This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are entirely the product of the author’s twisted imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons (living, dead, or anywhere in between) is purely coincidental.
Cover art by Katerina Vamvasaki
Citizen Insane
Copyright 2011 by Karen Fraunfelder Cantwell
Books in the Barbara Marr Murder Mystery Series:
Take the Monkeys and Run (#1)
Citizen Insane (#2)
Silenced by the Yams (#3 – release date, December, 2011)
Thank you (a million times) to the many people who assisted me in bringing this novel to readers: Patrick Cantwell, Misha Crews, LC Evans, Moe and Linda Fraunfelder, Nancy Fulda, LB Gschwandtner, Michelle Hill, Linda Cupp Mihay, Colleen Tompkins, Maria Schneider, and Barbara Silkstone. I couldn’t a done it withoutcha.
I dedicate this novel to my wonderful children.
Chapter one
There was a time when my life wasn’t that exciting. I’m a soccer mom living in the suburbs. The only thrills in my day should be the frantic road races between ballet lessons and the much-too-closely-scheduled orthodontist appointment on the other side of the universe. If you think a stunt driver knows how to maneuver a vehicle, wait until you see me behind the wheel careening through yellow lights with a hundred-dollar dental visit at stake.
So, when I ran a woman down with my mini-van in the middle of the night, only to find out that someone else had tried to kill her with a 45 caliber semi-automatic pistol, I assumed things couldn’t get any more dramatic. I assumed wrong. Just twenty-four hours later I found myself in the stairwell of an abandoned building, with a gun in my hand and a female hostage telling me to “do what Keanu would do.” I’ve never met another mother with days like these.
My name is Barbara Marr and I find dead people.
Or, almost dead people.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. The story really started with my need for a foot rub.
*****
On a sunny and cool Monday morning I sipped on coffee while suffering a broken heart and a pair of achy arches. Don’t ask me why, but when I get upset, my feet start to hurt. When this happens, I generally turn to my husband Howard for a delicious foot rub. The sensation when he works his fingers around my toes, over the ball, and under my arch is nearly orgasmic. Howard was the reason for my despair, however, so instead, I scheduled a pedicure. Not just any pedicure – a Sweet Tangerine Spice Ultra-Ultimate Pedicure at La Voila Day Spa. It wouldn’t end with a passionate tumble between the sheets like Howard’s foot rubs did, but at least I’d get a good exfoliation.
The reason for my sorry state? Infidelity. I can’t cook, sew, knit, crochet or hook rugs and I hate scrapbooking, but I love my three beautiful girls more than anything in life, and do a darn good job on the mothering front, even if I order in our Thanksgiving meals pre-cooked. I have a movie review website called ChickAtTheFlix.com that gets a couple hits a day (okay, maybe a week). And I am married to a man who I once believed to be faithful. However, after spying him through the window at Fiorenza’s, sharing wine and fettucini with a well-endowed blond floozy, I was starting to have my doubts.
I suppose I brought it on myself. See, a few months ago, Howard revealed a twenty-five year long secret – he’d been raised Sammy Donato, the son of Mario Donato, who got whacked by one Tito Buttaro. And he wasn’t an engineer working for a local government contractor, he was an FBI agent bent on finding his father’s killer. Really. You can’t make this stuff up.
Anyway, after that little discovery, I still loved him, but did I really know him? So I kicked him out and told him to date me and win back my affections. “Let’s start over,” I said.
Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Only, the dates were far and few between. His FBI job kept him too busy or out of town, often for weeks at a time. Some days I could barely remember what he looked like and would have to watch Ocean’s Eleven just to feel close to him. That’s because he bears a striking resemblance to George Clooney. I know – lucky me. Or not so lucky, evidently. Was it possible some other woman had snatched up my handsome husband while I was playing silly games? I wallowed in despair, wondering if I had lost him forever.
I was depressed and really needed that pedicure.
I looked at my watch and realized that spa time was right around the corner. My two cats, Indiana Jones and Mildred Pierce, were pacing and meowing, so I emptied a cup of food into each cat food bowl then slipped on my shoes. I was ready to step outside and check the weather when the phone rang. It was my neighbor, Roz Walker. I picked up the receiver.
“Hey,” I said. “You ready for the foot massage of your life?”
“I’m ready, but while it’s on my mind, do you have plans for tonight?” she asked.
“Other than rip Howard’s Mr. McNuggets from his cheating body and throw them to a pack of hungry wild boar? No.”
“Herd.”
“Heard what?”
“No. It’s a herd. A herd of wild boar.”
“You know how to take the fun out of everything don’t you?”
“Why don’t you leave Howard’s manliness intact, and come with me to the PTA meeting instead?”
I moaned loud enough for Bangladesh to hear. I hated PTA meetings. Not my gig. Roz was PTA president and my best friend and we’d stayed best friends because she had never asked me to attend.
“PLEASE!” she begged. “I promise, I’ll never ask again, but I really need you there tonight. I need a friendly face in the crowd.”
“Crowd? Isn’t it only like, six people?”
“Eight, sometimes nine.”
“Let’s talk about it at the spa.”
“No, I want to enjoy myself there and this just gets me too upset.”
“What’s the deal?”
“Yearbook scandal.”
I laughed. “Yearbook scandal? What does that mean?”
“You’re stalling. Will you please come?”
“Fine.” I sighed. “I’ll do it.”
“Thank you! You’re wonderful. And trust me, you won’t be disappointed. More than tempers are going to fly at this meeting. Are you ready to leave? You’re driving, right?”
“Yup. I’m just going to step outside to see if I need a jacket.”
“I’ll be right over.”
I put the phone back into the cradle and opened the door that led to the breezeway connecting our house to the garage. My mother’s intuition, and the fact that I could hear someone moaning, told me there was a problem in my yard. I quickly circled toward the front of my house, afraid Roz had been hurt.
I rounded the corner. “Roz?” I yelled.
No Roz. Just a strange lady whimpering and walking in circles on my front lawn. The operative word here is “strange.” Unfortunately, this woman was not a stranger. I knew her – Bunny Bergen. She lived one street over and her kids went to the same school as mine. Towering close to six feet tall, she had a Cindy Crawford body and talked all breathy as if she were trying to be sexy, but really it just sounded like she was always on the verge of an asthma attack. Then there was the way she looked at me, unblinking and intense like a crocodile on crack. I had always considered Bunny Bergen an odd duck, and that was before I found her turning circles in front of my house like Mel Gibson after the bars closed.
Why? I thought. Why me? Didn’t I have enough problems?
I watched her for another minute, trying to decide what her deal was. Maybe Bunny had rabies. She wasn’t foaming at the mouth, but everything else sort of pointed to the possibility. I considered calling animal
control. Maybe they’d shoot her with a tranquilizing dart and put us both out of her misery.
“Bunny?” I was careful to take slow steps. She was still circling neurotically and her mumblings became more audible as I approached.
“Poor Bunny, poor Bunny, poor Bunny,” she wheezed.
That’s when I spotted Roz in her signature floral print dress and tan loafers. She swatted at a gnat that buzzed her blonde, Dorothy Hamill bob then moved tentatively toward me. We exchanged silent what’s-her-problem shrugs. Meanwhile, the demented woman seemed completely unaware that we were there. She kept turning and muttering. “Poor Bunny, poor Bunny, poor Bunny.” Every second rotation or so she would stop, look up at the sky for a beat, then repeat the drill.
Roz and I traded helpless glances. What exactly was the protocol for dealing with crazy Bunnies? Call the police? St. Elizabeth’s? Dr. Phil?
“What should we do?” whispered Roz.
I shrugged. “Nothing, I guess. We need to get going or we’ll miss our appointment.”
“We can’t leave her here like this!”
“Why not? She’ll find her way home. Eventually.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Barb . . .”
I looked at my watch. Ten after eleven. Our pedicure appointments were scheduled for noon. Damn! We weren’t rich, spoiled mothers who scheduled weekly manicures, pedicures, and chin-hair waxes. This was a special occasion, thanks to my three beautiful daughters who had each given me a gift certificate for Christmas. I had been saving them, and now – deep in the throes of marital misery – the time was right. No trippy twinkie was going to mess with my Sweet Tangerine Spice Ultra-Ultimate Pedicure at La Voila Day Spa. This Bunny was goin’ down.
“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 encou
ntered 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 . . .”
Citizen Insane: A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery Page 1
