The Chronicles of Marr-nia (Short Stories Starring Barbara Marr)

by Cantwell, Karen

  Instinctively, I put my arms in the air, even though I was innocent of any wrongdoing.

  “Howard?”

  “Barb. Don’t move.”

  “Am I allowed to pee my pants?”

  “Can’t laugh right now.”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “Meet Julio Jimenez.”

  “He looks like a killer.”

  “He is.”

  “Are we going to die?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “You have a plan?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s encouraging.”

  “Barb.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I – ”

  Howard couldn’t finish his sentence. He was interrupted by Peach Fuzz Number One, who had evidently recovered from my powerful punch to his privates. Peach Fuzz came flying through the door, attacking me from behind.

  “I’ll kill you, beetch!” he screamed, grabbing at my neck again. Luckily he was still off kilter, and so toppled and landed on his face, only knocking me over, but on my way down I heard the deafening pow, pow, pow of gunfire. Then another, and then another. I had no idea where they were coming from. Was Howard dead?

  I tried to get up, but Peach Fuzz was still on a mission to end my life. He had crawled up on top of me and I could feel his hot guacamole breath in my face.

  “You’re mine, beetch,” he said, pulling my hair and scratching my cheek with a shiny silver six-inch blade. He moved the blade quickly to my throat.

  It was like one of those awful dreams where you want to scream – you have to scream – but you can’t. You open your mouth, and no sound comes out. People were all around me, but I had no idea if I was going to live or die.

  Suddenly, I realized dying wasn’t an option. I had three girls to raise. There was no way in hell I was going to die and let someone tell those girls that their mom had been too weak to save her own life. What kind of mother would I be?

  Without another thought, I dug my teeth, all twenty-four of them, into his bad-ass arm like a hungry piranha. He screamed, dropped the blade and rolled off of me. While I was rolling in the opposite direction, I heard another pop. When I looked over, Peach Fuzz Number One was limp and bleeding.

  A familiar voice in my ear said, “He was going for the knife again. I had to do it.” The familiar voice was Howard’s. The familiar voice made me very happy.

  That night, the news reported that there had been a shooting at a small shopping plaza in Rustic Woods, Virginia. Three men had been fatally shot, and the assailants were still at large. The Fairfax County Police could not confirm if it was gang related, but the FBI’s National Gang Task Force had been was to called on the scene to review the situation. Interestingly, there was no mention of the apartment explosion.

  Maria made it to the hospital just in time to give birth to a healthy baby girl who she named Paula Diane. The other two girls, Sofia and Amelia were taken to a women’s shelter. Howard assured me they would be cared for and kept under police protection until their families were found and could be notified that their daughters were alive and well.

  The next morning, Howard came by the house after a long night of tying up loose ends and writing reports. Deep circles under his eyes told me he’d barely slept, if at all. I poured him a cup of coffee and we sat quietly, enjoying the married couple ritual.

  “So, you gonna let me move back in, now that I’ve saved your life?”

  “Maybe. You have to tell me something first.”

  “What?”

  “How did you find us in that shop?”

  “I had you followed, of course.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “I don’t trust Colt.”

  “He’s your roommate.”

  “That’s why he’s my roommate. I can keep tabs on him. He’s still in love with you, you know.”

  “He’s harmless. He’s our friend.”

  Howard silently stared at his coffee, not offering a reply.

  “Barb?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I – ”

  “Knock, knock! Hello! Anyone home?” It was my mother. The knock, knock was rhetorical. She always barged in uninvited and unannounced.

  Howard rolled his eyes. He was not my mother’s favorite person, and the lack of affinity was mutual.

  I wanted to hear what Howard had to say. “What?”

  “Nothing, I’ll tell you later.”

  “There you are,” stated my mother, as if she seriously didn’t think she’d find us. “Coffee? Do you mind if I have some?” Rhetorical again. She was already pouring. “It’s colder than a witch’s heart out there. Barbara dear, how are you? I’ve been so worried about you. Look at that cut on your face!”

  “I’m fine, mom. It will heal. You didn’t say hello to Howard.”

  “Hello, Howard.”

  “Diane.”

  “How are things at the Bureau?”

  “We’ve got things under control, Diane – no thanks to you. You’re on our radar now.”

  “I’m on everyone’s radar. Did I ever tell you that I once turned down a job with the CIA?”

  Howard rolled his eyes again.

  “Those girls needed our help, Howard Marr. You and your boys don’t get the job done. And there’s more of them out there. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of these poor girls. Who cares about them? Who’s going to get the job done and sweep the streets of the slime who enslave those poor souls?”

  “Diane, your intentions were good, but you almost got them, yourself, and your daughter killed yesterday. Leave the street sweeping to those of us who are trained to handle these things, okay?”

  My mother sniffed, took a quick sip of her coffee, and then setting the cup down, made a new declaration.

  “Well, I’m off. I have an appointment with Senator Thomas today. I’m joining her campaign – I’ll be her speech writer.”

  “Since when are you a speech writer?”

  “I told you before, I’ve written several books, including two memoirs. I plan to publish them someday.” She looked at her watch. “I’m late!” And in her usual Endora-from-Bewitched manner, she was gone as quickly as she had appeared.

  “Is what she said true?”

  “About turning down a job with the CIA?”

  “About more girls out there – forced prostitution.”

  Howard nodded. “It is. These gangs aren’t pretty and they aren’t nice. Drug running, human trafficking – it’s their business. It’s how they make a living.”

  “It’s gross.”

  Howard nodded again.

  “I never hear about this on the news. You’d think they’d be all over stories on like this.”

  “People care about their retirement funds and stock market portfolios. It’s easier to confront. Girls being kidnapped and sold into slavery – not so easy to confront. Easier to ignore it, or pretend it’s someone else’s problem.”

  “It’s gross.”

  “You said that already.”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “We’re doing what we can. I promise.” He stood up, kissed me on the head, and looked me in the eyes.

  “I have to go too – people to meet with, slime to lock up. The usual. Can I take you out to dinner tonight?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. I’ll have to check with my husband, though,” I smiled as I followed him.

  “I don’t think he’ll mind.”

  The doorbell rang just before Howard reached the door.

  “Hmm, wonder who that is?”

  I spied a man from Rustic Woods Fancy Floral standing outside the open door.

  “These might be for you,” Howard said with a sneaky smile on his face, as he walked past the man who holding the suspiciously long, ribboned box.

  After signing and thanking Joe the Floral Man, I ripped open the box – a dozen purple roses – my favorite color. The card read: Life is too short. Let the romance begin. I love you. Howard.
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  BONUS SHORT STORY:

  “The Recollections of Rosabelle Raines”

  By Karen Cantwell

  This short story was originally published in the mystery anthology,

  Chesapeake Crimes: They Had it Comin’

  If you enjoy this story, be on the lookout in 2011 for the novella,

  The Many Lives of Rosabelle Raines

  “The Recollections of Rosabelle Raines”

  Rosabelle Raines had lived at least a thousand lives, and much to her dismay, she could recall them all.

  Lying on the cold, winter ground, Rosabelle rubbed her aching eyes while she recovered from the most recent incident. Some wisps of her fine, ebony hair had slipped from their silk netting, falling over her face.

  “Rosa,” whispered her sister, Flora. “Are you with me?”

  Drained of energy, Rosabelle moaned, but would be unable to speak for a minute or more.

  “Does this happen often?” The man she heard speaking appeared as a blur at the end of her tunneled vision. He seemed to hover miles away, but in reality, his warm face was nearly touching hers. She could smell his breath – a touch of ale, she thought, and possibly some corned beef. She detested corned beef.

  “She . . . she has . . . fainting spells.” Flora offered a worried, tentative explanation. Weaker in spirit than Rosabelle, she was badly affected by her sister’s spells. They gave Flora such distress that she would suffer stomach maladies for many days after.

  “We should get her to a doctor,” the man urged.

  “No!” Rosabelle shouted, her voice returning just in time. Rosabelle found herself sitting upright, and the man responsible for her condition was no longer a distant blur. Pleasing to her eyes, he was fair of skin and possessed a head of enviously thick hair the color of summer wheat. In his left hand he clutched a newspaper and a stovepipe hat made of a fine silk that belied his humble station. Perhaps the hat was a tribute to the late President Lincoln. Rosabelle might not care for his corned beef breath, but she would consider a person of good spirit if he revered a man the likes of Mr. Lincoln. Not a popular sentiment for a woman from the South, Rosabelle knew, but she did not often subscribe to opinions just because they were popular.

  “I have no need for a doctor, sir. A brisk walk in the fresh air and some tea at our destination will be the only medicine I need.” She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Flora, could you help me to my feet please?” Rosabelle placed a hand in the shallow snow to give her some leverage, while holding the other up for her sister’s assistance.

  “Here, let me help.” Eli Witherspoon, the young man who had touched Rosabelle’s hand by way of introduction just moments earlier, was about to touch her again by placing his own hand under her back as support in her attempt to stand.

  Signaling him to keep his distance, Rosabelle rebuffed his offer promptly. “No! You have done enough.” Stuttering a moment on her words, she quickly corrected herself. “What I mean to say is you are too kind. Truly, sir, your assistance is unnecessary. We have a system, my sister and I.” With minor struggle, Rosabelle was on her feet. She quickly tucked the wayward strands back into her snood, attempting to regain some appearance of dignity. “See? I am upright.” Rosabelle gave a slight curtsy to Mr. Witherspoon while brushing snow from her sapphire velvet cape, then placed her hands back in her muff for warmth. Only then did she recognize the newspaper the young man held.

  “Interesting article, is it not?” Rosabelle asked.

  He looked at the paper with an odd expression, as if it had materialized out of nowhere. “Ah. Well . . .” He cleared his throat. “I have not read this paper yet.” He fidgeted in a nervous manner, shoving the paper under his arm.

  “You should!” Flora exclaimed, her eyes brightening. “Rosa and I read it earlier today – a fascinating story about a lady spy! What was her name, Rosa?”

  “Abigail. Abigail Dawes,” Rosabelle answered, studying the distracted Mr. Witherspoon intently.

  “That is the name!” Flora said. “A lady spy for the South. Evidently she is a master of disguise. It is very intriguing. She escaped from jail some three weeks ago now. Gives me goose pimples all over my arms.”

  Mr. Witherspoon pulled a watch from his breast pocket to check the time. “That . . . is . . . yes. Interesting. Well, excuse me for my abruptness, but . . .”

  “No.” Rosabelle put her hand up as if to stop his words mid-air. “Excuse us, sir. Come, Flora, we will be late for our engagement with the Waters family.”

  Rosabelle rushed away, her long hooped skirt pushing the snow along like a plow, while Flora, trailing desperately behind her, looked back at Eli Witherspoon, giving him an apologetic smile.

  Flora’s interest in Mr. Witherspoon was not lost on Rosabelle, but she did not have time to be concerned with such trivial matters. Not since her recollection.

  “Rosa,” Flora wheezed, finally reaching her sister. “You were so rude to Mr. Witherspoon.”

  “Me, rude? Did you see how strangely he was behaving?”

  “Maybe you intimidated him. You have that effect on people. Oh! I very much wanted to speak with him longer.”

  “Sister,” Rosabelle said, stopping abruptly and pointing down the road from where they had come. “Look. Your Mr. Witherspoon has disappeared into thin air.” Indeed there was no sign of the man.

  Rosabelle continued on. “And did you hear him say he had not yet read the newspaper?”

  “Well—”

  “Yet it was crinkled and worn and turned to the Abigail Dawes article several pages in.”

  “But—”

  “Flora, something is afoot with that man, and before the day is done, he will either kill or be killed. If you have an interest in this Mr. Eli Witherspoon, come help devise a way to determine which it will be. Hopefully we can stop this crime before it occurs.”

  Full of vigor and intention, Rosabelle turned on her heel and quickly crossed King Street just as a horse and buggy passed. Flora jogged to catch up.

  “These dreams of yours!” Flora panted as she trotted closely behind her sister, her blonde locks bouncing. “Why must you have them? Mr. Witherspoon seems to be gentle and kind. Surely you are wrong.”

  “Flora,” Rosabelle corrected, blue eyes flashing. “I have told you before – these are not dreams. They are recollections. Memories of my other lives.”

  “How could you possibly know this?”

  “How do I know the air is free to breathe? How do I know to smile when I see snow fall from the sky or to cry when a baby dies? I just know. I know.”

  “Bah! Other lives. You speak such blasphemy! We live only one life on this Earth, then, God willing, an eternity with Him. How can you think otherwise?” Flora pressed her hand to her bodice. “Dear, my stomach turns. I am feeling ill.”

  “Remember before the war, when Father entertained those importers from Japan? They called themselves Buddhists – they believe we maintain a cycle on Earth of birth, life, death, and then re-birth. It is not an uncommon belief, this idea that we are reborn to new bodies after we die. Much of the world believes the same.”

  “Pagans!” Flora was fanning herself.

  “Flora, you don’t even know what a pagan is,” Rosabelle responded, rolling her eyes. She was easily annoyed by her sister’s fears. Flora did not fare well with anything outside of the ordinary nor expected.

  “Well, I know the people of this town would consider you a witch and have you burned at the stake,” Flora huffed, obviously proud of her foreboding comment.

  “I should hope the day of witch burning is past us, but you speak correctly regarding local sentiment. If word of this got out, I could be shunned or, even worse, put in an asylum for the ill of mind.”

  Flora shook her head. “It scares me so, Rosa.”

  “Listen to me – we keep this secret between us, and no one will suffer. Now tell me,” she said, changing the subject, “when did you meet Mr. Witherspoon?”

  “Last Sunday at chu
rch. You would know that if you had been there.”

  “I was there.”

  “Inside God’s house, not outside, contemplating your many wild and sinful lives.”

  Exasperated, Rosabelle heaved a healthy sigh. Flora could be so trying. “Let us stay with the topic at hand, shall we? Who introduced you?”

  “Amelia Patton,” her sister replied. “Eli Witherspoon is her cousin, come to Alexandria to work at her father’s shipping company. He studied at the University of Virginia,” Flora stated with a hint of awe in her voice.

  Rosabelle stopped walking for a moment. “Amelia Patton? Is he living in the Patton home?”

  “I think so. Why?”

  Ignoring Flora’s question, Rosabelle resumed her determined trek. “About my recollection – it began when Mr. Witherspoon touched my hand. I saw two men. Both wore tattered garb made of wool. Their hair was long and unkempt, with some strands in braids; their faces bearded. One man was fair-haired and pale while the other had dark hair and eyes black like onyx. This darker man was tending a field of some sort, but it was on a hill. The fair-haired man rode up on a horse and dismounted. They talked and shook hands. When the dark man turned back to continue his work, the fair man drew a large knife and stabbed him in the back.” Rosabelle shivered with the memory.

  “Rosa, I don’t understand how you connect your dream – your recollection – with Mr. Witherspoon. Are you saying the fair man is Eli Witherspoon?”

  Rosabelle shook her head. “I am not sure. What I do know is this: every time I have a recollection, the person who touched me is involved in an incident almost identical to the recollection.”

  The strange episodes began nearly a year earlier, just after their mother passed on. Since their father had died before her while fighting for the South, they had become orphans of sorts, even though Rosabelle was twenty and Flora, eighteen. Without husbands to care for them, they were forced to move from Norfolk to Alexandria to live with their Aunt Martha and Uncle Ephraim. Even though Martha and Ephraim Raines had been warm and inviting in every way possible, losing both of their parents and leaving the only home they had ever known proved tragically painful for both girls. It was during that emotional time that Rosabelle experienced her first recollection.