You Might be an Accessory to Murder and Not Even Know It

Remember when you would wake up in your best friend's bed and her dog was in your face and her roommate was in the room looking out the window and a cop was knocking on the door and there was police tape all over their house and there were two bodies lying dead in the neighbor's yard?

I do.

Two weeks ago, I went to San Antonio to play with two of my best girls, and this is how we woke up one Friday morning. To all that stuff. Up there. What I just said.

Alarming to say the least.

Whahahappened was...

This craaaazy ex boyfriend was stalking his ex girlfriend who was staying at her friend's house across the street from Reagan and Amy's house. He had been sitting in his car since 5 AM that morning, waiting for her to come out and go to work, pulled into the drive, (right in front of my car!) gunsablazin', shoots her, then offs himself.

Super cool move, right?. Jack wagon.

While Reagan and Amy talk to the police and sort of panic for a while, I go back to sleep. This isn't my neighborhood... I live far far away from this tragedy and well, we partied pretty hard at the old Thirsty Horse last night and I did one too many shots with that large Mexican guy named Vincent and danced... a. lot. So, yeah, I'm gonna go to bed, you guys let me know if the shooter wakes back up and starts wreaking havoc on our side of the street.

So upon waking, I politely ask CSI if I can get my car out of the crime scene and go on my merry way. Reagan told me later that night Old Blue was all over the news. She's pretty much famous. And has since been partially traumatized because she had a front row seat for all the psychosis.

This is Old Blue back in her better days. You know, before the two-tone hood and before the old Dodge Ram-ed us, and before the tire blew out and tore half the fender off. She's still running strong, people. Reag is on the left and my sister, Clyde is the dear in the middle. The awkward tall girl with the bad blonde hair? No idea.

So now you have an idea of who all is involved in the murder matter. Minus Clyde.

And here's Amy...

And here's Amy...

And here's Amy...

And here's Amy...

Just so you can get an idea...

So we all, fortunately, put the whole thing behind us. Until this weekend when Old Blue and I returned to the scene of the crime. We park, like always, on the correct side of the road in front of the neighbor's house. Old Blue seems hesitant. I talk her down and tell her goodbye for the weekend as I am going to have to leave her and go to the Gumbo Cookoff outside of town without her. And so, Reag and Ames and I leave San Antonio and have a grand old time with this girl...

Julie. (Steady as a rock, this one.)

Anyway, grand old time, etc, etc. Then Amy...

who had come back home early for work calls me up and says there is a strange note on my car. When Reagan and I get back to San Antonio, we find this...

on my car. In case you can't read it, it says, in the most passive and quite aggressive fashion: "Do you realize two people died last week because you keep parking here? Park on you house."

Oh my.

No, I did not realize two people died due to my car, nor do I have a house nearby to park on. And I shrug it off. Some idiot has too much time on his/her hands waiting around for my car to reappear which he/she has obviously and wrongly associated with a murder/suicide and there is nothing to do but laugh about it. Reagan, however, is pissed. And wants answers.

"No one is going to treat my guest that way," she claims. So, we go to the woman's house across the street whose friend she was letting stay there and who also just happened to die a week or so ago from a crazy ex boyfriend. Can't wait.

The lovely woman did not post the note, but she thinks it was her other neighbor next door who she told some inside information to. (Gaw leee this is a long story). Apparently, crazy ex boyfriend saw my car in front of the house and thought I was some new guy the girl was sleeping with. And they know this because of text messages between the two people who died. Text messages that I'm sure went something like this:

-Who the f*ck are you boinking who drives a blue mustang?!

-Tell him he drives a 16 year-old girl's car. And I'm going to kill him. Then you! And then myself probably.

-Ya like that? Bitch?

...and maybe so on and so forth. I can't say for sure because I didn't read their phones, the police did. And neighbor woman. Who told her mean, nasty man-neighbor. Who then blamed the death of two people on my 1998 blue Ford Mustang.

And here's where things get very real for Brynnan. I had to walk away from the woman's house and sit down to try and calm myself, which was shaking vehemently. I took the note off my car, kept it for my scrapbook at home entitled "Why Does Weird and Sometimes Scary Shit Keep Happening to Me?", and while Old Blue has had some trouble starting up lately, she cranked right up and said, "Let's get the crap out of this Hell Hole."