Silenced by the Yams (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #3) Read Free

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