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

thrown me into a funk. I didn’t feel clean enough after one shower, concerned that my hair still reeked of bloody bile, so I had taken a second before climbing into bed. I smiled, thankful that my husband still found me kissable in the light of day. “Howard,” I moaned in a tired voice.
    “I’m here,” Howard answered. “But that’s not me licking your neck.”
    I bolted upright, startling Puddles the Poodle, who evidently considered my neck a salty delicacy. Puddles yelped and I shouted. “What’s that dog doing in my bed?”
    Howard stood next to the bed, holding a cup of java and laughing. “It’s his house, too,” he said.  He handed me the coffee and picked up the curly gray canine.
    Puddles the Poodle was not welcome in my home. At least not by me. Howard had acquired him after his owner, a Mafia-connected neighbor, found herself spending the rest of her life in the Big House. Shortly thereafter Howard and I had separated, working out some marital issues. Howard acquired a condo across town and Puddles kept him company. When Howard moved back home, Puddles came along. I had not understood, while reconciling, that I was also committing to life with a yappy rat-dog.
    “First,” I argued, “I never agreed that he could live here, and second, even if he does, the bed is off-limits. Beds are for humans, floors are for dogs.”
    “You let Indiana Jones and Mildred Pierce on the bed.”
    “They’re cats and rules never apply to cats, you know that. They’re too cool for rules.”
    As if on cue, our yellow tabby, Indiana Jones, leaped onto the comforter. “Meow.” His look-alike, Mildred Pierce kitty, followed. Together, they padded around until each found a comfy place to settle, then directed their unblinking feline stares toward Puddles. Nary a whisker twitched on their stone faces, but I knew my kitties—on the inside, they were laughing their hairy little butts off.
    Howard rolled his milk-chocolate brown eyes and lowered Puddles to the floor. “Out Puddles,” he said, and pointed to the bedroom door. Puddles started yapping and dancing on his hind feet. Howard repeated the command.  “Out!”
    Either Puddles didn’t understand the command, or he didn’t care to obey, because he continued the yapping. I covered my ears. “How are those training classes going?”
    “He’ll learn eventually.”
    “Not so good?”
    “We’re learning to . . . communicate.”
    “Have you ever heard the saying, ‘You can’t teach an irritating old dog new tricks’?”
    Even Howard was getting annoyed with the dog’s high-pitched woof. He snatched up the furball and marched out of the room. I sipped on my coffee until he returned sans-pooch.
    “Where did you put him?” I asked.
    “Amber’s room. She likes to dress him in her doll clothes.”
    I laughed. Puddles wasn’t my favorite animal, but I did feel a little sorry for him, suffering the humiliation of being forced into a lace dress and bloomers.
    For a moment, I relished my luck at having such a handsome and sensitive husband. He looked like George Clooney, for crying out loud. Really, I’m not making it up—everyone says so. A little more gray, a little less chin, but definitely Clooney-esque. And for every part of gorgeous on the outside, he contained an equal part of beautiful on the inside.
    “So,” I asked, “what time is it? Shouldn’t you be at work?”
    He looked at his watch. “It’s ten o’clock, Sleeping Beauty. And I have the day off because I’m picking my mother up from the airport, remember?”
    I would have slapped my forehead if both hands weren’t wrapped around my coffee mug. “Oh, schnitzel! It’s Monday. Having a man heave his intestinal enzymes all over me must have affected my short term memory.” I held up the mug. “I might need three or four more of these to get me going.”
    A solemn look crossed his face at the mention of my adventurous evening. He sat on the edge of the bed. “I can’t leave you alone