At first I thought I’d misheard him. Surely he didn’t say pole dancing. No. He must have said . . . my mind ran through the list of possible words. . . soul dancing. That was it. Soul dancing. Was there such a thing as soul dancing? There’d better be, because if my mother took Mama Marr pole dancing, it would be a contest as to who would kill her first, me or Howard.
“Oh,” Mama Marr said with a pouty face. “It was such fun. Barbara, have you tried this pole dancing?”
My face flamed. I suppressed the urge to scream out loud, whispering instead through clenched teeth. “Where is she?”
“Where is who, dear?”
I spun around to find my mother glaring down at me. After making a quick apology to Mr. Lotta Handsome Doctor Man, I grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out of hearing range. “You took her pole dancing? POLE DANCING?”
“Barbara, your face is unusually red and you’re sweating. Are you having menopausal hot flashes?”
Menopausal hot flashes? No. Homicidal hot flashes? Yes. “The museums, mom—what happened to taking her to the museums?”
“We tried that. We were less than a mile outside of the district when they closed all roads going in. Something about a shooting in front of the White House. What is this world coming to?”
“So you turned around, found the nearest strip bar and said, ‘Hey, Alka, why don’t we try that?’”
“Now you’re just being silly. I love you, Barbara, but you have no imagination. No, if you must know, my geriatric pole dancing class is held in a loft in Arlington, and since we couldn’t get to the museums, I asked Alka if she’d like to stop by and see if they were open for drop-ins at their one o’clock class.”
“Geriatric pole dancing?”
“It’s the new trend in elder exercise—you should give it a try.”
I would have been insulted by the last remark if I wasn’t so surprised that she attended any class with the word geriatric or elder in the title. My mother has never been one to admit to growing old.
The cell phone buzzed in my purse, alerting me to a text message. I threw my mother another look to tell her how displeased I was, then grabbed my reading glasses and the phone. The text was from Callie. “Brd bck in cag. Whats 4 dinr?”
I would have texted back to verify that “bck in cag” meant he was living and breathing and not just a little yellow carcass ready for a cigar box burial, but the doctor was standing next to me clearing his throat. He handed me a prescription for more muscle relaxants and a sheet of instructions for icing her back until the pain diminished and her range of movement returned.
Unfortunately, I find myself in the Rustic Woods Hospital ER more often than I care to say, but that didn’t help speed our departure. There were easily ten thousand pieces of paper to sign before they’d let us go. And because of the muscle relaxants, Poor Mama Marr could barely maintain a grip on the pen, so I had to hold her hand while she signed. Somewhere around the five thousandth piece of paper, she stopped and sighed. “You are so good to me, Barbara. My boy, he married a good woman. I was so sad when I did not have any daughters, but you are the best daughter a woman could have.”
She actually brought a tear to my eye. Thank goodness for muscle relaxants, because she’d never said anything that warm and loving to me in all of the years Howard and I had been married. “And I’m glad to have you for a mother, Mama.”
I heard my own mother huff in the background.
Mama Marr nodded. “This is why I am coming to live with you and Howard. Family should be together.”
Holy cow. I thought that was what Christmas was for.
She patted my hand and smiled. “This will be good. I can help you keep your house clean.”
During our drive home, I received a call from Guy. His assistant was safe and sound. Terribly shaken, but safe. The only wound he suffered was an abrasion on his cheek from when he dove to the pavement for protection. I breathed a sigh of relief. Guy said he gave the poor fella the rest of the week off.
It was nearly seven thirty by the time I pulled into our driveway. “The Judge” was parked in front of the house, so I knew Colt had invited himself over. More likely Howard had instructed him to keep an eye on me and make sure I didn’t get into any more trouble. Truthfully, I was glad because I needed his help to get Mama Marr into the house. (My mother had declined the request to follow us and assist. Something about a memoir writing class she didn’t want to miss.)
Once we got Mama settled into the comfy chair in our family room with a cup of tea, I ran upstairs to check on Pavrotti. Thankfully, he was sitting on his perch and appeared unscathed. I breathed a sigh of relief and made my way back down to the kitchen, happy that at least one the day’s disasters had ended well. I couldn’t say the same for Guy Mertz’s assistant or for Mama Marr. The muscle relaxants didn’t seem to be settling too well with her, so I decided to look for natural alternatives online. That’s when I realized something. Except for the unmistakable sound of canned laughter coming from Mama Marr’s television show, the house was eerily quiet.
“Where are the girls?” I asked Colt as he filled my dishwasher with dirty dishes.
“Callie is upstairs on her computer—she said it’s been twenty-four hours since ‘the incident’ and that it was okay. Bethany is at Skate Night with Holly Burke and Kyra . . .” he hesitated while trying to remember, then finally pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket. “Wexler. Kyra Wexler. Kyra’s mom said you’d already agreed to a sleepover at her house afterwards, so I made sure Bethany had a sleeping bag, toothbrush and toothpaste.” He nodded, seemingly happy with himself. “And Amber is at Emily Horner’s house. She was invited to spend the night, so you need to call and confirm with Judi if that’s okay or not.” He slipped the paper back into his pocket, placed one last glass into the dishwasher and closed it up. “Oh, and I fixed them tacos. I put the leftovers in the fridge if you want some.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Judi? You’re on a first name basis with her?”
“Hey, I’m a friendly guy, what can I say? She’s a dentist, you know.”
“Yeah, I know. Trust me. I’m surprised she’s allowing my daughter in her house after the fiasco at her office yesterday.”
He smiled a way-too-knowing smile. “She’s over that—thinks it was pretty funny in hindsight. Evidently, Emily can say some pretty wild things in public, too.”
I shook my head, confused by Colt’s budding friendship with Judi Horner, but glad that I didn’t have to find a new dentist.
“Colt, you need a woman to take care of.”
“You’re not a woman?”
“Seriously. You need to meet someone and settle down. This free-as-a-bird act isn’t working anymore. Under that cool exterior is a family man and that family will be so lucky to have you.”
He pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat. “Frankly, you seem to be sending mixed messages. You haven’t been exactly welcoming to Meegan.”
“I said you needed a woman, not a Teen Beat cover girl.”
My tummy grumbled, so I decided to grab taco meat, tomatoes, and cheese from the refrigerator. And since it was on the same shelf, I grabbed the open bottle of Pinot Grigio as well.
“Want some?” I asked while opening a cupboard for a glass.
“Depends. Are we still going to the range tonight?”
At first, I had no idea what “range” he was talking about. The first thought that came to my frazzled mind was Home, Home on the Range, which brought to mind pictures of horses and cows and wide open land. The best I could muster was a blank look on my face while I tried to figure out what wine had to do with singing cowboys on horses.
I guess Colt had seen that face before, so he elaborated. “The shooting range.” He pantomimed a gun with his right hand. “You know: Bang! Bang!”
It took me a while, but I’m not completely dim. “Oh! The hand gun lesson was tonight.” The microwave dinged so I pulled the bowl of meat out and threw on some tomatoes and
cheese. “Do we still have time?”
“If you eat fast.”
Setting my bowl down on the table, I considered the day I’d had and the fact that I really just wanted a glass of wine and a hot bath. “I don’t know, Colt, I’m really tired . . .”
“Or we could skip it . . .” His smile was wiley. “ . . . and I could just tell you what I found out about Frankie.”
Now that was something I wanted to hear. I grabbed him for a huge bear hug. “You’re the best.”
He nodded. “That’s what all the women say.”
Chapter Ten
AS IT TURNED OUT, COLT played poker with a DC cop who had a close connection to the Kurt Baugh case. They found arsenic, strychnine, and cyanide in his vomit. Unfortunately, they found the same three ingredients in the yams left on the plate that Frankie had prepared himself. Witnesses in the kitchen confirmed that Frankie had been the only person warming the yams and one witness was willing to testify that he saw Frankie add something from a small bottle prior to re-heating the dish in a small saucepan.
“Where’s that bottle now?” I asked Colt.
“No one knows.” He sipped from my wine glass. “The funny thing is, foul play was never considered originally. The hospital medical examiner reported ‘natural causes,’ but Kurt’s brother demanded an investigation.” He made a sour face and stood up. “Wine is for sissies. I need a beer.”
I cringed, remembering the horrible night. “Natural causes? What, did he puke to death?”
He twisted the bottle top off a long-neck Dos Equis. “And Bingo was his name-o.”
That made no sense to me—Kurt hadn’t appeared to be choking on the vomit. I’d seen Andy working to clear his airway before they whisked me to the bathroom to clean up.
Colt sat back down and pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “He had a condition called . . .” he squinted at the paper and read slowly, not sure of the pronunciation, “ . . . esophageal varices. The way I understand it, the veins in his esophagus burst when he threw up, so he basically bled to death.”
“Yikes.”
“Yup. Nasty way to go.”
“So the poisons caused him to vomit?”
Colt shook his head. “Don’t know. We didn’t talk about that. I’m not sure they know yet. But Andy Baugh insisted his brother had been murdered, so the usual routine was followed even though they didn’t expect to uncover anything suspicious—they were just trying to cover all bases because the Baugh brothers are famous and the last thing DC cops want is more media attention. Then, voila: three deadly poisons.” He swigged his beer. “Someone, if it wasn’t Frankie, really wanted to make sure this guy bit the dust.”
“First, it wasn’t Frankie, and second, ‘someone’ wanted to make sure Randolph Rutter bit the dust, not Kurt Baugh. Those yams were meant for him.”
“Which is why Frankie’s in double trouble. Attempted murder and unintentional homicide. He’ll go away for life if he’s found guilty.”
“When is the indictment hearing, do you know?”
“Thursday. Ten a.m.”
All the talk about vomit and poisons and Frankie spending his life in prison had taken a toll on my appetite. The taco meat sat in front of me, barely touched. “It doesn’t seem fair. He turned his life around, he made amends, and now this happens.”
“His goose is pretty cooked, I’m afraid to say. The Baugh family is evidently thrilled that the police were so expeditious in finding and apprehending a suspect. Everyone feels confident that Kurt’s killer has been found.” Colt pointed to my taco bowl. “You gonna finish that?”
I shook my head, feeling sicker by the minute. “What about you?”
He took the bowl to the trash can and scraped out the contents with my fork. “What about me what?”
“Do you feel confident that the killer has been found?”
“Don’t do this to me.”
“Do what to you?”
Colt rinsed the bowl a little more vigorously than necessary, left it in the sink, turned to face me, and crossed his arms. “Don’t put me on the spot.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He smirked. “What would you do if I did get serious with someone? You’d go crazy. No Colt at your beck and call. No string to pull.”
He caught me off guard, and I wasn’t sure how to respond. We’d gone from talking about Frankie to discussing the complications of our friendship. An awkward silence hung in the air.
“Besides,” Colt said finally, “I promised Howard I’d stay out of this one. He’s my landlord, remember? I like where I live.”
“Frankie saved your life, Colt.”
“Curly . . .”
“Listen,” I said, “I’m sorry that you feel used by me. Honestly, you’re very important to me and I would never intentionally do anything to make you feel otherwise. But Frankie is in trouble and I have my connections, so I’m clearing his name, with or without your help.”
Truthfully, I didn’t have that many connections. Just Guy Mertz, for what he was worth. He had an in with Randolph Rutter, although I didn’t know what good that might do. Then there was Clarence-the-odd-one who claimed to be employed by the ACL. I couldn’t deny that Colt’s contacts and know-how wouldn’t benefit greatly, but I wasn’t bluffing when I said I’d clear Frankie’s name with or without his help. I was determined to prove that Frankie was innocent and I was counting on Colt’s caring nature to come through and lend me a helping hand.
Colt furrowed his brows and leaned in close. “Have you forgotten that just this afternoon someone tried to fill you with bullet holes?”
“Don’t be so dramatic. I was a bystander to a drive-by shooting along with you and half a million others. It was probably some drug gang war incident. They happen in DC all of the time.”
The furrows relaxed a bit.
“Come on,” I wheedled, “be a good guy.”
Colt was crumbling, I could tell. I got down on my knees to push home my desperation. “Frankie needs your help.”
That did the trick. Colt blew out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. You can get off your knees. I’ll help. Under one condition—you run everything by me. No going off on your own, no meeting with odd people who say they know things. And if things get dicey and I say we’re done, then we’re done. End of story.”
I smiled and crossed my heart. “Promise, Captain.” Standing to pace the room, I pondered those witnesses in the kitchen. “First,” I said, “I want to find the missing bottle with the mystery ingredient that Frankie poured onto those yams. Which means we have to talk to Frankie. Now.”
Chapter Eleven
I NEEDED TO HEAR FROM Frankie, firsthand, what happened in that kitchen Sunday night. If he added something to those yams, he’d tell me and if he had any suspicions about who actually tried to kill Randolph Rutter, he’d tell me that, too. And the sooner the better since his indictment hearing was on Thursday. Plus, with the younger girls at friends’ houses, time was mine. For now.
“But,” Colt said, while peeling an orange he snatched from my fruit bowl, “have you forgotten that it’s eight o’clock at night? Way past visitor’s hours, I’m sure.”
In fact, I couldn’t remember when visitor’s hours ended. A quick re-visit to the FAQ page on the DC Department of Corrections website told us that we’d just missed our chance—they ended at eight. And as I already knew, our next possible date was Thursday. That just wouldn’t do. His hearing was at ten a.m. I scrolled down further hoping to find some loophole. “Look at this!” I turned the screen so Colt could read. “Legal visits are permitted 24 hours a day, seven days a week.”
“That’s right!” Colt was exaggerating his own enthusiasm. “You just passed your bar last week—you’re all set Barbara Marr, Esquire. Go in and visit him tonight.”
I refused to let Colt’s sarcasm drown the spark of inspiration growing in my mind. Somehow, I knew, I could make this legal visitation rule work for me. I just had to figure out how. Did
I know any lawyers? Yes, but none I dared approach with this scheme. I didn’t even know whether Frankie had a lawyer. If real life resembled the movies, he could either retain his own lawyer, or if he couldn’t afford one, the court would appoint counsel.
A really fine idea was brewing in my devious mind.
“So,” I said, “I would guess that criminal lawyers hire investigators, right?”
“Sure. Sometimes they keep them on staff, sometimes they hire out on a case-by-case basis, why?”
“And if an investigator needed information from the lawyer’s client in order to, you know, investigate, then that would fall under the category of ‘legal visits,’ right?”
He narrowed his eyes and imitated Ricky Ricardo. “I don’t think I like where this is going, Lucy.”
“So you could get in tonight?”
“If I lied, I could. And I don’t lie.” He popped an orange slice into his mouth.
“Never?”
He shook his head while he chewed on another juicy slice.
“So in all of the years you’ve been investigating, you’ve never pretended you were someone else to get information?” I smiled an extra sugary smile. “And remember, just two minutes ago you promised you’d help. You don’t break promises, do you?”
Colt handed me the rest of the orange and complained that he’d lost his appetite. He sat at the table, silent and morose. The only sound was the drumming of his fingers. Finally, he looked at his watch and sighed. “I’ll have to see what strings I can pull and I’m not saying this will work, but just in case, what do you want me to ask him?”
“Can’t I go with you?”
He pulled his car keys out of his pants pocket. “I just told you that I’m not even sure this is going to happen. I’m certainly not going to bring the Queen of Fiascos in on a scheme already rife with potential complications.”
“But I was there when Kurt—”
“No.” Colt’s eyes were hard and stern and I knew he meant business. I wasn’t talking him into this one. And truthfully, it wasn’t a good idea to leave the kids alone with Mama Marr all doped up on muscle relaxants.
3 Silenced by the Yams Page 7