Take the Monkeys and Run (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #1) (12 page)

“That’s a start . . .”

“I’m telling you that the sex was GREAT and we seemed happy as clams, and the next day he says he needs space and he moves out. Got it?” While I considered Colt a very good friend, the topic of sex was a little too friendly.

“Got it. You want me to talk to him for you?” he asked.

“No. That would definitely make things worse.”

We sat in silence again, contemplating my sad marital state.

“So,” Colt finally said, changing the subject, “contrary to popular belief, I did not come here to assist you in your plumbing needs. I’m here to talk you out of this cockamamie scheme of yours. Possibly we can find you another hobby. Scrapbooking, perhaps? Or how about curling. I mean, the Canadians love it and they’re pretty cool, so it must be good.”

I crunched my brow and crossed my arms. “Scrapbooking?”

“Don’t forget the curling. Another attractive option.”

Sighing, I fiddled with a fork on the table. “Actually,” I smiled, “I have started working on a website—remember the movie review website I talked about a few years ago?”

He snapped his fingers trying to remember. “FlickChick . . . FilmChick . . . TicTac . . .”

“ChickAtTheFlix.”

“Dot com. Right.” He sat up straight in his chair. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Great idea, lots of potential. Here, I’ll go get my computer and you can show me.”

“But,” I said, stopping him, “I’m still doing this.”

“By this, you mean the house, the monkeys . . .”

I nodded.

“I can’t talk you out of it? There’s always archery. You could pretend the target was Howard. The bull’s eye could be his balls.”

While that was an interesting option, I still shook my head.

Colt stood up. “Well then,” he said, “we have some work to do today. Do you have your list?”

“You’re really going to help me?” I asked.

“You think I’m going to let you have all the fun? I’m nice, but I’m not THAT nice.”

“Yes! You’re wonderful!” I stood up to kiss him on the cheek. “I’m going to take a shower and get dressed. Then we can get started.”

“You in the shower. I like that image.”

“Stop that now,” I said, shaking my finger at him.

He put his hands innocently in the air. “Hey, I have an active imagination, what can I say? Remember, I HAVE seen you naked before.”

“You’d better go take a cold shower, buddy. Besides, it’s been twenty-five years since you’ve seen this body naked. Things are drooping that I didn’t know could droop. Put that in your active imagination,” I said, walking off toward my bedroom. Once I arrived, I locked the door behind me. Colt, in a playful mood, was capable of just about anything. And quite frankly, the way I was feeling, I didn’t know if I was capable of resisting a playful Colt.

After showering, it took me longer than usual to dress. I wanted to look good, but not too good. Of course, I didn’t want to LOOK like I was trying to look good, but not too good. I didn’t want to dress down, either. Because I did want to look good. I finally decided on jeans—not the baggy ones, but the Calvins that fit just right. I added a long-sleeved tee that hugged my curves rather nicely, if I do say so myself, and went down just low enough, but not too low. And it was a simple green, which did bring out my eyes, but wasn’t dressy enough to look like I’d picked it out on purpose. It was a tightly choreographed outfit that didn’t look planned at all. At least, that’s what I hoped.

Then there was the makeup—just a bit. A little mascara, because I looked like the walking dead without it. Some foundation under the eyes to hide the circles still hanging around from many sleepless nights. A tad bit of rouge to wake up my face. Some clear gloss on the lips. There. Beautiful, but not obviously so. Man. Being a woman was a lot of work.

I finally made it downstairs at about 9:30. Colt was at my front door, talking to some woman that I didn’t recognize. The layout of our neighborhood—no sidewalks and houses set far apart on large lots—wasn’t naturally inviting to door-to-door sales, so I wasn’t accustomed to strangers knocking on my door. My suspicion antennae went up.

Colt stepped back when he saw me come downstairs.

“Hey, Curly, this nice woman just came by to talk with you.” He was acting a little strange, even for Colt, and I swear he tried to wink at me when he had his back to her.

“To me?” I said.

“Yes,” said the stern looking lady. She was strikingly tall—nearly six feet. Dark hair pulled back tight against her head. No makeup. She wore black jeans, black hiking boots and a purple fleece vest over a black turtleneck. Her demeanor was all business, although I hadn’t figured out what business that might be. She didn’t have a Bible in her hand, so I was ruling out any saving of my soul. She extended her rough, worn hand for a shake and introduction.

“My name is Patricia Webber,” she said. “I’d like to speak with you if you don’t mind.”

“Well,” I hesitated. “I guess that depends on what you want to speak about.”

“I’m with PETA,” she said matter-of-factly.

“PETA?” I asked. Colt answered before she could.

“People for the Ethical Treatment of ANIMALS,” he said. Then he did it again, and I knew I had seen it right this time. That dirty devil had winked at me.

Chapter Nine

COLT INTERCEPTED THE CONVERSATION. “EXCUSE me,” he said to the lady, “we’ll be right back.” Then he closed the door on poor Ms. Webber’s frowny, pinched face.

“Well that was kind of rude,” I said.

“Yeah, whatever. Now listen. This woman thinks she’s going to get information from us, but what she doesn’t realize is that we’re going to get what we need from HER. Let her ask her questions, and you go ahead and answer—unless I give you a signal. If I give you a signal, don’t say anything and let me do the talking. You understand?”

“Not really. What kind of information would she have for us?”

“Who’s the PI here?” Roger that.

“What’s the signal?” I asked.

“Um, okay, let’s see . . . I’ll kick you.”

“No, you won’t!”

“Yeah, you’re right—that’s too obvious. I’ll . . . cough. That’s it. If I cough, you let me take over. Got it?”

“I guess. You’re the pro.” Although, I was increasingly losing confidence in that fact.

“In more ways than you know.” Colt winked again before opening the door to Patricia, who looked none too happy.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “My friend here was just, uh, a little concerned—you know, a strange person coming and asking me questions. He’s a little over-protective.” I tried to act as apologetic as possible without being obsequious.

“I’m not strange,” she stated rather emphatically. By the looks of her, I wasn’t so sure.

“I’m sure you’re not,” I said. “Won’t you come in? Can I get you something? Some tea? Coffee? Water?”

“Nothing, thank you. I won’t take much of your time.”

I guided her to the living room, where she chose to sit in one of my high-backed wing chairs. She had a rather large, black bag slung over her shoulder, which she laid on the floor at her feet. She pulled out a red spiral notebook and a pen. Colt and I sat on the couch. “I suppose you know why I’m here,” she said.

“Probably,” I said. “Monkeys?”

“Precisely. Monkeys. Do you know what kind of monkeys those were in your trees, Mrs. Marr?” Wow, this woman knew my name and everything. I was guessing she knew what kind of monkeys those were, too. Colt coughed. Geez! I didn’t even get to answer the first question?

“Actually. . . Ms. Webber, was it? She does know what kind of Monkeys those were,” he said.

I cocked my head toward him in confusion. I was quite sure that I didn’t know what kind of monkeys they were.

“What she wants to know,” he continued, “is how did you come upon the news that she had monkeys in her trees?”

Ms. Webber pursed her thin, colorless lips. “We have our ways, Mr. . . I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“That’s because I didn’t give it to you,” he said. Ms. Webber’s lips pursed together even tighter. She looked like she had eaten a lemon while being constipated. She blinked a couple of times, straightened her back and then turned her attention back to me.

“Mrs. Marr, I came here to see if you could be of any help to us with important information. Are you at all interested in answering my questions today?”

Colt coughed.

Geez! I turned to him. “Can’t I answer one lousy question?”

“What?” he said, giving us the innocent act. “I coughed. I might be coming down with something.” He coughed again, then got up to leave the room, tripping over Ms. Webber’s bag on his way out. I gave him an irritated glare and returned my attention back to the testy Ms. Webber.

“I’m sorry. Please. Ask away.”

She questioned me mainly on the topic of the monkeys on my property. Where had I first seen the monkeys? How many had I seen? Had anyone else seen the monkeys? Who had I called when I discovered them? Yada, yada, yada. They were actually some very obvious and uninspired questions. I thought I could have done better. She scribbled notes periodically as I gave my answers. It was all very benign. Oddly, she didn’t ask me about the three dead monkeys found in House of Many Bones. I was certainly expecting a question or two about those sad little creatures. Not that I could have relayed much information, since I hadn’t actually seen them myself. Yet, certainly, since they were dead, she should have been more interested in them. I would think they probably hadn’t been treated very ethically, after all. Maybe she didn’t know about them. I considered bringing up the subject, but stopped myself. Colt was adamant that we only get information from her, not vice versa.

Her final question was a little odd and seemingly non sequitur. “Mrs. Marr, I was wondering, do you know anything about a man named Tito Buttaro?”

“Tito Buttaro?” I laughed. “Sounds like a character from
The Godfather
. Why? Is he a monkey smuggler or something?”

She blinked and pursed those sourpuss lips again. “Can I take that as a ‘No’, then?” she asked.

“As far as I am aware, I do not know anyone by that name.”

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Marr,” she said, standing up and throwing her bag back over her shoulder. She nearly threw my arm out of its socket with her vigorous, goodbye shake. Still no smile. She made her way briskly and stiffly to the front door and let herself out. Colt came back into the living room when she was gone. He was munching on a newly ripe banana.

“Boy, those PETA people sure are a lively bunch, huh? I’ll bet she’s a real hoot at parties,” I said.

“She’s not PETA.” Masticated banana slurred his words.

“What?”

“She’s not PETA. She’s a Fed. FBI, baby!” Colt was bouncing around me, fake punching like he was a heavyweight. Half-eaten banana in one hand. He was obviously very proud of himself. Still a kid at heart.

“FBI? Do you think so?” I asked.

“Don’t think so. Know so.” He stopped doing his Rocky imitation long enough to lick his fingers.

“How?”

“I saw her badge.” The bouncing recommenced. Bounce, bounce, punch. The air was getting a real beating.

“When?” I couldn’t believe it.

“Man, Curly, what have you gotten yourself into here? You’ve got Feds coming in posing as PETA guys. I mean, there’s something rotten in the State of Denmark if they’re not willing to identify themselves as FBI.” My head was swirling with this information.

“When did you see her badge?” I asked again.

“Oh, that piece of investigative work?” He bounded to the kitchen with the banana peel, telling his story more loudly as he went. “That’s when I tripped over her bag. No accident.” I heard the trash can lid drop. “She didn’t even notice because I was so slick.” He returned with a self-satisfied smile on his boyish face. “That’s what you can call me now—Slick. Slick Baron.” He plopped onto the couch.

“Oh, and her name isn’t Patricia,” he added. “It’s Marjorie.”

Chapter Ten

“WHAT?” I FELT AS IF someone had pulled a rug out from under me. I grabbed the wing chair for support.