Silenced by the Yams (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #3) (20 page)

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!”

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
.

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

Silenced by the Yams

Copyright © 2012 by Karen Fraunfelder Cantwell

Published by Books on the Green

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are entirely the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.