“There was nothing, Ms. Childs, I didn’t know about Marcus. And in answer to your statement that we were separated, let me update you. We’d reconciled. Privately. We didn’t broadcast news of it, but Marcus had moved back home.”
I glanced down at the bio I’d pulled up on Marcus. “In fact, if my math is correct, you would have been married sixty years this April.”
“There’re not many couples in this town who can say that. But let’s be real, Carol, marriage is hardly the happy ending Hollywood would have us believe. At the end of the day, marriage is a business relationship as much as it is a social contract.”
“Is that how you’d describe what you and Mr. Reddings had? A social contract.”
“We had our ups and downs. I think any gal who enters into marriage believing it’s going to be some endless romantic spiral of happily-ever-after is in for a surprise. If a gal wants romance, she best check into a motel.”
Matt signaled me we needed to go to a station break. Andrea’s last statement had ignited a wildfire of callers. All of them waiting to speak with a woman who was one of LA’s great mysteries. I asked Andrea if she would stay on the line and take a few calls, but she declined. She felt she had said enough for the night, and, sensing she was about to hang up, I signaled Matt to get her number. If I needed her later, I wanted to make sure I had a way of contacting her.
I opened the second half of the show recapping Marcus Reddings’ death and referencing Andrea’s statement regarding romance and marriage.
“So let’s talk. Is Andrea Reddings right? Is marriage more of a business arrangement? And what about our Runaway Mom? Should she have expected less romance and demanded more of a shared role when it came to the distribution of work and play? What about you, what do you expect?”
I was thrilled with the response. Not only were the phone lines lit, but each time a caller hung up, another took their place. The callers and their comments were lively and for the most part fun. I couldn’t have planned a better show. If Tyler were listening, he had to be smiling. Judging from the number of callers, both male and female, my numbers had to be off the charts.
Twenty minutes later, I was in the middle of a debate with a young woman. She thought the institution of marriage was passé and couldn’t imagine herself in such a situation. I was about to open the lines for further discussion when Matt smacked an erasable white board against the glass of his small controller’s booth. Scribbled in red letters was the very name I had told him to alert me to. Mustang Sally! Line 3.
I felt my stomach drop. With less than five minutes to go, I had almost forgotten about Sally. I considered not taking the call but felt I owed it to Chase. After all, he had given me the heads up on the Runaway Mom and convinced Andrea Reddings to call. If Mustang Sally wanted to talk and knew something about Bruno’s death and the death of the other two men Chase was investigating, I needed to allow her the airtime to reveal herself.
I braced myself for the unexpected and gripped the mic. “Welcome to The Soap Box. This is Carol Childs, may I ask—”
“This is Sally. Mustang Sally. We spoke last week.” Her voice was even coarser than I remembered. “And I called to say Andrea Reddings is right.”
“Right? You mean about marriage being a contract?”
“Hardly a contract.” She chortled a deep dry throaty laugh. A chill ran down my back. “At least not the kind of contract I’m referring to.”
I should have disconnected the call right then and wrapped the show. Ignored her invitation to open what I felt for sure would be a Pandora’s box, but I didn’t. I knew Chase would be listening, and I thought, okay, just this once because I owe you, but after tonight, we’re through.
“Certainly, you’re not talking about contract killings?”
“She’s right about them. They’re a necessary evil. It would be nice if we didn’t need them, but for some women, we have our own special court of appeals.”
“Court of Appeals? I’m not sure I understand.”
“But Ms. Reddings does.”
“You’re not saying you think Ms. Reddings—”
“You know the song Frankie and Johnny were sweethearts?” Mustang Sally started singing. “Oh Lordy.” She slurring her speech, then suddenly stopped. “He done her so wrong. Surely your listeners know the story.” Sally wailed a few more lines, her voice like a washboard, echoing into my headphones and out across the airwaves, and then stopped. “When a man does a woman wrong, Carol, it’s up to us to take care of him.”
“How, Sally? How do you take care of him?”
CHAPTER 19
Just like the first time Mustang Sally called, the line went dead before I could get her to tell me anything more about herself. Where she was or how I might reach her again. I closed the show, made a brief mention about how sometimes, late at night, the station got unusual calls, pranks and that kind of thing, and moved on. I thanked my listeners and Ms. Reddings for sharing her story. And then I waited alone in the studio as Matt turned out the lights and uploaded the programming for the overnight—old-time radio plays.
With nothing but the lights coming from the computer screen, an eerie shadow cast itself across the studio. I stared at the phone line, willing it to ring, but it sat silent while voices from the radio play echoed throughout the empty station like ghosts. Finally, I picked up the phone and called Chase. I didn’t wait for him to say hello.
“You did it again. You promised you wouldn’t, but you did. You got Mustang Sally to call, didn’t you?”
“Carol, I swear. I had nothing to do with that.”
“Then how did she know about Andrea?”
“I don’t know how she knew about Andrea. I haven’t got a clue. But whoever Sally is, she obviously knew about your show. Think about it, Carol. It wouldn’t be hard. The station’s been running promo spots all week. I caught one this afternoon. If Sally’s listening to the station, she probably did too.”
I paused. Chase had a point. Tyler had doubled up on the promos. Sally might have heard one and tuned in to listen.
“Face it, Carol. You have a fan, and she’s hooked on your show like a fish on the line. Now all you have to do is keep playing with her while we reel her in.”
“What do you mean we reel her in? We, you and I, aren’t going to do anything. From here on out, if Sally calls the station, I’m telling my screener not to put her calls through. I’m not turning my broadcast into some late-night freak show. Look, I appreciate the tip you gave me about the runaway mom and what you did with Andrea Reddings. Getting her to call. I really do. And, much as I think Bruno Sims didn’t commit suicide, I don’t share your conspiracy theories that there’s some wild group of women out there going around killing men because they were rude or pissed them off or jilted by the men in their lives. That’s not enough reason to kill someone.”
“But—”
“Chase, I’m sorry. Even if you didn’t set this Mustang Sally up to call, whoever she is, she’s nuts, and—”
“And you’re not convinced I’m not either.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Chase’s reference to his brain injury caused me to pause. I didn’t want to sound totally unsympathetic to what I suspected had been a long hard struggle.
“I’m not crazy, Carol. Something’s going on.”
“Maybe. But I’m not risking my career or this show on some hunch you have she might be out there knocking off men. It’s too far-fetched. So you’re on your own here. Good night.”
I hung up the phone, left the station, and drove home in silence. I wasn’t going to allow Chase to interfere with my show or my personal life. He was probably as crazy as the tabloid stories he was trying to convince Tyler were connected to Bruno’s murder. And even though my concerns as to the cause of Bruno’s death continued to fester, I wasn’t about to jeopardize my reputation and that of my show
or waste my time chasing crazies with the likes of Chase.
It was almost one a.m. by the time I got home. When I closed the front door, I noticed a light coming in from the kitchen. Despite my constant reminders to both Charlie and Misty, neither of them ever remembered to turn off the lights when they left a room. I was about to shut it off when I realized Misty was sitting at the kitchen table staring at a steaming pot of tea as though she were in some kind of trance.
Quietly I tiptoed into the kitchen and placed my bag on the table.
“You okay?”
Misty tilted her head in my direction. Her pale gray eyes so clouded with cataracts that in the low light I doubted she could see much more than my shadow.
“Couldn’t sleep. I’m afraid I have a lot of that lately. Made me a special pot of my tea, though. That should help.”
In front of Misty was a silver warming plate, the heat provided by a small candle cast a shadow from its decorative base. On top of it was a clear glass tea kettle and inside was a bouquet of flowering herbs, the type of which I couldn’t identify.
“You’re sure you should be self-medicating like this?” I knew Misty wasn’t big on western medicines, but some of the weeds I’d seen her pull from the garden and mix together in lieu of any over-the-counter medications concerned me.
“Relax, my Sleeping Beauty tea won’t kill me. Just knock me out for a couple of hours. Give these old arthritic fingers a break from the pain and settle my mind. Sure you wouldn’t like some?”
I shook my head.
“I’ll stick to my own medication, thank you.” I reached for a wine glass from above the bar and poured myself a glass of red wine. “You hear the show tonight?”
“If you mean did I hear Mustang Sally, yes, I did.” Misty raised a glass of tea to her lips and blew across the top. “I’ve been sitting here thinking about her.”
“You mean meditating.” I said it with as much of a question in my voice as I did a statement.
“Call it what you will, but I agree with Chase. Sally’s for real.”
I took a slow sip of my wine.
“It’s a stretch, Misty. And even if it were true, serial killers are seldom women. They’re usually young, white males. And based on the way she sounds, Mustang Sally, if she is for real, must be somewhere in her late sixties. She hardly fits the profile.”
“Don’t underestimate the fury of a scorned woman, Carol.”
“It’s just the only reason we know anything at all about this is because of Chase, and I’m not sure about him.”
“Don’t you ever listen to anything on the radio besides news? Music, maybe?” I could see Misty was growing irritated with me. “That’s where the passion is, Carol. Women have been singing about revenge for years. They aren’t any less likely to seek revenge than men. It’s just how they go about it. They’re sneakier.”
I sat down at the table and kicked off my shoes. “You really do believe Chase then, don’t you? That there’s some female assassin out there who’s the head of an organized group of vigilantes, and they’re calling for the murder of certain men?”
“There have always been black widows, Carol. Women who murder men because they feel they’ve been mistreated and justified in their slayings.” Misty put her teacup down and focused her cloudy eyes in my direction. “You ever hear of the Betty Lou Beets? She was accused of killing five of her husbands before she was finally tried and executed. And then there was Mrs. Christy. The newspapers described her as a modern-day Bluebeard. She poisoned her seventh and eighth husbands. Numbers one through six died suspiciously, but nobody ever knew for sure how. And the Killer Grannies. Surely you remember them. It was a few years ago, right here in Los Angeles. Like something out of Arsenic and Old Lace, only this was for real. Two little old ladies who took in old men and killed them for the insurance.” Misty yawned. The tea was starting to have an effect.
I put my glass down and ran my fingers along the stem while I spoke.
“Assuming you’re right and Mustang Sally is behind Bruno’s death and the deaths of the two other men Chase is investigating, how’d she do it?”
“She may have had help.”
“All right, I’ll play along. Sally did mention a Court of Appeals. So let’s just say this court of appeals is a group of women, and they’re responsible for carrying out these horrendous deeds. Do you really think they could have lifted Bruno’s body up on the Hollywood Sign?”
“Several of them could.”
“Maybe. But Bruno was a pretty big guy, and carrying a body up a fifty-foot scaffolding would be no easy task.”
“They may have had help. Like the old ladies in Arsenic and Old Lace.”
“Ha. Now you really sound crazy, Misty.”
“The ladies had their nephew Teddy, who used to help bury the bodies in the basement. Who’s to say Mustang Sally doesn’t have a Teddy or someone like him?”
“Tell me, is this the musing of an old lady or some psychic prediction?”
“If it makes you feel better, think of it as just the experience of an old lady talking.”
“Good to know,” I said.
“But if it’s a reading you’d like, I have had a pestering about you lately.”
“A pestering?” I took another sip of my wine, expecting Misty to tell me something about Chase. About how right she thought he was for me. “And just exactly what is it you’ve been feeling, Misty?”
“You’ve recently met someone. It appears to have been an accidental encounter you considered to be of no consequence. But she’s coming back into your life. And she’ll have information about something you think is out of your reach.”
“Now that does sound like a prediction.”
“I don’t have a name. But the name Jay or the letter J keeps coming to mind. Sound familiar?”
“No, Misty. I don’t know anyone named Jay who has anything to do with anything I’m working on. But thanks.”
“It feels to me like she’s angry. That she’s been spurned. But she’s not like the others, Carol. She’s different.”
CHAPTER 20
Tyler called me first thing in the morning. It didn’t matter that Mondays were my day off. If he needed me, he called. And today it was because the new general manager wanted to see me in her office. Immediately.
“I hope you haven’t let anything slip about Silva’s accident, Carol. You know the policy. But whatever it is, Presley wants you in her office right away. She said it was urgent.”
I had half expected Tyler’s call. Not so much because I feared someone knew I’d shared my thoughts about Silva with Sheri, but because of last night’s interview with Andrea Reddings. I figured, at the very least, Tyler would ring me to say good work. But not before seven a.m. After all, nobody else in town had spoken to Andrea, and far as I knew, I had an exclusive. As for the rogue call from Sally, I wasn’t at all certain what Tyler would have to say about that. But the fact the general manager wanted to see me was worrisome. GM’s didn’t waste time with low ranking talent. Not unless there was a problem.
Uncertain what I was about to face, and with my insides starting to tie themselves in knots, I got out of bed and went to the closet. I’d never been called on the carpet like this before, and what I needed was a little confidence. If I were going to go see the new GM, the least I could do was appear as though I had it all together. I pulled on a pair of my favorite slim jeans—this was my day off, after all—a cashmere sweater, heels, and a cool-looking tweed blazer. Whoever said fashion made the woman certainly knew the right outfit could cover a world of insecurities, and right now I felt like I needed all the help I could get.
I stopped by the newsroom before I headed down to the GM’s office. I was hoping Tyler might give me a heads-up about what it was Presley wanted. But typical Tyler, his eyes remained fixed on his computer, ignoring me as I stood in the doorway.<
br />
“Just wanted to tell you I was here. Anything I should know before I head into the lion’s den?” I tried to sound confident and nonchalant.
Tyler’s eyes clicked to mine then back to his computer. “Nope. ‘Fraid you’re on your own on this one, Childs. Haven’t a clue.”
Tyler dismissed me with a wave of his hand. He was obviously too preoccupied to bother with me. I would have appreciated a good luck, or at least an invitation to see him afterward. Something to indicate I wasn’t totally done for. Instead, all I got was a shake of his head.
Taking a deep breath, I headed down the hall. What if Tyler’s indifference was because he knew I was finished? That I’d slipped up about Silva and shared what I knew with Sheri and was about to be fired. What if I lost my job? What would I do? I was deep into my litany of what-ifs when Molly McCray, Presley’s assistant, caught me in the hallway.
“Oh, good, Carol, you’re here. DJ’s been expecting you. I told her I saw your car in the lot. I was just coming to see if you were in the newsroom. Go on in.”
I quickened my pace and hurried down the hall. Now not only was I expected in the GM’s office, but I’d kept the general manager waiting, and she knew it. I prepared for the worst.
I had seen DJ Presley in person exactly twice. Each time had been as I passed her in the hallway en route to a meeting. Most of the time she was either buried in her office behind closed doors or traveling between Los Angeles and New York on business. The woman was constantly busy, and if her picture hadn’t hung on the wall outside her office, I might not recognize her at all. Like most of the staff, we jokingly referred to her as Oz, pulling strings behind a green curtain to which few of us were privy. All I knew about DJ was that she had red hair and drove a late model Jaguar she parked cattywampus in the employee’s lot, taking up both the FM and AM general managers’ parking spaces. To which she was entitled. DJ Presley was lord and master of both.
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