Dead Air

by Robin Caroll

  The sheriff turned to the station manager. “What about you?”

  “What about me?” Eric shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I didn’t know anything until I got here and Gabby told me, after she’d already called you.”

  “Where were you this morning?”

  “Home. Having breakfast and getting ready for work.”

  “Can anyone verify that you were at home?” The sheriff glanced up from his notebook.

  Eric tightened his jaw. “No. I live alone.”

  “Did you stop anywhere on the way in? Talk to anyone on the phone?”

  “No.”

  “I see.” The sheriff flipped a page in his notebook and nodded at Gabby. “You were apparently here—did you hear anything?”

  “No, I was in the studio.”

  “You didn’t hear a gunshot mere yards away? And the marks in the gravel out there indicates there was a struggle of some sort.”

  She clenched and unclenched her hands. “The studio’s soundproof.”

  The lawman settled his stare on her. “I understand that. Just trying to determine if you saw or heard anything. Maybe saw Mr. Ellison or Mr. Alspeed in the hall?”

  “No, I didn’t see anything.”

  The sheriff made further notes, then turned to Clark. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

  Straightening, he looked at the lawman head-on. “I’m Clark McKay. I was told to be here at eight this morning to meet Mr. Ellison and the station staff.”

  The sheriff huffed. “What about?”

  How did he answer that? It seemed wrong just to blurt out the truth, considering the circumstances. “A business endeavor.”

  “What, exactly, does that mean?”

  All eyes burned into him. Might as well tell the truth. They’d all find out soon enough. “I’m the new owner of KLUV.”

  Gabby gasped. Eric scowled. Kevin shrugged in that nonchalant way of his. “Cool.”

  The sheriff scribbled furiously in his notebook. “I see. When did this take place?”

  “We finalized the paperwork two days ago.”

  “And where were you this morning?”

  “At my house.” Clark straightened. “And yes, someone can verify that. My great-aunt stopped by with homemade cinnamon buns.”

  Sheriff McGruder glanced at him, scraggly brows raised. “Who would your aunt be?”

  “Beulah. McKay.”

  The lawman let out a grunt as he scribbled again. “I know her address and phone number.”

  The door squeaked open and a paramedic stuck his head inside. “We’re taking them to the hospital now.”

  “Thank you.” The sheriff faced the group in the hallway. “After I conclude my examination of the crime scene, I’ll file my report and call each of you in to sign your statements.” Sheriff McGruder pocketed his notebook.

  “Wait a minute. Are we, like, suspects?” Kevin straightened, tossing off his slouch like a bad suit jacket.

  “Right now, everyone is suspect.”

  TWO

  DOA. Dead on arrival.

  Gabby had caught a glimpse of Howard as EMS loaded him into the ambulance, still performing CPR. No response, and he’d been down for a long time. She knew it—he was dead.

  Murdered. Gabby’s heart ached like it hadn’t since…well, in a long time.

  She gathered her purse and stormed into the bright parking lot, climbed into her SUV and steered toward the hospital. Sending up a silent prayer for Robert, she ignored the tranquil beauty of her town. Instead, questions of who would want to hurt Howard and Robert plagued her. Lifting her cell phone, she punched in the speed-dial number for her best friend Imogene.

  “Hello.” Imogene’s calm tone steadied Gabby’s thrumming heart immediately.

  “Oh, Immy, Howard was shot at the station this morning. Robert’s unconscious. They were taken away by ambulance. I’m on my way to the hospital now.” She struggled to keep the tears at bay.

  “Great day in the morning! A shooting? I’ll call Dr. Wright and tell him I’ll be a little late. I’ll meet you in the emergency room.”

  Gabby whipped into the hospital’s lot, parked and jogged past the automatic glass doors. She stopped at the nurses’ desk. “I’m here with Robert Ellison and Howard Alspeed.”

  The nurse nodded. “Someone will be with you shortly.”

  Gabby wandered into the waiting room. An elderly lady with an ice pack on her arm offered her a shaky smile. Gabby returned it, then headed to the coffee station in the corner. She lifted the carafe and peered inside. The coffee resembled sludge and didn’t smell much better. She shoved the pot back on the warmer.

  “Miss?”

  She turned and faced the man in scrubs. “Yes?”

  “Are you with Howard Alspeed?”

  “Yes.” She walked to the doctor on wobbly knees. “I am.”

  “I’m sorry, but we were unable to revive him. His heart was hit by the bullet.”

  No words formed. Tears burned her eyes. She nodded.

  “We’ll let you know about Mr. Ellison as soon as we can.” He rushed down the hallway toward the treatment rooms.

  It was official. Howard had been murdered.

  “Gabby.”

  Turning, she spied Immy and rushed to her, letting the comfort of her friend’s embrace warm her. Together, they plopped onto metal chairs.

  “What happened?”

  As Gabby relayed the morning’s events, her own feelings mirrored in the expressions that crossed her best friend’s face—shock, a trace of fear, then outrage.

  Imogene’s eyes were wide in her full face. “Great day in the morning! What do the police say?”

  “Say?” Gabby shook her head. “They don’t say anything. McGruder doesn’t seem to have the first clue.”

  “The police don’t have even one suspect?”

  “Not that they’re sharing. Aside from all of us who work at the station, apparently.” Gabby hugged herself, willing the image of Howard’s dead face to flee. “Oh, and Mr. McKay.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The new owner of the station. Robert had asked everyone to come in for a meeting this morning.” Her heart thudded. “I’m guessing he was going to make the official announcement.”

  The ground slipped out beneath Gabby’s feet. Visions of the house on Bridges Street flickered across her mind. She’d been saving for the down payment for a couple of years and refused to consider not being able to buy the house. But now everything was thrown into turmoil. The station changing hands on top of the murders…What if she lost her job? Mystique, Mississippi, wasn’t exactly the Garden of Eden of employment opportunities. Would Mr. McKay bring in his own staff? What would happen to all her plans and dreams?

  No, the house, her house, was not merely a pipe dream—she would see it through to reality. She’d own her antebellum home if it was the last thing she did. Not to make light of Howard’s murder and Robert’s injuries—definitely not—but inside she felt like more than Howard had just died.

  “Who would do such a thing?”

  Gabby groaned as she returned her thoughts to the horrors of the morning. “I just can’t imagine anyone wanting to harm either Howard or Robert.”

  Immy shifted in the chair—it gave a protesting creak in response—and stretched her legs in front of her. “The police have to know something. Or at least be doing something.”

  “If they are, McGruder’s not passing along the information.”

  “Maybe he’s working angles he can’t share with anyone. But I still say Mystique isn’t a crime metropolis.” Imogene twisted her gentle face into a scowl. “I’ve known the townies for years, have treated everyone here at least once—none of them would do such a thing. Everyone loves Howard and Robert.” As a nurse, Immy had such compassion toward everyone, even if she did walk a little on the naive side.

  Gabby popped her knuckles. “We shouldn’t jump to any conclusions. It could be anybody.”

  “Or it
could be an outsider, right?”

  “Right.” Gabby spied one of the deputies marching down the hall. “McGruder’s obviously in way over his head. Our sheriff department’s big event is hauling in a drunk or two on a Saturday night.”

  “How was Robert?” Imogene finger-combed her bangs.

  “Unconscious when he left in the ambulance.”

  “Let me see if I can find out anything.” Imogene blinked rapidly as she rose and headed to the nurses’ station.

  Alone, Gabby flipped through her mental filing cabinet. Nothing made sense. Who would want to hurt Robert or Howard?

  “Robert’s still unconscious. They’re running tests,” Immy said, returning to her chair. “They do know his blood sugar level was extremely low. For a hypoglycemic, that’s very bad. Could be what caused him to lose consciousness. They speculate that’s what happened, and he fell on the stairs and hurt his head.”

  Gabby let that digest for a moment. “I just can’t believe this is happening.”

  “I know.” Immy laid an arm around Gabby’s shoulders.

  “Oh, Gabby. It’s so awful.” Amber Ellison, Robert’s wife, rushed forward, sobbing.

  Gabby moved out of Immy’s hug just in time to catch the bawling woman. “How is he?”

  “He’s unconscious.” Amber sniffled. “They’re admitting him to ICU where they’ll run more tests.” She dabbed her face with a tissue. “He had to have eight stitches on the back of his head.”

  “I guess you heard about Howard?”

  Amber’s cries increased. “It’s unbelievable. I don’t understand.”

  Gabby patted the woman’s shaking shoulders.

  How could anyone understand such a senseless attack?

  What a mess.

  Clark stared at the signed papers he held. The purchase agreement between him and Robert Ellison. The one that made him sole owner and proprietor of KLUV radio station.

  He tossed them into his briefcase and pushed away from his desk. Mr. Ellison was to have made the announcement to the employees this morning. Sitting in his office, surrounded by Mr. Ellison’s personal effects, made Clark uneasy. Today was supposed to have been a good day, a day of excitement and one he’d anticipated.

  Now he was tied up in another scandal. And after what he’d gone through in Philly, that was just about the last thing he needed.

  He’d called the hospital. Robert Ellison was still unconscious. What should he do now? He had to do something. He had been ready to commit to the business he’d purchased and this town, having bought a house instead of renting, but what would happen if the media jumped all over this?

  That couldn’t happen. He couldn’t stand the thought of going through that again. Sure he’d managed to clear his name, but his reputation had been tarnished. And he’d discovered exactly who his real friends were. Or rather, weren’t.

  That particular realization had been the last straw. It forced him to move somewhere life was a little slower-paced, more routine. Where he had family. The small town where his great-aunt Beulah lived, Mystique, Mississippi, had seemed to fit the bill.

  Until a man had been murdered and another left unconscious.

  “Knock, knock. May I come in?” Eric hovered in the doorway.

  “Sure.” Clark waved the station manager to one of the chairs facing his desk. “What can I help you with?”

  Eric slouched into the seat. “I just wanted to talk with you about the station a bit, if I may?”

  Clark tented his hands over his desk. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Look, I didn’t know about the sale, and really don’t care. It’s none of my business.” He shot Clark a sly grin. “Unless you plan on firing me, of course.”

  Clark smiled. “I don’t intend to fire people. Especially key personnel.”

  “Good. That’s a relief.” Eric sat a little straighter in the chair. “I need to rearrange some of the airtime schedules to cover Howard’s time slot. That is, if you want me to.”

  “Please. For the time being, continue to do your job as you normally have.”

  Eric nodded, but didn’t rise. Everything about his demeanor told Clark the man had something else eating at him.

  “Something you want to tell me?”

  Eric met his stare. “I wanted to tell you that nobody will blame you if you backed out of the deal.”

  What? Clark sat forward and studied the young station manager.

  “I mean, I’m sure you have a clause in the contract if you don’t want to deal with all this.” Eric spread his fingers. “The murder’s already hit the gossip mill. Sponsors and advertisers will probably pull their money out of the station. It’d be a bad business move on anyone’s part to continue with the sale.” He shrugged. “I’m just saying no one will blame you if you walk away.”

  The argument Clark had yet to have with himself, despite the urging of his business logic. “I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do just yet.”

  Eric nodded. “It’s a hard call.” He stood. “I just wanted to tell you there’d be no hard feelings if you packed up and hauled it back up North. Everyone would understand.”

  Haul it back North? A not-so-subtle hint that he didn’t fit in here? “I appreciate your candor. I need to call my attorney and discuss the situation with him.”

  “Yeah, I get that. He’ll probably tell you to run as fast as you can.”

  Clark chuckled, picturing his straight-laced attorney. “Probably.”

  “In the meantime, let me know if you need anything.” Eric gave a mock salute and strode from the office.

  Clark glanced out the window. The manager was right—he should get back to Philly and forget all about KLUV and Mystique.

  But something strong inside urged him to stay put.

  He shook his head. He’d figure it all out later. It was possible the sheriff would solve the case in a matter of days and then this whole mess would be behind him. That would be ideal.

  Closing his briefcase, he made his way to the front door of KLUV. The police had finished their evidence-gathering and Clark had a locksmith come and repair the back door. Even so, he preferred to use the front entrance.

  He waved at David Gray in the deejay booth. The kindly, laidback man wagged fingers in return. Clark locked the front doors behind him, then headed to his car. Even though it was barely six-thirty, the sun had already set and the streets were quiet—a big contrast to the hustle and bustle he was used to. Eric was right about one thing. He didn’t fit in here, yet.

  Maybe once everyone knew he was now a local business owner, they’d be a bit more friendly. Not that anyone had been rude, never, but he caught the sideway glances and raised brows. They were polite to him now because of Aunt Beulah. But maybe once he became known in the community, he’d actually be accepted. On his own merit.

  At least now he had a real home to go to at the end of the day. He’d moved out of the B and B yesterday, having arrived in Mystique a week ago to check out the town. If he would uproot and put himself in culture shock, he wanted to make sure he could live in the area. And he’d liked what he’d seen. So much so that when the Realtor brought him the folio on this house and told him he’d do better to buy than rent, it hadn’t taken much convincing to get him to sign on the dotted line.

  His new home was an old antebellum with such character. No longer would he allow himself to get off track on what he needed. He’d moved to a place where life was slower, kinder.

  As he walked over to where he’d parked, Clark made mental notes of little things he needed to add to his to-do list of renovations. When he completed the house, it’d be restored to the glory it must have possessed back in pre–Civil War days. The house had charm, and it promised him a lifetime of happiness. At least, that’s what Clark chose to believe.

  He stopped abruptly when he got to his car.

  Apparently it would take a bit longer than expected for the locals to get used to him. One local had made the message very clear.

 
The letters were spray-painted across the hood of his car.

  GO HOME YANKEE.

  “I can’t believe McGruder doesn’t have any suspects other than y’all.” Rayne wrinkled her aristocratically perfect nose. The youngest of the tight circle of Gabby’s friends, she was the most serious and oozed confidence right down to her polished manicure. Then again, after spending several years in a Swedish finishing school, she skippy sure better have all the spit and polish her daddy had paid a small fortune to attain.

  Gabby nodded absentmindedly and stifled a yawn. She’d caught a couple of hours of sleep after leaving the hospital, but still felt a little groggy. She gazed out the picture windows lining the front of Ms. Minnie’s diner, allowing the serenity of the area to calm her irritations. Oak trees swayed down Shannon Street, kudzu vines crept up the trunks nearly covering the bark and drowning out the hope of new growth. Saltiness hung in the air, riding on the wings of the March winds. Mystique, Mississippi, was Southern flavor at its best, and filled Gabby’s heart with pure contentment. Coming back home after the Blake Riggsdale fiasco had been the right choice. If only it didn’t feel as if her dream were slowly slipping through her fingertips.

  Rayne continued. “Any change in Mr. Ellison?”

  “I called the hospital when I woke. He’s still unconscious, but the doctors say his vitals are good. At least his blood sugar level has evened out. Immy said she’d get an update later tonight.”

  “I told Amber I’d bring her a sandwich when I left here.”

  Gabby struggled with frustration, hauling in a deep breath. The diner’s door opened, the little bell tinkling overhead.

  Sheriff McGruder strode inside, his cop persona intact. He glanced at the offerings of Mystique gossips and old men who had nothing better to do than spend the entire day in the diner. He stopped when his gaze lit on Gabby. He scrutinized her from lowered eyes.

  Was he here just to check up on her? Heat shot up Gabby’s spine. Did he really think of her as a suspect? Or maybe he thought she knew more than she’d said?

  “What’s wrong?” Concern flashed in Rayne’s eyes.

  Gabby gave a nod toward the sheriff as he stopped to speak to a couple of the blue-hairs by the entrance. “Sheriff McGruder. He’s giving me the evil eye.”