We Interrupt This Broadcast

by K. K. Beck

  “Um, well, we have mature listeners. It’s a classical station, you know. So they are more likely to be upper income.” Alice had never gotten this far before. Suddenly she panicked, realizing that at some point she’d have to come out and ask this woman to buy. She rather dreaded that moment. The close, she knew they called it.

  “How long have you been doing this?” said Rosa.

  “About a week,” said Alice, blushing.

  “Sold anything yet?” snapped Rosa.

  “Well, actually, I’m working on a few things—”

  “Okay.” Rosa, who had a stern little face with slightly flaring nostrils, suddenly broke into a friendly smile. She had beautiful teeth. “I’ll be your first customer.”

  “Maybe Ed had already convinced you,” said Alice with a self-deprecating little laugh.

  “Stop it!” said Rosa, her smile vanishing. “Never put yourself down. You got a contract?”

  “Oh. Yes. I do.” Alice began scrabbling through her briefcase. “How much do you think you’d like to spend?”

  “Take control of the sale!” said Rosa. “You tell me what I need to spend to make an impact!”

  “Well,” said Alice. “A big ticket item like a home, you only need to sell one to justify a very heavy schedule.” She smiled, rather pleased with herself for having thought of this.

  Before she knew what had happened, Alice found herself filling out a contract for Rosa Delgado to sign.

  “Come back next week. I’ll have a tape of the ad. It’s being produced now,” said her new client, signing so vigorously it seemed she might tear right through to the bottom carbon.

  “Thank you very much,” said Alice.

  “Now tell me I won’t regret this,” said Rosa sternly, flinging down the pen and pushing the contract back at her. “You got to keep telling the buyer they did the smart thing.”

  “Oh, you won’t regret this,” said Alice. “I really think KLEG is a good place for you to advertise.”

  “Better. Did you know Ed?”

  “Ed Costello? Why, no.”

  “Ha! Good thing he didn’t train you,” said Rosa. “He wasn’t a very good salesman. Kind of sleazy. But you have an honest face. Even though you look scared.” She leaned over confidentially. “You know what? I came to this country twenty years ago with nothing. Nothing. Now I own these developments and about ten apartment buildings around town. But I was scared at first.” Rosa reached over and patted Alice’s hand, jewels flashing. “You do this awhile. If you can stop looking scared and keep looking honest, maybe you can work for me. Sell some of these condominiums to empty nesters. Come back and see me later. We’ll talk again.” She handed over a business card. “Nice doing business with you, Alice.”

  * * *

  Back in his office, Lukowski began to prepare a request for Teresa Hoffman’s death certificate when MacNab bustled up to his desk with a piece of paper flapping.

  “Something kinda interesting came up when we ran that list of Ed Costello’s phone numbers and contacts through the computer,” MacNab said. “Charles a.k.a. Chip Gilmore. The feds are investigating him. The guy appears to have been selling automatic weapons out of the back of his car. He’s also been charged with assault a couple of times. The last time was some kind of pushing-and-shoving match outside a cable TV station.

  “I talked to one of the guys who busted him for the assault thing,” MacNab continued. “Apparently this character believes the UN is taking over America and the federal government is helping out by putting mind-control drugs in the glue on postage stamps. Runs some kind of weekend warrior platoon that hangs out at gun shows.”

  “Let’s call Mrs. Costello and ask her if her husband was involved with these folks,” said Lukowski. “Not that she was exactly up to speed on his activities.”

  He reached for the phone and learned there were two voice-mail messages. The first one was from Judy Livermore, the receptionist at KLEG. “I think you should know,” she said breathlessly, “that we have reason to believe Franklin Payne may know more than he lets on about Ed Costello and his criminal activities. Maybe we can arrange a meeting to discuss this further.”

  Lukowski sighed. He thought it pretty unlikely that Franklin Payne, a partner in a prominent law firm and somebody with family money too, would be fooling around with the Home Run Escort Service.

  The second message, however, got his attention. It was the familiar sultry voice of Teresa, Queen of the Night. “I found the card you stuck in my door,” she said. “Sorry I didn’t call sooner. From what I’ve read in the papers, I guess you want to know about Ed Costello. I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. I never met him. He got me to make a tape recording for an escort service, but he assured me it was just a gag—some kind of a joke he was playing on someone. He wrote me a note at my post office box with the script, and I mailed him a cassette. I’d hate it if anyone thought I had anything to do with his escort service. I thought he was just someone who worked at KLEG. Anyway, that’s all I know. Good-bye.”

  “That’s weird,” Lukowski said to MacNab. “I just got a voice-mail message from Teresa.”

  “Oh, good,” said MacNab.

  “Yeah, but she phoned this afternoon. At which time the Teresa Hoffman who lives near the bus station was supposed to have been dead at least a week.”

  “So? She must have been the wrong Teresa Hoffman.” MacNab shrugged. “It’s not that uncommon a name.”

  “Maybe not. But the Queen of the Night said she found my card in her door,” said Lukowski. “And I only left one card in one Teresa’s doorjamb.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Flushed with triumph, Alice returned to the office and casually dropped the Delgado contract on Judy’s desk for processing. “I see you sold something,” Judy said grudgingly.

  “That’s right. I pick up the tape next week,” said Alice. She looked into Caroline’s office, eager to report her first sale, but Caroline was gone. Over at her own desk, she dug into the box of Ed Costello’s papers. Maybe there was another hot prospect in there. She’d leave no stone unturned.

  “Chip” looked promising. There were dollar signs next to his name. But when she dialed the number, Alice was horrified yet intrigued to hear a recorded menu of extremist options. Apparently Chip was some kind of right-wing wacko, peddling paranoid tapes. She certainly couldn’t imagine him selling that stuff on KLEG. Or maybe she could.

  By the time she got to “If you have a message for Chip, press five,” she recognized the voice. This was the same Chip she’d heard ranting on about vegetable gardens and guns on another radio station.

  She pressed five. Maybe Chip had some other business. When she read about some of these paranoid survivalist types in the media, they often seemed to own small businesses in grungy strip malls. Maybe Chip was a tax preparer or ran a coin shop or something. If Ed hadn’t left those dollar signs next to his name, she probably would have hung up.

  After the beep she said in a tentative voice: “This is Alice Jordan at Classic KLEG. I found your number among the papers on Ed Costello’s desk. I’ve taken over for him in sales. If you need an advertising schedule for a product or retail business, give me a call.” She left the number.

  Digging around in the box some more, like somebody pulling out a winning door prize entry, she came up with a business card for Madame Letitia’s Tattoo and Body-Piercing Emporium. That hardly seemed like an appropriate advertiser for KLEG’s elderly listeners, but if she could leave a message for the certifiable Chip, she could certainly call on a business engaged in voluntary mutilation. As the phone rang, Alice realized that perhaps this peculiar job was good for her. She was developing some nerve.

  Madame Letitia, it transpired, was eager to advertise on the Queen of the Night’s show. “Teresa is happening,” she said solemnly. Alice eagerly made preparations to visit Letitia with a contract immediately.

  That evening, while she and Zack ate a dinner of baked beans with sliced hot dogs, she told him about
her day. “I’m so encouraged,” she said. “I actually sold two schedules. Maybe this will be all right. And I even met someone who told me that after I had more experience I could apply for a job selling condominiums.”

  “Cool,” said Zack. “Does this mean I can get a new deck for my skateboard?”

  “Please stop asking for things,” said Alice firmly. “How did you get to be so materialistic?”

  “Not from Dad. He gave away all our money.”

  Alice didn’t want to talk about Ken and his spectacular midlife crisis. “Listen, Zack, one of the advertisers I signed up today was a tattoo and body-piercing parlor.”

  “Cool,” said Zack.

  “The reason I brought it up is I don’t want you to do anything crazy and get anything pierced or tattooed. That place was pretty scary.”

  “Really?”

  “I heard a girl screaming when I got there,” she said. “And the whole place smelled like bacon cooking. Know why?”

  “No.”

  “They were branding her,” said Alice, shuddering. “With a poker or something. I almost threw up. Apparently this is the latest thing. And the owner had pierced eyebrows, lips and nostrils. Not to mention a big snake tattooed all around her arm. The first thing I thought of was how awful her parents must feel.”

  “Oh, Mom, chill,” said Zack. “I’d never do that. Unless I was like in a band or something. Anyway, you have to be eighteen or have your parents sign.” After a pause he added, “I guess it’s like you said before. You’re getting to meet some interesting people.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” she said. Actually, Madame Letitia had been rather fascinating, and fun to talk to once you got past her disfigurements. Alice had also gotten a cheap thrill listening to Chip’s recorded messages and observing the tarty escorts rampaging in Franklin’s office. These characters were more like subjects for tabloid TV than anyone she’d met at Little League games or PTA meetings.

  Zack took a noisy slurp of milk. “The best thing would be if you could meet some rich guy and marry him,” he said. “Then we could go to Maui and stuff, like before. Or San Francisco, the skateboarders’ paved heaven.”

  “Oh, Zack,” she said tenderly. “I guess you’re getting used to the idea of the divorce.”

  “What I’m not getting used to is the idea we can’t have good stuff,” said Zack.

  “Listen to me,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Maybe it’s a good thing we’ve had to retrench. It will be good for your character to realize you can’t have whatever you want.”

  “You’re pretty and nice,” he said. “You could get a rich guy.”

  “Zack, that’s horrible! How would you feel if someone married you for your money?”

  “If she was pretty and nice it’d be a fair trade. Anyway, I have to get some first,” he said. “I’m thinking of taking over Tyler’s paper route.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” she said. “Then you can save up for a new skateboard whatever and that virtual thing you wanted.”

  “Virtual-reality helmet,” Zack said. “Tyler says you get extra money if you sign up new people for the paper. Plus there’s tips if you’re like extra nice to the customers and don’t throw the papers in the bushes and stuff.”

  Alice sighed. “Maybe KLEG should hire you to go out and sell advertising.”

  * * *

  “Franklin,” Caroline said dramatically, “I’ve met someone.” The siblings were meeting in Franklin’s office, where he was getting his sister to sign some tax forms relating to their mother’s estate.

  “Oh, really,” he said casually, pretending not to get it. Of course Caroline didn’t mean just anybody. She had met “somebody” with a capital S. She had met a man.

  It was extraordinary. Franklin occasionally read the personals in the back of the New York Review of Books or in a local giveaway rag called the Seattle Weekly. There, self-styled female paragons—curvaceous, beautiful, cheerful, intelligent, witty women—declared themselves desperate and unable to meet guys.

  Caroline, however, was never on the shelf for long, and advancing age hadn’t seemed to slow her down one bit. She was certainly no looker. Franklin was sure he was right about that, even after taking into account the fact that she was his sister.

  She wasn’t particularly intelligent, either, being instead one of those rare but unfortunate people—Prince Charles was another example—who combined intellectual interests with stupidity. As for wit, Franklin’s chief complaint about his sister was her complete lack of a sense of humor.

  She was, however, keenly interested in men, although they were unfortunately of the wrong type. She also appeared to the world to be richer than she actually was, thanks to Dad’s foresight in tying up her inheritance in a trust designed along the lines of a straitjacket.

  The combination was deadly. Sleazy fortune hunters appeared with alarming regularity to court her. When they found out she had no access to her capital, they tended to fade away, although some had simply been carted off to rehab.

  “Jeffrey’s really a fascinating man,” Caroline said girlishly. “And a wonderful artist.”

  Franklin felt irritation mingled with pity for his poor deluded sister. He also hoped he wouldn’t have to socialize with Jeffrey. Caroline always wanted her scruffy suitors to feel like one of the family.

  “That’s nice,” said Franklin. “What kind of an artist is he?” While generally suspicious of all creative people, he felt that instrumental musicians and nonfiction writers were the least offensive. They actually had to know something or be able to do something useful. Actors and poets were at the bottom of the heap. Franklin considered most of them seriously disturbed people. He also felt that the less talent they had, the more likely they were to be riddled with character flaws and various kinds of dementia.

  “He’s a photographer. I was hoping you’d come and see his show next week. I’d love for you to meet him. He does trailer parks.”

  “You mean he shows at trailer parks?” asked Franklin. This was a new low.

  “No, you idiot,” snapped Caroline. “He photographs them. In fact, he’s invited me down to Arizona on his next shoot. I was wondering if you could keep an eye on KLEG for me while I’m gone.”

  “Caroline, I have a real job! I do not have time to baby-sit those employees of yours so you can follow some man around through trailer parks. How well do you know this guy, anyway?”

  “Pretty well,” said Caroline. She raised one eyebrow knowingly, in the manner of Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O’Hara, and managed to produce an unpleasant leer.

  Why couldn’t she just pack it in and calm down? Mother hadn’t been like this in her fifties. Why did these doctors have to stuff all these middle-aged women full of estrogen these days?

  “Anyway,” Caroline went on, “after we do the trailer parks—Jeffrey says they’re every bit as depressing as Brazilian favelas or the slums of Bombay, although the impoverishment is more spiritual than material—we’re going to spend a week or so at a spa down there, maybe get in a little tennis. Jeffrey really needs to unwind.”

  Yeah, on whose nickel? thought Franklin. The idea of this Jeffrey character playing tennis and knocking back cocktails at the swim-up bar while Franklin tried to keep order at KLEG was particularly galling. He made a noncommittal sound deep in his throat and changed the subject. “Here, sign this, Caroline. It’s just a limited power of attorney. It authorizes me to straighten out this IRS screwup without bothering you.”

  Caroline said, “All right,” in a petulant voice. As she signed, she said, “I really resent the fact that you won’t let me have some time alone with someone I really care about. You don’t give a damn about my feelings. You never have.”

  Watching his sister push the signed document back to him with a sulky twitch of her bony shoulders, Franklin had a sudden inspiration. “You’re right, Caroline,” he said, casting his eyes downward in what he hoped looked like an expression of contrition. “I’ve been selfish. May
be on some level I’m envious of your happiness. Of course I’ll keep an eye on things.” He held up the paper she’d just signed. “We’ll put together another one of these power of attorney things so I can take care of all the details while you’re gone without bothering you.”

  * * *

  “So what’s the cause of death?” asked MacNab. Lukowski’s brow was furrowed as he skimmed the medical examiner’s report on Teresa Hoffman.

  “Spontaneous natural death. That’s what they call it when they just wear out and the ME’s office is busy.”

  “So how old was she?” said MacNab.

  “Ninety-seven. I’ve made an appointment to meet the next of kin over at the apartment. A grandniece from Oregon. Wanna come along?”

  At Teresa Hoffman’s apartment, the grandniece, Janet Wright, let them in. There were a few cardboard boxes sitting in the shabby little living room. Janet, a plump, freckled woman with a hearty, outdoorsy look, introduced her teenage daughter, Sara, who was standing in the living room staring at a flour sifter with bewilderment. “This must be some kind of an antique,” she said. “I wonder what it was for?”

  Her mother ignored her. “I can’t imagine why you’re interested in poor Aunt Teresa,” she said to the detectives. “She’d had congestive heart failure for ages, and I’m afraid she was getting kind of out of it. We found lots of her pills tucked here and there. I don’t think she was taking her medication.”

  “Actually,” said Lukowski, “we wanted to talk to her about something else. It’s part of a murder investigation.”

  Janet and Sara drew in their breath sharply.

  It took Lukowski a while to explain who Teresa, Queen of the Night, was. He showed Janet the photocopies he’d made of canceled checks.

  “That looks like her signature,” said Janet. “I know it well because we wrote to each other pretty regularly. We used to talk on the phone before she got so deaf.”