Silenced by the Yams

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?