Dial Marr for Murder

by Karen Cantwell

  Meanwhile, I was stuck talking Callie down from her crisis.

  Callie lowered her voice. “Mom, we’re having a party tonight. I can’t have this guy standing outside my room—he’ll scare people off. He’s huge, and he’s doing this permanent scowl thing.”

  “First, Callie, you never admit to your mother that you’re having a party. Second, there won’t be alcohol will there?”

  Howard perked up. “Party?”

  “It’s not that kind of party,” Callie said. “It’s mid-terms. This is a two-hour, take-a-break, have-some-fun kind of party. In fact, the theme was my roommate’s idea. It’s a hashtag That Barbara Marr party. You have to say ‘hashtag That Barbara Marr’ to get in.”

  Oh, good grief. “So, you’re not embarrassed by your own mother's hashtag?”

  “For the first couple of minutes I was mortified, but now I’m having fun with it. We all are.” I could hear the smile in her voice.

  “Then have fun with the bodyguard.”

  Callie shrieked again. “Mom!”

  I suddenly realized the double entendre I'd just delivered. “No, not that way. I mean, use him to your advantage.”

  Howard nodded with approval and left the kitchen.

  “Mom, that still sounds creepy.”

  “Trust me, this will work. Is he right there?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Rupert.”

  “What kind of name is that for a bodyguard? Put him on. Let me talk to him.”

  The man in question answered. He had a cockney accent. “Ello?”

  “Hi Rupert, I’m Barbara Marr, Callie’s mom.”

  “She is a very loud girl. Someone should have told her I was comin’. I think she pierced an eardrum.”

  “Sorry about that. My husband doesn’t really understand women.”

  “My wife says the same about me.”

  “So, Rupert, about your name, can you, just for tonight, call yourself…” I searched my brain for a beefier name. “Can you call yourself Boris?”

  “You hired me. I can be any name you want.”

  “Okay, so you’re Boris, and Callie is having a party for friends. They’re only allowed to enter if they’re on the list. The password is Hashtag That Barbara Marr. And here's the most important thing. If you see a twenty-something white male with a big beak-nose and black gauge in one ear, do not let him in, and call my husband immediately.”

  “You want me to rough him up a bit? Give him a scare?"

  "Hmm.” It was tempting. “No to the roughing, but definitely give him a scare."

  "Got it. Can do.”

  “Thanks, Rupert.”

  “Boris,” he corrected me.

  “Good job.” Boris caught on quick. “Can you put Callie back on?”

  "Sure, boss."

  "Mom? Is he staying?" Callie sounded worried.

  "Yeah, but he's all about helping you have a good time and protecting you at the same time," I assured her in my gentlest, parental voice.

  "Protecting me from what?" Callie didn’t sound assured.

  "Probably nothing, sweetie. But, don't talk to strangers with big noses or gauges in their ears, just to be safe. And give Rupert a fun hat and a name tag that says Boris. That's his party name."

  "Are you still coming down on Tuesday?"

  "Are you kidding? Nothing will stop me from seeing Meryl Streep in the flesh. I'll be there. Have fun tonight."

  "Hashtag I Love Barbara Marr."

  "Hashtag Back Atcha Cal."

  Howard came back into the kitchen with Colt on his heels. “I can’t believe you’re encouraging that party.”

  “I wasn’t encouraging it, but we can’t control her every action so we might as well do our best to control the party itself.”

  “This comes from a woman who drove two hours in the middle of the night to spy on her own daughter.” Colt smirked.

  “I wasn’t spying, I was checking in. And don’t think I wouldn’t be down there right now if I could. But Rupert Boris has things under control. Now I need to see who else was calling me while my phone was dead.”

  I scrolled through the list. A bunch of numbers I didn’t recognize had all left voicemails. That couldn’t be good. The only call from someone in my contacts was Guy Mertz. Knowing Guy, he had texted as well, but he had left a voicemail, so I gave it a listen. “Barb, I know you might be mad at me, but I’m begging you, don’t give those other guys a chance. If you’re willing to do an interview, let it be me. Please, I’ll do anything you ask. Call me.”

  Other guys? What was Guy talking about? My love for Guy had bottomed out after he tweeted the video and caused the hashtag fiasco. Now he wanted to me to give him an interview? I decided to listen to the first voicemail from an unknown number, but the ringing doorbell stopped me from pressing play.

  “Can I have two minutes of peace this morning? Look, I’m still in my robe for crying out loud.” I rubbed my rumbling tummy. “And all I’ve had are two pieces of toast.”

  “Go shower and get dressed,” Howard said. “I’ll make lunch.”

  I gave him a grateful kiss and scooted up the stairs before Colt opened the door. Spending a good long time in the hot shower did relieve me of the morning stress, but it didn’t dampen my hunger. After dressing, I made my way back downstairs, excited to see what Howard had put together.

  I narrowed my eyes when I saw Guy Mertz sitting at the kitchen table. “You.”

  “I know you must be mad,” he started.

  “Gee, you think? Guy, I thought we were friends. What were you doing?”

  He hung his head in shame. “I’ve gone overboard on the tweeting, I know, but truthfully, I never thought it would go viral the way it did. It was meant to be in fun. Can you forgive me?”

  “Not sure yet. Why do I have an inbox filled with voicemails from people I don’t know?”

  Guy sucked in a breath and slid a guilty glance at Colt, who sat beside him at my kitchen table.

  “Hey, man,” Colt said, accepting a plate Howard handed him. “You got yourself into this mess, you get yourself out.” He picked up a potato chip from the plate and pointed it at me. “I suggest you take a few bites of your sandwich first, because you get really cranky when you’re hungry. His news isn’t going to do anything to help.”

  I looked at the BLT on the plate Howard held out to me. It looked scrumptious and so did the chips. The bread should have been a big no-no, especially since I’d already had toast earlier. And the chips had less nutritional value than the bag they came in. But right now, I didn’t care.

  “Thank you, honey.” I took the plate, sat down, and bit into the sandwich. Tomato juice oozed out and dripped all over my fingers. The bacon had been cooked just right. My anxiety over the day’s chaos slipped away as I chewed. “Good, Howard. Really good.” I gave him a thumbs-up, then went in for a second delicious encounter. I chased it down with two crunchy chips. “Howard, you are my hero. You’re the best husband ever.” I gulped some water and wiped my mouth while bracing myself. “Tell me, Guy. What else did you do?”

  Guy held up his palms, gesturing innocence. “It wasn’t me. Not directly. I mean, the tweet apparently inspired an artist to… create. But I did not encourage it, I swear.”

  “You mean an artist like Picasso or Renoir?”

  He cringed. “Actually, he does call himself Vinnie VanGo, but he doesn’t paint, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  My mind twirled. “That name sounds familiar. What kind of artist is he?”

  “I can’t take this anymore.” Howard sighed loudly. “He’s a rapper, Barb. He’s the one you told Callie not to play in the house anymore because the F-word is the only verb he knows.”

  I squinted at Howard above my sandwich. “I’m still confused.”

  Colt slapped Guy on the shoulder. “Spit it out, Guy.”

  “He recorded a rap song called ‘Hashtag That Bleeping Barbara Marr’ and published it early this morning
. It’s already sold twenty thousand copies.”

  I whispered, “Bleeping? Does he say ‘bleeping’ or the other word?”

  Guy cleared his throat. “The other word.”

  “Oh my God!” I dropped my BLT on my plate. “What? Oh my God! How? Doesn’t it take like years to write a song before recording it to CDs and stuff?” I looked over at Howard, then at Colt. “How? Why? How?”

  “It’s the twenty-first century, Curly,” Colt said, picking through his potato chips. “The digital age. Things happen faster now.” He considered a round chip, then cut his gaze to me. “And by the way, do you really still buy your music on CDs?”

  “Is it awful?” Hugging my waist, I rocked back and forth. “Is it an awful, lewd, horrible rap song? Will I ever be able to go out in public again?”

  “Awful? Yes,” Howard answered without ambiguity. “Lewd? Very. Horrible rap song? It certainly wasn’t to my taste.”

  “I don’t know,” Colt said. “I kind of like what he did with the Gilligan’s Island theme song in the background.”

  I suddenly didn’t feel like finishing the sandwich or the chips. “I need a glass of wine. Do we have any wine in the house that’s 80 proof?” I tromped to the fridge and found a half-full bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. “First the murder, then the hashtag crap, then the threats from the Purple Rain Man paper, now this. Sharon Forrest is right, I’m a walking disaster.”

  “Purple Rain Man?” Guy perked up, his reporter-like instincts clearly piqued. “Is this related to the murder?”

  I swigged directly from the wine bottle, and then drew a hand across my mouth. “Not related to the murder. He delivered a paper last night with a message from Viviana Buttaro. At least, we think it’s from Viviana except she’s still in jail.”

  “Can I assume Purple Rain Man is not his given name?”

  “I call him that because the two times I saw him he was listening to the song, ‘Purple Rain.’ As you can tell, I’m very original with my nicknames.”

  Guy’s eyes went wide. “Does he have one of those large, round discs in one ear lobe?”

  I nodded.

  Guy snapped his fingers once. “Quick, do one of you have a laptop for me to use?”

  Howard retrieved the laptop from our closet office. He flipped it open for Guy and opened a browser.

  “Why,” I asked. “What do you know?”

  Guy typed furiously, his concentration on the screen and keyboard simultaneously. “Tell you in a minute. Hang on…and there he is.” Guy turned the computer around for me to see. “Is that the man?”

  There was Purple Rain Man’s face on our computer screen, beaky nose and all. He even wore the same purple t-shirt I’d seen him wearing the morning before. His dark eyes seemed to be laughing at the camera and at me. Apparently, I'd been right to be leery. The image was clearly a mug shot.

  Chapter Nine

  “That’s him,” I confirmed, staring at the screen. “Definitely Purple Rain Man.”

  Guy crossed his arms. “His real name is Jordan Spano. Twenty-five years old. He was arrested late last night. He’s been digging up dirt on people and sending them threatening messages via old newspapers which he hand-delivers. He then demands payment to stop the harassment. I was working on the story this morning before the Vinnie VanGo story broke. Spano is small time. No priors and not really that smart, obviously. I think he’s just a punk trying to find an easy way to make some fast money.”

  “Is he still in custody?” Howard asked, his eyes never leaving Spano’s mug shot.

  “I think so,” Guy said, nodding. “Fairfax County Courthouse.”

  Finally, some good news. I felt my blood pressure normalizing already. “So we’re safe now, don’t you think, Howard?”

  Howard tugged on a jacket, and pocketed his keys. “Probably, but I’m heading down there just to be sure. Let’s leave the girls at the grandmas at least until I get back.” He pointed to Colt. “You’ll stay here and be on watch?”

  Colt saluted him. “Roger that. It’s not like I have anything better to do. But, one day my girlfriend will be done writing her book and you won’t be so lucky.”

  Howard left the kitchen but didn't make it out the front door.

  “Uh, Barb. We have a problem here.” I heard his voice from the foyer. “You'd better look out the window.”

  I rushed to the front window with Colt and Guy on my heels. Two news vans were parked at the curb in front of our house.

  Just when I thought things were on an upswing. “Oh man. Is this because of the Vinnie VanGo song?”

  “You were already trending with the hashtag retweeting frenzy. The song raises your news-worthy status considerably,” Guy said.

  I watched a cameraman prop a camera on his shoulder and adjust the zoom. “Is there anything I can do to stop it?”

  Guy turned his gaze from the window to me. “There’s one thing I can think of.”

  “Tell me. I can’t have these people setting up camp on my street.”

  “Give me exclusive rights to your story, including an interview.”

  Two hours later, Howard was home, feeling confident enough that Jordan “Purple Rain Man” Spano wasn’t a threat to me or our family. “Either he saw the newscast, the tweet, or both and did his research quickly enough to get the paper on our driveway that night. Unfortunately, your name comes up with all sorts of news items when someone does a routine internet search. It wasn’t hard for him to decide how to push your buttons.”

  “My buttons? What about your buttons? Code yellow, code yellow! Poor Peggy and Roz.” I shook my head thinking about my sick friends. “Can we call off the code yellow now?”

  “Sure.”

  “And put your gun back in the safe.”

  “Sure.”

  “And put the safe in a bank vault in the middle of the Mojave Desert?”

  “It will go in the safe without the bullets.”

  I called the grandmas, who suggested not only that they bring the girls back, but that they bring Mama Marr’s big pot of goulash with them for dinner. It had been a while since we’d had a nice family dinner. I was sad Callie couldn’t be at the table with us. “Can you stay?” I asked Colt.

  “I love the family dinners, but since she’s deep into her writing, Vikki and I agreed to always set time aside for dinner together.”

  “That’s sweet. See, you guys are meant to be together.”

  Colt took off, and I used the sudden lull in pandemonium to drive some flu bomb over to Bunny. For many years, Bunny had lived in a house just around the corner from my own, but a divorce hit her badly in the money belt. She recently sold the house and moved into a comfy condo not far from the Nature Center.

  Flu bomb in hand, I knocked on her door.

  When she opened it, I cringed. Still in her robe, she had droopy eyes. Worse than that, her hair could have attracted a flock of nesting birds. Not that I have anything against messy hair, but Bunny is a hair perfectionist. She always looks good. Unless, of course, she’s sick, which was obviously the case.

  “Hi.” Her usual bouncy tone was completely absent. “Sorry I’m still in my robe. I haven’t felt too good today.”

  “Do you have a fever?” I stepped inside letting Bunny closed the door behind me.

  She shook her head. “No. Just feel blah.”

  Her cheeks were ruddy, so I felt her forehead. It was warm. “You’ve got a bit of a temperature. I’m pretty good at guessing these by touch—I’m going to call that a 100.2. Where’s your thermometer?”

  She went to her bathroom and returned with an ear thermometer. I set down the thermos with the flu bomb on her four-seater, glass dining table.

  “Is that how you took your temp last time?”

  She nodded.

  “Those aren't as accurate as the trusty oral thermometers. Do you have one of those?”

  “No.” Bunny stuck her hands in the pockets of her robe, hunching down in misery.

  I tried the ear device and it r
ead 99.1. “I think it’s a little higher, but let’s assume you’re getting this flu. You go back to your couch, get comfy and I’ll bring you some flu bomb. That will get you started.”

  I went to her kitchen, and heated the mix in a saucepan. When it was warm, I brought it to her. “Here you go. I should have gotten this to you sooner, but it’s been a crazy morning.”

  “I know. I feel very privileged that someone so famous is caring for me during my illness. What did you think of the rap song?” Bunny sipped the drink carefully.

  I sat down in the easy chair next to the couch. “I haven’t listened to it. Can’t bring myself to.”

  “That’s good. You probably shouldn’t. Although I liked his use of the Gilligan’s Island theme song.” Bunny coughed and wrapped the blanket around her like a cocoon. “I am starting to feel chilled.”

  I sat up on the edge of the chair, concerned. “What have you eaten today?”

  “Just some toast.”

  “Well, that’s not going to do. Let’s get you fed. I’ll leave you with another steaming cup of flu bomb before I leave.” I rummaged around her kitchen cupboards and found some canned soup and crackers. I warmed the soup on the stove and brought it to her on a tray.

  “You’re being so good to me,” she said between spoonfuls.

  I shrugged, happy that Bunny was eating. “It’s what friends do.”

  My phone rang. “This is Eric, the detective on Pickles’ murder case.” I answered. “Hi, Eric. Are you still working?”

  “Yeah, and it isn’t going well. It seems your Bernie Ford has gone missing. She’s disappeared completely.” Eric’s voice sounded strained and tired.

  “Oh, no.”

  Bunny set down her spoon. “What happened?”

  I moved my cell away from my mouth. “Bernie Ford is missing.” Moving the phone back, I told Eric, “I’m here with Bunny Bergen right now. She’s coming down with the flu. What about my long-haired lady? Bunny says her name is Helen Moyer. Did you find her yet?”

  “I haven’t been able to track her down either. She doesn’t answer her door. Her neighbor said she left town Friday afternoon.”