by Mary Kennedy
“Do you know this guy?”
“Travis Carter,” I told him. “Sanjay’s right-hand man.”
“How did he get in?”
I pointed to the sliding glass door. “Through the balcony. He confessed to killing Sanjay. And he planned on killing us.” I felt myself shiver. “It’s a long story.”
Rafe nodded and resumed talking to his captain on his cell, while Opie replaced Mom’s nautical knots with handcuffs.
“Get him out of here,” Rafe said to Opie, who was pulling Travis to his feet and reading him his Miranda rights. Travis had come to but looked bleary-eyed and dazed as he was led out to a waiting squad car.
“What happens now?” I ventured.
“I need to get back to the station to get a statement from Carter, and the other officers will take statements from all of you. Are you sure you’re okay? Does anyone need any medical attention?” He moved closer, his eyes dark and intent, and touched me lightly on the upper arm.
“All of us are okay,” Mom piped up.
“Are you sure?” Rafe asked me, his voice serious. “You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine. I really am.” I managed a grin. “I’m glad to be alive.”
He leaned close and brushed the back of his hand lightly against my cheek. “I’m glad you’re alive, too.”
The rest of the day was a blur. After giving a statement to Opie, who looked properly somber, I decided to go in to WYME, even though Cyrus had told me to take the day off. I knew he would be secretly pleased if I showed up for work, because the ratings for my show would be off the roof. Naturally, I wouldn’t say anything about the case because it was an ongoing investigation. But I could say that I’d been held at gunpoint by an intruder, and that would be enough to give me fifteen minutes of fame.
The news about Travis had already hit the media when I arrived at the station. Big Jim Wilcox had already prepared a promo to air every fifteen minutes, “WYME Shrink Cheats Death from Crazed Killer. Don’t miss an exclusive interview with Jim Wilcox, exclusive at six this evening!” He recorded it himself and picked a particularly cheesy piece of music to be played under it.
Vera Mae rolled her eyes, but Jim was adamant that the promo run exactly as he’d written it. I shrugged. If Big Jim was determined to get some publicity out of the Travis Carter arrest, so be it. I still was puzzling over how Travis had managed to kill Sanjay with the poisoned take out, but just then Nick called to give me some breaking news.
He called me just when I was getting ready to go on the air. “Here’s a news flash, Maggie. They identified the poison that killed Sanjay.”
“They did? Rafe didn’t say anything about it.” I felt a warm little glow inside remembering how Rafe had touched my cheek, his eyes dark with worry. “Of course, a lot was going on at the time. So, what was the poison?”
“Tetrodotoxin. It’s found in the puffer fish.”
“The sushi. That’s got to be it.”
“The sushi?” I’d forgotten. Nick didn’t know anything about my trip to the Golden Palace. “Someone brought Sanjay a sushi dinner from a Chinese restaurant the night he died. It had to be Travis. He confessed to killing Sanjay, you know.”
“You’re very lucky, Maggie,” Nick said softly. “He would have killed you, too.”
The two-hour show flew by. All the callers wanted to wish me well and find out how I’d “cheated death,” but I told them they had to wait until Big Jim’s six o’clock exclusive. It was a call-in show that day, no guest, so I tried to steer the conversation to other topics—relationships, family disputes, and parenting issues. The board was lit up the entire time. Everyone wanted to chat with Maggie Walsh, Cypress Grove’s latest It girl.
I went to the police department late that afternoon. Rafe was talking to the desk sergeant when I walked in, and he looked tired and happy to see me.
“Hi,” he said softly, walking up to me. “So you managed to do the show?”
I nodded. “I kept it on safe topics. You know, just psychological mumbo jumbo. And don’t worry about the Jim Wilcox piece. I’ve already taped it. It’s just a teaser. I don’t say anything at all. It’s just a little promo to boost ratings.”
We walked back to his office and sat down. Rafe reached for the coffeepot, looked at the thin layer of brown sludge inside, and frowned.
“Don’t worry,” I said quickly. “I’ve had enough of an adrenaline rush for one day.”
“Me, too.” He played with some papers on his desk.
“Well—” we both said at the same time and laughed. “You go first,” he told me.
“I was just going to say that I gave my report to Opie. I mean Officer Brown. Have you had a chance to look it over?”
Rafe smiled. “Yes, I have. I’ve been trying to read between the lines. You’ve been a busy girl, haven’t you?”
“If you mean did I do some investigating, even after you told me not to, then guilty as charged.” I grinned to show there were no hard feelings. After all, I had cracked the case, hadn’t I?
“You know we identified the poison?”
“Tetrodotoxin. A little bird told me.”
“Were you surprised?”
“Yes and no. Travis and Sanjay used to go deep-sea fishing together.”
Rafe reached for a yellow legal pad and started making notes. “How did you know that?”
I sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“We’ve got all night.”
“Okay, here goes.” I told him about visiting Sanjay, Ltd., and Mom noticing the photo of Travis and Sanjay on a fishing boat. It was funny, because she knew there was something significant about that photo, but I hadn’t picked up on it. Her Miss Marple musings had been right on target.
“You took a chance going there,” Rafe admonished me. “Travis said he made that late-night phone call and tried to scare you, but you didn’t give up on the case. So he made up his mind to kill you.”
I shrugged and leaned back in the chair. In spite of what I’d said earlier, I was dying for a cup of coffee. Or even better, a mojito.
“Yeah, well, I had to get inside the mansion to get information. I had the feeling that Travis might be involved in Sanjay’s death, but didn’t think he had a strong enough motive.” I paused. “Until he broke into my condo and explained about the book deal. Then I realized why Sanjay had to go. If Sanjay were dead, Travis could destroy any notes Sanjay had made and go ahead with plans for his own book. Sanjay’s death would probably boost sales. It would make the book topical. Publishers love that.”
“Like Lenore Cooper’s book.”
“You saw the infomercial, too. Funny, I didn’t think you were the type to watch those.”
“I’m an insomniac.”
“Really? We should get together sometime at three a.m.” I flushed. Where did that come from? Time for a quick save. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
Rafe looked at me, his mouth quirked. “Sorry to hear that.” He riffled through some papers. “We’ll do another interview tomorrow, but I think I have enough for now. The DA will have a really strong case unless Travis tries to go for an insanity plea.”
“I thought that the insanity defense was used in only one percent of cases.”
Rafe looked impressed. “Less than one percent. I see you’ve done your homework.”
“I try.” My stomach growled and I quickly jammed my hand in my lap. “Sorry. I missed lunch.”
“We can remedy that,” Rafe told me. “There’s the best Tex-Mex restaurant just a few blocks away. Tico’s.” He seemed to be waiting for me to say something. My heart was thudding at the thought of going to dinner with him. “Your roommate isn’t a suspect anymore, so there’s no reason we can’t have dinner together.”
“I’m glad.” The understatement of the year. Rafe was still staring at me, an expectant look on his face.
“Isn’t there something you want to ask me?” he said finally.
“Oh!” I snapped my fingers. How
could I be such an idiot? “Tell me about Miriam Dobosh. Was she really the one who hit me over the head? Why did she do it?”
“Yes, we brought her in and she confessed. She did it because of this.” Rafe reached into the desk drawer and pulled out the audience evaluation form, the one that had slammed Sanjay’s seminar. “She wrote it herself. She wanted Sanjay to realize he had some enemies out there—enemies that only she could deal with. Miriam hoped to convince him that she should stay at the helm of the organization.”
“He was thinking of dumping her for a newer, younger assistant.”
Rafe nodded. “That’s what she told us. So she wrote this really negative eval and tossed it in the pile with the favorable ones. Of course she had no idea Sanjay would be murdered that very night and the note would point right to her as a suspect. It could be a key piece of evidence.”
“If anyone ever discovered it.”
“Exactly. She had to make sure that didn’t happen. So she went back to the Seabreeze to rescue it and saw you sitting on the front porch going through the audience evals with the innkeeper.”
“Ted Rollins.” I remembered the creepy feeling that someone was watching me that night.
“She figured you’d lifted the eval, which was evidence, by the way.” He tried to look stern, but something about those flashing dark eyes and chiseled features made it hard to pull off. “So she decided to break into your apartment and find it. She’ll be charged with B and E and aggravated assault.” He looked at me. “At least you didn’t take the original.”
“Of course not,” I said. “I would never do that. I made a copy.”
Rafe grinned. “I’d hate to have to arrest you for evidence tampering. Of course, you shouldn’t have touched the note at all, once you suspected it might be evidence. “
“So maybe I did a little tampering,” I confessed. I thought for a minute. “And the sushi container? What really happened to it? It wasn’t in the Dumpster, was it?”
“Nope. Travis admitted that he slipped back into Sanjay’s room that night to retrieve it. Apparently Sanjay didn’t eat much of it, but it was enough to kill him. Travis grabbed the container and the leftovers and flushed them.”
“Pretty clever.”
“Diabolical.” Rafe grinned.
“What happens now?”
Rafe picked up his cell and pager and locked his gun in the desk drawer. “We go out to dinner. Unless you’d like to hang around here shooting the breeze with me.”
“I’d rather go to dinner.” I stood up, suddenly feeling a little shy and wondering why. “I still have some questions, but we can talk over dinner, right?”
“Of course,” he said guiding me out the door. “I have some questions for you, too.”
“You do?” We were walking down the hall, heading for the double glass doors that opened onto State Street. It was a beautiful evening, the sun setting in a blaze of gold and orange. The air was soft and balmy, and was filled with the dizzying scent of magnolia blossoms. I could hardly believe Travis was in jail, Lark was off the hook, and I was having dinner with Rafe Martino.
“I guess I have only one question,” Rafe said, glancing at me.
“Ask me anything.” He surprised me by taking my hand as we headed toward the restaurant. His grip was warm and firm, and it felt right. Very right.
“Tell me about Ted Rollins. You two live next door to each other, but you don’t have something going on with him, do you?”
“With Ted Rollins? Good lord, no. He’s just a friend. Like a brother.”
Rafe gave my hand a squeeze and edged a little closer to me on the sidewalk. “Just a friend? Oh, Maggie,” he said feelingly, “that’s exactly what I was hoping to hear.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Kristen Weber, for her wonderful editorial guidance and killer sense of humor. And to the whole terrific team at Obsidian—you’re the best.
To Stephen Viscusi, author, friend, and rainmaker. Stephen, you’re an inspiration to millions of people.
To my Florida friends who helped me research settings and attractions in their beautiful state, Michael Aller, tourism and convention director for the city of Miami, and author Brian Antoni.
To Alan, who is not only my fabulous British husband but also my computer guru.
To Nancy Martin and Kate Collins, my longtime writer pals, and to new friends Carolyn Hart, Hallie Ephron, and Jan Brogan from Sisters in Crime.
To Jerry Lee, for his generous help with Spanish phrases and dialogue. Any mistakes are mine, not his.
To James V. Tsoutsouris, Esq., for sharing his legal expertise with me.
And of course to Sally and Eric Ernsberger, guardians of the delightful Pugsley, who is the model for Maggie’s pug in this series. Pugsley, sweetie, I owe you a gallon of maple walnut ice cream.
Read on for a sneak peek at
Mary Kennedy’s next Talk Radio Mystery,
REEL MURDER
Coming from Obsidian in June 2010
Something was horribly wrong.
I knew it before I opened my eyes, before I saw the faint pinkish orange light seeping between the faux-teak blinds that shutter my bedroom windows. It was barely dawn, yet I could hear someone rattling around my condo, moving from the hall into the kitchen.
I instantly slammed into DEFCON 1. I sat up straight in bed, pulse racing, nerve endings tingling, skin prickling at the back of my neck. An icy finger traced a trail down my spine and I crept out of bed, yanking my arms into my favorite terry bathrobe.
I was gripped by a fear so intense, I could hardly breathe.
A home invasion? Call 911! I reached for my cell phone, then realized with a stab of despair that I’d left it in the kitchen. How annoying. Not only was I going to die, I was going to die because of my own stupidity, just like the heroine in a Kevin Williamson flick—never an ideal way to go.
I could only hope there would be enough of my body left for the police to make a positive ID. Maybe the pale blue bathrobe decorated with goofy yellow ducks would give them a clue. My roommate, Lark Merriweather, always says that no one older than twelve years old would be caught dead in it.
Or alive, for that matter.
I tiptoed to the bedroom door, my heart lodged in my throat. I felt the beginning of flop sweat sprouting under my arms as I cautiously turned the doorknob. At least Lark would be spared. She was away for the weekend, visiting friends in Key West. But where was my dog, Pugsley? He’d been dozing at the foot of my bed when I’d drifted to sleep watching Letterman. Had he been abducted? The victim of foul play? I couldn’t face life without Pugsley. My hysteria was rising.
And then I heard a familiar voice.
A breathy, smoke-filled voice, early Kathleen Turner. My shoulders slumped with relief and I shuffled out of the bedroom, my pulse stuttering back to normal.
In the kitchen, I found both good news and bad news awaiting me.
The good news was that there was no sign of a crazed serial killer, no ax murderer.
The bad news was that my mother, Lola Walsh, was back in town.
In my condo, to be precise. She must have let herself in with her key sometime during the night, and now she was padding around my living room, talking on her cell.
“That would be just fabulous, darling, fabulous! How can I ever thank you?” A pause, and then, “Oh, you naughty boy. I’ll have to think of something, won’t I? But will your wife approve? You know what they say: ‘What the mind doesn’t know, the heart doesn’t feel.’ ” Her tone was lascivious, bordering on high camp, and I had to stifle a grin. She turned around and flashed me a broad wink.
Lola was on full throttle, charming someone with her Marilyn Monroe “Happy birthday, Mr. President” voice. Lola’s an actress, although she’s having trouble finding parts these days because she’s “of a certain age,” as she likes to say.
According to Lola, the Hollywood establishment has been highjacked by the Lindsay Lohans, the Hannah Montanas, and the Lauren Conrads, lon
g-legged ingenues who edge out classically trained actresses such as herself. Although god knows, she tries her best to stay in the game.
Sometimes she tries too hard.
Today, for example, she was wearing a spaghetti-strap tank top with a pair of skintight, red and white Hawaiian-print capris. Her considerable assets were spilling out of the tank top, making her look like a geriatric version of a Hooters girl.
Age is “just a number” to Lola. A flexible number. I’m thirty-two, and ten years ago Lola listed her age on her résumé as thirty-eight. As far as I know, she’s still thirty-eight. Don’t try to do the math; it will make your teeth hurt. And her head shot is a sort of reverse Dorian Gray, since it makes her look younger than I do. She often introduces me as her sister, which would probably have me in analysis for years, if I didn’t happen to be a shrink by profession.
“You’re awake!” she said, flipping the phone shut and enveloping me in a hug. Her voice was as warm and breezy as a summer’s day. “Maggie, you’ll never guess who that was,” she added playfully.
“Nicolas Sarkozy?”
“Oh, don’t be silly. He’s married to that supermodel Carla Bruni.” She glanced at the clock. “Besides, it’s two a.m. in Paris. C’mon, try again.”
I gently untangled myself from her embrace and made tracks for the coffeepot. I always set everything up the night before so all it takes is a quick push of the ON button. That’s all my sleep-fogged brain can handle first thing in the morning. A nice mug of steaming dolce de lecheto start the day. I was still feeling shaky with adrenaline and took a couple of deep calming breaths.
“Mom, you know I hate to guess.” She made a little moue of disappointment and I sighed. I knew I had to play the game, or I’d never be able to drink my coffee in peace. “Okay, Daniel Craig called. He wants you to fly to London and have drinks with him at Claridge’s tonight.”
“Nope.” She giggled and clapped her hands together. “Although that certainly sounds like fun. I love his movies and he’s a major hunk.”
