Silenced by the Yams - By Karen Cantwell Page 0,39

so important about the bottle?”

“Three poisons were found in the yams that Frankie handed to Randolph—arsenic, strychnine and—”

Clarence finished my sentence. “A pinch of cyanide.”

“I don’t think that information has been made public. How did you know?”

“Are you serious?”

I stared at him, knowing somewhere in my mind, there was a reason why that combination of poisons was familiar to me. Yet I just wasn’t getting it.

“Arsenic and Old Lace,” he reminded me, shaking his head at my cinema trivia deficiency. “And you call yourself a movie buff.”

Groaning, I gave myself a head slap. “Of course!”

Colt did not seem to be amused and asked us to stay on topic.

“You don’t get it, Colt,” I replied. “This is on topic. I wasn’t connecting the dots last night. How stupid could I be? Randolph Rutter’s favorite actor is Cary Grant.”

“The smoking gun!” Colt’s exclamation was sarcastic rather than enthusiastic. “Randolph Rutter is a Cary Grant fan. That’s why he ordered poisoned yams for himself, knowing that Kurt Baugh would steal them from his plate and keel over. Let’s call the police. We’ve wrapped this case up neatly. They’re sure to release Frankie within the hour.”

I sighed. “Colt, Cary Grant starred in the movie version of Arsenic and Old Lace. He played Mortimer Brewster, whose two nutty aunts murdered lonely men with poison-laced elderberry wine.” I counted them off on my fingers: “Arsenic, strychnine, and cyanide.”

“I agree,” said Clarence as he played with his goatee. “There’s something here. We should look deeper. Randolph isn’t the only Cary Grant fan. Jorge has a shrine to the man in his office.”

Colt sat quietly eyeing Clarence. He glanced at me once, then back at Clarence. I was pretty sure his mental cogs were turning, but I didn’t know how much of it was invested in solving the case of who killed Kurt Baugh and how much was spent coping with the reality of sudden fatherhood. Finally, he took his smartphone from his pocket and tapped the screen.

I was starting to get nervous that Jorge might be right outside the door. “What are you thinking?” I whispered.

“Googling Jorge Borrego. Shoulda done this earlier.” He tapped and scrolled and tapped and scrolled, squinting while he read.

“You need my reading glasses?” I offered.

He shook his head. My friend wasn’t being his usual jovial, happy-go-lucky self. I knew being a parent tended to bring out the serious side in people, but I didn’t think it could happen so quickly. I was trying to think up some witty banter to liven up the mood when he leaned closer over the table. “Okay, he was born in 1964 to Maria and Alfonso Borrego of Tularosa, New Mexico. He graduated with a BA in theater arts from Santa Fe University.”

Holy cow, I couldn’t believe it. “Wait—I’m pretty sure that’s where . . .” I started digging through my purse for the information I’d dug up on Randolph Rutter, “here it is.” I scanned my barely legible scrawl. “Yes! He did. Randolph Rutter, Santa Fe University. 1988, BA Theater Arts.”

“It doesn’t say here when he graduated,” Colt said. Then he listed theaters in Santa Fe where Jorge served as stage manager. “He moved to Minnesota and took over management of the Starcrest Theater when the Minneapolis Historical Society purchased and restored it in 1996.”

I fell back in my chair. “Randolph Rutter was in Minneapolis at the same time. He was a movie reviewer for their ABC affiliate.”

It didn’t take us long to verify that Randolph and Jorge moved to Washington, DC within four months of each other and Colt agreed that while the “coincidence” wasn’t a smoking gun, it was a smelly shoe. I wrinkled my nose at his interesting metaphor, but didn’t dare say anything. He didn’t seem in the mood.

Clarence jumped at the knock on the door. “Excuse me,” Jorge yelled, “is everything okay in there?”

Standing and pantomiming orders to Colt and Clarence, I scooted just in time to stop Jorge from stepping in. I held the door and talked through a crack while the two men got in position. “It’s still . . . touchy,” I told Jorge with a wince. I tried to read his expression, wondering if he was suspicious of us or just truly concerned. I didn’t know him well enough to tell. “As you can imagine, this is an emotional time for them both.” Colt gave me the thumbs-up, and I opened the door wide enough for Jorge to view a weepy Clarence being consoled by his caring