Silenced by the Yams - By Karen Cantwell Page 0,28

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.

I slouched in my chair. “Oh, poo. I wanted to see Frankie. I want to be doing something.”

“You can do some research. Then we’ll get back together here and compare notes. I’ll text you when I’m leaving DC.”

So I wrote up a list of questions for Colt to ask Frankie, and Colt gave me a list of things to look up on the internet. He wanted me to start with Randolph Rutter—find out if there was any reason why someone would want him dead, and more importantly, why they would want him to die in such a public fashion.

Colt headed out, albeit reluctantly. After checking on Mama Marr, I was about to settle down in front of the computer when I realized that I hadn’t called Judi Horner to let her know Amber could spend the night. Emily Horner was one of Amber’s best friends, so Judi was on my speed dial. She picked up after two rings and we discussed the specifics of Amber’s sleepover, but she didn’t let me get off the line without mentioning my recent brush with the media.

“You didn’t tell me when you were in that you’d had such an exciting time the night before.”

“Yeah, well. It’s all a little embarrassing, as you might guess.”

“I met him, you know.”

“Who?”

“Kurt Baugh.”

Well, that certainly caught my attention. Suburban dentist meets famous Hollywood action film director? It didn’t quite jive.

“Really? When?”

As it turned out, Judi was the president of a growing non-profit organization designed to raise awareness of prescription drug abuse in the United States—Dentists Against Prescription Abuse (DAPA). She said that Kurt Baugh had contacted her and asked her to be interviewed for a documentary he was filming about the escalating statistics of children and teens becoming addicted to and dying from illegally obtained prescription drugs. She agreed and did the interview some nine months ago. He had called her just the day before he died and said that the film was in post-production, would hopefully be released in November, and would she be willing to do some local publicity for the film when that happened?

Of course, I wasn’t surprised to hear that Judi was the president of such a worthwhile organization since I suspected she was also president of the Secret Order of Wonder Women (SOWW). I was surprised to hear about the documentary, though. Not that I followed Kurt Baugh’s career all that closely—I’d only become more interested in him since the rumor that he would be collaborating with Steven Spielberg.

After relaying her story, she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, I have my suspicions about him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He showed the signs.”

“Signs?”

“Of drug abuse.”

“Really?” Sadly, even though I had a teenage daughter, I was horribly ignorant of the physical indications of drug use. Beyond the bloodshot eyes of a pot smoker, I probably wouldn’t suspect anything unless someone popped a pill or shot up right in front of me. “What kinds of signs?” I asked.

“Yellow skin, bloated belly. At the very least, I’d suspect virus induced liver disease or alcoholism,