“I met him, you know.”
“Who?”
“Kurt Baugh.”
Well, that certainly caught my attention. Suburban dentist meets famous Hollywood action film director? It didn’t quite jive.
“Really? When?”
As it turned out, Judi was the president of a growing non-profit organization designed to raise awareness of prescription drug abuse in the United States—Dentists Against Prescription Abuse (DAPA). She said that Kurt Baugh had contacted her and asked her to be interviewed for a documentary he was filming about the escalating statistics of children and teens becoming addicted to and dying from illegally obtained prescription drugs. She agreed and did the interview some nine months ago. He had called her just the day before he died and said that the film was in post-production, would hopefully be released in November, and would she be willing to do some local publicity for the film when that happened?
Of course, I wasn’t surprised to hear that Judi was the president of such a worthwhile organization since I suspected she was also president of the Secret Order of Wonder Women (SOWW). I was surprised to hear about the documentary, though. Not that I followed Kurt Baugh’s career all that closely—I’d only become more interested in him since the rumor that he would be collaborating with Steven Spielberg.
After relaying her story, she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, I have my suspicions about him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He showed the signs.”
“Signs?”
“Of drug abuse.”
“Really?” Sadly, even though I had a teenage daughter, I was horribly ignorant of the physical indications of drug use. Beyond the bloodshot eyes of a pot smoker, I probably wouldn’t suspect anything unless someone popped a pill or shot up right in front of me. “What kinds of signs?” I asked.
“Yellow skin, bloated belly. At the very least, I’d suspect virus induced liver disease or alcoholism, but it’s just kind of interesting that he would be doing a documentary on drug abuse, don’t you think?”
I wasn’t sure. He did look a little bloated when I thought about it, and the tone of his skin was definitely odd, but I just thought he’d experienced a sunless tanning booth malfunction. I filed the information into the trivia portion of my memory bank.
I thanked Judi again for having Amber over and got off the phone.
After checking in on Callie, I sat down to some serious research. Randolph Rutter had been Channel 3’s movie reviewer for quite some time, so it wasn’t hard to find information on him. I started with his bio on the Channel 3 website and learned that he had joined the team in 2001. He had graduated from Santa Fe University in 1988 with a degree in theater arts. He appeared in some small roles with touring companies until landing the job as the movie reviewer at WUVA in Kansas City. Channel 3 snatched him up a few years later. He lived in Georgetown and enjoyed spending time with his Springer Spaniels, Cary Grant and Bette Davis.
Okay, I didn’t expect to find anything juicy on his bio page, so I started clicking on links provided by Google and read a couple of interviews, a few blog articles and a Washington Post “About Town” feature. All I learned was that Rutter was as pompous in interviews as he was in real life, that he enjoyed the bachelor life, dated a lot of blondes, and believed Cary Grant was the most talented actor to grace the silver screen because he handled both drama and comedy with equal brilliance. Well, I certainly didn’t disagree with him there.
However, I wasn’t finding any smoking guns—no glaring reasons why someone would want him dead, except possibly James Cameron as revenge for the D-minus review of Avatar, which I also didn’t disagree with.
Appropriately bored by the boring life of Randolph Rutter, I did a search on Andy Baugh. That proved a little more interesting. The first link I clicked through was a post on a Hollywood gossip blog detailing a recent greenlighted blockbuster action film project—the directors would have been brothers Kurt and Andy Baugh until, for reasons unknown to the author of the blog, Andy Baugh was given the ol’ heave ho. Reportedly, tensions between the two brothers had been high ever since.
Surprised, since I hadn’t heard anything about this before the review screening, I checked the date on the post: it had been uploaded only a few hours before Kurt Baugh’s death.
Well now, wasn’t that interesting? I wondered at the possibility that Andy snuffed his own brother out of jealousy. But Colt said that Andy was the person who insisted the police investigate a possible murder, so that didn’t make sense. If he had left well enough alone, Kurt’s death never would have been considered suspicious. Most killers try to hide their crime, not call attention to it. Unless he was playing some sort of reverse psychology game.
And there was still the issue that the yams were meant for Randolph Rutter, not Kurt Baugh. Supposedly, Kurt just ended up on the wrong end of a purposeful poisoning. Was it possible that Andy and Randolph were in cahoots? It seemed a weak argument, but I scribbled notes on a steno pad anyway, so I could discuss this theory with Colt when we reconvened. I was dying to find out what Frankie had to say.
A peek at the clock on my computer monitor told me it was 10:20 p.m. After a stretch and a yawn, I decided a cup of coffee and a heavy dose of sugar would be necessary to keep me awake late enough to talk with Colt when he returned. I had just flipped the ON button to the coffee maker and was about to grab a handful of Oreos when the front doorknob jiggled.
The unexpected sound of someone attempting to enter my house late at night was enough to make the hairs on my neck spring up, but it was Puddles the burglar alarm dog that caused me to jump and drop my cookies. His yaps continued to pierce my ear drums as I scooped him up and tried unsuccessfully to hold his snout closed.
I moved toward the door and watched the knob intently, Puddles barking incessantly in my ear the entire time. Afraid he would wake Mama Marr, I ran him to the basement, locked him in, then snatched up my cell phone. Callie appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Mom, what’s going on?”
Putting my finger to my lips, I let her know to keep it quiet, then whispered. “Not sure. Someone’s trying to get in.”
She whispered back. “Is it Dad?”
The door knob jiggled again and I gulped. It was certainly possible that Howard had finally come home, but he would use his key. Colt said he’d text when he was done with Frankie, so I knew it wasn’t him. That left . . . who? A misguided locksmith? A really hungry raccoon? The Rustic Woods Strangler? Newspaper headlines flashed through my mind: “Rustic Woods Mother of Three Found Murdered in Her Home. Mother-in-law Mortified Not By Death, But By Mess Left Behind.”
My palms dripped nervous sweat as I wondered who might be attempting to gain entry to my house. “Callie, go to your room. I’ve got this handled.”
“Are you sure?”
I plucked an umbrella from the stand to my right, feeling lucky that one was actually available. Usually, in the Marr house, umbrellas were only ever found in the umbrella stand on sunny days. “I’m sure,” I said, pointing the umbrella at her. “Now, git.”
“Git?”
I waggled the umbrella at her to shoo her off, then crept to the living room window while plugging 911 into the cell phone. I’d hit the talk button and connect to rescue if a visual proved my visitor dangerous.
The distinct summer hum of horny cicadas reverberated through the window as I strained to see who stood at my door. Suddenly, a round of ear-piercing screams drowned the insects’ call and at the same time, I got a glimpse of the doorknob-jigglers.
That’s right—there were two of them, and I didn’t need to call 911.
Chapter Twelve
I threw open the door to see Peggy dancing around and brushing frantically at her legs. “What are you two doing? You scared the devil out of me!”
Roz pounded on Peggy’s shoulder. “I told you we should’ve just knocked!”
“Ow, that’s my bad arm!” Peggy shouted, still da
ncing and still brushing. “Do you see it? Where did it go?”
I shot Roz a questioning look.
She shrugged. “She claims a spider dropped on her.”
Callie had flown down the stairs in a panic. When she saw it was just her mother’s silly friends, she rolled her eyes and huffed back up.
“Callie,” I whispered, “check on Mama and make sure we didn’t wake her, okay?”
Her only answer was another eye roll.
I turned my attention back to the late night interlopers. Peggy had settled down, but looked around warily. “You should have seen it. He was huge. I think it was a black widow.”
Peggy was famous for her fear of spiders. In her mind they were all the size of small rodents and they were all black widows or brown recluses.
“If it was a black widow,” I said, “it would have been a ‘she’ not a ‘he’. And again, what are you two doing?”
“We were trying to hang this on your doorknob.” Peggy held up a mint green envelope. “It’s an invitation to the farewell party.”
“I didn’t need an invitation.”
Peggy slid a guilty look toward Roz, who shuffled uncomfortably in her tan loafers. Roz had been my best friend since I moved into our house nearly six years earlier. She was small in stature but big in action. She had three kids under the age of seven, was den mother in the local cub scout pack, volunteered in the senior center and had just finished a stint as PTA president at our kids’ elementary school. She stood before me now in her typical attire—a floral print rayon dress and loafers. I was pretty sure she owned at least a dozen loafers in different colors to match the fifty-plus floral print dresses she owned. What was really disgusting was that even at ten thirty at night, every hair in her blond Dorothy Hamil bob lay in perfect formation. A cherry picker could come by, grab her up and shake her around like a martini mixer and when it put her back down, those hairs would all fall back into line like the Rockettes in Radio City Music Hall. My hair, on the other hand, given the same scenario, would freak out and when the dust settled, I’d wind up looking like Edward Scissorhands on a particularly bad hair day.
Despite her perfections, I just couldn’t be jealous of Roz—she was my friend, and I felt another twinge of sadness that she was moving so far away.
But right now, both Roz and Peggy were acting like Laverne and Shirley after a slapstick mishap at the brewery. I suspected that the invitation was just an excuse.
“Why didn’t you knock?” I asked them both.
Roz sighed. “I admit it. I really just wanted to come over and see how you were doing. Then I chickened out and told Peggy just to leave the invitation on the door, but it kept falling off. We were about to make a run for it when you opened the door.”
“Why would you chicken out?”
She shuffled nervously again. “You know.”
“Because bad things happen to you when you’re around me.”
“Bad things happen around you period. You’re a disaster.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You know what I mean.”
She had a point. I was, after all, waiting for my private detective friend, Colt, to pass me information about an ex-Mafia goon who was in jail for poisoning a famous movie director. I doubted this was a typical occurrence in the Roz Walker household. And she wanted to keep it that way.
So I wouldn’t tell her about that.
“Come in,” I said, stepping aside to make way, “I was just sitting down to some cookies and milk.” The coffee would have to wait for later.
We sat around my kitchen table, dipping Oreos into milk, and chatted like the old days. Peggy rattled off the invitees to the Walker farewell party. The list was extensive—all of the families on our cul-de-sac; our new friend Bunny and her fire-fighter fiance, Russell Crow; most of the members of the Tulip Tree Elementary School PTA, as well as the Principal, Vice Principal, office staff and several teachers; friends from the senior center, and the other den leaders of the Cub Scout Pack.
I was in awe. “How are you going to fit all of those people in your house, Peggy?”
She bit her lip. “It’s going to be tight—most everyone who has RSVP’d is coming. Thank goodness we put the new deck on this Spring. People can mingle outside.”
I offered to bring extra chairs and Roz was pretty sure the PTA would loan her some chairs as well.
Roz discussed the trials of closing on their house sale and coordinating with movers and cleaners. She was busy up to her earlobes and I offered to help in any way I could. She said she’d probably need to ask Callie for a couple more days of babysitting while she tied up the final strings. She was looking forward to getting settled in California. She planned to volunteer for Senator Emilio Juarez’s campaign for presidential nomination if he threw his hat in the ring. She’d always wanted to be involved on the volunteer side of politics.
I raised my cup of coffee to toast. “Here’s to always being good friends, no matter how far apart we live.”
Peggy and Roz raised their mugs and we clinked to seal the pact.
Finally, Roz yawned. “Man, this pumpkin is out way too late,” she said standing to leave. “I’ll stop by or call tomorrow once I know when I’ll need Callie.”
I walked them to the door and suppressed a giggle as Peggy commented that she couldn’t believe how much energy she had so late at night. She thought she might go home and bake some bread.
After I locked the door behind them, I went to my purse to check my cell phone for a text from Colt.
It turned out that I had two texts waiting for me.
The first was from Colt at 12:01: Met with Frankie. Heading to car now.
The second was from Howard at 12:04: Dun 4 the day. B home soon.
I clicked the back button to view the current time, worried I’d have a Colt/Howard collision—it was 12:24. Howard was long over his jealousy of Colt, but he would not be happy that we were collaborating on Frankie’s case. My fretting was cut short by the buzz of another incoming text. This one was from Guy Mertz: We need 2 talk.
Boy, Roz was right. I was a disaster.
Chapter Thirteen
I wasted no time—Colt was number two on my speed dial and boy, did I need to get to him speedy quick.
He picked up on the second ring. “Keep your pants on, lady, I’m almost there.”
“Abort, abort!”
A momentary silence on the other end spoke volumes. “I’m losing my patience with you, Curly. What’s the problem?”
“Howard. He sent a text—he’ll be home any minute. Where are you?”
“Just getting off the toll road.”
“Go to your place, I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
“Honey, if I go home, I’m going to bed.”
“No, you need to call Guy Mertz.”
“No, I need to sleep.”
I gave him Guy’s cell phone number. “Find out what’s so urgent, then you can sleep. We’ll reconnect as soon as I manage a few minutes away from Howard.”
“Will there be reunion sex?”
“That’s a little personal, don’t you think?”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Sweet . . . dreams.” He clicked off and a dial tone buzzed in my ear. At the very same moment, I heard my front door open.
I slipped the phone back into my purse and rounded the corner to find an empty foyer. I took the stairs two at a time and entered our bedroom just as Howard was pulling his t-shirt off. For a forty-six year old man, he still had a sexy chest and well-defined abs that made me want to jump all over his bones. I had to remind myself that I was still mad at him for excluding me from his decision to retire. But then again, I hadn’t told him about my mother taking his mother pole dancing, so we’d be even soon enough.
Poo.
“Hey, handsome,” I said. “Nice to have you home again.”
His posture told me he was exhausted, but he offered a faint smile anyway and pulled me in for a slow, deep kiss that started on the li
ps but moved to that part of my neck that makes my toes curl and other body parts tingle. When his hands slid under my t-shirt I was way beyond tingly and gave way to the fact that not only was I going to be enjoying some really fine reunion sex, I was getting a momentary reprieve from telling him about Mama Marr. Two for the price of one. And we could always talk about his retirement at another time. What was done, was done, right? I smiled and melted in his arms.
As we fell on the bed, he whispered in my ear. “I can’t stay too long.” He kissed my neck some more. “I’m only home for a nap and a change of clothes.” The kisses moved downward. And downward.
“This doesn’t feel like a nap,” I moaned.
He continued kissing.
Then I gasped, because . . . well . . . you’ll just have to use your imagination on that one.
***
I don’t know how long we’d been asleep when Mama Marr lumbered into our room asking for a heating pad. Fortunately, it was still dark, because we were both buck naked.
“Mom!” Howard shouted, throwing a sheet over himself. “What are you doing?”
“My muscles, they are so tight achy. You have a heating pad or water bottle maybe?”
“Please,” Howard pleaded, “can you just leave a minute while we—”
“Why, are you undressed? This is nothing I have never seen before, you know.”
Mortified, I curled up in a ball until Howard was able to convince his mother to go back to her room and close the door behind her.
He fell back and groaned when she’d gone. “What does she need a heating pad for anyway?”
Oh well, so much for not telling him about the pole dancing. When I was done relaying the sordid details of the hospital visit, his reaction was just about what I expected it would be: stony, brooding silence.
“So,” I said finally, needing some discussion, “what’s going on in that head of yours?”
“I’m wondering what the hell your mother was thinking.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” I cleared my throat, “Mama said she was having fun.”
He pointed at me. “Your mother is as bad as you.”
Silenced by the Yams (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #3) Page 8