Take the Monkeys and Run (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #1) (9 page)

THE PHONE RANG ONCE. THE phone rang twice. Three times. By the sixth ring, my palms were sweaty and I was hoping to get the answering machine. Ring eight had me in a panic—should I really be making this call? I was considering hanging up when smack dab in the middle of the ninth ring, the phone picked up. Whether I had reached human or machine, however, was questionable, because the answer was not immediate. Finally, a sound nearly animal in nature crossed the line.

“Yeah?” came the dim, gravelly groan.

“Colt?” I asked, praying now that I had the wrong number.

“Yeah. It's Colt. Who cares?” He didn’t sound well.

“It’s Barb. Are you okay? Is this a bad time?” I really wished I had hung up on ring eight.

“Barb? Of course it’s a bad time. It’s—wait a minute, let me look . . . it’s five o’clock in the morning! On a Sunday!”

I slapped my head. My bad.

“Colt, I’m sorry! I forgot about the time difference. I’m sooooo sorry.”

Colt Baron was a dear friend who currently resided in Santa Monica, California. He also served double duty as my ex-boyfriend and Howard’s ex-best friend. Howard, Colt, and I had been fast friends at college in San Diego. I’d started dating Howard during our sophomore year, but we broke up in the beginning of our senior year. Then Colt asked me out for more than just burritos at the Burrito Shack and he turned out to be a pretty fun boyfriend, too. Thinking guys were usually cool with those kinds of things, I had assumed that Howard would be fine with the new relationship. Not so much. He stopped talking to both of us. After graduation, we went our separate ways—Howard to an engineering job in Washington, DC; Colt two hours north to better surfing beaches; while I stayed in sunny San Diego, hoping for an upwardly mobile job in the not-so-exciting world of publishing.

I had majored in Film and Television and minored in Literature, the dream being that I’d make it big in Hollywood someday, writing and directing my own films. I suffered, however, from supersized, monstrously massive self-doubt reinforced by my parents’ continual declarations that I should come back down to Earth and concentrate on a “more realistic” career. Hence, I found myself editing other people’s dreams at a local San Diego publishing house.

Three years later, Howard and I met again at a friend’s wedding in Palos Verdes. I couldn’t resist those midnight eyes, wavy locks, and killer smile. He was just too yummy. We reconciled really nice that night, and somehow managed a long-distance romance for about six months until I finally packed up and moved to Arlington, Virginia to be closer to my honey. Meanwhile, I had stayed friends with Colt the surfer man, who rambled through different jobs up and down the California coast.

Colt’s current profession was, conveniently for me, that of private investigator. I wasn’t exactly sure how he’d come upon this line of work—did he need to be licensed? What was the training involved? Did he just hang up a shingle and call himself a PI? Those were things I just didn’t know.

When I thought of private investigators, two images came to mind: Humphrey Bogart’s Phillip Marlowe and Tom Selleck’s Magnum. Marlowe wasn’t Colt’s style, but Magnum was. I imagined Colt as a flaky sort of PI only shorter and without the mustache. Knowing Colt, though, he probably did hit the Santa Monica scene in a zippy little red Ferrari.

I felt bad for waking him up, but I have to admit, I was having fun picturing him in bed. I knew for a fact that he slept in his birthday suit. “Colt, I’m sorry, I’ll call you back later . . .”

“No, no. It’s fine. Just give me a minute,” he moaned. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes. Sort of. I mean, no one is sick or dead or anything. Well, someone is dead. I just don’t know who.”

“What?” That woke him up. I visualized him sitting on the edge of his bed, very concerned about me. Nice image—still picturing the birthday suit. Nice birthday suit, from what I remembered.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Tell me.”

I relayed the whole miserable tale—the night of howls at House of Many Bones, the live monkeys, the rotting head, the dead monkeys, the officials sporting badges from Meadowland Labs. I was hesitant to tell him that Howard had moved out, but my need for sympathy was at peak levels, so I finally succumbed to the need for a “poor baby” and spilled the beans on that subject, as well.

He was quiet when I finished, but I could hear breathing on the other end. “Wow,” he said finally. He was a man of many words.

“‘Wow’? Is that all you have to say?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Can you help me?” I asked.

“With the monkeys, the dead guy, or Howard? I’d be glad to come out there and give him the ol’ one-two.”

“The dead guy?”

“Howard.”

I smiled. He still cared. I felt really guilty calling Colt like this. But I needed to know someone still loved me. And I really, really wanted help un-boggling my mind-boggling dead-things-in-the-creepy-house dilemma. REALLY.

“No,” I said. “I don’t want you to beat up Howard.” Well, maybe just a little roughing up would be okay . . . “I want to know more about where these monkeys came from and why there are dead body parts in my neighborhood. It’s a wee-bit disconcerting, as you can imagine. I was hoping you could give me some pointers on how to do a little amateur investigating.”

“A ‘wee-bit’? What are you, a leprechaun?”

“Will you help me or not?”

“Okay, here’s what I think,” he said. “I think you should stay out of it. It stinks.”

“The smell was awful.”

“No. I mean the whole thing stinks of something bad. Something you shouldn’t be getting involved in, Curly. Stay out of it.”

The problem was, my decision was made. One thing about me, when I make a decision to do something, I do it. True enough, my decisions may be slow in coming, but once I’ve made one—watch out. I’m a pit bull. Besides, my motive was largely selfish—if I kept busy enough, I wouldn’t think about Howard every waking minute of the day. Colt, knowing my stubborn side the way he did, figured this out as soon as I went silent.

“You’re going to do this anyway, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“Okay. Well, I’d better lead you in the right direction, then. What are you looking for?”

I spent nearly an hour on the phone with Colt while he listed ways I could locate relevant information. It actually didn’t appear to be all that hard and might even be fun given my more-than-average knack for nosiness. The last thing Colt said before hanging up was, “Tell Howard he’d better watch out. I may come out there and steal you for myself.”

I laughed. Colt didn’t.

The first item on my list was gathering more information on Nine Hundred White Willow Circle. Colt agreed it was very strange and probably not coincidental that the house had been vacant for so long. This meant real estate research on the Internet and possibly a trip to the county courthouse to determine ownership. He said the details would be fairly easy to find through tax records.

He also recommended talking to others on surrounding streets to find out what they knew, since the neighbors on my street either didn’t know or wouldn’t talk. Did anyone around town know the owner? Did they know Grumpy Lawn Mower Guy? Stuff like that. Colt said to do the preliminary research and then call him back. After I collected some good information about the house, we’d start looking into the testing lab. He thought it was possible that some of the information about the house might lead us to the labs, anyway. I wasn’t sure how he connected those dots, but he was the pro, not me.

It was Sunday, and as eager as I was to get started, I had promised the girls a fun day in Washington, DC, so the investigative work would have to wait. Talking to Colt had lifted my spirits as well as boosted my confidence to tackle this little endeavor, so I decided to call it a day on that job and put in some hours on the Mom-job.

Visiting the museums and monuments in Washington DC is a real treat. Driving in DC is not. I liken it to riding a roller coaster while on Quaaludes. Still, having vast amounts of American history and culture at your fingertips is a treasure and makes the thrill-ride worth every scary turn. The museums are my favorite. The girls love the museum gift shops. So, over the years, we have come to a workable arrangement—they don’t complain about the museums if I don’t complain about how much money we spend afterwards. Howard hates museums and won’t go with me, so I take what I can get.

After rounding up the girls and taking a vote, it was decided, rather un-unanimously, that we would go to the International Spy Museum. That’s because Callie wanted to see the Japanese American Memorial instead, while Bethany wanted the Museum of Modern Art, and Amber wanted the Museum of Natural History (for the hundredth time). My vote for the International Spy Museum carried the day when we let Indiana Jones act as the tie-breaker—he agreed with me. The International Spy Museum. Besides, if I was going into spy mode, it seemed appropriate that I should get psyched up.

Bethany and Amber were still shoving their way into shoes and coats when the front door flew open. It was my mother, presenting herself in her usual grand Endora-from-Bewitched manner.

“Mom, what are you doing here?”

“Checking in on you, of course. How’s that cold of yours?”

I had forgotten about my fictitious cold. I sniffled once or twice. “Oh, you know, it comes and goes,” I said.

She started stripping off her coat and gloves as the girls were piling theirs on.

“Mom,” I whined, “can’t you see we’re leaving? Why didn’t you call first?”

“I was out and about, anyway. Besides, I’m your mother—do I need an invitation?” The question must have been rhetorical, because she continued to blabber on. “Do you like my new gloves?” She rubbed them against my face. “Feel that—cashmere. Do you want some? I can order you a pair.”

“Shopping Channel?”

“Daily special. I’ll order you a pair. Do you want cranberry red or camel?”

“I don’t want new gloves.”

“How about a coat? Tomorrow’s special is spectacular—lamb’s wool, full-length, and it comes with a matching hat.”

“I don’t need a coat.”

“Of course you do. Look at that thing you’re wearing. It’s falling apart.”

“It’s brand new.”

“That’s a shame. Really, you should check out the Shopping Channel—their merchandise doesn’t wear so quickly. And they’ll take anything back at any time, no questions asked.”

“Mom!” She was wearing me out. “We are leaving now,” I said throwing my purse over my shoulder.

She looked at us as if she had only just then realized that we were dressed up for outdoor weather. “Oh! Where are you going? I’ll go with you.”

“You wouldn’t enjoy yourself. We’re going to the International Spy Museum.”

“Are you kidding? That’s right up my alley. I was a spy once.”

“Mom, you were never a spy.”

She shook her head, dismissing my comment. “It was brief. Before I met your father. Very exciting time of my life.” Everything my mother claimed to have done in her life, including getting drunk with Ernest Hemingway, had happened before she met my father. Since she would never confess to her real age, I figured she was either a very precocious teenager, or she’d met my father when she was sixty. Which would make her about . . . a hundred.

As it turned out, the museum was a hit—the girls marveled at the James Bond car with its nifty spy gadgets, while my mother told the story of how she was once considered for a role as a Bond Girl. This was, of course, before she’d met my father. As luck would have it, I knew my Bond movie trivia. I had her.

“Mom,
Dr. No
was the first James Bond movie and it came out in 1962 and you were married to Dad in 1962.”

“Your point, dear?”

“I think you’re making this up.”

“Well, Miss Smarty Pants, 1962 is when the first Bond movie FINALLY came out. What you don’t know is that a little known movie producer by the name of Harry Schmenck tried to make a James Bond movie seven years before
Dr. No
. Do you know what the name of THAT movie would have been? Hmm?” She was looking down at me, very haughty and pleased to know something I did not. “
Casino Royale
—the name of the first novel by Mr. Fleming introducing the James Bond character to the world. THAT was the movie I was considered for.”