As it turned out the playground and adjoining public restroom were only a very small part of the larger, grassy park that lay on the other side of the hill. And what encircled that grassy park? Pink and white blossoms. In what must have been a mimic of the Washington, DC Tidal Basin landscaping, easily a hundred cherry trees grew around the circumference of the park.
The girls tore happily down the hill.
Howard and I exchanged glances.
“I think I’m going to like it here,” I said.
“No crowds on the Metro?”
I sighed in relief. “No crowds on the Metro.”
The air was warming nicely as we made our way down to the center of the grassy dell, and a gentle breeze kissed my face. Howard and I pulled a thin blanket from one of the backpacks and sat while the girls danced under blossoms that floated to the ground like pink rain.
We stayed all day, eating our yummy sandwiches and frozen bananas, soaking in the sun and throwing a Frisbee. The little hidden gem of a park even attracted a funny juggler and a couple of musicians. And there was kite flying, just like the happy foot cream commercial. For that moment in time, our life was perfect.
“I told you it would be fun,” I said to Howard as we packed up to leave.
He squinted at me. “You only remember the good things.”
I nodded. “The good things. Shangri-La.”
“Missing Impossible”
A Barbara Marr Mystery Short
By Karen Cantwell
!!!SPOILER ALERT!!!
Haven’t read Take the Monkeys and Run?
Mysteries revealed in that laugh-out-loud novel
become integral components in this action-packed short story.
Proceed at your own risk!
Or, purchase your Kindle version of Take the Monkeys and Run today!
“Missing Impossible”
We were on a stakeout. The very air around us was electric with the excitement of potential danger. On the edge of my seat with anticipation, my mind was ablaze with rich and vivid imaginings of what wild adventure might lay ahead.
Right. In the movies maybe.
Here, not so much.
We were on a stakeout alright, but it wasn’t exciting. It wasn’t even mildly interesting. I had hoped for more. I had hoped for sparking electric air. I had dreamed of anticipation and the need to calculate some necessary mission-oriented action at a moment’s notice. Instead, what I got was a cold cup of coffee in a stinky Buick while I sat shivering as the thermostat on the bank across the street read thirty-eight degrees. That was in the sun. We were in the shade. Damn!
“What’s that awful smell?”
“Dunno,” answered Colt. “Something in the trash, I guess.”
“Trash?”
“In the trunk,” he said matter-of-factly, as if I would understand.
I didn’t understand. This required further inquiry.
“Why is there trash in the trunk of your car?” I asked, trying to disguise my disgust.
“Part of the routine, Curly,” Colt mumbled while simultaneously chewing a Boston cream donut. “Always check their trash. Once they put it on the street, it’s public property. I grabbed hers on the way over to pick you up – put it in the trunk. We’ll go through it later.” He sipped from his cup and swallowed down the last of his donut. I wondered if his coffee had turned to slushy ice like mine had.
Colt Baron. He’s a private investigator. To know him is to love him. All women do. My daughters love him, my friends love him, my mother loves him – although that wasn’t always the case – and of course, I love him. Problem is, I have a husband. If that weren’t complicated enough, Colt and my husband, Howard, were currently roommates in a two-bedroom condo across town. Long story. I could write a book on that one.
My name is Barbara Marr. Most people just call me Barb, except for Colt, who calls me Curly. To state the obvious – because I have curly hair. The hair was once a sad mousy brown, but now belies my age as more and more dismal gray strands creep their evil way into the fray. On a good hair day with some wash-in color, I can look a tad like Sarah Jessica Parker. On a bad hair day I look like Don King’s long lost white sister. But I’m forty-five years old and have birthed three children. Who cares about a little messy hair? Let’s face it – after a woman has presented herself panting and prostrate on a table with her legs in stirrups, with half the hospital staff viewing her wares every five minutes, a bad hair day is a walk in the park.
Back to the stinky Buick.
So there we were, Colt looking as handsome as ever with his yellow, wispy, want-to-run-your-fingers-through-it hair (nary a gray strand in sight), and me – old, cold, and grumpy – contemplating the idea of rifling through putrid bags of trash. So much for excitement. Unless we found an unclaimed winning twenty-million dollar lotto ticket stuck to that messy (ahem) feminine product, the prospect seemed way less than attractive.
“We’re going to go digging through someone’s trash?” I moaned, unable to hide the disgust any longer. “This isn’t exactly what I thought investigating would be like. Why did you drag me into this?”
“Drag you?” Colt glared me down. “You begged me, remember?”
“Well, ‘beg’ is a strong word.” Pouting now, I slumped further down in my seat, working my coat around me as closely as I could to stave off the inevitable hypothermia.
“Wanna donut?” Colt said, shoving a Donut King bag in front of my frowny face. I was too cold to eat – the act itself would require me to expose my hands to the frigid air and possible frost bite. I shook my head and shoved the bag away with my elbow.
“Boy, you’re Miss Personality today,” he said. “You want me to take you home?”
“No. I asked to be a part of this. I’ll stick it through. Just thought it would be a little more . . . interesting.”
“I told you it wasn’t exciting or glamorous work, remember? No Magnum. No guns. No red Ferrari. No car chases. This is it, Curly. Sitting, sometimes for hours on end, waiting for some woman’s lover to show up – or not – snap a few pictures if we’re lucky, cash a check. If the check doesn’t bounce, we celebrate with a Corona until the next client comes along.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t say anything about trash.”
“True. Sorry ’bout that.”
I looked at my watch and then out through the windshield at the two story garden apartment building we’d been surveilling. An hour and twenty minutes. She’d gone into that apartment an hour and twenty minutes ago. No one else had followed. I sighed and watched as my breath turned visible. In the arctic-like air, an hour and twenty minutes felt like a year and twenty days.
“What’s this chick’s name again?” I asked.
“Paula. Paula Duffy.”
“Her picture looks so familiar, but that name just doesn’t ring a bell. Why does her husband think she’s cheating?”
“This apartment we’re watching. She’s been renting it for over year. He only found out about it – accidentally – three weeks ago. She doesn’t know he knows.”
Now THAT was juicy info. Who can turn down a story like a woman gone bad?
“Cool,” I said. “You think her stud is in there right now or you think he’ll be along soon?”
“Bingo! Take a look for yourself, Curly – here comes stud-boy now.” Colt was pointing at the apartment while positioning his telephoto lens at the ready. Unraveling myself from my coat cocoon, I grabbed the binoculars from the floor to get a better look.
A taut, squat Asian man was knocking on the door. The frame was familiar, but I didn’t have a full view of his face. If only he’d turn around a little bit more . . .
“Colt! I know that man!”
“What?”
“Give me that picture! Let me see her face again.”
Still snapping the shutter furiously, Colt threw the glossy colored photo my way. I looked at it, and immediately remembered who she was.
“It’s Parra!”
“Who? What?”
“Parra. From Tae Kwon Do. That man knocking on her door is Master Kyo. He owns the place. And she’s Parra – his shining star student. Parra is having an affair with Master Kyo! How fun is that?” I was beginning to warm up nicely. This investigation stuff was invigorating after all.
The door opened and Master Kyo stepped in. Unfortunately, it was impossible, even with the binoculars, to see who had opened the door.
“Curly, her name is Paula – not Parra.”
It took me a minute to understand what he meant, but then it all became crystal clear, and boy, did I feel stupid. Certainly, it sounded like Parra when Master Kyo spoke, but then again, when he yelled at me, it sounded like he was telling Bob, not Barb, to do twenty push-ups. I thought back over the many times I had called her Parra to her face. “Hi, Parra, how are you?” “Hey, Parra, great kick!” “Ow! Parra, that hurts – don’t kick so hard!” My face went red when reflecting upon my many Parra faux pas. And yet, she had never corrected me.
The door had closed, leaving us with nothing but the view of a dingy apartment once again. A few silent minutes ticked by.
“Did you get any good, incriminating pictures?” I asked finally.
“Dunno. We’ll stick it out here and wait for one or the both of them to leave . . .”
I didn’t hear the rest of Colt’s sentence, if he finished it, because at that very moment a virtual fireball tore through Paula’s apartment, sending her front door flying through the air. The explosion was so loud and intense, I was sure my ear drums had burst. And I was fairly sure I had screamed, but I didn’t hear that either. I know I opened my mouth very wide and that my throat hurt after the dust settled.
“Holy cow,” I roared. “Has this ever happened to you before?” I looked at Colt whose white-as-a-ghost face gave me my answer.
Forgetting the cold, I somehow managed to find my cell phone and dialed 911 with shaky-from-fright fingers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“An apartment just exploded into a million pieces. Master Kyo and Paula were in there. Her name isn’t Parra, it’s Paula. Paula . . . Paula . . . Colt, what’s her last name?” I wasn’t being very coherent.
“Ma’am, calm down. Please, tell me your location.”
“Rustic Woods.”
“Where in Rustic Woods?”
That was a good question. Where was I? Colt had driven. I stepped out of the car and looked around. We were at the far end of the apartment complex parking lot. Traffic was whizzing past us on Rustic Woods Parkway to our left, and on the other side was Unified Bank, but I couldn’t read the street number.
“Do you know the Unified Bank on Rustic Woods Parkway?” I asked.
“Ma’am, are you at the Colonial Arms Apartments on Purple Beech Tree Way?”
I scanned the area again and finally located a sign: Colonial Arms Apartments.
“Yes, yes I am.”
“We’ve just taken a call from that location. Emergency vehicles are on their way. Are you hurt, Ma’am?”
“I’m a little shaken up.”
“But are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Then please stay where you are so police can take your statement on what you observed.”
“Okay. I can do that. Um . . . could you do me a favor?”
“Ma’am?”
“Would you be able to contact the FBI and ask for agent Howard Marr? I’d like him to know I’m here so he can worry about me. See, we’re sort of separated right now and . . .”
“Ma’am, we don’t contact the FBI or estranged husbands.” The phone clicked and my 911 friend was gone.
*****
Ten minutes later, four fire trucks worked to put out the explosion-related fire that swept through the apartment building while EMTs tended a few injured. Two police helicopters circled above our heads.
Colt and I stood, leaning against his car, waiting for Officer Williams to return and take our statements. He had introduced himself, requested that we stay, and then moved off somewhere else. The air had warmed only slightly, but we were in the sun now, so I was slightly more comfortable.
“So, do you think the husband did this?”
Colt shook his head. “Not likely. And we don’t know it was a bomb. Could have been a gas leak.”
“Well, I never wanted to see Master Kyo die, but let me say this: Karma’s a bitch.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was a Korean Hitler, that man. He loved seeing me writhe in pain.”
“Maybe you did this?” He flashed a playful, smirking smile.
“Yeah, right. Like I knew before we came here today, that Master Kyo was having an affair with Parra and was going to waltz into their secret love shack.”
“Paula.”
“Right.”
“And we don’t know they were having an affair.”
“Right.”
We were quiet for a while, but the activity around us continued at high volume. I thought about Paula and Master Kyo. Toasted in the prime of their life. What a horrible way to go.
I turned around and looked at the apartments behind us. The complex was several buildings deep with garden-style apartments. Each building was two stories high, with the front of the apartments opening onto a railed walkway. At the back, each apartment had a set of French doors opening onto a private balcony. They were okay as apartments go, but I wondered why they didn’t choose something farther from their own homes – somewhere people would be less likely to know or recognize them.
My body tensed when I heard a familiar voice.
“Well, isn’t this a cozy little scene.” The voice was Howard’s. The voice wasn’t happy.
I chose not to turn around, but Colt, always the jovial fellow, jumped up and decided to play.
“Hey, Howie! Good to see you, roomie. Here on official business or just dropping by for a little afternoon delight with the Mrs.?”
A moment of silence indicated that Howard wasn’t about to address that question directly. My neck was strained trying to keep my head turned, so mostly to avoid a visit to the chiropractor, I rotated it back.
Now, first off, I need to explain that my husband, Howard looks very much like George Clooney. It’s true. It’s not just my fantasy. Everyone says so. A little more gray, a little less chin. Maybe an inch or two taller. But he definitely looks like George Clooney. Lucky me, I know.
But as lucky as that is, there are drawbacks. For instance, most people don’t know why I won’t let my very handsome husband move back into our house. He’s a good guy, they say. He’s paid his dues, they say. Okay, mostly Howard says these things, but my friends say them as well.
Truth of the matter is, I would love for him to move back, but I want to bring some romance back into our marriage. I want him to date me and woo me. Romance me. Earn his way back.
See, he lied to me for our whole marriage about his line of work. I thought he was an engineer for a consulting firm, when in fact he was an agent for the FBI. And his real name wasn’t Howard Marr, but Sammy Donato, and his father was whacked by a mafioso named Tito Buttaro. Another long story. Same book.
So, anyway, to make a long story longer – every time I see Howard, I’m torn between wanting to shoot him, and wanting to tear his clothes off and do wild and nasty things to him.
Thankfully, there were too many people around at that moment to allow me to perform either action, so I sheepishly stood up and faced his certain, squinty-eyed, I don’t-approve-of-this expression. I felt like a teenager who’d been caught sneaking out of the house to smoke cigarettes.
“Hi, Honey!” I said, all happy and innocent-like.
“Barb, what are you doing here? Please tell me you weren’t on a job with Colt.”
“Okay, I won’t tell you that I was on a job with Colt.”
“Were you?”
“You just told me not to tell you that.”
“Jesus!”
“Well then, don’t as
k questions if you don’t want to hear the answers. Why are you here? The 911 operator told me they don’t call the FBI.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“The FBI has business here. Don’t tell me you witnessed this explosion.”
“Okay, we didn’t witness this explosion.”
“You did. Damn it, Barb!”
“Geez, How-man, don’t you talk to me anymore? I’m feeling a little left out here.”
Howard glared Colt down and stuck a finger in his face. “I’ll talk to you about this later. Problem is, right now I’ve got business to handle, and you both might be a part of that. Christ! I’ll be right back.” And Howard stalked off to talk to a hovering trio of policemen.
“He’s not happy.”
“Yeah, you’re not putting out. He’s sexually frustrated.”
“Oh, shut up! Why did you drag me into this?”
“We’re not going to have THAT conversation again, are we?”
As Howard stood there, his hands in his pockets, head nodding, surveying the area, I pondered his reason for being there. After his years of lying about his job with the FBI, truth had become an obvious necessity between us. At least, as much truth as he could provide. The FBI didn’t allow him to reveal all things about his job these days, but he was able to tell me that he had most recently been assigned to the National Gang Task Force located at National Headquarters.
Why would the National Gang Task Force be interested in an explosion that had leveled Paula whats-her-name’s apartment when she was meeting Master Kyo for a lunch-time quickie?
Something else was nagging at me. Something I had observed between Paula, Master Kyo, and of all people – my mother. She had convinced me that Tae Kwon Do would be the thing for me – get me in shape and teach me to protect myself in dangerous situations. I’m not sure I’d gotten in shape, but certainly I was always in so much pain, that whenever anyone came near me, I was likely to kill them. If that’s what you call protection.
In any event, one day I’d mustered up the nerve to stop by Master Kyo’s studio at a time when he wasn’t having classes. My mission: to quit Tae Kwon Do. I’d had enough. The pain was too extreme. I had kids and a life – I didn’t have time to soak my weary body in Epsom salts three times a week after an hour of cruel and unusual punishment to my aging body. It was time to end the misery.
The Chronicles of Marr-nia (Short Stories Starring Barbara Marr) Page 4
