Dead Man Stalking (Barbara Marr Murder Mystery Series Book 5) Page 6

  “You are reading this book?”

  I nodded.

  “You like this book?” she asked.

  “So far it’s quite compelling.”

  “You have met the character, Ishma?”

  “Uh, no.” I shook my head, wishing she’d drink faster. “I don’t remember reading about a character with that name yet.”

  “You will. She comes in Chapter Ten. She is me. Cee Cee was inspired by my beauty and my brains. You will tell me how you like this character when you are done reading the book. I want to know what you think.”

  “Okay.” What else could I say?

  She had long gone past annoying me. Her presence was now so irritating that someone sticking needles in my eyeballs would have been less disturbing.

  Yet, instead of leaving, she began meandering again. This time down the hallway and into the dining room. “Oh,” she shouted. “Is this my Cee Cee’s backpack?” She set the glass down on the table and began digging through the backpack. “It is,” she cried. “It is.”

  “Really, I don’t think you should be doing that, Ms. Moro—” I couldn’t remember how to say her last name. “Um, that’s not mine or yours.”

  She unzipped it in a flash and began pulling things out. “Oh, my Cee Cee. His things. The things he touched I will touch and be close again.” Only she didn’t seem to be treasuring each item as much as inspecting each one carefully.

  “Um, really, Isbel, I think—” Finally I’d had enough. I took the roll of quarters out of her hands, shoved it back into the backpack and pushed her out of the dining room.

  “Is there more? Cee Cee had more than a simple backpack, I know.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, and I’m sorry for your loss, but this isn’t my house. If you want to talk to Vikki about her father, you should come back when she is here.”

  I opened the front door and gave one last shove. “Saturday. She’s back Saturday.”

  Obviously ruffled by my actions, Isbel straightened her spine and narrowed her Natasha eyes at me. A person should never trust Natasha, and I didn’t trust Isbel.

  “You,” she said in a low and seething voice, “should watch yourself, little lady. No one throws Isbel Morozov-Pivovarski out of a house like a mongrel dog.” Her eyes narrowed to thin, hostile slits. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Betty Boop,” I said, slamming the door in her face. Now here’s the thing. I’m not the kind of person who often has the nerve to shove someone out a door and slam the door in her face. It’s especially scary when that someone looks as dangerous as Natasha from Rocky and Bullwinkle. So my heart was racing a bit. Well, a lot.

  I turned the deadbolt for added safety and checked the peephole. Isbel was still there, pacing.

  I ran into the other room for my phone just in case a call to 911 became necessary, but thank goodness, she was gone by the time I returned. I released a very upset and yappy Puddles. I dialed Vikki. She needed to know about this craziness. Vikki still wasn’t answering. I checked the time on my phone. In theory, she could have been in New York by now and meeting with her agent.

  I left a message this time and asked her to call me when she had a chance. Then I dialed Roz and Peggy to see if they could come by earlier. I needed some company and I needed it now.

  Chapter Eleven

  Thankfully, Roz and Peggy were able to come right over.

  Peggy barreled into the house, exuberant with adoration. “This is really Vikki Cleveland’s house? I can’t believe it.” She set a colossal quilted tote on the floor and took in her surroundings like an Elvis devotee treasuring Graceland. “I read her book for my killers and thrillers book club. It was thrilling alright.”

  Roz handed me a bag from Taco Loco. “We brought dinner. How did you come to know Vikki Cleveland, anyway?”

  The tantalizing aroma of still-warm taco meat tickled my appetite. I shrugged at her question. “Can’t say.”

  Roz tipped her head in understanding. “She’s a client.” She surveyed me a little more closely. “Did you get a sunburn?”

  I shook my head. “Turns out my skin is sensitive to lemon juice. Let’s eat on the pontoon boat.”

  “Oh, no,” Peggy argued. “Pontoon boat later, tacos and a hair makeover right now.” She hefted the quilted bag. “Where can I plug in the blow dryer?”

  I shot a panicked look at Roz.

  “She claims she did wonders for her third cousin Wilma,” Roz said, her eyes not reflecting any confidence in that fact.

  Peggy was ready with proof. She thrust a picture in my face. “There she is after my fine color and cut. This is how I made money in college. I really know what I’m doing.”

  The horror of my failed attempt at self-beautification still fresh in my mind, I balked. “Curly hair is harder to work with.”

  “Sure it is, but Wilma’s hair is curly.”

  I focused closely on Wilma’s hair. “It’s wavy at best.”

  “No,” Peggy countered. “That was after the blow-dry. I’m going to take your hair from fair to fabulous. We can do it here in the kitchen. I brought newspapers and plastic to make cleanup easier. I tell you, I’m prepared.”

  I don’t know. Maybe the fragrance of Taco Loco tacos made me a little loco. Wilma’s hair did look stunning. It took a few more minutes of convincing, but I gave in.

  While Peggy worked her supposed magic and Roz observed, I told them about Vikki’s dad, the manuscript, the backpack, the bizarre people at his viewing, the Red Cigala tailing, and the strange encounter with Isbel, who looked like Natasha.

  “I loved Rocky and Bullwinkle,” Peggy said, when I was done spewing my story.

  “That’s all you can say?” I asked. “From all of that?”

  “Maybe that manuscript you’re reading has you imagining things. Or you know, making more out of them than there really is,” Roz offered.

  “I admit, Red Cigala may not have been following me,” I whined, “but Isbel was here looking for something, I’m sure of it.”

  “You know, Roz,” Peggy said, “Barb does have a way of attracting some bizarre people.” She wound a handful of my hair around a brush and tugged while drying.

  Roz nodded.

  “And that Moyle guy was positive that her father had been murdered,” I added, wincing from a particularly hard tug.

  Roz sat back in her chair and folded her arms. “Then you should move back to your own house and leave this one well enough alone. I don’t need to get roped into another one of your fiascos. I didn’t like California as much as I thought I would, but I did love the peace and quiet. And I wasn’t kidnapped once.”

  “Hey,” Peggy said to Roz over the whir of the blow dryer, “now that we’re taking that self-defense class, we can ride in and save Barb if she gets into trouble again.”

  “It’s a self-defense class, not a Barb defense class,” Roz muttered. She squinted at me. “I’m not sure they could teach us enough moves to defend Barb from the trouble she finds. Unless they have a class on how to use a rocket launcher.”

  Peggy clicked the blow dryer off and set the brush down on the counter. “Voila!”

  Roz’s squint turned into a smile. “Nice work, Peggy. I have to admit, I was doubtful.” She gave me the hand mirror.

  I stared at my reflection in disbelief. My dull, frizzy, mousy brown hair with inch-long gray roots had been transformed to wavy walnut with highlights framing my face. Eat your heart out, Mariah Hahn, I thought. A little makeup and a pair of Spanx, and I’m back in the game.

  I snapped a selfie and texted it to Howard with a message. Some kinda sexy, huh? Come home soon. Don’t let this go to waste. I added three winky emoticons.

  We decided to celebrate with wine and a cruise on the lake. Roz got the wine bottle, Peggy got the gla
sses, and I got the instructions for the boat’s electric motor.

  We were set. Except for one thing. None of us could decipher the instructions. Despite our grandest efforts, we couldn’t make that motor run. Not to be defeated, we relaxed on the boat as it remained moored to Vikki’s dock and watched the sunset anyway. And we drank wine, of course.

  We talked about a lot of things, including Mr. Chang’s murder. Peggy said she heard that whoever killed him had cleaned up after himself like a real pro.

  “A professional hit,” I pondered. “That’s hard to believe.”

  Peggy shook her head. “No, like a cleaning professional,” she clarified.

  My eyebrow arched. Curiosity gets the best of me every time. It’s like a disease I can’t control.

  Roz waggled her finger at me. “Remember, stay out of it Marr.”

  I frowned back. “It’s just interesting, is all. Geez.”

  Our discussion was interrupted by a rustling in the brush on the shore nearby. Peggy decided it was a squirrel. Roz worried that it might be the rabid fox she’d heard reported through her police scanner app. He’d been spotted by more than a dozen residents in the last week.

  I, myself, imagined the noisemaker to be Red Cigala on my trail again. Or even worse, Isbel Maury Povitz Stanley Kowalski. Or scariest of all—both of them. Possibly they were after me the way invisible forces were after Sam Storm in Dead Man Stalking.

  Peggy scoffed. “It’s a squirrel, I’m telling you,” and she started climbing off the boat to prove her point.

  “Don’t,” Roz warned her. “If I’m right, you’ll have to endure rabies shots after he bites you.”

  The saner side of me knew Peggy was probably more right than Roz, but that didn’t stop me from freaking. The boat’s battery-operated lanterns did little to cut through the darkness of twilight, so I reached for the flashlight I’d brought as backup.

  From boat to dock and dock to shore, Peggy fumbled her way toward the thicket not five feet away. “Come out, squirrel,” she shouted at the shrubbery. “Come out!”

  The rustling intensified and when it did, so did Roz’s pleadings.

  Peggy stopped in her tracks. I couldn’t see her face, but her shaking voice told me she’d changed her tune. “Maybe that’s not a squirrel...”

  “Step back slowly,” Roz told her quietly.

  I shined the flashlight near her feet to guide her, but lost my balance. When I did, all hell broke loose in the bushes.

  Roz screamed.

  Peggy tripped and fell on her rear end howling, “Bear! It’s a bear!”

  And just about the time I thought we were all going to die, a massive figure arose from the brush, flapping its monster wings. The colossal dragon-beast bent throttle on a course straight for my newly coiffed head. I crossed my arms protectively in front of my face and turned to avoid impact from the sky-bound demon.

  But my precautionary measures came too little too late.

  The buzzard buzzed me, throwing me off balance again, and this time I toppled right into the algae-coated waters of Lake Muir.

  By the time I’d recovered and stood, drenched, with the lake lapping gently at my knees, Roz was bent over laughing hysterically.

  The quacking in the distance told me all I needed to know. Big, fat chicken, Barbara Marr, had been dunked by a puny duck.

  Roz and Peggy were still laughing as I watched them get into Peggy’s van. I tightened the cinch of the robe I’d changed into. I’d laugh at my mishap another time. At that moment, I just wanted a shower to wash away the silt in my drawers and the overpowering stench of fish.

  The air was thick and stagnant, the humidity so heavy my chest felt crushed. Peggy’s headlights illuminated, she backed out of the short driveway, and pulled away. I gave a final wave, smiling. Despite the plunge, it had been a fun night.

  Puddles scampered up to my ankles and gave a yap telling me he needed to do some business.

  “Go ahead, boy,” I said, stepping aside and letting him pass through the open door. He found a tree quickly and lifted his leg. But mid-pee, he started to growl. Puddles had three kinds of growls. His chase-the-cat growl, his don’t-pull-my-tail growl, and his I-don’t-like-you growl which is reserved for humans only. Humans he doesn’t trust.

  This was his I-don’t-like-you growl through and through.

  A branch snapped somewhere in the distance.

  Puddles’ growl deepened. He lowered his leg and stood rigid on all fours.

  I tried to calm my fear-induced heart palpitations by telling myself it was just another duck.

  Yeah, right. That was no duck.

  When another branch snapped, I said enough is enough. In just a few short moves I’d scooped up Puddles and jumped back into the house, slamming the door behind me and locking it tight.

  My first impulse was to grab my cell phone and call Howard. I stopped just short of dialing though. He had already been worrying about me, this would make things worse. And as badly as I missed him and wanted him home, I didn’t want to ruin this job for our company. We needed the business.

  I spotted several text notifications, so I read them in order.

  The first was from Howard’s reply to my selfie: You look like a movie star. Can’t wait to walk your red carpet.

  Oh Howard, you naughty little boy.

  The second was also from Howard. Sorry haven’t called. Been busy.

  The third was from Colt: Howie really is working.

  And the fourth was from Howard again: Did I tell you how much I love you?

  My heart melted and I smiled a big ol’ smile.

  Most of the worry drained from my body, but not all. I desperately wanted to shower, but was still too jumpy from the growls and snapping branches. Instead, I clicked on the television and decided to watch something less titillating than what I’d been reading.

  I found I Love Lucy—the one where Ricky yells at her because she does something really crazy. Somewhere before she cried “Oh, Ricky!” I fell fast asleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sun streaming in from the large windows awoke me early the next morning. The TV was still on. A weatherman pointed to a screen that told viewers we were in for another ninety-plus day of heat. With the humidity, it would feel like a hundred and one degrees.

  It was too early to call air conditioning companies and hope to get a human on the phone, so I took that much-needed shower. Once I was dressed and began to style my hair, I realized that Peggy had taken her blow dryer with her. Not that I knew how to use one even if she’d left it. I had let my curly hair air dry for over twenty years. I puzzled over what to do. I crunched the curls with my fingers and smooshed it a little here, pushed it down a little over there. Peggy’s cut was significantly shorter than my accustomed length. The more I played with it, the more it dried and poofed. Exasperated, I slathered on some hair gel and prayed for the best.

  Rather than eat all of Vikki’s food I decided to hit the Cappuccino Corner for some breakfast and coffee. She was already being generous enough with her house. Plus, it just felt strange using someone else’s kitchen.

  To not look strange eating alone, I took along Dead Man Stalking.

  Inside, at a table near the window, I sipped on my coffee while reading. When someone plopped into the chair across from me, I was startled into dribbling coffee down my chin. My uninvited guest was Moyle Just Moyle from the viewing the day before.

  “Hi ya,” he said, oggling my egg and cheese sandwich with salivating eyes.

  “Hi...” I’d never met this guy before in my life, and now twice in two days?

  “Remember me?”

  “Hard to forget you,” I said.

  “People say that all the time. And trust me, I’ve been through all sorts of time.” Ah yes, he thoug
ht he was a time traveler.

  “Are you, um, meeting someone here or something?”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Oh. Good. Don’t let me disturb you then.” I bit into my sandwich.

  “You.”

  “What?” I choked a little on egg and cheese.

  “You. I’m meeting you here.” He pointed to my head. “I see why you decided to go with the hat. Whoa.”

  I touched my hair self-consciously. “Okay...why are we meeting?”

  “Oh, right, right, right.” He tapped his index finger against his forehead. “I sometimes forget people don’t know. See, I saw you tomorrow. We were following Wee Willy Snow and Carney Smutz on account we were pretty sure they either killed Cee Cee or had something to do with his murder. And you told me to meet you at the coffee shop. Actually, you told me tomorrow to meet you tomorrow, but I decided yesterday would be more helpful. So here I am.”

  Yeah. Okay. There’s no real way to respond to a statement like that. So I didn’t. I took another bite of my sandwich and prayed he’d go away. Or time travel away. Or something to that effect.

  But he didn’t do either.

  Feeling awkward, I looked at my coffee and wished it was a margarita, heavy on the rita.

  He continued to stare at my sandwich like it was a Thanksgiving meal. I did what any mother would do: I asked him if he was hungry. “Do you want a sandwich?”

  “Oh man. That’d be great. Twisting makes me famished.”

  Oh boy. I had to ask. “Twisting?”

  “It’s what we call the process. You know,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “traveling through time. We call it twisting. If you understood how it worked, it would make more sense.”

  I nodded. Maybe. Maybe not. I dug a five-dollar bill from my pocket and handed it to him. “Here. It’s on me.”