The Doom Diva Mysteries Books 1

by Sherry M. Siska

  "Those were her exact words?"

  "Yes," he sputtered before going into another fit. "Theresa said as soon as Beth realized what she'd said, she started bawling her eyes out."

  "I'll bet. What an unfortunate choice of words."

  That set him off again. I crossed my arms and waited for him to settle down. Two guys wearing Glenvar College shirts ran by, wiggling lacrosse sticks back and forth.

  Tim must have remembered that he had to be in court, because he suddenly stopped laughing, looked at his watch, and cursed. “Crap! I gotta go! I don’t wanna be late!"

  He opened the big double doors and then turned back around. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

  "Of course."

  "What on God’s green earth have you got all over your face?"

  So much for capable and confident.

  14

  I spent Tuesday afternoon cutting commercial spots and preparing to go on the air at two. It was a fun shift, passing by relatively quickly. I only received three obnoxious phone calls, one of them from a fourteen year old wanting to know if I could get her Ricky Ray's autograph. Sure thing honey. I’ll get right on that just after I rescue one of those flying pigs. But I didn't say that to her. I was real nice. Sickeningly nice. That's the only part of my job I really hate.

  When I signed off the air at seven I grabbed my stuff out of the DJ office and almost made it out the door. Quick, but not quick enough. The station manager, Herb, (Danny and the pit bull, remember?) was heading down the hall toward me at a fast waddle. I slipped into one of the programming booths. He followed me in.

  Herb almost exclusively dresses in those sorts of suits the old-time country and western stars wore. Today’s suit was actually pretty tame, by his normal standards. It was brown and featured hot pink flowers and gold vines and leaves. He wore it with a hot pink shirt and, sadly, he’d chosen to go with brown boots instead of hot pink ones, which I think would have made it way more memorable.

  "Marty, doll! Great effing publicity! I can't believe this effing luck! I've had every TV station in town calling up. And the newspapers: The Roanoke Times called, the Times-Dispatch, even the News-Messenger. This is hot, hot, hot. Finding an effing dead guy! Great going! And that sweet lil' Giselle, giving you all that coverage at the remote. Lord, have mercy but I'd sure like to do the big nasty with that lil' gal." (Yes, Herb really and truly does talk like this. His long-suffering and very sweet, very smart wife, Georgina, fines him when he cusses, so he substitutes. Since Georgina owns the station, the receptionist helps her out by snitching if Herb slips up.)

  “Maybe I should give you her phone number. Play matchmaker. I could be flower girl at the wedding. I’m sure Georgina would be so thrilled to hear about it.”

  He never even heard me. "And you. I ought to give you a raise or something," he said. His voice is so smooth and sexy, you can't believe it belongs to him. Whenever he works on air, he is constantly getting propositions. If they only knew....

  "But I can't. Not my money to give. That Georgina sure does know how to squeeze a dime. Too bad, though." He leered at me and did a little hip thrusting. "I can probably give you some other kind of reward." (And, yes. He actually acts like this too. The thing is, everyone knows Herb is all talk. Georgina would dismember him if he ever actually did any of the things he talks about.)

  He'd evidently had a garlic and anchovy pizza, his favorite, for lunch. His breath about knocked me out. I took a step backwards and fell down onto a little rolling stool.

  "Herb, you act like I planned this or something. Don't you think it's a little crass to be so happy about a murder? So far, it hasn't exactly been the best kind of publicity."

  He blinked and thought for a second. Then, a big grin crossed his pudgy face. "Hey babe, don't get your panties in a bunch! Sure, I feel bad for the little dude. But come on, he's dead. We ain't. Haven't you ever heard the saying, 'there's nothing bad about publicity, good or bad'?"

  I scratched my head. Talking to Herb is sort of like setting yourself adrift at sea. On a beach towel. "Uh, Herb, I think that's 'there's no such thing as bad publicity'."

  "Yeah, well, whatever. The thing is, babe, we've got to strike before the corpse gets cold, so to speak. I'm thinking, I'm thinking, let's see. Hmm." He puffed his cheeks in and out a couple of times.

  I watched him, fascinated, as he did a little pretend shadow boxing, pumping his fists in the air and shuffling his feet. His bolo tie, which was gold with hot pink tips and had a hot pink flower as a clasp swung from side to side and his big belly jiggled. His silver wire rimmed glasses slid down his nose.

  Apparently, the boxing did the trick. "I got it!" He suddenly hollered out. "You are gonna effing love this, doll. It's genius, sheer genius! We'll do a TV campaign, get you down at that park, maybe inside one of those trash thingies." He eyed me critically. "I'll bet you look hot in a bikini. Now, let's see, a slogan. We need a slogan."

  Back to the shadow boxing. I just shook my head and opened the door. "Herb, get over it. I'm not going to do some tacky, disgusting ad campaign to capitalize on this. And you can be sure that I will not ever let you see me in a bikini. Or any other kind of swim suit, for that matter"

  He winked at me.

  "You know, Herb, it's a good thing I'm a nice person or you'd be in some serious hot water. I'm talking lawsuit. A big fat sexual harassment lawsuit"

  He winked again.

  "I've gotta go," I said, looking back over my shoulder.

  He was still shadow boxing, still talking to himself, trying to think up a slogan.

  15

  Don't ask me how I get myself into these things, but somewhere along the line, probably back during the winter when it was just a distant and nebulous “someday”, I'd agreed to participate in a charity softball game featuring local 'celebrities'. Because we didn't want to make total fools of ourselves, the members of the media team I was assigned to had been getting together regularly to practice.

  So far, about the only thing we'd practiced were twelve ounce curls down at Pilazzo's, but we were really jelling as a team. Of course, whether that translated to the softball field or not remained to be seen. Unfortunately, some spoilsport decided that we really should find out, so we were supposed to meet Tuesday night at the Civic Center ball fields to put it to the test.

  Because of my encounter with Herb, I was about thirty minutes late. After I parked my car, I ran over toward the fields. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Zach standing beside the metal bleachers over at the main field talking to a bunch of guys. He looked extremely good in a pair of tight black softball pants and a scarlet jersey.

  I slowed down to admire the view. Just as I did, a softball whizzed past my head, barely missing me. I jerked around to see who had thrown it.

  "Sorry, Marty." Steve LeFever flashed me a mouthful of big white teeth. Wolf teeth.

  He was dressed in the same type uniform Zach had on.

  "No problem, Steve. How's Beth?"

  He fidgeted with his glove. “Poor little thing. It's real tough on her. I tried to talk her into coming down and watching our game, but she had to go pick out a coffin and shi— er stuff."

  "That sure doesn't sound like fun. I can't imagine."

  "Me neither. But she'll be all right soon as she gets all this funeral business behind her. It's just all such an inconvenience, you know?"

  Inconvenience? I smiled sweetly. "Well, I can see how it would be a real bummer to have your husband murdered. So inconsiderate."

  "Yeah. Big time."

  I shook my head all the way over to the field. None of my teammates were around. A few other people were practicing on the field. They told me that my team had already left, headed for Pilazzo's. Evidently, they'd decided they needed to work on those arm muscles a little more.

  Since I was already there I figured that the polite thing to do was go talk to Zach. Say hi. Wish him luck. Ogle his body.

  "Hey, Marty," he said, "what's happening. You here to watch our game?
" He looked even better up close. And he smelled delicious.

  "No. I was supposed to meet some people to practice for that benefit game this weekend, but I guess I got here too late."

  "Aw, too bad. Hey, since you're here, why don't you sit on the bench and watch us?"

  "Sure, that sounds like fun. Maybe I can pick up a few pointers." Pointers? Who was I kidding. The only thing I was interested in picking up was Zach.

  "I'll make sure I play my very best, then."

  I laughed. Okay, so I’m a sucker for a hot guy, no matter how lame his lines are. "I doubt I can tell the difference between good and bad. I haven't been to a real softball game in years. My dad used to take me when I was little, but I spent all my time running around and playing."

  "It's not that hard to catch on to. You ever watch baseball?"

  "Sort of. Mostly, I drink beer and eat junk food."

  "Well, fast pitch is a lot like baseball. Only the ball is bigger and it's pitched underhand, not over."

  "Hey, I remember. You guys do that windmill thing when you pitch, right?"

  "Right. Makes it extremely hard to hit."

  "Your team going to win?"

  "We should. The only hang-up might be with Steve. He's pitching tonight and since eighty percent of this game is pitching, it might be a problem. He's still all shook up over Wart's murder."

  He hadn't seemed all that shook up to me, but what do I know? "He almost hit me with the ball a few minutes ago. I hope he has better control during the game."

  "You and me both."

  We went into the dugout, really just a fenced off area with a couple of metal benches. Zach dropped his gear bag next to the fence. I sat down on the end of the bench so I wouldn't be in the way. Fred was over by home plate talking to two other men.

  "Does your dad play too?"

  "No. He's the coach. He used to play. He was real good. He played for a team up in Wisconsin that came in second during the 1988 ASA National championship."

  "That's really cool."

  "It is pretty cool. He's really into the game. In fact, he's the main man for the fast pitch league here in town."

  Fred stopped behind Zach and flashed me a twinkly smile. "How are you doing, Miss Marty?"

  "Fine, sir. How's your shoulder?"

  "Much better, thanks. I'm really sorry about that little altercation last night."

  "That's okay. I'm just glad it turned out all right and nobody got seriously injured."

  "Hey, Dad, do you mind if Marty sits here on the bench with you?"

  "Of course not. I love havin’ pretty ladies sit beside me. Make all you young studs jealous. Here, sweetheart, you can be my assistant coach." He handed me a notebook full of diagrams and lists. "Help me keep these guys in line."

  "Son, you're up first," he said to Zach.

  Zach selected a bat and went outside the dugout. He swung the bat back and forth several times. Fred sat next to me and we watched the other team warm up.

  A few minutes later, the umpire said, "Play ball."

  Zach went to the plate and got in his stance. The opposing pitcher did a windmill with his arm and whizzed the ball toward Zach. Zach didn't move.

  "Stee-rike!" said the umpire.

  The pitcher repeated his motion and threw a curve ball. The ball streaked toward Zach. He swung and hit it. It popped off the bat and soared high into the air toward the outfield. The center fielder ran in and gloved it in an easy, back-handed motion. The other team tossed the ball around to each other before throwing it back to the pitcher.

  "You play any ball, Marty," Fred asked.

  I shook my head. "Not really. I'm a major klutz. I've played in a couple of celebrity benefit games. They usually stick me out in right field and tell me not to touch the ball, even if it comes right to me."

  Fred laughed. He has a big booming laugh. "Always need a good-looking right fielder. Keeps things from getting boring."

  Zach trotted off the field and squatted next to me. None of the players used the bench. They either squatted or stood around, telling dirty jokes. Must be against the 'guy rules' to sit during the game.

  Steve was up next. Fred noted down Zach's out in the scorer's book and looked up to watch Steve.

  “C’mon batter, be a hitter," Zach said.

  Steve struck out. So did the next batter. The other team came up to bat. Zach and the other guys on his team galloped out to their positions.

  "Zach tells me that you played on a National championship team in the eighties. I'll bet that was awesome."

  "We weren't the champs." He held up two stubby fingers. "Came in second to that Elkhart, Indiana team. Trans-Aire. You're right though, it was one of the highlights of my life. I just love this game. I really hate that it's not as popular as it used to be. Getting hard to find pitchers."

  The other team's first batter hunched over home plate. "Okay, Steve, toss in a mean one," Fred said.

  Steve threw a perfect pitch, right down the pipe. The batter swung and connected. Base hit. The next batter struck out. Batter number three swung and hit the ball, sending it in a slow, lazy arc toward the outfield fence. The right fielder snagged the ball and fired it to second. The runner tagged and headed to second. He reached base just as the ball did.

  "He's safe!" said the ump.

  "Okay, guys, one more out. Let's go," Fred yelled. "Hope I didn't burst your eardrum, Marty." He smiled and twinkled at me. "I'm not used to having a sweet thing like you sitting next to me."

  I tried out Mom and Theresa Luray's movie star smile on Fred. He grinned from ear to ear. Either I was getting better at it, or he recognized and appreciated capable and confident better than Tim did.

  Steve swooped his arm around and let go of a lightning bolt. The batter swung. The ball blasted off toward Zach at third base. He stuck his arm out. I held my breath. "SMACK!" The ball hit his glove. The fans went wild.

  "All right, way to go, Zach!" I bounced up and down.

  He tipped his hat to me as they ran off the field.

  "I do believe you've got yourself a good luck charm, here," Fred said.

  "I think you're right," Zach said. He took off his cap and plopped it on my head. "There, that looks better on you than it does on me. You can keep it. I'll get another one."

  I pulled my ponytail through the hole in the back of the cap and blew him a kiss. The next three innings passed by without much happening. I fidgeted around on the bench. This game was, well, in a word — boring. I found myself spending more time staring at the mountains, thinking about the cold beer and juicy burger waiting for me at Pilazzo’s…

  "Getting bored, Marty?" Fred asked.

  "Not at all." I twisted my hair around my finger and licked my lips. "Are the games usually this low scoring?"

  "Yep. That's what makes it so great. It's a real duel between the pitcher and the batter."

  Just as he said that, Steve did his windmill and tossed in a rising fast ball. The batter loaded up on the fat pitch and sent the ball soaring way over the fence for a home run.

  “Da— er, crap!” Fred said. "Call time."

  He threw his clipboard and score book on the bench and kicked at the dirt. "Sorry, Marty, didn't mean to lose my temper.”

  "No problem," I said. This kind of temper losing, I could handle. It was the kind that turned into knock-down drag-out fighting I had a problem with.

  He hopped off the bench and jogged out toward Steve. Steve, Zach, Fred, and the catcher huddled for a minute. Fred motioned for a guy sitting on the opposite end of the bench from me. He must not have been familiar with the 'guy rules'.

  I'd noticed him warming up at the beginning of the inning, so I figured he was the relief pitcher. I proved my amazing powers of deduction when he took off the jacket he had over his right arm and strode out to the mound. Steve talked to him, then the new guy started tossing balls to the catcher.

  Fred and Steve trudged over to the bench. Steve let loose with a string of profanities.

  "Watc
h your language, boy," Fred said. "There's a lady present."

  I looked around to see who he was talking about. Steve flashed me his teeth. His eyes were steely. "Sorry, Marty. Wouldn't want to offend a lady."

  He turned to Fred. "We're lucky they ain't no good. I was tossing in crap. They was any good, they'd a killed us."

  He scrubbed his face on a towel and picked up a water bottle. He dumped some water in his mouth, swished it around, then spit a stream between his teeth. Made my day.

  "I need a soda," Steve said. He rummaged in his gear bag and came up with a crumpled dollar bill. "Be right back, Fred."

  Fred sat back down next to me. We watched Steve walk to the concession stand. "Steve's our best pitcher. Normally, he'd work the whole game, but this thing with Warren has him all messed up. I'm surprised he lasted as long as he did," he said.

  "Zach mentioned that it had really affected his pitching. To tell the truth, I'm surprised y'all are playing. Seems like they would have canceled the game since so many of you guys were friends with Warren."

  "Friends? I know you aren't supposed to speak ill of the dead, but that man didn't have any friends. He was killing our league. Don't get me wrong, I'm sorry he's dead. But I'm sure glad I don't have to put up with him anymore." Fred's voice reached a crescendo and his face glowed redder and redder.

  I really was going to have to take a refresher course in CPR if I was going to be around him much. He stomped over to the end of the dugout and hollered instructions to the players on the field.

  I watched him for awhile. Wondering what he meant when he said Warren was killing their league. Wondering if he really was sorry that Warren was dead. Wondering if Zach's dad was a murderer.

  16

  I wasn't particularly looking forward to attending Warren's 'visitation' at Isaac's Funeral Home Wednesday night, especially since I'd already had a couple of advance peeks at the guest of honor. Unfortunately, I didn't exactly have a choice in the matter; Mom had raised me 'right', and paying respect to the family of the deceased definitely falls under the category of the 'right' thing to do.