Take the Monkeys and Run (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #1) (2 page)

So at three o’clock in the morning, nearly five years later, when I heard a truck with muffler issues rumbling into the driveway next door for the second night in a row, my curiosity was piqued. Übur-piqued. Grumpy Lawn Mower Guy was scary, but he was predictable to a fault. Middle-of-the-night errands were not his style. Not at all. Something was definitely up in my generally calm little corner of Rustic Woods, Virginia and I wanted to know what. And Lord knew I needed a diversion from masterminding painful plots regarding Howard’s well-being. Hence my frigid, barefoot foray into the cricket-infested dark night. Truth be told, I was probably also channeling a bit of the Chan-man after watching that Men of Mystery Film Festival.

Regardless the reason, I was moving forward and the only question really was, should I keep going? Reaching my driveway, I realized that acquiring a reasonable view of the house or the mysterious truck was going to be harder than I’d originally thought. First, the black of night was a major impediment. With no moon or streetlights to help, I was like a bat with radar malfunction. Second, the significant distance between the two houses and the fact that they were separated by a line of dense trees and shrubbery meant I would have to walk out into the middle of the street to really see anything of worth.

“What do you think, Indy?” I whispered. “Out to the street or back to our house?”

He didn’t answer. He purred and rubbed, but he was keeping mum.

“The street is cold and the house is warm, and at least I was able to see the top of the truck from my bedroom window. And one of the girls could wake up and get scared if they don’t find me in bed. Whaddaya say?” I was weighing the pros and cons with my hands moving up and down like the Scales of Justice. “Street? House? Street? House?”

“Mew.”

“Great minds think alike.”

The cat and I agreed that a warm and toasty house was a far better alternative to a frigid and fruitless expedition. Turning back toward the front walk, I stopped when my eyes caught a hint of light glowing through the trees between my property and House of Many Bones. Based on the location of the light and how low to the ground it was, I had to assume it was coming from one or more of its basement windows near the rear.
Aha
, thought I. Maybe there was something to see inside that window. The gears of my curious mind were turning again.

“Look at that,” I whispered again. “Maybe we should just amble over to those trees, peek through and . . .”

“Out for a nighttime stroll?”

With a jump, I grabbed my pounding chest and stifled a scream that, left unstifled, might have aroused the entire neighborhood. Luckily, it was just my neighbor and friend Roz, who had sneaked up from behind, nearly causing me a major myocardial meltdown.

“Don’t scare me like that!”

Roz Walker lived in the house on my other side. She was smart. She was wearing shoes. Fleece-lined. And a puffy coat over a flannel robe.
Playboy
wouldn’t be calling her anytime soon, but she was warm.

“Sorry.” She handed me a flashlight. “You look like you could use this.”

I turned on the flashlight. “Thanks. How partial are you to those shoes?”

“You’re spying, aren’t you?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You first.”

“Of course I’m spying. So are you. Your turn.” I shined the light onto her shoes for emphasis.

“Keeping the shoes. Not necessarily partial to them, but I like my feet. You can keep the flashlight though. I won it in a raffle.”

“What are you doing awake at this hour?” I tucked the flashlight under my arm so I could blow warm air into my icy hands.

“The truck woke me up. You?”

“Never fell asleep.”

“Howard?”

“Instead of counting sheep, I tried counting my blessings. When that didn’t work, I tried counting ways to hurt my hideous husband.”

“Did that help?”

“I’m awake, aren’t I?” With fingers warmed enough to function again, I shined some light onto my lawn, illuminating a maze of carved pumpkins and Styrofoam tombstones. “Can you see the truck from your house?”

Roz shook her head. “Barely. I could see you real good though.” She tugged at my sleeve. “Did you know your pajamas glow in the dark?”

“They’re Halloween PJs—those are little ghosts.” I pointed to the glowing white figures on my top. “I’m trying to stay festive despite the sad state of my life.” I shined the light toward House of Many Bones. “Do you think it’s a moving truck?”

“Could be. Small one.” Roz’s breath was visible when she talked.

“Did you see Grumpy Lawn Mower Guy?” I started bouncing to get my blood flowing.

“I didn’t see anybody. Maybe the house has been rented or sold and someone’s moving in.”

“At three thirty in the morning?”

“Actually, it’s after four now. You should go back inside and try to get some sleep.”

My ears detected a faint noise from next door.

“Wait!” I stopped bouncing. “Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“That.” I turned my ear. “You don’t hear it? It sounds like . . . hmm.”

“What?”

“It kind of sounds like a monkey.”

“It’s your cat.”

“No. No it’s not.” Reaching down, I picked up Indiana Jones and held him under one arm. The noise was still there. Almost a vibration. Barely audible, but definitely from House of Many Bones.

“I’m going in a little closer. I’m sure I hear something.”

“Well, you’re on your own. Peter made me promise to come out just long enough to give you the flashlight and find out what you were up to.”

“Then give me your shoes.”

“No way. I have to walk through sticker vines to get back to my house. Come by tomorrow for coffee. Or lunch, depending on when you wake up.” She flicked on her own flashlight and stepped gingerly away, leaving Indy and me alone to fend for ourselves.

Stepping out onto the frosty grass, I had second thoughts. The icy blades felt like millions of needles pricking the bottoms of my nearly gangrenous feet. At the very least, I was going to need a pair of shoes if I was going to attempt a peek through those trees. The minor noise had faded anyway. And maybe Roz was right. Maybe this was as simple as new neighbors moving in. Neighbors who worked odd hours. A bartender perhaps. A bartender bringing a few things by after his shift ended at two.

Reason trumped wild imagination. I took two steps backward onto the driveway and put the cat back down.

“Let’s go, Indy. We’re not cut out for adventure, after all.”

I hadn’t even turned back toward my own house when out of the blue, piercing the dead still of the night, a high-pitched howl stopped me in my tracks and sent my heart rate racing at breakneck speed. This was no vague sound drifting through the crisp night air. This was loud, sharp and painful to the ears. Sort of a man-beast howl. Hard to describe, but every decibel was chilling to the bone. Seconds later, I heard a door at the rear of the house swoosh open followed by a flurry of activity on the ground behind House of Many Bones. Leaves rustled wildly and there was a pounding of footsteps. I couldn’t see what was happening, but it didn’t sound good. It seemed that something very violent was going down. I looked back for Roz, but she was long gone.

Forgetting my feet altogether, I flew up the driveway, across the walk and up to my front door. Indiana had beat me there and was clawing to get in. As my hand landed on the door knob and turned, I heard a man yell from the backyard.

“Toes!” he screamed.

Wow, that was one mad bartender.

Indiana and I leapt across the threshold. We were inside, but not yet safe in my mind. Just before the door slammed shut, I heard the man yell again.

“Toes!”

Chapter Two

AFTER CHECKING ALL WINDOWS AND doors for secured locks, I ran upstairs and checked on all three girls to make sure they were safe and sound. Like the angels they were, I found each one sleeping peacefully, completely oblivious to the wild goings-on outside. In my bedroom, I peeked out the window one more time. The van was still there, but no maniacs or other oddities that I could see. The idea of calling the police crossed my mind, but I decided against it. Maybe it had been a simple quarrel or dispute. Then I would be embarrassed.

Somewhat calmed, I crawled into bed, pulled the covers up to my chin and flicked on the TV for added company. Woody Allen’s
Take the Money and Run
had just started on The Comedy Movie Channel. I texted Roz to ask if she had heard the ruckus, and while waiting for a reply with the cell phone still in my hand, I laid my head down on the pillow, closing my eyes just for a minute. It had been a long, hard day, and the rest felt good. The phone rang, and assuming it was Roz, I answered without checking the caller ID.

“Hey,” I mumbled. “Did you get my text?”

“Barbara? Is this Barbara Marr?” asked male a voice on the other end.

“Yes . . . this is Barbara,” I replied cautiously. “Who’s this?”

“Steven Spielberg.”

I happen to think Steven Spielberg is a very sexy man. Wisdom, sensitivity and creative genius light my fire. Steven has ’em all. He also frequents my dreams on a regular basis.

“Am I dreaming?” I asked, just to be sure.

“Yes. Yes, you are.”

Oh, well. At least it was better than the nightmare of my waking life.

“Okay, I’ll play,” I said.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“I’m asleep, and there’s a wild man outside my house very concerned about his toes, but no, I guess it’s not really a bad time.”

“I just visited ChickAtTheFlix.com. Fantastic website you’ve got there. Your review, ‘Jurassic Park: Not Just for Dinosaur Lovers,’ was amazing. You really saw what I was going for. You understand me.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“No, I didn’t like it. I LOVED it. Listen, I’ll get right to the point. I want you to direct a movie for me. I’ll produce. It will be great.”

I coughed. “Me? Why me?”

Actually, I did play director with the video camera a little more than the average bear, editing little masterpieces here and there. Like the recent music video on YouTube.

“That video!” said Steven, his voice shrill with excitement. “It’s brilliant. You’re a genius. Raw, natural talent. Hollywood needs a fresh voice like yours.”

I smiled. That was the one. It was a personal favorite. Catchy, upbeat, and original.
Material Girl
, after all, did provide a deep, ironic springboard from which to showcase my talent.

After some discussion of casting (Orlando Bloom) and money (ten million), I agreed to direct
Terminated Mission to Die Hardly
.

Steven explained the premise. “It’s an intense action-thriller with a little comedy thrown in. We’ll have monkeys.”

“Monkeys?” I asked, hearing chattering on the other end. It started low and grew louder. Laughing monkeys.

“Steven?” I hollered over the din. “Are you there?”

He didn’t answer. All I could hear were monkeys. I looked at my cell phone. It had turned into a banana. I started eating it, then remembered I was dreaming. When my eyes slowly opened, I found myself sprawled out face down on the pillow, drooling on my cell phone.

Rolling over on my large, lonely bed, I saw that the night had passed and a soft morning light was filtering through my windows. I choked back the recently familiar desire to cry. Daylight meant another day of facing what my life had become. The TV was still on, so I found the remote and clicked it off. Staring at my ceiling, I wished for a retreat back into my silly Steven Spielberg dream. I squeezed my eyes shut for a minute, then opened them again hoping for the best. No Steven Spielberg. Just harsh reality and the sound of wind screaming through the trees, followed by the familiar plink, plink, plink of acorns bouncing off my roof. Fall had come to Rustic Woods, Virginia, and my life had to go on.

While contemplating the rigors of metaphorically putting one foot in front of the other just to get through the day, I became aware that animals were scampering on my roof. Nothing unusual, really. Squirrels roamed my yard as frequently as Tiger Woods dated cocktail waitresses. These did sound larger than my typical squirrels however. Quite a bit larger. The scampering turned into a sort of thumping that increased in intensity until finally peaking with an orgasmic-like crescendo of high-pitched squeals. Lovely, I thought. Teenage Mutant Ninja Squirrels making whoopee on my house. Well, at least someone was having sex.

Thinking of sex, or rather the lack of sex, made me think of Howard. Thinking of Howard made me want to stop thinking.

No need to worry. I was a mother. The telltale shuffle of small, slippered feet in the hall outside my door indicated the end of adult thinking time.

“Mo-ommy!”

Within seconds, the door flew open and a delightful fairy wannabe, adorned with wings and lace, hovered over me on the bed, taking in a serious inspection. Her chubby little fingers gingerly caressed my face while her sweet breath warmed my cheeks.

“Mommy,” said Amber, “why are your eyes all red?” Amber was the youngest and most whimsical of my three children.