Silenced by the Yams (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #3) (6 page)

“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?

Chapter Six

Guy’s explanation for not approaching the police was thin and convoluted. Something about “protection of the press” and not wanting to “cross a line.” It all sounded like ten tons of baloney to me, but he kept pressing, so just to shut him up, I agreed to a meeting.

Plagued with concern about Frankie and the two bizarre informant calls mixed with a longing desire to cuddle up against Howard’s warm body, I tossed and turned most of the night. I didn’t manage more than two hours of decent sleep and by morning, needed an IV infusion of caffeine to kick-start my body into action.

After promising Callie an extra dollar an hour for watching Bethany and Amber, I waved good-bye to Mama Marr as she drove away in my mother’s red Mini Cooper.  Then I hit the road myself for a day of truth-seeking.

First on my to-do list was meeting Clarence at the reflecting pool near the Lincoln Memorial at noon. Next, I’d arranged to hear what Guy Mertz had to say—he said he would be at a hot dog stand on Constitution Avenue at one o’clock. This was good—I’d get an unhealthy lunch before heading to my final destination: the DC jail where they were holding Frankie. A quick check of the DC Government website had informed me that a person could only visit on certain days based on the inmate’s last name. Luckily, Tuesday was my day to visit Frankie. Otherwise, I would have to wait two days. Then, I had to wrap it all up in time to get back home and get dinner on the table before heading to my hand gun lesson with Colt at Straight Shooters Indoor Range. A few months earlier we’d been scheduled for a similar lesson, but that got interrupted by a trio of fugitive bank robbers with a different plan for my evening.

The day was typical for a DC summer—hot and swamp-muggy. The sun boiled the humid air to a thick haze. I’d pulled my hair into a pony tail, topped my head with a yellow visor, and covered my eyes with my favorite pair of Jackie O sunglasses. I was summer chic and reasonably guarded against the intense sun.

In the pocket of my shorts was a new friend: a can of mace. I’d been kidnapped two too many times and learned my lesson the hard way. These days I didn’t venture to the mailbox without my pepper spray.

By the time I reached the Memorial, my t-shirt was clinging to me like a wet rag and my throat was parched. I bought a bottle of water from a street vendor and sipped while I scanned the area near the reflecting pool for a man in a red baseball cap. The reflecting pool is a rectangular, man-made pond that stretches expansively between the Lincoln Memorial and Washington Monument.  It's long and shallow, just like most political speeches. It’s lined on both sides by walking paths dotted with benches for weary tourists in need of rest and/or a possible hip replacement. Currently, a brown-haired woman reading a book occupied one bench and a young couple with a cranky toddler in a stroller sat at another, but there was no man in a red baseball cap.  I looked across the pool at the benches closest to the Memorial.  Not a baseball cap could be seen, red or otherwise. I checked my watch—five minutes after twelve, so I wasn’t especially late. Feeling as cranky as the screaming baby, I meandered to an empty bench and sat, wondering if the mysterious Clarence was watching me from hiding.

A male jogger passed by, dripping sweat and looking like he might keel over with his next step. Somehow, I couldn’t imagine that running in this kind of heat and humidity was going to help prolong anyone’s life. I felt certain that my own laid-back form of exercise (i.e. walking to the mailbox once a day) was far healthier in the long run—pun intended.

Another jogger appeared. He had longish blond hair and a small goatee. He wasn’t drenched in sweat and even more unusual, he wasn’t really dressed for jogging—he wore cargo shorts and a white t-shirt with a picture of Alfred Hitchcock on the front. As he ran past—far too slowly for a real jogger—he whistled some sort of sinister tune.

The couple with the cranky toddler got up and left.  Hitchcock Jogger was giving me the heebie-jeebies, so I switched benches. A minute later he was back, running in the other direction and he was whistling the same tune, only louder now. As he approached, he slowed down until he was nearly jogging in place right in front of me.

I tried to ignore him by twisting around and watching a couple of ducks in the reflecting pool, but the harder I ignored, the louder his whistling grew. I was plotting a quick dash to the nearby Park Police kiosk when he stopped whistling and whispered, “Say it.”

I turned back around. Truthfully, besides the fact that he was behaving stranger than Anthony Perkins in
Psycho
, he actually looked fairly harmless. His face was soft and young and his eyes warm and familiar.

Against what would be considered better judgment, I responded. “Are you talking to me?”

“Say it,” he whispered again.

“Say what?”

“The code word.”

Light bulb.

“Are you Clarence?” I asked.

“Depends,” he whispered, still jogging in place, but looking around, as if he were being very clandestine. “Do you know the code word?”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I sighed. “Casablanca. The code word is Casablanca. By the way, you’re not wearing a red baseball cap and what’s that ridiculous tune you’re whistling?”

He grabbed at his head in surprise. “Oh!” He reached into one of the pockets in his shorts, pulled out a red cap and waved it in front of me. “Sorry. Forgot the hat.” He plopped down on the bench next to me. “Man it’s hot out here. You could swim in this air.” He positioned the cap on his head, gave a suspicious Inspector Clouseau inspection survey of the area, then whispered, “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

Despite his over-the-top secretive behavior, there was something about this young guy I kind of liked. I suspected he needed a friend or two if he acted like this all of the time. “Well,” I said, “I’m not going to stick around if you continue to whisper and I am going to have to demand that you look at me while we talk. I’m pretty sure that by now, anyone following us knows that we’re having a conversation.”