Silenced by the Yams (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #3) (2 page)

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.”