“I thought the caller who wanted to talk to her dead cat was the worst.”
“Damn straight. I halfway expected Chantel to channel Mr. Whiskers for her, but you notice how she sidestepped that one by saying we’d be doing a whole segment on departed pets next week. Pretty clever, the way she gets some promo for herself.”
The show was finally over. Chantel had left the studio, blowing air kisses to the staff, and I was going over programming notes with Vera Mae in my tiny office. It’s really more of a cubicle than an office, with piles of books and papers scattered everywhere, along with newspaper clippings for show ideas, and stacks of correspondence.
You’d be surprised how many publicists send me press packets, jammed with tricolor foldouts and head shots. Either they think we have a bigger market share than we really do, or they just send out mass mailings to convince their clients that they’re covering all the bases for them.
As the show’s producer, Vera Mae is the one who’s really responsible for booking the guests, and she combs through all the big south Florida papers, the Miami Herald, the Sun Sentinel, and the Palm Beach Post, for story ideas. But a lot of locals feel they know me because they tune in to my show every day, so they send the material directly to me. It’s always hard to say no to someone who’s a faithful listener of On the Couch, but the truth is, I have to refuse most of them. The trick is to do it without ruffling their feelings.
“I have a splitting headache,” I said, reaching into my bag for a couple of aspirin. “Chantel was off her game today, wasn’t she?”
“Completely. That girl wasn’t getting anything right, bless her heart.”
Whenever Vera Mae says “bless her heart,” it means, “I’d like to wring her gosh-darn neck.”
“I don’t suppose Cyrus will care, though. We’ll still have to invite her back next week.”
“Oh, she’ll be back like clockwork,” Vera Mae said glumly. “All Cyrus cares about are the ratings, sugar.” She was nibbling on a Twizzler, the latest in her string of stop-smoking strategies. Before Twizzlers, she worked her way through a candy mountain of malted milk balls and Reese’s Pieces. “For some reason, your listeners are connecting with her, and that’s a fact. You know, we’re running those séance spots every hour on the hour. Who knew that dead folks would have so much to say?”
“That reminds me,” I said, my spirits sinking. “I’m supposed to go to one of Chantel’s séances tonight. For some reason she wants me to see her in action. Maybe she thinks it’ll give me some new insight into her spirit work, as she calls it.”
Vera Mae pulled a face. “I promised her I’d go, too. Do you want to go together? It’s down at the historical society on Water Street. We could order in a pizza and go straight from here.” She gave a wry smile. “My car’s still in the shop. I don’t know what in the world Jeb Peterson is doing to it, so if I could hitch a ride with you, that would be great.”
“Sounds good. Lark and Lola want to come, too. So we’ll swing by my place and get them on the way, if that’s okay.”
“Of course it is. The more, the merrier. You know what they say—misery loves company,” Vera Mae added wryly.
Lark, my twenty-three-year-old roommate, is into all things New Age and would never forgive me if I denied her the chance to go to a ghostly encounter. And Lola, my glamorous fiftysomething mother, is game for anything that will improve her “art.”
Lola is an aspiring actress who’s appeared in a string of B movies, and she’s always up for a new experience. It’s doubtful she’ll ever be called on to play a medium or psychic on-screen, but she’s a confirmed people watcher, and a séance was the perfect place to do it.
I opened a press packet that included a self-published book on Cypress Grove history, written by Professor Bernard Grossman, a local author. It had a cheesy cover and a gluey binding, but it was obviously a three-hundred-page labor of love. I held it up for Vera Mae. “Save or toss?”
“I’ll take it, sugar.” Vera Mae peered at the cover. “You know, I can probably get some good material out of here for those time capsule promos.” For the past month, we’d been running a major promotion called “Take Me Back in Time,” in honor of an upcoming Cypress Grove event.
Several decades ago, the town council buried a time capsule under the courthouse, with the stipulation that it would be dug up in a hundred years. But a few months ago, a developer named Mark Sanderson started negotiating to buy the courthouse. He doesn’t care about the ugly mock-Gothic building; all he’s interested in is the prime real estate it stands on. Sanderson plans on razing the courthouse and building a towering condo project on the valuable two-acre lot in the center of town. So that means the time capsule is going to be unearthed in less than two weeks, way ahead of schedule.
Cyrus, who always has an eye out for ratings, decided we could get some mileage out of the time capsule story by running contests, offering prizes to listeners, and interviewing local historians.
Vera Mae had assigned the project to Kevin Whitley, our college intern, mostly to give him something to do. Kevin is barely twenty, but he dresses like someone forty years older. Today he was sporting Larry King suspenders, a Matlock seersucker suit, and wire-rimmed glasses. He’s annoyingly cheerful, as effervescent as a club soda.
“Great show, Dr. Maggie, Miss Vera Mae.” He’s also unfailingly polite. He was on his way to the production office with a pile of tapes, but he stuck his head in my cubicle to say hello.
“Do you really think so, Kevin?” I asked. He seemed blind to the fact that the show had been a train wreck from start to finish. I wondered what it would take to burst that sunny bubble of optimism he carried around with him.
“Oh, yes, ma’am, I did. I always do enjoy hearing Miss Chantel. I learn something new every day from her.” He gave a toothy grin, which along with his weak chin, gives him an unfortunate resemblance to Eeyore.
“You don’t think we’ve done this topic to death, Kevin?” Vera Mae asked. “No pun intended,” she added with a grin.
“No, ma’am! I don’t think your listeners will ever get tired of talking to dead people. In my own family, we have loads of people who talk to the departed on a daily basis.”
And they’re not hospitalized? Or on medication?
His tone was solemn and so reverential that I resisted making a cheap joke. “It seems to be the women in the family, mostly.” He wrinkled his forehead in thought. “Come to think of it, the women are the ones who have all the psychic powers in the Whitley clan. They just love to keep up with relatives who’ve passed.”
I exchanged a look with Vera Mae. “And why do you suppose that is, Kevin? Why would women be more in touch with the spirit world than men?”
“I’m not really sure. I think that maybe women have more to say. They’re just better at connecting with people, you know?”
“Damn straight we are,” Vera Mae said. “You got that one right.” She turned to me. “Maggie, didn’t one of your guests say that women talk six times as much as men?”
I nodded, not sure where the conversation was heading. “There’s a famous study on male-female communication,” I said. “The researchers discovered that in a one-on-one conversation between a man and a woman, a woman uses six times as many words as a man does. Maybe that’s what you’re thinking of.”
“It doesn’t surprise me. Men don’t listen to us, so we have to repeat everything half a dozen times,” Vera Mae said darkly.
As soon as Kevin made his way to the production room, I decided it was time to broach the subject of Irina.
“You’re going to talk to Cyrus about hiring a real copywriter, right? That House of Beauty commercial was awful. I nearly said ‘blow job’ on the air.”
Vera Mae laughed. “I know you did, sugar, and I’m real glad that you didn’t. The phones would be ringing off the hook with furious callers.” She sighed. “I really meant to read over that copy before I put it on the schedule, but you know, things get crazy around here
. I don’t always get the time to do the things I should be doing.”
“It’s not your fault, Vera Mae. It’s Irina. She’s just not cut out to be a copywriter. English is a second language for her. Why can’t Cyrus see that?”
“He can’t see past saving a few bucks, honey, and that’s a fact.” She scooped up a pile of press packets. “But don’t worry. I’ll talk to him. I’ll just fib and tell him Wanda complained,” she added with a wink. “A word from the sponsor always gets his attention. You better believe it.”
Chapter 3
The last moments of sunset were streaking across the western sky when Vera Mae and I left WYME for the séance at the historical society. But first we had to swing by my mock-hacienda-style town house to pick up Lark and Lola. As we turned onto the leafy street lined with banyan trees, I thought how lucky I was to have found this place. It’s a three-bedroom unit in a quiet residential neighborhood just ten minutes from WYME.
A row of fragrant gardenia bushes separates my building from the Seabreeze Inn, a bright yellow and white Victorian B and B right next door. Ted Rollins, the manager and owner of the Seabreeze, was hosting one of his nightly wine-and-cheese receptions, and I spotted a dozen or so guests mingling on the wide front porch.
It was a lovely evening, the air soft and balmy, the cicadas humming in the trees. Lark and Lola were sitting outside on the front step, deep in conversation.
I was relieved to see that my mom was decked out appropriately for the occasion. She was wearing a pair of white capri pants, a striped navy-and-white boater’s sweater, and four-inch stiletto heels. This is a pretty tame outfit for a woman who’s fond of shopping at Wet Seal. The term “age appropriate” never crosses her lips; as she says, she’d “rather dress like Nicole Richie than Helen Mirren.”
She figures the “classic look” is a slippery slope for a woman of a certain age. You’ll never find her in a pastel pantsuit and sensible pumps. She finds the whole idea of “dressing her age” terrifying. As Lola says, “Why, the next you know, I might be ordering the early-bird special at Applebee’s and dating a man named Sid who wears a rug.”
At fifty-eight, Mom has the style and panache of one of those long-dead actresses of the silver screen, Dorothy Lamour, Ava Gardner, Marilyn Monroe. She dresses a little young, but since she never tells anyone her real age, it probably doesn’t matter. Mom has been known to fudge the truth. The résumé stapled to the back of her head shot still lists her as “thirty-eight,” but a more accurate listing would be “thirty-eight and holding.”
Think about it. I’m thirty-two. At the rate she’s going, she’ll soon be younger than I am, and she’s been known to introduce herself as my sister. According to Lola, she’s younger than every actress in Hollywood, with the possible exception of Dakota Fanning.
Lola and Lark sprang to their feet when I pulled up in front of the town house.
“This is going to be an amazing evening,” Lark said, climbing into the backseat after Mom. “I’ve never been to a séance, although I have seen auras around people.”
“Is that so?” Vera Mae asked diplomatically. “Too bad you’re weren’t in the studio today. You might have seen Fido’s aura.” Vera Mae winked at me.
“You mean Barney,” I corrected her.
“Who’s Barney?” Lark asked.
“He’s a dog.” I checked my watch and pulled away from the curb. We’d be a little early for the séance, but I wanted to get a good seat.
“A dead dog,” Vera Mae offered.
“Well, you can’t leave us hanging,” Lola said. “I missed the show today. What happened?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it later,” I promised.
“Do you suppose the press will be there tonight?” Mom asked breathlessly.
I glanced in the rearview mirror, and I could see her touching up her lip gloss. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d tucked a few extra head shots in her tote bag. Mom likes to be prepared. She once chased a guy with a beard who was wearing a baseball cap five blocks down Rodeo Drive. When she finally caught up with him, she realized it wasn’t Steven Spielberg.
“The press? I don’t think so,” Vera Mae said. “Not unless the Cypress Grove Gazette sends someone. What about that reporter friend of yours, Nick Harrison? Do you suppose he’ll be at the séance, Maggie?”
“No, I remember distinctly that Chantel said she didn’t want any media present. The event is open to the public, so she can’t keep them out, but she certainly isn’t encouraging it. The presence of reporters disturbs the spirits, she told me.”
“Ha! I bet Chantel said that because she’s afraid they’ll run an exposé on her. The reporters must know this is all a load of malarkey. You know, someone should do a little investigating on that girl, Maggie. She gave us that press packet, and we’ve been accepting it as gospel truth.” Vera Mae raised her eyebrows. “Maybe there are some dark secrets in her past.”
An interesting idea. I made a mental note to ask Nick to do a quick background check on Chantel Carrington for me. Nick is a first-rate investigative reporter who’s covering arts and entertainment features for the tiny Cypress Grove Gazette while he waits for his big break. He’d love to move to the Miami Herald or the Palm Beach Post, but things are tough in the newspaper business right now, so he has to stay put in our little town.
“Are you saying Chantel is a fraud, a charlatan?” Lark piped up. “That’s disappointing, because a lot of people believe in her.”
She gave a tiny shake of her head, and her blue eyes looked troubled. Lark is determined to think the best of everyone and doesn’t share my cynical view of humanity. In many ways, she and I are polar opposites. Lark is an incurable optimist and believes in cosmic harmony, yin and yang, and the idea that the universe sometimes bestows blessings in the form of apparent disasters.
“Well, you just have to take it for what it is,” Vera Mae said kindly. “Think of what Chantel does as entertainment. You know, a performance, a stage act.”
“But it can’t just be entertainment. I’ve had a strong feeling all day that I was meant to come to her séance tonight. I feel a cosmic connection to her.”
“Then you’re setting yourself up for disappointment, sugar.”
Lark believes that we’re destined to meet every single person we encounter in life, either to learn something from them or to teach them something. She’s into all things New Age: chakras, karma, auras, and the I ching.
Her favorite movie is Forrest Gump, and I love anything by Woody Allen.
I think that says it all.
“I’d sure like to get a rundown on her background,” Vera Mae said. “What do we really know about her anyway? Have you ever seen her business card? It says she’s a professional psychic, a medium, a seer, and an oracle. She calls herself an oracle! She’s not lacking nerve. That’s for sure.”
“It actually says oracle on her card?” Oracle. That seemed a little over-the-top, even for Chantel. “I wish I’d known that. I could have used that on the show today.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met an oracle,” Lark said, awed. “Or a seer, for that matter.”
“Oh, seer, schmeer,” Mom interjected. “People can say whatever they like. I could say I’m Suzanne Somers, but who’d believe me?” She twisted a long, loopy strand of golden hair around her index finger. Mom had extensions hot-glued onto her own locks last week and she couldn’t resist playing with them.
“Well, you do look a little like her,” Lark said, ever tactful. “Around the eyes.”
“Do you think so?” Mom brightened and whipped out her compact. “Really?” Mom smiled at her reflection, flipped her extensions back over her shoulder, and pursed her lips. “I don’t know. Maybe if they photographed me from a certain angle, in the right light. Of course, they’d have to use those soft pink lightbulbs. They’re very flattering, you know.”
Vera Mae and I exchanged a look. Soft pink lightbulbs? Who’s she kidding ?
It w
ould take more than pink lightbulbs to make Mom look like Suzanne Somers.
It would take a pair of rose-colored glasses.
Or maybe a bad case of cataracts.
Chapter 4
It was nearly seven when we arrived at the Cypress Grove Historical Society on the south end of Water Street. I nosed my Honda Accord into the parking lot behind the imposing pale gray Victorian mansion that sat squarely on a corner lot.
Althea Somerset was hosting Chantel Carrington’s appearance tonight. Althea, one of Cypress Grove’s most prominent citizens, sits on the board of several local charities and is an enthusiastic town booster. The historical society is her passion in life, and she’s been the director for more than three decades, working for a minuscule salary and living in a small apartment on the top floor.
Althea is an imposing woman, tall and slender. Pushing eighty, she’s always stylishly dressed in her trademark pearls and designer pumps. Tonight she was wearing a pale blue Marc Jacobs dress with a high neckline; her silver hair was swept up into an elegant French twist and secured with a silver comb.
I find it hard to believe that Althea really believes in Chantel’s ghostly chats, but she certainly understands the power of publicity. She’d told me the other day that membership in the historical society was down and donations were at an all-time low. I noticed she’d discreetly placed a pile of membership brochures in a silver dish sitting on an antique armoire.
“So glad you could make it, Maggie,” she said, giving me a hug. “And you brought Vera Mae and Lark. And oh, Lola, I was hoping you’d be able to join us.”
Lola loves being anyplace where there’s an audience. She took a moment to check herself out in the elaborate rococo mirror hanging in the entryway before greeting Althea.
“This came from one of the Flagler mansions,” Althea said proudly. “A very valuable piece I just added to the collection.” I bit back a smile. She didn’t realize Lola was admiring herself, not the gilded mirror, festooned with pudgy cherubs and water nymphs. “As you know, the Flaglers came here in the nineteenth century and made significant contributions to the area.” She looked hopeful, as if she was trying to spark some interest in the philanthropies of the famous family.
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