Stay Tuned for Murder

by Kennedy, Mary

  Was she a little envious? Well, if she was, who could blame her?

  People were showering Chantel with lucrative book contracts and movie deals plus a chance to hit the lecture circuit and play at major venues. Chantel had created a great platform—talking to the dead—and was getting loads of media attention. When you thought of it, it was brilliant. Who could say she wasn’t talking to the dead? As one of my professors once said, it’s tough to prove a negative.

  “Yes, she knows how to connect with the audience. She’s that way on my show, too. She ropes in the listeners right away, and the lines are always jammed with callers.”

  I was feeling a little twinge of jealousy myself. If Chantel ever wangles her own show on WYME, I bet she’ll outpace On the Couch with Maggie Walsh in a heartbeat. It’s all about ratings, and Chantel knows how to work her magic, not just with the listeners, but with Cyrus Still, the station manager.

  She’s savvy about promoting herself, and I don’t quite trust her. I have the feeling she’d step right over me to get to the top and would be willing to do whatever it takes. I still didn’t understand her motivation, though.

  Why would she be interested in a small market like Cypress Grove? Or was it a stepping-stone to something bigger? I’d never really believed her line that she came here for some much-needed peace and quiet in order to write. From what I’ve seen of Chantel, peace and quiet—and isolation—are the last things she needs.

  “I wonder if she’s had any theatrical training,” Mom said. “Or maybe she’s just a natural. Either way, I’d love to find out more about her. I have the feeling she’s a fellow thespian.”

  A fellow thespian? A charlatan is more like it, I thought.

  But it was interesting that Lola believed she recognized a fellow actress, a kindred spirit, in Chantel. Lola has been pursuing an acting career most of her life. At fifty-eight, she’s still hoping to grab the brass ring, although the years may have dampened her over-the-top aspirations. In a youth-oriented culture, how far can Lola really go with her acting career, and what sorts of parts can she hope to play?

  Lola has managed to snare some parts in B movies—the kind that go straight to video—and recently, she appeared in a Hollywood movie that was being shot right here in Cypress Grove. She got the part because of her friendship with Hank Watson, the director, but it still was an exciting time for her, and she loved being part of the production.

  I was involved with the movie company as well, first as a script consultant, and then I found myself investigating a murder that happened on the set.

  There’s a bustling film business in Miami, and Mom still trots off to auditions every time she gets the chance. She’s acquired a new agent, Edgar Dumont, who has an office in South Beach. He looks like he’s been around since the golden age of Hollywood, but he does send her on “go-sees” and auditions for the occasional low-budget flick or television commercial. It’s enough to keep her hopes up, I guess, because she never gives up on the business entirely.

  “Intermittent reinforcement,” the shrinks call it. Give a pigeon a few crumbs as a reward from time to time (but don’t do it all the time) and it’s more effective than a regular pay-off. In other words, keep them guessing. Giving someone a few strokes occasionally and randomly will keep them coming back for more. Reward them every time and they lose interest in a hurry.

  “Just call in the next time Chantel’s on the show and ask her whatever you want,” I suggested. “Vera Mae will make sure you get through. You can call Vera Mae on her private line. I’ll give you the number.”

  “Well, I’d hate jumping ahead of the other listeners,” Mom said. “After all, you’re the host of the show. I don’t want anyone to think I’m being pushy or asking for special treatment.”

  I laughed. “Are you kidding? Mom, I think I’m entitled to a few perks as a WYME talk show host.”

  I wondered whether she realized I’d taken a huge pay cut to move to Florida and work at WYME. Even though it was expensive to live in Manhattan, I’d made a good living from psychology, especially since I specialized in forensic work.

  I also had a small “concierge practice” on the side and saw only a dozen or so patients every week. I always thought of them as the “worried well” because they were high-functioning types, mostly high-powered executives and a few show business personalities. They didn’t use their health insurance cards because they didn’t want to leave a paper trail of their sessions with me, and they always paid out of pocket. Some of them even paid me a monthly retainer to make sure that I’d always be available to them.

  Being a radio talk show host in a small market has a lot of positive things associated with it, but money isn’t one of them. It’s fun, it’s entertaining, you meet some terrific people, you become an instant celebrity, and you have your own parking spot.

  But you don’t get rich. Trust me.

  Chapter 6

  I bent down to hug Pugsley, who, even thirty minutes after our return, was still circling my ankles, yipping with excitement, delirious with joy at our return. Pugsley is the furry love of my life, a three-year-old rescue dog who understands my most intimate thoughts and feelings. He’s the next best thing to a soul mate and gives me what every woman craves.

  Unconditional love and a ton of sloppy kisses.

  Pugsley never has a bad day. I feel happier just being around him.

  I scooped him up and settled down with him at the kitchen table. The kitchen is a cozy place, with oak floors, exposed beams, and cream walls dotted with abstract canvases ainted by local artists. Lark has an excellent eye for color, and she’s picked them up for a song at neighborhood yard sales.

  Pugsley squirmed in my lap, watching Mom at the refrigerator, probably angling for a treat. We try to keep him on what Lark calls a heart-healthy diet, but we allow for the occasional snack. After all, what’s life without a few Liv-a Snaps now and then?

  Mom pulled out a plate of blueberry-walnut scones and set it down in front of me while Lark filled the electric tea-kettle. Exotic teas and homemade goodies have become an evening ritual for us, and I’m very fortunate that Lark loves to cook. She’s into organic food and makes everything from scratch, using whole grains, flaxseed, soy powder, and other heart-healthy nutrients that she stashes in glass canisters. If she wasn’t so dedicated to her paralegal studies, I think she would make an excellent personal chef.

  “I’m curious about your reaction to the séance, Lark,” Mom said to her. “Did you feel anything special when you were sitting there at the table tonight with Chantel?”

  Lark looked pensive for a moment and then ran her hand through her choppy blond hair. Lark has a winsome look about her, and with her delicate bones and slim stature, people often mistake her for a teenager.

  “I can’t really say,” she said finally, carefully measuring out some fragrant peach-vanilla tea into the pot. “I felt something , but maybe it was just the power of suggestion. Chantel has a very strong aura around her, you know. She comes across much more forcefully in person than she does on the radio.”

  “It was hard for us to tell anything, sitting way back in the audience,” Mom said.

  I suddenly remembered the puff of white smoke that danced for a few minutes in the air and then disappeared. I asked Lark about it.

  “Yes, I saw it, too,” she said quickly. “It seemed to come out of nowhere.” She wrinkled her nose. “The funny thing is, it had a strange odor to it. Like a chemical smell.”

  “Really? That’s interesting.” Maybe Chantel had released a vial that contained some sort of vapor that hung over the table for a few minutes before vanishing. It was a little odd, but I suppose it added to the air of mystery. I made a mental note to ask Nick Harrison, my friend at the Gazette, to check it out. I was sure Nick would have some ideas on magic tricks, or he’d at least know whom to ask. He has terrific connections on both coasts along with the tenacity of a pit bull when he’s hot on the trail of a story. I wrote Call Nick at the top of
my to-do list before turning in to bed at eleven o’clock, with Pugsley nestled happily at my side. He fell asleep within minutes, caught up in a doggie dream, his tiny feet making galloping motions as if he was chasing a rabbit.

  I reached over to pet him, my own thoughts going back to Chantel’s séance. Her silly conversation with Michael the spirit guide. Her blind ambition. Was she trying to take over my show? And what about her somber prediction that there was danger afoot in Cypress Grove? She warned that disaster would strike us, all because of greed, avarice, and some very dark secrets.

  You notice how she kept the warning completely general, never specific. It would fit any situation, any set of circumstances, just like the horoscope column in the local paper. Who’d believe such nonsense?

  I rolled over and gathered Pugsley in my arms like a teddy bear, but I couldn’t turn off my thoughts. Then I answered my own question. Who’d believe in Chantel? The same people who believed in crop circles, Area 51, and the idea that the Nazis had a base on the moon. Oh, yeah, and the wacky notion that supermarket bar codes were actually part of a secret government plot to control our thoughts and behavior.

  Conspiracy theories. They might make for an interesting show, and I decided to run the idea past Vera Mae when I got to the studio the next day.

  And that’s the last thing I remember before I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  The next morning was a perfect south Florida day, bright and sunny, with just a few puffy clouds drifting across a paint-box blue sky. I opened the sliding glass door to our tiny balcony, and Pugsley went flying outside while I plugged in the coffeepot.

  I like to linger on the balcony with a cup of high-octane Hazelnut Delight before starting my day, and if Mom’s staying at the town house with us, she always joins me. Mom has her own place in Miami, but she visits frequently, and I’m glad I paid a little extra to have a three-bedroom unit.

  The balcony is tiny, probably only fifty square feet, and simply furnished with a couple of navy canvas deck chairs I picked up at Tar-zhay plus a small wicker table. But it overlooks a pretty little fountain that spills into a pond and a nice little garden bordered by some magnolia bushes at the end of the property.

  I got the coffeepot going and then sat out on a deck chair, watching the copper green metal dolphins twirling in the spray, the droplets looking like tiny crystals as they landed on the terra-cotta tiles edging the pond. It was one of those mornings that makes me grateful to be living in south Florida, a day when all is right with the world.

  Mom came out on the balcony to join me, wearing a silk Japanese dressing gown, reading a copy of Variety. Even though we’re three thousand miles from Hollywood, she likes to stay “plugged in,” as she calls it, and follows all the latest casting news in Los Angeles.

  “They’re holding auditions for a Lifetime movie,” she said. “And listen to this: they’re looking for a young Mia Farrow.” She paused dramatically. “A young Mia Farrow! Can you believe it?” She sounded shaken. “I remember her in Rosemary’s Baby,” she said quietly. “She was wonderful in that movie. And she looked so young, hardly more than a girl.” Mom looked wistful, her blue eyes thoughtful.

  “Well, yes, Mom, of course she looked young. She was young. You have to remember, Rosemary’s Baby was filmed more than forty years ago. She’s a beautiful woman, but it’s been quite a while since she could play an ingenue.”

  I wondered whether Mom realized that Mia Farrow is playing grandmother roles at this stage of her career. Lola probably did know this on an intellectual level, but maybe she blocked the information out of her mind. I think she would find it depressing beyond belief if she let herself dwell on it.

  “Time flies,” Mom said with a heavy sigh. “I haven’t seen her on the screen very much recently.” I knew what she was thinking. If Mia Farrow was getting older, that meant she was getting older as well.

  She flipped through the paper for a few moments and then tossed it aside. “All the casting notices seem to be for girls in their twenties and thirties,” she said, giving a little frown. “Well, no surprises there. That seems to be par for the course.” She pursed her lips and stared out into the sunny garden, apparently lost in thought.

  “Do you have an audition today?” I spotted a script in her lap.

  “Yes, it’s just a small part, but I better get cracking on it. My memory isn’t what it used to be.” She paused. “Lately, I seem to have trouble concentrating. That’s why I turned off the TV and the phone this morning.”

  “I noticed.” Mom needs complete silence when she has to memorize lines. “I’m sure you’ll do a great job.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” She made a face. “There will be tons of young girls auditioning. And then there’s me. I bet I’ll be the oldest person in the room.” She heaved a little sigh.

  Mom knows that Hollywood isn’t kind to “women of a certain age,” and as she says, the clock is always ticking. There’s only a small window of opportunity for them to practice their chosen craft. For every Sally Field, Meryl Streep, and Helen Mirren, there are thousands of actresses who never work in their “mature” years. The parts just dry up, and no one sends them out on auditions. They simply become invisible.

  Sometimes the same thing happens to male superstars.

  “The Tab Hunter story comes to mind.” Mom smiled. “You’ve heard it, right?”

  I nodded. “The four stages of Hollywood stardom.” I smiled, remembering the old joke. Get me Tab Hunter. Get me a Tab Hunter type. Get me a young Tab Hunter. Who the hell is Tab Hunter?

  Lark called out that the coffee was ready, and I brought out two mugs on a tray with a couple of croissants. Mom and I sat side by side, enjoying the bright Florida sunlight, the dazzling bougainvillea, and the sweet smell of magnolia drifting across the soft breeze.

  Nothing bad could happen on a day like this, I thought.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Vera Mae called me on my cell around noon, just as I was getting ready to leave for the station. I had dressed casually in a pair of white capris and a sleeveless yellow blouse from Ann Taylor. I was just stuffing my cell phone in my tote bag when I realized it was vibrating. I quickly flipped the lid open, and before I could even say hello, Vera Mae’s voice raced across the line.

  “Holy moley, girl, haven’t you heard the news? Are you watching channel six?”

  “What’s up?” I said idly. I was doing a mental rundown of what I needed to stash in my tote: show notes, briefcase, water bottle, day planner, granola bar. I had the vague feeling I was forgetting something. Maybe hair spray? My shoulder-length auburn hair turns into a fuzzball when it’s humid, and I have to use industrial-strength products to tame it.

  “What’s up? Miss Althea is dead—that’s what’s up. I thought surely you’d have heard by now.”

  Althea dead? I tuned out everything except those two words. A muscle jumped in my cheek, and my head throbbed with the news. While I’d been sitting outside enjoying the sunny day with Lola, Althea Somerset had died. I shook my head in disbelief at the randomness of events.

  If I shared Lark’s view of the world, I’d have no trouble accepting this odd dichotomy. Lark believes that whenever the cosmos favors you with good fortune, it immediately sends a bolt of darkness and sadness. Every joyful moment is followed by tragedy. Yin and yang, Lark calls it. Sunny days are always balanced by rain. I’m glad this philosophy makes Lark happy, but I don’t buy it.

  “Althea Somerset? But what happened? She was fine last night,” I said idiotically. My mind was doing loops at the impossibility of it all. It always amazes me what pops out of people’s mouths when they’re hit with the news of someone’s death.

  I wasn’t a close friend of Althea’s, but she’d been kind to me when I was new in town, feeling my way. I felt a wave of sadness at her passing, and I took a deep breath to steady myself.

  “She was murdered in a home invasion.” Vera Mae paused; her voice sagged. “Right there at the his
torical society. Bludgeoned to death with a fireplace poker.” Vera Mae had known Althea for more than two decades, I remembered. No wonder she was upset. “It was all over the news a few minutes ago.”

  “We’ve had radio silence here this morning,” I said. “Lola was studying her lines. She’s going on an audition tomorrow. You know how she is when she’s memorizing a part. No one can make a sound.” I walked away from the kitchen, down the little hallway that leads to my bedroom.

  Lark and Lola had headed out the front door for a shopping trip at Sawgrass Mills just a few minutes earlier. I felt a little pang when I realized they’d find out the news as soon as they turned on the car radio. I tried to gather my thoughts, which were scrambling like leaves in the wind.

  Sudden death was shocking enough, but murder was unthinkable. And why Althea? It was impossible to think of her as a murder victim.

  “I need to call Rafe,” I said quickly. “And Nick Harrison.”

  I knew Nick, my reporter friend at the Cypress Grove Gazette, would be on top of the news and was probably already out interviewing sources. Even though he covers arts and entertainment, he never misses a chance to tackle the crime beat.

  And Rafe, my on-again, off-again boyfriend, who happens to be a detective with the Cypress Grove PD, was probably working the case right this minute. I needed to get information from both of them, and I needed it fast.

  “Well, Rafe’s already called here for you. I told him we were both at that séance last night, along with Lola and Lark. It’s weird to think that we were probably some of the last people to see her alive, isn’t it?”

  Along with about thirty other people, I thought. And of course Chantel. Could the murder be connected to the séance? But how? And who would benefit from Althea’s death?