She reached into her purse and pulled out a bottle of pills. “I just need one of these.” She shook the bottle and her eyes nearly glazed over just looking at them. “Maybe I’ll take two. They calm my nerves.”
“What are they?”
“Anti-anxiety pills. Waldo gave them to me.”
“You mean you don’t have a prescription from your doctor?” I snatched the bottle from her hands and inspected further. No label. “Bunny, you have no idea what these are.”
“Waldo’s a psychotherapist. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing. He said he gets them wholesale or something.”
Things were beginning to make sense. I had never been a huge Bunny Bergen fan, but she never seemed insane. Not until yesterday’s episode on my front lawn. “How long have you been taking these?”
“I don’t know exactly—a week, maybe. What’s today?”
“Tuesday.”
“He brought them over last Monday or Tuesday. He’s been so kind and helpful. Listening to me go on and on about my problems.”
“Have you had any other. . .” I was trying to put it nicely, “. . . bad experiences lately? You know, like yesterday at my house?”
Her eyes brightened. “Yes! I’ve been having blackouts. Not fainting, but where I don’t remember things for a few minutes sometimes. My boys told me the other day that I was walking around the house looking for our dog, Princess, but she died two years ago. I didn’t remember it at all.”
“You didn’t think that was strange?”
“I did. I asked Waldo and he said it was a symptom of my anxiety and I should just double the dose.”
“Dose? There’s no dosage written here.”
“He said take one pill four times a day, or if my anxiety got really bad, two pills each time.”
“Bunny, are you crazy?” I shouted. “You don’t even know what these are! They could be laced with LSD for all you know.”
Bunny’s face scrunched up like a dried pumpkin and she started to cry.
I felt like the scum of the earth. Counseling was obviously not my forte.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That was mean and insensitive of me. I’m just worried for you. This is not the way to handle your problems. Who knows what these are? You’re probably making things worse by taking them.”
She was wiping tears and snot from her face, so I found a couple of mangled tissues in my purse and handed them to her.
“You’re right. But I don’t have the money right now. My divorce has wiped me out. I’ll probably have to sell the house. I can’t even afford a car. The Jaguar is my dad’s.”
“Which divorce? Your most recent?”
She cocked her head and gave me a what-are-you-talking-about kind of look.
“I mean, this isn’t your first, right?”
“Yes.”
“Oh . . .”
“Why?”
“I’d just heard . . . never mind, it doesn’t matter.”
“I know,” she looked me straight in the eyes. “You heard I’ve been divorced twice.”
“Well, four times actually.”
“Four? Why do people say these mean things about me?”
I wanted to melt into the car seat. Surely I had participated in spreading these untruths.
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”
She felt compelled to tell me her story anyway. “Charlie—my oldest boy—is from a disaster of a relationship, but we were never married. When I found out I was pregnant, the jerk skipped town. Never heard from him again. I married Richard ten years ago. He adopted Charlie, then we had Michael a year later. We bought this house right after he was born. Two years ago, Richard-the-wonderful hooked up with an old girlfriend from high school and slapped me with divorce papers. He’s done everything he can to bankrupt me. Now that the divorce is final, he’s going back for full custody. He claims I’m not a fit mother. And I can’t afford the lawyer’s fees. I don’t know what to do.”
Here I was, a mother who preached to my daughters daily about not gossiping and not listening to gossip. Don’t listen to what others tell you, I say all of the time. Find out for yourself. Geez. With that level of hypocrisy I could run for political office.
“Where are your boys right now?” I asked.
“I took them to Richard’s.”
“Oh, no.”
“I didn’t have a choice. I have the gun. I was there when Michelle got shot. Maybe the shooter saw me. I needed to make sure they were safe.”
“Okay, well, when this is all over, I’m going to help you with that. Right now, let’s get you some chamomile tea instead of these pills, okay? We can go to my house.”
Bunny nodded.
“We have enough evidence here to give to the police, so I think that should be our next step. But I want to talk to Howard first.”
“I’m really hungry.”
“Me, too. I know a guy that makes a mean ziti at Fiorenza’s.”
“I don’t want to eat at a restaurant right now though.”
“Me either. Want to order take out?”
She smiled. “Sure.”
I smiled too. I liked Bunny Bergen. “Cool.”
After failing to reach Howard or Colt, I left a message on Colt’s voice mail to check out Oswald’s Fuchs’ credentials as a psychotherapist, and if he happened to run into Howard, tell him to call me. I started the van and motored out of the small parking lot, heading toward Fiorenza’s.
“Thank you for being so kind to me, Barb.”
“I’m not sure I deserve that, Bunny.”
“No, you’re a really nice person. Howard is a lucky man.”
Since she brought up the subject, I decided to go with it. “Bunny, are you . . . interested in my husband?”
“No! Did someone tell you that?”
“Waldo. He said you were obsessed with Howard. And Colt said you came by his apartment one day.”
She shook her head and I could tell she was starting to fume. “It’s not what you think.”
“What should I think? And why was he called to your house yesterday?”
She turned her attention out the window, watching the scenery instead of looking at me. Finally, she answered. “Apparently—this is what I’ve been told, because I don’t remember it—before I walked to your house, I called the FBI in hysterics.” She took a deep breath. “And mentioned his name.”
“Why? I don’t understand. Why Howard?”
“Oh boy,” she squirmed in her seat. “If I tell you . . .” she stopped short of what she was going to say. “No. You don’t want me to tell you and you have to know that Howard loves you very much. That’s all I’m going to say.”
“But—”
“Trust me. You have no idea how much he loves you.”
The smile on her face would have comforted me, except I had just noticed a dark car in my rearview mirror that had made all of the same turns we had made.
“Bunny,” I said. “Don’t freak out, but I think we’re being followed.”
Chapter Sixteen
I KEPT MY EYES ON the rearview mirror as much as possible without crashing the van. When I turned into the parking lot of the Rustic Woods Shopping Center, the car that I thought was tailing us continued on. Bunny and I both breathed a sigh of relief.
We decided we were getting way too paranoid for our own good and had a chuckle before stepping into Fiorenza’s. We bypassed the hostess and moved to the Order Takeout counter. Vito Fiorenza, the owner, greeted us with his usual gusto. “Ciao!” he shouted loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear. “What can I get you this evening?” Vito looked Italian but his family had been in America for several generations. His accent was all Northern Virginia.
“Hi Vito,” I said. “We’d like two Baked Zitis to go, please.”
Vito shook his head. “Baked Ziti isn’t on the menu. Can I interest you in some Fettucini Alfredo? Our new chef makes the best in town.”
“I know your chef.”
&nb
sp; He smiled. “You know Frankie?”
“Yup. And I know he makes Baked Ziti—is he here?”
“Sure!” He turned and waved into the kitchen. “I’ll get him for you.” He whistled. “Hey! Frankie! Someone here to see you! Some pretty ladies say they know you!”
A second later, Frankie appeared wiping his hands on his white but messy apron. He smiled when he saw me and grabbed me for a big hug. “Oh, I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind the hug, eh? It’s nice to see a friendly face. I don’t know many people around here, y’know?”
I made introductions. “Frankie, this is my friend, Bunny Bergen.” Two days earlier I would have pretend gagged when I called her “my friend,” but it seemed natural to say it now.
He shook her hand enthusiastically. “Pleased to meetcha.” His smile could’ve lit a city. “Frankie. Frankie Romano. Any friend of Barbara Marr’s is a friend of mine.”
“We were hoping you could make us some of that wonderful Baked Ziti, but Vito says it’s not on the menu.”
“No problemo! You want Baked Ziti, you got Baked Ziti. Two comin’ up?”
Bunny smiled. “Yes, two please.”
“Vito, this is on me—don’t charge these nice ladies. I’ll cover it.” Frankie put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s gonna be fifteen minutes maybe. You can wait?”
“Thanks. We’ll be right over there.” I pointed to the comfy couch in the corner.
We sat down and made some idle wasn’t-that-nice comments. After an awkward pause, I realized I didn’t have a whole lot to say to Bunny. She evidently wasn’t willing to say anything more about her relationship—or lack thereof—with Howard. And I certainly didn’t want to harp on the issue with the pills Waldo had given her. So the air filled with the pressing silence that people dread when they don’t know what to say next. I scanned the restaurant trying to think of something interesting to say.
Luckily, Bunny finally filled the void. “I love your website,” she said quietly.
I admit, I was a little surprised. My ChickAtTheFlix.com website felt more like a work in progress than a real internet presence. I had started working on it before Halloween and the Mafia-in-my-backwoods fiasco that had introduced me to Frankie, but the whole thing still needed a lot of polishing. I hadn’t quite figured out how to attract readers other than my family and old Mr. Ebersbacher on Cabbage Tree Place, who spent seven of his eight waking hours on the computer.
“Thank you.” I smiled, embarrassed. “You read it?”
She nodded. “I’m a subscriber. I get all of your new articles.”
“I’m still working some bugs out. And trying to figure out how to get a bigger audience.”
“I love movies, too. My favorite article was the one on Speed. That’s such a fun movie and what you wrote was really funny.”
I nodded. That post wasn’t too long ago. “Speed - When Keanu Reeves Could Act,” was one of my favorites as well.
“I’ve seen that movie . . . probably at least twenty times,” she laughed.
“Seriously?” I was surprised. She didn’t seem like an action movie kind of gal to me.
“I love the end.”
“When they make out after narrowly escaping a crushing death in the subway train car?”
She smiled. “I know that it’s cheesy and not very believable, but I still love it.”
I shrugged. “There’s too much emphasis on believability. Who needs reality? I love action movies—that’s one of my favorites. It introduced us to Sandra Bullock, right?”
Thinking of Sandra Bullock reminded me of Roz, who thinks Sandra Bullock walks on water. She’s only seen one movie her whole life, While You Were Sleeping, which she still calls When You Were in the Hospital. But she loved it so much that she just raves about it and Sandra Bullock. Even though she knows nothing about The Academy of Motion Pictures, she will tell anyone she meets that Sandra should have won an Academy Oscar Award for that AMAZING movie, When You Were in the Hospital. I pulled out my cell phone and hit her speed dial number. I had told her I would call when I had information, and I didn’t want her to worry.
Roz’s husband, Peter, answered and said she wasn’t home. The school crossing guard had called her to discuss a school-related issue, so Roz went to meet her. That sort of occurrence wasn’t uncommon. Because she was the PTA president, she got roped into all sorts of things that I considered silly, but Roz took it well and was always willing to help.
I decided to call Peggy and clue her in on what Lance’s sister had told us. That’s when I began to get worried. Simon, Peggy’s husband, said that Roz had called and asked Peggy to join her at the gym.
“That’s strange,” I said when I clicked my phone off.
“What?”
“Peter said Roz went to meet Shashi, but Peggy got a call from Roz to meet her at the gym. How can Roz be in two places at once?”
I was still pondering the issue when my phone buzzed. Caller ID said it was Peggy. Nice timing, I thought. Pushing the talk button, I started in. “Hey there lady, are you with Roz?”
The response was not one I expected. “IF YOU WANT TO SEE YOUR FRIENDS ALIVE, BRING BUNNY BERGEN TO THE WINSLOW BUILDING ON MIMOSA PARKWAY. WE SENT AN ESCORT.”
I think I stopped breathing. I could feel the blood drain from my hands and face. The voice was mechanical and unrecognizable—as if the speaker was talking through a vocal masking device.
The line went dead. “Hello?” I yelled, panic surging. I stared at the phone, not knowing what to do next.
“What’s wrong?” Bunny asked.
How do you tell a woman who’s already on the verge of a nervous breakdown that someone wants her bad enough to kidnap two innocent women?
The little bell on the door announced another customer who told the hostess in an Indian accent that her friends were already here. A moment later, Shashi Kapoor slid onto the sofa next to Bunny. Shashi had lost her usual Sari, and instead, sported blue jeans and a Redskins sweatshirt. A plain brown baseball cap topped off the unusually American ensemble.
“Hello, ladies,” she murmured. She’d also instantly traded the Indian accent for a Georgia Peach Southern twang. OMG as the kids say. I certainly didn’t see that one coming. How had my kind, caring crossing guard been roped into this crime? And while I struggled to understand what was happening, I noticed her right hand stuffed suspiciously in her sweatshirt pocket.
Bunny started breathing hard and looked back and forth between me and Georgia Peach Shashi.
“You can tell Bunny what’s wrong when we get to your car,” Shashi said softly.
“You’re the escort?”
Shashi nodded. “Don’t be obvious, just leave and if anyone asks, say you’ll be right back.”
“Barb, what’s happening?”
“Bunny, whatever you do, don’t lose it. This is no time to showcase your talent for shrill, animals-of-the-Amazon mating calls. Just follow me—quietly. And whatever she says, do it.”
As the three of us stood to leave, Frankie arrived with our food nicely wrapped in a Fiorenza’s bag. “I threw in some bread and salads for you too,” he said.
Grabbing the bag, I suddenly felt very lucky to have befriended an ex-gangster. But I needed a code and I needed it quick-like. The problem was, my stomach churned from fear, and Uncle Ralph was knocking on my esophagus.
“Thanks, Frankie,” I said, hoping my grim, green face alone might throw him a hint. “You’re a great friend. I’m so glad I met you. Remember the night we met? Boy, that was a night, huh?”
Shashi cleared her throat loudly which I took to mean, move your butt or I’ll shoot it off.
“Okay, gotta go.” So far my code seemed totally pathetic and entirely un-decipherable. That’s when I was inspired to spell out the word HELP. “We’ll go HOME now,” I said. “And we’ll EAT these LITTLE ziti and . . .”
Damn! I didn’t have a word for P. Potato? Pigtails? Pendulum? Then I had it. “. . . and POP open a bottle of wine.”
We were walking through the door with Shashi practically pushing us when I threw one more clue out for good measure. “May the Karma be with you, Frankie!”
Shashi followed us to my rental van. She made sure we were both in, then took the back seat behind Bunny. “Pop a bottle of wine?” she drawled. “Do you think I was born yesterday?”
“Evidently not born yesterday or in India,” I quipped.
“You know where to go—get moving. If we’re not walking through the doors in ten minutes, they drop one. Five minutes later they drop the other.”
“Drop?”
“Kill,” I said as I slipped the key into the ignition and turned over the engine. “They’ll kill Peggy and Roz if we don’t show up on time.”
“Who’s they?” asked Bunny.
I pulled out of the parking space, around the service road and onto Rustic Woods Parkway. “Good question. I’m assuming you are . . . Bunny, who were those other two?”
“Other two what?”
“Dynasty Dames. There was that KiKi person and . . .”
Shashi seemed stymied. “So you really were on to us?”
Bunny picked up the paper we found in the Pooh Bear. “Marilyn Schmutz and Anita Abernathy.” She turned around so she was looking at Shashi. “You’re one of them?”
I hung a left. “What do you mean we really were on to you?”
“Krystle said Michelle told Bunny. Did she tell you too?”
Bunny narrowed her eyes at Shashi. “Michelle didn’t tell me anything. What would she have told me?”
I stopped at a red light and had a mini-meltdown. “There are way too many questions being asked and not enough answers. First, I want to know your real name.”
“I don’t think you’re really in the position to be demanding answers, do you?”
“See. Another question. What’s your real name?”
“Fine—Marilyn Schmutz. Now you answer one for me.”
“Deal. But then I get another answer after.”
“When did you find out about us?”
I looked at my watch. “About forty five minutes ago.”
“What?”
Citizen Insane (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #2) Page 12
