Citizen Insane (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #2) by Karen Cantwell Page B
Authors: Karen Cantwell
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casting choice, Meryl transforms before my pried-open eyes. She’s blonde, but she’s not Meryl anymore. There is something about her I recognize. The perfect makeup and nails. The body that won’t stop. She saunters toward me. It’s a proud and pompous saunter.
“I know you!” I scream. “You’re Fiorenza’s Floozy!”
She flips her hair and smooths her tight, barely-below-the-unmentionables short skirt. Howard appears out of nowhere. He walks up behind Fiorenza’s Floozy and kisses the back of her neck. His hands caress her body. Floozy moans and groans.
“Howard!” I scream, hyperventilating. “We’re still married. What are you doing?”
He lifts his head. “She’s sexy. What do you want me to do? Ignore my natural impulses?” He returns to Floozie’s neck.
“I’ll get sexy.”
Howard laughs and takes another break from practically devouring Floozy altogether. “Get real. You haven’t worn a pair of heels in ten years. You never wear skirts or dresses. You probably don’t even have a push-up bra.”
“I . . . I don’t have anything to push up.” I look down at my sad excuse for a chest. It’s true. Nursing three babies has sucked the life right out of my once proud and perky friends. Whereas Floozy is sporting a pair of well-crafted and outrageously expensive melons, on a good day my own breasts barely resemble two dehydrated garbanzo beans.
I love Meryl Streep, but she’s gone and I want this nightmare to end.
A scream pierces my eardrum.
My scalp throbbed. I opened my eyes. Strobing red lights cut the shroud of darkness and siren screams pierced the quiet air of our once sleeping neighborhood. Flat on my back, I reached up to feel my wet forehead.
“Don’t touch,” said Roz. “The ambulance just pulled up—a medic should be over here in a second.”
I attempted to sit despite the aches in my body. “Roz, while you were gone, Michelle . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.
“They’re with her now.”
“I think I killed her.” My face puckered and the tears started flowing. The crying made my head hurt worse. It was all such an awful nightmare. I wiped my wet face and nose with my shirt sleeve. “Where’s Howard?” I sniffled. “Did you call Howard?”
“He wasn’t home, but Colt’s on his way. The police are trying to reach Howard now, I think.”
More sniffling. “Thanks.”
“Here’s comes the medic,” said Roz. “I’m going to go ask Mrs. Perkins to stay in your house just in case the girls wake up. Mrs. Perkins lived on our street. She loved me until I found a body-less head in the basement of another house on our street, inadvertently opening up a Pandora’s box of neighborhood secrets involving dead undercover cops and the Mafia. Simple mistake, really. But, mistake or not, Mrs. Perkins didn’t like me so much after that. It had taken me months to regain her trust. Running down and killing an innocent mother on a nighttime stroll was probably going to roll me back several points on the trust-o-meter.
“Can’t you stay with the girls?” I asked, taking another swipe to dry away tears.
“They want me here to answer questions. I’ll be back in a minute to check on you.”
Police had erected poles with lamps that lit up the area like daytime. A young man in a blue jacket knelt beside me.
“Ma’am, my name is Juan. I’m going to take care of you. Can you tell me your name and what happened?”
Through mini-sobs and lingering sniffles, I told Juan the EMT my sad story about hitting Michelle Alexander and my subsequent encounter with the rogue tree limb while running for help. He listened patiently as I blubbered, while feeling my arms and legs, moving them gently. He nodded when I was done speaking.
“I don’t think you have any broken bones. Can you walk to the ambulance? I want to check your blood sugar level and take your blood pressure.”
I nodded. “You’re very nice, Juan. Thank you. If it turns out I’m a
“I know you!” I scream. “You’re Fiorenza’s Floozy!”
She flips her hair and smooths her tight, barely-below-the-unmentionables short skirt. Howard appears out of nowhere. He walks up behind Fiorenza’s Floozy and kisses the back of her neck. His hands caress her body. Floozy moans and groans.
“Howard!” I scream, hyperventilating. “We’re still married. What are you doing?”
He lifts his head. “She’s sexy. What do you want me to do? Ignore my natural impulses?” He returns to Floozie’s neck.
“I’ll get sexy.”
Howard laughs and takes another break from practically devouring Floozy altogether. “Get real. You haven’t worn a pair of heels in ten years. You never wear skirts or dresses. You probably don’t even have a push-up bra.”
“I . . . I don’t have anything to push up.” I look down at my sad excuse for a chest. It’s true. Nursing three babies has sucked the life right out of my once proud and perky friends. Whereas Floozy is sporting a pair of well-crafted and outrageously expensive melons, on a good day my own breasts barely resemble two dehydrated garbanzo beans.
I love Meryl Streep, but she’s gone and I want this nightmare to end.
A scream pierces my eardrum.
My scalp throbbed. I opened my eyes. Strobing red lights cut the shroud of darkness and siren screams pierced the quiet air of our once sleeping neighborhood. Flat on my back, I reached up to feel my wet forehead.
“Don’t touch,” said Roz. “The ambulance just pulled up—a medic should be over here in a second.”
I attempted to sit despite the aches in my body. “Roz, while you were gone, Michelle . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.
“They’re with her now.”
“I think I killed her.” My face puckered and the tears started flowing. The crying made my head hurt worse. It was all such an awful nightmare. I wiped my wet face and nose with my shirt sleeve. “Where’s Howard?” I sniffled. “Did you call Howard?”
“He wasn’t home, but Colt’s on his way. The police are trying to reach Howard now, I think.”
More sniffling. “Thanks.”
“Here’s comes the medic,” said Roz. “I’m going to go ask Mrs. Perkins to stay in your house just in case the girls wake up. Mrs. Perkins lived on our street. She loved me until I found a body-less head in the basement of another house on our street, inadvertently opening up a Pandora’s box of neighborhood secrets involving dead undercover cops and the Mafia. Simple mistake, really. But, mistake or not, Mrs. Perkins didn’t like me so much after that. It had taken me months to regain her trust. Running down and killing an innocent mother on a nighttime stroll was probably going to roll me back several points on the trust-o-meter.
“Can’t you stay with the girls?” I asked, taking another swipe to dry away tears.
“They want me here to answer questions. I’ll be back in a minute to check on you.”
Police had erected poles with lamps that lit up the area like daytime. A young man in a blue jacket knelt beside me.
“Ma’am, my name is Juan. I’m going to take care of you. Can you tell me your name and what happened?”
Through mini-sobs and lingering sniffles, I told Juan the EMT my sad story about hitting Michelle Alexander and my subsequent encounter with the rogue tree limb while running for help. He listened patiently as I blubbered, while feeling my arms and legs, moving them gently. He nodded when I was done speaking.
“I don’t think you have any broken bones. Can you walk to the ambulance? I want to check your blood sugar level and take your blood pressure.”
I nodded. “You’re very nice, Juan. Thank you. If it turns out I’m a
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