3 Silenced by the Yams

by Karen Cantwell

  “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 decl
are 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.”