Silenced by the Yams - By Karen Cantwell Page 0,4

. . . don’t feel so . . .”

That’s when my bad dream turned into a nightmare.

Kurt Baugh fell on me. You would think this wouldn’t be an easy thing to do with us crammed so tightly. Well, here’s what I have learned: when a big man goes down in a crowd like a dead tree in a forest, people scatter. If only I’d been lucky enough to get out of the way too.

My legs couldn’t bear his weight, and the next thing I knew, I was on the floor, stomach down, under the heavy body of a sleazy jerk. People were screaming and all I could see were shoes in my face. Kurt’s drool dripped down the side of my cheek and bile rose in my throat. Then, because my wonderful night hadn’t been defiled enough, the man vomited.

Several times.

This wasn’t how I’d expected my first review screening to be. Somehow, I’d pictured something a little . . . less messy.

The Golightly woman was on the microphone asking people to calm down and step back against the walls and the next thing I knew, two men—Andy Baugh and Frankie Romano—were pulling Kurt off of me. Andy rolled him on his back and slapped his face a couple of times. When blood bubbled out from Kurt’s mouth, Andy freaked and ripped Kurt’s white button-up shirt open to reveal his chest.

“Call 911,” he shouted.

Susan Golightly took off like a shot to follow that order and I struggled to fight off a vomit attack.

Two kind ladies helped me to the restroom while Andy tried to clear his brother’s airway.

It took twenty minutes for emergency responders to arrive, five minutes for them to attempt revival, and one second for them to pull a sheet over Hollywood director Kurt Baugh’s face and pronounce him dead on the scene.

For most people, this would be an unusual day. For me, not so much.

My name is Barbara Marr and you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

Chapter Two

I awoke the next morning to the tantalizing aroma of coffee and the sexy sensation of someone nibbling on my neck. The previous evening had thrown me into a funk. I didn’t feel clean enough after one shower, concerned that my hair still reeked of bloody bile, so I had taken a second before climbing into bed. I smiled, thankful that my husband still found me kissable in the light of day. “Howard,” I moaned in a tired voice.

“I’m here,” Howard answered. “But that’s not me licking your neck.”

I bolted upright, startling Puddles the Poodle, who evidently considered my neck a salty delicacy. Puddles yelped and I shouted. “What’s that dog doing in my bed?”

Howard stood next to the bed, holding a cup of java and laughing. “It’s his house, too,” he said. He handed me the coffee and picked up the curly gray canine.

Puddles the Poodle was not welcome in my home. At least not by me. Howard had acquired him after his owner, a Mafia-connected neighbor, found herself spending the rest of her life in the Big House. Shortly thereafter Howard and I had separated, working out some marital issues. Howard acquired a condo across town and Puddles kept him company. When Howard moved back home, Puddles came along. I had not understood, while reconciling, that I was also committing to life with a yappy rat-dog.

“First,” I argued, “I never agreed that he could live here, and second, even if he does, the bed is off-limits. Beds are for humans, floors are for dogs.”

“You let Indiana Jones and Mildred Pierce on the bed.”

“They’re cats and rules never apply to cats, you know that. They’re too cool for rules.”

As if on cue, our yellow tabby, Indiana Jones, leaped onto the comforter. “Meow.” His look-alike, Mildred Pierce kitty, followed. Together, they padded around until each found a comfy place to settle, then directed their unblinking feline stares toward Puddles. Nary a whisker twitched on their stone faces, but I knew my kitties—on the inside, they were laughing their hairy little butts off.

Howard rolled his milk-chocolate brown eyes and lowered Puddles to the floor. “Out Puddles,” he said, and pointed to the bedroom door. Puddles started yapping and dancing on his hind feet. Howard repeated the command. “Out!”

Either Puddles didn’t understand the command, or he didn’t care to obey, because he continued the yapping. I covered my ears. “How are those training classes going?”

“He’ll learn eventually.”

“Not so good?”

“We’re learning to . . . communicate.”

“Have you ever heard the saying, ‘You can’t teach an irritating