The Madams of Mischief: Doom Divas Book # 1

by Sherry M. Siska

  Chapter Seven

  The best part about doing remote broadcasts? Talent money. It isn't usually a lot, but, since I do them off the clock, it helps pay my cat food bills. Truth be told, they can also be sort of fun. You get to meet people, give away stuff, just generally have a good time. Sometimes, though, things don't go so well. In fact, they can be downright disastrous. And when that happens, it's sort of like going bungee jumping and realizing, when you're halfway to the ground, that you forgot the damn bungee cord.

  The Thompson's Precision Engine remote broadcast I had to work that afternoon turned out to be even worse than that. Evidently, Destiny and her sick sisters weren’t going to stop until I was splattered like a bug on the windshield of life.

  Thompson's Precision Engines is located on East Main Street, also known as 'Gasoline Alley' for all the car dealerships and repair shops. TPE is right next to Nancy Winslow Automotive, a used car dealership. I turned into the driveway and parked in a corner spot next to the yellow aluminum building, right in front of the office door.

  Fred Thompson, the owner of the place, stood between the door and my car, talking to Detective Luray. Actually, standing and talking doesn't really describe what he was doing. He was shouting. Screaming. Jumping up and down.

  His face was so red and contorted with anger that I thought about just staying in the car. I mean, with the way my day was going, having to make a quick getaway was a distinct possibility. However, curiosity got the best of me. I climbed out. But I stayed right by the car door, just to be on the safe side.

  Fred is a great big bear of a man. Exceptionally handsome, with thick silver gray hair and blue eyes that twinkle when he smiles, he has a manner that makes you want to curl up next to him. If he weren't the same age as my dad, and didn't happen to be married, I might find myself thinking impure thoughts about him. Since he is, though, I manage to keep my thoughts out of the gutter. Most of the time, anyway.

  At that particular moment there was no threat to my impending sainthood. He was about as appealing as a pissed-off rattlesnake.

  He drew himself up to his full height, towering over the detective, and stabbed his finger toward her. "Are you crazy? Are you nuts? I hated that S.O.B., but I didn't have anything to do with killing him. You think I like it that he was wearing my name on his shirt. He wasn't fit to wear anybody's softball jersey, but especially not one of mine!"

  Detective Luray held her hands out, palms toward Fred. "Sir, please, no one is accusing you of anything. I just need to ask you a few questions. This would be a lot easier if you'd cooperate."

  Fred's face grew even redder, almost as red as the Thompson's Precision Engine t-shirt he was wearing. I tried to remember how to do CPR.

  "Cooperate? Cooperate? You think I'm going to help you try and pin this on me?" He took a step toward her, still jabbing his finger in the air.

  Detective Luray held her ground. "Mr. Thompson, I suggest, very strongly I might add, that you control yourself."

  Fred backed off, but he kept arguing with her, shouting and almost spitting with anger. She stayed calm and never once lost her temper. She kept her head high, her shoulders back, her hand near her gun.

  Fred's son, Zach, came out of one of the three service bays that are on the side of the building next to the used car lot. He wore a red t-shirt like Fred's, a pair of dirty khaki pants, and a black baseball hat. He looked like he was roasting. I did sort of a double take. He also looked extremely hot in that other sense of the word. I didn't remember him being that good-looking.

  He wiped his greasy hands on a pink shop towel and trotted over to the detective and Fred. He laid his hand on his dad's shoulder and spoke softly to Fred, too softly for me to overhear. Shoot.

  Fred shook his head violently and pulled away from Zach. "No, I won't do that!"

  Zach grabbed his father's arm and spun him around so that they were nose to nose. This time, when he spoke, I didn't have any problem hearing. "Yes, Dad! You have to do it. There isn't any choice. Just get it over with. You know what this sort of thing does to her."

  Suddenly, all the fight seemed to go out of Fred. His shoulders slumped and he rubbed his beard.

  Zach patted his dad on the back, tapping and stroking the way a parent does to comfort a child.

  "I'll talk to you," Fred said to Detective Luray, "but let's go down to the station to do it."

  "That will be fine," the detective said.

  While Fred was getting in her car, which was parked in the slot next to mine, she closed her eyes for a split second and I saw her mouth move, almost like she was saying a little prayer.

  Since the fireworks appeared to be over, I moved away from my car and toward the building. Zach glanced at me, but went over to the passenger side of the detective's car, where Fred was sitting. Fred rolled down the window.

  Zach leaned down and looked in his father's eyes. "It's going to be okay Dad. You didn't do anything wrong. Just remember that."

  Fred reached out the window and caressed the side of Zach's face. "I know, Son, I know. Now, you go take care of her. I'll be back as soon as I can."

  He rolled up the window as Detective Luray drove through the parking lot and turned right onto Main Street, toward the police station.

  I noticed that I wasn't the only one who had witnessed the confrontation. Nancy Winslow, the owner of the used car lot, stood beside the curb that separated the two businesses, a satisfied looking grin plastered on her face.

  Zach gazed after the police car. He pulled his hat off and ran his fingers through his hair. He looked so sad and alone. I went to him and touched him gently on the arm.

  "Hi, Zach. Everything okay?"

  He startled. "Oh, hey there, Marty. I forgot you were here. Yeah, I guess everything's okay. Hell, I don't know." There were tears in his eyes. "You hear about Wart?"

  "Yeah. I found his body."

  He gawked at me. "You did? What a bummer. Are you all right?"

  "I'm doing fine. It's poor Beth and those two little ones that we should be worried about." Mom would have been so proud of me. I guess her lecture on 'saying the proper things' had actually paid off.

  He nodded solemnly. "You got that right. It's a real shame." He wiped at his eyes with the dirty shop towel.

  "Is there something I can help you with?" he asked.

  "Well, I'm supposed to do a remote. For your fifteenth anniversary celebration, I think." The salesperson from the station was supposed to handle all the details. She wasn't there yet.

  "Damn! I forgot all about it, what with Wart's getting murdered and the cops showing up. They're questioning Dad. They think he had something to do with it. Because of the jersey."

  "The jersey?"

  "You know, the one Wart was wearing."

  I shook my head. "I didn't get a good look at the body so I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Wart had on a TPE softball jersey. A brand new one that we hadn't even given out to anyone on our team yet. The only people who had them was me and Dad. That's why they think Dad's involved. And because of the fight they had yesterday."

  "Fight? What fight?" I asked.

  "Just a stupid misunderstanding. It wasn't important and it certainly doesn't mean Dad killed Wart." He glanced toward the office door. "Listen, I need to make a phone call. Can you wait here for a minute?"

  I checked my watch. The saleswoman was running late. "I guess. But I really need to get set up pretty soon. I'm supposed to do the first break-in at five after four."

  "I'll make it quick." He disappeared into the last service bay.

  Cars streamed by out on Main Street. Nancy Winslow was still rooted to where she'd been standing earlier, looking my way. She waggled her fingers at me. I waved back.

  Zach returned two minutes later. "Okay, let's go talk to my Mom, see if she knows where you're supposed to set up. I'm just a hired hand around here, nobody tells me anything." He grinned. His eyes twinkle, too.

  He pu
t his hand on the door handle, but didn't open it. "Uh, listen, Marty, this thing with Wart? My mom is, well, she hasn't been doing so great since my brother died. She's real fragile. I don't want her to know about the cops suspecting Dad. It would tear her up. You won't say anything, will you?"

  "Of course not."

  "Thanks." He put his arm across my shoulder and gave a little squeeze. A shiver went down my back. One of those nice kind.

  When he let go, I glanced over to the car lot. Nancy was still watching us. What the heck did she find so interesting?

  Zach turned to see what I was looking at. "That woman is so damned nosy," he said.

  Nancy stuck her hand in the air, her middle finger straight up. She cackled and went into her office, the door slamming behind her.

  "That was cute," I said.

  "Wasn't it though. But what do you expect? That's the way she is." Zach opened the office door and we went inside to talk to his mom, Roberta.

  It took my eyes a minute to adjust to the light when we got inside. Roberta was sitting behind a desk, sort of slumped down in the chair. To say I was shocked at her appearance would be an understatement.

  I hadn't seen her in about a year and a half. Time hadn't been kind to her. I remembered a tall, graceful, exquisitely beautiful woman, not this haunted looking scarecrow.

  The desk was littered with papers and three overflowing ash trays. I looked around for a place to sit, but the molded plastic visitor's chairs were piled high with files and cardboard boxes. The calendar on the wall still showed June. The place reeked of burnt coffee, cigarette smoke, and a citrusy-piney smell that I thought was gin. A window air conditioning unit churned and hummed, but it didn't make much of a difference. The office was stifling.

  Roberta held a lit cigarette in one hand and a plastic stadium cup in the other. Lipstick stains smeared the rim of the cup. I couldn't help but stare at her. If I'd seen her on the street, I probably wouldn't have recognized her.

  "Mom." Zach bent his head close to hers, "Dad had to run a few errands. He'll be back in a little while, okay?" He was speaking to her the way Charli speaks to little Jaelyn. I felt almost embarrassed for him.

  She stared at him, like she wasn't quite comprehending what he was telling her. She focused in on me. "Who's that?" she asked, slurring her words slightly.

  "That's Marty Sheffield, you remember Marty, she's here to do that remote broadcast. Did Dad tell you where he wants her to set up?" he asked.

  "No. I don't think so." She scratched her head with the hand holding the cigarette, making me very nervous. She stared at me lazily. "I don't guess it really makes any difference. Wherever, whatever. Why don't you ask your Dad? He knows everything."

  "He isn't here right now."

  "Where'd he go?"

  "Errands, remember. I told you he had to go run some errands." Zach's voice went up a notch.

  "What'd that woman want with him? To get in his pants? That’s what she probably wanted. That’s what they all want, ain’t it?"

  Zach took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "No, Mom. She just wanted to ask him some questions about her car. Dad didn't mention the broadcast?"

  An inch long ash fell off her cigarette and landed on the desk. "I don't know."

  Zach pulled his lips between his index fingers and made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Okay," he said a few seconds later. "How about around front, between the building and the street?"

  "Sounds good to me. All I need is electricity." I wanted to get out of that office. I'd have set up in the middle of Main Street if he'd suggested it.

  "We're in luck. There's an outlet right next to the office door."

  I set up the tuner and speakers, plugged the cell phone I use for talking on-air into the board, and ran an extension cord to the electrical outlet. Once everything was in place, I tuned in the station. They were playing my favorite song, George Teoria's "The Angel in You Brings out the Devil in Me".

  During a remote broadcast, the remote DJ -- in this case, me -- goes on the air and tells the on-air disc jockey how great the sponsor is a few times an hour. The rest of the time, I play the station’s songs, talk to the people who drop by, hold contests, sign the occasional autograph, and hand out coupons and stuff.

  The account manager who'd sold the time to Fred finally showed up a couple of minutes before four. She helped me hang a big 'WRRR 98.6 HOT HITS TO HEAT YOU UP" banner on the building above the table and we chatted until time to go on the air.

  Things went pretty smoothly during the first two of the three hours Fred had bought. I'd just finished talking to the studio DJ at the top of the third hour when all hell broke loose.