Stay Tuned for Murder

by Kennedy, Mary

  “Thanks, Ted,” I said, giving his hand a little squeeze. See what I mean? Ted listens to my radio show every single day and compliments me on my performance. The only other person who routinely listens to my show every day is Lola. And Lola doesn’t count, because after all, she’s my mother.

  “Hey, Maggie, there’s someone I want you to meet,” Ted said, breaking into my thoughts. He waved at a tall guy in his late forties and motioned for him to join us.

  “Trevor! Come on over here for a sec. I need to talk to you.” The man put down his drink, and Ted did the introductions. “Maggie Walsh, this is Trevor McNamara.”

  “Nice to meet you, Maggie.” His accent was cultured, and his crisp white shirt and perfectly pressed pants were expensive. Ditto the buttery leather Italian loafers. I guessed from his cultured accent that he was from the northeast corridor. Maybe somewhere near Boston? He struck me as a fish out of water here in the little backwater town of Cypress Grove.

  “Maggie’s a radio talk show host, Trevor. You’re new in town, but her show is really popular. She’s a celebrity.” Ted is always a little over-the-top when he talks about me. Lark tries to explain it by saying he’s madly in love with me, and I hope for his sake she’s wrong.

  “I’m not a celebrity.” I smiled and extended my hand. “Ted just likes to pretend that I am. Are you here on vacation?”

  As soon as the words popped out, I knew the answer would be no. Trevor didn’t look like the kind of guy who’d be doing a garden tour of south Florida, and I couldn’t imagine him whiling away his day fishing for grouper from the pier.

  I pictured him in Miami, making deals at the Delano, or churning through Biscayne Bay in a cigarette boat stocked with a couple of supermodels.

  “Actually, it’s a business trip.” He had piercing green eyes, and he held my hand just a second too long. “I’m a real estate broker and I’m thinking about investing in some properties in Cypress Grove.”

  “Really? Commercial real estate?” I immediately pictured a string of tawdry strip malls and big box stores, urban monstrosities that would ruin the small-town feel of the place. But something about the idea didn’t ring true.

  He shook his head. “Oh no, nothing like that. I’m interested in vacation properties.” He glanced out at the quiet street, the tall palms and lush foliage making a postcard-pretty view against the evening sky.

  I must have looked doubtful, because he felt compelled to explain himself. “It’s a nice climate here,” he said, spreading his hands out in front of him. “And you don’t have the traffic congestion and hassles of some of the big resort cities. I’m thinking Cypress Grove could be a great place for family vacations.”

  “Family vacations?” If I sounded incredulous, it’s because I was.

  “Sure, this would be the perfect spot. No casinos or night-life, just a quiet town with warm weather, great restaurants, and some interesting sights.” He quirked an eyebrow ever so slightly, and I wondered whether he was flirting with me. “And of course, friendly people,” he added. “People I’d like to get to know better.”

  I was silent for a moment. Nothing he’d said made sense. Why would anyone want to vacation in Cypress Grove? It was one thing to live here, grow up here, surrounded by friends and family, but there was no way Cypress Grove could compete for tourist dollars with places like Orlando and Miami. You could see the whole town in half an hour, and then you were back on I-95, heading north toward Palm Beach or south toward Fort Lauderdale.

  Even a three-day weekend here would seem like overkill.

  “The chamber of commerce will be thrilled to hear you like this place so much,” I told him.

  I thought about Cyrus, my station manager at WYME, who would be absolutely salivating over Trevor and his plans to inject money into the town. “The folks at the chamber are always eager to meet developers.” I paused, still trying to make sense of what he’d told me. “You know, I’m really surprised the bigger cities haven’t courted you. We might have a sort of Mayberry charm, but the major resort areas have a lot of attractions that our little town can’t offer.”

  “I told Trevor that I’d help him line up some vacation rentals,” Ted said, always the Boy Scout.

  “Vacation rentals? Does Cypress Grove have any?” As far as I knew, Ted’s place was the only decent B and B, and outside of the big chain hotels next to the interstate, there wasn’t much to choose from.

  “There’s the Regal Palm Hotel downtown,” Ted said uncertainly. “We send our overflow there when things get busy.”

  “I’m not really interested in rentals. I’d rather line up some sale properties for my clients. I’m looking for multifamily houses,” Trevor said quickly.

  “Multifamily houses?” I nearly laughed. “Well, good luck with that. I don’t think there are any. I managed to find a town house when I moved here a few months ago, but it was sheer luck. There wasn’t much to choose from.”

  “I thought some of those big Victorians on Main Street might be available as sale properties,” Trevor said vaguely. “I might knock on a few doors and see what I come up with.”

  Ted and I exchanged a look. The Victorian mansions in town are owned by longtime residents, people who never would consider turning their homes into a condo or a B and B in a million years. These are the kind of grand old homes that stayed in the family for years, passed down from one generation to the next. It would be unthinkable that an owner would sell one to an outsider. And sell to a developer? Never!

  Trevor must have picked up on the negative vibes, because he said quickly, “Well, I’ve just started my search. It’s still early in the game. Nice to meet you, Maggie.” He checked his watch. “Catch you later, Ted. I’m running late for an appointment in town.” And with that, he took off down the wide expanse of lawn, heading for his car.

  I looked at Ted for a moment. “That was odd. I don’t think he’s looking for rental properties at all.”

  Ted smiled and tousled my hair in a big-brother way. “You know what your problem is, Maggie? You think too much.”

  “Get me a white wine and maybe I’ll think a little less,” I teased him.

  Chapter 11

  I zipped into the station early the next morning to help Vera Mae with the time capsule promos. I’d left Mr. Big dozing happily in my bedroom with a fresh litter box, a full dish of Meow Mix, and a water bowl. My beloved Pugsley had been banished to the den sofa last night. I’m sure he and Mr. Big will reach a detente eventually, but I figured it was a good idea to keep them separated for a week or two.

  I found Vera Mae in her cluttered office chatting with Kevin, who’d been assigned the task of writing and producing a series of thirty-second spots on the event. She waved me to a box of fragrant apple cider doughnuts balanced on top of her printer. “Help yourself, Maggie. They’re fresh from Wilson’s Bakery.”

  “Wilson’s Bakery. I always like it when they send their account exec over here.”

  “Well, take what you want. Once Big Jim spots them, they’ll be history.”

  I grabbed a doughnut, moved a pile of papers and files from the molded plastic visitor’s chair, and plopped myself down. Vera Mae and Kevin were deep in conversation about the best way to run a contest and what sorts of prizes would rope in the most listeners.

  I let my mind wander back to Althea Somerset and the picture in the front hall of the historical society. Was it an important clue? Or a blind alley? Maybe there was a perfectly ordinary explanation for why it was hanging in a different place.

  I figured I had two choices: I could tell Rafe my suspicions right now, or I could try to track down some information on the painting myself. (And then tell him my conclusions, like Hercule Poirot does. I could even adopt that slightly supercilious manner, which was bound to annoy Rafe and would be enormously satisfying.)

  But I needed some leads and I wasn’t sure where to start looking. Would Mildred know why the painting had been moved? I remembered she’d made some disparaging remarks a
bout it the night of the séance. I made a mental note to check with Mildred as soon as I got the chance.

  As far as I knew, the police still didn’t have any leads on who the killer might be, and what the motive was.

  Motive, means, opportunity—it was all still up for grabs.

  “Maggie, what do you think about the contest?” Vera Mae asked, breaking into my thoughts. “We can do this a couple of different ways. Should we ask the viewers to guess what’s in the time capsule, or should we ask them what items they’d put in a time capsule?” Vera Mae was chewing on a pencil, decked out in one of her crime-of-fashion outfits: a bright blue sleeveless blouse over shocking pink capris.

  “Why not do both?” I said idly, still thinking of Althea. “Asking them what they’d put in a time capsule is a little subjective, though. I like the idea, but how will we decide on the winner? There won’t be any right or wrong answers. I guess you’d want to preserve whatever you think is important, and that’s a very personal thing.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought, Dr. Maggie,” Kevin piped up. “I think maybe we could go for the most original suggestion—”

  “But who’s to decide what’s the most original?” Vera Mae interjected. “It’s a matter of taste, isn’t it? What appeals to me might not appeal to you. And some people might not have any ideas at all. They don’t know anything about time capsules or why people bury them in the first place. Whatever the contest is, it has to have broad appeal. We want to have the maximum number of entries because that means we’ll have more people tuning in every day, to see if they’ve won.”

  “I wonder if anyone knows where the idea first started,” I said.

  Kevin jumped in. “Time capsules go back at least five thousand years to Mesopotamia,” he said.

  I practically reeled back in shock. It seemed Kevin was a boy wonder. Who knew?

  “People buried time capsules in vaults and hid them inside the city walls. And more recently, there was a famous time capsule at the 1939 World’s Fair. They put some crop seeds and a microscope in that one, and I think they even included a newsreel.” He scrunched up his face, deep in thought. “Let’s see. I believe there was a dictionary, an almanac, and a Sears, Roebuck catalog in there, as well.” He gave a bashful smile. “I’m afraid that’s the best I can recall off the top of my head. But I can check this all out, if you’d like.”

  Vera Mae and I stared at each other for a moment.

  “Like? I’d like that very much. Kevin, you are amazing,” she said, clasping him by the shoulders. “I wish we could hire you full-time, right this minute.”

  “Well, thank you, Miss Vera Mae, but you know I have to go to broadcasting school first.” His face lit up in a smile. “Maybe you can keep me in mind when I graduate, though. I’d love to come back here to work. I’d be part of the WYME family.” If Kevin had been wearing his trademark Larry King suspenders today, I think he would have snapped them at this point.

  I had a brainstorm. “Kevin, how would you like to do a preinterview with Dr. Grossman, the history professor? It would be good practice for you, and I bet you could ask him all the right questions.”

  “You want me to do a preinterview?”

  “Yes, that’s what they do on all the big talk shows. The national ones. You just have a mock interview, like you were on the air with the guest. Once you hear what he has to say, you can weed out all the boring stuff and get the guest to concentrate on three or four really good stories. That’s all you need for a great interview. That’s what they used to do on the Johnny Carson show.”

  “Golly, Dr. Maggie, I’d love to do that.” Kevin broke into a wide grin. “And Professor Grossman is really well-known, isn’t he?”

  I nodded. “He’s an expert in his field. I bet he knows all about how people first came up with the idea of time capsules and why they’re still around in the twenty-first century. He’s got all the book smarts and he knows amazing facts and figures.”

  “The audience would probably like that,” Kevin offered.

  “But here’s the problem, Kevin.” I paused. “And it’s a pretty big one.”

  “Problem?” His face clouded, his eyes focused on my face.

  “The facts and figures aren’t going to be enough. He’s going to need direction. A lot of direction. And I’m counting on you being able to guide him toward the interesting stuff.” I gave him a meaningful look. “Interesting, not boring. That’s what we’re looking for.”

  “Oh, yes, I see what you mean. The good stuff.”

  I smiled. “That’s it, Kev, the good stuff. You know, the audience would really eat it up if you could get him talking about some juicy tidbits associated with time capsules. Maybe he can think of some scandals associated with them. Or maybe dark secrets came to light, or a big surprise was revealed. That’s the kind of thing our listeners want to hear. Everybody loves a mystery.”

  “I can do that,” Kevin said. He immediately grabbed a legal pad and started making notes. “Scandals, secrets, surprises. Got it. The good stuff.”

  “That’s exactly what we’re looking for.”

  “And here’s another good angle,” Vera Mae jumped in. “Get him talking about what sort of things people tuck away in them. That would go along with the contest we’re running. Like Maggie said, you might have to sift through a lot of boring academic stuff to get to the juicy tidbits.”

  “Juicy tidbits.” Kevin actually wrote that phrase down and circled it. And added two stars next to it.

  “I have to warn you, Kevin,” Vera Mae went on. “I’ve heard Professor Grossman speak at the Rotary Club, and take it from me, this guy is as dry as dirt. He knows his stuff, though. So if you can convince him to jazz it up a little, that would be great. You’ll have to do it tactfully, of course.”

  “Tactfully.” Another circle and stars. “I’ll do my best,” Kevin said. “Has anyone contacted him yet?”

  “I have a call in to his secretary. She said if he can cancel one of his classes he’ll be here for part of the show tomorrow.” Vera Mae looked at her clipboard and heaved a sigh. “As it stands, we’re going to go with Chantel today. I didn’t have a choice.”

  Chantel! I didn’t say a word, but she must have caught my expression, because she glanced into the hallway and then lowered her voice to a near whisper. “You know, listeners have been calling in every day, asking when she’s going to guest host the show again. I don’t think Cyrus is that keen on her, but he can’t ignore the phone calls and e-mails. He has to give the listeners what they want.” She gave Kevin a little nudge and made a little lip-zipping gesture. “This is strictly confidential. You didn’t hear that from me, sonny.”

  “Yes, ma’am, Miss Vera Mae. I didn’t hear a thing.” Kevin’s eyes were wide and his Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down. Even though Kevin is an intern, he’d have to be as thick as a brick if he hadn’t noticed how everything at the station revolves around ratings. Cyrus has to keep the sponsors happy, and the only way to do that is to keep the ratings up. It’s just a matter of dollars and cents.

  “So what’s the topic for today?” I decided to snare another doughnut before the rest of the staff found out Vera Mae’s secret stash.

  “It’s a little woo-woo.” Vera Mae said, wrinkling her nose. “Not my cup of tea, but these shows are always popular, and Chantel will be in her element.”

  “Woo-woo?” Kevin raised his eyebrows.

  “Supernatural. Paranormal. Things you can’t explain. Crop circles. Satanic bar codes. Government plots. Space aliens. It was Maggie’s idea. I ran it past Cyrus and he loved it.”

  “Oh, you mean like things you read about in the National Enquirer.”

  Vera Mae laughed and slapped Kevin on the back. “Ain’t that the truth! But Cyrus likes to pretend we’re in the news and information business, Kev, so don’t let him hear you say that.”

  “I came up with the idea, but I don’t really know anything about conspiracies,” I protested. “I really need time to r
ead up on it.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry, now, Dr. Maggie,” Kevin said. “You know you don’t need to read up on anything. Miss Chantel will talk enough for both of you. I guarantee it.”

  Truer words were never spoken.

  “Sandra on line one wants to know about crop circles,” Vera Mae said into her open mike. We were only five minutes into the show and the switchboard was lit up like a Christmas tree. It seemed our listening audience just couldn’t get enough of things that go bump in the night; we already had eight callers on hold.

  “Crop circles? I’ll take it!” Chantel sang out. “This is one of my areas of expertise, Maggie.” Areas of expertise? You’d think were talking about gene splicing. “You don’t mind, do you?” she asked, sliding over the fact that it was, after all, my show. The woman was as slick as extra-virgin olive oil.

  “Be my guest.” I tried not to grit my teeth, reminding myself that jaw clenching led to a bout of TMJ, a painful condition that requires me to wear a bite plate every night.

  “I’ve heard they’re a sign from space aliens.” Sandra’s voice raced across the line. “But if they’re smart enough to make those circles, wouldn’t you think they’d know enough to leave a message in English, so we really know what they want? As far as I can tell, all they do is flatten down a whole bunch of wheat or barley to make a circle design. I could do that myself with a weed whacker, but why bother? Why would aliens zip down to earth from another planet just to do that?”

  Chantel gave a little tinkly laugh. “I see your point, my dear, but you have to remember, space alien culture is completely different from our own. And when you say ‘circles,’ you have to remember that some of these designs are quite intricate. Have you ever seen the double triskelion in Milk Hill, England?”

  “I can’t say that I have,” Sandra said.

  “Well, it’s a work of art, my dear. It took four hundred and nine circles to make the design.”

  “Wow, I didn’t know that,” Vera Mae offered. I looked up just in time to see her wink.