“Not for Frankie.” I folded my arms and pouted.
Seated next to Colt, Clarence had just chomped deep into the meatball sub. His cheeks bulged and red sauce trickled out of one side of his mouth. He put the sandwich back on its wrapper, wiped the sauce away with a napkin and chewed while indicating, with a raised index finger, that he had something to say. A much-anticipated swallow finally allowed him to speak. “I don’t think Meegan will be interested in Ocean City.”
Colt’s eyes narrowed. Admittedly, I was surprised by the statement myself and wondered what the heck he was talking about. I guess I’m not always as smart as I think I am, because I really didn’t have a clue, but Colt seemed to be stewing, as if he did. “Have you been following me?” he asked finally.
Clarence grabbed a bottle of water and twisted the cap off. “In a manner of speaking. I had a spy.” He tipped the bottle back and guzzled. “On the inside.”
Uh oh.
I may be slow, but I was catching on. “You know Meegan?”
He nodded. “Really well, actually. She’s my sister.”
Double uh oh.
A little part of me (okay, maybe a big part) was laughing inside. But holy cow, I thought Colt was going to bust a gasket. I don’t ever think I’d ever seen him so serious or so angry. He had that look on his face that Howard gets when I’ve done something silly, like walking into a den of mafia crime bosses or blowing up a building with a hand grenade. Although really, it wasn’t my hand grenade.
I tried to diffuse the ticking time bomb by asking Clarence to clarify his statement. “You mean, you’re such good friends that she’s like a sister to you?”
“Nope. Like, my mother gave birth to her, so she’s my sister.”
Kaboom! That one blew up right in my face.
Here I was with a plan to expose Kurt Baugh’s killers just like a perfect episode of Murder She Wrote, and we were playing out a bad version of a twisted Greek tragedy. Or a really sick sequel to the Crying Game.
It wasn’t hard to imagine what was going on in Colt’s mind. He started pacing like a nervous hyena, uttering unintelligible phrases like: “whaaaoher uhhhhh” and “maahal guhkew.”
Clarence’s gaze followed Colt around the room. “She got on a plane this morning. Going back to Bakersfield. It’s her dad’s birthday tomorrow.”
Phew. There is a God.
Was he trying to mess with Colt, or was Clarence really just odd and not familiar with proper procedures for doling out pertinent information? Hard to tell, but the immediate crisis was over and my plan needed some direction. I was expecting a text from Guy any minute alerting us to his arrival with Randolph Rutter in tow. And who knew how long we’d have Susan Golightly in the building?
“Okay, okay,” I said, working to calm the turbulent air. “Crisis averted. Colt, you’re not guilty of incest.” I snapped a finger in front of his glassy eyes. “Stay with me Colt. Come on, baby.”
“Is that what you’re thinking?” Clarence shook his head and readied his sub for another bite. “She didn’t sleep with him. That was our deal.”
Way more information than I needed to know.
***
Thankfully, it took just minutes rather than hours, to convince Colt to follow through on my idea of getting three of our suspects in a room together. And having satiated his hunger for food, Clarence was now hungry for some action.
The terms of Colt’s agreement were simple and not negotiable: we’d round them up, ask a few subtle but indirect questions and see what happened. If, at any time, he thought things were getting dangerous or out of hand, he’d give the signal and we’d skedaddle our hineys outa there. Those kind of terms were A-OK in my book—I’d had enough kidnappings at gunpoint and escapes from explosive environments to last a lifetime. Subtle and indirect and safe. I was all over that.
My plan required a safe, secluded location where we could collect Jorge, Randolph, and Susan Golightly together. Ideally, our targets would believe they had coincidentally run into each other, with us along for the ride. And we needed to be far away from innocent bystanders so we wouldn’t create a scene if things got heated.
Clarence said that public walk-ins were rare, but they did happen, so a confrontation in the lobby was definitely a no-no. “Why not just call everyone in here?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No, that’s awkward. I want it to look like we walked in on them.”
Clarence thought about this for a minute, then picked up the phone and buzzed the receptionist again. “Stacy, are you bored today?”
I assumed that she answered him, because he laughed. “Good. Stay tuned. We’re going to have some fun.”
He returned the receiver to its cradle and smiled. “I know just the place.”
My phone buzzed with the anticipated text from Guy Mertz. I read it out loud. “The eagle lands in 5.”
Showtime.
Chapter Eighteen
Colt and I followed Clarence into the banquet hall where Kurt Baugh had died just nights before. Jorge stood with one hand in his pocket and another holding a black leather binder. He had removed his suit jacket and loosened the red silk tie. Susan teetered on tall green pumps that matched a short skirt and low-cut tank. I suspected, from the buoyancy of her ladies, that the cleavage had been manufactured by her local Hollywood plastic surgeon. Sadly, I don’t believe in playing with Mother Nature, but oh boy, I’d really like to walk around with a set like hers, if only for one day. Just to see what all the fuss was about.
Clarence waved at them. “Hey guys, you wanted me?”
I had to suppress a smile. He was unlike Colt in many ways, but there were some definite similarities.
Jorge and Susan exchanged confused glances.
“Stacy said you wanted to see us,” Jorge answered. “Is, uh, everything okay?” He peeked around Clarence and eyed Colt and me. “You know, with your . . . situation?”
“Weird.” Clarence shook his blond locks. “Leslie intercommed me in the conference room. Said you wanted me in the banquet room right away.” He gave a nod to us. “We’re done. In the conference room I mean. Thanks for giving us that time alone. Oh, and for that meatball sub too, man.” He rubbed his stomach. “It really did the trick. I was able to get to know my dad without being all ‘Aaahhh!’” He mimicked a mini-crazed scream. “All is good, now. Colt and Barbara are on their way out, but first they wanted to thank you for being so understanding.”
Jorge seemed to sense that something was awry. Susan just had a blank look on her face.
“Here they are!” Guy’s voice boomed from outside the hall. He walked through the door wearing his signature fedora and carrying that silly umbrella. “Come on in, Randolph. Look, it’s practically a party. Maybe they’ll all want to go to lunch.”
Randolph followed uncomfortably, staring mostly at the floor except for a brief nod to Jorge and Susan.
The look on Jorge’s face was priceless. He looked like he was suppressing a sudden need to crap his pants. I have to give him credit; he recovered. Somewhat. The corners of his mouth pulled up enough to give the impression of a genuine smile. “What brings us the pleasure of this visit?”
The confusion and tension in the room had reached DEFCON 3. Time to begin “Operation Shake it Up.”
“Susan,” I interjected. “I was really sorry to hear about you and Randolph. This must be . . . you know . . . really awkward.
“Do I know you?”
Guy was making strange guttural noises. I ignored him and reached to Susan, offering my hand for a shake. “Barbara Marr. I have a local movie review website and I was at the screening the other night. You may remember seeing me on the floor. Under Kurt Baugh. Before he died.”
Recognition shown in her eyes, but only vaguely. “What about me and Randolph?”
“The breakup. I should probably just drop it, right?”
“Barb?” Guy whispered, inching his way toward me.
Susan looked offended. “The breakup? You think Ra
ndolph Rutter and I were dating?”
“You weren’t?”
She laughed. “He’s not exactly my type, if you know what I mean.”
I didn’t know what she meant. That certainly wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. What did she mean by “not exactly my type?” She didn’t like pompous douche bags? Or she didn’t like vain men with receding hairlines?
By now, Guy Mertz was at my side, breathing in my ear. The man needed a Mento or a gallon of Listerine. I swatted at him, intent on moving forward with the loose script we’d planned, but he stopped me in my tracks with a new piece of information. “I got it wrong,” he whispered.
Across from us, Jorge was developing very large sweat spots under the arms of his designer gray shirt.
Guy kept whispering, while I tried to pretend to have things under control. “She didn’t break up with Randolph Rutter—she broke up with the actor, Ralph Tuttle. And she didn’t leave Ralph for Kurt Baugh, she left him for Andy Baugh. Sorry.”
In one swift movement, I could have had my hands around Guy’s skinny throat, wringing it with the force of an angry, silverback gorilla. Certainly, the thought passed through my mind. But I needed to free Frankie from jail, not join him behind the bars.
Instead, I channeled my fury in a positive direction and kept the act going by feigning embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”
Susan opened her mouth to speak, but Jorge cut her off at the pass. “Ms. Golightly and I are very busy here. Would you leave us to our work, please?”
However poorly implemented, I’d executed stage one of the operation. It was time for stage two and Clarence needed his cue to initiate: I dropped my cell phone.
As I bent my knees to pick it up, the room remained uncomfortably silent with all eyes on me. This was not the plan. I stood slowly, wondering why Clarence wasn’t moving onto stage two. Meanwhile, Randolph looked like he might faint or make a run for it. “It’s obvious we’ve interrupted these people. I think I’ll just be leav—”
I dropped my phone again. Desperate times called for desperate measures. “Am I a klutz or what? I dropped my phone again. Why can’t I hang onto this thing?”
Clarence woke up from whatever trance he’d been in. “Jorge,” he said, “did you know my dad, Colt, is a private detective?”
Guy coughed, but I think he was trying to cover a guffaw. “No, stay a few more minutes, Randolph. This sounds interesting. Investigation is right up my alley. What have you been investigating lately, Mr. Baron? Anything especially enticing?”
Colt smiled. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Mertz—can I call you Mr. Mertz?”
“Please do.”
“Thank you. Well, Mr. Mertz, I, at the request of Mrs. Marr,” he indicated my presence with a nod, “spoke with Frankie Romano. You know who Frankie Romano is, don’t you?” Even though Colt was “speaking” to Guy, his eyes scanned the faces of our suspects.
“That would be the man currently under suspicion for killing Kurt Baugh,” answered Guy. “Wouldn’t it?”
Guy was, once again, forgiven. He had entered into the act brilliantly.
Jorge’s expression had gone hard like a piece of granite. No movement. Only the growing perspiration stains hinted that we’d struck a nerve. Like most public buildings in the summer, the place was over-air-conditioned, so unless he was going through menopause, I doubted he was sweating from the heat.
And poor Randolph appeared in dire need of an emergency dose of extra- strength Pepto Bismol.
Susan Golightly, on the other hand, just seemed annoyed. “I don’t know what’s going on here and quite frankly, I don’t care. I have another meeting to get to.” She looked at her watch. “In twenty minutes. Jorge, should we reschedule?”
“Ms. Susan Golightly,” Colt said to keep the ball rolling. “Is it true that you requested that candied yams be served at the screening the night Kurt Baugh died?”
A sneer preceded her instant denial. “No. What the hell is this? Jorge?”
“Susan, I’m sorry—” Jorge’s granite was cracking.
“Frankie was told by Mr. Borrego that you personally made the request for candied yams on behalf of Andy Baugh.”
“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. Why would you say such a thing, Jorge?”
Randolph had scooted up so close to Jorge by now that they were practically holding hands and the silent gesture spoke volumes. Suddenly I understood what Susan meant when she said he wasn’t her “type.” Randolph was gay.
“Jorge,” he whispered. “Can we—”
“Shut up, Randy!” The granite had snapped. Jorge’s face was flaming red. “Don’t say another word.”
Time for stage three. It looked like Susan was out of the running for guilty association, but lovers Jorge Borrego and Randolph Rutter were about as innocent as OJ Simpson and The Son of Sam. Colt cleared his throat which was my cue to press the record function key on my cell phone.
“Randolph Rutter, I have it on credible authority that you gave Jorge Borrego a bottle containing the poisons that eventually led to the death of Kurt Baugh. Is it true that you conspired with Mr. Borrego to frame Frankie Romano for Baugh’s murder by requesting an order of yams that you knew would be laced with these deadly poisons?”
Randolph erupted. “It wasn’t poison, I swear! It was syrup of ipecac!”
Well, I didn’t see that coming.
His statement had stunned everyone and silenced the room. You could have heard a feather drop.
Randolph actually did try to take Jorge’s hand now, but Jorge rebuffed the move. “Jorge, I’m sorry, but we just need to come clean. It’s time to tell the truth.”
“Randy—”
“It was syrup of ipecac to make Kurt vomit. That’s all. Part of silly prank. Kurt loved practical jokes and played them on Jorge more than once. It was our turn. Jorge slipped the ipecac into the yams. He was just supposed to vomit, that’s all. Not die. We had no idea. And we absolutely do not know how they became poisoned. Right Jorge? I don’t want to go to jail! I don’t know why I went along with it, but Jorge asked me and I do what he asks because he takes care of me. Hair plugs aren’t cheap, you know. Vomit! He was just supposed to vomit!” Randolph was on the verge of tears.
My phone rang, startling everyone. My first thought was to ignore it, but I’d been away from the house so many hours, I was worried something might be wrong. A quick peek told me it was Howard. Still concerned about the home front, I took several steps backward and took the call. “Hi, honey, what’s up?”
Colt was rolling his eyes. Meanwhile, Susan stood and started talking to Randolph. I wanted to hear what she was saying, but I had to concentrate on Howard.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I’m in DC—the American Cinema League.”
“What are you doing there?” I sensed concern in his voice.
What was I doing there? Learning that Randolph Rutter was in the closet and that he and Jorge had played a practical joke that went deadly wrong. Interesting information, but none of it helped Frankie’s case. “Nothing really, it seems,” I said.
“Listen, I can’t talk long, but I just called the house and my mother said you’ve been gone all morning. Would you please leave that place right now and get home to check on her?”
“Sure. I’m done here anyway.”
“You’re leaving right now, right? Do I have your word?”
“Yes, Howard, I just told you,” I sighed. “I’ll leave for home now.”
I ended the call lickety split, just in time to catch Susan leaving in a huff and Randolph following her in tears. That arrogant confidence was just a façade after all.
“Where are they going?” I asked Colt.
“Golightly is heading to her other meeting and Randolph is going to take a breather in Jorge’s office. Jorge claims he can provide the bottle of ipecac with both of their fingerprints on it. He readily admits that he stirred it into the yams before Frankie scooped t
hem out.”
I asked Jorge why he didn’t tell the police this sooner. He explained that he knew he should have told the emergency technicians about the ipecac, but everything happened so fast, and he was protecting his own reputation as the president of the DC ACL chapter. Presidents didn’t pull such publicly disgusting pranks, much less the kind that went horribly wrong. He’d lose his job. He fully admitted to personal misconduct and poor judgment, but murder was never intended. The police didn’t approach him again until the lab report indicated the presence of the three poisons. The first thing they asked Jorge was who prepared the yams—he told them the truth, that it was Frankie and then boom, they had their man.
“I mean, really, Mrs. Marr, I know you consider the man your friend, but from what I understand, they have the poison in their possession and Romano’s fingerprints all over the bottle. You need to consider the possibility that Randolph pissed him off and Frankie poisoned those yams himself.”
I shook my head. “That’s not it.”
“Well, we’re not it, either.”
The intercom on the wall phone buzzed. The receptionist’s voice told Jorge that Senator Juarez was on line one for him. Jorge said he’d call back later. The intercom light blinked off. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “Excuse me, I need to check on Randolph now.”
Colt was right. We eventually came up empty handed. This road was closed. And I wasn’t sure there were any other routes open for helping Frankie.
“Sorry for the upset we caused here,” Colt said.
“Right,” Clarence said, hanging his head like a hound dog. “Sorry, Mr. Borrego.”
Jorge shot Clarence a hateful look and pointed at him. “You—whatever your name is. Get your things and go. You’re fired.”
The intercom buzzed again. “Mr. Borrego,” Leslie said. “The Senator insists you take his call. He says it’s important.”
Jorge stiffened visibly. “Fine, Leslie. I’ll take it in my office.” He tipped his head to Guy. “Think you could keep this out of tonight’s newscast, Mertz? For Randolph’s sake, if nothing else?”
Silenced by the Yams (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #3) Page 11