Citizen Insane (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #2) (7 page)

By eleven-thirty, I had seen all three girls to bed, taken a shower, sipped a half-glass of wine and cried a tear or two over Howard and his new woman. I only allowed myself two tears though. The crying and moping was going to stop pronto. No more whining. I crawled into bed and concluded that tomorrow was a new day. I wasn’t ready to be a divorcee. I loved my husband. True, there were many handsome and eligible men out there like Fire Fighter Russell Crow, but it seemed to me that a George Clooney in the bush was better than two Russell Crows in the hand.

With that, the decision to win back my husband was made and I turned out my light, calm and resolute in declaring war at the break of dawn.

Then the phone rang.

I groped for the receiver. Unidentifiable items clinked and clanked as they hit my floor in my failed attempt to answer the call before it woke up the household. Finally, my hands landed on the cordless receiver. I clicked the “talk” button, hopeful Howard would be on the other end. “Hello?”

So much for hope.

“Barb?” The female voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it at first.

“Yeah. . .”

“Can you come over? I’m sick.”

“Bunny? Is that you?”

“Yes. It’s just so awful. Can you come?”

“Well . . . I just got into bed. Don’t you have . . . you know—friends you could call?”

“I don’t have any friends. Not anymore.”

“Bunny . . .”

“Please Barb! I need someone right now. I’m . . . I’m scared.” She seemed to be slurring her words. Even I was a little worried for her.

“Fine. I’ll be there in a few minutes. I need to get dressed.”

A dial tone in my ears was the only response.

“Bunny?”

Dial tone.

Damn! I slammed the phone down.

I turned on my light and slipped a pair of sweats over my pajama bottoms, then peeked out my window at Roz’s house. I didn’t want to go to Bunny’s alone. That woman was one fry short of a Happy Meal. Reinforcements were needed. Thankfully, Roz’s bedroom light shone brightly. She was probably reading. I reached for the phone and dialed her number.

“What’s wrong?” she answered on the first ring.

“I know it’s late. Sorry. I just got this weird call from Bunny. She says she’s scared and wants me to come over.”

“Doesn’t she have any friends to call?”

“I already asked that question.”

“And?”

“She says she doesn’t have any friends anymore.”

“After tonight, I guess that’s no surprise.”

“My thoughts exactly. I’m not going over there alone. She threatened to kill Michelle after all.”

“Now you’re just being silly. She only said that in the heat of the moment.”

“I won’t go if you don’t come with me.”

“Fine. You drive.”

“I’ll be right over.”

I checked on the girls and taped a note to my bedroom door just in case any of them woke up while I was gone and came looking for me. I put on my jacket and tapped the pocket to make sure my cell phone was there. Check. Finally, I slipped on a pair of clogs, picked up my keys and exited the house as quietly as possible, locking the door behind me.

The air had grown chilly and I shivered as I crawled into my car. After a minute of fiddling to get the key into the ignition, I turned the engine over, shattering the dark silence of the night with its oil-deprived roar.

A knock on the passenger’s window startled me until I realized it was Roz. She opened the door and slipped in. “Thought I’d save you the long drive to my house,” she said smiling.

“I’m glad you’re so chipper at this late hour.”

Determined to make this strange call of the wild short and sweet, I threw the gear shift into reverse, backed out and sped toward the stop sign at the end of White Willow Circle.

Roz white-knuckled her armrest. “It’s a mini-van, Barb. Not a Ferrari.”

“Sorry.” I looked both ways for a safe turn onto Tall Birch Avenue. “I just want to get this over with.”

“Be careful. We’ve got all night.”

One of my biggest gripes about Rustic Woods was the No Street Lights rule. Supposedly the issue was “light pollution.” I grumbled often and made several complaints to the homeowners association, as did other residents, to no avail. My headlights barely made a dent in the dense blackness of the moonless night. However, it was late, and there wasn’t another set of headlights anywhere around, so I turned left. We’d be at Bunny’s in less than a minute.

I couldn’t get Bunny’s odd behavior out of my mind and was about to ask Roz what she thought, when she shouted. “Barb, watch out!”

I hit the brakes, but not before I heard the thump.

My neck ached from stopping so fast. “What happened?”

“You hit something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. It’s too dark. I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A deer maybe?”

“I never saw a deer.”

“Well you hit something!”

“Okay, okay. Calm down. I’ll get out and check.” Shifting back to park and leaving the engine idling, I opened my door. My feet landed on the street rather than a dead animal, so things were looking up. I ran my fingers along the front side of my van—no dents. Another good sign. No front bumper damage either as far as I could tell and nothing on the ground in front. Maybe Roz was wrong. Maybe I hadn’t hit anything. I continued along the front bumper when it became very obvious that Roz was right. Well, she was sort of right. I hadn’t hit something.

I had hit someone.

Michelle Alexander.

Chapter Six

ROZ OPENED THE DOOR WHEN I started shrieking.

“No!” I yelled. “You’ll step on her! Crawl through the driver’s side.”

She scrambled across while I knelt by Michelle’s body. The beams from my headlights didn’t offer a ton of visibility since she was sprawled on the ground beside my van rather than in front of it, but there was enough light to see the face of my victim. My mind swirled at the possibility that I had just killed someone. Barbara Marr: Mother Killer. My unflattering mug shot would be plastered across every newscast and newspaper in the DC Metro area. People would point at the picture and ask, “Is that Charles Manson?” “No,” others would respond. “That’s The Mother Killer—Barbara Marr. Hope she fries.” My daughters would have to hang their heads in shame in school while I sat in a cold jail cell and learned to play the harmonica.

Of course, I would only be a murderer if she was actually dead. Jumping to conclusions of her demise wasn’t fair to anyone. Taking precious seconds to calm my erratic respiration and faster-than-the speed-of-light pulse, I crawled closer to her face. I recalled a CPR course I had taken with my mother a few years earlier. Check for breathing. There was something about checking for breathing. How hard could that be?

I put my face even with her chest and tried to see if it rose and fell, but my eyeballs were actually pulsing, if that’s possible, so everything seemed to be moving. Probably some horrible curse of accidental mother murderers. Homicidal Eyeball Pulsing Syndrome. I would have to ask my optometrist about that.

“Who is it?” Roz asked. She was behind me now.

“Michelle Alexander. I think she’s dead! Do you have your cell phone?”

“I forgot it!”

I reached in my jacket pocket for my own, but pulled out Bethany’s Game Boy instead. I felt in my other pocket. No cell phone. Damn! “Run back to the house and call 911!”

Roz was gone in a flash.

Since the look-see test wasn’t working, I decided I should feel near her nose for any sign of breathing. Only, I was breathing heavier than a hormone-heavy teenage boy at a cheerleader convention. I couldn’t tell if the breath was hers or mine.

Then she moaned and coughed a bit.

I probably broke all sorts of rules about moving accident victims, yada, yada, yada, but I wasn’t thinking clearly and I was just so thankful that she was alive that I lifted her head off the ground.

“Michelle?”

No response except a small rattle in her breathing. When I put my hand on her chest, it felt wet and warm. I assumed that was blood, but it was just too hard to tell. The moment called for a flashlight. Remembering that I had one in my van, I started to put her head back down so I could retrieve it. She moaned again.

“Michelle?”

I thought she was trying to talk, but it was hard to tell.

“Michelle? Do you want to say something?”

She moved her head in what might have been interpreted as a nod.

“Michelle. I’m so sorry—I didn’t see you—”

She gurgled and spat up some blood.

“Hang on. Roz went to call 911. Help should be here soon.” I rocked her a little.

“Poo,” she said, barely audible.

“What?”

“Poo,” she coughed. She grabbed my arm and pulled her head close to mine. She looked me in the eyes. “Pooh Bear.”

“Pooh Bear? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

She nodded and closed her eyes. Seconds later, she went completely limp. I screamed again. Michelle Alexander had just died in my arms. I’d killed her. My head swam and without thinking I jumped up and started running.

The problem was, I ran right into a low-hanging tree limb. A big one.

I’m in a room without light. In the darkness, I hear a voice.

“Barb? Barb? Are you okay?”

The voice is familiar. I realize the room isn’t dark—my eyes are closed. I’m desperately drowsy as if I’ve been drugged. My eyes don’t seem to want to open.

“Meryl? Is that you?”

When times get tough, two people tend to find their way into my world of dreams—the ever sexy Lord of Great Movies, Steven Spielberg, and the one true Goddess of the Cinema, Meryl Streep. I mean really, if you’re gonna dream, dream big, right?

Desperate to see Meryl Streep, I struggle, but eventually manage to pry my eyes open. She’s a vision standing above me awash in a luminous glow. Her hair bounces gently, as if swept by a soft breeze. But there is no breeze. It’s just her goddess-ness that makes her so wispy and willowy.

“Barb. It’s time.” She has the voice of an angel.

Still holding my eyes open with my fingers, I apologize for not understanding her.

“Time for what, Meryl?”

“To win another Oscar. Will you write my award winning screenplay? I have a title in mind—The Patient Englishman in Africa.”

I don’t know how to answer. I’ve never written a screenplay before. “I’m not sure—”

“We’ll have your husband play the romantic lead.”

“Howard?”

“He looks like George Clooney, does he not?”

Before I can protest her poor casting choice, Meryl transforms before my pried-open eyes. She’s blonde, but she’s not Meryl anymore. There is something about her I recognize. The perfect makeup and nails. The body that won’t stop. She saunters toward me. It’s a proud and pompous saunter.

“I know you!” I scream. “You’re Fiorenza’s Floozy!”

She flips her hair and smooths her tight, barely-below-the-unmentionables short skirt. Howard appears out of nowhere. He walks up behind Fiorenza’s Floozy and kisses the back of her neck. His hands caress her body. Floozy moans and groans.

“Howard!” I scream, hyperventilating. “We’re still married. What are you doing?”

He lifts his head. “She’s sexy. What do you want me to do? Ignore my natural impulses?” He returns to Floozie’s neck.

“I’ll get sexy.”

Howard laughs and takes another break from practically devouring Floozy altogether. “Get real. You haven’t worn a pair of heels in ten years. You never wear skirts or dresses. You probably don’t even have a push-up bra.”

“I . . . I don’t have anything to push up.” I look down at my sad excuse for a chest. It’s true. Nursing three babies has sucked the life right out of my once proud and perky friends. Whereas Floozy is sporting a pair of well-crafted and outrageously expensive melons, on a good day my own breasts barely resemble two dehydrated garbanzo beans.