistled. “Hey girls, look at the sexy cop in the sunglasses. If I weren’t married . . .”

Dressed in a black suit, hands in his pockets, revealing a gun in a chest holster, and moving toward an unmarked car, was a man I had known for over twenty years. I slapped Peggy hard.

“That’s not a sexy cop. That’s my husband.”

“That’s Howard?” She squinted for a better look. “He cleans up nice. You know, it’s really true—he does look like George Clooney.”

Roz piped up from the back. “Why is Howard here?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” Full of fury, I bounded out of the van and slammed the passenger-side door a little too hard behind me. “Sorry, Peggy!” I yelled as I stomped forward, eyes focused on Howard. He stood at one of the two unmarked cars, talking to a uniformed policeman.

Green Ashe Place was a much longer street than my own White Willow Circle. Bunny’s monstrosity of a house was third from the left. She had one of the largest properties in the neighborhood: over an acre of land graced by an enormous brick front colonial house. Two tall white pillars added a hint of dignified Southern charm to the enviable homestead that sat back nearly two hundred feet from the street. A long macadam driveway made a bee-line to her three-car garage.

The flashing, rumbling emergency vehicles lined both sides of the street, while the police cruiser blocked access to Bunny’s house. Howard’s car was parked behind a fire engine on the right hand side of the road, not far from where we had stopped.

The problem was, Peggy was right. Howard always looked incredibly sexy when he wore a suit, sunglasses and a gun. And the FBI badge on his hip really got my juices flowing. The whole hot-guy crime fighter look was new and always robbed me of a breath or two. By the time I reached his side, the wind had practically gone out of my angry sails.

“Barb! What are you doing here?”