3 Silenced by the Yams

by Karen Cantwell

  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.”

  “Hey, what does that mean?”

  “The two of you are always getting into some kind of trouble.”

  Again, what do you say to someone who speaks more or less the truth? I was desperate for a good comeback. I was pretty sure I had one. “Well, what about you?” I asked.

  “What about me?”

  “When were you going to tell me that you were retiring?”

  His chocolate brown eyes bored into me. Tense silence filled the room. I had him.

  “I’m taking a shower. Would you get her the heating pad please?”

  Truthfully, I didn’t have it in me to enter an argument with Howard just then. I’d only pulled out the big guns because he insulted my mother. I insulted my mother all of the time, but I’m allowed. He had me in a mood while I dug through the linen closet looking for the heating pad to soothe Mama Marr’s tight muscles.

  After settling her in our reclining chair with a cup of chamomile tea and the pad on low heat, I scrambled back upstairs. It was five thirty in the morning and I’d had about four hours of sleep. I pulled the toilet lid down and sat while Howard shaved in the steam-filled bathroom. The towel around his waist covered his butt cheeks, but didn’t hide their taut ripples. I had to smile. Even with wet hair and his face half covered in shaving cream, he was simply scrumptious to behold. I’d take a second tumble in the sack if he didn’t have to head back out. And if I wasn’t afraid Mama Marr might barge in and tell us we were doing it all wrong.

  He must have glimpsed the smile from the corner of his eye as his rinsed his blade under the running water. “What?”

  “Nothing.” I pulled my knees up. “Just enjoying the view.”

  “You’re not mad then? I thought you’d be happy I was leaving the Bureau. You’re always complaining about the hours and how much you worry.”

  “Of course I’m still mad. You’re just lucky you’ve got such a cute butt.” He was also lucky that I had a little teeny-weeny little secret of my own, so I couldn’t exactly jump down his throat. I rationalized that he’d understand once I proved Frankie’s innocence.

  The steam was frizzing my hair, so I pulled it into a ponytail with a nearby scrunchy. “I am happy that I won’t have to worry about you anymore, I just don’t understand why you didn’t tell me.”

  “I have been trying to tell you.”

  “Like I tell the girls: trying isn’t doing.”

  He nodded. “I think a part of me wanted the option . . .”

  “Of not retiring?”

  He nodded again.

  Howard was never indecisive. “I think” wasn’t generally a part of his vernacular. I realized that this wasn’t about him being afraid to tell me. It was about him being afraid to admit it was time to move on. He was vulnerable. Men like Howard don’t like to be vulnerable. Suddenly I understood, and any anger I had felt washed right down the drain with his shaving cream.

  “When’s the official date?”

  “July 31st.”

  Wow. That was only three weeks away.

  We continued the discussion while he dressed. Sure, I had real concerns about his safety on the job, but we had bills to pay. Plus, Callie was going to be applying to colleges in just a little over a year and we would have to be coming up with tuition soon. Would his FBI retirement income cover everything?

  He assured me that he’d already received several offers for civilian work in high tech security firms. The money would be almost double what he was making as an FBI agent. The work would be safer and he would finally have more free time for family.

  How could I argue with that? In fact, it all sounded a little too good to be true. We kissed and made up before he headed downstairs to say goodbye to his mother. I sighed when I heard the front door close and I watched him from our bedroom window as he drove off in the sunrise.

  I started a fresh pot of coffee while I showered and dressed, contemplating this new life we were getting ourselves into. For the first time since Sunday, I had completely forgotten all about Kurt Baugh’s death.

  Then I picked up the morning paper and saw the headline:

  “DC Police Find Key Piece of Evidence in Kurt Baugh Murder Investigation.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I PICKED UP THE PHONE and dialed Colt. Time to find out what he’d learned from both Frankie and Guy Mertz. I wondered if Guy got the early word on the evidence I’d just read about. According to the article, police had received an anonymous tip leading them to a bottle containing the same poisons identified in the yams that allegedly killed Kurt Baugh. A finger print positively matched that of the Mafia-connected Frankie Romano.

  Things were looking very bad for Frankie. I was beginning to doubt my ability to help him at all. Talking to Colt would have made me feel better, but that didn’t seem to be in the cards. His phone went to voice mail after six rings. I left a message, then checked my cell phone to see if he’d left a text. No such luck.

  Thinking he might still be sleeping, I tried his house phone again and when that still went to voicemail, I tried dialing his cell phone which did the same.

  My eyelids felt heavy from lack of good sleep and I was dying to crawl back into bed, but now I had a sick feeling in my stomach worrying about Colt. He might just be sleeping through the phone calls, but a little voice in my head told me differently. I decided to run by his condo and see for myself.

  After waking Callie and instructing her to take care of Mama Marr and to be available when Amber and Bethany returned from their sleepovers, I grabbed my keys and a travel mug of coffee.

  I rang Colt’s doorbell several times and knocked several times more. The only person who came to the door was his neighbor, who was annoyed with my incessant ringing and knocking. I gave up and went back to my car, where I decided to try Guy Mertz to see if Colt ever called him. Voicemail.

  So there I sat, all dressed up with no where to go. And no one to talk to. Hitting dead ends at every turn.

  I drained the last of my coffee and looked at my watch. I figured it would take me forty-five minutes or longer to drive into DC and park myself in a lot close to the ACL’s Tanner Building. That would put me there right around ten o’clock. At the Tanner Building, I could talk to Jorge Borrego and Clarence the Creepy Projectionist. Who knew what Jorge could tell me, but Clarence claimed to know something.

  And so I pulled the car into reverse and peeled out of the parking lot. Traffic, it turned out, was a bumper-to-bumper crawl the entire way in. An hour and a half later I was walking up to the front doors of the ACL. The summer heat and humidity was already steaming the city at this early hour and my shirt was sticking to my damp skin when I spotted a man leaving from a side door
of the building. His hands were stuffed into his cleanly pressed khakis and a pair of mirrored Ray Bans covered his eyes, but I had no problem identifying him as Andy Baugh. I had never officially met the man, but we had shared a horrific event, and I felt compelled to say something to him—to offer my condolences.

  I had stopped walking until he passed my way. “Mr. Baugh?”

  Andy looked surprised as he stopped and raised his head to see who was addressing him.

  “I’m . . . I mean, my name is Barbara Marr. From the other night. I’m so sorry about your brother.”

  The mirrored shades didn’t let me read his eyes, but I understood his slight head tilt as recognition. “You were the woman he was hitting on. Sorry about that.”

  His willingness to apologize for his brother was touching and it made me feel worse. “No, no. It’s fine. I’m just so sorry for your loss. That’s all I wanted to say.”

  “Thank you. Thank you. It’s been very hard on my parents.”

  “I can only imagine.” I stood awkwardly for a moment and then blurted out the first thing that came to my mind. “The man who’s been accused of his murder is my friend, Frankie Romano.”

  Andy’s body tensed, and I regretted not censoring my thoughts, but I couldn’t stop now. “He’s a good man, and I know he has that, you know, questionable background, but he’d never murder anybody. He couldn’t even whack Tito Buttaro, who’s a really bad guy. In fact, Frankie’s never whacked anybody, so why would he start with your brother?”

  “I don’t think we should be having this—”

  “Was your brother a drug addict?” I couldn’t believe the words came out of my mouth.

  I don’t think Andy could believe it either. Now he was scanning the area nervously, looking for a getaway, I’m pretty sure. “Listen, like I said, this has been very hard on my parents. Very hard. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. If they knew half of the things Kurt did in his life, it would kill them.”

  “You mean he was a drug addict? Was it prescription drugs? Pain killers?”

  He started to make a dash across the street but I grabbed his arm. “Mr. Baugh, why did you ask the police to investigate your brother’s death as a murder? Why were you so sure?”

  He pulled his arm from my grip. “Listen, I’m sorry about your friend. I am.” He paused for a moment as if he might say something else, but then he was gone and if I wanted to chase him, I’d have to take a hit from an oncoming Acura to do so.

  As I turned back to continue into the building, I had to wonder at Andy Baugh’s reason for being there. His brother had died just two days ago. Certainly there were arrangements to make for a funeral or memorial service, his parents to console, and other obligations. Why visit the ACL?

  I pulled open one of the two massive glass doors and entered the stunning two-story foyer. Designed in the fashion of a 1940’s era movie theater lobby, large framed posters of the classics lined its walls—Casablanca, Citizen Kane, Gone with the Wind, It Happened One Night, and more. I drooled a bit, since my dream was to someday have a room in my house just like this, dedicated to the movies. Right. When I won the lottery.

  A perfect replica of a refreshments counter served as the front desk where a pretty woman sat at a computer and typed while holding a phone to her ear with her shoulder. I waited while she finished her call, which luckily didn’t take long.

  She returned the phone to its cradle and smiled at me. “Welcome to the American Cinema League. Can I help you?”

  I told her I was looking for Jorge Borrego and was hoping he was in.

  She winced slightly. “He is, but I think he’s in a—”

  “Barb! What brings you by today?”

  I spun around to see all six foot and some three or four inches of Jorge Borrego moving toward me with his hand extended. We shook and I marveled at his class. His grey suit probably cost as much as six of Howard’s put together. It reeked of designer extravagance and when I spotted gems on his cuff links, I guessed they were the real deal. Even his fingernails were perfect—there was no doubt he made regular visits to the manicurist.

  Jorge was a stunningly handsome man with adorable dimples that arrived with his naturally warm smile. His Latino features had a dark intensity that I’m sure made many women swoon until they found out that he preferred men. He didn’t swish like Liberace, but was very open about his homosexuality, serving on more than one AIDS non-profit organizations.

  I liked Jorge and it seemed most people did. He had a way of making people feel comfortable at the American Cinema League—a place he obviously cared about as if it were his own home.

  I was about to ask him if we could talk privately. During my long drive, I had made a mental list of questions for Jorge. I’d start by asking him if he had been in the kitchen at all on the night of Kurt Baugh’s death. Maybe he saw the bottle that disappeared then magically reappeared. But when I opened my mouth to speak, a voice interrupted me.

  “Curly! You beat me here.”

  Colt was at my side before I could even register relief that he was okay. He put one arm around my waist and held his other out to Jorge for a greeting. “Colt Barron. Nice to meet you.”

  For a nanosecond, I detected a break in Jorge’s smooth public veneer, but he didn’t hesitate in shaking Colt’s hand and offering his own introduction.

  “Jorge Borrego—president of the DC Chapter of the American Cinema League. You two know each other, I assume?”

  “Yes. Yes,” I stuttered, not sure why Colt was here or why he thought I was expecting him. “Colt is a friend.” Think fast. “I told him I was coming here today.” What else? “And he wanted to join—to see the place for himself.” Yeah. That’s the ticket.

  The smile and dimples appeared in all of their glory. “You know,” Jorge said with a chuckle, “it’s kind of funny, because Colt isn’t really that common of a name, yet our newest projectionist here is named Colt, too.”

  I nodded and thought about Clarence. “Speaking of projectionists, Jorge, I was wondering if Clarence was here today. I had a couple of questions for him.”

  Jorge looked puzzled. “Clarence? Who’s Clarence?”

  “You don’t have a projectionist named Clarence?”

  He shook his head.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Barb, it’s hard not to be sure. We only have two projectionists—Dan Zane and Colt . . .” he seemed to be searching his memory banks. He addressed his receptionist. “Leslie, what’s Colt’s last name?”

  “Heatherington, Mr. Borrego. Colt Heatherington.”

  Someone called from the second floor. “Did someone say my name?”

  Colt and I both looked up at the same time to see Clarence hanging over the polished wooden banister at the top of the staircase. When our eyes met, Clarence’s nearly popped out of their sockets.

  “Clarence?” I yelled.

  “That’s my projectionist, Colt,” Jorge said, obviously confused.

  Meanwhile, Clarence had started to make a run for it and Colt—my Colt—was in hot pursuit. He sailed up the vast, red-carpeted, Gone With the Wind-esque staircase and I followed as quickly as I could. From below, Jorge cried, “What’s going on here?”

  When I reached the top of the stairs, Colt and Clarence were out of sight. To my right was the hallway that led to the banquet room and theater. A sign on the wall in front of me indicated with an arrow that a conference room and bathrooms were down the hallway to my left. Suspicious sounds led me in that direction. When I rounded the corner, I came face to face to face with Colt and Clarence, who had a Swiss Army knife to Colt’s neck.

  “Clarence! Where did you get that knife?”

  Colt grunted. “That’d be mine.”

  “He lifted a knife from you? How?” If I hadn’t been worried for Colt, I would have laughed. Clarence wasn’t exactly Jackie Chan.

  “It’s a mystery,” Colt grunted again.

  Clare
nce shuffled uncomfortably, but held the knife tight. “I’ve been honing my reflexes with Tai Chi.”

  Jorge was behind me, panting heavily. “Should I call the police?”

  I wasn’t paying much attention to Jorge. Instead, I was realizing something that should have been apparent much earlier. The last name Heatherington brought to mind someone both Colt and I had known in college—Deena Heatherington. Looking into Clarence’s face, I saw some resemblance to Deena. But I also saw something far more familiar.

  “Let’s keep the police out of this,” I said. “For now.”

  “Okay,” Colt said while his face drained of color. “You’re not the one with a knife at his jugular. I happen to know it’s sharp enough to do some damage.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, while slowly moving a hand to my handy can of mace. “He’s a little frightened right now, but something is telling me that he’d never hurt you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “WHAT SHOULD WE DO?” JORGE whispered.

  That was a good question. Just behind Colt and Clarence was the conference room door.

  “Is anyone in there, Jorge?”

  “No.”

  I put on my best, talking-to-a-crazy-man-with-a-knife face. “Clarence—can I call you Clarence?”

  “Why are you here? What do you want?”

  “I want you to let my friend go. We can talk in that conference room there. It’s right behind you. Just give me the knife.”

  I could tell Jorge was nervous. “Don’t you think we should leave this to professionals?”

  I looked Colt in the eyes. “Remember Deena Heatherington? From college?” My fingers wrapped slowly, quietly around the mace can.

  “This really isn’t the time for reminiscing about the old days.”

  “Meet her son. What year were you born, Clarence? I’m guessing it was 1984 or 85?” Clarence didn’t seem to notice when I slipped the mace out of my purse. Colt’s eyes showed me he followed every move, though.

  “You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”