The Chronicles of Marr-nia (Short Stories Starring Barbara Marr) (7 page)

“Boy, you’re Miss Personality today,” he said.
 
“You want me to take you home?”

“No.
 
I asked to be a part of this.
 
I’ll stick it through.
 
Just thought it would be a little more . . . interesting.”

“I told you it wasn’t exciting or glamorous work, remember?
 
No Magnum.
 
No guns.
 
No red Ferrari.
 
No car chases.
 
This is it, Curly.
 
Sitting, sometimes for hours on end, waiting for some woman’s lover to show up – or not – snap a few pictures if we’re lucky, cash a check.
 
If the check doesn’t bounce, we celebrate with a
Corona
until the next client comes along.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t say anything about trash.”

“True.
 
Sorry ’bout that.”

I looked at my watch and then out through the windshield at the two story garden apartment building we’d been
surveilling
.
 
An hour and twenty minutes.
 
She’d gone into that apartment an hour and twenty minutes ago.
 
No one else had followed.
 
I sighed and watched as my breath turned visible.
 
In the arctic-like air, an hour and twenty minutes felt like a year and twenty days.

“What’s this chick’s name again?” I asked.

“Paula.
 
Paula Duffy.”

“Her picture looks so familiar, but that name just doesn’t ring a bell.
 
Why does her husband think she’s cheating?”

“This apartment we’re watching.
 
She’s been renting it for over year.
 
He only found out about it – accidentally – three weeks ago.
 
She doesn’t know he knows.”

Now THAT was juicy info.
 
Who can turn down a story like a woman gone
bad
?

“Cool,” I said.
 
“You think her stud is in there right now or you think he’ll be along soon?”

“Bingo!
 
Take a look for yourself, Curly – here comes stud-boy now.”
 
Colt was pointing at the apartment while positioning his telephoto lens at the ready.
 
Unraveling myself from my coat cocoon, I grabbed the binoculars from the floor to get a better look.

A taut, squat Asian man was knocking on the door.
 
The frame was familiar, but I didn’t have a full view of his face.
 
If only he’d turn around a little bit more . . .

“Colt!
 
I know that man!”

“What?”

“Give me that picture!
 
Let me see her face again.”

Still snapping the shutter furiously, Colt threw the glossy colored photo my way.
 
I looked at it, and immediately remembered who she was.

“It’s Parra!”

“Who?
 
What?”

“Parra.
 
From Tae Kwon Do.
 
That man knocking on her door is Master
Kyo
.
 
He owns the place.
 
And she’s Parra – his shining star student.
 
Parra is having an affair with Master
Kyo
!
 
How fun is that?”
 
I was beginning to warm up nicely.
 
This investigation stuff was invigorating after all.

The door opened and Master
Kyo
stepped in.
 
Unfortunately, it was impossible, even with the binoculars, to see who had opened the door.

“Curly, her name is Paula – not Parra.”

It took me a minute to understand what he meant, but then it all became crystal clear, and boy, did I feel stupid.
 
Certainly, it sounded like Parra when Master
Kyo
spoke, but then again, when he yelled at me, it sounded like he was telling Bob, not Barb, to do twenty push-ups. I thought back over the many times I had called her Parra to her face.
 
“Hi, Parra, how are you?”
 
“Hey, Parra, great kick!”
 
“
Ow
! Parra, that hurts – don’t kick so hard!”
 
My face went red when reflecting upon my many Parra faux pas.
 
And yet, she had never corrected me.

The door had closed, leaving us with nothing but the view of a dingy apartment once again.
 
A few silent minutes ticked by.

“Did you get any good, incriminating pictures?”
 
I asked finally.

“
Dunno
.
 
We’ll stick it out here and wait for one or the both of them to leave . . .”

I didn’t hear the rest of Colt’s sentence, if he finished it, because at that very moment a virtual fireball tore through Paula’s apartment, sending her front door flying through the air.
 
The explosion was so loud and
intense,
I was sure my ear drums had burst.
 
And I was fairly sure I had screamed, but I didn’t hear that either.
 
I know I opened my mouth very wide and that my throat hurt after the dust settled.

“Holy cow,” I roared.
 
“Has this ever happened to you before?”
 
I looked at Colt whose white-as-a-ghost face gave me my answer.

Forgetting the cold, I somehow managed to find my cell phone and dialed 911 with shaky-from-fright fingers.
 

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“An apartment just exploded into a million pieces.
 
Master
Kyo
and Paula were in there.
 
Her name isn’t Parra,
it’s
Paula.
 
Paula . . . Paula . . . Colt, what’s her last name?”
 
I wasn’t being very coherent.

“Ma’am, calm down.
 
Please, tell me your location.”

“Rustic Woods.”

“Where in Rustic Woods?”

That was a good question.
 
Where was I?
 
Colt had driven.
 
I stepped out of the car and looked around.
 
We were at the far end of the apartment complex parking lot.
 
Traffic was whizzing past us on
Rustic Woods Parkway
to our left, and on the other side was Unified Bank, but I couldn’t read the street number.
 

“Do you know the Unified Bank on
Rustic Woods Parkway
?” I asked.

“Ma’am, are you at the Colonial Arms Apartments on
Purple Beech Tree Way
?”

I scanned the area again and finally located a sign:
 
Colonial Arms Apartments.

“Yes, yes I am.”

“We’ve just taken a call from that location.
 
Emergency vehicles are on their way.
 
Are you hurt, Ma’am?”

“I’m a little shaken up.”

“But are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Then please stay where you are so police can take your statement on what you observed.”

“Okay.
 
I can do that.
 
Um . . . could you do me a favor?”

“Ma’am?”

“Would you be able to contact the FBI and ask for agent Howard Marr?
 
I’d like him to know I’m here so he can worry about me.
 
See, we’re sort of separated right now and . . .”

“Ma’am, we don’t contact the FBI or estranged husbands.”
 
The phone clicked and my 911 friend was gone.

*****

Ten minutes later, four fire trucks worked to put out the explosion-related fire that swept through the apartment building while
EMTs
tended a few injured.
 
Two police helicopters circled above our heads.

Colt and I stood, leaning against his car, waiting for Officer Williams to return and take our statements.
 
He had introduced himself, requested that we stay, and then moved off somewhere else.
 
The air had warmed only slightly, but we were in the sun now, so I was slightly more comfortable.

“So, do you think the husband did this?”

Colt shook his head.
 
“Not likely.
 
And we don’t know it was a bomb.
 
Could have been a gas leak.”

“Well, I never wanted to see Master
Kyo
die, but let me say this:
 
Karma’s a bitch.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was a Korean Hitler, that man.
 
He loved seeing me writhe in pain.”

“Maybe you did this?”
 
He flashed a playful, smirking smile.

“Yeah, right.
 
Like I knew before we came here today, that Master
Kyo
was having an affair with Parra and was going to waltz into their secret love shack.”

“Paula.”

“Right.”

“And we don’t know they were having an affair.”

“Right.”

We were quiet for a while, but the activity around us continued at high volume.
 
I thought about Paula and Master
Kyo
.
 
Toasted in the prime of their life.
 
What a horrible way to go.

I turned around and looked at the apartments behind us.
 
The complex was several buildings deep with garden-style apartments.
 
Each building was two stories high, with the front of the apartments opening onto a railed walkway.
 
At the back, each apartment had a set of French doors opening onto a private balcony.
 
They were okay as apartments go, but I wondered why they didn’t choose something farther from their own homes – somewhere people would be less likely to know or recognize them.

My body tensed when I heard a familiar voice.

“Well, isn’t this a cozy little scene.”
 
The voice was Howard’s.
 
The voice wasn’t happy.

I chose not to turn around, but Colt, always the jovial fellow, jumped up and decided to play.

“Hey,
Howie
!
 
Good to see you,
roomie
.
 
Here on official business or just dropping by for a little afternoon delight with the Mrs.?”

A moment of silence indicated that Howard wasn’t about to address that question directly.
 
My neck was strained trying to keep my head turned, so mostly to avoid a visit to the chiropractor, I rotated it back.

Now, first off, I need to explain that my husband, Howard looks very much like George Clooney.
 
It’s true.
 
It’s not just my fantasy.
 
Everyone says so.
 
A little more gray, a little less chin.
 
Maybe an inch or two taller.
 
But he definitely looks like George Clooney.
 
Lucky me, I know.

But as lucky as that is, there are drawbacks.
 
For instance, most people don’t know why I won’t let my very handsome husband move back into our house.
 
He’s a good guy, they say.
 
He’s paid his dues, they say.
 
Okay, mostly Howard says these things, but my friends say them as well.

Truth of the matter is, I would love for him to move back, but I want to bring some romance back into our marriage.
 
I want him to date me and woo me.
 
Romance me.
 
Earn his way back.

See, he lied to me for our whole marriage about his line of work.
 
I thought he was an engineer for a consulting firm, when in fact he was an agent for the FBI.
 
And his real name wasn’t Howard Marr, but Sammy
Donato
, and his father was whacked by a
mafioso
named Tito
Buttaro
.
 
Another long story.
 
Same book.

So, anyway, to make a long story longer – every time I see Howard, I’m torn between wanting to shoot him, and wanting to tear his clothes off and do wild and nasty things to him.

Thankfully, there were too many people around at that moment to allow me to perform either action, so I sheepishly stood up and faced his certain, squinty-eyed, I don’t-approve-of-this expression.
 
I felt like a teenager who’d been caught sneaking out of the house to smoke cigarettes.

“Hi, Honey!”
 
I said, all happy and innocent-like.

“Barb, what are you doing here?
 
Please tell me you weren’t on a job with Colt.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you that I was on a job with Colt.”