Silenced by the Yams - By Karen Cantwell Page 0,43
movement, I could have had my hands around Guy’s skinny throat, wringing it with the force of an angry, silverback gorilla. Certainly, the thought passed through my mind. But I needed to free Frankie from jail, not join him behind the bars.
Instead, I channeled my fury in a positive direction and kept the act going by feigning embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”
Susan opened her mouth to speak, but Jorge cut her off at the pass. “Ms. Golightly and I are very busy here. Would you leave us to our work, please?”
However poorly implemented, I’d executed stage one of the operation. It was time for stage two and Clarence needed his cue to initiate: I dropped my cell phone.
As I bent my knees to pick it up, the room remained uncomfortably silent with all eyes on me. This was not the plan. I stood slowly, wondering why Clarence wasn’t moving onto stage two. Meanwhile, Randolph looked like he might faint or make a run for it. “It’s obvious we’ve interrupted these people. I think I’ll just be leav—”
I dropped my phone again. Desperate times called for desperate measures. “Am I a klutz or what? I dropped my phone again. Why can’t I hang onto this thing?”
Clarence woke up from whatever trance he’d been in. “Jorge,” he said, “did you know my dad, Colt, is a private detective?”
Guy coughed, but I think he was trying to cover a guffaw. “No, stay a few more minutes, Randolph. This sounds interesting. Investigation is right up my alley. What have you been investigating lately, Mr. Baron? Anything especially enticing?”
Colt smiled. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Mertz—can I call you Mr. Mertz?”
“Please do.”
“Thank you. Well, Mr. Mertz, I, at the request of Mrs. Marr,” he indicated my presence with a nod, “spoke with Frankie Romano. You know who Frankie Romano is, don’t you?” Even though Colt was “speaking” to Guy, his eyes scanned the faces of our suspects.
“That would be the man currently under suspicion for killing Kurt Baugh,” answered Guy. “Wouldn’t it?”
Guy was, once again, forgiven. He had entered into the act brilliantly.
Jorge’s expression had gone hard like a piece of granite. No movement. Only the growing perspiration stains hinted that we’d struck a nerve. Like most public buildings in the summer, the place was over-air-conditioned, so unless he was going through menopause, I doubted he was sweating from the heat.
And poor Randolph appeared in dire need of an emergency dose of extra- strength Pepto Bismol.
Susan Golightly, on the other hand, just seemed annoyed. “I don’t know what’s going on here and quite frankly, I don’t care. I have another meeting to get to.” She looked at her watch. “In twenty minutes. Jorge, should we reschedule?”
“Ms. Susan Golightly,” Colt said to keep the ball rolling. “Is it true that you requested that candied yams be served at the screening the night Kurt Baugh died?”
A sneer preceded her instant denial. “No. What the hell is this? Jorge?”
“Susan, I’m sorry—” Jorge’s granite was cracking.
“Frankie was told by Mr. Borrego that you personally made the request for candied yams on behalf of Andy Baugh.”
“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. Why would you say such a thing, Jorge?”
Randolph had scooted up so close to Jorge by now that they were practically holding hands and the silent gesture spoke volumes. Suddenly I understood what Susan meant when she said he wasn’t her “type.” Randolph was gay.
“Jorge,” he whispered. “Can we—”
“Shut up, Randy!” The granite had snapped. Jorge’s face was flaming red. “Don’t say another word.”
Time for stage three. It looked like Susan was out of the running for guilty association, but lovers Jorge Borrego and Randolph Rutter were about as innocent as OJ Simpson and The Son of Sam. Colt cleared his throat which was my cue to press the record function key on my cell phone.
“Randolph Rutter, I have it on credible authority that you gave Jorge Borrego a bottle containing the poisons that eventually led to the death of Kurt Baugh. Is it true that you conspired with Mr. Borrego to frame Frankie Romano for Baugh’s murder by requesting an order of yams that you knew would be laced with these deadly poisons?”
Randolph erupted. “It wasn’t poison, I swear! It was syrup of ipecac!”
Well, I didn’t see that coming.
His statement had stunned everyone and silenced the room. You could have heard a feather drop.
Randolph actually did try to take Jorge’s hand now, but Jorge rebuffed the move. “Jorge, I’m sorry, but we