Silenced by the Yams - By Karen Cantwell Page 0,1

sat, face flushed, wondering where that waiter was with the wine.

“This is Barbara Marr!” shouted Guy. “Remember her story?”

Randolph’s face was blanker than the checks in my wallet. He did not remember my story. Now I wasn’t sure which was more embarrassing—the fact that I wasn’t memorable, or the reality that Guy Mertz was about to make me look like a crazy lady in front of some very important people.

“You know,” Guy torpedoed on, the entire table paying attention now. “The soccer mom in Rustic Woods who took down three of the FBI’s most-wanted with a hand grenade.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Randolph Rutter’s mouth and he nodded.

“Actually,” I said, feeling the need to set the record straight, “the hand grenade wasn’t my idea.”

I coughed while everyone stared. A moment later the table broke into laughter. The problem was, I didn’t know if they were laughing at me or with me. I held my wine glass high in the air. “Waiter?”

“If I remember right,” Randolph added, “you also have a movie ‘review’ website and that little incident gave you quite a bit of free publicity.” He finger-quoted the word “review” and his sarcasm wasn’t lost on anyone. He didn’t stop there. “Your husband is an FBI agent, am I right?” He had the table’s attention now. “Isn’t that . . . convenient?”

Smiles faded on the faces around me and people went back to their food while Randolph Rutter held my gaze for a few miserable moments longer. Finally, after what seemed like decades, he turned back to Kurt Baugh, continuing their conversation.

The way I figured it, I had a couple of choices. I could dive under the table and hide until the guests were ushered into the screening room, or I could pretend like I hadn’t just been covertly insulted by Washington, DC’s most popular movie reviewer. I peeked under the table. It didn’t look so bad under there. No, Barb, I said to myself. Be strong. He’s not better than you. Look at those hair plugs for crying out loud. Who’s he to talk?

Guy leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Don’t let that idiot get to you. He knew who you were the minute he saw your nameplate on the table. His job teetered on the edge of oblivion when you hit the news. I heard from more than one reliable source that Channel 3 came this close,” he held up two nearly-touching fingers for illustration, “to offering you his reviewing spot. They needed the ratings.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

Mertz nodded and popped the last of his steak into his mouth. After a couple of chews he said, “Wish they had. Can’t stand the prick.”

Okay, so Guy Mertz was my new best friend. If only he chewed with less enthusiasm.

When a waiter didn’t show up with more Chardonnay, I went searching for some myself. I was also looking for a friend: ex-mobster-turned-chef and caterer, Frankie Romano, who was supplying the delectable eats at this shindig.

Guy Mertz was right about my “fame”—I’d been the news story of the day after being held hostage by three female bank robbers, aka the Dynasty Dames. Frankie had supplied the hand grenade and the 9mm Beretta that helped me escape. The whole debacle occurred in my suburban town of Rustic Woods, which made it pretty much impossible for the FBI to keep the story under wraps.

Within days, my face was plastered across newscasts in the greater Washington, DC Metropolitan area. The publicity landed my husband, Howard Marr, a desk job pushing paper, and found my movie review website a huge following. Howard wasn’t happy about the desk job, but now, three months later, I was ecstatic that my website’s popularity had gained me an invitation to the private screening of the new summer blockbuster, Hell Hath No Fury. I was even happier when I was able to recommend Frankie Romano as the event’s caterer. Frankie was pleased as punch, too. A job like this could open up a whole new world for him.

I located Frankie standing proudly next to a buffet table against the far wall of the banquet room. “Who’s in charge of these servers?” I asked him.

A smile lit up the face of my Italian-American friend. “Yo, Barb!” He gave me a tight bear hug. “How you doin’?”

“I’d be better if I could get a refill on this Chardonnay,” I said, holding up my empty wine glass.

“Sorry,” he said, and immediately flagged a passing young man in a black