Silenced by the Yams - By Karen Cantwell Page 0,14

the other end. Finally Colt decided to respond. “Hate to break it to you—”

“I know it’s you, Colt,” I whispered.

“You’re whispering and pretending that I’m your crazy friend Peggy. You must be keeping the big news from Howie.”

“So you saw the article?”

“What article? I’m talking about the newscast on Channel 10.”

“There’s a newscast?”

“There’s an article?”

“Colt, I need your help.”

“No kidding.”

I filled him in as quickly as I could about the previous evening’s events, what little I knew about Frankie’s arrest, and the subsequent call from Clarence the informed projectionist. When I had finished, he cleared his throat and responded.

“No,” he said.

“No, what?” I asked innocently.

“No, I’m not going with you to meet any crack-pot projectionist.”

“Please, Colt. Please, please, please.”

“Cute talking isn’t going to work. Besides, I have plans with Meegan tomorrow.”

Meegan. I wanted to strangle her skinny little throat. Time to play hardball. “Okay, I’ll just have to go alone.”

“I guess you will.”

Claude Van Damme! Meegan had a stronger effect on him than I thought. Usually Colt would have crumbled by now, unable to resist my charms. I didn’t like this Meegan. I didn’t like her one bit.

“It could get dangerous,” I urged.

“Knowing you, that’s very likely.”

“You should come protect me.”

“No, I shouldn’t.”

Well, I wasn’t going to lower myself to begging more than I already had. He evidently played a much tougher game of hardball than I did. I gave up and let him fill me in on the Channel 10 newscast—Guy Mertz’s true crime report. According to Colt’s account, Guy didn’t report much more than the article I’d read. There was, however, one interesting piece of new information: the poison had been found in a plate of candied yams presented to movie reviewer Randolph Rutter by Romano, but ingested by Kurt Baugh.

Hmm. How ‘bout them yams?

I wished Colt a fun and happy day with his new girlfriend and hung up. When I returned to put the phone in its cradle, the dining room was void of people. Mama Marr was in the kitchen rinsing plates and putting them into the dishwasher and Howard was leaning against the counter nearby, talking on his cell. I cringed. Some work buddy was probably filling him in that half the DC Metropolitan media force was linking me to Kurt Baugh’s murder.

With one eye on Howard, I tried to stop Mama Marr. “You don’t need to do those dishes, Mama. You’re a guest.”

Her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “I’m no guest!” she shouted, obviously insulted. “I’m family and family does dishes. Besides, you look like you could use some help in this kitchen, Barbara. I found many crumbs under the toaster.”

Mental head slap. I spent so much time on the oven that I forgot the all-important toaster test.

While I considered showing Mama Marr the oven, just to show her how hard I worked, Howard clicked off his cell phone and rolled his eyes.

“What is it?” I asked, afraid for the answer.

“I have to go in.”

This sort of last minute call into work thing had been more usual in the past, but ever since he’d been banished to pushing paperwork, I’d grown used to knowing I would have him around on the weekends. “I thought you were on desk duty—they make you go in on a Friday night for desk duty?”

“Can’t talk about it.”

That was usually the response. I knew very little about Howard’s activities once he left the house. Whether this was a good thing or a bad thing was tough to judge. They say ignorance is bliss, but it didn’t’t always feel that way from my viewpoint. “When will you be home?”

“Not sure.”

“Tonight?”

“Barb, you know it could be a while.”

With the FBI, “a while” could be one hour or two weeks. “You were going to take your mother to see the museums tomorrow.”

He shrugged.

Mama Marr had just finished placing the last glass into the dishwasher and was drying her hands with a dishtowel. “Do not worry about me, Sonny.” She reached up and squeezed his cheeks. “You got your important work to do. Barbara can take me to these museums.”

I wrinkled my nose. I had an important date with a projectionist willing to tell me who killed Kurt Baugh—I couldn’t be wasting time with museums. The problem was, I couldn’t tell Howard that. He’d kill me. While pondering the consequences of telling yet another fib, our front door swooshed open and my own mother’s voice echoed down the hall. “Hello! Where is everybody?”

There was no need to answer. My mother’s questions