“How fast can you get in here?” Vera Mae asked, breaking into my thoughts. “I’m thinking of putting together a memorial show about Althea and her work with the historical society. We won’t be able to get it ready in time for today, but we can certainly run it tomorrow.” She paused. “And Cyrus wants me to step up those promos for the time capsule ceremony. That was one of Althea’s pet projects.” There was a little catch in her voice.
“I know, Vera Mae,” I said softly. “That would be a wonderful tribute to her, a great way to honor her. We can work on the promos as soon as I get there. I’m on my way.”
Chapter 7
I scrolled through my messages as I zipped out to my little red Honda parked on the street. Rafe had called my cell three times. Interesting. I thought of calling him back and decided against it. I knew he’d go ballistic if I tried to talk to him while I was driving, and I wanted to get to the station as quickly as possible.
I’d just pulled into the WYME parking lot and was scrambling out of my car when I heard a familiar voice behind me.
“I think you’ve done it again, Sherlock.” A male voice, low and husky, with a sexy undercurrent that made my heart go flip-flop. I recognized the voice immediately, that sultry tone with a teasing edge could belong to only one person.
Rafe Martino.
“How’s that?” My heart was thumping in my chest, but I tried to sound casual as I glanced over my shoulder. I grabbed my tote bag off the front seat, closed the car door, and took my time pushing my sunglasses on top of my head before I turned to face him.
We were standing just a few feet away from each other, and I felt a wave of emotion body slam me. Rafe was wearing a black T-shirt and dark denim jeans and looked like a million bucks. Life is unfair. It isn’t standard cop attire, but he’s a detective and often works undercover, so I guess he can wear whatever he wants.
Rafe and I have an on-again, off-again history, but my traitorous hormones always kick into high gear when I’m standing this close to him. It’s like he’s putting out pheromones that draw me back into his web. Is he even aware that he’s doing it? I’ve often wondered about that. Something about the sexy little smile that plays over his lips tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“It looks like you’ve gotten yourself involved in another murder, Maggie,” he said lightly. “You’ve heard about Althea Somerset, right?” I nodded and he went on. “Vera Mae tells me you were the last person to see her alive. I’d like to hear more about that.” A smile, coaxing, played on his lips.
I decided it was time to set him straight. “What Vera Mae said isn’t quite accurate, Rafe. I was one of the last people to see her alive.” For a homicide detective, he was remarkably casual about his choice of words. Or maybe he was being deliberately obtuse, trying to throw me off guard, something he enjoys doing from time to time.
“There were at least thirty people at the historical society last night,” I continued. “And a handful of them were chosen to actually get up onstage and participate in the séance. But you probably know all this, right?” I said, goading him a little.
“Of course. I have a copy of the guest list,” he said in that maddening way. “Luckily Althea asked people to sign the register at the door. And Vera Mae filled me in on which guests Chantel chose to sit at the table with her. I know Althea was one of them. In any case, Duane and I plan on interviewing every single person who was at the historical society last night. And a few other people who might have knowledge of the case.”
“Really? Other people?”
Rafe shrugged, not willing to give anything away. “Duane is checking out some collateral contacts for me.”
“Have they established the time of death?”
“The coroner is still working on that. It could be late last night or early this morning. Duane is going to call the medical examiner’s office for an update.”
Officer Duane Brown is a freckle-faced rookie cop whom I secretly call Opie because he’s a dead ringer for that kid from Mayberry. He barely looks old enough to get a library card, much less carry a gun.
Rafe rubbed his hand over his jaw, looking thoughtful. “But since you were right there last night, in the thick of things, I thought I’d start with you. And Chantel Carrington, of course. I figured I could talk to both of you at the same time. Vera Mae told me Chantel was coming into the station today.”
“Really? That’s news to me. She doesn’t have a show scheduled.” I thought for a moment. “Maybe she’s hoping to cash in on some publicity for herself,” I muttered. “That’s exactly the kind of thing she would do. She probably thinks of Althea’s death as a golden opportunity. It might even create some extra buzz for her new book.” It would also boost my ratings the next time she appeared, but I decided not to point that out to him.
“Is that a fact?” His eyes narrowed a little at the corners, and I could see the wheels clicking in his mind. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a tiny notebook.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t write that down,” I said, only half seriously. Rafe makes copious notes about his cases, and I didn’t want my snarky remark to be immortalized in a police report somewhere. “You know I didn’t mean it. I’m just not a big fan of Chantel and her mumbo jumbo.”
Officer Brown drove up just then in a black-and-white cruiser and slid into a parking place next to us. He jumped out, nodded to Rafe, and greeted me, looking uncomfortable in his scratchy serge uniform.
“Will you be doing a psychological profile on the perp, Dr. Maggie?” Opie asked me.
The perp?
I could see Rafe biting back a smile. Opie is a huge fan of detective shows—CSI Miami, Law & Order, and The Mentalist—and he sprinkles cop talk into every conversation. Opie is wildly impressed that I did forensic work back in Manhattan, and he has an idealized view of the field. And of me, for that matter. He says I remind him of Dr. Elizabeth Olivet, the classy police psychologist who used to be on Law & Order.
“Afraid not,” I told him. “I just found out about the murder a few minutes ago. As far as I know, no perp has been identified. In fact, I don’t think there are any suspects at the moment.” I tossed a questioning look at Rafe, who was keeping a poker face. “And I really don’t think the local police are too interested in anything I’d have to say,” I continued. “They believe that good old-fashioned detective work trumps forensic psychology any day.”
This is an old argument between Rafe and me. Rafe insists that forensic psychology is useless and refuses to believe it can reveal anything about personality and motive. I’ve helped solve two murders since moving to Cypress Grove. One victim was a New Age guru and the other a film star, but Rafe always acts as though he’s two steps ahead of me.
Apparently Rafe decided to ignore my jibe. “Let’s go inside. The heat’s killing me today.” The three of us crunched over the gravel to the glass double doors of WYME. Rafe was right. The temperature had ratcheted up a few notches. The noonday heat was scorching; it felt as if we were pushing against a solid wall of hot air, and it was hard to draw a breath.
Although I have to admit, it’s easy to be breathless around Rafe. He has movie-star good looks going for him and an undeniable bad-boy charm. His finely chiseled features, smoky eyes, and black hair, worn on the longish side, add to his “renegade” look. His hair has a tendency to curl up in the back in a very sexy way, just like Simon Baker’s on The Mentalist , and I found myself longing to reach out and touch it.
Today Rafe was wearing aviator sunglasses and channeling Horatio Caine, and there was a coiled readiness in his body. His eyes are watchful and his body language is always on high alert. I never can decide whether it’s part of being a cop or just his personality style.
The word on the street is that Rafe never gets too involved with anyone—he’s had a string of girlfriends, but he makes sure he can walk away at a moment’s notice. Rafe always has an exit strategy; he’s not the kind of guy who plays for keeps. I try to cool my jets when I’m aro
und him, although sometimes it’s a losing battle. But there’s no sense in putting my heart on the chopping block and having Rafe do an Emeril Lagasse (Bam!) on it.
We’d barely entered the lobby when Big Jim Wilcox hurried over. “Look, it’s Maggie Walsh and she’s got the cops with her!” He was shouting, his big beefy face red with excitement. Big Jim is the fortysomething sports announcer at the station; he’s been a thorn in my side since I joined what Cyrus calls “the WYME family.” If we’re a family, we’re so dysfunctional, we should be headed for the Jerry Springer show.
To say that Big Jim is an idiot is giving him too much credit.
“So what really happened at that séance, Maggie? Did somebody snap and come back later and kill Althea? Or do you think a ghost was out for vengeance? Maybe it was some kind of divine retribution. I want an exclusive, you know.” Jim was standing too close to me, as always, wearing too much Drakkar Noir, his eyes bulging with interest.
Even though Big Jim covers sports, he’s trying to make the big leagues and keeps hoping for an investigative report to add to his demo reel. His biggest story to date is a human interest piece about Andy Layton, a high school sophomore who broke his ankle during football practice and had to sit out the rest of the season. That’s not the kind of scoop that will propel Big Jim into a major market, I’m afraid.
When I first moved to Cypress Grove, Big Jim thought I’d gone insane and murdered my own talk show guest, a New Age guru. Even though the real killer was later brought to justice, Big Jim still harbors a nagging feeling that I must have been involved in some way. He believes “all shrinks are nuts,” and he expects me to go berserk at any moment. Actually, he’s hoping for it. I wondered whether he’d grab a tape recorder and try to get a comment from me. Or maybe he was wearing a wire and was hoping I’d say something incriminating. Nothing Big Jim might do would surprise me.
“Well, what is it, Maggie?” he nattered on. “A ghost did it, right?”
“I don’t think Althea was murdered by a ghost,” I said, keeping my voice level. I saw Opie whip out his notebook. I bet he was writing down every word.
“No? Well, you can’t be sure, can you? You could do one of those psychological autopsies. I saw that on CSI Miami. Now, that would bring in a lot of listeners.” Big Jim paused to pop a breath mint and scratch his chin. “Although, come to think of it, how would you do an autopsy on a ghost? Bummer.” He gave a cackling laugh. “I guess even an ace shrink like yourself can’t figure that one out, can you, Maggie?”
I shook my head. Big Jim was an even bigger moron than I’d thought.
“Well, for one thing, a psychological autopsy is done on the victim, not the murderer. And it has nothing to do with a body. It’s a way of reconstructing what the victim thought, felt, and did. You know what the cops always say: ‘know the victim and you’ll know the killer.’ That’s the theory behind the psychological autopsy.”
“What was that again?” I turned around, and sure enough, Opie was frowning and scribbling in his notebook. “Know the victim and—”
“Know the victim and you’ll know the killer,” I repeated.
“Huh?” Big Jim looked perplexed. “Is that true? Because I’m sure I read in the National Enquirer that ninety percent of all murders are—”
“Look, we need to get started here,” Rafe interrupted him. “Maggie, the first thing we need is a quiet place to talk to people. If you’ll excuse us,” he said pointedly to the sports announcer.
Naturally, Big Jim didn’t get the hint. Rafe walked over to Irina, our beautiful blond receptionist, who was watching spellbound from her desk.
Whenever Irina sees Rafe, she blushes bright pink and her always-fragile hold on English slips away. She gave a girlish little giggle when she realized Rafe was headed her way.
“Miss Yaslov, could you please get Miss Vera Mae Atkins for me? She’s expecting us.” Rafe stared at her for a long moment, while the synapses finally connected in her brain. Her face flushed an even deeper shade of salmon.
“Ya, I will be doing these things even now as I am speaking to you,” Irina said, flashing him a gleaming supermodel smile. She had an impressive set of veneers, and I always wondered how she managed to afford them. I couldn’t imagine cosmetic dentistry being a big item in Sweden so I assumed she had them done over here. “Ya, you will see. I am calling her now, at our present moment.”
“Great, thank you.” Rafe tossed her one of his heart-breaker smiles, and I thought she would swoon.
Irina reached for the intercom, never taking her eyes off Rafe. “Vera Mae Atkins, please to be coming into the lobby,” she said. “Is urgent. Please to be coming now.” She grinned at Rafe. “Ten-four!” she added in a burst of ingenuity. “Is correct, yes?”
“Yes, that’s correct.” His breath quickened beside me, and I knew he was fighting a laugh.
“Ten-four, ten-four,” she chanted into the intercom. She was flushed and giggling, high on Rafe’s approval.
Then, like a Chatty Cathy doll who never shuts up, she started to repeat the entire message. “Vera Mae Atkins, please to be coming to the lobby—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, cut that thing off, girl!” Vera Mae said, bustling into the lobby. “Can’t you see I’m standing right here? You don’t need to get your panties in a twist.”
Vera Mae was carrying a clipboard and looked frazzled. A few strands of carrot-colored hair had escaped from her towering beehive and were curling down the back of her neck.
“I’ve cleared out the break room. We can talk in there,” she said to Rafe. “And if you need a second interview room”— she glanced at Opie—“you can use my office.” She turned to me. “Maggie, I’ve left a few messages on your desk. Nick Harrison called. He’d like you to call him back at the Gazette as soon as you can.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.” I was looking forward to hearing Nick’s take on the murder investigation, especially since it was pretty obvious I wasn’t going to get anywhere with Rafe Martino.
Vera Mae moved closer and lowered her voice. “And I think I should warn you, Chantel is here. She’s in the ladies’ room, getting all gussied up.”
“Why did she come in here today?”
“Why do you think?” Vera Mae muttered. “She wants to channel poor Althea’s spirit for today’s show. She thinks her pal Michael can arrange it.” The expression on Vera Mae’s face told me what she thought of the wacky idea.
“What? That’s outrageous!” I said, horrified. “Of all the cheap, tawdry, sensationalistic—”
“Don’t worry, sugar. It’s not gonna happen.” Vera Mae had a steely look in her eyes as she touched me lightly on the arm. “Not in a million years. Ratings may be important, but we’re talking about one of the town’s favorite citizens. Cyrus knows better than to offend the ladies in the historical society. He knows a lot of them are married to some of our most valuable sponsors. He’d never hear the end of it.” She gave me a shrewd look. “The ladies in the society wouldn’t want to see Althea being used as part of Chantel’s parlor game.”
“I hope you’re right about that.” I had my doubts. I could see dollar signs dancing in front of Cyrus’s eyes as he pictured Althea appearing live—or rather, dead—in the WYME studios today.
“I know I’m right on this one.” She jutted her chin, tucked a few strands of loose hair back into her beehive, and used a bobby pin to hold them in place. “I’ve already talked to Cyrus, and he said he wouldn’t allow it. Every once in a while, that boy surprises me,” she said with a hint of a smile. “I think he’s grown a backbone.”
Vera Mae was much calmer than she’d been on the phone. I was sure she was still upset over Althea’s death, but now that she was caught up in the details of her workday, she had to put sentiment aside. She had a show to produce.
“So what are we planning for On the Couch today?”
We all were squeezed together in the narrow hallway as we made our way down to the break room. Big Jim was trailin
g behind us, probably hoping to get an inside scoop on the investigation, but I knew Rafe would figure out a way to get rid of him.
Vera Mae glanced at her notebook. “I think we’ll let the callers share some stories about how they knew Althea. The old-timers probably have some good memories to share. And I’m trying to get someone from the historical society over here for the second hour. I’m not sure if that’s going to work out,” she admitted. “Everyone who knew her is pretty devastated. I don’t know if I can get anyone to agree to go on the air on such short notice.”
I nodded. “We can go with two hours of calls, if we have to. Maybe get a history professor over here to talk about changes in the town over the years, and how the historical society documented all the milestones. That would honor Althea and it also would fit in with the time capsule promos. And you could try Professor Grossman. He wrote a book on south Florida history and he’s been dying to get on the show. Remember? He’s the one who’s always sending over press releases.”
“Good thinking! I’ve got his phone number in my files. And Cyrus can probably get someone from the chamber of commerce to do a phone interview with us. Or maybe even sit in as a guest.” Vera Mae took a pencil from behind her ear and started jotting down some notes. “I better skedaddle, hon.” She glanced at her watch. “See you in a bit.”
Chapter 8
“Lola and I really didn’t see much from the back of the room,” I told Rafe a few minutes later. “Chantel went into a sort of trance, and then Michael gave a little spiel about evildoings in town. He warned us that all of us were in danger. Or maybe just one person.” I made a dismissive wave of my hand. “He was very cryptic. I’m not really sure what he meant.”
“Michael?” Rafe had whipped out a notebook and stared at me, pen poised. “Do you have a last name on this guy? I need to talk to him.”
“Good luck with that.” I bit back a laugh “He’s a spirit guide. Chantel channeled him, and he gave us this message from the great beyond.”
Stay Tuned for Murder Page 6
