Dead Man Stalking (Barbara Marr Murder Mystery Series Book 5)

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Other Books In This Series:

  Also By Karen:

  Enjoy This Barbara Marr Short:

  About The Author

  Dead Man Stalking

  A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery

  by Karen Cantwell

  Copyright © 2014 by Karen Fraunfelder Cantwell

  First Kindle Edition: 2014

  Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

  This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Prologue

  My name is Barbara Marr, and I think it’s fair to say I have issues.

  My cousin Samson the psychiatrist continues in his quest to convince my family that I’m delusional. Even following his own brush with the law. That’s right, a farmer caught Samson trespassing on his property—again. The cow and two sheep aren’t pressing charges. The horse remains undecided.

  The fact of the matter is, I am not delusional. The mafia thugs were real. One of them remains my friend to this day. The fugitive, cross-dressing bank robber wanted by the FBI for over twenty years: he was real. Or should I say she was real? The sexually deviant couple who chopped a man to pieces and left him to dissolve in a bath of drain cleaner: real and real.

  These people are not figments of my imagination. And for the life of me, I can’t figure out how I attract them into my life. Some of them are just plain kooky. Some of them carry guns.

  I’m just an ordinary mom living in the ordinary suburbs. I have three beautiful daughters, a super sexy husband that bears a striking resemblance to George Clooney, and a mild obsession with Meryl Streep. The Meryl obsession is truly harmless. I’d never stalk her or anything, I swear.

  All in all, it’s a good life.

  Yet, I have this problem. Those people who aren’t figments of my imagination—those kooky people and the people with guns—they keep finding me.

  You know those signs you see in factories that count the days without an accident? I need one that floats over my head and tells people how many days I’ve gone without being taken hostage.

  I had been doing really well there for a while. I thought for sure that the vibrations in my universe attracting the oddballs and nutcase killers had vanished.

  Then I made a wish. I wished to have the house to myself for a few days. Just a short amount of time alone. Sometimes a mom and wife needs some personal space to recharge.

  You know the old cliché about being careful what you wish for.

  Soon after I made that wish, my sign set back to zero.

  But hey, I solved two murders, acquired a pet duck, and almost met Kanye West. Not bad for an ordinary suburban mom, I guess.

  So, how did I get into trouble this time?

  I don’t know. I never know.

  The only thing I can tell you is, it all started the day my air conditioning died.

  Chapter One

  Summer used to be my favorite season. School is out, I get to sleep in, I don’t have to nag the kids about getting their homework done, and it’s blockbuster release time. You can always count on a great Will Smith flick or another Die Hard film, at the very least.

  But as I sat in a ratty one-piece swimsuit under our rickety ceiling fan, marinating in my own perspiration, my curly hair frizzed so wildly that our pet poodle was jealous, I began to rethink my favorite season. Winter wasn’t so bad. Yes, winter was sounding really good right now. Winter in Siberia.

  The kids were lucky. They were traveling to Canada with their two grandmothers on a ten-day fun-filled adventure. I’m sure it wasn’t anywhere near a hundred degrees in Canada.

  I plunged a kitchen hand towel into the bowl of ice water on the table in front of me, wrung it out, and draped it around my neck.

  I was about to call Howard to give him the bad news that our air conditioning had died again when I heard a quick knock on my door, followed by the sound of my friend Peggy’s voice calling out, “Yoo hoo, Barb! It’s just us!”

  I hadn’t been expecting guests, but Peggy and Roz weren’t really guests. They were my friends—the kind of friends that feel like family. Roz was my next-door neighbor who had moved to California briefly, but returned when her husband’s job there was eliminated. It also turned out that their renter had sort of been a serial killer and was hauled off to loony bin prison for life. Their move back to Rustic Woods was a no-brainer.

  I guess I should mention also, that Roz originally left the area because bad things had been going down in our usually quiet little suburb. More specifically, she said that I was a danger magnet. Personally, I scoff at that accusation. I mean, it wasn’t my fault that the mafia decided to operate out of a vacant house on our street. It also wasn’t my fault that a gang of female bank robbers on the FBI’s Most Wanted List had settled in Rustic Woods and joined our PTA. If anything, that was Roz’s fault because she was PTA president at the time. Wasn’t she screening applicants? And just because that movie director hurled his yams all over me before kicking the proverbial bucket, doesn’t mean I had anything to do with his murder.

  To be fair, I was, in each case, sucked into the chaos as it unfolded. And in a couple of cases, Roz found herself kidnapped with me, so I understood her concern. I just didn’t think she needed to move clear across the country.

  I stood to get more ice for my bowl. “In the kitchen!” I shouted.

  My house isn’t huge. It took them all of two seconds to find me.

  “I thought you had your A/C fixed,” groaned Roz, the bangs of her blond bob already wilting from the sweat collecting on her forehead.

  “So did I,” I said. “Here.” I opened the freezer door and waved it back and forth a few times. “This helps.”

  “It broke again?” asked Peggy, grabbing the door and sticking her face into the freezer.

 
; “Apparently.”

  Peggy pulled her head from the freezer, and I scooped a handful of ice out of the bin. I pushed the door closed with my butt.

  “Three times we’ve had someone out this summer to fix that darn thing.” I threw the ice into the bowl. “And it just keeps dying. We’ve put a boatload of money into it since June and money is something we’re short on these days.”

  “Did you ever find those lottery tickets?” Peggy asked. “Maybe you’re the mystery jackpot winner, and you don’t know it. Then you could buy a whole new air conditioning system. Top of the line.”

  “No.” I frowned deeply. “I haven’t found the tickets yet. I put them in a safe place where I wouldn’t lose them.”

  “And then you forgot them,” Roz said with a knowing nod. “I do that all the time. Safe places are overrated.”

  Peggy nodded too. “I stopped putting things in safe places when I lost Simon Jr.” She sighed. “He’s still afraid of the broom closet.”

  Roz and I knew there was a logical explanation for Peggy’s comment that didn’t warrant a call to child protective services, but I think we were both just too consumed by the heat to inquire further.

  Roz wiped beads of sweat from her neck. “Are you going to try a different company?”

  I shrugged. “Not sure yet. I was just getting ready to call Howard to see what he wants to do.”

  “Where’s Howard?” Peggy asked.

  I made a face. “Chicago. On business.”

  “She’s not happy about the client,” Roz said, explaining my grimace to Peggy.

  “Who’s the client?” she asked, snatching an ice cube from the bowl and rubbing it on her chest.

  “A woman he dated in college,” I answered, taking a seat under the fan again.

  Peggy sat too and aimed her face hopefully at the fan. “I thought you dated Howard in college.”

  “I did, but we broke up. That’s when I dated Colt briefly, remember? I’m sure I told you that.”

  She nodded. “That’s right. So, is she pretty? Is that the problem?”

  “Pretty, rich, smart, the body of a triathlete,” I listed off the attributes one finger at a time. “You name it, she’s got it.”

  Peggy laughed. “She sounds like that CEO they just hired at...” she snapped her fingers trying to remember.

  “Connections Digital,” I answered for her. “Mariah Hahn.” I made the face again. “She’s the one.” I pretended to gag myself with my fingers.

  “Seriously?” Peggy’s eyes bulged. “I just saw that Sixty Minutes piece on her. She’s worth millions.” Her eyes bulged wider. “And she’s single.”

  Roz swatted her on the arm. “Barb knows that. Don’t make it worse.”

  Peggy looked shamefaced. “Sorry.”

  I waved a hand dismissing her need to apologize. “No, it’s alright. I’m not worried about Howard leaving me for Mariah Hello-I’m-Perfect Hahn. I know he loves me.” I made another face. “It’s just...” I blew out a heavy sigh. “She’s all trim and rich and looks younger than she is and I’m all saggy and poor and look at all of these gray hairs!” I showed them my head of white roots. “He’s going to spend a week with champagne then come home and realize he’s married to a four-dollar bottle of wine that’s turned to vinegar.”

  Peggy slapped my hand. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You are not vinegar. And you just said that Howard loves you, so why compare yourself to her?”

  “He loves Beverly Hills too,” I rebutted, “but he doesn’t wear her to the Kennedy Center.”

  Roz said, “Ew,” and plugged her nose and Peggy just grimaced.

  They knew Beverly Hills. You could smell her a mile away and she was so ugly she damaged retinas. Beverly Hills was Howard’s favorite sweatshirt. Yes, so loved that he named her. I was with Howard when he bought her in Los Angeles nearly fifty years ago. I’d tried to talk him out of the purchase even then. Who buys a puke-colored Beverly Hills sweatshirt? The thing had grown so moth-eaten through the years that now he wouldn’t even wash her.

  “Holy cow,” I said, an epiphany popping to light in my mind. “I’m Beverly Hills. I’m stinky, grungy, revolting Beverly Hills.” I slouched in my chair, the realization draining me. “I’m thinking of buying a pair of Spanx.”

  Roz did her best to look cheerful. “Enough of this crazy talk. We’re here to talk you into coming to class with us. The gym is air conditioned.” Suddenly, her muscles tensed and her ears perked like a German Shepherd’s. “Listen. Do you hear sirens? This place has become a sanctuary for the lawless. Murderers, felons, hoodlums. They’re running amok.” Roz waved her arms dramatically. “It’s like New York City here with these sirens anymore.”

  I mentally rolled my eyes, and it wasn’t because of the sirens. The invisible eye roll was over Roz’s new agenda. She’d decided upon her return to Rustic Woods that if she was going to live next door to me, she must prepare herself for the worst. She had found a local company that taught self-defense for women, and she had been needling Peggy and me to join her. Peggy bit, but I couldn’t. No money, no time.

  “Hoodlums?” I asked rhetorically. “Come on Roz. Those sirens are probably heading to Mr. Williams’ house on Peggy’s street because he forgot he was cooking again. How many times has that happened in the last month?” I shot her a stern look.

  Peggy nodded. “It’s happened at least three times this week. He needs to give up fried foods.” Despite our attempt to downplay the situation, the intense shrill of speeding squad cars was too much to ignore. When Mr. Williams caught his kitchen on fire, there was only a couple of fire engines and an ambulance. This time the cacophony of sirens indicated something far more dire than a simple kitchen fire. And, if my hearing was accurate, they were traveling in the opposite direction of Peggy’s street.

  Roz planted her fists on her hips and practically sneered. “They aren’t on their way to Mr. Williams’ house.”

  “Uh-oh,” Peggy said. “Is that a helicopter I hear?”

  The three of us filed out of the house onto my front lawn and stared into the sky, our hands shielding our eyes from the late morning sun.

  Peggy pointed. “There it is!”

  “Looks like it’s circling over Rustic Woods Shopping Center,” Roz said. With a determined expression on her face, she pulled her smartphone out of her sundress pocket and began tapping and scrolling on the screen. She scrutinized each result. “Shh!” She put the phone to her ear while trying to glare us into silence, even though we weren’t talking.

  “What’s she doing?” I asked Peggy.

  Peggy obeyed Roz’s shush and lowered her voice. “It’s a new police scanner app she downloaded.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “She’s obsessed.”

  “Actually, it’s really cool. Did you know the Andersons on Green Apple Court are having marital problems?” She nodded knowingly. “Domestic dispute call two nights ago.”

  “I don’t want to know that,” I said.

  Roz lowered the phone and glared at me. “There’s a one-eighty-seven at sixteen hundred Woodland Drive, Suite D.”

  Woodland Drive was definitely Rustic Woods Shopping Center. Suite D—that was either Fiorenza’s or Hunan Rustic Woods if I had to take a guess. I never really paid attention to suite numbers on storefronts. “What does one-eighty-seven mean?” I winced, afraid of the answer.

  “Homicide,” answered Roz with an I-told-you-so attitude.

  “Hey, don’t give me that look,” I whined. “I wasn’t anywhere near Rustic Woods Center today.”

  Of course, I had been there the previous evening. My craving for a Fiorenza’s cannoli had gotten the best of me. But I didn’t need to tell her that.

  Chapter Two

  Back inside my house we turned on the TV, but didn’t find any
stations reporting about a homicide in Rustic Woods. After a few minutes we gave up. I had a long list of things to do and Roz and Peggy scooted off with renewed purpose to their self-defense class.

  Since leaving the FBI, my husband Howard had joined our family friend, Colt Baron, in the world of private investigation. Baron and Marr Investigations was now a legitimate enterprise with an accounts receivable and a tiny office in a high-rise building for greeting clients. It even had an administrative assistant: me. I screened inquiries, managed billing and contracts, and sometimes got to do some online research. It wasn’t the most exciting work, but it beat paying someone else to do it. And while we weren’t exactly rolling in the dough yet, the business was growing nicely. We were taking on some high profile clients like Mariah Hahn, or rather her company, Connections Digital. And just a few days earlier, we had finished a job for a local celebrity, thriller novelist Vikki Cleveland.

  In fact, visiting Vikki was on my list of things to do. Her father had just passed away, so I needed to drop by her house to offer my condolences and a tray of sandwich wraps.

  Before that, though, I had to talk to Howard about the air conditioning. A quick peek at the clock told me I might actually catch him for a video chat on my cell phone. I hadn’t seen his handsome face in two whole days and was feeling the need to gaze deeply into his chocolate-brown eyes and swoon a bit. Then, after swooning, I’d analyze his face for any signs of guilt. Specifically, I’d look for the tweak. Whenever Howard kept something from me, his left cheek twitched. For our entire marriage, he kept his job as an FBI agent a secret from me, and for our entire marriage, his left cheek twitched. I thought he had a chronic pinched nerve and nicknamed it “the tweak.” It wasn’t until his deception was revealed that the tweaking magically stopped. I hadn’t forgotten though. I had a tried and true sign anytime he tried to hide something.