Dial Marr for Murder

by Karen Cantwell

  He raised his hands to shield his eyes from the brightness. “Put that thing down, will ya?”

  “I don’t think so.” I lowered the beam to point at his chest. “What are you doing out here? Can’t you knock on a door like a normal person? And how do you know about Pickle?”

  “That’s a lot of questions. Okay, I’ll answer them in order. One: I like being outdoors on a fall evening here in the past where I can smell the fireplaces filling the air. We don’t have fireplaces in 2525. Two: um, I was afraid if I knocked on your door, your husband would see me, and think I was your lover. And finally three: Bernie Ford.”

  I wasn’t sure in what universe or time period Howard would ever think Moyle was my lover, but whatever. “Excuse me if I’m a little confused,” I said, shifting the flashlight so I could gain a better hold on the thermos that was slipping from my grasp. “Who is Bernie Ford and what does he have to do with Pickle?”

  “She.”

  “What?”

  “Bernie isn’t a he, he’s a she. A pretty little thing. I’d consider, you know, asking her out. But she’s centuries younger than me—it just wouldn’t work out.” Moyle stuck his hands into his jacket pockets.

  “What’s the Bernie-Pickle connection?” The thermos was beginning to slip again so I hugged the cold steel tighter into my chest.

  “Not exactly sure.” he said. “Things are kinda hazy right now. But I feel like there was an incident.”

  Goodness. This was going to take time, and I needed to get the thermos to Roz’s house. “I’m not sure I really need to know your theory on who killed Pickle since someone already confessed, but I need you to talk with Vikki Cleveland because she’s been holding a portion of the lottery winnings in a trust for you. Can you please go sit on my front step and wait for me? Don’t disappear this time.”

  Moyle hunched his shoulders. “I think I can do that. Is it a lot of money?”

  “It’s enough. So, you’ll stay put, right?”

  “Right.” He saluted me. “Will stay put, sir, yes sir!”

  Moyle retreated through the trees toward my house while I hightailed it over to Roz’s house. I practically passed the thermos like a football for a touchdown to her husband, Peter,who was beginning to look a little pale and under the weather himself. “That’s flu bomb for Roz,” I said, “but you should drink some it yourself.”

  His face portrayed the same doubtful horror I'd seen on other faces when I mentioned my flu bomb.

  “Don’t worry,” I assured him, retreating down the walk way toward home. “It’s good for you, and it doesn’t taste like chalk or moldy kale. See ya!”

  I rushed into the street, the flashlight guiding my way. A sedan motored slowly toward me. In the dark, I couldn’t make out the color, but I was pretty sure the car didn’t belong to any residents of our small cul-de-sac. The driver not only had his lights on inside the car, he was driving on the wrong side of the road, and blaring Prince’s Purple Rain far too loudly for nighttime. When I saw something fly out of the driver’s side window and land on my neighbor’s driveway, I realized the car was the local Rustic Woods Gazette delivery. I stood in my own driveway waiting for my copy now rather than letting it sit overnight.

  The clunky sedan curved around and delivered a paper to Roz’s. Eventually, the car passed me at a snail’s pace. The man inside, singing off key to the Prince tune, caught my eye, winked, flung the paper out his window, and motored off down the lane. With aid from the car’s interior light, I recognized the large beaky-nose and ear gauge. The driver was the same Purple Rain Man from earlier in the day. He was no less creepy while driving than he had been walking. A shiver ran up my spine.

  I snatched up the paper and scurried to my house.

  “Hi ya!” Moyle said, smiling as he shifted from foot to foot obstructing my path to the front door. “See, I stayed, just like I promised.”

  “It’s a miracle. Let me get my car keys.” Panting from my run up the driveway, I slipped around him and made an unsuccessful attempt at turning the doorknob. “Darn, it’s locked.” Someone had locked me out of my own house. I didn’t want to ring the doorbell and wake Amber up. If I had my phone with me I could have texted Howard or Bethany. They’d both still be up. Howard had probably locked me out, forgetting I’d gone to Roz’s house. I rattled the knob again.

  “Oh well, maybe another time then. I’d better get back to my own house, it’s getting late,” Moyle said.

  “Your house?” I paused mid-jiggle. “You live in a house now?”

  “Sure.” Moyle shrugged. “Why do you look so surprised?”

  “I’ve got a key hidden in the back. Hang on. I’ll just be a minute.” I turned the flashlight back on and made my way around the side of my house to the back deck where I kept a key hidden inside an old pair of gardening shoes. I wasn’t sure it was safe, but it was definitely handy at that moment. By the time I made it back to my door, however, Moyle was gone.

  Knowing it was probably futile, I whispered into the darkness. “Moyle! Moyle, are you there?” No response. I gave it one more try. “Moyle?”

  The front door opened and Howard stared at me like I was crazy.

  “I took Roz a thermos of flub bomb,” I said, stomping inside. “And you locked the door behind me. If you’re wondering who I was talking to: Moyle is back. He was out here, and then he wasn’t out here, because that’s what Moyle does. Welcome to my life.” I tossed the paper on the credenza and kissed him. “It’s been a long day, exhausting day, honey. I’m going to bed.”

  “We’ll cuddle tomorrow night,” he said as I slogged up the stairs.

  The next day, I was up earlier than usual for a Saturday morning. Generally, I liked to wake without an alarm, but my eyes popped open right at weekday wake-up time. Figuring there was flu bomb aplenty to be prepared, I slipped out of bed and into my robe. Howard was just beginning to stir when I closed the door behind me.

  After popping two pieces of bread into the toaster, I began rounding up the flu bomb ingredients. Now, anyone who knows me knows I am no cook. I don’t understand those people who claim cooking calms them. Just the thought of cooking gives me panic attacks. Nothing calm about it. But flu bomb was not really cooking. I prepared it on the stove in a pot, but that was the extent of the comparison to a true, cooking experience. Grate a little bit of fresh ginger, throw it in with almond milk, powdered turmeric, raw honey, and lemon juice, warm and stir until heated through, and there you go. Flu bomb. During flu season, I made sure the kids and Howard drank at least two mugs every day, sometimes three.

  While the mixture simmered on the stove, I nibbled on my toast. Then I poured flu bomb into glass jars and screwed on the lids. I poured the last bit in the pan into a mug for Howard since I knew he’d be down shortly.

  Next, I dialed Bunny at home to see how she was doing and catch up on the goings-on at the Nature Center.

  She answered in a sleepy tone. “Morning, Barb.”

  “I’m sorry, did I wake you?” I carried the plate with my leftover toast to the table and then went back to the coffeepot for a warm-up.

  “No, I was already awake. They’re talking about you on the morning news.”

  “Hashtag That Barbara Marr?” I took a satisfying sip as I sat at the table.

  Howard padded into the kitchen, looking delectable in a t-shirt and jeans. He headed straight for the coffeemaker.

  “Yeah. Nothing about the murder itself, they just keep talking about the video of Sharon Forrest. She’s one that I thought had signed up for helping with the Halloween Walk set up. Not sure what happened there because she never showed up.”

  My gut churned at the thought of the video. I decided to get off the subject of my social media fame and onto the reason for my call. “This is going to sound very nosy, but Tate didn’t spend the night last night, did he?”

  “No.” Bunny sighed. “He wasn’t feeling well. Allergies.”

  “Not allergies—he’s got that flu. Trust me. I’ll brin
g you some flu bomb later, but I admit, I’m calling for another reason. I’m curious to find out what happened yesterday after I left. Did Eric arrest that Del lady who confessed?” I bit into my toast and watched Howard drink from his mug at the counter, his gaze never leaving me.

  “Which one was Eric? There were so many police around yesterday.”

  “Murders do bring them out in droves, it’s true. Eric was the plainclothes detective who interviewed you and the staff.”

  “Oh, of course. Um, I don’t know if they arrested her or not, actually.” Bunny said. “They did talk for a long time in the conference room, and she left with one of the policemen. Then Eric finished interviewing the rest of us.”

  “Did he ask you about Del?” I asked.

  Howard’s gaze grew impatient. He wanted me off the phone for some reason.

  “Maybe. I don’t remember.” Bunny sounded like she had foggy morning brain. “What’s a flu bomb? It sounds dangerous.”

  “No, it’s the opposite. It’s a drink mixed with ingredients to kick-start your immune system. With Tate being sick, you’re going to need several doses.” After taking the last bite of toast, I brushed the crumbs from my fingers.

  “Does it taste bad?”

  “Not at all. My kids drink it without complaining.” I pushed my plate away. “So, another question: do you know someone named Bernie Ford?”

  “Sure. She’s a volunteer. Why?”

  “And she knew Pickle?”

  “I’ll say. In more ways than one, if you know what I mean.” Bunny’s voice took on a tone of confidentiality.

  “Do you mean, like, biblically?”

  “That’s what Olga says anyway.”

  “She said that about Del and Pickle too. Was he some kind of philanderer?”

  Howard blew out a loud sigh, obviously displeased that I was still talking to Bunny.

  “He liked the ladies,” she said. “Why are you asking about Bernie?”

  “A friend just brought up the name, is all. Does she have long, gray hair? You know, like past her waist.”

  My husband mimed that he needed me by pointing at his chest then at me.

  “Gray, yes. Long, no. Bernie’s hair is short. And actually, I guess you’d call it more silver than gray. Almost white. Now we do have a volunteer with long gray hair. She usually keeps it in a pony tail. That’s Helen Moyer. Eric has her name. I mentioned her in the interview.”

  “Hm. Okay. Listen, I need to go. Howard wants me for something. I’ll come by later with the flu bomb. In the meantime, you may love that man Tate, but I’d stay away if I were you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I hung up, feeling a little bossy. That was the second time someone said ‘yes sir’ to me.

  “Do you think I’m bossy?” I asked Howard.

  “Yes.” He dropped his arms and paused to inhale deeply. “But that’s not important right now. Where did you get this?” He held up the newspaper I’d put on the credenza the night before.

  “End of the driveway like always. That’s the Gazette. Purple Rain Man delivered it last night as I walked back from Roz’s house.”

  “Purple what?”

  “Not what, whom,” I corrected him. “Purple Rain Man. He was playing “Purple Rain” really loudly while he was delivering the paper.” I carried my plate to the sink.

  “So, you just gave him a name?”

  “I’ve seen him before.” I went back to the table for my coffee mug. “He walks around the neighborhood and apparently he’s the Gazette delivery person too. He really likes that song. He creeps me out a little, but it may just be the ear gauge. I’m not a fan.”

  “The Gazette doesn’t come on Friday nights, it comes on Thursday nights.”

  “That’s strange.” I paused with my mug at my mouth. “Maybe it’s a day late.”

  “It’s last week’s edition. And I found this inside.” He handed me a yellow piece of paper with large words scrawled in red ink.

  I read the note aloud. “I’ll get you my party.” I pondered on the oddity of the message. “My party? Whose party? I’m confused.”

  Howard yanked the paper from my hand. He was really upset about this party thing. He jabbed at the word. “No! Not party. Pretty. This says, ‘I’ll get you my pretty.’”

  “Oh. That’s a horse of a different color.” And now I was as upset as Howard.

  Chapter Six

  Of course, the real question that begged to be asked was who was ‘my pretty?’ A lot of pretty people lived in my house, if I do say so myself.

  Howard pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “I’m calling Colt.”

  “Why?”

  Howard arched a brow. “This is serious.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  Howard barked into his cell. “Drop what you’re doing.” Then he cupped the phone with his hands and whispered something I was unable to make out. Next thing I knew, he’d hung up and was snatching the newspaper. He took it to the table and smoothed it flat. He proceeded to scan every page carefully.

  My own phone rang somewhere in another part of my house. Remembering I’d left it on my bedside table, I took the stairs two at a time, and out of breath, answered Peggy’s call in the nick of time.

  “I’d come, Barb,” Peggy said between coughs, “but I think (cough, cough) I might be (cough, cough) dying.”

  “What? Why would you come? You’re sick.” I had no idea what she was talking about and figured she was hallucinating again.

  “It’s a code yellow. Be safe. Don’t (cough, cough) get killed. You haven’t met the queen yet.” Peggy’s hoarse voice trailed off and the line disconnected.

  Code yellow. Peggy was definitely out of it. I slipped the phone into my robe pocket and was nearly back down the stairs when my doorbell rang. And rang and rang and rang. Someone was leaning on my doorbell. Puddles barked his fool head off so before answering the endless ding dongs, I crated him. Full of frustration, I pulled the door open, only to find an ashen Roz holding herself up with my wall.

  I rushed forward to wrap my arm around her, before easing her away from the doorbell. “What on earth are you doing here? You’re still sick.”

  “Code yellow. It’s what we do.” She coughed into a crumpled tissue.

  Okay. Something was up. First Peggy with the code yellow and now Roz. I smelled a rat and his name was Howard.

  “What we do is rest in bed when we’re diseased,” I told her, turning her around and closing the door behind me. “Let’s get you back home.”

  Roz’s husband Peter wasn’t even aware his wife had escaped her sick chamber. I got her as far as her foyer, apologized to Peter, and still in my pajamas and robe, ran back home. Holy cow, this day had barely started and it was already turning into a fiasco.

  As I trudged up my brick walk back to the house, the sound of Colt’s red GTO rumbling into our driveway made me turn and look. I set a hand on one hip. Colt’s engine hadn’t even cut off when my mother’s Mini Cooper pulled in behind him.

  Howard’s mother, affectionately referred to as Mama Marr, was in the passenger seat. My mother and Mama Marr now shared a condo across town, so they often arrived together, especially since Mama Marr doesn’t drive.

  Their surprise visit this crazy Saturday morning could be coincidental, but I was betting otherwise. I mentally calculated how long it would be before either of them uttered the words “code yellow.”

  Unfazed as usual, Colt sauntered up the walk to meet me. “Up to your old tricks again?”

  “I’m not up to anything. We got a message in the weekly Gazette. It could be for anybody.”

  He laughed. “I doubt that.”

  My mother was a large woman. Tall and big-boned. Watching her unroll out of the Mini always made me cringe.

  Smaller Mama Marr was already out and waddling up the walk. “So, we are here to take the girls to the safety house. We need the suitcases—are they packed? With all the necessity things.” She began to count off with
her chubby fingers. “Like the toothpaste and the toothbrush and the pj jammies.” She waited a beat, then shook her head. “You were doing so well, Barbara. One whole year without a mishap. Ah well, we are here now to do our job. Thees code yellow, it works well, I am thinking.”

  My mother, one leg still in her car, shouted. “That’s a secret code, Alka, only meant for us.”

  “Never mind, Mom,” I said. “I’m not the smartest cookie in the tool shed, but I think I’ve cracked the code. And I did it faster than you getting out of that sardine can. When are you finally going to admit you need a bigger car?”

  Mama Marr leaned in for a whisper. “She’s been complaining about the achy bones. I caught her looking at the VCU’s on the world webby yesterday.”

  Mama Marr wasn’t raised in Poland, but both of her parents were immigrants, and must not have spoke English at home because not only did she have quite the Polish accent, but she had a talent for confusing words and terms.

  “Do you mean SUV’s?” I asked her.

  She laughed. “Yes, yes. That’s it. The UVS’s.” She waddled around me. “Now let’s get those suitcases before the trouble starts.”

  I was right behind her. The trouble was about to start, all right.

  Inside, Howard was still poring over the newspaper while talking with someone on his cell phone. “Yeah. Check it out for me, okay? Thanks. I owe you one.”

  “What’s a code yellow?” I asked when he’d hung up with his mystery caller.

  He threw a dirty look over my shoulder at Colt.

  Colt raised his hands in defense. “Hey, man, it wasn’t me. I came as ordered and kept my trap shut.”

  “It wasn’t Colt. Whatever system you’ve implemented, apparently activated two flu-infected agents. They’re delirious with fever. What were you thinking?”

  Howard squinted at me. “Who has the flu?”

  “Roz and Peggy. I told you that yesterday.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re not answering my question.”

  Colt answered for Howard. “Listen, Curly. This isn’t rocket science. Code yellow is the first alert. A text goes out. We all know our jobs. The girls go with the grandmothers to be on the safe side. Peggy and Roz guard you. Howard and I secure the scene.”