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

asked where we were going. So Howard won’t be looking into her as a suspect?”
    “He said it’s a police matter. The FBI isn’t involved.”
    She ran her hands through her hair. “Well, I’m tired. I just want to get home and forget that any of this happened.” The phone in her hand rang, startling us both. She looked at the display. “Peggy.”
    Just as Roz answered, a lady doctor pulled the curtain back. “Cell phones aren’t allowed in the hospital. You’ll need to take that outside.”
    “Peggy, I’ll call you back.”
    Roz left while the lady introduced herself as Dr. Vaziri then gave me the once over for the umpteenth time.
    “How’s your head, Mrs. Marr?”
    “It’s sore where the branch hit,” I said, touching my bandaged forehead. “Otherwise, it’s fine.”
    “I see no reason to admit you. You don’t show signs of concussion or swelling. They brought you in because you lost consciousness when you took that blow to your head, but that may have been due to the mental trauma of the other accident. I suggest you go home and rest. Make sure someone stays with you for at least twenty-four hours.”
    I didn’t tell her that my chances of keeping that promise were iffy at best.
    Roz drove us home while I talked to Peggy on her cell.
    “She was shot?” asked Peggy.
    “Three times.”
    “How is she?”
    “I don’t know. Howard says she’s lucky to be alive—the shots were at close range.”
    “I’ll stop by her house tomorrow and see if I can help her husband in any way. He’s such a nice guy.”
    “How well do you know Michelle?”
    “She goes to my church and her boys come over to play sometimes. This is just awful. How are you?”
    “Tired. Can we finish talking tomorrow?”
    “Si, Signora. I’ll talk to you both after I run my morning errands.”
    The clock on Roz’s dash read 2:31 a.m. when we pulled onto White Willow Circle. The neighborhood was void of law enforcement and emergency vehicles. All signs of turmoil were gone. So was my van. Howard’s car was parked on the street though. Roz wanted to walk me up to the front door, but I insisted that she just let me out in the driveway. I might have run over a dying woman and tried to decapitate myself with a tree limb, but I wasn’t an invalid.
     

Chapter Eight
     

     
    SEEING HOWARD’S CAR PARKED OUT front had brightened my mood. I hadn’t been surprised that he didn’t make it to the hospital. His work always took him longer than he predicted. It was the curse of being an FBI wife. More often than not, two hours could become two days or even two weeks.
    Expecting to find him in the house, I searched each room quickly. He wasn’t downstairs, so I leaped up several stairs at a time while calling his name, fully certain he’d be in our bed, waiting to welcome me home with a kiss and a hug and other displays of affection worthy of an R rating. Maybe if I was really lucky, X rated activities would follow.
    So much for censored fun. He was nowhere to be found. For good measure, I checked each of the girls’ rooms, but Howard was a missing entity. It seemed odd that his car was home and he wasn’t, but I was just too tired and achy to think about it anymore. My body needed a bed to lie down on. My mind needed sleep. Back in the husband-free room, I sat on the edge of the bed, slipped off one shoe then the other and let myself fall back. I’d strip down and get into some jammies in a minute, after giving the ol’ eyeballs a momentary rest . . .
    I’m at the Cannes Film Festival. I’m there to review selected screenings but am driving down a seaside road in my van looking for a place to park. Crowds of A-list stars cover the sidewalks while paparazzi swarm like ants at a celebrity picnic. It’s a dream within a dream. Without warning, I lose control of the van—it’s driving itself and there’s nothing I can do. It swerves fast to the right, then again fast to the left. People are screaming and running every which