Citizen Insane (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #2) by Karen Cantwell Page A

speed-of-light pulse, I crawled closer to her face. I recalled a CPR course I had taken with my mother a few years earlier. Check for breathing. There was something about checking for breathing. How hard could that be?
    I put my face even with her chest and tried to see if it rose and fell, but my eyeballs were actually pulsing, if that’s possible, so everything seemed to be moving. Probably some horrible curse of accidental mother murderers. Homicidal Eyeball Pulsing Syndrome. I would have to ask my optometrist about that.
    “Who is it?” Roz asked. She was behind me now.
    “Michelle Alexander. I think she’s dead! Do you have your cell phone?”
    “I forgot it!”
    I reached in my jacket pocket for my own, but pulled out Bethany’s Game Boy instead. I felt in my other pocket. No cell phone. Damn! “Run back to the house and call 911!”
    Roz was gone in a flash.
    Since the look-see test wasn’t working, I decided I should feel near her nose for any sign of breathing. Only, I was breathing heavier than a hormone-heavy teenage boy at a cheerleader convention. I couldn’t tell if the breath was hers or mine.
    Then she moaned and coughed a bit.
    I probably broke all sorts of rules about moving accident victims, yada, yada, yada, but I wasn’t thinking clearly and I was just so thankful that she was alive that I lifted her head off the ground.
    “Michelle?”
    No response except a small rattle in her breathing. When I put my hand on her chest, it felt wet and warm. I assumed that was blood, but it was just too hard to tell. The moment called for a flashlight. Remembering that I had one in my van, I started to put her head back down so I could retrieve it. She moaned again.
    “Michelle?”
    I thought she was trying to talk, but it was hard to tell.
    “Michelle? Do you want to say something?”
    She moved her head in what might have been interpreted as a nod.
    “Michelle. I’m so sorry—I didn’t see you—”
    She gurgled and spat up some blood.
    “Hang on. Roz went to call 911. Help should be here soon.” I rocked her a little.
    “Poo,” she said, barely audible.
    “What?”
    “Poo,” she coughed. She grabbed my arm and pulled her head close to mine. She looked me in the eyes. “Pooh Bear.”
    “Pooh Bear? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
    She nodded and closed her eyes. Seconds later, she went completely limp. I screamed again. Michelle Alexander had just died in my arms. I’d killed her. My head swam and without thinking I jumped up and started running.
    The problem was, I ran right into a low-hanging tree limb. A big one.
     

     
    I’m in a room without light. In the darkness, I hear a voice.
    “Barb? Barb? Are you okay?”
    The voice is familiar. I realize the room isn’t dark—my eyes are closed. I’m desperately drowsy as if I’ve been drugged. My eyes don’t seem to want to open.
    “Meryl? Is that you?”
    When times get tough, two people tend to find their way into my world of dreams—the ever sexy Lord of Great Movies, Steven Spielberg, and the one true Goddess of the Cinema, Meryl Streep. I mean really, if you’re gonna dream, dream big, right?
    Desperate to see Meryl Streep, I struggle, but eventually manage to pry my eyes open. She’s a vision standing above me awash in a luminous glow. Her hair bounces gently, as if swept by a soft breeze. But there is no breeze. It’s just her goddess-ness that makes her so wispy and willowy.
    “Barb. It’s time.” She has the voice of an angel.
    Still holding my eyes open with my fingers, I apologize for not understanding her.
    “Time for what, Meryl?”
    “To win another Oscar. Will you write my award winning screenplay? I have a title in mind—The Patient Englishman in Africa.”
    I don’t know how to answer. I’ve never written a screenplay before. “I’m not sure—”
    “We’ll have your husband play the romantic lead.”
    “Howard?”
    “He looks like George Clooney, does he not?”
    Before I can protest her poor