SILENCED BY THE YAMS

A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery

by Karen Cantwell

Copyright © 2012 by Karen Fraunfelder Cantwell. All rights reserved.

First Kindle Edition: July 2012

Cover Design: Streetlight Graphics

LICENSE NOTES

All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

DISCLAIMER

The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Other Books in This Series

About the Author

Dedication

This book is dedicated, in loving memory, to Linda Evans and Clarence Crews.

“Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.” —Marcel Proust

Chapter One

I’D ONLY KNOWN GUY MERTZ for ten minutes and already I was plotting to murder him.

“So, Barb—can I call you Barb?” He didn’t bother to wait for a response. “Tell me about your website . . .” His pointy nose rose into the air as if he’d remember the title by smelling it. “FlixieChick.” He nodded, pleased that his memory had served him well.

Suppressing an eye roll, I waited a beat, then corrected him. “ChickAtTheFlix.”

A minor grimace crossed his thin face. “ChickAtTheFlix. Hmm.” He tugged at his filet mignon with a fork and knife. “FlixieChick has a lighter ring. Shorter. Easier to remember.” He popped a hunk of beef into his mouth and continued to talk around his chewing. “Ever think,” (chew, chew) “of,” (chew) “changing it?” (chew, chew, chew)

I disguised a gag by sipping on my dry Chardonnay and not-so-casually scanning the banquet room of the prestigious American Cinema League’s Tanner Building. The ACL was a national organization—their DC building featured a 200-seat theater and sweeping banquet hall which were often rented by Hollywood studios for local movie preview events. Although excited to be in attendance, I lamented being seated next to this bozo instead of Randolph Rutter. Randolph—the movie reviewer for Channel 3—appeared to be in a serious discussion with up-and-coming action movie director, Kurt Baugh. Rumor had it that Kurt’s next project would be a Steven Spielberg-collaboration. I really wanted to talk to Kurt Baugh and find out for myself, but I was stuck sitting between a no-show empty chair and Guy, the ill-mannered carnivore.

Guy Mertz was a celebrity of sorts in the Metropolitan Washington, DC viewing area. Every evening on Channel 10 News, Guy “entertained” the television audience with melodramatic reports of local true crimes. Some people found the reports deep and meaningful, most people found them humorous, but I just found them nauseating. Guy was the reason I watched Channel 6.

How he made it to television, I’m not sure. Certainly no one had surveyed his headshot before hiring him. His face was unnaturally long and his flabby lips hogged most of the square footage. His beady brown eyes were topped by eyebrows that looked like fuzzy caterpillars on steroids. Let’s put it this way—if he had been Don Knotts’ brother, Don would have been the good looking one.

Guy was babbling on about my website, but I had tuned out and instead, was transfixed on Kurt Baugh who was stealing food from Randolph Rutter’s plate. Kurt appeared to be the kind of man who had been strikingly handsome at one time, but had partied a little too hearty, and now looked more like a down-and-out country western singer recovering from a two-year bender. I found myself staring at his horribly orange skin and wondering if he really believed that ten bottles of spray-on tan could recover his youthful splendor. Unfortunately, I stared just a micro-second too long, and he caught me. It was one of those moments where you don’t realize you’re gawking at someone, but then they “feel” your gaze and turn to meet you eye to eye. Thankfully, he must have been flattered rather than irked because he shot me a wink before taking a sip from his water glass.

I, however, was mortified and jumped back into my conversation with Guy at just the wrong time. “I wanted to cover your story, you know.”

My stomach lurched.

I downed the rest of my wine and wondered if they had something stronger. Arsenic perhaps. “Pardon me?”

“Your bang ’em up, shoot ’em up, FBI’s Most Wanted story out there in Rustic Woods.”

My worst fear was being realized. I had wanted to attend this screening as a respected movie reviewer, not as the famous, flighty, gun-toting suburban mother who found herself in the middle of the yearbook fiasco from Hell.

I was about to ask politely if we could refrain from discussing my newsworthy crime tale, but Guy steamrolled on. He shouted across the table. “Hey, Rutter!” He waved his sharp, silver steak knife around in the air to catch Mr. Rutter’s attention. Unfortunately, he was successful. Randolph Rutter and Kurt Baugh stopped talking and turned their heads in our direction.

How could I silence this buffoon? I considered the possibility of quickly jamming my fork into Guy’s jugular and blaming it on an involuntary muscle spasm attributed to a rare genetic disorder, but of course, I’d have to come up with a name for the genetic disorder and I’m just not that quick on my feet these days. Instead, I sat, face flushed, wondering where that waiter was with the wine.

“This is Barbara Marr!” shouted Guy. “Remember her story?”

Randolph’s face was blanker than the checks in my wallet. He did not remember my story. Now I wasn’t sure which was more embarrassing—the fact that I wasn’t memorable, or the reality that Guy Mertz was about to make me look like a crazy lady in front of some very important people.

“You know,” Guy torpedoed on, the entire table paying attention now. “The soccer mom in Rustic Woods who took down three of the FBI’s most-wanted with a hand grenade.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Randolph Rutter’s mouth and he nodded.

“Actually,” I said, feeling the need to set the record straight, “the hand grenade wasn’t my idea.”

I coughed while everyone stared. A moment later the table broke into laughter. The problem was, I didn’t know if they were laughing at me or with me. I held my wine glass high in the air. “Waiter?”

“If I remember right,” Randolph added, “you also have a movie ‘review’ website and that little incident gave you quite a bit of free publicity.” He finger-quoted the word “review” and his sarcasm wasn’t lost on anyone. He didn’t stop there. “Your husband is an FBI agent, am I right?” He had the table’s attention now. “Isn’t that . . . convenient?”

Smiles faded on the faces around me and people went back to their food while Randolph Rutter held my gaze for a few miserable moments longer. Finally, after what seemed like decades, he turned back to Kurt Baugh, continuing their conversation.

The way I figured it, I had a couple of choices. I could dive under the table and hide until the guests were ushered into the screening room, or I could pretend like I hadn’t just been covertly insulted by Washington, DC’s most popular movie reviewer. I peeked under the table. It didn’t look so bad under there. No, Barb, I said to myself. Be strong. He’s not better than you. Look at those hair plugs for crying out loud. Who’s he to talk?

Guy leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Don’t let that idiot get to you. He knew who you were the minute he saw your nameplate on the table. His job teetered on the edge of oblivion when you hit the news. I heard from more than one reliable source that Channel 3 came this close,” he held up two nearly-touching fingers for illustration, “to offering you his reviewing spot. They needed the ratings.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

Mertz nodded and popped the last of his steak into his mouth. After a couple of chews he said, “Wish they had. Can’t stand the prick.”

Okay, so Guy Mertz was my new best friend. If only he chewed with less enthusiasm.

When a waiter didn’t show up with more Chardonnay, I went searching for some myself. I was also looking for a friend: ex-mobster-turned-chef and caterer, Frankie Romano, who was supplying the delectable eats at this shindig.

Guy Mertz was right about my “fame”—I’d been the news story of the day after being held hostage by three female bank robbers, aka the Dynasty Dames. Frankie had supplied the hand grenade and the 9mm Beretta that helped me escape. The whole debacle occurred in my suburban town of Rustic Woods, which made it pretty much impossible for the FBI to keep the story under wraps.

Within days, my face was plastered across newscasts in the greater Washington, DC Metropolitan area. The publicity landed my husband, Howard Marr, a desk job pushing paper, and found my movie review website a huge following. Howard wasn’t happy about the desk job, but now, three months later, I was ecstatic that my website’s popularity had gained me an invitation to the private screening of the new summer blockbuster, Hell Hath No Fury. I was even happier when I was able to recommend Frankie Romano as the event’s caterer. Frankie was pleased as punch, too. A job like this could open up a whole new world for him.

I located Frankie standing proudly next to a buffet table against the far wall of the banquet room. “Who’s in charge of these servers?” I asked him.

A smile lit up the face of my Italian-American friend. “Yo, Barb!” He gave me a tight bear hug. “How you doin’?”

“I’d be better if I could get a refill on this Chardonnay,” I said, holding up my empty wine glass.

“Sorry,” he said, and immediately flagged a passing young man in a black uniform. “Find another bottle of Chardonnay and fill up this beautiful lady’s glass. Pronto!”

The man dashed off.

“I’m impressed.” I smiled, watching Frankie in action. He was a good guy, despite his questionable past with the Mafia. “Did you have to bring your own staff?”

He nodded. “I put on da whole show, but they paid my asking price witout blinkin’, so the profit’ll be nice. Can’t thank you enough for tellin’ Jorge about me. He said he’ll have more work for me if the studio likes what I did tonight.”

Jorge Borrego was the director of ACL’s DC office. After I received the invitation to the preview, I’d contacted Jorge and requested a tour so I could write about the ACL on my website. He’d only mentioned his troubles with his current event caterer in passing, but I jumped on it like Charlie Sheen to a Hollywood hooker.

“I’m glad I could help,” I said. “Where is Jorge by the way? I haven’t seen him all night.”

“Last I saw, he was giving someone a tour of the building.” He flashed another wide grin. “Hey, didya like the candied yams? That was a new recipe for me.”

“Like them?” I rubbed my belly. “I inhaled them. The whole meal was delicioso.”

He scanned the room, which was populated primarily by local TV and print media folk along with a few studio execs. Hollywood celebs were virtually non-existent except for an actor who played a bit role in the movie we were about to see. “Anyone famous here I should know about?”

I shook my head. “Mostly no. That’s the director over there.” I pointed to a ruggedly handsome, sandy-haired, late thirty-something man in jeans and a black t-shirt. “Andy Baugh. His brother, Kurt, is also a director. He’s sitting at my table.” I pointed. “He’s the one with the bad tan job sitting next to the scumbag with the black hair plugs.”

“Whoa, that is a bad tan. He looks orange. Both brothers are famous?”

“They’re more famous for their sibling rivalry than for their films. They’re trying to out-do each other—at least that’s how Entertainment Today reports things.”

“So they don’t get along like dose Fargo guys?”

“The Coen Brothers?” I shook my head. “No. More like the Corleone Brothers—Michael and Fredo.”

He nodded. One of my favorite things about Frankie was that I could always talk The Godfather with him, and he got it. “Which one is Michael?” he asked.

“Kurt.”

He shook his head. “Poor Andy.”

“I know,” I agreed. “The advance buzz on the movie we’re seeing tonight is bomb with a capital B.”

“So you tink da brother is here to support or gloat?”

I’d been wondering the same thing since I found out he was sitting at my table. “I don’t know, but I sure would love to get a chance to talk to him. Supposedly he’s working a deal with Steven Spielberg.”

Frankie grabbed my arm and started walking. Before I could argue with him, we were standing next to Kurt Baugh. Frankie extended his hand to the surprised director. “Mr. Baugh,” he said. “Pleased ta meetcha. My name is Frankie Romano and I’m your caterer this evening.”

Kurt flashed a friendly, pearly-white smile and took Frankie’s hand for a shake. “Thank you, Mr. Romano.”

“Did you enjoy your meal this evening?” asked Frankie.

“Very much,” Baugh nodded. “You put on a nice spread. I’ve attended screenings here before, and this was the best food ever served.”

Frankie was about to respond when Randolph Rutter jumped in with his two cents. “Your timing is fortuitous, Mr. Romano.” His emphasis on the title ‘Mr.’ carried a tone of sarcasm. “I was about to ask for you. My candied yams were cold. I don’t like cold yams.” He pushed them around on his plate as if to prove some point. “I’d like some more—preferably warm this time.”

“Cold?” Frankie looked horrified. “That won’t do. I’ll fix dat for ya.” He was about to leave me standing there looking like a goon, but luckily remembered why we’d come over in the first place. “Mr. Baugh, before I get those yams for dat gentleman there, I’d like to introduce you to a very good friend of mine, Barbara Marr. She’s a fan of yours, though she wouldn’t tell you that, ’cuz she doesn’t like to be too pushy. But she found me this job here tonight, so I wanted to return the favor somehow.”

My face must have blushed sixty shades of red during Frankie’s little soliloquy. I didn’t know if I should kiss him or ram Randolph’s cold yams down his throat. I waited for Kurt Baugh’s reaction before deciding.

He regarded me silently for a few scary seconds. Sweat dripped from my armpits and I prayed that my deodorant would get me through the stress smelling like that pretty lavender on the label. Thankfully, Kurt turned on a smile, shook my hand, and invited me to sit in the empty seat next to him. Whew! Frankie would get a kiss when he returned with those yams.

“So,” said Kurt, turning his back to Randolph Rutter and giving me his full attention, “it sounds like you live an exciting life.”

I blushed again. “Not as exciting as yours, I’m sure.” I was about to segue brilliantly into a discussion about the rumored Steven Spielberg project when the sharp sound of feedback startled us both.

I couldn’t believe it. Shut down dead by a woman on a microphone. The tall and buxom blonde introduced herself as Susan Golightly of Climax Pictures, and blah, blah, blah, thank you for coming and would everyone move into the screening room. I knew she was just doing her job, but at that moment, I really hated Susan Golightly of Climax Pictures, and not just because she had a stunning body and a really cute last name.

Anxiously, I stood along with Kurt hoping to still squeeze in my Spielberg question, when that dirty rat reached over and did a little squeezing of his own, right on my rumpus.

Since I was taken completely by surprise, I simply yelped and moved back a few inches, wondering if it might have just been an accident on his part.

It wasn’t.

He leaned in and whispered in my ear. “Wanna sit with me, beautiful?”

I was about to release a diatribe on him, citing my marital status, when Frankie piped up. He’d arrived behind us with the warm candied yams, and must have seen the whole thing. “She’s a married woman with standards and morals, asshole. Leave my friend alone.”

Kurt and Randolph Rutter whirled around. Frankie handed the plate of yams to Randolph. “Warm and to your liking I hope, sir.”

Kurt stole the plate from Randolph, laughing. “You obviously don’t know this man’s reputation for jerking people around, Mr. Romano. He didn’t dislike the yams because they were cold—he just isn’t a yam man. Me, on the other hand, I could eat a boat load of these sweet babies.” In a swift movement, he took a fork from the table, speared three yams, and deposited them into his mouth. He threw me a quick wink for added effect.

Frankie did not look pleased, but he kept his mouth shut. I was glad, because I didn’t want him to lose a good gig while defending my honor. Randolph Rutter laughed, then scooted away with his young chippie dinner date, who he’d practically ignored up to this point. I quietly excused myself, hoping to make a quick getaway to a seat in the screening room far from Kurt Baugh and his way-too-friendly-fingers.

I thought I’d made it to safety until I found myself caught at the tail end of a body gridlock. The dinner guests had converged upon the one entrance to the screening room, and feet shuffled slowly as people trickled in. I felt a rush of exhilaration, however, when I realized the man to my right was none other than the director, Andy Baugh. He acknowledged me with a slight smile. I considered introducing myself, then felt hot breath on my neck. Kurt the Flirt was all over me.

I cringed and Andy grimaced. He slid me a look that said, Sorry about my foul brother. “Bro,” he said, “why don’t you hit the men’s room and throw some cold water on your face. I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

“Drink?” slurred Kurt. “You know I don’t drink.” He clutched his bulging stomach, stumbled and glommed onto my arm. “Anymore.” His face was right next to mine, so it wasn’t hard to see the drool dripping from the corner of his mouth. I tried to pull away, but we were packed tight with people trying to push their way into the screening room. Despite the fact that I didn’t actually know this man, his behavior was odd since I’d only seen him drinking water during dinner. I was inclined to believe his denial and wonder if he was sick rather than inebriated.

Andy removed his brother’s hand from my person. “Why don’t you come with me?” he said to Kurt. “You don’t look so good.”

“You know,” Kurt responded slowly, “I . . . 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 old dog new tricks’?”

Even Howard was getting annoyed with the dog’s high-pitched woof. He snatched up the furball and marched out of the room. I sipped on my coffee until he returned sans-pooch.

“Where did you put him?” I asked.

“Amber’s room. She likes to dress him in her doll clothes.”

I laughed. Puddles wasn’t my favorite animal, but I did feel a little sorry for him, suffering the humiliation of being forced into a lace dress and bloomers.

For a moment, I relished my luck at having such a handsome and sensitive husband. He looked like George Clooney, for crying out loud. Really, I’m not making it up—everyone says so. A little more gray, a little less chin, but definitely Clooney-esque. And for every part of gorgeous on the outside, he contained an equal part of beautiful on the inside.

“So,” I asked, “what time is it? Shouldn’t you be at work?”

He looked at his watch. “It’s ten o’clock, Sleeping Beauty. And I have the day off because I’m picking my mother up from the airport, remember?”

I would have slapped my forehead if both hands weren’t wrapped around my coffee mug. “Oh, schnitzel! It’s Monday. Having a man heave his intestinal enzymes all over me must have affected my short term memory.” I held up the mug. “I might need three or four more of these to get me going.”

A solemn look crossed his face at the mention of my adventurous evening. He sat on the edge of the bed. “I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?”

I threw back the covers, placed my coffee mug on the side table, and climbed out of bed intent on getting things done. I had to finish cleaning before Howard’s mother arrived with her white gloves. “I swear, Howard, it wasn’t my fault. And I didn’t go looking for trouble this time, either. I was an innocent bystander to a grisly death. It could happen to anyone. When does Mama Marr’s plane land?”

“One twenty. I wanted to talk to you about something, first.”

I was slipping into a pair of shorts when I decided I’d need another shower first. A clean house was important, but greeting Howard’s mother with smelly pits and scary hair would cancel out the attention I’d put into ridding the house of dust bunnies and moldy window frames. “Talk about what? Can’t it wait? I have floors to vacuum and ovens to clean.”

“The oven can wait.”

I shook my head and slipped the shorts back off. “No. I forgot to clean the oven last time she visited. She spent the first two days scrubbing it herself, and the rest of her time complaining that the work had aggravated her arthritis. I live with enough guilt as a mother of three daughters. I don’t need to worry that I’m killing your mother, too.”

He grabbed my hands as I headed to the bathroom. “This won’t take long. Just give me a few minutes.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No. Not wrong. Just—”

Bethany called up from downstairs. “Daddy!” she shouted. “Your cell phone is ringing!”

Howard threw his hands in the air, frustrated.

I gave him a quick peck on the lips which turned into a lingering kiss. A vision of Mama Marr wrinkling her nose at my grimy kitchen made me pull away before the kiss turned into anything more. “Get your phone and I’ll get a shower.”

The hot, steamy shower was so heavenly that I delayed my chores longer than I probably should have. A night’s sleep had softened the horror of the previous evening, but a third shower was exactly what I needed to kick-start my morning. I thought about Andy Baugh and wondered how he was feeling. He’d looked so desolate the last time I saw him. That was when they wheeled Kurt’s body out of the banquet room on a gurney.

After the shower, I slipped into the shorts and a t-shirt and ran some mousse through my curly hair, noting that a few more gray strands had moved in. I’d throw on some makeup and get into a nicer set of clothes after cleaning. Grabbing the coffee mug, I threw back another swig as if it were a shot of tequila, then padded my way downstairs to round up the girls and begin Operation Dirt-be-gone.

When I hit the landing at the bottom of the stairs, the front door opened into me, causing my coffee to spill all over the foyer rug.

“Oh, Spam!” Yes, “Spam” is an interesting interjection, but necessary since the day my six-year-old Amber was heard telling a neighbor about “those damn squirrels” that steal our bird food. Nowadays I curb the cursing and find cleaner-but-similar words to replace the “dirtier” variety.

Back to the coffee spill—now I had a coffee stain to clean, as well. It was either that, or hide the rug. Burn it, maybe. Mama Marr would take one look at that thing, shake her head, and say: “Oy, Barb-ara. You don’t know how to take a stain out?” Then she’d tsk and mutter, “I don’t know what they teach these girls in school no more.”

I pulled the door fully open to see who had caused me this grief.

“Hey, there!” my friend, Colt said, as he stood all smiles on my front porch in his sporty shorts and Life is Good t-shirt. Colt Baron was one of those men who definitely aged with grace. When I met him in college he was a blond, trim, and muscular surfer boy. Today, he was still blond, trim and muscular, but he was all man. Little lines that grow around the eyes might make a woman look old, but on Colt they were like butter cream frosting—the proverbial icing on the cake. Whereas Howard had a significant amount of gray, Colt had just a touch that blended in nicely with his feathery blond wisps of hair.

And he looked way too chipper for my current mood.

I scowled. “You made me spill coffee and Mama Marr is coming! I don’t have time for a coffee stain.”

His smile fell. I immediately felt two feet high after noticing that he wasn’t alone. He had a friend with him. A pretty female friend. A pretty, female, brunette, way-younger-than-me friend. “I’m sorry,” I said. “My mother-in-law is coming this afternoon, my house is a wreck—by her standards at least—and last night a famous movie director threw up all over me and then croaked, so my stress meter is in the red-zone right now.” I cleared my throat. “You know how it is.”

The pretty thing hanging onto Colt’s arm tightened her grip as her eyes widened.

Colt’s smile returned. “Up to your old tricks, huh, Barb?”

Barb?

Did Colt just call me Barb? My something-is-wrong-here radar detected a disturbance in The Force.

He continued. “Barb, this is Meegan.”

I was still reeling from the fact that he was calling me Barb instead of Curly. The fun and fancy-free Colt Baron had called me “Curly” from the first day we met over twenty-five years ago. Etiquette told me to offer my hand to Meegan for a shake. The green-eyed monster told me I should slap her alabaster, taut, wrinkle-free face and ask her what she’d done with the Colt who still carried a torch for me and called me cute little pet names. “Um,” I stuttered. “Where are my manners? Come in.” I motioned them into the house. “Nice to meet you, Meg.”

Neither of them moved, but pretty-young-thing grimaced and shook her head. “Meegan,” she corrected me in a pretentiously timid tone.

“Oh, I’m sorry—Meghan.”

Her grimace deepened. “Mee,” she said, as if talking to a three year old. “Mee-gan.”

That slap was feeling pretty necessary, but I fought it off. “Meeeeee-gan,” I said with a hint of over-emphasis (okay, more than a hint). “Come on in.”

Colt cleared his throat. “We can’t come in,” he said. “We just stopped by to get my kayak out of your garage. We’re going to hit Aquia Creek today.”

Meegan giggled. She was just too darned adorable with her sweet, short hair and her ready-for-adventure ensemble. I wondered at her age. Her boobs were way too perky for her to be over thirty. Colt was forty-six. Who did he think he was? Hugh Hefner? “Okay,” I said. “Have . . . fun. I guess.”

Howard joined me at the door. He did that macho man-nod to Colt, and then smiled when he saw Meegan. I felt a strong urge to elbow him in the gut or possibly withhold sex for a week. This girl was making me feel very violent.

“Dude,” Colt said, acknowledging Howard’s nod. “We’re just getting my kayak out of your garage. We’ll be out of the way in a minute.”

“Sure,” Howard said. “You need help?”

Colt shook his head. “We’ve got it, thanks.” Colt stored his kayak, a tent, and a couple of other items in our garage and he knew the code to the opener, so he really had no need to let us know at all except good manners. Or maybe to show off his nauseatingly nubile companion. He winked at me and rubbed his hands together. “Don’t forget our date tomorrow night.”

Meegan frowned and Howard rolled his eyes. “How can I forget?” I said, smiling. “Are you picking me up?”

He looked awkwardly at Meegan then at me. “Probably best to just meet there. Meeg and I . . . have plans. During the day, I mean.” He squeezed his new girlfriend’s arm. “It’s not a real date—I’m just giving Barb some lessons in shooting a hand gun.”

Her eyes widened and she clapped her hands like my daughter, Amber, when I let her have Captain Crunch for breakfast. “Oh! That sounds fun and scary at the same time! Will you teach me, too?”

I could tell Howard was holding back a laugh. “Well, have fun kids,” he said to the duo. He took my arm. “Barb, I need to tell you something.”

“Later!” Colt waved and they were off to our garage.

Howard closed the door and I sensed he was about to tell me something very serious. I wondered if this was the “something” he wanted to talk about upstairs or about the phone call. Usually a call on his cell phone was a call to work, which meant I would have to pick up Mama Marr from the airport.

“You’re going in to the office, aren’t you?”

He shook his head. “It’s not that. But I have some bad news. That phone call was from a DC cop that I know. It’s about last night.”

I already knew that Kurt Baugh was dead. What could be worse? “I don’t know if I want to hear this.”

“It’s Frankie.”

The floor swam under my feet and I grabbed the wall for support. “Frankie’s dead too?”

He shook his head. “No. He’s been arrested—for murder. Looks like he poisoned Kurt Baugh.”

Chapter Three

FRANKIE BEING ARRESTED FOR MURDER was even worse than Mama Marr performing a detailed latrine inspection or Colt accidentally-on-purpose forgetting my precious pet name. I was frantic. “Frankie didn’t kill anyone!”

Howard looked doubtful. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do. Even you know that Frankie was never a killer. You have to tell them they’re wrong!”

My day wasn’t going well and Howard knew it. He did his best to calm me down. Logically, I understood that Howard couldn’t sway the decision of the DC police to arrest or not arrest Frankie Romano for the murder of Kurt Baugh. It wasn’t his jurisdiction. At the very least I needed more information. Poison? What kind? How? Where? Howard shrugged at my questions. What good is having a husband in the FBI if he can’t give you the answers to why your friend is in jail?

I stewed over the problem and another cup of coffee while Howard disappeared to God-knows-where. Eventually, I decided to put the issue temporarily to rest. I needed to disinfect my house in the three hours I had left before the invasion of the seventy-nine year old Polish gendarme of guck and grime. I’d figure the Frankie thing out later. Right now I needed to round up the troops and devise a battle plan for cleanliness.

At eleven o’clock on a Monday morning in the lazy summer month of July, not one Marr daughter was downstairs even pretending to be awake or alert. I hollered up the stairs. “Girls! Downstairs now! We’ve got work to do!”

Once the words were out of my mouth, I cringed, knowing they would never elicit an immediate and active response. I listened. Crickets were likely to chirp before a girl would stir. But they couldn’t fool me. They were awake. What was needed here was some incentive. I thought a moment, then hollered up again, “We’ve got work to do eating these two dozen Danny’s Donuts before your father finds them!”

Danny’s Donuts were the best, biggest, melt-in-your-mouth donuts not only in Rustic Woods, but the entire Washington, DC Metropolitan Area. I cringed a second time when the pounding of six feet scrambling on the floor upstairs actually shook the walls. Because, of course, there were no donuts, Danny’s or otherwise, in my house. The best I could come up with might be a moldy piece of toasted cinnamon bread or three freezer-burned French toast sticks. I was sailing on a sea of guilt by the time the girls had assembled before me in our foyer at the bottom of the stairs. Guilt that I was such a lame mother that I didn’t even have decent breakfast food in the house, guilt that I actually lied to get their attention, and guilt that I would never rise to Mama Marr’s standards of the perfect housefrau for her perfect only son.

“Where are they?” asked Amber, who held a pathetic Puddles in her arms. He looked sadly at me in his blue, lace trimmed baby doll dress and matching bonnet tied neatly under his little gray chin. His despair was in direct contrast to Amber’s magnificent, semi-toothless smile that lit up her freckled face. Poor Puddles. I had to give him credit for putting up with Amber. Maybe he thought they were related since her hair was just as curly as his own.

Everything had happened so fast, I found myself without a reasonable explanation for my lie. “Um . . .” I was vying for time.

Bethany stood with a book in one hand and the other hand on her hip. A you-did-it-to-us-again look crossed her face as she peered through her smart, Tina Fey-style glasses. Bethany was eleven going on thirty-seven. She didn’t say anything, which was worse than her saying anything at all.

I gulped.

Sixteen year-old Callie, the spitting image of her father‘s dark eyes and hair, readjusted her long locks into a half-hearted ponytail and narrowed her eyes at me. “There aren’t any donuts, are there? This was your ploy to rally us for manual labor.”

I shrugged. “You can write your tell-all book later. But just for the record, kids in Africa have to walk miles every day in the hot blistering sun to carry gallons and gallons and gallons of water to their town and all I’m asking you to do is vacuum a few floors and wash some windows.” When in doubt, try the privileged children lesson. All mothers attempt this. Few succeed. Yet, I couldn’t stop. “And you know what they get as a reward for their hard work? Not a Danny’s Donut, I guarantee you. Probably just a few grains of rice, or a half a potato. Raw.”

Bethany slid Callie a look. “At least she’s off her Slumdog Millionaire ‘kids in the slums of Mumbai’ kick.” She turned back to me. “Have you been watching Out of Africa again?”

“I needed a Meryl Streep fix, what can I say? But that does not negate the fact, Miss Smarty, that Mama Marr will be here by two o’clock and we’ve got a house to clean.” I pointed to Amber. “You—you’re on cupboard detail. Get a washcloth and start wiping. Bethany, your mission, which you have no choice but to accept, is to vacuum every floor, upstairs and downstairs. Callie, you’re bathrooms.”

“Of course,” Callie said, rolling her eyes. “The oldest kids always gets the grossest job. Why don’t we have a maid like the Horners?”

“Because your dad is an agent for the FBI, not a CEO for a Fortune 500 Company like Mr. Horner. Nor am I a DDS for a chain of dental offices like Mrs.—I mean Dr.—Horner. Poor people like us have to get our hands dirty.”

“Well frankly,” said Amber, letting Puddles escape from her arms, “I think Dr. Horner is the poor one. I’d rather wipe cupboards than put my hands into people’s icky, slobbery mouths.” She scrunched up her face and stuck out her tongue. “She must cry herself to sleep every night.”

I doubted that. Judi Horner was one of the most together women I’d ever met. She was Super Woman and Mrs. America all rolled into one. I’d hate her if she wasn’t so darned nice. And if she wasn’t our family dentist. I have to admit to buttering her up with compliments just to make sure she wouldn’t conveniently find five “cavities” to drill.

Everyone agreed, grudgingly, to work, but only after I located Howard and convinced him to run and get two dozen Danny’s donuts, pronto. I had my sweaty head in the oven, scrubbing furiously with a steel wool pad, when someone tapped my shoulder. I jumped and bumped my head on the top of the oven. I extricated myself and discovered that the tapper was Peggy Rubenstein.

“Ciao, Bella!” she said with a smile. “Didn’t mean to scare you—Amber let me in.”

My fine friend Peggy was a pasty-skinned, red-headed, stout lady of obvious Irish lineage who had converted to Judaism before she married and then to Italian-ism after she married. She and her husband, Simon, spent a month-long honeymoon in Italy. Ever since, she has talked Italian, walked Italian, cooked Italian and often forgotten that her maiden name was O’Malley, not Minnelli.

“It’s okay,” I said, pulling off the long blue rubber gloves. “I needed a bit of a break.”

“Spring cleaning?” she asked.

“It’s July.”

“Summer cleaning?”

“More like panic cleaning.”

She nodded her head slowly and with instant understanding. “That’s right. I forgot Howard’s mother was coming—when does she get here?”

I looked at my clock. “A little over an hour. Howard should be leaving for the airport soon.”

“How long is she staying?”

“A week. I think.” I pulled myself off the floor, every joint in my body screaming as I did so. “Actually, I forgot to ask.”

Peggy shook her head and frowned. “That’s not smart. If I didn’t set a time limit for Mrs. Rubenstein, she’d never leave.”

“You call your mother-in-law Mrs. Rubenstein?”

“She won’t let me call her Mother. She says she wants to be certain this marriage is going to work out first.”

“How long have you and Simon been married?”

“Nineteen years.”

“What’s she waiting for?”

She shrugged. “My untimely death, I think. Anyway, I just stopped by for a minute. I promised Roz I would help her pack today.”

Roz Walker was our friend and my next door neighbor. She had finally had too much of the “dangerous living” in Rustic Woods and convinced her husband, Peter, to ask for a transfer. His company was more than happy to send him to Oakland, California. When I showed her an internet article that listed Oakland as one of the Top 10 most dangerous cities in the U.S., she didn’t even blink before saying, “Yes, but you won’t be there, so it has to be safer for me.” She tried to back peddle and tell me that I shouldn’t take that statement personally, but truthfully, it was hard not to. And if she learned that not only was I in the same room as a dead man last night, but that my friend, Frankie, had been arrested for the man’s murder . . . well, that’d pretty much nail it for her. The fact of the matter was that I did seem to attract trouble the way the North Pole attracts toymakers with odd wardrobe choices.

“Tell her I’d love to help too,” I said, “if I didn’t have Mama Marr coming.”

“I’m sure she’ll understand. You’re coming to the farewell party, right? You can bring Howard’s mother.”

“Of course we’ll be there. She’s my friend and I love her. I may never forgive her for moving, but I love her.”

She nodded, but didn’t say anything else. An awkward silence set in. Peggy is never at a loss for words, so I jumped on it right away. “Spill the beans,” I said. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“I was afraid of this.” Her expression was sympathetic. “You haven’t seen it. I wasn’t sure.” She took a deep breath and reached into her purse, pulling out a piece of newsprint that looked like it had been clipped from the morning paper. She handed it to me. “I’m sorry,” she winced.

I took the paper with a terrible sense of dread. “So I guess I don’t have to tell you what happened to me last night, huh?” I asked, assuming she’d read the whole story with any half or full untruths included.

When I unfolded the newsprint, I gasped at the headline, which was way worse than I ever could have imagined. Local Movie Reviewer, Barbara Marr, Linked to Mafia-Related Murder of Action Movie Director, Kurt Baugh.

Boy, I thought. When Roz read this, she’d order Peter to seek a transfer to Mars.

Chapter Four

I’D ONLY FINISHED READING THE headline and taking my pulse when Howard appeared in the doorway. “Hi, Peg,” he said. “Barb, I’m heading to the airport.” He spotted the paper in my hands. “What’s that?”

I folded it fast and slipped it into the pocket of my shorts. Howard would learn about the headline eventually, but I didn’t want him getting upset and being late to pick up his mother. “Just a recipe. Something Peggy thought I’d like to try.”

What is it about men? They love to ask questions, but rarely have the attention span to wait for an answer. He was already grabbing his keys from the counter and heading for the door. Under ordinary circumstances, I’d be ready to grab his Brazil nuts and crack them for not paying full attention to me, but this time I was only too relieved to be ignored. “Bye, Sweetie!” I said with a wave.

“Dad!” I heard Callie call after him. “Can I drive?”

“Sure, Cal. Come on,” Howard answered.

A few bangs and thumps were followed by the sound of our side door slamming shut.

“Callie’s driving?” Peggy asked with wide eyes.

I nodded. “She got her permit two weeks ago.”

“How’s that going?”

“After our first time out together, she announced she’d only drive with Howard. Says I ‘freak out’ too easily.” I made finger quotes in the air for emphasis.

“Did you?”

I bit my lip. “Maybe.”

In truth, I might have gone a little overboard. When she’d rolled through a stop sign instead of coming to a complete stop, I ordered her out of the driver’s seat, then drove her to the Rustic Woods Police station, marched her up to an officer at the front desk and asked him to give her a lesson on why traffic signs weren’t optional. She was, of course, mortified. I thought the keepers of the law would be impressed that a mother cared enough to teach her teen good driving habits. Instead, I’m pretty sure I heard a group of blue and whites snickering when we left.

“Okay, Signora,” Peggy sighed, “I need to get over to Roz’s. Sorry to be the bearer of that bad news.”

“Yeah,” I rolled my eyes. “I’ll read the article once I’ve put all these cleaning supplies away. I’m afraid Howard may regret renewing our wedding vows.”

She patted me on the back and headed out. I quickly finished the oven cleaning, stashed the supplies, and checked out the rest of the house. The girls had done a beautiful job. The carpets were free of cat hair, the toilets sparkled, and all fingerprint smudges had been removed from the kitchen cupboard doors.

I was just tucking fresh sheets under the guest bed mattress when the phone rang. I called downstairs for someone to pick up or at least see who was calling, but none of the girls answered. They were probably in their rooms stuffing their faces with Danny’s Donuts and avoiding another set of grueling chore assignments. Since our upstairs phone was on the fritz, I had to take the stairs three at a time, thinking it might be Howard with a delayed plane update. Caller ID said “unknown” was attempting to reach me. I hate to be caught off guard by telemarketers. I considered ignoring the call so I could finish tidying the guest room, but clicked the talk button just in case.

“Hello,” I answered warily, readying for some man or woman to roll out a mile-a-minute monologue touting the benefits of superior grade vinyl windows at never-before-heard-of, all-time-low rates.

Silence. I wondered if Mr. or Mrs. Unknown had hung up.

“Hello.” I waited a beat. “Anyone there?”

“Yes,” a male voice whispered.

Even though I suspected a phone prank, I inquired further. “Who is this?”

“Is this Barbara Marr?” the voice whispered again.

My safety circuits kicked in. “You’ve got three seconds to tell me who you are or I’m hanging up.”

“Clarence.”

“I don’t know a Clarence.”

“You don’t know me, but I saw you last night. At the screening. If you are Barbara Marr, that is.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“Can we talk?”

“We are talking.”

“In person.”

“Listen, I’m going to be honest—you’re creeping me out. I’m going to hang up—”

“No!” Clarence whisper-shouted. “Don’t hang up! I’m a projectionist at the ACL. Your friend Frankie didn’t kill Kurt Baugh. Somone else did.. Are you still there?”

“You have my attention.”

Silence again.

“Clarence?”

“Gotta go. Meet me tomorrow at noon—the reflecting pool by the Lincoln Memorial. I’ll be on a bench wearing a red baseball hat. Password is Casablanca.” CLICK.

The dial tone buzzed in my ear.

Flim Flam!

I slammed the phone into its cradle. Great balls of fire. Howard would kill me if I even considered meeting this Clarence person. He could be a serial killer. Or a lunatic.

But Frankie needed help, and this Clarence guy might be for real. Of course, I was about to have a guest in my home—was I just supposed to take off tomorrow and forget about Mama Marr? This would all take some serious thinking, and that required serious thinking food.

Donuts would have been the junk food of choice, but ravenous, overworked young women had consumed the full dozen. Instead, I grabbed three Oreos from the cupboard, pulled the newspaper article out of my pocket and sat at the table for a snack and a dose of masochism.

The article, flanked by a head shot of Kurt Baugh, was short: “Movie director, Kurt Baugh, died last night at the local reviewer screening of Hell Hath No Fury, a new action adventure directed by his brother, Andy Baugh. While police have not revealed details of his death, they have announced the arrest of the mafia boss, Frankie Romano. Sources say that Romano was hired by the American Cinema League (ACL) to cater the pre-screening dinner at the request of web movie reviewer, Barbara Marr. Witnesses on the scene tell DC Daily that Romano and Marr fought violently with Baugh prior to his suspicious death. A hearing will be held this week to seek Romano’s indictment. Meanwhile, he’s being held without bond. The Baugh family did not wish to comment on the circumstances of Kurt’s death at this time.”

I banged my head on the table three times. It didn’t help. The article was still there. Could this nightmare get any worse?

And of course, the author got the facts all wrong. Frankie was never a Mafia boss. He was just a soldier. And we didn’t fight violently. Frankie was a gentleman defending my honor. I looked at the byline—Gina King. I felt like picking up the phone and giving Gina a piece of my frazzled mind. Right. I could only imagine the subsequent headline: Suburban Soccer Mom with Friends in Mafia and Personal, Inside Understanding of Crime Syndicate Structure, Threatens Local Washington DC Reporter.

I was beginning to wonder when Howard would return when the phone rang. Howard’s cell number showed on the caller ID.

I took a deep breath and put on a happy voice. “Hello, Handsome. Do we have a Mama Marr yet?”

“She wasn’t on the plane!” Howard yelled into the phone. Howard never yells. He’s an FBI agent and they’re trained to be cool under pressure.

“What do you mean?”

“Her name wasn’t even on the passenger list.”

“You mean she didn’t have a ticket?”

“Not for that flight she didn’t. I’m heading to National Airport right now. There’s another American flight from Philly coming in at 2:35. Maybe she gave me the wrong information.”

And just because my life can’t ever be easy, a crash from upstairs was followed by Bethany’s shrill scream. “Mommy! Come quick! Amber’s hurt! There’s blood everywhere!”

After picking my heart up from of the floor and flying up the stairs, I quickly determined that Amber was injured, but not dying of blood loss. She was, however, losing a good amount of it from a cut on her lip. Through sobs, she explained that she had been pulling a box of Barbies from a high shelf in her closet when a plastic Barney toy on top of the box slipped off and cracked her in the mouth. A closer inspection with my finger told me Barney had not only cut her lip, but had also broken two teeth.

“Thtupid Barney,” she said, her tears drying.

We cleaned up the blood, put an ice pack on her lip, and I called Dr. Horner’s office. They told us to come right away and they’d slip her in between patients. I thanked my lucky stars I’d worked so hard to be extra nice to her all these years.

I had Amber by the hand and Bethany trailing behind me when I pulled the front door open to head out.

Usually, when I open my front door, there isn’t a four foot nine, white-haired lady with two suitcases standing on my stoop. But then again, today was proving to be unlike my more usual days.

“Mama Marr!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“What?” she asked with an innocent look on her plump face. “You weren’t expecting me?”

“Howard went to the airport to pick you up, but you weren’t on the plane.”

She shook her head so hard I thought the glasses on her nose would fly off. “No plane. They wouldn’t take Pavarotti.”

That was when I noticed the bird cage. Canary.

I took a few deep cleansing breaths. There was no time to ask Mama Marr why she brought her feathered companion, Pavarotti, or more importantly, why she didn’t tell us that she’d changed her travel plans. After a round of hugs, we moved the suitcases and Pavarotti up to the guest room, being sure to close the door behind us. I wondered how long it would take Indiana Jones and Mildred Pierce to smell him and start making dinner plans.

We loaded ourselves into my mini-van, Amber still holding the ice pack to her lip, and tore to Dr. Horner’s dental office. Mama Marr gripped the armrest with white knuckles while she explained how she’d had her next door neighbor cancel her plane reservations and drive her to the bus station instead. I asked why she didn’t tell us that she’d changed her plans. She shrugged and said, “Barbara, I’m an old lady now. Who can remember all these little details?”

Along the way, I dialed Howard to let him know that he and Callie could turn around and meet us at Dr. Horner’s office—I had his mother safe and sound.

At the dentist’s office, Bethany and Mama Marr waited while Amber and I went back to see Dr. Judi Horner. She was her usual friendly self and made Amber very comfortable while she looked at the broken teeth. Luckily, they were her two bottom baby teeth that were already loose anyway. She applied some topical anesthetic and popped them out. Amber didn’t feel a thing and she was ecstatic that she had two teeth to give the tooth fairy that night.

Judi walked us to the front desk and handed Amber’s file to the receptionist. “Please take care of Mrs. Marr,” she said to the young woman.

“As soon as I finish with Mr. Stevens,” the assistant responded.

“Barb, it was good to see you again,” Judi said.

I nodded. “You too. Are you going to be at Roz Walker’s farewell party?”

She tidied the brochure and business card holders that sat on the desk. “Hopefully. It’s the same night as Emily’s brownie troop meeting and since I’m the leader, I just have to see if another mom can cover for me.”

Inwardly, I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs: “How do you do it woman? Full-time job, two kids, Brownies, Academic Boosters, Band Boosters, and Drama Boosters?! Are you human?”

Outwardly, I smiled. “I hope it works out. I’d love to see you there. And thank you, again for seeing Amber so quickly today.”

She assured me that it was no problem at all and mentioned that we should get Amber and her daughter Emily together for a play date soon.

The tall, nicely-suited man standing next to me, who I assumed to be Mr. Stevens, spoke up. “Pardon my interruption, but are you Barbara Marr?”

“Um . . .”

“ChickAtTheFlix.com?” he pressed.

“Yes,” I admitted, hesitantly. “That’s my site.”

He grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously. “Thank you,” he said with a large smile growing across his face.

“For what?”

“My wife would never watch action movies with me until I introduced her to your website. Now, not only does she watch them, she loves them, and I have to admit, I’m finding that chick flicks are pretty fun as well.”

I smiled. “Wow. I’m so glad. I never thought my website would help save marriages, too.” Mostly I was relieved that he didn’t mention the morning’s news item since that was my first fear when he recognized me.

The receptionist handed him his invoice. “You’re all set, Mr. Stevens. We’ll see you in six months.”

He handed me the piece of paper and a pen. “Here,” he said, “would you mind autographing this for me? So she’ll believe me?”

Judi seemed surprised and pleased that I had a fan.

I’d never thought that my first autograph would be on the back of an invoice for a dental cleaning and fluoride treatment. It wasn’t very glamorous. “Sure.” I took the pen from him. “I guess. What should I write?”

By now, Mama Marr was standing behind me, curiously observing my moment of fame.

The man said, “Just say, ‘To Liza’ and sign your name.”

I did as he asked. He shook my hand again and left, leaving me stunned and a little embarrassed by the attention. The entire waiting room had witnessed our exchange.

“Wow, Judi,” I said. “I’m going to have to come to the dentist more often. You have patients with very good taste in websites.”

“He was nice,” Amber said sweetly as the door closed behind him.

“Yes, he was,” I agreed and patted her soft head of curls.

Her face was angelic as she gave a nod and added with great sincerity, “He’s well-hung, too.”

Uh oh.

Here’s the thing: scientists really need to get to work on inventing that beaming transportation device from Star Trek. Not so we can explore brave new worlds and boldly go where no man has gone before. No. We need it for mothers whose child has just unleashed the most embarrassing comment of the century before an entire room of people with perfect hearing. Every mother on the planet would carry a communicator, and when the unbearable moment occurred, we’d calmly flip it open. “Scotty,” we’d say. “Beam me up.”

“Where?” Scotty would ask.

“Anywhere but here,” we’d say.

But alas, science hasn’t progressed that far yet, so there I stood on planet earth—pale, wide-eyed, and speechless.

The sudden silence in Dr. Judi Horner’s dental office was deafening.

And I still had to pay my bill.

Mama Marr broke the awkward moment by piping up. “What does this mean, well-hung?” She said the last two words so loud that I’m sure the CIA picked it up on satellite.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, one of the women in the waiting room had to get judgmental and vocal at the same time. “Where on earth would such a young girl hear that kind of language?”

Amber pointed to Judi. “Dr. Horner’s house.”

Judi Horner gasped and Mama Marr asked it again. Louder, this time, if that was possible. “Tell me what this means, ‘well-hung’?”

By now, mothers were evacuating their children out of the office with the speed of Olympic runners racing to the finish line. Soon the only people left were Judi, her stunned receptionist, me, Amber and Bethany, and poor, uneducated Mama Marr.

“Judi, I’m so sorry,” I stammered.

Judi had the same look on her face as that mother in The Exorcist when she saw her daughter’s head turning 360 degrees. “I . . . I . . .” Sadly, she never finished that sentence.

The door swished open and Howard stepped in with Callie right behind him. “Mom,” he said, his arms outstretched for a welcome hug. His stride stopped suddenly when she planted a frown on her face and her hands on her hips. “Sonny. No beating around the rosy bush. Tell me what this means, ‘well-hung’.”

That definitely wasn’t the reception Howard was expecting. Behind him, Callie’s face blanched and I realized I had a culprit. Callie and Brenna Horner were best buds. It didn’t take a giggly teenage rocket scientist to figure out who had introduced Amber to nearly x-rated slang.

Amber tugged on my shirt. “Don’t worry, Mommy,” she said, “I’ll tell her.”

Judi yelped, “Oh, dear!”

Amber’s blue eyes were sincere. “Well-hung means that he wears really nice clothes, Mama.” She sniffed. “Geez. Everyone’s acting like it means something dirty.”

Chapter Five

THREE HOURS AND ONE SEXUAL education lesson later, we all sat around the dinner table twirling spaghetti onto our forks. Howard had broken out a special bottle of Merlot to complement the faire.

Callie had received a stern talking-to, but we kept the punishment minimal since it was the first night of Mama Marr’s visit. She lost computer privileges for twenty-four hours.

“This sauce is very good, Barbara,” Mama Marr said as she twirled. “You should give me the recipe. Even an old lady like me can learn some new tricks, yes?”

I hesitated, unsure how to reply. Scanning the faces around the table, it was clear that at least three others knew the truth, so I decided it best not to attempt a lie. Not even a little red one. “Thank you, but it’s just sauce from a jar,” I admitted. Whew. That felt good.

Mama Marr sighed, touching her hand to her chest in relief. “Oh, thank the goodness, because it really is not that good. I was just being nice. I will teach you tomorrow my recipe.”

Suddenly, I wished I’d lied.

Callie’s cell phone beeped.

“Don’t text at the table, Callie.” Howard snapped. “Do we have to take away the cell phone too?” Again, a little unusual for Howard. He’s generally not the snapping type of dad. Something was definitely bothering him. Having his mother around didn’t usually put him on edge. I wondered if he’d seen the news article. It didn’t seem likely since he’d spent most of his day tracking down Mama Marr, but I didn’t have any better ideas.

I was about ready to stuff a wad of spaghetti into my mouth when the phone rang. Fearful it was someone that would tell Howard about my new infamy, I jumped to grab it first. Thankfully it was Colt. The timing of the call was nearly perfect since I had decided to hit him up for a favor. “Oh,” I fibbed, “it’s Peggy. She probably wants to talk about Roz’s farewell party. I’ll take this in the other room so I won’t bother you.”

My Academy Award winning performance was lost on everyone at the table, who continued to munch away on the meal despite Mama’s one-star rating.

Now there are those who might judge me, call my “fib” a lie, and say that I shouldn’t be deceiving my family in this manner, but really, the way I see it, I was saving them (and by “them” I mean Howard) the needless hours of apprehension, concerned that I might have been diving into the deep waters of another calamity. And why cause such worry, when I had things under complete control?

“Hello, Peggy,” I answered as I scooted from the dining room to the living room.

There was a momentary silence on the other end. Finally Colt decided to respond. “Hate to break it to you—”

“I know it’s you, Colt,” I whispered.

“You’re whispering and pretending that I’m your crazy friend Peggy. You must be keeping the big news from Howie.”

“So you saw the article?”

“What article? I’m talking about the newscast on Channel 10.”

“There’s a newscast?”

“There’s an article?”

“Colt, I need your help.”

“No kidding.”

I filled him in as quickly as I could about the previous evening’s events, what little I knew about Frankie’s arrest, and the subsequent call from Clarence the informed projectionist. When I had finished, he cleared his throat and responded.

“No,” he said.

“No, what?” I asked innocently.

“No, I’m not going with you to meet any crack-pot projectionist.”

“Please, Colt. Please, please, please.”

“Cute talking isn’t going to work. Besides, I have plans with Meegan tomorrow.”

Meegan. I wanted to strangle her skinny little throat. Time to play hardball. “Okay, I’ll just have to go alone.”

“I guess you will.”

Claude Van Damme! Meegan had a stronger effect on him than I thought. Usually Colt would have crumbled by now, unable to resist my charms. I didn’t like this Meegan. I didn’t like her one bit.

“It could get dangerous,” I urged.

“Knowing you, that’s very likely.”

“You should come protect me.”

“No, I shouldn’t.”

Well, I wasn’t going to lower myself to begging more than I already had. He evidently played a much tougher game of hardball than I did. I gave up and let him fill me in on the Channel 10 newscast—Guy Mertz’s true crime report. According to Colt’s account, Guy didn’t report much more than the article I’d read. There was, however, one interesting piece of new information: the poison had been found in a plate of candied yams presented to movie reviewer Randolph Rutter by Romano, but ingested by Kurt Baugh.

Hmm. How ‘bout them yams?

I wished Colt a fun and happy day with his new girlfriend and hung up. When I returned to put the phone in its cradle, the dining room was void of people. Mama Marr was in the kitchen rinsing plates and putting them into the dishwasher and Howard was leaning against the counter nearby, talking on his cell. I cringed. Some work buddy was probably filling him in that half the DC Metropolitan media force was linking me to Kurt Baugh’s murder.

With one eye on Howard, I tried to stop Mama Marr. “You don’t need to do those dishes, Mama. You’re a guest.”

Her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “I’m no guest!” she shouted, obviously insulted. “I’m family and family does dishes. Besides, you look like you could use some help in this kitchen, Barbara. I found many crumbs under the toaster.”

Mental head slap. I spent so much time on the oven that I forgot the all-important toaster test.

While I considered showing Mama Marr the oven, just to show her how hard I worked, Howard clicked off his cell phone and rolled his eyes.

“What is it?” I asked, afraid for the answer.

“I have to go in.”

This sort of last minute call into work thing had been more usual in the past, but ever since he’d been banished to pushing paperwork, I’d grown used to knowing I would have him around on the weekends. “I thought you were on desk duty—they make you go in on a Friday night for desk duty?”

“Can’t talk about it.”

That was usually the response. I knew very little about Howard’s activities once he left the house. Whether this was a good thing or a bad thing was tough to judge. They say ignorance is bliss, but it didn’t’t always feel that way from my viewpoint. “When will you be home?”

“Not sure.”

“Tonight?”

“Barb, you know it could be a while.”

With the FBI, “a while” could be one hour or two weeks. “You were going to take your mother to see the museums tomorrow.”

He shrugged.

Mama Marr had just finished placing the last glass into the dishwasher and was drying her hands with a dishtowel. “Do not worry about me, Sonny.” She reached up and squeezed his cheeks. “You got your important work to do. Barbara can take me to these museums.”

I wrinkled my nose. I had an important date with a projectionist willing to tell me who killed Kurt Baugh—I couldn’t be wasting time with museums. The problem was, I couldn’t tell Howard that. He’d kill me. While pondering the consequences of telling yet another fib, our front door swooshed open and my own mother’s voice echoed down the hall. “Hello! Where is everybody?”

There was no need to answer. My mother’s questions were almost always rhetorical—more for show than anything. But Mama Marr, unaccustomed to my mother or overbearing people in general, did not know this. “We are in the kitchen, Diane!” she hollered. Then she touched my arm. “Isn’t it so nice, your mother come to visit you like this? It is good she lives so close, yes?”

Um. No.

My mother presented her hulking physique in the doorway. She wore what appeared to be a brand new pair of blue jeans and a black leather jacket. A pair of ornate cowboy boots topped off the ensemble which was way beyond normal, even for her. “Alka!” she gushed, throwing her arms open wide.

Mama Marr threw her arms open as well. “Diane!”

When they came in for the hug, Mama Marr had to rise way up high on her tip toes and my mom had to bend so low I was afraid she’d topple. All in all, the scene resembled a reunion between Gandalf and an old Polish Frodo.

My mother commands quite a presence. She towers over just about everybody, except maybe Fred Munster. She’s a freakishly tall, big-boned woman. Not fat, just big. Everything she does is big—she dresses lavishly, she walks big, she talks big. As a girl, I felt dwarfed by her character. My only solace was that I hadn’t inherited her monstrously large physical frame.

After watching them enjoy each other’s company for thirty seconds or so, I was struck with a moment of brilliance. It required a lie, but heck, that ship had already sailed, so I added to the cargo.

“Mom,” I said putting on my best, sweetest daughter smile. “Howard was going to take Mama Marr into Washington to see some museums tomorrow, but he’s been called into work, and I have to spend a couple of hours with my friend Peggy planning a bon voyage party for my neighbor Roz. . .”

“And you want me to show her a good time?”

I hoped she had museums in mind when she said that. “Well—”

“Think nothing of it. You know you’re one of my favorite people, Alka! Consider your day booked. I’ll pick you up at . . .” she tapped her chin as if thinking things through. “I’ll pick you up at eleven in the morning. Does that work?”

Mama Marr seemed flustered and said she didn’t want to be a burden to anyone and she could just sit with the girls, but my mother would have none of it. She’d decided and that was that. “Eleven it is,” she said, giving Mama Marr another quick hug. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I must run. I’m already late for my motorcycle riding lesson with Benito.”

Suddenly, the blue jeans and leather jacket were explained. That’s Diane Pettingford—always a new and exciting activity on her agenda. Last year she ran a marathon and took up tae kwon do and just a couple months ago she took part in a Citizen’s Fire Fighter Academy. So the motorcycle riding lesson didn’t cause me to bat an eyelash, although I did sort of feel sorry for the motorcycle. And Benito, whoever he was.

A few minutes later I found Howard in our room grabbing his keys from his bedside table. He was dressed and ready to leave. I swooped in for a hug and good-bye kiss that lingered a nice long time. “Maybe you should stay and see where that kiss might lead,” I suggested while we stood, arms around each others waists.

“That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” His mouth was tugged into a wily smile. “I’m not sure I should take that chance, though—with you being linked to the mafia killing of a famous Hollywood director and all.”

I pulled away. “You know about that?”

“Barb,” he laughed. “it’s my job to know about that.”

“And you’re not upset?”

He shook his head and mumbled something about not having enough time to be upset while he bent over to tie his shoe laces. When he stood up, a more serious, stone-like look had crossed his face. “Listen,” he said. “I want to talk to you about something.”

He’d wanted to talk to me earlier and I’d shut him down. “This doesn’t sound good,” I said.

“It’s nothing to worry about—” He was interrupted by his cell phone beeping a text notification. After reading the text, he gave me a quick peck and started moving. “Gotta go.”

“But—”

“I know, I know. I start this conversation and then we get interrupted. You’re annoyed, I’m annoyed. But really, it can wait.”

Poof! He was gone and I was left holding a mystery sandwich. Sometimes I hated the FBI.

Mama Marr was tired and put herself to bed early, but it was summer, so the girls and I watched a movie. Afterwards, I scooted quietly to my bedroom to catch the 11:00 replay of Channel 10 news and Guy Mertz’s true crime segment. The dirty scumbag pulled every trick in his dramatic reporting book to make it seem like I was part of Frankie’s plot to snuff out Kurt Baugh, while making himself look like some grand hero of the evening. If I succeeded in freeing Frankie from incarceration and suspicion of murder, I was going to ask him to put a little fear into Guy by threatening a close encounter with some starving sharks.

I decided after meeting with this Clarence person, I would go visit Frankie at the DC jail. At the very least, he needed to see a friendly face and I had to do something to learn more before the police started paying attention to local media, and threw me in the slammer too.

Since my eyes were starting to feel heavy, I double checked all doors to ensure they were locked and was about to shut off the kitchen lights when the phone startled me. Hoping it was Howard saying he’d be home soon, I grabbed it quickly. “Hello?”

“Barb?” The voice was not Howard’s.

“Who is this?”

“Guy Mertz.”

“What? Benedict Arnold, you say?”

“You hate me.”

“Gee, you think?”

“We need to talk.”

This seemed to be a recurring theme in my life these days. “Talk about what? You want a one-on-one interview so you can rake my reputation over the coals some more?”

“It’s about Frankie Romano. I have proof that he’s innocent.”

Why, I wondered, were these crazies calling me instead of the police? Who did they think I was, Miss Marple?

Chapter Six

GUY’S EXPLANATION FOR NOT APPROACHING the police was thin and convoluted. Something about “protection of the press” and not wanting to “cross a line.” It all sounded like ten tons of baloney to me, but he kept pressing, so just to shut him up, I agreed to a meeting.

Plagued with concern about Frankie and the two bizarre informant calls mixed with a longing desire to cuddle up against Howard’s warm body, I tossed and turned most of the night. I didn’t manage more than two hours of decent sleep and by morning, needed an IV infusion of caffeine to kick-start my body into action.

After promising Callie an extra dollar an hour for watching Bethany and Amber, I waved good-bye to Mama Marr as she drove away in my mother’s red Mini Cooper. Then I hit the road myself for a day of truth-seeking.

First on my to-do list was meeting Clarence at the reflecting pool near the Lincoln Memorial at noon. Next, I’d arranged to hear what Guy Mertz had to say—he said he would be at a hot dog stand on Constitution Avenue at one o’clock. This was good—I’d get an unhealthy lunch before heading to my final destination: the DC jail where they were holding Frankie. A quick check of the DC Government website had informed me that a person could only visit on certain days based on the inmate’s last name. Luckily, Tuesday was my day to visit Frankie. Otherwise, I would have to wait two days. Then, I had to wrap it all up in time to get back home and get dinner on the table before heading to my hand gun lesson with Colt at Straight Shooters Indoor Range. A few months earlier we’d been scheduled for a similar lesson, but that got interrupted by a trio of fugitive bank robbers with a different plan for my evening.

The day was typical for a DC summer—hot and swamp-muggy. The sun boiled the humid air to a thick haze. I’d pulled my hair into a pony tail, topped my head with a yellow visor, and covered my eyes with my favorite pair of Jackie O sunglasses. I was summer chic and reasonably guarded against the intense sun.

In the pocket of my shorts was a new friend: a can of mace. I’d been kidnapped two too many times and learned my lesson the hard way. These days I didn’t venture to the mailbox without my pepper spray.

By the time I reached the Memorial, my t-shirt was clinging to me like a wet rag and my throat was parched. I bought a bottle of water from a street vendor and sipped while I scanned the area near the reflecting pool for a man in a red baseball cap. The reflecting pool is a rectangular, man-made pond that stretches expansively between the Lincoln Memorial and Washington Monument. It's long and shallow, just like most political speeches. It’s lined on both sides by walking paths dotted with benches for weary tourists in need of rest and/or a possible hip replacement. Currently, a brown-haired woman reading a book occupied one bench and a young couple with a cranky toddler in a stroller sat at another, but there was no man in a red baseball cap. I looked across the pool at the benches closest to the Memorial. Not a baseball cap could be seen, red or otherwise. I checked my watch—five minutes after twelve, so I wasn’t especially late. Feeling as cranky as the screaming baby, I meandered to an empty bench and sat, wondering if the mysterious Clarence was watching me from hiding.

A male jogger passed by, dripping sweat and looking like he might keel over with his next step. Somehow, I couldn’t imagine that running in this kind of heat and humidity was going to help prolong anyone’s life. I felt certain that my own laid-back form of exercise (i.e. walking to the mailbox once a day) was far healthier in the long run—pun intended.

Another jogger appeared. He had longish blond hair and a small goatee. He wasn’t drenched in sweat and even more unusual, he wasn’t really dressed for jogging—he wore cargo shorts and a white t-shirt with a picture of Alfred Hitchcock on the front. As he ran past—far too slowly for a real jogger—he whistled some sort of sinister tune.

The couple with the cranky toddler got up and left. Hitchcock Jogger was giving me the heebie-jeebies, so I switched benches. A minute later he was back, running in the other direction and he was whistling the same tune, only louder now. As he approached, he slowed down until he was nearly jogging in place right in front of me.

I tried to ignore him by twisting around and watching a couple of ducks in the reflecting pool, but the harder I ignored, the louder his whistling grew. I was plotting a quick dash to the nearby Park Police kiosk when he stopped whistling and whispered, “Say it.”

I turned back around. Truthfully, besides the fact that he was behaving stranger than Anthony Perkins in Psycho, he actually looked fairly harmless. His face was soft and young and his eyes warm and familiar.

Against what would be considered better judgment, I responded. “Are you talking to me?”

“Say it,” he whispered again.

“Say what?”

“The code word.”

Light bulb.

“Are you Clarence?” I asked.

“Depends,” he whispered, still jogging in place, but looking around, as if he were being very clandestine. “Do you know the code word?”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I sighed. “Casablanca. The code word is Casablanca. By the way, you’re not wearing a red baseball cap and what’s that ridiculous tune you’re whistling?”

He grabbed at his head in surprise. “Oh!” He reached into one of the pockets in his shorts, pulled out a red cap and waved it in front of me. “Sorry. Forgot the hat.” He plopped down on the bench next to me. “Man it’s hot out here. You could swim in this air.” He positioned the cap on his head, gave a suspicious Inspector Clouseau inspection survey of the area, then whispered, “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

Despite his over-the-top secretive behavior, there was something about this young guy I kind of liked. I suspected he needed a friend or two if he acted like this all of the time. “Well,” I said, “I’m not going to stick around if you continue to whisper and I am going to have to demand that you look at me while we talk. I’m pretty sure that by now, anyone following us knows that we’re having a conversation.”

He shot me a sly smile. “‘As Time Goes By.’”

“Is that another code word?”

“Come on, Miss Chick at the Flix dot com—‘As Time Goes By’—that’s the song I was whistling.”

Another light bulb.

I had to suppress a giggle. “From Casablanca, of course.” Poor Clarence was in sore need of whistling lessons. His “As Time Goes By” sounded more like a bad blues version of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.”

“Casablanca—one of my favorite movies,” I said.

“I know.”

“You do?”

“Your website.”

Right. I kept forgetting how much people could learn about me from my website. An uncomfortable side effect of putting yourself out there on the internet. “Listen, you seem like a nice guy and all, but we need to get to the nitty-gritty here. I have to be somewhere at one o’clock.”

Clarence nodded. “I have something . . .” He started to stand and reach for his right cargo pocket at the same time when two hands landed on his shoulders, stopping him.

“Not so fast, buddy,” said a voice behind us.

I looked up, not surprised, but very happy to see who it was. “Colt! You came.”

“Colt?” Clarence shouted, jumping so hard that he broke free of Colt’s grip and fell onto the graveled path, nearly tripping another passing jogger. After a second, he righted himself and stood, panting heavily. He looked like a guilty child terrified that he might get a spanking for breaking his dad’s new Blu-ray player.

I rose carefully from the bench, trying not to startle him. “Clarence,” I said. “This is my friend, Colt. He’s okay. You can trust him.”

“Colt?” Clarence repeated, the fearful look on his face growing.

“Dude,” Colt added, spreading his hands out to show he didn’t have any weapons, “everything’s cool so long as you keep your hands out of your pockets.”

Poor Clarence just wasn’t calming down. He paced in tiny steps and mumbled incoherently causing passers-by to take notice and eye the three of us with suspicion.

“Listen,” I continued, talking in soothing tones like I do to my kitties when rounding them up for their monthly flea treatment. “I just want to help my friend, Frankie, and you said you had information—”

“Deal over!” Clarence shouted. The terror on his face was replaced with anger. “I thought I was ready, but I’m not!” He tore off across the grass and through the trees.

I slapped Colt about a hundred times. “Look what you did!”

“You’re the one who asked me to come!”

“He wanted to show me something. He was just pulling it from his pocket.”

“What if he wanted to show you a knife or a gun?”

“I thought you had a date with Meeeeeee-gan.” I exaggerated the ee. I couldn’t help myself. The name simply begged for exaggeration.

We argued like an old married couple for a few more minutes until I realized I was now running up against the clock for my meeting with Guy Mertz. I told Colt about it, and he insisted on coming along despite my argument that he’d already scared off one informant. He promised to be discreet, so we marched off down the path toward the White House.

Twice along the way, we caught a glimpse of Clarence tailing us. Evidently Colt hadn’t scared him as badly as we thought. His attempts to be covert were weak: each time we turned around, he ducked behind a tree. He wasn’t very stealthy, to say the least.

Twenty hot, soggy minutes later we stood exhausted on the corner of 17th and Constitution looking across the street at the hot dog stand where I had agreed to meet Guy. A man wearing Guy’s signature fedora and holding an umbrella stood nearby.

“Must . . . have . . . water . . .” Colt groaned. We’d long since drained the bottle I’d bought earlier.

“I’ll bring a couple of bottles back. I think that’s Guy over there now. You stay here.”

“Make it quick. I feel seconds away from total dehydration.”

The light at the intersection turned green and the pedestrian crossing signal told me to go. I started to step off the curb, but the sound of a car’s revving engine and squealing tires stopped me dead in my tracks. The next thing I knew, Colt was shouting, “Curly!” and tackling me to the ground. Gunfire sounded around us. Screams mingled with the deafening pops that seemed to go on and on and on while Colt held my head down, shielding me with his own body. Moments after the gunfire stopped, the shrill sound of a thousand sirens filled the air. We were one block from the White House—I nearly expected an Air Force fighter to swoop by.

When I was finally able to lift my head, I realized that my Jackie O sunglasses had been crushed, my face was covered in tears and I was trembling uncontrollably.

Certain that we had just witnessed a terrorist attack firsthand, I gasped when my eyes finally landed on the hot dog stand where I had been headed. The mobile van was full of holes. The vendor inside was sprawled facedown over the counter and two bodies lay lifeless on the sidewalk. One of them, I was pretty sure, was Guy Mertz.

And when I turned my head away because it was too awful to watch, I caught sight of Clarence again, running for real this time, fast from the scene.

Chapter Seven

THE FBI AND SECRET SERVICE descended upon the scene like locusts onto a ripe summer crop. No Air Force fighters showed up, but two mean-looking, armed helicopters circled closely overhead, blowing dirt and stray pieces of trash around.

We were instructed to stay put by an officious and curt man with a badge; no potential witness could leave until interviewed by an agent. When I asked if we could leave briefly to buy some bottled water, he said only if we wanted to be arrested on the spot. So there we sat, baking and steaming as the sun glared in a high, cloudless sky. If we’d been shrimp, we’d already be cooked and ready for cocktail sauce.

Constitution Avenue is six lanes wide, so between the distance and the sheer number of emergency vehicles on the scene, it was nearly impossible to see what was transpiring at the toasted hot dog stand. Guy Mertz may have smeared my name badly in his report, but I didn’t wish him dead. I hoped dearly that he wasn’t one of the bodies splayed on the sidewalk.

It was summer in Washington, DC, which meant there were easily two hundred tourists on or around Constitution Avenue at the time of the shooting. They all milled around now, waiting. Or rather, drooping.

Immediately after the shooting, people had bristled with a sort of excitement, actively sharing their experiences—“Did you see that car?” “It was black.” “No, it was dark green.” “There were two cars.” “There was a red car with three men and they all had guns and ski masks.” “It was a blue SUV and I think it was a female shooter with an assault rifle.” “Someone said they saw a man with a bomb strapped to his body and he was heading for the White House.” It was all a load of bull doo-doo. Colt was trained to make quick and accurate observations and he said the drive-by shooting was committed by two men, one caucasion, one Latino, driving a navy blue Lexus with Maryland plates. He couldn’t see the firearm, but from the sound, he suspected a 12 gauge semi-auto shotgun.

But ten minutes later, people were tired of talking or were too parched to open their mouths comfortably. Many started sitting and even laying down. When a nursing mother fainted, the FBI brought in a van full of water bottles which a PR crew distributed faster than a sexually twisted politician checking himself into “rehab.”

Colt and I were draining our bottles when an agent finally approached us. She was tall, slim, dressed in black pants and a white t-shirt and I knew her only too well. So did Colt.

“Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Marr.” She managed to crack half a wry smile while wiping sweat from her dripping brow. My head hurt just looking at how tightly she had her thin black hair pulled into that pony tail.

I acknowledged her in return. “Agent Smith.”

Agent Marjorie Smith and I had worked together reluctantly during the FBI Mafia sting operation that brought Frankie and I together as friends. She was all business then, and I didn’t expect her to be any different now.

She gave Colt a terse nod. “Colt Baron, right?”

“You have a good memory,” he said. “Any chance you can make this quick so we can get a move on?”

“We’ll take it as quickly or slowly as necessary to get the information required.”

Another agent stepped alongside Agent Smith. He was shorter than her and looked to be about Howard’s age. His eyes were concealed behind a pair of aviator shades and the line of his mouth was thin and tight.

“Leo, this is Marr’s wife,” Agent Smith told the new arrival.

His posture changed immediately and a smile appeared. “No kidding?” He took my hand and shook it firmly. “I’m Agent Leonard Price—nice to meet you. We’re really sorry to see him go. He’s been an incredible asset to the Bureau.”

My ears perked up and out of the corner of my eye I spotted Colt cringing.

“Where’s he going?” I asked.

“Oh, I just meant we’re sorry he’s retiring.” Poor Agent Price obviously didn’t know that he’d just dropped a secret bomb on me, but I could tell that Colt did.

“Oh, right,” I said, trying to keep calm and nodding as if I were the properly informed wife. “The retirement.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. At least not anything that was appropriate for public audiences. Howard had kept his job with the FBI secret from me for nearly twenty years, so why should I be surprised that I wasn’t informed when he decided to leave? I decided to change the subject. I asked them, as nonchalantly as I could, whether one of the shooting victims was the newscaster, Guy Mertz.

Agent Smith shook her head. “We can’t discuss that with you. We just need to know what you saw, if anything.”

“Nothing,” Colt said. “We didn’t see a thing.”

Even though I was shocked to hear him blurt out that lie, I tried to act cool, which wasn’t easy when the sidewalk under our feet could double as a diner grill.

Smith narrowed her eyes. “You’re awfully close to have seen nothing, Mr. Baron.”

“We were clear back there,” he pointed toward the Washington Memorial, “when we heard gunfire and ran closer, but we were too far away at the time of the incident for a visual.”

She wasn’t buying it. “You ran toward the gunfire?”

“I’m that kind of guy.”

She eyed me with equal suspicion. “Are you just that kind of woman, Mrs. Marr? Do you run toward gunfire?”

“Hey, I was just following him.”

“And those sunglasses,” she pointed to the pieces in my hand. “Did they break during the mad dash?”

Boy, they trained those agents well. She wasn’t missing a trick. Luckily for me, I have kids and have learned the fine art of fibbing on a dime. “Rogue Frisbee,” I said, adding a giggle for good measure. “On the mall—last time I’ll walk through the middle of an ultimate Frisbee match.” I brought a flat hand up to my nose to duplicate the fake event. “Hit me right between the eyes.”

Smith and Price traded looks that basically said, “these jerks are full of it,” but they backed down anyway. Probably because they knew where to find me. Which didn’t give me a warm and fuzzy.

“Fine,” Smith said. “You can go.”

“Thanks,” I sighed with relief.

Colt and I turned quickly on our heels to scoot our booties from the crime scene.

“Marr!” I heard Agent Smith shout before we’d gotten too far.

I stopped and turned.

“Remember,” she said. “We know where to find you.”

Yup. Just like I said.

The vast expanse from the Washington Memorial to the Lincoln Memorial was crawling with federal agents and Park Police so I didn’t dare chide Colt for holding back his information. I have my paranoid tendencies, and as far as I knew, not only did the government possess the technology to pick up my conversation at a whisper, they could probably grab my thoughts from mid-air too.

“Where are you parked?” I asked him.

“I wouldn’t bring The Judge down here and risk her getting hurt. I took the Metro train.”

‘The Judge’ was Colt’s car. It was a red, lovingly restored GTO and evidently, everyone referred to these cars as The Judge. Me, I don’t name my cars. I’m too hard on them. If I named them, I’d feel guilty every time I hit a pot hole or went a year without an oil change.

Since I was parked near the Tidal Basin at the Jefferson Memorial, Colt agreed to head in that direction and hitch a ride home with me. He didn’t know I had one more stop on my agenda.

We climbed into my van. I turned the ignition and flipped the AC to ultra-freeze.

“Which way to the DC city jail?” I asked after we’d both buckled in.

Colt threw his hands in the air. “You have to be kidding me! Really? You haven’t had enough connection to murder and mayhem for one day? Now you want to go talk up a wiseguy?”

“Oh, give it a break. He’s not a wiseguy anymore. He’s a chef. Sometimes good people get caught up in bad situations and they deserve the chance to make things right and move forward.”

“Spending thirty plus years in the Mafia is hardly getting caught up in a bad situation, Barb.”

I gasped. “You did it again!”

Colt’s expression was blank. “What?”

“You called me Barb!”

He spoke slowly, as if I was missing a few marbles. “It’s your name.”

“Not to you it isn’t.” I’d put the van into drive but kept my foot on the brake. “Curly. You call me Curly. You’ve never called me Barb.”

“Never?”

“Never ever. Not until yesterday when you brought Meeeee-gan by.”

His lips curled into a devious smile. “I think you’re jealous.”

“I think you’re stupid.”

“Now you’re just being childish.”

“Childish is holding back information from the FBI. I’m pretty sure you 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 his assistant killed. He spotted Colt and me walking to the van and decided to follow us.

“Why didn’t you just catch up and talk to us while we walked?”

“Because I wasn’t the only one following you.”

Colt broke a smile for the first time. “Kid with a goatee wearing cargo shorts and a red baseball cap?”

“You know him?”

I sighed. “He says he’s a projectionist at ACL and he knows who killed Kurt Baugh. I met him earlier, but Colt scared him off before he told me what he knew. For some reason he’s still following us.”

“He probably has a crush on you, Curly,” Colt said.

“Great. Now you call me Curly.” I turned my attention back to Guy. “Let’s cut to the chase. What evidence do you have that Frankie isn’t the murderer?”

Guy ran a hand over his partially balding head. “That’s a little complicated.”

Colt didn’t look happy and I thought he might grab Mertz by the scruff of the neck again and shake some stuffing out of him. “Either you have evidence or you don’t. Not complicated.”

“See, here’s the thing,” Guy said, sniffing and pulling on his skinny nose. “Things are tough at Channel 10 and—”

“You don’t have any evidence, do you?” Colt’s generally cool blue eyes were turning angry red.

“I might not make the cut!” Guy shouted. “I need a great story like this to save my job.”

I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Guy, what did you do?”

“Do? I didn’t do anything. I was just hoping to . . . you know . . . you’re a great story. You find yourself in some pretty, I don’t know, exciting, dangerous predicaments. I thought if I could get the story on this one from the inside—you know, kind of like a war correspondent—I’d be able to hold my rank at the station.”

Colt looked ready to kill. “Who knew that you were planning to meet Barb at the hot dog stand?”

Guy shook his head. He looked confused. “I don’t know. My assistant, obviously . . .”

“Anyone else? Anyone else know about this hair-brained scheme of yours?”

“Sir, I take offense—”

“You can take a flying leap for all I care—who else knew?”

With a horribly defeated look on his hound dog face, Guy Mertz leaned back in the seat and began twirling his bushy eyebrows with his fingers. “Randolph Rutter,” he said finally.

My head was spinning. A crazy kid claiming to have valuable information was now stalking me, a down-and-out news reporter wanted to shadow me in hopes of getting the news story of the century, and Colt was ready to pop a gasket over who knew about our meeting plans. What? Did he suspect that someone was trying to have me snuffed? That was plain silly. Who would want me killed? I’m a nice person. Relatively speaking.

I was about to ask Colt where he was going with his line of questioning when my phone rang. I pulled it from the pocket in my shorts. Howard’s number showed on the caller ID. I took a deep breath and pressed talk. “Hi, Honey!” I said, chipper as a blue bird on a sunny morning.

“Where are you?”

Uh oh. I had to think back. What did I tell him I was doing? Certainly I hadn’t told him I was meeting with informants in Washington, DC. After a frantic rifle through my memories, I recalled my fib about Roz’s going-away party. Unfortunately, the pause was too long, and Howard answered his own question. “Smith told me you were in DC. At a drive-by shooting.”

“Oh.”

“That’s all you have to say—‘oh’?”

“No. I was also going that say that it was nice of her to call you and tell you I was okay.”

He didn’t respond right away, but I could easily picture him rolling his eyes. “Put Colt on the phone, would you?”

Uncle Sam! That Agent Smith was such a tattle-tale. I handed Colt the phone.

“How’s it hangin’ Howie?” Colt loved to tease Howard, but he became serious pretty darned quick. He nodded and frowned throughout what I assumed were Howard’s instructions to get me home, lock me in the house and throw away the keys. “Right,” he said finally. “I’m on it, Dude,” and he hung up.

I wanted to ask him what Howard said, but my phone went off again almost instantly in his hands. “Oh, right—someone was calling while I was on the phone.” He glanced at the caller ID, then threw the phone toward me as if it was infected with the plague. “It’s your mom.”

It was that kind of reaction to my mother that made it hard for me to keep friends when I was growing up. I clicked the talk button. “Mom?”

“First, let me tell you, Alka is fine, but we’re at the hospital.”

“What?”

“She took a little tumble while trying a move at my new dance class. We’re just waiting to see a doctor.”

“What happened?”

“I thought I just told you what happened.”

“Which hospital?”

“Rustic Woods.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

My phone beeped in my ear, telling me another call was coming in. I looked at the caller ID. Virginia Ham! It was my home phone. “Mom, I’ve gotta go. The girls are trying to reach me. Tell Mama Marr I’m coming.” I clicked over to the incoming call without waiting for my mother’s response. “Is everything okay?” I answered, skipping the ‘hello’ stuff altogether. My heart skipped a beat when I heard screaming in the background.

“Mom,” said Bethany calmly. “We have a problem. Someone left Mama’s door open and we just found Indy and Mildred Pierce in there.”

Bethany had a way with understatement.

“Where’s the bird?” I asked.

“Right. Well, that’s the problem. We don’t know.”

I started banging my head against the head rest. “This can’t be happening,” I heard myself say.

“We found the cage on the floor and the door was open, but Pavrotti is gone.”

Amber screamed again in the background.

“Wait,” Bethany said. “Callie says she found him.”

“Alive?” I asked, closing my eyes in a moment of prayer. Mama Marr was already lying injured in a hospital. The last thing she needed to hear was that her beloved Pavrotti was now singing his canary arias to a higher power.

Bethany hollered to Callie and I had to pull the phone from my ear to avoid going deaf. “Is he alive? Mom wants to know! Okay, scratch that. It’s only a pile of feathers. Oh, and Puddles pooped on the floor.”

I groaned and instructed her to tell Amber to stop screaming and put the cats in the basement, pronto. Then they were to find that bird. If he still had a breath of life in his little yellow body, they were to put him back in the cage and close the guest room door—tight. Finally, don’t forget to clean up the poop and make sure to let the dog out to do his business next time. I hung up the phone and banged my head on the head rest a few more times. It seemed the appropriate thing to do.

“Wow,” Guy said after a second. “If that’s married life in the suburbs, I don’t want it.”

I highly doubted he had much choice in the matter. Women probably weren’t knocking down his door looking for someone to mate with. “Yeah,” I said. “I need to take care of some things. Can you go now?”

“Sure,” he nodded. “But about—”

“Now,” Colt added.

Guy hung his head, pulled the sliding door open and stepped out, but before he closed it again, I grabbed a pen and piece of paper from my purse. “Wait,” I said. I scribbed down my cell phone number. “Here. Call or text if you hear anything more about Frankie or the murder. And tell me when you know more about your assistant.”

He scratched his head and smiled. “Gladly.”

“By the way,” I added, “why did you tell Randolph about our meeting? I thought you didn’t like him.”

“I don’t. He called me. He was pretty unglued knowing those yams were for him. Wanted to know if I knew anything. Just to jerk his chain, I told him I was meeting with you to get some inside information, but I wasn’t going to be able to share it with him.” He slammed the door shut, waited for traffic to ease up, then ran across.

As I pulled from the parking space to speed toward Mama Marr’s bedside at the hospital, I spied Clarence far off under a cluster of trees, standing on a park bench, watching us drive off.

Chapter Nine

AFTER DROPPING COLT AT THE commuter parking lot where he had left “The Judge,” I zipped like a speed demon to the Rustic Woods Hospital ER, where I was directed to a curtained triage room. Mama Marr was resting on a gurney bed in the half-raised position while a very nice looking man in a lab coat sat on a stool next to her and typed into a laptop. She smiled when she saw me.

“Barbara!” she shouted. “How good of you to come see me here! This is my very nice doctor.” She put a hand on his arm. “What is your name again Mr. Doctor Man?”

If I didn’t know better, I would have thought Mama Marr had been sipping a few dry martinis instead of trying a new dance move at my mother’s class.

Mr. Doctor Man stood and extended his hand. “Lott,” he said. “Dr. Lott.”

“He’s a lotta handsome, is he not Barbara?” Mama Marr giggled.

I blushed for her.

“We gave her a muscle relaxant,” Dr. Lott explained. “It can . . . reduce some inhibitions.” He smiled then turned his attention back to Mama Marr. “Now Alka, no more pole dancing lessons for you, right?”

At first I thought I’d misheard him. Surely he didn’t say pole dancing. No. He must have said . . . my mind ran through the list of possible words. . . soul dancing. That was it. Soul dancing. Was there such a thing as soul dancing? There’d better be, because if my mother took Mama Marr pole dancing, it would be a contest as to who would kill her first, me or Howard.

“Oh,” Mama Marr said with a pouty face. “It was such fun. Barbara, have you tried this pole dancing?”

My face flamed. I suppressed the urge to scream out loud, whispering instead through clenched teeth. “Where is she?”

“Where is who, dear?”

I spun around to find my mother glaring down at me. After making a quick apology to Mr. Lotta Handsome Doctor Man, I grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out of hearing range. “You took her pole dancing? POLE DANCING?”

“Barbara, your face is unusually red and you’re sweating. Are you having menopausal hot flashes?”

Menopausal hot flashes? No. Homicidal hot flashes? Yes. “The museums, mom—what happened to taking her to the museums?”

“We tried that. We were less than a mile outside of the district when they closed all roads going in. Something about a shooting in front of the White House. What is this world coming to?”

“So you turned around, found the nearest strip bar and said, ‘Hey, Alka, why don’t we try that?’”

“Now you’re just being silly. I love you, Barbara, but you have no imagination. No, if you must know, my geriatric pole dancing class is held in a loft in Arlington, and since we couldn’t get to the museums, I asked Alka if she’d like to stop by and see if they were open for drop-ins at their one o’clock class.”

“Geriatric pole dancing?”

“It’s the new trend in elder exercise—you should give it a try.”

I would have been insulted by the last remark if I wasn’t so surprised that she attended any class with the word geriatric or elder in the title. My mother has never been one to admit to growing old.

The cell phone buzzed in my purse, alerting me to a text message. I threw my mother another look to tell her how displeased I was, then grabbed my reading glasses and the phone. The text was from Callie. “Brd bck in cag. Whats 4 dinr?”

I would have texted back to verify that “bck in cag” meant he was living and breathing and not just a little yellow carcass ready for a cigar box burial, but the doctor was standing next to me clearing his throat. He handed me a prescription for more muscle relaxants and a sheet of instructions for icing her back until the pain diminished and her range of movement returned.

Unfortunately, I find myself in the Rustic Woods Hospital ER more often than I care to say, but that didn’t help speed our departure. There were easily ten thousand pieces of paper to sign before they’d let us go. And because of the muscle relaxants, Poor Mama Marr could barely maintain a grip on the pen, so I had to hold her hand while she signed. Somewhere around the five thousandth piece of paper, she stopped and sighed. “You are so good to me, Barbara. My boy, he married a good woman. I was so sad when I did not have any daughters, but you are the best daughter a woman could have.”

She actually brought a tear to my eye. Thank goodness for muscle relaxants, because she’d never said anything that warm and loving to me in all of the years Howard and I had been married. “And I’m glad to have you for a mother, Mama.”

I heard my own mother huff in the background.

Mama Marr nodded. “This is why I am coming to live with you and Howard. Family should be together.”

Holy cow. I thought that was what Christmas was for.

She patted my hand and smiled. “This will be good. I can help you keep your house clean.”

During our drive home, I received a call from Guy. His assistant was safe and sound. Terribly shaken, but safe. The only wound he suffered was an abrasion on his cheek from when he dove to the pavement for protection. I breathed a sigh of relief. Guy said he gave the poor fella the rest of the week off.

It was nearly seven thirty by the time I pulled into our driveway. “The Judge” was parked in front of the house, so I knew Colt had invited himself over. More likely Howard had instructed him to keep an eye on me and make sure I didn’t get into any more trouble. Truthfully, I was glad because I needed his help to get Mama Marr into the house. (My mother had declined the request to follow us and assist. Something about a memoir writing class she didn’t want to miss.)

Once we got Mama settled into the comfy chair in our family room with a cup of tea, I ran upstairs to check on Pavrotti. Thankfully, he was sitting on his perch and appeared unscathed. I breathed a sigh of relief and made my way back down to the kitchen, happy that at least one the day’s disasters had ended well. I couldn’t say the same for Guy Mertz’s assistant or for Mama Marr. The muscle relaxants didn’t seem to be settling too well with her, so I decided to look for natural alternatives online. That’s when I realized something. Except for the unmistakable sound of canned laughter coming from Mama Marr’s television show, the house was eerily quiet.

“Where are the girls?” I asked Colt as he filled my dishwasher with dirty dishes.

“Callie is upstairs on her computer—she said it’s been twenty-four hours since ‘the incident’ and that it was okay. Bethany is at Skate Night with Holly Burke and Kyra . . .” he hesitated while trying to remember, then finally pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket. “Wexler. Kyra Wexler. Kyra’s mom said you’d already agreed to a sleepover at her house afterwards, so I made sure Bethany had a sleeping bag, toothbrush and toothpaste.” He nodded, seemingly happy with himself. “And Amber is at Emily Horner’s house. She was invited to spend the night, so you need to call and confirm with Judi if that’s okay or not.” He slipped the paper back into his pocket, placed one last glass into the dishwasher and closed it up. “Oh, and I fixed them tacos. I put the leftovers in the fridge if you want some.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Judi? You’re on a first name basis with her?”

“Hey, I’m a friendly guy, what can I say? She’s a dentist, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. Trust me. I’m surprised she’s allowing my daughter in her house after the fiasco at her office yesterday.”

He smiled a way-too-knowing smile. “She’s over that—thinks it was pretty funny in hindsight. Evidently, Emily can say some pretty wild things in public, too.”

I shook my head, confused by Colt’s budding friendship with Judi Horner, but glad that I didn’t have to find a new dentist.

“Colt, you need a woman to take care of.”

“You’re not a woman?”

“Seriously. You need to meet someone and settle down. This free-as-a-bird act isn’t working anymore. Under that cool exterior is a family man and that family will be so lucky to have you.”

He pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat. “Frankly, you seem to be sending mixed messages. You haven’t been exactly welcoming to Meegan.”

“I said you needed a woman, not a Teen Beat cover girl.”

My tummy grumbled, so I decided to grab taco meat, tomatoes, and cheese from the refrigerator. And since it was on the same shelf, I grabbed the open bottle of Pinot Grigio as well.

“Want some?” I asked while opening a cupboard for a glass.

“Depends. Are we still going to the range tonight?”

At first, I had no idea what “range” he was talking about. The first thought that came to my frazzled mind was Home, Home on the Range, which brought to mind pictures of horses and cows and wide open land. The best I could muster was a blank look on my face while I tried to figure out what wine had to do with singing cowboys on horses.

I guess Colt had seen that face before, so he elaborated. “The shooting range.” He pantomimed a gun with his right hand. “You know: Bang! Bang!”

It took me a while, but I’m not completely dim. “Oh! The hand gun lesson was tonight.” The microwave dinged so I pulled the bowl of meat out and threw on some tomatoes and cheese. “Do we still have time?”

“If you eat fast.”

Setting my bowl down on the table, I considered the day I’d had and the fact that I really just wanted a glass of wine and a hot bath. “I don’t know, Colt, I’m really tired . . .”

“Or we could skip it . . .” His smile was wiley. “ . . . and I could just tell you what I found out about Frankie.”

Now that was something I wanted to hear. I grabbed him for a huge bear hug. “You’re the best.”

He nodded. “That’s what all the women say.”

Chapter Ten

AS IT TURNED OUT, COLT played poker with a DC cop who had a close connection to the Kurt Baugh case. They found arsenic, strychnine, and cyanide in his vomit. Unfortunately, they found the same three ingredients in the yams left on the plate that Frankie had prepared himself. Witnesses in the kitchen confirmed that Frankie had been the only person warming the yams and one witness was willing to testify that he saw Frankie add something from a small bottle prior to re-heating the dish in a small saucepan.

“Where’s that bottle now?” I asked Colt.

“No one knows.” He sipped from my wine glass. “The funny thing is, foul play was never considered originally. The hospital medical examiner reported ‘natural causes,’ but Kurt’s brother demanded an investigation.” He made a sour face and stood up. “Wine is for sissies. I need a beer.”

I cringed, remembering the horrible night. “Natural causes? What, did he puke to death?”

He twisted the bottle top off a long-neck Dos Equis. “And Bingo was his name-o.”

That made no sense to me—Kurt hadn’t appeared to be choking on the vomit. I’d seen Andy working to clear his airway before they whisked me to the bathroom to clean up.

Colt sat back down and pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “He had a condition called . . .” he squinted at the paper and read slowly, not sure of the pronunciation, “ . . . esophageal varices. The way I understand it, the veins in his esophagus burst when he threw up, so he basically bled to death.”

“Yikes.”

“Yup. Nasty way to go.”

“So the poisons caused him to vomit?”

Colt shook his head. “Don’t know. We didn’t talk about that. I’m not sure they know yet. But Andy Baugh insisted his brother had been murdered, so the usual routine was followed even though they didn’t expect to uncover anything suspicious—they were just trying to cover all bases because the Baugh brothers are famous and the last thing DC cops want is more media attention. Then, voila: three deadly poisons.” He swigged his beer. “Someone, if it wasn’t Frankie, really wanted to make sure this guy bit the dust.”

“First, it wasn’t Frankie, and second, ‘someone’ wanted to make sure Randolph Rutter bit the dust, not Kurt Baugh. Those yams were meant for him.”

“Which is why Frankie’s in double trouble. Attempted murder and unintentional homicide. He’ll go away for life if he’s found guilty.”

“When is the indictment hearing, do you know?”

“Thursday. Ten a.m.”

All the talk about vomit and poisons and Frankie spending his life in prison had taken a toll on my appetite. The taco meat sat in front of me, barely touched. “It doesn’t seem fair. He turned his life around, he made amends, and now this happens.”

“His goose is pretty cooked, I’m afraid to say. The Baugh family is evidently thrilled that the police were so expeditious in finding and apprehending a suspect. Everyone feels confident that Kurt’s killer has been found.” Colt pointed to my taco bowl. “You gonna finish that?”

I shook my head, feeling sicker by the minute. “What about you?”

He took the bowl to the trash can and scraped out the contents with my fork. “What about me what?”

“Do you feel confident that the killer has been found?”

“Don’t do this to me.”

“Do what to you?”

Colt rinsed the bowl a little more vigorously than necessary, left it in the sink, turned to face me, and crossed his arms. “Don’t put me on the spot.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He smirked. “What would you do if I did get serious with someone? You’d go crazy. No Colt at your beck and call. No string to pull.”

He caught me off guard, and I wasn’t sure how to respond. We’d gone from talking about Frankie to discussing the complications of our friendship. An awkward silence hung in the air.

“Besides,” Colt said finally, “I promised Howard I’d stay out of this one. He’s my landlord, remember? I like where I live.”

“Frankie saved your life, Colt.”

“Curly . . .”

“Listen,” I said, “I’m sorry that you feel used by me. Honestly, you’re very important to me and I would never intentionally do anything to make you feel otherwise. But Frankie is in trouble and I have my connections, so I’m clearing his name, with or without your help.”

Truthfully, I didn’t have that many connections. Just Guy Mertz, for what he was worth. He had an in with Randolph Rutter, although I didn’t know what good that might do. Then there was Clarence-the-odd-one who claimed to be employed by the ACL. I couldn’t deny that Colt’s contacts and know-how wouldn’t benefit greatly, but I wasn’t bluffing when I said I’d clear Frankie’s name with or without his help. I was determined to prove that Frankie was innocent and I was counting on Colt’s caring nature to come through and lend me a helping hand.

Colt furrowed his brows and leaned in close. “Have you forgotten that just this afternoon someone tried to fill you with bullet holes?”

“Don’t be so dramatic. I was a bystander to a drive-by shooting along with you and half a million others. It was probably some drug gang war incident. They happen in DC all of the time.”

The furrows relaxed a bit.

“Come on,” I wheedled, “be a good guy.”

Colt was crumbling, I could tell. I got down on my knees to push home my desperation. “Frankie needs your help.”

That did the trick. Colt blew out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. You can get off your knees. I’ll help. Under one condition—you run everything by me. No going off on your own, no meeting with odd people who say they know things. And if things get dicey and I say we’re done, then we’re done. End of story.”

I smiled and crossed my heart. “Promise, Captain.” Standing to pace the room, I pondered those witnesses in the kitchen. “First,” I said, “I want to find the missing bottle with the mystery ingredient that Frankie poured onto those yams. Which means we have to talk to Frankie. Now.”

Chapter Eleven

I NEEDED TO HEAR FROM Frankie, firsthand, what happened in that kitchen Sunday night. If he added something to those yams, he’d tell me and if he had any suspicions about who actually tried to kill Randolph Rutter, he’d tell me that, too. And the sooner the better since his indictment hearing was on Thursday. Plus, with the younger girls at friends’ houses, time was mine. For now.

“But,” Colt said, while peeling an orange he snatched from my fruit bowl, “have you forgotten that it’s eight o’clock at night? Way past visitor’s hours, I’m sure.”

In fact, I couldn’t remember when visitor’s hours ended. A quick re-visit to the FAQ page on the DC Department of Corrections website told us that we’d just missed our chance—they ended at eight. And as I already knew, our next possible date was Thursday. That just wouldn’t do. His hearing was at ten a.m. I scrolled down further hoping to find some loophole. “Look at this!” I turned the screen so Colt could read. “Legal visits are permitted 24 hours a day, seven days a week.”

“That’s right!” Colt was exaggerating his own enthusiasm. “You just passed your bar last week—you’re all set Barbara Marr, Esquire. Go in and visit him tonight.”

I refused to let Colt’s sarcasm drown the spark of inspiration growing in my mind. Somehow, I knew, I could make this legal visitation rule work for me. I just had to figure out how. Did I know any lawyers? Yes, but none I dared approach with this scheme. I didn’t even know whether Frankie had a lawyer. If real life resembled the movies, he could either retain his own lawyer, or if he couldn’t afford one, the court would appoint counsel.

A really fine idea was brewing in my devious mind.

“So,” I said, “I would guess that criminal lawyers hire investigators, right?”

“Sure. Sometimes they keep them on staff, sometimes they hire out on a case-by-case basis, why?”

“And if an investigator needed information from the lawyer’s client in order to, you know, investigate, then that would fall under the category of ‘legal visits,’ right?”

He narrowed his eyes and 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, but it’s just kind of interesting that he would be doing a documentary on drug abuse, don’t you think?”

I wasn’t sure. He did look a little bloated when I thought about it, and the tone of his skin was definitely odd, but I just thought he’d experienced a sunless tanning booth malfunction. I filed the information into the trivia portion of my memory bank.

I thanked Judi again for having Amber over and got off the phone.

After checking in on Callie, I sat down to some serious research. Randolph Rutter had been Channel 3’s movie reviewer for quite some time, so it wasn’t hard to find information on him. I started with his bio on the Channel 3 website and learned that he had joined the team in 2001. He had graduated from Santa Fe University in 1988 with a degree in theater arts. He appeared in some small roles with touring companies until landing the job as the movie reviewer at WUVA in Kansas City. Channel 3 snatched him up a few years later. He lived in Georgetown and enjoyed spending time with his Springer Spaniels, Cary Grant and Bette Davis.

Okay, I didn’t expect to find anything juicy on his bio page, so I started clicking on links provided by Google and read a couple of interviews, a few blog articles and a Washington Post “About Town” feature. All I learned was that Rutter was as pompous in interviews as he was in real life, that he enjoyed the bachelor life, dated a lot of blondes, and believed Cary Grant was the most talented actor to grace the silver screen because he handled both drama and comedy with equal brilliance. Well, I certainly didn’t disagree with him there.

However, I wasn’t finding any smoking guns—no glaring reasons why someone would want him dead, except possibly James Cameron as revenge for the D-minus review of Avatar, which I also didn’t disagree with.

Appropriately bored by the boring life of Randolph Rutter, I did a search on Andy Baugh. That proved a little more interesting. The first link I clicked through was a post on a Hollywood gossip blog detailing a recent greenlighted blockbuster action film project—the directors would have been brothers Kurt and Andy Baugh until, for reasons unknown to the author of the blog, Andy Baugh was given the ol’ heave ho. Reportedly, tensions between the two brothers had been high ever since.

Surprised, since I hadn’t heard anything about this before the review screening, I checked the date on the post: it had been uploaded only a few hours before Kurt Baugh’s death.

Well now, wasn’t that interesting? I wondered at the possibility that Andy snuffed his own brother out of jealousy. But Colt said that Andy was the person who insisted the police investigate a possible murder, so that didn’t make sense. If he had left well enough alone, Kurt’s death never would have been considered suspicious. Most killers try to hide their crime, not call attention to it. Unless he was playing some sort of reverse psychology game.

And there was still the issue that the yams were meant for Randolph Rutter, not Kurt Baugh. Supposedly, Kurt just ended up on the wrong end of a purposeful poisoning. Was it possible that Andy and Randolph were in cahoots? It seemed a weak argument, but I scribbled notes on a steno pad anyway, so I could discuss this theory with Colt when we reconvened. I was dying to find out what Frankie had to say.

A peek at the clock on my computer monitor told me it was 10:20 p.m. After a stretch and a yawn, I decided a cup of coffee and a heavy dose of sugar would be necessary to keep me awake late enough to talk with Colt when he returned. I had just flipped the ON button to the coffee maker and was about to grab a handful of Oreos when the front doorknob jiggled.

The unexpected sound of someone attempting to enter my house late at night was enough to make the hairs on my neck spring up, but it was Puddles the burglar alarm dog that caused me to jump and drop my cookies. His yaps continued to pierce my ear drums as I scooped him up and tried unsuccessfully to hold his snout closed.

I moved toward the door and watched the knob intently, Puddles barking incessantly in my ear the entire time. Afraid he would wake Mama Marr, I ran him to the basement, locked him in, then snatched up my cell phone. Callie appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Mom, what’s going on?”

Putting my finger to my lips, I let her know to keep it quiet, then whispered. “Not sure. Someone’s trying to get in.”

She whispered back. “Is it Dad?”

The door knob jiggled again and I gulped. It was certainly possible that Howard had finally come home, but he would use his key. Colt said he’d text when he was done with Frankie, so I knew it wasn’t him. That left . . . who? A misguided locksmith? A really hungry raccoon? The Rustic Woods Strangler? Newspaper headlines flashed through my mind: “Rustic Woods Mother of Three Found Murdered in Her Home. Mother-in-law Mortified Not By Death, But By Mess Left Behind.”

My palms dripped nervous sweat as I wondered who might be attempting to gain entry to my house. “Callie, go to your room. I’ve got this handled.”

“Are you sure?”

I plucked an umbrella from the stand to my right, feeling lucky that one was actually available. Usually, in the Marr house, umbrellas were only ever found in the umbrella stand on sunny days. “I’m sure,” I said, pointing the umbrella at her. “Now, git.”

“Git?”

I waggled the umbrella at her to shoo her off, then crept to the living room window while plugging 911 into the cell phone. I’d hit the talk button and connect to rescue if a visual proved my visitor dangerous.

The distinct summer hum of horny cicadas reverberated through the window as I strained to see who stood at my door. Suddenly, a round of ear-piercing screams drowned the insects’ call and at the same time, I got a glimpse of the doorknob-jigglers.

That’s right—there were two of them, and I didn’t need to call 911.

Chapter Twelve

I THREW OPEN THE DOOR to see Peggy dancing around and brushing frantically at her legs. “What are you two doing? You scared the devil out of me!”

Roz pounded on Peggy’s shoulder. “I told you we should’ve just knocked!”

“Ow, that’s my bad arm!” Peggy shouted, still dancing and still brushing. “Do you see it? Where did it go?”

I shot Roz a questioning look.

She shrugged. “She claims a spider dropped on her.”

Callie had flown down the stairs in a panic. When she saw it was just her mother’s silly friends, she rolled her eyes and huffed back up.

“Callie,” I whispered, “check on Mama and make sure we didn’t wake her, okay?”

Her only answer was another eye roll.

I turned my attention back to the late night interlopers. Peggy had settled down, but looked around warily. “You should have seen it. He was huge. I think it was a black widow.”

Peggy was famous for her fear of spiders. In her mind they were all the size of small rodents and they were all black widows or brown recluses.

“If it was a black widow,” I said, “it would have been a ‘she’ not a ‘he’. And again, what are you two doing?”

“We were trying to hang this on your doorknob.” Peggy held up a mint green envelope. “It’s an invitation to the farewell party.”

“I didn’t need an invitation.”

Peggy slid a guilty look toward Roz, who shuffled uncomfortably in her tan loafers. Roz had been my best friend since I moved into our house nearly six years earlier. She was small in stature but big in action. She had three kids under the age of seven, was den mother in the local cub scout pack, volunteered in the senior center and had just finished a stint as PTA president at our kids’ elementary school. She stood before me now in her typical attire—a floral print rayon dress and loafers. I was pretty sure she owned at least a dozen loafers in different colors to match the fifty-plus floral print dresses she owned. What was really disgusting was that even at ten thirty at night, every hair in her blond Dorothy Hamil bob lay in perfect formation. A cherry picker could come by, grab her up and shake her around like a martini mixer and when it put her back down, those hairs would all fall back into line like the Rockettes in Radio City Music Hall. My hair, on the other hand, given the same scenario, would freak out and when the dust settled, I’d wind up looking like Edward Scissorhands on a particularly bad hair day.

Despite her perfections, I just couldn’t be jealous of Roz—she was my friend, and I felt another twinge of sadness that she was moving so far away.

But right now, both Roz and Peggy were acting like Laverne and Shirley after a slapstick mishap at the brewery. I suspected that the invitation was just an excuse.

“Why didn’t you knock?” I asked them both.

Roz sighed. “I admit it. I really just wanted to come over and see how you were doing. Then I chickened out and told Peggy just to leave the invitation on the door, but it kept falling off. We were about to make a run for it when you opened the door.”

“Why would you chicken out?”

She shuffled nervously again. “You know.”

“Because bad things happen to you when you’re around me.”

“Bad things happen around you period. You’re a disaster.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You know what I mean.”

She had a point. I was, after all, waiting for my private detective friend, Colt, to pass me information about an ex-Mafia goon who was in jail for poisoning a famous movie director. I doubted this was a typical occurrence in the Roz Walker household. And she wanted to keep it that way.

So I wouldn’t tell her about that.

“Come in,” I said, stepping aside to make way, “I was just sitting down to some cookies and milk.” The coffee would have to wait for later.

We sat around my kitchen table, dipping Oreos into milk, and chatted like the old days. Peggy rattled off the invitees to the Walker farewell party. The list was extensive—all of the families on our cul-de-sac; our new friend Bunny and her fire-fighter fiance, Russell Crow; most of the members of the Tulip Tree Elementary School PTA, as well as the Principal, Vice Principal, office staff and several teachers; friends from the senior center, and the other den leaders of the Cub Scout Pack.

I was in awe. “How are you going to fit all of those people in your house, Peggy?”

She bit her lip. “It’s going to be tight—most everyone who has RSVP’d is coming. Thank goodness we put the new deck on this Spring. People can mingle outside.”

I offered to bring extra chairs and Roz was pretty sure the PTA would loan her some chairs as well.

Roz discussed the trials of closing on their house sale and coordinating with movers and cleaners. She was busy up to her earlobes and I offered to help in any way I could. She said she’d probably need to ask Callie for a couple more days of babysitting while she tied up the final strings. She was looking forward to getting settled in California. She planned to volunteer for Senator Emilio Juarez’s campaign for presidential nomination if he threw his hat in the ring. She’d always wanted to be involved on the volunteer side of politics.

I raised my cup of coffee to toast. “Here’s to always being good friends, no matter how far apart we live.”

Peggy and Roz raised their mugs and we clinked to seal the pact.

Finally, Roz yawned. “Man, this pumpkin is out way too late,” she said standing to leave. “I’ll stop by or call tomorrow once I know when I’ll need Callie.”

I walked them to the door and suppressed a giggle as Peggy commented that she couldn’t believe how much energy she had so late at night. She thought she might go home and bake some bread.

After I locked the door behind them, I went to my purse to check my cell phone for a text from Colt.

It turned out that I had two texts waiting for me.

The first was from Colt at 12:01: Met with Frankie. Heading to car now.

The second was from Howard at 12:04: Dun 4 the day. B home soon.

I clicked the back button to view the current time, worried I’d have a Colt/Howard collision—it was 12:24. Howard was long over his jealousy of Colt, but he would not be happy that we were collaborating on Frankie’s case. My fretting was cut short by the buzz of another incoming text. This one was from Guy Mertz: We need 2 talk.

Boy, Roz was right. I was a disaster.

Chapter Thirteen

I WASTED NO TIME—COLT was number two on my speed dial and boy, did I need to get to him speedy quick.

He picked up on the second ring. “Keep your pants on, lady, I’m almost there.”

“Abort, abort!”

A momentary silence on the other end spoke volumes. “I’m losing my patience with you, Curly. What’s the problem?”

“Howard. He sent a text—he’ll be home any minute. Where are you?”

“Just getting off the toll road.”

“Go to your place, I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“Honey, if I go home, I’m going to bed.”

“No, you need to call Guy Mertz.”

“No, I need to sleep.”

I gave him Guy’s cell phone number. “Find out what’s so urgent, then you can sleep. We’ll reconnect as soon as I manage a few minutes away from Howard.”

“Will there be reunion sex?”

“That’s a little personal, don’t you think?”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Sweet . . . dreams.” He clicked off and a dial tone buzzed in my ear. At the very same moment, I heard my front door open.

I slipped the phone back into my purse and rounded the corner to find an empty foyer. I took the stairs two at a time and entered our bedroom just as Howard was pulling his t-shirt off. For a forty-six year old man, he still had a sexy chest and well-defined abs that made me want to jump all over his bones. I had to remind myself that I was still mad at him for excluding me from his decision to retire. But then again, I hadn’t told him about my mother taking his mother pole dancing, so we’d be even soon enough.

Poo.

“Hey, handsome,” I said. “Nice to have you home again.”

His posture told me he was exhausted, but he offered a faint smile anyway and pulled me in for a slow, deep kiss that started on the lips but moved to that part of my neck that makes my toes curl and other body parts tingle. When his hands slid under my t-shirt I was way beyond tingly and gave way to the fact that not only was I going to be enjoying some really fine reunion sex, I was getting a momentary reprieve from telling him about Mama Marr. Two for the price of one. And we could always talk about his retirement at another time. What was done, was done, right? I smiled and melted in his arms.

As we fell on the bed, he whispered in my ear. “I can’t stay too long.” He kissed my neck some more. “I’m only home for a nap and a change of clothes.” The kisses moved downward. And downward.

“This doesn’t feel like a nap,” I moaned.

He continued kissing.

Then I gasped, because . . . well . . . you’ll just have to use your imagination on that one.

I don’t know how long we’d been asleep when Mama Marr lumbered into our room asking for a heating pad. Fortunately, it was still dark, because we were both buck naked.

“Mom!” Howard shouted, throwing a sheet over himself. “What are you doing?”

“My muscles, they are so tight achy. You have a heating pad or water bottle maybe?”

“Please,” Howard pleaded, “can you just leave a minute while we—”

“Why, are you undressed? This is nothing I have never seen before, you know.”

Mortified, I curled up in a ball until Howard was able to convince his mother to go back to her room and close the door behind her.

He fell back and groaned when she’d gone. “What does she need a heating pad for anyway?”

Oh well, so much for not telling him about the pole dancing. When I was done relaying the sordid details of the hospital visit, his reaction was just about what I expected it would be: stony, brooding silence.

“So,” I said finally, needing some discussion, “what’s going on in that head of yours?”

“I’m wondering what the hell your mother was thinking.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” I cleared my throat, “Mama said she was having fun.”

He pointed at me. “Your mother is as bad as you.”

“Hey, what does that mean?”

“The two of you are always getting into some kind of trouble.”

Again, what do you say to someone who speaks more or less the truth? I was desperate for a good comeback. I was pretty sure I had one. “Well, what about you?” I asked.

“What about me?”

“When were you going to tell me that you were retiring?”

His chocolate brown eyes bored into me. Tense silence filled the room. I had him.

“I’m taking a shower. Would you get her the heating pad please?”

Truthfully, I didn’t have it in me to enter an argument with Howard just then. I’d only pulled out the big guns because he insulted my mother. I insulted my mother all of the time, but I’m allowed. He had me in a mood while I dug through the linen closet looking for the heating pad to soothe Mama Marr’s tight muscles.

After settling her in our reclining chair with a cup of chamomile tea and the pad on low heat, I scrambled back upstairs. It was five thirty in the morning and I’d had about four hours of sleep. I pulled the toilet lid down and sat while Howard shaved in the steam-filled bathroom. The towel around his waist covered his butt cheeks, but didn’t hide their taut ripples. I had to smile. Even with wet hair and his face half covered in shaving cream, he was simply scrumptious to behold. I’d take a second tumble in the sack if he didn’t have to head back out. And if I wasn’t afraid Mama Marr might barge in and tell us we were doing it all wrong.

He must have glimpsed the smile from the corner of his eye as his rinsed his blade under the running water. “What?”

“Nothing.” I pulled my knees up. “Just enjoying the view.”

“You’re not mad then? I thought you’d be happy I was leaving the Bureau. You’re always complaining about the hours and how much you worry.”

“Of course I’m still mad. You’re just lucky you’ve got such a cute butt.” He was also lucky that I had a little teeny-weeny little secret of my own, so I couldn’t exactly jump down his throat. I rationalized that he’d understand once I proved Frankie’s innocence.

The steam was frizzing my hair, so I pulled it into a ponytail with a nearby scrunchy. “I am happy that I won’t have to worry about you anymore, I just don’t understand why you didn’t tell me.”

“I have been trying to tell you.”

“Like I tell the girls: trying isn’t doing.”

He nodded. “I think a part of me wanted the option . . .”

“Of not retiring?”

He nodded again.

Howard was never indecisive. “I think” wasn’t generally a part of his vernacular. I realized that this wasn’t about him being afraid to tell me. It was about him being afraid to admit it was time to move on. He was vulnerable. Men like Howard don’t like to be vulnerable. Suddenly I understood, and any anger I had felt washed right down the drain with his shaving cream.

“When’s the official date?”

“July 31st.”

Wow. That was only three weeks away.

We continued the discussion while he dressed. Sure, I had real concerns about his safety on the job, but we had bills to pay. Plus, Callie was going to be applying to colleges in just a little over a year and we would have to be coming up with tuition soon. Would his FBI retirement income cover everything?

He assured me that he’d already received several offers for civilian work in high tech security firms. The money would be almost double what he was making as an FBI agent. The work would be safer and he would finally have more free time for family.

How could I argue with that? In fact, it all sounded a little too good to be true. We kissed and made up before he headed downstairs to say goodbye to his mother. I sighed when I heard the front door close and I watched him from our bedroom window as he drove off in the sunrise.

I started a fresh pot of coffee while I showered and dressed, contemplating this new life we were getting ourselves into. For the first time since Sunday, I had completely forgotten all about Kurt Baugh’s death.

Then I picked up the morning paper and saw the headline:

“DC Police Find Key Piece of Evidence in Kurt Baugh Murder Investigation.”

Chapter Fourteen

I PICKED UP THE PHONE and dialed Colt. Time to find out what he’d learned from both Frankie and Guy Mertz. I wondered if Guy got the early word on the evidence I’d just read about. According to the article, police had received an anonymous tip leading them to a bottle containing the same poisons identified in the yams that allegedly killed Kurt Baugh. A finger print positively matched that of the Mafia-connected Frankie Romano.

Things were looking very bad for Frankie. I was beginning to doubt my ability to help him at all. Talking to Colt would have made me feel better, but that didn’t seem to be in the cards. His phone went to voice mail after six rings. I left a message, then checked my cell phone to see if he’d left a text. No such luck.

Thinking he might still be sleeping, I tried his house phone again and when that still went to voicemail, I tried dialing his cell phone which did the same.

My eyelids felt heavy from lack of good sleep and I was dying to crawl back into bed, but now I had a sick feeling in my stomach worrying about Colt. He might just be sleeping through the phone calls, but a little voice in my head told me differently. I decided to run by his condo and see for myself.

After waking Callie and instructing her to take care of Mama Marr and to be available when Amber and Bethany returned from their sleepovers, I grabbed my keys and a travel mug of coffee.

I rang Colt’s doorbell several times and knocked several times more. The only person who came to the door was his neighbor, who was annoyed with my incessant ringing and knocking. I gave up and went back to my car, where I decided to try Guy Mertz to see if Colt ever called him. Voicemail.

So there I sat, all dressed up with no where to go. And no one to talk to. Hitting dead ends at every turn.

I drained the last of my coffee and looked at my watch. I figured it would take me forty-five minutes or longer to drive into DC and park myself in a lot close to the ACL’s Tanner Building. That would put me there right around ten o’clock. At the Tanner Building, I could talk to Jorge Borrego and Clarence the Creepy Projectionist. Who knew what Jorge could tell me, but Clarence claimed to know something.

And so I pulled the car into reverse and peeled out of the parking lot. Traffic, it turned out, was a bumper-to-bumper crawl the entire way in. An hour and a half later I was walking up to the front doors of the ACL. The summer heat and humidity was already steaming the city at this early hour and my shirt was sticking to my damp skin when I spotted a man leaving from a side door of the building. His hands were stuffed into his cleanly pressed khakis and a pair of mirrored Ray Bans covered his eyes, but I had no problem identifying him as Andy Baugh. I had never officially met the man, but we had shared a horrific event, and I felt compelled to say something to him—to offer my condolences.

I had stopped walking until he passed my way. “Mr. Baugh?”

Andy looked surprised as he stopped and raised his head to see who was addressing him.

“I’m . . . I mean, my name is Barbara Marr. From the other night. I’m so sorry about your brother.”

The mirrored shades didn’t let me read his eyes, but I understood his slight head tilt as recognition. “You were the woman he was hitting on. Sorry about that.”

His willingness to apologize for his brother was touching and it made me feel worse. “No, no. It’s fine. I’m just so sorry for your loss. That’s all I wanted to say.”

“Thank you. Thank you. It’s been very hard on my parents.”

“I can only imagine.” I stood awkwardly for a moment and then blurted out the first thing that came to my mind. “The man who’s been accused of his murder is my friend, Frankie Romano.”

Andy’s body tensed, and I regretted not censoring my thoughts, but I couldn’t stop now. “He’s a good man, and I know he has that, you know, questionable background, but he’d never murder anybody. He couldn’t even whack Tito Buttaro, who’s a really bad guy. In fact, Frankie’s never whacked anybody, so why would he start with your brother?”

“I don’t think we should be having this—”

“Was your brother a drug addict?” I couldn’t believe the words came out of my mouth.

I don’t think Andy could believe it either. Now he was scanning the area nervously, looking for a getaway, I’m pretty sure. “Listen, like I said, this has been very hard on my parents. Very hard. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, I don’t think you do. If they knew half of the things Kurt did in his life, it would kill them.”

“You mean he was a drug addict? Was it prescription drugs? Pain killers?”

He started to make a dash across the street but I grabbed his arm. “Mr. Baugh, why did you ask the police to investigate your brother’s death as a murder? Why were you so sure?”

He pulled his arm from my grip. “Listen, I’m sorry about your friend. I am.” He paused for a moment as if he might say something else, but then he was gone and if I wanted to chase him, I’d have to take a hit from an oncoming Acura to do so.

As I turned back to continue into the building, I had to wonder at Andy Baugh’s reason for being there. His brother had died just two days ago. Certainly there were arrangements to make for a funeral or memorial service, his parents to console, and other obligations. Why visit the ACL?

I pulled open one of the two massive glass doors and entered the stunning two-story foyer. Designed in the fashion of a 1940’s era movie theater lobby, large framed posters of the classics lined its walls—Casablanca, Citizen Kane, Gone with the Wind, It Happened One Night, and more. I drooled a bit, since my dream was to someday have a room in my house just like this, dedicated to the movies. Right. When I won the lottery.

A perfect replica of a refreshments counter served as the front desk where a pretty woman sat at a computer and typed while holding a phone to her ear with her shoulder. I waited while she finished her call, which luckily didn’t take long.

She returned the phone to its cradle and smiled at me. “Welcome to the American Cinema League. Can I help you?”

I told her I was looking for Jorge Borrego and was hoping he was in.

She winced slightly. “He is, but I think he’s in a—”

“Barb! What brings you by today?”

I spun around to see all six foot and some three or four inches of Jorge Borrego moving toward me with his hand extended. We shook and I marveled at his class. His grey suit probably cost as much as six of Howard’s put together. It reeked of designer extravagance and when I spotted gems on his cuff links, I guessed they were the real deal. Even his fingernails were perfect—there was no doubt he made regular visits to the manicurist.

Jorge was a stunningly handsome man with adorable dimples that arrived with his naturally warm smile. His Latino features had a dark intensity that I’m sure made many women swoon until they found out that he preferred men. He didn’t swish like Liberace, but was very open about his homosexuality, serving on more than one AIDS non-profit organizations.

I liked Jorge and it seemed most people did. He had a way of making people feel comfortable at the American Cinema League—a place he obviously cared about as if it were his own home.

I was about to ask him if we could talk privately. During my long drive, I had made a mental list of questions for Jorge. I’d start by asking him if he had been in the kitchen at all on the night of Kurt Baugh’s death. Maybe he saw the bottle that disappeared then magically reappeared. But when I opened my mouth to speak, a voice interrupted me.

“Curly! You beat me here.”

Colt was at my side before I could even register relief that he was okay. He put one arm around my waist and held his other out to Jorge for a greeting. “Colt Barron. Nice to meet you.”

For a nanosecond, I detected a break in Jorge’s smooth public veneer, but he didn’t hesitate in shaking Colt’s hand and offering his own introduction.

“Jorge Borrego—president of the DC Chapter of the American Cinema League. You two know each other, I assume?”

“Yes. Yes,” I stuttered, not sure why Colt was here or why he thought I was expecting him. “Colt is a friend.” Think fast. “I told him I was coming here today.” What else? “And he wanted to join—to see the place for himself.” Yeah. That’s the ticket.

The smile and dimples appeared in all of their glory. “You know,” Jorge said with a chuckle, “it’s kind of funny, because Colt isn’t really that common of a name, yet our newest projectionist here is named Colt, too.”

I nodded and thought about Clarence. “Speaking of projectionists, Jorge, I was wondering if Clarence was here today. I had a couple of questions for him.”

Jorge looked puzzled. “Clarence? Who’s Clarence?”

“You don’t have a projectionist named Clarence?”

He shook his head.

“Are you sure?”

“Barb, it’s hard not to be sure. We only have two projectionists—Dan Zane and Colt . . .” he seemed to be searching his memory banks. He addressed his receptionist. “Leslie, what’s Colt’s last name?”

“Heatherington, Mr. Borrego. Colt Heatherington.”

Someone called from the second floor. “Did someone say my name?”

Colt and I both looked up at the same time to see Clarence hanging over the polished wooden banister at the top of the staircase. When our eyes met, Clarence’s nearly popped out of their sockets.

“Clarence?” I yelled.

“That’s my projectionist, Colt,” Jorge said, obviously confused.

Meanwhile, Clarence had started to make a run for it and Colt—my Colt—was in hot pursuit. He sailed up the vast, red-carpeted, Gone With the Wind-esque staircase and I followed as quickly as I could. From below, Jorge cried, “What’s going on here?”

When I reached the top of the stairs, Colt and Clarence were out of sight. To my right was the hallway that led to the banquet room and theater. A sign on the wall in front of me indicated with an arrow that a conference room and bathrooms were down the hallway to my left. Suspicious sounds led me in that direction. When I rounded the corner, I came face to face to face with Colt and Clarence, who had a Swiss Army knife to Colt’s neck.

“Clarence! Where did you get that knife?”

Colt grunted. “That’d be mine.”

“He lifted a knife from you? How?” If I hadn’t been worried for Colt, I would have laughed. Clarence wasn’t exactly Jackie Chan.

“It’s a mystery,” Colt grunted again.

Clarence shuffled uncomfortably, but held the knife tight. “I’ve been honing my reflexes with Tai Chi.”

Jorge was behind me, panting heavily. “Should I call the police?”

I wasn’t paying much attention to Jorge. Instead, I was realizing something that should have been apparent much earlier. The last name Heatherington brought to mind someone both Colt and I had known in college—Deena Heatherington. Looking into Clarence’s face, I saw some resemblance to Deena. But I also saw something far more familiar.

“Let’s keep the police out of this,” I said. “For now.”

“Okay,” Colt said while his face drained of color. “You’re not the one with a knife at his jugular. I happen to know it’s sharp enough to do some damage.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, while slowly moving a hand to my handy can of mace. “He’s a little frightened right now, but something is telling me that he’d never hurt you.”

Chapter Fifteen

“WHAT SHOULD WE DO?” JORGE whispered.

That was a good question. Just behind Colt and Clarence was the conference room door.

“Is anyone in there, Jorge?”

“No.”

I put on my best, talking-to-a-crazy-man-with-a-knife face. “Clarence—can I call you Clarence?”

“Why are you here? What do you want?”

“I want you to let my friend go. We can talk in that conference room there. It’s right behind you. Just give me the knife.”

I could tell Jorge was nervous. “Don’t you think we should leave this to professionals?”

I looked Colt in the eyes. “Remember Deena Heatherington? From college?” My fingers wrapped slowly, quietly around the mace can.

“This really isn’t the time for reminiscing about the old days.”

“Meet her son. What year were you born, Clarence? I’m guessing it was 1984 or 85?” Clarence didn’t seem to notice when I slipped the mace out of my purse. Colt’s eyes showed me he followed every move, though.

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”

“Am I wrong?”

I watched his fingers relax just enough for me to make my move. I swung the mace upwards. “I’m a woman, Clarence. We’re never wrong.”

As I positioned my weapon, Colt stomped on Clarence’s foot, elbowed him in the ribs and ripped the knife from his grip as he doubled over. Before I knew it, Colt had instinctively poised the knife back at his attacker.

“Colt! Careful! Look at him—he’s your son.”

Five minutes later, Colt, Clarence and I were sitting at the round conference room table. Jorge was kind enough to give us time together, along with bottles of water. I drained mine, dehydrated from the nervous perspiration. I had no idea if my surprise-him-with-the-mace trick would work, but we needed something to give us the upper hand and get the knife from Clarence.

After some gentle persuasion, I convinced Clarence to fill in the information I hadn’t already guessed. His given name was Clarence Coltrane Heatherington—his mother, Deena had named him after his grandfather and father, but she never told him his father’s full name. Not until hours before she passed away, that is. Clarence had pursued his grandfather’s love of film and trade as a projectionist, and when he was left alone after both of their deaths, he headed to Washington, DC for a dream job with the ACL and to find his father.

I needed a confusion cleared up. “Why did you use the name Colt when you got your job here?”

He snorted. “My grandfather was a good projectionist, but he had a reputation for being a real dick. I learned early on it was best to build a resume with a different first name.”

Poor Colt was white as a sheet. I had the distinct impression that he wanted to run from the building screaming and seek out a scientist who had figured out how to turn back time.

Clarence fidgeted in his seat. “Is he going to say anything?”

“You have to admit, it’s a lot to take in.”

He snorted again. “Tell me about it.”

I rubbed Colt’s hand. “Colt, do you want to say or ask anything?”

He shook his head.

Clarence eyed me suspiciously for a long, uncomfortable minute. “My mom hated you, you know.”

“What?” Not only was I stunned, I was hurt. I work very hard to make sure people like me. “Why?”

He slid a nod in Colt’s direction. “Casanova here. He loved her, then left her because he was only ever truly in love with you. Like you held some sort of spell over him. Even when they dated, he’d talk about you till it made her sick. Look—he still follows you everywhere.” Then Clarence buried his head in his arms and wept. It broke my heart.

I scooted my chair closer and rubbed Clarence’s back. Poor Clarence—lost his mother, and grandfather. Never had a father. I whispered at Colt. “Look what you’ve done. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“What did I do?”

“Evidently a lot. And not enough.” I sighed. “Tell me you didn’t know anything about this.”

He jumped from his chair and started to pace. “I didn’t know! I swear.” He stopped pacing for a minute to watch Clarence, who had lifted his head and started to wipe his eyes. Colt’s shoulders dropped as if in defeat. “She never told me.”

“He’s telling the truth,” said Clarence. “He didn’t know.”

Colt went back to pacing, stopping every few steps to observe his newly discovered progeny. Besides the sound of his shoes on the carpet, the room was awkwardly quiet. I thought about the first time I had seen Clarence by the reflecting pool that hot day and how he reacted when he saw the man he knew to be his father.

Then it hit me. “So that day, when we met by the memorial—you didn’t have any information about Frankie?”

His face brightened slightly and he lowered his voice. “Actually, I kinda did.” He rose from his chair, tip-toed to the door, cracked it open enough to peek out, then closed it quietly before returning to the table. He pushed stringy strands of blond hair behind his ears and kept his voice low. “I have a way of being in the right place at the right time.”

Colt rolled his eyes.

“Can you be more specific?” I asked.

“I’ve heard things.”

I could tell Colt was getting impatient. “Do you know the definition of ‘specific’?”

Shooting Colt a nasty glare, I urged his eccentric son on. “What have you heard?”

“Jorge and that sleazy reviewer from Channel 3.”

“Randolph Rutter?”

Clarence snorted again and I realized it was a quirk that could get old pretty quickly. “Can you believe that name? What were his parents thinking?”

“You heard them how? Talking?”

He nodded. “In the small screening room. They thought they were alone.”

He had Colt’s full attention now. He leaned forward. “What were they talking about?”

“It was the day of the preview screening. I was on my lunch break. Randolph asked Jorge if ‘everything was set.’” Clarence gestured finger quotes in the air. “Jorge said ‘he fell for it, hook line and sinker.’”

“Did they ever mention a name? Do you know who ‘he’ was?” I asked.

Clarence shook his head.

Colt’s eye narrowed. “How did you hear this without them seeing you?”

Clarence didn’t hesitate. “Jorge is a clean freak and a dictator. He comes across all nice and Mr. Amazing to guests, but around here, he’s more like Hitler. No one is allowed to eat anywhere in the building except for the tiny lunchroom, but I like to sneak food into the screening rooms. Lots of days, Jorge goes out for business lunches—celebs, politicians, wealthy donors. When he does, I put on a movie and eat lunch.”

“But he didn’t go out to lunch that day and you ate in the screening room anyway?”

“No, that’s the point. He left for lunch, alright.” Clarence raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything else.

Colt blew out a frustrated sigh and threw his hands in the air.

This story felt like it was going no where fast, but I tried to remain calm since Colt seemed to be on the edge of loosing it. “So, do want to elaborate?”

A smile tugged at the corner of Clarence’s mouth. “Ask me who with.”

Colt and I exchanged expressions of annoyance.

“Who with, Clarence?” I asked. “Who with?”

“Kurt Baugh.”

We all took a moment to register the significance of that detail. Clarence continued: “I’d finished lunch and was throwing my trash away in the lunchroom when I realized that I left my soda on the floor next to my favorite seat. I was back in the theater picking it up when I heard Jorge’s voice. I dropped to the floor just in time. I could see them from between the seats.”

Colt didn’t seem convinced. “Why should we believe you?”

“Why shouldn’t you?”

The two men stared each other down and I was getting tired of the distrust in the room. “Colt, what’s your problem? It doesn’t sound plausible to you?”

He blew out a heavy sigh and sat back in his chair. “Actually, it fits in with what Frankie told me last night. Guy Mertz too.”

“So you did talk with Guy?” I asked. We had been so preoccupied with the father-and-son reunion that I’d never had a moment to talk to Colt about what he’d learned. “I tried calling you this morning,” I told him.

“I know.”

I didn’t like that answer. Something smelled. Something smelled real bad. “You didn’t answer my phone calls on purpose.” I pointed an accusing finger at him. “You were cutting me out of the loop!”

“I was trying to keep you out of trouble.”

“You dope! You made me worry for nothing.”

“You couldn’t have been worrying too hard, because you still managed to show up here to snoop around.”

Clarence shook his head. “Beware. Anger, fear, aggression—the dark side they are.”

Well. Clarence could be profound, despite the flaky exterior. “Thank you,” I said to him. “You’re right.”

“Right about what?” Colt looked confounded. “What the hell did he just say?”

“He was quoting Obi Wan Kenobi,” I answered. “He’s saying we should stop fighting and focus on Frankie.”

“It’s Yoda—I was just reading the poster.” He pointed above Colt’s head where a framed light-saber wielding Yoda stood above the deeply meaningful quote.

Or, maybe the kid was just plain peculiar.

“Okay,” I said, “but let’s take a cue from Mr. Yoda there, and move forward without bickering. We’re all here now, right? And Jorge’s going to start wondering what’s taking us so long.”

So, in hushed tones, Colt relayed his conversation with Frankie, who was more than happy to have someone listen to his side of the story. Frankie said he hadn’t added anything to the yams he heated for Randolph Rutter. He simply ladled the last of the remaining yams from the large pot on the stove and dumped them into a smaller sauce pan to heat. He did remember seeing a bottle of vanilla extract on the counter—remembered it well, because he had no idea what it was doing there. None of his recipes had called for vanilla.

Frankie was convinced, himself, that he was being framed by Vivianna Buttaro, his ex-boss who was doing time because of the information Frankie gave up in return for amnesty. He figured Vivianna had arranged it from the inside.

Anyway, Colt considered the possibility that he was right about a Vivianna-ordered frame-up until hearing Clarence’s experience. Mostly because Frankie said a few other things: first, the bottle of vanilla disappeared sometime after Kurt’s death, because it wasn’t there when he supervised the clean up later that night. Second, he told Colt that Jorge had asked Frankie to hire one of the waiters as a favor. Jorge claimed the waiter was his cousin, but during the dinner the “cousin” referred to Jorge as “Mr. Boreggo.” Frankie thought it more than odd. Finally, Jorge also told Frankie to make sure candied yams were on the menu—a woman named Susan Golightly from the film’s production company was adamant, as they were a favorite dish of the director, Andy Baugh.

“Very interesting,” was the best I could muster while processing Colt’s summary. Even though motives were fuzzy at best, certainly leads were pointing to Jorge, Randolph, Andy Baugh, Susan Golightly, or possibly all four.

“It gets better,” Colt said. “Guy Mertz wanted to talk to you last night to relay some gossip floating around the Hollywood news water cooler. Apparently, Susan Golightly and Randolph Rutter were an item until recently.”

“They broke up?”

“She left him. For Kurt Baugh.”

Chapter Sixteen

CLARENCE ASKED WHAT A BOTTLE of vanilla extract looked like. I told him small and brown, usually. He perked up. “Yeah, yeah, yeah! Before he left, Randolph gave Jorge something. I couldn’t see very well, but Jorge dropped it, so I got a glimpse before he picked it up. It was just like that—small and brown. I thought it was cough syrup or something. What’s 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 new father. It was a touching scene, worthy of a Golden Globe nomination at the very least. Dustin Hoffman would have been proud.

Jorge seemed sympathetic. “Sure. I understand. Can I get them anything?”

I shook my head. “Time.” I paused for increased dramatic impact. “Time is what they need now.”

“A meatball sub would be good too,” Clarence added between sobs. The Swiss Army knife was out of reach, so I attempted to kill him with my glare. It didn’t work.

“Low blood sugar issues,” he explained. “I’m upset enough as it is. I miss a meal and things could get real ugly.”

As I turned my attention back to Jorge, I took a deep cleansing breath. “Could you get us a meatball sub?”

Clarence cleared his throat. “From Sam’s Sandwich Sanctum.”

My fists were clenching. “Did you hear that?” I asked Jorge.

“And a bottle of water.”

Jorge smirked. I guessed he was used to Clarence’s quirkiness. “I’ll send someone out for the sub, and I’ll get . . . three more bottles of water?”

I nodded. “That would be nice. Thank you. Just knock and leave them outside the door please.”

The man was being awfully helpful. Could he really be a killer? I closed the door and spun around, full of fury. “A meatball sub? Really?”

Clarence shrugged and looked just like Colt when he did so. It was downright eerie. “I wasn’t making it up. I can’t miss a meal.”

I plopped like an anchor into the chair that Colt had been sitting in. My body literally ached from lack of sleep, so worrying about someone’s schedule-driven dietary needs wasn’t even on my radar. Another couple of sleepless hours and I was likely to start hallucinating or imitating Mae West. Neither prospect was pretty.

Colt ran a quick search on Susan Golightly of Climax films. He didn’t find any obvious links to Jorge and Randolph, but that really didn’t mean anything. The mere fact that her company screened their films at the ACL’s Tanner building was a connection.

“What do we do now?” I asked after a deep yawn. As if on cue, my cell phone buzzed, notifying me that a text had come through. It was Guy Mertz. “Randolph Rutter at my office. Acting strange. Asking about you. Wants to have lunch.”

Boy, what timing. It took me about two seconds to know what to do with that information. I started texting back.

“What are you doing?” asked Colt.

“Texting Guy Mertz.” I kept typing, my fingers making mistakes all over the place.

“About what?”

“I think I have a plan.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me. I get enough of that from my family.”

A knock on the door barely preceded my hitting the send button. I smiled, proud of myself, then opened the door. On the floor in front of me was a brown paper bag and three bottles of water. I bent over to pick them up, but turned my head when a familiar voice sounded from the hallway. My heart pounded with fear and excitement at the same time. Either we’d been caught, or we were the luckiest ducks on the planet, because Jorge stood at the corner of the two hallways, talking with none other than Susan Golightly of Climax films.

I slipped back quietly, pretty sure that they hadn’t seen me.

“Fellas,” I said as I dropped the goods on the table. “We’ve got a script to write.”

Chapter Seventeen

CLARENCE USED THE CONFERENCE ROOM phone to intercom the receptionist and find out why Susan Golightly was in the building. He was told that she wanted to discuss the possibility of arranging a celebration of action films, dedicated to the memory of Kurt Baugh.

Okay, so my paranoia abated and I started feeling lucky again.

Colt, on the other hand, wasn’t even ambivalent. He wanted nothing of my plan. I pointed out that he’d come this far—why did he even show up at the ACL if he wasn’t going to take it all of the way?

“Truthfully?” he said. “Despite some mildly interesting theories, I figured I’d come up empty handed. I would leave able to tell you that all roads were dead ends and that, sadly, Frankie’s goose wasn’t just cooked, it was deep fried. You’d go back to taking care of your family and writing your movie reviews and I would take Meegan to Ocean City for a few days. Happy ending.”

“Not for Frankie.” I folded my arms and pouted.

Seated next to Colt, Clarence had just chomped deep into the meatball sub. His cheeks bulged and red sauce trickled out of one side of his mouth. He put the sandwich back on its wrapper, wiped the sauce away with a napkin and chewed while indicating, with a raised index finger, that he had something to say. A much-anticipated swallow finally allowed him to speak. “I don’t think Meegan will be interested in Ocean City.”

Colt’s eyes narrowed. Admittedly, I was surprised by the statement myself and wondered what the heck he was talking about. I guess I’m not always as smart as I think I am, because I really didn’t have a clue, but Colt seemed to be stewing, as if he did. “Have you been following me?” he asked finally.

Clarence grabbed a bottle of water and twisted the cap off. “In a manner of speaking. I had a spy.” He tipped the bottle back and guzzled. “On the inside.”

Uh oh.

I may be slow, but I was catching on. “You know Meegan?”

He nodded. “Really well, actually. She’s my sister.”

Double uh oh.

A little part of me (okay, maybe a big part) was laughing inside. But holy cow, I thought Colt was going to bust a gasket. I don’t ever think I’d ever seen him so serious or so angry. He had that look on his face that Howard gets when I’ve done something silly, like walking into a den of mafia crime bosses or blowing up a building with a hand grenade. Although really, it wasn’t my hand grenade.

I tried to diffuse the ticking time bomb by asking Clarence to clarify his statement. “You mean, you’re such good friends that she’s like a sister to you?”

“Nope. Like, my mother gave birth to her, so she’s my sister.”

Kaboom! That one blew up right in my face.

Here I was with a plan to expose Kurt Baugh’s killers just like a perfect episode of Murder She Wrote, and we were playing out a bad version of a twisted Greek tragedy. Or a really sick sequel to the Crying Game.

It wasn’t hard to imagine what was going on in Colt’s mind. He started pacing like a nervous hyena, uttering unintelligible phrases like: “whaaaoher uhhhhh” and “maahal guhkew.”

Clarence’s gaze followed Colt around the room. “She got on a plane this morning. Going back to Bakersfield. It’s her dad’s birthday tomorrow.”

Phew. There is a God.

Was he trying to mess with Colt, or was Clarence really just odd and not familiar with proper procedures for doling out pertinent information? Hard to tell, but the immediate crisis was over and my plan needed some direction. I was expecting a text from Guy any minute alerting us to his arrival with Randolph Rutter in tow. And who knew how long we’d have Susan Golightly in the building?

“Okay, okay,” I said, working to calm the turbulent air. “Crisis averted. Colt, you’re not guilty of incest.” I snapped a finger in front of his glassy eyes. “Stay with me Colt. Come on, baby.”

“Is that what you’re thinking?” Clarence shook his head and readied his sub for another bite. “She didn’t sleep with him. That was our deal.”

Way more information than I needed to know.

Thankfully, it took just minutes rather than hours, to convince Colt to follow through on my idea of getting three of our suspects in a room together. And having satiated his hunger for food, Clarence was now hungry for some action.

The terms of Colt’s agreement were simple and not negotiable: we’d round them up, ask a few subtle but indirect questions and see what happened. If, at any time, he thought things were getting dangerous or out of hand, he’d give the signal and we’d skedaddle our hineys outa there. Those kind of terms were A-OK in my book—I’d had enough kidnappings at gunpoint and escapes from explosive environments to last a lifetime. Subtle and indirect and safe. I was all over that.

My plan required a safe, secluded location where we could collect Jorge, Randolph, and Susan Golightly together. Ideally, our targets would believe they had coincidentally run into each other, with us along for the ride. And we needed to be far away from innocent bystanders so we wouldn’t create a scene if things got heated.

Clarence said that public walk-ins were rare, but they did happen, so a confrontation in the lobby was definitely a no-no. “Why not just call everyone in here?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No, that’s awkward. I want it to look like we walked in on them.”

Clarence thought about this for a minute, then picked up the phone and buzzed the receptionist again. “Stacy, are you bored today?”

I assumed that she answered him, because he laughed. “Good. Stay tuned. We’re going to have some fun.”

He returned the receiver to its cradle and smiled. “I know just the place.”

My phone buzzed with the anticipated text from Guy Mertz. I read it out loud. “The eagle lands in 5.”

Showtime.

Chapter Eighteen

COLT AND I FOLLOWED CLARENCE into the banquet hall where Kurt Baugh had died just nights before. Jorge stood with one hand in his pocket and another holding a black leather binder. He had removed his suit jacket and loosened the red silk tie. Susan teetered on tall green pumps that matched a short skirt and low-cut tank. I suspected, from the buoyancy of her ladies, that the cleavage had been manufactured by her local Hollywood plastic surgeon. Sadly, I don’t believe in playing with Mother Nature, but oh boy, I’d really like to walk around with a set like hers, if only for one day. Just to see what all the fuss was about.

Clarence waved at them. “Hey guys, you wanted me?”

I had to suppress a smile. He was unlike Colt in many ways, but there were some definite similarities.

Jorge and Susan exchanged confused glances.

“Stacy said you wanted to see us,” Jorge answered. “Is, uh, everything okay?” He peeked around Clarence and eyed Colt and me. “You know, with your . . . situation?”

“Weird.” Clarence shook his blond locks. “Leslie intercommed me in the conference room. Said you wanted me in the banquet room right away.” He gave a nod to us. “We’re done. In the conference room I mean. Thanks for giving us that time alone. Oh, and for that meatball sub too, man.” He rubbed his stomach. “It really did the trick. I was able to get to know my dad without being all ‘Aaahhh!’” He mimicked a mini-crazed scream. “All is good, now. Colt and Barbara are on their way out, but first they wanted to thank you for being so understanding.”

Jorge seemed to sense that something was awry. Susan just had a blank look on her face.

“Here they are!” Guy’s voice boomed from outside the hall. He walked through the door wearing his signature fedora and carrying that silly umbrella. “Come on in, Randolph. Look, it’s practically a party. Maybe they’ll all want to go to lunch.”

Randolph followed uncomfortably, staring mostly at the floor except for a brief nod to Jorge and Susan.

The look on Jorge’s face was priceless. He looked like he was suppressing a sudden need to crap his pants. I have to give him credit; he recovered. Somewhat. The corners of his mouth pulled up enough to give the impression of a genuine smile. “What brings us the pleasure of this visit?”

The confusion and tension in the room had reached DEFCON 3. Time to begin “Operation Shake it Up.”

“Susan,” I interjected. “I was really sorry to hear about you and Randolph. This must be . . . you know . . . really awkward.

“Do I know you?”

Guy was making strange guttural noises. I ignored him and reached to Susan, offering my hand for a shake. “Barbara Marr. I have a local movie review website and I was at the screening the other night. You may remember seeing me on the floor. Under Kurt Baugh. Before he died.”

Recognition shown in her eyes, but only vaguely. “What about me and Randolph?”

“The breakup. I should probably just drop it, right?”

“Barb?” Guy whispered, inching his way toward me.

Susan looked offended. “The breakup? You think Randolph Rutter and I were dating?”

“You weren’t?”

She laughed. “He’s not exactly my type, if you know what I mean.”

I didn’t know what she meant. That certainly wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. What did she mean by “not exactly my type?” She didn’t like pompous douche bags? Or she didn’t like vain men with receding hairlines?

By now, Guy Mertz was at my side, breathing in my ear. The man needed a Mento or a gallon of Listerine. I swatted at him, intent on moving forward with the loose script we’d planned, but he stopped me in my tracks with a new piece of information. “I got it wrong,” he whispered.

Across from us, Jorge was developing very large sweat spots under the arms of his designer gray shirt.

Guy kept whispering, while I tried to pretend to have things under control. “She didn’t break up with Randolph Rutter—she broke up with the actor, Ralph Tuttle. And she didn’t leave Ralph for Kurt Baugh, she left him for Andy Baugh. Sorry.”

In one swift 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 just need to come clean. It’s time to tell the truth.”

“Randy—”

“It was syrup of ipecac to make Kurt vomit. That’s all. Part of silly prank. Kurt loved practical jokes and played them on Jorge more than once. It was our turn. Jorge slipped the ipecac into the yams. He was just supposed to vomit, that’s all. Not die. We had no idea. And we absolutely do not know how they became poisoned. Right Jorge? I don’t want to go to jail! I don’t know why I went along with it, but Jorge asked me and I do what he asks because he takes care of me. Hair plugs aren’t cheap, you know. Vomit! He was just supposed to vomit!” Randolph was on the verge of tears.

My phone rang, startling everyone. My first thought was to ignore it, but I’d been away from the house so many hours, I was worried something might be wrong. A quick peek told me it was Howard. Still concerned about the home front, I took several steps backward and took the call. “Hi, honey, what’s up?”

Colt was rolling his eyes. Meanwhile, Susan stood and started talking to Randolph. I wanted to hear what she was saying, but I had to concentrate on Howard.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I’m in DC—the American Cinema League.”

“What are you doing there?” I sensed concern in his voice.

What was I doing there? Learning that Randolph Rutter was in the closet and that he and Jorge had played a practical joke that went deadly wrong. Interesting information, but none of it helped Frankie’s case. “Nothing really, it seems,” I said.

“Listen, I can’t talk long, but I just called the house and my mother said you’ve been gone all morning. Would you please leave that place right now and get home to check on her?”

“Sure. I’m done here anyway.”

“You’re leaving right now, right? Do I have your word?”

“Yes, Howard, I just told you,” I sighed. “I’ll leave for home now.”

I ended the call lickety split, just in time to catch Susan leaving in a huff and Randolph following her in tears. That arrogant confidence was just a façade after all.

“Where are they going?” I asked Colt.

“Golightly is heading to her other meeting and Randolph is going to take a breather in Jorge’s office. Jorge claims he can provide the bottle of ipecac with both of their fingerprints on it. He readily admits that he stirred it into the yams before Frankie scooped them out.”

I asked Jorge why he didn’t tell the police this sooner. He explained that he knew he should have told the emergency technicians about the ipecac, but everything happened so fast, and he was protecting his own reputation as the president of the DC ACL chapter. Presidents didn’t pull such publicly disgusting pranks, much less the kind that went horribly wrong. He’d lose his job. He fully admitted to personal misconduct and poor judgment, but murder was never intended. The police didn’t approach him again until the lab report indicated the presence of the three poisons. The first thing they asked Jorge was who prepared the yams—he told them the truth, that it was Frankie and then boom, they had their man.

“I mean, really, Mrs. Marr, I know you consider the man your friend, but from what I understand, they have the poison in their possession and Romano’s fingerprints all over the bottle. You need to consider the possibility that Randolph pissed him off and Frankie poisoned those yams himself.”

I shook my head. “That’s not it.”

“Well, we’re not it, either.”

The intercom on the wall phone buzzed. The receptionist’s voice told Jorge that Senator Juarez was on line one for him. Jorge said he’d call back later. The intercom light blinked off. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “Excuse me, I need to check on Randolph now.”

Colt was right. We eventually came up empty handed. This road was closed. And I wasn’t sure there were any other routes open for helping Frankie.

“Sorry for the upset we caused here,” Colt said.

“Right,” Clarence said, hanging his head like a hound dog. “Sorry, Mr. Borrego.”

Jorge shot Clarence a hateful look and pointed at him. “You—whatever your name is. Get your things and go. You’re fired.”

The intercom buzzed again. “Mr. Borrego,” Leslie said. “The Senator insists you take his call. He says it’s important.”

Jorge stiffened visibly. “Fine, Leslie. I’ll take it in my office.” He tipped his head to Guy. “Think you could keep this out of tonight’s newscast, Mertz? For Randolph’s sake, if nothing else?”

Mertz nodded and Jorge was gone.

Chapter Nineteen

SINCE CLARENCE WAS STILL PACKING his things, we agreed to wait for him at the coffee shop across the street. Guy wanted to ask a couple of questions before going back to work, so he joined us.

The heat and humidity walloped us as we stepped onto the sidewalk and crossed the two lane street. Feeling far too hot for coffee, I ordered an iced tea while Guy declined anything and Colt sucked down an ice cold bottle of water. Despite our desire for air conditioning, we waited at a small table outside so we could see Clarence when he exited the Tanner building. DC business suits and tourists passed by our table at irregular intervals. I looked at my watch and cringed. It was 1:30 in the afternoon. We’d been in that place for two and a half hours and I’d promised Howard that I would get home. I really needed to see my girls, take care of Mama Marr, and possibly fit a nap in there somewhere, but I didn’t want to leave Colt and Clarence until I knew they were going to be okay together.

Colt was unusually introspective. I suspected he was rehearsing his next conversation with Clarence. Things were likely to be very awkward between them. Would he ask for a DNA test? Truthfully, it wasn’t necessary. The resemblance was uncanny. If Clarence cut his stringy hair, they would practically look like twins.

While waiting for Clarence, we filled Guy in on the circumstances that lead us to the confrontation in the banquet hall. Somehow we boiled the tale down to about three sentences, to which Guy responded, when we were done: “You don’t say.”

“Thank you for helping us out,” I said. “Your text was most timely.”

He tipped his fedora. “Happy to be of service. I hope you’ll include me in more of your adventures. This was quite a lot of fun.”

I sighed. To be honest, it all felt very anti-climactic. And I still didn’t have any information that would help me vindicate Frankie. Maybe Frankie was correct that he was being framed as revenge by friends of Vivanna Buttaro’s. Colt said if that were the case, time to stop this train and get off, because we took that trip once already and it wasn’t pretty. We’d learned the hard way not to mess with Mafia, even the misfit kind.

Sadly, he was right.

Guy tapped his umbrella tip a couple of times on the concrete beneath our feet. “Don’t you wonder why Senator Juarez would want to talk with Jorge?”

Actually, it hadn’t registered on my radar. “Maybe he wanted to rent the ACL building for an event. A fundraiser or something. Jorge said that it’s rented out for all sorts of reasons by all sorts of organizations.”

Guy harrumphed. “Seemed more important. ‘The Senator insists’ were the receptionist’s exact words if I recall. And who tells a Senator that he’ll ‘call him back later’? Just appears like there’s a relationship there that goes beyond simple party arranging.”

“You think he’s gay too?” I asked.

“Not that kind of relationship,” Guy said, shaking his head and staring at the building. “Senator Juarez is very straight. He was caught with his pants down receiving some gratitude from a young female intern many years ago, but the story never made the headlines because of a much larger scandal involving a president and an intern with a stain on her dress.”

“I have a friend who wants to work on Juarez’s presidential campaign, if he runs.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see if he runs. He’s being investigated for voter fraud during his last run for senator.”

“Really?” Colt said. “That hasn’t been in the news, has it?”

Guy sniffed. “I just told you—news is all relative. The syndicates broadcast the stories that are most likely to entice viewers to change the channel from Seinfeld reruns or Jersey Shore. This story isn’t big enough yet. Not enough facts.”

I chewed on that for a while. “What does any of that have to do with Jorge, do you think?”

“Nothing, I guess. It just wouldn’t seem that they’d run in the same circles is all.”

Finally, Clarence appeared on the sidewalk in front of the ACL building bearing a sad face and a small box which presumably contained his possessions. I was relieved, because the heat was overwhelming. We could finally wrap everything up and head our separate ways.

I called his name. When he spotted us he waited for a couple of cars, then crossed the street. He set the box down on our table. “Guess that’s it. Time to find a new job.”

“Call me tomorrow at the station,” Guy offered. “I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll try to see if there are any openings you’d be qualified for.”

Clarence appeared grateful for the gesture. Meanwhile, Colt’s mental wheels had been turning, I could tell. Something Guy said about the Senator got him going. “Hey, kid,” Colt said. “How much do you think Jorge makes a year working for that place?”

“I don’t just think, I know. The office manager and I hit Happy Hour together and she talks a lot when she drinks. He makes ninety thousand and some change. Plus he gets a company car and a country club membership.”

“You know where he lives?”

“Has a house in Dupont Circle.”

I whistled. Houses in Dupont Circle were outrageously expensive.

Colt pressed on. “You mean an apartment?”

Clarence shook his head. “No, I mean a million-dollar house. He just renovated the whole thing. It’s quite a place, apparently. He talks about it all of the time, but never invites anyone over. I guess I know why now,” he laughed. “Poor Randolph Rutter—outed before he was ready.”

“That’s not a lot of salary for someone with such an extravagant lifestyle, wouldn’t you say?”

“Sure. We all say it. Dan, the other projectionist, says Jorge supplements his income by providing high profile celebs with prescription pain killers.” He winked. “But he waives the prescription requirement, if you catch my drift.”

I slugged his arm. “Why didn’t you tell us that before!” Suddenly, Jorge Borrego was on my list of suspects again. I didn’t care what he said about no stinkin’ ipecac.

“Hey!” Clarence rubbed his arm and gave me that sad puppy dog look again. “Why did you do that? What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that I’m pretty sure that Kurt Baugh was addicted to prescription pain killers. Sorry I hit you. The heat’s making me cranky.”

My iced tea was completely drained, so I pulled an ice cube out of the cup and rubbed it on the back of my neck. Then I relayed my interesting phone conversation with Judi Horner about Kurt Baugh’s documentary and her suspicions that he popped a pill or two himself. While I talked, Colt was busy tapping and scrolling on his smartphone.

“Bingo!” he shouted, holding it for everyone to see. Which really didn’t work so well since we were standing in blinding sunlight. The screen just reflected it back at us. “Benito Juarez—guess where he went to college?”

“Santa Fe U?” I guessed, although at this point, it wasn’t really a guess. I think Colt’s question was rhetorical.

“And the Baugh brothers?”

Someone entirely different answered that question. Evidently, while we were all burning our retinas trying to see the screen on Colt’s phone, Andy Baugh had wandered up behind us without anyone noticing.

“We called ourselves The Fantastic Five,” he said.

I cringed and he acknowledged my cringe with an understanding nod. “I know. Bad name. We were young, what can I say? And for the record, my brother was a recovering addict. The documentary was his way of giving back; educating people about the dangers of prescription pain killers. He could be a real dick, but he didn’t deserve to be murdered. Especially by someone he called a friend.”

The rest of us exchanged what-the-hell-just-happened glances. There were five of them. Remove Andy and Kurt from the equation, and the person he was referring to had to be one of the other three—Randolph, Jorge, or Juarez.

“Susan called me,” he said. “She told me about the syrup of ipecac.”

Now I was really confused. “But then you know it was just a prank gone wrong.”

“No. Now I know who framed your friend.”

“Who?”

“Only three people knew about Kurt’s condition. His doctor, me,” he looked across the street at the ACL building and his eyes narrowed, “and there’s the third man now.”

Jorge Borrego had slipped elegantly through the glass front door of the ACL building. He stopped, pulled a pair of sunglasses from his inside suit pocket and slid them onto his nose with the grace of an A-list movie star.

Andy moved toward the curb and was about to step into the street. I stood abruptly, knocking my chair over, and managed to grab his elbow. “You mean Jorge killed your brother because he knew about the drug dealing?”

He kept his eyes on Jorge. “Not the drugs. Kurt knew the depth of the Senator’s crimes and Jorge is Juarez’s henchman. I’m guessing he killed Kurt because he was ordered to.”

Before I could digest the words, Andy had jerked his elbow from my grasp and was into the street, chugging full-steam ahead, shouting Jorge’s name. At the same moment, and sleek stretch limo slid to the curb in front of the ACL building. Cars were honking and skidding to sudden stops to avoid hitting Andy, who wasn’t paying attention to anyone except Jorge.

Without a second thought, I followed Andy into the street, intent on stopping him. Then, from my peripheral vision, two men appeared. They wore black jeans and black t-shirts and something about the uniformity of it triggered my this-isn’t-good alarm. Sadly, I didn’t pay enough attention to the inner Barb that knew something bad was about to go down; I just kept following Andy Baugh. And when the third man in black appeared, I heard Colt hollering for me to stop. The terror in his voice hit home, but not soon enough.

Unfortunately, I’ve experienced the deafening sound of gunfire way too many times, so when the first shot was fired, I started looking for cover. Andy had already reached the sidewalk when a second pop fired and Jorge fell. A third bullet dropped Andy right in front of me. I could hear Colt’s screams through the mayhem that had ensued on the street and on the surrounding sidewalks. My legs went numb and I couldn’t move. A part of me wondered if I’d been shot and didn’t know it.

Suddenly, a car sped from around the corner and slowed just enough for doors to open and the three men to jump in. It peeled off, burning rubber. Something about the car was familiar, but my head was spinning and nausea was setting in. That’s when I looked into the street and saw Colt face down, and Clarence kneeling over him.

Not two seconds after the mystery car sped away, a black SUV with flashing blue and red lights followed in hot pursuit with sirens blaring. My knees finally gave way and I crumpled to the ground just as I spied a vision that made my heart sing.

No, it wasn’t Steven Spielberg floating in from a camera crane, shouting “Cut! That’s a wrap!” Although that would have been really cool.

It was Howard, gun drawn, face full of concern, dodging cars, running my way. I smiled, content that I was about to be saved from this horror. Agents Smith and Price had their fire power focused on the doors of the limousine.

With the promise of salvation on the horizon, I felt sensation in my legs again. I sat up enough to wriggle them with my hands. I wanted to be ready for Howard to walk me away to a quiet place where I could pass out peacefully.

Andy Baugh was moaning just in front of me. Blood oozed from his left leg and pooled on the concrete. I told him help was on the way and prayed that his leg was the only place he’d been hit.

Colt was too far away for me to see, and a crowd had converged around him.

A tingling on my neck caused me to reach and rub, but when I did, my hand touched the cold steel of a handgun barrel. At the same time, I felt my wrist wrenched hard behind my back and a voice whisper in my ear. “Up on your feet fast, lady.”

It was the man of many hair plugs, Randolph Rutter. And me, without my mace.

Chapter Twenty

HOWARD HAD STOPPED ON THE far side of the road when he saw Randolph.

I didn’t dare turn my head to see if anyone was closer.

“Get up,” said Randolph. When my legs didn’t move, he applied pressure to the gun. “Now. I’m running out of time.”

Trying my best to obey, I pushed up on my legs, while he pulled with the strength of his other arm. “Please don’t hurt me.” I fought back tears. “I have three daughters. I’m not the greatest cook in the world, but I try to be a good mother. I promise I’ll attend more PTA meetings and learn to sew and take them all to Disney World like they’ve begged for years.”

“Are you talking to me or to God?”

“Anyone who will listen.”

Half crouched and with his gun lowered, Howard made short, careful steps in our direction. “Randolph Rutter, we promise you fair treatment. Just put the gun down and release the hostage.”

The bit about “releasing the hostage” annoyed me. “Howard, I’m not a hostage, I’m your wife! Can’t you be a little more forceful than that?”

That’s when I realized I probably should have kept my mouth shut.

“That’s your husband?”

“Yeah, of all the gin joints, huh?”

“Now I’m really done for. Crap!” He dragged me further down the sidewalk until we stood next to a red BMW parked at the curb. A man sat in the passenger’s seat looking a little bewildered. Randolph tapped hard on the passenger side window then shoved hard into my neck again. “Out of the car! Or I’ll shoot her!”

I couldn’t help but notice how quickly Randolph had transformed from blubbering, innocent prankster to villainous, armed hijacker.

The man in the car didn’t move fast enough for Randolph who banged harder on the window. “Now, man! Or she’s a dead mother. Leave the keys!”

The driver’s side door flew open and the terrified little man backed away with his hands in the air. Randolph ordered me to get in through the passenger door and slide across. Once in the driver’s seat, I realized that the car was already running and the radio was playing “Desperado.” The irony would have caused me to chuckle if I didn’t feel like tossing my tortillas all over the dashboard.

“Now what?” I asked as I peeked in the rearview mirror, hopeful that Howard was somewhere near, aimed to plug Randolph Rutter full of the FBI’s best ammunition. Unfortunately, he wasn’t anywhere in sight.

Randolph pulled the gear shift out of park and wagged the gun in my face. “Drive, you idiot!”

The car lurched. I did as he said and pulled away from the curb, viewing the side mirror for any glimpse of agents or vehicles ready to pounce. Not surprisingly, the speed of our departure wasn’t enough for Randolph. He shoved the gun into my ribs. “Faster!”

Determined to live another day, I shoved my foot into the gas pedal. BMWs, it turns out, have a lot of kick, and that baby took off like a shot. Great, I thought. My one chance probably ever, to test a sweet ride like a BMW, and it has to be at gunpoint. Then I panicked, realizing that if I didn’t control the situation just right, that gun could very well end my chance of driving any car ever again.

It was time to get a grip. I’d been in dangerous situations before. Not too long ago, long-lost Mafia boss Tito Buttaro had aimed his gun right between my eyes hoping to save his own skin. Did I die? No. And when a cross-dressing, fugitive bank robber wanted to drop me down an elevator shaft, I didn’t die either. And I wasn’t going to die now. I silently prayed that the FBI was smarter than Randolph Rutter. And until they came through, I determined that I would aid in my own survival by a) driving with the skill of a seasoned mother who had three appointments to make in twenty minutes, and b) talking down an armed lunatic the way you talk a cranky toddler into eating those last two brussels sprouts at dinner time.

That’s right. Randolph Rutter hadn’t chosen just any old hostage to make his getaway. He’d tackled a bigger opponent than he’d counted on—he’d taken on Barbara Marr, mother of three. Because mothers don’t get mad, they get even.

Roads in Washington, DC are a nightmare. They don’t follow straight lines, half the streets are one-way, and you never know when you’re going to hit a traffic circle. Traffic circles, in particular, are disasters waiting to happen. On a good day—one without a wigged-out maniac holding a gun to your ribs—you’re tempting death when you enter one.

I screeched to a halt at a traffic light and asked my captor: “Which way?”

“Don’t stop!”

Well, that wasn’t an answer to my question, but obviously I was supposed to ignore my training and break all laws to keep us moving. That made sense. Telling someone not to stop in DC, however, is kind of like telling Meryl Streep not to act or Robin Williams not to ham it up in an interview. It’s impossible. The streets are narrow and vehicles innumerable. But I gave it the old college try and flipped a quick right-hand turn, prompting the guy I cut off to lay on his horn. Somehow, when you have a gun poking you in the side, this doesn’t bother you as much. I weaved around cars, thankful that the hot little BMW was smaller and maneuvered better than my mini-van. I honked at pedestrians and screamed, “outa my way!” at several intersections. I could hear sirens, but that’s not an uncommon sound in the District, so I could only hope they were looking for me.

“What’s your plan, Randolph?” I asked, careening through a red light and blaring my horn.

“I don’t know.”

Truthfully, that didn’t surprise me.

“Well, here’s the thing.” I flipped a fast right and realized that if I kept going straight, I’d hit Constitution Avenue. “You need a plan.”

Meanwhile, I was mentally calculating my own.

“Yeah, I need a plan.” He leaned back in the seat, and I saw his grip on the gun relax. “I just didn’t want to lose my job is all.”

“And so you kidnapped someone? You think this is really a good career move?” Without thinking, I stopped at a red light. Good habits run deep, what can I say? But Randolph didn’t notice. He was obviously having second thoughts.

“I panicked when I heard the gunshots. I knew Jorge was in over his head with Juarez. I took the gun he hides in his desk and snuck out the side door. Then I saw him on the ground.” Randolph started to cry and it seemed deeply sincere. I have to admit, I felt kind of bad for the guy. If only his hair plugs didn’t look ten times more disgusting up close than from a distance.

The sirens we heard suddenly sounded much closer and I was pretty sure they’d more than doubled in number. Randolph snapped out of his mourning and shoved the gun back tight against my ribs. “Keep moving! I need to think.”

The light had turned green so I did as ordered, watching my rearview mirror for signs of blue and red flashing lights. One more block and I’d be turning onto Constitution Avenue. From there, I’d be just a heartbeat away from exiting onto I66, a relatively straight freeway heading toward my stomping grounds in the Northern Virginia suburbs.

“Andy Baugh says Jorge knew that vomiting would kill Kurt and that he framed Frankie with the poisons. Were you two conspiring to kill him?”

He shook his head just as the wheels screamed taking the fast turn onto Constitution. “No. It was just a prank. I swear.”

I kind of believed him. “As far as you knew, anyway.”

He nodded. “As far as I knew.”

“Was Jorge capable of murder?”

No answer. Randolph stared out the window. On the floor at his feet, I spotted something that gave me hope. The car owner’s cell phone. I kept talking. “What do you know about Jorge’s involvement with Juarez and the voter fraud?”

“Enough.”

We flew over the Roosevelt Bridge with SUVs, police squad cars and a helicopter now visibly in pursuit. I had an idea brewing. “Tell me again,” I said, “why you kidnapped me. There has to be more to it than you just panicked. Not if you were completely innocent, Randolph.”

As we tore down I66 at nearly 80 miles per hour, it was obvious that the law enforcement machinery was at work. Police had cleared the freeway of vehicles to allow us free and easy passage. “Are you completely innocent?”

His answer was slow in coming, and not adamant enough for me to believe him. “I am.”

“But?”

He sighed and released the gun altogether, letting it drop between the seats. He buried his head in his hands. “The morning after Kurt died, I caught Jorge lifting a fingerprint from a water glass with tape, and planting it on the bottle of ipecac. He said it was to protect us by framing Frankie Romano for the prank.”

Suddenly it was all clear. Randolph did know Jorge was a murderer, and he knew it when news broke later that day that Frankie was arrested for poisoning Kurt Baugh.

“If you knew that Jorge poisoned those yams, then why did you call Guy Mertz? He said you were freaking because you thought someone had tried to poison you.”

“I was freaking because my lover and best friend was a murderer and I helped him do it. Guy is a true crime reporter, I was desperate to know what he was hearing through his connections. To know if we were safe from suspicion.”

While piecing the puzzle together, it suddenly occurred to me that Guy had told Randolph about our meeting near the White House. My stomach flip-flopped. To irritate Randolph, Guy said he had lied to Randolph and told him we were meeting to discuss an investigation of the murder. If Randolph passed that information on to Jorge, then that drive-by shooting near the White House could have been meant for us. Then I remembered the familiar car at the scene of the Tanner building shoot-out. It was familiar because it was a navy blue Lexus with Maryland plates—same one that Colt identified on Constitution Avenue.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to reflect on how lucky I’d been to narrowly escape a hit on my life. No, I had another dilemma at hand: making sure Randolph didn’t kill me now. I kept talking—it worked during my last two kidnappings. “So you know too much? Is that why you’re running now?”

“Jorge told me everything after taking a call from Juarez today. He said he did it for me as much as for himself and Juarez.”

“How in the world would killing Kurt Baugh benefit you?”

“Not that he died, but how.”

Now it made sense. Something that had nagged at me. I never understood why Kurt’s murderer would choose to do it during a preview screening. Why not in the middle of the night, with no witnesses? And more importantly, why have Randolph ask for the supposedly poisoned yams, then frame Frankie? It had seemed a rather risky and backwards way of getting things done.

“He did it for the publicity, didn’t he? You’d get publicity for being the movie reviewer who was nearly whacked by the Mafia. Your job would become more secure, and he’d get publicity for the ACL. Bring in bigger and better names.”

“Something like that.”

I figured it was time to run my idea by Randolph. He was tired and sufficiently worn down mentally. “Listen,” I said, “there’s a cell phone at your feet. I can reach my husband and tell him that you’re willing to talk. They want Juarez, not you. I’m going to bet dollars to donuts that’s why they were at the ACL building today. Offer them a deal—you talk, they drop the kidnapping charges.”

Honestly, I wasn’t sure if Randolph was going to bite, but it seemed likely since he’d dropped the gun and the rage. By now, we were surrounded by emergency and law enforcement vehicles of every kind, and we were all cruising at about forty miles an hour. Certainly he had to realize that we weren’t about to make another getaway without some fallout.

Randolph felt around on the floor until his hand landed on the phone. “What’s the number?”

Two helicopters hovered above us, and I suspected one was a news chopper. Guy Mertz was probably on the scene with a camera crew back at the ACL building, relaying the story to viewers with his usual melodramatic flair. He was right—by hanging around me long enough he’d landed the story of the century. Well, at least the story of the week.

Randolph dialed the number and handed me the phone. Howard, it turned out, was in the black car directly behind us. I waved in the rearview mirror.

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” The concern in Howard’s voice warmed me like an electric blanket on a cold, snowy morning. It’s good to feel loved.

“I’m fine. The gun is down. I’m very safe.”

“What were you still doing at the Tanner Building? I told you to leave.”

“I did leave.”

“You said you were going home.”

He had me there. “I was just wrapping things up. Home was next on my agenda. And really Howard, how was I supposed to know that the FBI was planning a coup? Do you think I’m psychic?”

I sensed he was rolling his eyes behind those tinted windows, but didn’t have any proof.

Howard needed to talk to Randolph, so I handed the phone back. That conversation went on for five minutes. Meanwhile, we’d passed the turnoff for my house in Rustic Woods and were heading toward Haymarket and destinations West. At this point, if someone didn’t come to an understanding soon, I imagined a trip to California could be in my immediate future.

Finally, Randolph handed the phone back to me. “We’re good. Do what he says.”

I took the cell. “Hi, Honey. Will we be done in time for dinner tonight?”

“Marr,” said a woman’s voice. “This isn’t your husband.”

I winced. “Agent Smith?”

“Bingo.”

“I don’t suppose I can talk to Howard?”

“You supposed correctly. He’s preparing,” she said. Then she walked me through the steps of where we’d be stopping the car and how slowly to do so. Even though the freeway was cleared, we were nearing an exit to a heavily populated business district. They wanted us to travel three more miles down the road, at which point they would sound the siren to let me know it was time to pull over. As soon as we came to a complete stop, I was to roll down the window and hand the gun to an agent who would then whisk me away to safety. Randolph was to stay in the car until Howard approached him on the passenger’s side and ordered him out with his hands over his head.

“Now, Marr,” she said seriously, “if at any time he regrets this decision and the situation becomes dangerous for you again, either while driving or while parked, tap your brakes twice.”

“Right,” I said. “Should I hang up?”

“No, leave the line open.”

“Right,” I said. “I’m putting the phone down.” I started to lay it in my lap, then thought about something I wanted to say. I put it back to my ear. “Hey, Smith?”

“Nope, this is Howard.”

“Oh good,” I said with a smile. “Because I was going to tell her to tell you that I love you. But now I can tell you myself. And I promise I’ll never go off and try to solve murders by myself anymore. I’ll leave that to people like you.”

“Didn’t you promise that last time?”

“Howard, I’m perimenopausal. Loss of memory is one of the most common symptoms.”

“Right.” The line went silent for a minute. “Barb?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you too. You won’t forget that, will you?”

“Not in a million years. In fact, you’re stuck with me for at least the next ten lifetimes.”

“Good. We’re coming up on the three mile mark now, so put the phone down and get ready to pull over.”

“Here we go,” I said to Randolph as I began to decelerate. “Are you doing okay?”

He nodded and looked at me very seriously. “It’s comfortable, isn’t it?” he asked.

I didn’t know what he meant. “What?”

“True love. We have that too, you know—Jorge and I. Since college. It’s warm and it’s comfortable.”

Actually, I didn’t want to tell him that the love of my life would never kill a man in cold blood to protect his own interests and those of a corrupt politician. But it was obvious that he did love Jorge with all of his heart, and so mine broke for him. It must have been very hard to hide that love, pretending to be someone he wasn’t for all of those years.

Randolph stared out his window. “He’s gone,” he said. “Jorge’s dead.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know.” He tapped his heart. “I sense it—his absence.”

Truthfully, I believed that it was possible that Jorge didn’t survive. He’d been shot, we all saw it. But I wanted to give Randolph hope. “Let’s just wait and see, okay? He’s probably going to be just fine.”

We’d pulled to a complete stop and I threw the gear shift into park, leaving the car running, just as I’d been instructed. I powered down the window and went to reach for the gun between the seats, but I was too late. Randolph was pointing it right at my face.

A thought flashed through my mind—something that I was supposed to do if things became dangerous.

But frankly, there was no time, even if I did remember what it was.

Glass and blood filled the air the instant I heard the explosion, as if it were all occurring at the same exact microsecond in time.

Then I was floating. Howard hovered over my vision and he called my name from the end of a long tunnel that grew longer and longer and darker and darker. I was desperate to touch him, but was too tired to try. Eventually he slipped away, and the darkness enveloped me entirely.

Chapter Twenty-One

STEVEN SPIELBERG AND MERYL STREEP. They’re both on my bucket list of people to meet. And I will. I may have to break some laws, get arrested and have a couple of restraining orders slapped on me, but I will meet them. In the meantime, during moments of stress, Steven or Meryl often visit me in my dreams.

I’m standing at the edge of a large rectangular pool that reflects a high-noon sun. The blue water is motionless and I feel that I could walk right out onto the surface and not fall through. Laughter startles me and I turn to see Meryl and Steven, robed in white flowing cotton gowns. The two of them together, in the same dream. It feels like a miracle. They’re walking toward me from an orange grove, over a plush lawn of the greenest grass I’ve ever seen. Meryl has stopped laughing to sip from the tall glass that she carries—a glass that is exactly identical to the two that Steven holds. When they reach me, Steven offers me one of the glasses.

“You must be thirsty after what you’ve just been through.” His smile is warm.

“Thank you,” I say as I take the glass.

“So you got yourself into another pickle, didn’t you?” Steven was chuckling.

“My adventures would make some pretty wild movies, huh? Want to buy my story?”

Steven shakes his head. “Not believable enough. Sorry.”

Right. Because a story about a hairless, midget alien phoning his home planet with a child’s toy is so probable. That movie would never make a dime. I’m about to argue this point, but that’s when I notice that they are both barefoot. I look at my feet and realize I’m not wearing shoes either. Somehow, this doesn’t bode well.

“Am I dead?” I ask.

Meryl laughs. “Why would you think such a thing?”

“Because I’m barefoot. In movies, when people dream that they’re barefoot, they’re usually . . . you know . . .” I run a finger across my throat as if giving it a lethal slice.

“There is some truth in that,” Steven answers, “but you’re also dreaming that you’re by a swimming pool on a hot summer day. Shoes really wouldn’t be the appropriate costume for such a scene, do you think?”

He has a point.

“Then why are you wearing those white robes?”

They exchange mournful glances. “Should we tell her?” Meryl asked.

“She’s going to find out eventually.”

They are making me very nervous. The glass is cold in my hand and I want to gulp it down, but for some reason my hand can’t move anymore. Figuring this is a dream, I try to will the glass to my lips with my thoughts, but it stays there, dripping, teasing.

“What will I find out eventually?”

“That man,” Meryl shook her head sadly. “That Randolph man. He is dead.”

Steven adds, “Howard blew his brains out.”

Meryl puts her arm around me. Don’t worry though, the water is helping.”

I’m really confused. What water? Because I can’t drink the blasted glass of water in my hand even though I’m thirstier than an elephant in the Sahara. Suddenly the pool and Meryl and Steven vanish and I’m standing in the middle of a field. It’s raining. I tip my head back and catch the rain drops with my open mouth.

Even though no one is around, someone repeats over and over again, “The water is helping. The water is helping.”

I became aware of hard ground beneath my shoulders while someone supported my head. My face and lips were wet.

Howard’s voice said: “Barb, drink.” He was holding a plastic bottle to my mouth. Instinctively, I gulped at it.

“Slow down. Not too fast.”

I’d been pulled from the car and laid on the ground. Judging from the people and activity around me, I hadn’t been lying on the asphalt for long. An EMT ran up with a bag and asked how I was feeling.

“Tired,” I mumbled.

Howard told the young female technician that I only blacked out for a few seconds and that I hadn’t experienced any physical trauma. She felt my hands, commented that my skin wasn’t clammy, then shined a penlight in my eyes. Finally she told Howard that I wasn’t showing signs of shock and that she was needed to assist with the shooting victim. The nice lady smiled and patted my hand. “If you need me, just tell someone, okay?” She scooted off around the car.

“Do you think you can walk if I help you?” Howard asked.

Nodding, I sipped on more water first. “Where are we going?” I asked after I’d quenched my thirst.

“Just to my car where you can sit.”

When we finally got comfortable in the backseat of his FBI-issue sedan, he kissed my hand and held it tight. “Eighteen years I’m in the Bureau, and in the last two years you’ve been in more danger than I have all my time as an agent. You’re making me look bad.”

“How are you doing?”

He looked into my eyes with an amazing sense of calm that surprised me, given that he’d just killed a man. “I’m fine now that you’re safe.”

“It’s that easy?” I asked.

A puzzled look crossed his face. “What do you mean?”

“Steven Spielberg said you blew Randolph’s brains out. That doesn’t bother you?”

“It bothers me that you’re having Steven Spielberg hallucinations.” He put his hand on my forehead. “You sure you feel okay?”

“It wasn’t just Steven. Meryl Streep was there too. They gave me water but I couldn’t drink it.” I squeezed his hand. “You mean Randolph isn’t dead?”

“He’ll survive. I wanted to blow his brains out, but I didn’t. Did some serious damage though, and no, that doesn’t bother me.”

“Meryl Streep lied to me. I can’t believe it.”

Howard smiled. “You can give her a piece of your mind later.”

“He thinks Jorge is dead—do you know? Is he right?”

He raised his eyebrows. “That makes sense.”

“You want to elaborate?”

“His firearm—it wasn’t loaded and we’re pretty sure he knew it.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“His first words when I opened his door were, ‘Let me die.’”

I felt like someone punched me in the gut and it was hard to catch my breath. “So Jorge is dead?”

Howard nodded. “According to agents still on the scene.”

“And Randolph was trying to commit suicide? He wanted you to kill him?”

He nodded again and pulled me in to hold me tight when my tears started to flow.

Exhausted from lack of sleep and too much excitement, I remained nuzzled against Howard after my cry, warm and protected. Sleep might have come quickly, if visions of the shootout in front of the Tanner Building hadn’t flooded into my mind.

I remembered seeing Colt on the ground and my eyes popped open. “Howard! What happened to Colt?”

“I’m waiting for confirmation right now.”

“Confirmation of what?”

“Where he was transported.”

He squeezed my hand again, and I knew from the way his face tightened that something was wrong. “He lost a lot of blood, Barb. There was some concern,” he cleared his throat, I think to hide the fact that he was choking up. “Concern that he wouldn’t make it.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

HOWARD RECEIVED A CALL INFORMING him that Colt had been taken to George Washington University Hospital. There was no news on his condition.

Howard didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go. He simply told Smith that he’d check in later, helped me around to the front seat, and we were on our way back to Washington, DC. As soon as we were underway, he said there would be a lot to discuss about why I was at the Tanner Building and what happened there, but that would happen officially at some point.

“You mean you’re not going to yell at me?” I asked.

He smiled. “Not now.”

After calling my mother and asking her to check in on the girls and Mama Marr, I trained an air vent on my face. The longer the day got, the steamier the air became. “This is the second time Colt was injured because I asked for his help. He’ll never forgive me.” My cheeks puckered and tears rolled down my cheeks again.

“He’ll live, and I highly doubt there’s any question of forgiveness. He’d walk through fire for you.”

“For you too,” I sniffed.

He nodded. “I know.”

The drive from Haymarket to Washington, DC is a long one. I decided to take the time to seriously discuss the touchy subject of Colt Baron and the Marr family.

Howard admitted that theirs had been a tumultuous friendship mostly because of his own jealousy. He knew, as did most of the world, that Colt still carried a torch for me, regardless how much he played the role of being a lady’s man. “But I’m over it—the jealousy, I mean.”

I reached over and rubbed his arm. “That’s good. Besides Steven Spielberg, you’re the only man I dream about.”

“And I trump Spielberg, right?”

“Especially after that last dream,” I said as I watched the suburbs of Northern Virginia sail past my window. “He’s got some ’splainin’ to do.”

We drove in silence for a moment.

“He makes me comfortable,” Howard said.

“Steven Spielberg?”

“No. Colt.”

“How’s that?”

“I know he’ll take care of you if anything ever happened to me.”

God forbid. I spent a lot of effort trying not to think of anything happening to the love of my life. Colt might watch out for me, but he’d never replace Howard. Not for me, not for the girls. Thinking of the girls reminded me of Clarence and I realized that Howard didn’t know. When I told him that Colt had a son, I thought he might drive the FBI’s car right off the road. Once he recovered from the surprise, Howard said he didn’t remember Deena Heatherington, but he was very anxious to meet Clarence.

“Let me warn you,” I said, “he’s . . . unique.”

In fact, the first person we saw at the ER was Clarence, drinking a glass of orange juice. He’d ridden with Colt in the ambulance. Knowing that Colt had lost a lot of blood, Clarence offered his own as soon as they arrived, hoping it would help. He’d taken a shot to the thigh and to the gut, that was all that Clarence knew.

The worried son pushed his blond hair away from his face. “He’s in surgery now.” He sat on a chair, and Howard and I joined him, one of us on either side. I put my arm around him for comfort.

A wall-mounted flat screen TV caught my attention and my face drained. “Would you look at that weasel?”

Clarence and Howard looked up. Guy Mertz was standing in front of the Tanner Building, giving the dramatic performance of his life. We watched him present his eye-witness account of the DC’s most recent shooting, a nefarious fiasco involving a web of drug crime, voter fraud, and the kidnapping of a Northern Virginia mom whose identity would remain anonymous for her protection.

Thank you, Guy. Just when I think I’m going to hate you, you turn around and do a good deed.

The FBI, he continued, had taken Senator Emilio Juarez into custody, while the president of DC’s chapter of the American Cinema League, Jorge Borrego, was pronounced dead on the scene. Meanwhile, two other shooting victims, director Andy Baugh and private detective, Colt Baron, had been transported to George Washington University Hospital. Mr. Baugh was reported to be in good condition. Mr. Baron’s condition remained to be determined. Mertz took a dramatic pause at this point, then spoke with staunch sincerity. “Mr. Baron, you are a brave man who I am honored to know. My thoughts and prayers are with you.”

Okay. I’d start watching Channel 10 again. As long as they kept Guy Mertz on the air.

While we waited for news from Colt’s surgeon, I went looking for Andy Baugh. Howard stayed in the waiting room with Clarence.

I found him in a private room on the third floor, and the nurse in attendance said Mr. Baugh was more than happy to see me. He was just hanging up his phone when I entered.

“I won’t take much of your time,” I said. “I just wanted to see how you were doing and say that I am so sorry for all that you’ve been through these last few days. I just feel terrible that your brother . . .” I couldn’t seem to find the right words to finish my thought.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m going to finish the documentary, so it won’t have all been in vain. He deserves to be honored.”

“You’re a good brother.”

He shook his head. “No, I’m not. I let petty jealousy get in the way. I’ll never be able to take that back now.”

“Well, you have my respect,” I said. “For what that’s worth.”

“From someone who values friendship the way you do? That’s worth a million dollars. If there’s anything I can ever do for you, just let me know.”

I smiled. “Well, I have always wanted to meet Steven Spielberg . . .”

Colt came out of his surgery weak, but alive and with the surgeon’s prediction that he’d live another fifty years easily. Only family members were allowed to see him, though, and despite my best efforts to declare that Howard and I were as close as family, the only person they’d allow in to visit was Clarence.

That night at home, I gave my three daughters the biggest, strongest hugs I could. Mama Marr was up and moving around as if she’d never pulled a muscle on a stripper pole, and she practically demanded that I eat the goulash she’d fixed for dinner. I took a bite or two, but just couldn’t keep my eyes open.

“What have you been doing this day, Barbara, that you should be so tired? Saving the world or something?”

“Or something,” I said.

Callie patted me on the back and winked. “We’re going to start calling her ‘Anonymous Mom.’”

Howard suppressed a laugh.

“Ach!” Mama Marr made a face. “This isn’t some more dirty slang words, is it? I don’t want these dirty slangs spoken when I’m living here.”

“Not dirty slang,” Callie assured her. “We’ll call it newsy slang.”

Mama Marr scrunched up her face and finally gave up trying to understand. She picked up my nearly untouched plate. “To bed with you, Barbara.”

“I’ll take her up,” Howard said.

I fell on the bed. Howard helped me take off my shorts and slip under the covers. I curled into a ball and fluffed my pillow under my head. Just before I drifted off to much-needed sleep, Howard crawled in with me, his body spooning mine perfectly.

“Howard?”

“Mmm?”

“Stay with me until I wake up, okay?”

He kissed my neck and pulled me tighter. “Not going anywhere. I’m staying right where I belong.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

TRUE TO HIS PROMISE, HOWARD stayed in bed until I awoke at two in the afternoon the next day. Even then, I could easily have rolled over and slept another day or two, but my mother’s guilt kicked in.

I stretched lazily and rubbed Howard’s arm. “What day is it?”

He kissed my forehead. “Thursday.”

Something about Thursday seemed important. I tried to imagine my calendar, wondering whether one of the girls had an appointment scheduled.

“Thursday, Thursday . . .” I was saying it out loud, hoping to ignite some memory. “Something’s happening today. I just know it.”

“Frankie’s indictment hearing?”

That was it! I snapped up like a catapult in action. “Do you know how it went?”

“Frankie Romano is officially a free man.”

Relieved and finally hungry, I decided to dig up some of that goulash and hopefully wash it down with a big glass of orange juice to celebrate Frankie’s freedom.

“Wanna join me?” I asked Howard.

He declined the invitation, saying it was time to head back in to work and wrap up his report. I kissed him and told him that I was planning the proper way to thank him for saving my life when he returned home that night.

“Does it have to be proper?” His smile was sly.

Grinning like a Cheshire cat, I wrapped my legs around his waist. “Mr., I can be as proper or improper as you like.”

At the kitchen table, I devoured the melt-in-your-mouth goulash and savored every last drop of the orange juice while Mama Marr scrubbed my kitchen counters with bleach water. I was too worn out to care each time she pulled another appliance away and gasped.

While I was rinsing the dishes, Peggy called. I figured she’d heard the news of my latest escapade and wanted either to gloat that she wasn’t involved this time or to get the nitty gritty details. I was wrong on both counts.

“Barb!” she screamed into the phone. “Major emergency! I don’t know what I’m going to do! Mama Mia! This just can’t be happening!”

“What emergency? Is someone hurt?”

“He flushed the toilet and I forgot to check.”

I wasn’t feeling any sympathy. “Is there more to this story?”

My doorbell rang and Mama Marr ran, rubber gloves and all, to answer it.

Poor Peggy was in a tizzy. Turns out, her cousin George Jr. (the one with the “weird” eye and short leg) had stayed at their house the night before. She hadn’t really wanted him as a house guest with the farewell party coming up, but how could she tell him that? And she really thought he ought to see a doctor because he spends so much time in the bathroom when he visits and always plugs the toilets, but she was so busy that she forgot to check the toilet after he left that morning and she went to the store and then to the post office and dropped off papers at the school and now her house is wet and smelly because the toilet flooded her house.

Mama Marr returned carrying a vase of flowers that was easily as large as she was. She set it down on the table and took a deep breath. “For you.” She handed me a card made out to Mrs. Barbara Marr.

“Peggy, I just got the most amazing bouquet of flowers. They’re stunning.”

“From Howard?”

Anxious to know myself, I pulled the card from the small envelope. Meanwhile, Peggy continued on her rant. “I should have followed my instincts and told George Jr. to go stay with my great Aunt Georgina. He is her namesake after all.” She blew out a sigh. “What am I going to do? I can’t have a farewell party here on Saturday!”

I read the card silently. “Our sincerest regrets for the anguish you have suffered. If there is ever anything we can do for you or your family, please let us know. The Board of Directors, American Cinema League.”

“Peggy, I think I may have a solution.”

The American Cinema League’s board of directors was more than generous. They literally rolled out the red carpet for Roz and Peter Walker’s farewell bash and opened their banquet room to the many awed guests in attendance.

And if that wasn’t enough, Frankie and his crew catered the affair for free. His only condition—no candied yams.

Wine and beer flowed as freely as the enjoyable conversation.

The Walkers, The Rubensteins, and the Marrs sat together at a table along with Judi and Richard Horner. I kept them captivated with my recounting of the mayhem during the last few days: How Kurt Baugh had vomited on me, then died, and how Frankie was arrested the next morning.

Everyone wanted to know why Kurt Baugh ate Randolph’s yams, so I had to explain that Jorge Borrego had set up an elaborate system for killing Baugh and framing Frankie Romano. According to Randolph Rutter’s testimony, Jorge had met with Baugh earlier in the day to assure him that he was done dealing drugs and working with crooked politicians. When they kissed and made up, Jorge appealed to Baugh’s love of pulling pranks. It was well known among the long-time college friends that Randolph had a particular pet peeve: he hated it when people ate off his plate. So Baugh agreed he’d annoy Randolph at the screening. He’d been taking bites from his plate all night.

On the other side of the prank, Randolph would pretend he was displeased with the yams—a known favorite of Baugh’s—and ask for more, which Jorge knew would be tainted with syrup of ipecac and three poisons by his “cousin” in the kitchen.

In truth, the “cousin” worked for Juarez. He was also the waiter who told the police that he saw Frankie pouring something into the pan of yams. Because Kurt loved candied yams, Jorge figured that even if he didn’t follow through and grab at least a couple of the tainted yams on his own, Randolph could offer them to Baugh and see if he took the bait. After all, Randolph had nothing to lose; he just thought he was pulling a prank. Jorge on the other hand, was counting on his plan to succeed. Which it did.

“Boy,” Roz said finally, looking at Peggy. “This is as hard to follow as one of your stories.”

The syrup of ipecac was the true murder weapon, intended to cause Baugh to vomit, which would then burst the esophageal varices. Jorge was betting on DC’s notoriously slow emergency response to give enough time for him to bleed to death. The three poisons were too slow acting and ineffective in the low quantities necessary to be sure that Kurt didn’t taste them when he ate the yams. The poisons went into those yams for one purpose only: to frame Frankie for the murder—the infamy of his mob ties and the conspicuous nature of Baugh’s death would bring publicity to the ACL and Randolph Rutter, whose job had been hanging in the balance for some time.

“So Jorge only planned this murder after you recommended Frankie for the catering job?” Judi asked.

This was a difficult reality for me to bear. “Terrible, isn’t it? I feel so guilty.”

I sipped from my water glass. “Next,” I continued, the faces at the table completely engaged, “Jorge had to convince Andy Baugh to request a murder investigation. It wasn’t hard to do since he knew how sensitive Andy was about keeping Kurt’s drug and alcohol abuse quiet from his parents and the press. He would be more than glad when the police and press focused their attention on Frankie and not on Kurt’s questionable lifestyle choices.”

“And why did Jorge want Kurt dead?” Peggy asked, completely enthralled.

“Jorge didn’t want him dead,” I answered. “Juarez did. During the filming of his documentary, Kurt started to put two and two together regarding Jorge and Juarez’s partnership—they were utilizing Jorge’s drug cronies to build a network designed to bring unregistered voters to the polls by the thousands and vote for their man. The unregistered voters were paid handsomely, and Juarez looked the other way when drug abuse bills came up for vote. It didn’t hurt that Juarez was, oh by the way, also addicted to prescription pain killers.”

Roz still looked confused. “But I thought that Jorge told Kurt he’d give it all up—the drugs and working with Juarez.”

“That didn’t matter to Benito Juarez who had his sights set on the presidency. According to what Jorge told Randolph, Juarez didn’t trust Kurt not to talk later down the road.”

“Wow,” said Judi Horner.

“I know. It’s terrible,” I said. “In the end, poor Kurt Baugh was silenced by the yams.”

As we were leaving that night, I met the new President of the DC Chapter of the ACL, Penny Drexel. She’d been there to make sure our event went smoothly. She stood with a tall man who appeared to be in his fifties. He wasn’t dressed for the occasion. “Barb, this is my husband, Bud Drexel. He’s the program director at Channel 3.”

We shook hands and I eyed him suspiciously, wondering what was up. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“No, Mrs. Marr, it’s very nice to meet you. I’m not going to beat around the bush here. I’d like to arrange a meeting with you to discuss the possibility of your filling our vacant movie reviewer position.”

Given what Guy Mertz had said at the screening dinner, I wasn’t completely surprised. “I’d love to meet with you, Mr. Drexel.”

“Excellent.” He handed me his card. “Call me Monday and we’ll make the arrangements.”

As Howard escorted me from the building to our car, he seemed a little concerned. “Are you seriously thinking about being a movie reviewer for a news channel?”

“Nope,” I said, thinking of my new friend Clarence, projectionist and movie trivia master. “But I’m going to take along someone who’d be perfect for the job.” I slid into the passenger seat and buckled up. “Once he gets a haircut.”

Howard was looking especially sexy behind the wheel as we drove home. The black suit, steel gray tie, and scent of cologne tickled my erogenous zones.

“Howard, I’m feeling the need . . .”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, no.”

“That’s right,” I nodded, laughing. “I’m feeling the need—the need for a Top Gun quote.”

He smiled. “Let her fly.”

Powering the window down, I let the strong breeze blow through my hair. “Marr, you stud!” I shouted.

“Yeah, honey?”

“Take me to bed or lose me forever!”

The End (for now)

Epilogue

TWO WEEKS LATER, THINGS HAD mostly settled down. There was no settling the cats, Indiana Jones and Mildred Pierce, however. They wanted bird for dinner and devised all sorts of schemes to satisfy their desperate taste buds. Finally, Pavrotti was shipped off to my mother’s house to save his little neck and my hanging-by-a-thread sanity. That put the household back on a more even keel with one yappy dog, who was beginning to win my affections, and two depressed felines.

Colt was recovering at home with the aid of his new son and roommate, Clarence, who had just signed a contract to be Channel 3’s new movie reviewer.

Mama Marr’s house in Philadelphia went on the market and we had traveled there twice to bring more of Mama Marr’s clothes and treasured items, but we were getting pretty cramped, and I wasn’t quite sure how she was going to fit in our home. She promised she would learn to give away items that were not so important or sentimental, and since I enjoyed having a good cook in the house, I didn’t complain. Much.

Howard’s time with the FBI was quickly drawing to a close. He seemed ambivalent, but continued to assure me that he was looking forward to finally having time to spend with his family.

Early one morning he woke me with a kiss. The kiss lingered and my hands wandered. Reluctantly, he pulled away. “As much as I want to, I can’t.”

I pulled him in, nibbling his neck. “Are you sure?” When my nibbles turned to sexy, come-hither bites, he caved and fell in for a deep kiss that set me on fire.

A knock on our door doused my flames and deflated Howard’s passion. “Mommy!” Amber yelled through the locked barricade. “Puddles pooped on the floor again!”

Nothing like doggy doo-doo to ruin a romantic mood.

“Okay,” I sighed. “You go win some bread and I’ll scoop some poop.”

Howard stood and smoothed some wrinkles in his shirt. “I could be late, so don’t count on me for supper.”

“How late?”

“You still ask that question?”

“How many more days?”

“Five.”

“Can’t come soon enough,” I said, standing and nuzzling in close to his chest. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with the need to keep him there and not let him leave. “Do you have to go?” I asked.

“I do.” He kissed my head and we walked downstairs together. “What are you doing today?”

“Errands mostly. Callie has a dentist appointment.”

He filled a travel mug with coffee and headed for the door. “Stay of trouble.”

“Ha!” I laughed. “Good one. You too.”

The door closed and I stood, alone in our kitchen, wishing that Howard had stayed home for the day and picked up that dog poop himself.

Later, Callie and I left for her dentist appointment while my mother and Mama Marr sat at the kitchen table planning a ghost hunting tour throughout Southern Virginia. “Your mama, Barbara!” Mama Marr’s face was bright and alive. “She has such the way of staying young!”

I was just thankful it was a ghost tour and not bungee jumping or hang gliding. Maybe my mother was helping Mama Marr feel young, and Mama Marr was calming my mother down. It could turn out to be, as Bogie said once, “the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Outside, I handed Callie the keys. “You can drive.”

“No way. You freak out.”

“No, really, I’m turning over a new leaf. I’ll be calm. I won’t grab the arm rest in a panic or anything.” I crossed my heart. “Promise.”

She spied me with a wary eye. “I don’t know . . .”

“Give me one more chance. One freak out, I’ll never bother you again.”

She gave in and popped into the driver’s seat.

I have to say, Howard did a wonderful job teaching her. She didn’t go over the speed limit, she made her turns slow, stopped at stopped signs, and used her indicator when she changed lanes. I never even felt the urge to jump or gasp or cling to anything for support.

Less than a mile from Dr. Horner’s office, Callie expressed some concern. Three vehicles ahead of us were behaving oddly. Following each other in single file on the outside lane of the thoroughfare, it was apparent they were traveling far below posted speed limit. Painfully slow, as a matter of fact. Two black SUVs sandwiched a sleek, black sedan with tinted windows.

“Should I pass them?” Callie asked.

I was about to tell her “yes” when the middle car jerked out of its lane. When the SUV behind it followed suit, the black sedan slipped back to its original place in line. This happened two more times and that’s when I knew we were witnessing something more than an innocent simple caravan. This smacked of bureau-related covert operations.

The convoy had slowed, forcing Callie to drive at a near-crawl. Then that darned sedan jerked out of its lane again, as if attempting a getaway. My heart was racing and I could tell Callie was worried. I glanced around—besides the three vehicles in front of us, we were very nearly the only car on the road. Far behind us was another gray van.

“Callie, change lanes and pass them. Quickly.”

She flipped the turn indicator, moved the van into the adjoining lane and started to pick up speed.

And as long as I live, I will never forget what happened next. It remains burned in my memory and I’m quite sure not even a terrorist bent on washing my brain could touch the horror, much less erase it.

The back window on the driver’s side of the rear SUV powered down and a jacketed man armed with a rifle revealed himself to us. He outstretched one arm forcefully, signalling us to halt.

Shocked, Callie didn’t stop immediately. “Mom?”

The man performed the halting signal again, with more force, his face harsh.

“Oh, my God!” I screamed, realizing who the man was.

“Mom! It’s dad!”

We had no time to register the gravity of the situation. A red car screamed past our left, coming seemingly out of nowhere.

Callie hit the brakes hard and my neck snapped. Howard’s face registered recognition for a flash of a second before a stream of gunfire was unleashed from the red car.

Howard fired back as the escorted black sedan broke ranks and tore away, leaving a cloud of burning rubber.

Callie was screaming and the familiar sound of gunfire pierced my eardrums.

As the two SUVs lurched fast in hot pursuit of the sedan, the red car careened off the side of Howard’s vehicle, which then flipped into a roll. Over and over and over it sailed, the gut wrenching echo of crunching steel tearing at my heart.

“Howard!” I screamed. “If you leave me now, I’ll kill you!”

Other Books in This Series

Take the Monkeys and Run (2010)

Citizen Insane (2011)

Enjoy these Barbara Marr shorts:

The Chronicles of Marr-nia, Short Stories Starring Barbara Marr

It’s a Dunder-Bull Wife, A Barbara Marr Holiday Tale

About the Author

Karen Cantwell writes the Barbara Marr Mystery Series which includes Take the Monkeys and Run, Citizen Insane, and Silenced by the Yams. Like Barbara Marr, Karen is a mother living in the suburbs. Unlike Barb, she has never found monkeys in her trees or a severed human head in her neighbor's basement, and for this she is very thankful.

Karen loves to hear from readers. You can find her email address on the website, http://www.KarenCantwell.com.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Other Books in This Series

About the Author