Silenced by the Yams - By Karen Cantwell Page 0,21

just broke a few laws back there.”

“That’s not being childish. That’s being smart. To cover your ass, I might add. And you’re changing the subject.”

“Give me a break. How were you covering my . . . derriere?”

“Giving up swear words again?”

“I’m trying.”

“Good for you.” He adjusted the ac vents on my dash so they blew directly onto his face. “It occurred to me while we waited. Suppose that really was Guy Mertz they were rolling into one of those ambulances. And suppose we’d told Agent Smith that you were on your way to meet this victim, who just yesterday on his newscast linked you to a famous murder. Seems to me the police would be interested in more than just what you might or might not have seen. I was getting us out of there fast before they put two and two together and hauled you in. Capisce?”

I threw the gear shift back to park, took my foot off the brake and sat back in my seat feeling defeated. “So you think it’s a mistake to go talk to Frankie?”

“Big one.”

“But I know he didn’t kill Kurt Baugh. He brought those yams to the table for Randolph Rutter.”

“Well, it’s a bad name, but I doubt Frankie’d want to kill him for that. Didn’t you say that Randolph insulted his food?”

I shook my head. “No. He said his yams were cold, but Frankie didn’t seem mad about it. Certainly not mad enough to poison him.”

Cars whizzed past us on the road where I sat, parallel parked.

“I think someone else poisoned those yams either to frame Frankie for Randolph Rutter’s murder which then went awry. Either that, or they were meant for someone else altogether and Frankie just grabbed them and passed them on to Randolph. Kurt was just an innocent yam stealer. Either way, I’m positively certain Frankie’s not involved. I feel it in my gut, Colt.”

He thought quietly for a minute. “Do we know for a fact the yams were poisoned?”

“I don’t know anything except what Guy Mertz has reported. That’s why I want to talk to Frankie.” I added some sweetness to my smile. “And maybe my favorite private detective could help by talking to some of his friends in the DC police department . . .”

Colt answered my smile with a frown.

Suddenly, whizzing cars were swerving and honking. When I turned to see what was causing the commotion, I shrieked. A man was pulling my driver’s side van door open and before I knew what was happening, he was diving into my back seat. I continued to scream until Colt had managed, in one fell swoop, to secure the man by his collar, hanging him precariously like a kitten by the scruff of his neck.

The uninvited back seat visitor was Guy Mertz.

Alive and bullet-free.

Chapter Eight

Truthfully, it was hard to pin Guy as a good egg or a bad seed, but either way, I was relieved to see him. “Thank God you’re not dead!”

“You have a funny way of showing it,” he panted. “Could you call your dog off?”

I tapped Colt’s hand. He dropped Guy, who straightened up and did a little self-adjustment on his neck.

“Who’s the goon?” Guy asked.

“My friend Colt. He’s a private detective and he carries concealed, so watch yourself.”

“Watch myself from what? You think I want to hurt you?”

“I guess not. I just always wanted to say that. It feels cool.”

Guy smoothed his shirt. “It’s illegal anyway.”

“What?”

“Carrying concealed in DC. But your bodyguard knows that, I’m sure.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You have some explaining to do. I saw you standing at the hot dog stand that just got shot up like Daffy Duck during wabbit season.”

Guy’s face went pale. “That wasn’t me.”

Poor Guy Mertz spilled his guilty beans. Seems he had been called in for a spur-of-the-moment meeting at Channel 10—one he couldn’t get out of. So he sent his assistant to meet me and let me know he’d be running late and not to leave. He had the assistant, a young college kid, wear his hat and carry the signature umbrella so I’d be sure to recognize them, which of course, I did. Guy was making his way down 17th street when he heard the gun shots. He bolted like Chicken Little, not knowing that it was the hot dog stand under fire. When he overhead two people talking about the incident he felt sick and sat down on a stone bench at the World War II museum worrying if he’d just innocently gotten