Silenced by the Yams

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.”