Lark blames it on the stars, but I think there’s more than astrology going on here. I think it’s characterological—another five-dollar shrink word, meaning a deeply held personality trait, highly resistant to change. I have some hard evidence about Bad Boy Rafe from the Cypress Grove gossip mill (thanks to Vera Mae and her friend Wanda, from the House of Beauty).
The word on the street about Rafe is that he 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. Doesn’t give a girl a warm, fuzzy feeling inside to hear that, does it?
So I hold back a little, too, knowing that Rafe isn’t the kind of guy who plays for keeps. I have the sneaky feeling that with Rafe it’s all about the thrill of the hunt. On some level—even unconsciously—I tend to cool my jets when I’m around him. Why should I put my heart on the chopping block and let Rafe do an Emeril Lagasse (Bam!) on it?
“Shhh, here it is, everyone!” Lola gave an impatient flip of her hand. She squeezed between us on the sofa and pulled Pugsley onto her lap. His breath smelled like coffee frozen yogurt; what a surprise. “Lark, turn up the volume, sweetie; I don’t want to miss a word.”
I recognized the newscaster, Laura Tremaine, a sleek blonde with model-perfect features and a Julia Roberts smile.
“Has someone put a curse on Death Watch, the Hank Watson flick being filmed here in south Florida? Sounds like something out of a Stephen King novel, doesn’t it?” Laura managed to talk and show all of her teeth at the same time, as she zipped through the cheesy introduction. “Death Watch.” She drew out the syllables, and threw in a sexy little chuckle, letting the viewers in on the play on words. Nudge. Wink.
“Stephen King? What is she talking about? This is ridiculous.” I could feel a little bubble of anger rising inside my chest and my jaw muscles were clenching.
“There’s already been one death connected with the film, the actress Adriana St. James, and today there was a near-fatal accident on the set. Let’s take a look.” She lowered her voice to a somber pitch and swiveled to look at the monitor behind her.
A crumpled director’s chair filled the screen. Was it staged? No, it looked exactly as I remembered it.
The shot was slightly out of focus but it was still pretty dramatic, with the smashed chair, broken glass, and twisted metal lying on the sand. A few grips were standing in the background, but none of the principal actors appeared in the shot. The picture had very bad resolution and I wondered if Carla had taken it with her cell phone as soon as she left the production office.
“Oh, Maggie,” Lark said, grasping my hand. “That’s where you were sitting?” Her eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t realize how awful it was. You really had a close call—you could have been killed.”
Lola held up her hand for silence. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa, raptly watching the feature, her lips parted. “Maggie, honey, look at you! You are absolutely gorgeous.”
Suddenly my WYME head shot filled the screen. Lark was right, my teeth were so white they were practically fluorescent; I bet they’d glow in the dark. And they used a tight close-up, which made my head look ridiculously large. Gorgeous? I didn’t look gorgeous; I looked like I’d just dropped in from Roswell.
The head that ate Miami.
“Nice teeth,” Rafe said, his lips twitching.
“Dr. Maggie Walsh is probably thanking her lucky stars tonight, because she could have been killed today. She was sitting in the Death Chair when a fifty-pound Klieg light came crashing down on her.”
“But I wasn’t sitting in the chair, you idiot,” I muttered. “At least get your facts right.” I practically shot off the sofa and Lark put out a restraining hand to stop me.
“A narrow escape for the former psychologist who now hosts her own radio show right here in south Florida. In the picturesque town of”—she took a quick peek at her notes—“Cypress Grove.”
Laura paused, staring straight into the lens, a fake-thoughtful expression on her face. She looked so serious you’d think she was pondering global warming or the mysteries of sub-prime lending. “Will this near-death experience have a profound effect on her? Was it a coincidence or a curse? We’ve asked Dr. Heinrich Smoot from the Okaloosa County Psychoanalytic Society for his take on all this.” She flashed another toothy grin at the camera, as it panned to a tiny bearded man who bore a passing resemblance to Toulouse-Lautrec. He’d been staring blankly at the desktop, but magically sprang to life when he realized the camera was focused on him. He widened his eyes and bared his lips in a grin, showing a mouthful of yellowed teeth that really did need some serious Photoshopping.
“Welcome, Dr. Smoot. I know you’ve been following this incredible story out of Cypress Grove.”
“Ya, is very interesting. Really incredible.”
Then he stopped talking abruptly and looked at Laura. Uh-oh. She raised her eyebrows, her glossy lips pursed in pained surprise. Actually shock was more like it. I could almost see a thought bubble drifting above her head: Hey, didn’t anyone tell this guy he’s on live television? So say something! Anything!
He was from the psychoanalytic society so I assumed he was a Freudian. Maybe he gives his patients the silent treatment (as Freud recommended) but I could have told him it doesn’t go over well on camera. He’d better lose the mute act fast or they’d have to cut away to a commercial.
“You said you find it, um, interesting,” Laura said, tripping over the words. “Would that be because you believe the set might actually be cursed? Would that be an apt description?”
“Cursed? Nah, that is kooky conspiracy theory.” He wagged a finger at her playfully. “No curse. There is no curse. Who would believe such nonsense?”
Again, total silence. Dead air.
Dr. Smoot reminded me of a Tickle Me Elmo doll whose triple A batteries needed recharging. He had only enough energy to spew out a few words before slamming to a quivering halt.
Apparently, he’d never mastered the art of the sound bite, which involves using a few well-crafted sentences to make your point in a way that’s succinct and compelling. The trick is to talk about the issue in a way that viewers can immediately grasp. Instead, he just sat there and stared at Laura who stared right back at him; it was painful to watch. She looked flustered and he appeared eerily calm.
The tension was palpable and I caught Laura gnawing her lower lip when the camera panned to her unexpectedly. A thin sheen of perspiration had popped up on her forehead and her eyes had that distinctive deer-in-the-headlights look, the telltale sign that signals: full panic attack dead ahead.
I wondered if anyone had bothered to do a “preinterview” with Dr. Smoot. If they had, they would have known he’d be a disaster on the air. In a preinterview, the producer asks you to come up with three interesting stories about the topic and then you “deliver” them, in a way that’s entertaining, or at the very least informative.
Entertaining? Informative? Dr. Smoot failed on both counts. I wondered how he’d ever made the cut.
Laura’s eyes flickered nervously to the left as if she was getting instructions from the IFB (interruptible frequency broadcast) monitor device tucked behind her ear. I bet her producer was pulling a Vera Mae on her, urging her to pick up the pace, pleading with her to get this guy talking.
Some performers, like Rosie O’Donnell, refuse to use an IFB, saying it’s too distracting to have a flood of instructions pouring into your ear when you’re live on camera. You’re bombarded with suggestions from the producer and at the same time, you’re trying to listen to the guest and come up with your next question.
I know what it’s like to have dead air on my radio show, and I felt a little twinge of compassion for her.
“So, tell me. Do you believe in coincidence, Dr. Smoot?” Her words tumbled out in a rush as if she was trying to make up for lost time.
“Coincidence?” He looked suspicious, as if it was a trick question.
/> “Do you think Maggie Walsh just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
Just a touch of desperation in her tone, but who could blame her. He scratched his beard for a full five seconds. My Magic 8 Ball is more entertaining than this guy!
“It could be.” A long beat. “Or maybe not.”
“And what do you think the aftereffects of this, uh, accident might be?”
“Could be very serious,” he said, looking profound, and then gave a little shrug. “I think maybe evaluate her for PTSD.”
“PTSD?” Laura said brightly. “We just did a feature on that. It’s posttraumatic stress disorder,” she said, showing off for the viewers. “But I thought it only happened to combat veterans?”
“Nah, can happen to anyone. Any place, any time. Someone has big shock and then boom—they end up with PTSD. Nightmares, racing thoughts, big-time anxiety.” He paused, and Laura leaned in, eager to catch every word. “It could happen,” he said, stroking his jowly chin. “Not fun stuff.”
“Not fun stuff?” Rafe hooted. “Is this guy for real?”
“Shhh,” Lola said, taking in every word. “Did you hear that, Maggie? He thinks you may need help. Psychological help.”
Funny, that’s what Rafe had told me earlier that evening. Looks like Mom and Rafe are on the same team.
A couple of more minutes of psychobabble and Laura neatly wrapped up the interview. When they cut to a commercial, Lark said, “Well, they certainly didn’t say much, did they? We’re not any closer to understanding why the light fell.”
“There’s no mystery about it,” I countered. “Carla’s trying to make this into a big story and it just isn’t there. It will all be forgotten by tomorrow, I promise you.”
Chapter 23
Mom and Lark went to the kitchen to make coffee and Rafe shot me a questioning look, his dark eyes flickering with concern. “You really don’t believe that light was intended for you.”
“Of course I don’t.”
“I wouldn’t be so quick to say that. Maybe it’s someone’s way of telling you to back off.”
Back Off. My mind lurched with a new sickening thought. That’s what the note had said.
Rafe must have seen my expression change because he said quickly, “Maggie, is there something you’re not telling me?”
Back Off. I licked my lips, my mouth went dry, and my stomach gave a nervous little flutter and then dropped straight to my feet.
Rafe narrowed his eyes, giving me a hard look. “You haven’t had any threatening phone calls or anything like that, have you?”
“Of course not. Well, not exactly,” I hedged. “Okay, there was a note that came into the station.” I waved my hand in a little dismissive flip. “I suppose it depends on how you interpret it, and maybe it could be called threatening. But I think that’s stretching it a little; I prefer to think it was nothing. A harmless prank, that’s all. Maybe some disgruntled listener.”
Rafe’s eyes were penetrating, locked on mine. “You think it’s nothing? What exactly did it say?”
“The same thing you just did.” My thoughts scrambled and I let out my breath in a soft sigh. “Two words: back off.”
“The two words were written on a sheet of paper? That’s it?”
“They weren’t handwritten; the letters were cut out of magazines. Very retro, like something out of a cornball film noir. Pretty over-the-top, right?” I smiled, to show how amusing the whole thing was.
Rafe didn’t smile back and I noticed he was wearing his stony cop-face, with his mouth drawn into a thin line of disapproval.
“Where’s the note now? You didn’t throw it out, did you? And I hope to God you saved the envelope.” His voice was harsh, the words shooting out of his mouth like bullets. I’d hate to be a suspect being grilled by Rafe Martino; I think I’d cave at the first question.
“Of course I didn’t throw it out,” I said, stung. “It’s tucked away in a folder somewhere at work, and I’m sure Vera Mae saved the envelope. She told me Cyrus keeps a whole file of hate mail.” Whoa. Hate mail. A big slip of the tongue. That was a little strong, wasn’t it? Too late to take it back now. Rafe looked like he was ready to jump out of his chair, his hands balled into fists.
“Hate mail.” He gave me a scathing look, shaking his head in disbelief. “You get a threatening note, and you were just going to ignore it; you didn’t even think of calling the police? You don’t worry about putting yourself in jeopardy, do you?”
Hmmm. He had a point. Rafe has always told me to stay out of police business, insisting that I was putting myself at risk with my sleuthing.
I was feeling a little defensive, so what did I do? Like an idiot, I overcorrected, and came across as way too strident and argumentative. Now I was stuck. I’d been operating on the theory that Rafe was wrong, that there was no danger, nothing to worry about. How could I back down now without looking like a total wuss?
I remembered Vera Mae saying the best defense is a good offense.
“Hey, I’m not the only one who gets these kinds of letters, you know.” My voice was getting a little shrill, and I made a conscious effort to rein it in. “I’m sure it was just a prank, really. This sort of thing happens all the time in broadcasting. It goes with the territory, you know.”
“Does it?”
“Yes, it does.” I deliberately made my tone very cool and casual, even though I had a funny little flip in the pit of my stomach. “I probably offended someone by something I said on my show and they decided to write me an anonymous note. No big deal. Or maybe they were angling to be a guest on the show and Vera Mae didn’t invite them. There are a zillion possibilities, Rafe. You can’t take these things too seriously, can you?” I tried for another smile, but I could feel it dying on my lips under Rafe’s harsh glare.
“Maybe you can’t take it seriously, Maggie,” he said, the words dropping like stones, “but I can.” Heavy pause, just like Horatio Caine when he nails a suspect in CSI Miami and shoots his trademark badass stare.
“And you can be sure that I will.”
Yowsers. Rafe’s protective instincts were kicking in big-time. Well, that’s what cops do, right? Protect and serve. That’s what it says on all the black-and-whites patrolling Cypress Grove. But was Rafe just being a good cop or was his interest in the case personal?
Rafe left a few minutes later, leaving Lark and Mom sharing the Sweet Dreams treats with Pugsley in the kitchen. I was dead on my feet and tumbled into bed at eleven thirty, still pondering the characters on my suspect list. Who really wanted to kill Adriana, and why? I pulled my lavender Laura Ashley quilt up to my chin and stared at the ceiling, my thoughts racing in a million directions while I reviewed everyone’s MMO. I still hadn’t reached any conclusions by midnight, when Pugsley bounded into bed next to me, and I fell into a dreamless sleep.
An early morning phone call from Vera Mae the next day jolted me awake.
“Maggie, are you up, girl?” Her honeysuckle tones melted over the line and I heard a commercial for Wanda’s House of Beauty playing softly in the background. She and Irina start the day very early.
“I am now,” I said wryly. “What’s up?”
Okay, the truth is out: I’m not an early morning person and no one would ever accuse me of being “perky” before I’ve had my daily caffeine infusion. Vera Mae knows this, so I figured something major had happened. She wasn’t calling just to chic-chat about the latest episode of Dancing with the Stars, but I knew there was no way to hurry her. Vera Mae would tell me in her own good time.
“Just thought you’d like to know that Sonny Crockett stopped by the station. I think he’s got it bad for you, honey. I really do.” She laughed, pleased with herself. “It doesn’t take a shrink or a psychic to figure that one out.”
Sonny Crockett? Oh yeah. Vera Mae collects Miami Vice memorabilia and is a huge fan of Detective James (“Sonny”) Crockett, the character that Don Johnson played in the police drama. Rafe doesn’t even look
like Don Johnson, although he does have bedroom eyes and a sexy swagger. I can’t dissuade Vera Mae, though. She’s convinced that there’s a striking resemblance, as if Rafe and Don Johnson were separated at birth.
She even reminds me that Rafe has the same cute little dimple when he smiles (as if I needed reminding!).
If anyone “has it bad,” it’s Vera Mae, who has the major crush, but I figured this wasn’t the time to tell her.
“We’re talking about Rafe Martino, right?”
I bit back a yawn. The bright sunlight was streaming through the wooden blinds and I heard cicadas buzzing in the bougainvillea outside my window. It was going to be another south Florida scorcher. I glanced at the outfit I’d laid out the night before. White capri pants, espadrilles, and a sleeveless green silk top. It would work for the set and then later for my afternoon show.
My hair was another matter. With ninety percent humidity, I’d turn into a fuzz ball. I’d have to pull it back off my shoulders and fasten it with a tortoiseshell clip. I keep one in the glove box just for bad hair days. And in south Florida, there are a lot of them.
“Of course; who else?” Vera Mae gave a lustful if-only-I-were-twenty-years-younger sigh. “He’s real worried about you; any fool can see that.”
“He is.” I felt a warm little buzz inside me when I thought of Rafe and his bone-melting smile. His long lanky frame, those chiseled features—I quickly snapped back to reality when I heard Vera Mae laughing. “I mean, he is?” I made sure my voice spiraled up in a question, as if I really didn’t know the answer. I don’t think Vera Mae was fooled for a second, but she played along with me.
“You bet he is. You must have told him about that nasty letter you got. He got here bright and early, asked to see it, and he ended up taking it back to the police station with him. I guess they’re gonna analyze it or something.”
Reel Murder Page 19
