Read Online Silenced by the Yams (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #3) by Karen Cantwell - Free Book Online Page B

Mertz has reported. That’s why I want to talk to Frankie.” I added some sweetness to my smile. “And maybe my favorite private detective could help by talking to some of his friends in the DC police department . . .”
    Colt answered my smile with a frown.
    Suddenly, whizzing cars were swerving and honking. When I turned to see what was causing the commotion, I shrieked. A man was pulling my driver’s side van door open and before I knew what was happening, he was diving into my back seat. I continued to scream until Colt had managed, in one fell swoop, to secure the man by his collar, hanging him precariously like a kitten by the scruff of his neck.
    The uninvited back seat visitor was Guy Mertz.
    Alive and bullet-free.

Chapter Eight
     Truthfully, it was hard to pin Guy as a good egg or a bad seed, but either way, I was relieved to see him. “Thank God you’re not dead!”
    “You have a funny way of showing it,” he panted. “Could you call your dog off?”
    I tapped Colt’s hand. He dropped Guy, who straightened up and did a little self-adjustment on his neck.
    “Who’s the goon?” Guy asked.
    “My friend Colt. He’s a private detective and he carries concealed, so watch yourself.”
    “Watch myself from what? You think I want to hurt you?”
    “I guess not. I just always wanted to say that. It feels cool.”
    Guy smoothed his shirt. “It’s illegal anyway.”
    “What?”
    “Carrying concealed in DC. But your bodyguard knows that, I’m sure.”
    I narrowed my eyes. “You have some explaining to do. I saw you standing at the hot dog stand that just got shot up like Daffy Duck during wabbit season.”
    Guy’s face went pale. “That wasn’t me.”
    Poor Guy Mertz spilled his guilty beans. Seems he had been called in for a spur-of-the-moment meeting at Channel 10—one he couldn’t get out of. So he sent his assistant to meet me and let me know he’d be running late and not to leave. He had the assistant, a young college kid, wear his hat and carry the signature umbrella so I’d be sure to recognize them, which of course, I did. Guy was making his way down 17 th street when he heard the gun shots. He bolted like Chicken Little, not knowing that it was the hot dog stand under fire. When he overhead two people talking about the incident he felt sick and sat down on a stone bench at the World War II museum worrying if he’d just innocently gotten his assistant killed. He spotted Colt and me walking to the van and decided to follow us.
    “Why didn’t you just catch up and talk to us while we walked?”
    “Because I wasn’t the only one following you.”
    Colt broke a smile for the first time. “Kid with a goatee wearing cargo shorts and a red baseball cap?”
    “You know him?”
    I sighed. “He says he’s a projectionist at ACL and he knows who killed Kurt Baugh. I met him earlier, but Colt scared him off before he told me what he knew. For some reason he’s still following us.”
    “He probably has a crush on you, Curly,” Colt said.
    “Great. Now you call me Curly.” I turned my attention back to Guy. “Let’s cut to the chase. What evidence do you have that Frankie isn’t the murderer?”
    Guy ran a hand over his partially balding head. “That’s a little complicated.”
    Colt didn’t look happy and I thought he might grab Mertz by the scruff of the neck again and shake some stuffing out of him. “Either you have evidence or you don’t. Not complicated.”
    “See, here’s the thing,” Guy said, sniffing and pulling on his skinny nose. “Things are tough at Channel 10 and—”
    “You don’t have any evidence, do you?” Colt’s generally cool blue eyes were turning angry red.
    “I might not make the cut!” Guy shouted. “I need a great story like this to save my job.”
    I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Guy, what did you do?”
    “Do? I didn’t do anything. I was just hoping to . . . you know . . . you’re a great story. You find yourself in