The Doom Diva Mysteries Books 1

by Sherry M. Siska

  He turned and lunged like he was going to grab me. “Where the eff is Giselle?”

  I shrugged and tried to stay as far back from him as possible since he’s been known to have a little problem with keeping all of his saliva inside his mouth when he talks. I’ve been the victim of more than one of Herb’s spit showers in the past. I may not always look it, but I actually do catch on rather quickly.

  Giselle’s red Corvette (license plate: 2SEXE4U) finally wheeled into the parking lot at about five-fifteen and she sashayed up the walk, trailed by a small, dark-haired man wearing tight black jeans and an even tighter black turtle neck. The man was inexplicably wearing sunglasses, even though it was still dark out, and he carried one of those hipster messenger bags. Herb danced a little jig and turned back to stare at me.

  “Whoo doggie! Marty, I can’t effing believe it. Who’d a ever in a million years a thought you’d be on the air with Giselle. Ya’ll are making history here, you know? I don’t think there’s another morning drive team in the whole effing country made up of two gals. And not just any ol’ gals, but bodacious, sexy, young ones. This is like an effing playboy fantasy for me, you want the truth. Say, that’s a great idea! Picture this for a TV spot.” Herb held his fingers up to form a little box. “You and Giselle in them tiny bikinis, them ones ain’t got no butt cover, mud wrestling!”

  I didn’t even bother. Instead, I pushed past him, heading down the beige-carpeted hall to the DJ resource room.

  “It don’t gotta be mud,” he called after me. “Oatmeal would be all right.”

  Herb had the station playing on the hall speakers, so I could hear Big Ed, the overnight DJ, cooing into the microphone, telling some listener that she’d won a twenty buck gift certificate to Danny’s Hideaway, a local nightclub. When I got to the booth, I stopped and watched Ed through the window. He switched off the microphone, yanked down his headphones, and swiveled around in his seat. He caught sight of me and winked. I waved, then jumped out of the way as Herb, Giselle, and Giselle’s tiny companion swept past me. I followed them into the resource room, which was just across from the booth, and plopped down at one of the two desktop computers. It felt good to be back at the station, even if it was at a horrendous hour and my worst enemy was standing in front of me.

  Giselle glared at me and shuddered. “What on earth are you wearing?” she asked. “Don’t you have any pride in yourself?”

  I glanced down at my clothes. I had on my usual work outfit consisting of comfy, slightly worn jeans, a vintage – okay, holey – Martina McBride concert t-shirt, and my rattiest sneakers. My hair was still wet from the shower and I’d yanked it back into a loose knot at the back of my neck.

  Giselle, on the other hand, was wearing a sequined, lime green tank dress that barely covered her rear end and matching four-inch stiletto heels. Her dress was super low cut to show off her brand-spanking new boobs. (She’d just returned from a mystery “get-away” about two cup sizes bigger.) Her bleached blonde hair was done up in that semi-messy up-do that’s been out of style since the nineties. She also had on enough spackle to keep all of the make-up companies in business for the next hundred years.

  “Uh, Giselle, in case you missed the memo, this is radio we’re doing. It doesn’t make a bit of difference what we’re wearing. No one’s going to see us.”

  She sniffed and gave me a creepy smile. “Oh, no, Marty, I’m afraid you’re the one who missed the memo. Two TV stations are sending out camera crews to do spots on my new show. You forget I’m a celebrity around here. There’s been a huge outpouring of interest. Don’t worry though; I’m sure that they’ll barely mention you.”

  Crap. I should have expected it. Not because of Giselle. Contrary to her self-aggrandizement, nobody around gave a rat’s patootie about either one of us. The conglomerate that owned the station also had a couple of TV stations, one a network affiliate with a popular morning news show. The other one mostly played religious programming, reruns of shows from the eighties, and high school football games. They were, however, trying out a new morning show of their own. Obviously, the owners were helping them fill air time, as well as manufacturing some publicity for the radio station.

  I took a deep breath and pretended not to care.“Big whoop-ti-doo. Knock yourself out. They better not get in the way. And, by the way, it’s our show, not yours.”

  I glanced over at Herb. “So, what you got planned? Ten or so?” I was curious about how many minutes he’d allowed for us to banter (or wage war) with each other between commercials and songs.

  He’d casually put his arm around Giselle, his right hand perilously close to her boob. If it had been anyone else, I’d have said something, but, well, I didn’t. Yeah, I know. Immature. I can’t help it. Giselle brings out the worst in me.

  “Naw,” he said, “Better than that. I got three songs every half. Weather on the fives, and a two minute news break after the weather. Other than the ads and the sweepers, ya’ll can just effing jibber-jabber to your heart’s content.”

  I quickly calculated. “You’re giving us twenty an hour to talk? Are you sure you want that much. I mean, this is a new show. Our listeners usually are more into the music. They might get ticked off with a bunch of chatter.”

  Herb’s hand slipped the tiniest bit closer to its target. “Dang, I thought you’d be happy. Think of all them times you was beggin’ to get more air time. This here’s ‘bout as good as it gets.”

  I knew he was right, but twenty minutes is a lot of time to talk, especially when the person I’d be chatting it up with was my worst nightmare come to life.

  Giselle shrugged out from under his arm, probably breaking Herb’s heart, and gave me another one of her creepy smiles. “Don’t worry, Marty. I’ll be sure to take up the slack. My fans are simply dying to hear from me. They won’t be a bit interested in any of your drivel.”

  She dug down into the massive gold-colored leather purse she carried. “I think your plan is wonderful, Herbie. Now, I need to fix my face before the camera crews get here. Where’s the little girl’s room?” she cooed, giving Herb one of those fake beauty contestant smiles.

  He beamed at her and pointed to the right. “Down the hall, around the corner, third door on the right. If you see Elvis, you aren’t in heaven; you’ve just gone too far.”

  He chuckled, presumably because he thought he’d said something funny. Herb’s wife, Georgina, used to own the station and she had a big thing for Elvis. The door to the room that used to be her office had a bas relief carving of Elvis, ’69 version, on the front. It was right past the ladies room.

  Giselle pulled a gargantuan make-up bag from her purse and handed it to the small man, who stood silently by the door, still wearing his sunglasses. She snapped her fingers in his direction. “Come, Alejandro,” she barked, “I need you.”

  Alejandro silently slipped down the hall, toward Elvis.

  “Good luck, Alejandro,” I said. “You’re going to need it. There ain’t enough make-up in the world to fix Giselle’s face.”

  He must have not heard me, because he didn’t look back. Giselle, on the other hand, wasted a good two minutes whining about my negative attitude and how it was ruining her “positivity”. Finally, she evidently noticed that time was ticking away and that I didn’t care, because she stomped off.

  Herb watched her as she sashayed down the hall, her too-short skirt swishing from side to side. His eyes were practically popping out of his head. Knowing Herb, I figure he was hoping her skirt was going to swing up far enough so that he could see what she had on underneath. Once she moved out of view, though, he turned back to me.

  “Who’s that guy?” I asked once he was no longer befuddled.

  He shrugged. “Heck if I know. Looks sort of like that feller does Georgina’s hair. Owns a beauty shop over near Salem. Charges an effing fortune. Don’t sweat it, you hear? You got more important stuff to worry over. You gotta make sure this here show gets off to a good start. You take good care of that sweet l
il thing and I’ll take care of you. And don’t worry ‘bout them TV folks. They’ll be in and out. Upper management got them coming in for a couple of stand-ups, nothing more.”

  “Okay. But I’m not kidding. You make sure they don’t get in the way. That booth is small enough as it is. And make sure they know not to film me. I don’t want even a split second of my face on TV.”

  Herb waggled his head up and down, but it didn’t give me peace of mind. “Abso-effing-loutely. Got ya’ covered. But, Marty, you be on the ball with the show. You know well as I do, this here thing flops, it’ll be an effing cold day in h-e-double hockey sticks afore they’ll ever let two gals on the effing air together again. Now, I know you and her got issues, which is one of the effing reasons we hired y’all, but don’t let it get too much outta hand. We got sponsors to keep, you know?”

  I held up two fingers in what I hoped was the right sign for making promises. “Sure thing, Herb. You know me. I’m a pro.”

  It felt like something stung me right below my eye when I said that. Whatever it was then flew millimeters past my left eye. Now, I’m not sure about this, but I swear it looked like the thing was wearing one of those little jester hats. You know, the ones with the pointy tails and bells hanging off? I blinked and shook my head. Probably the lack of sleep. Either that or one of the devious Darlings of Disaster had hitched a ride to the station with me.

  5

  I spent the next few minutes trying to get ready for the show. We were scheduled to be on the air from six to ten, which sounds short, but figured to be an eternity since it meant spending exactly four hours longer with Giselle than was good for my sanity. Not to mention, having to actually talk to her for that long.

  While Giselle was off performing facial reconstruction, I logged on to one of the desktops and printed out prep sheets from a subscription service. I also checked the on-line version of the local paper, the weather forecast, and the websites of several of the most popular country artists, making a few notes so that I’d have plenty of material to keep things interesting and moving along.

  I had hoped to have time to actually sit down with Giselle and come up with a plan, but she had apparently taken up permanent residence in stall three. Instead, I gathered all of the stuff I’d printed, stuck it into a folder, and went into the booth to chat with Big Ed.

  “Hey, ya, Marts, what’s cookin’? Long time, no see,” he said, squinting in my direction.

  Big Ed’s, well, big. He’s six-six, if not taller, and weighs somewhere in the neighborhood of three, three-fifty. Ed’s thirty-two, has scraggly long blonde hair, tattoos covering pretty much every square inch of visible skin, and a voice that makes some women swoon. The two of us weren’t exactly friends, but you could say we’d bonded a bit lately.

  Both of us had been let go earlier in the year along with all the other jocks when the station was bought from Georgina by a large media conglomerate. The new owners had originally thought that it would be cheaper and easier to replace the local folks with syndicated formats. They’d thought wrong.

  One of the great things about Glenvar is the support for local businesses and people. Listeners boycotted the station, which meant a huge backlash from the advertisers, and, eventually, the station was sold to another, even larger conglomerate. This group of owners decided to put things back the way they had been, but with some minor tweaks, including my show with Giselle. We supposedly had two months to turn things around or the station would be shut down. Big Ed and I were the only ones of the previous crew who had returned to the sinking ship.

  I hopped up on the stool at the counter across from him. “Not much, Ed. You?”

  “Same old, same old. Just livin’ and lovin’.” Ed leaned back in his chair and studied me for a minute. “You ever thought about modeling, Marts? I expect you’d be a natural at it. Good lookin’ gal like you could probably make a lot of coin.”

  I cackled. “Modeling? Me? Have you lost your freaking mind? I’m too short, too heavy, and, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly a girly-girl. I don’t know an eyelash curler from a hair curler.”

  He kept studying me, covering first one eye, then the other. “Naw, I ain’t talking about fashion modeling. I’m thinking you’d do great in the art and glamour stuff. Probably lifestyle and fitness, even advertising and what not. You got a pretty face, so you’d photograph real well.” He pulled a tattered wallet out of his back pocket, opened it, and tossed me a business card. “Here. Think about it, check out the website, and if you decide you’re interested, give me a call. I’m what you call a scout or a headhunter. Side business.”

  I glanced at the card. It was a glossy shot of a girl with her head tilted back, her eyes closed, and her hands on both sides of her face. She looked beautiful, but something about it was sort of disturbing, too. The girl seemed familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on where I’d seen her before. Most likely an ad for some local business or something, I figured. On the back of the card were Ed’s contact info and a website address.

  I stuck the card into the back pocket of my jeans and shrugged. “Yeah, probably not, but thanks. How’d you get into this anyway?”

  He put on his “cans” – headphones – and waited for the sweeper, a 20 second station ID, to finish, then cut on the microphone, “Great news, Ricky Ray Riley fans! Our local boy made good is heading back home. He’ll be headliner at the “Bomber’s Last Stand”. That’s their end of the season extravaganza, next Wednesday, the 29th. Gates open at five, party starts at five-thirty. Fourth caller, I’ve got a pair of tickets with your name on them.”

  He flipped the switch back off, fiddled with the computer a bit, took the winning call, got the person’s info, then turned back around to me.

  “My, uhm, uh, a friend of mine, she owns the agency. Pays me commission to find talent.” Ed grinned and wiggled his bushy blonde eyebrows. “You know me, Marts, I do like me the ladies.”

  That, I did indeed, know. He was, in a word, a dog. Ed was just coming out of his sixth marriage. Or maybe it was his seventh. Anyway, he had a history of meeting someone, falling madly in love, getting hitched right away, and then, within weeks, cheating on them with, well, basically any gal who offered. For some reason, a lot of them offered. I guess it’s true that there are a lot of sad, lonely, desperate women in the world.

  Out in the corridor, a flock of people appeared. The TV crews had arrived. A couple of sleepy looking camera guys and two over-dressed, over-made-up women, both with teeny-tiny bodies and humongous heads, crowded the hallway. One of the guys swung his camera up onto his shoulder and pointed it toward the window separating Big Ed and me from them. Ed smiled and waved. I ducked.

  Eventually, Giselle must have gotten their attention, because Ed told me I could come up.

  Since all of them had pushed their way into the prep room, I decided to take a quiet break before going on air. I snuck out the door and over to the other side of the building. The station, which was built in the sixties, is basically a “U”. The broadcasting booths and all of the equipment rooms run along one hall, the main offices and reception area along the front, and the marketing and business offices, along with a kitchen area, are on the other side. There’s a nice, very private, outdoor courtyard between the two legs, so I grabbed a pack of nabs and a root beer and sat outside for a bit. It was quiet and very pleasant out there and I enjoyed the few minutes of peace. Finally, I took a deep breath, said a quick prayer, and headed back to the mayhem. It was almost show time.

  Based on the racket coming from the prep room, the camera folks were still around and seemed to be jockeying for time with Herb and Giselle. I continued my avoidance strategy and went back into the booth, a sound proof, ten by ten room filled with very expensive equipment.

  Ed stood up, stretched, and moved toward the exit. “Luck, Marts. I’m outta here. Say, what’s up with Little Dude and Tata Tootsie?”

  Before I could answer, his cell phone gave a tweedle. He checked the screen, smile
d, and gave me another wink. “Gonna go get me some breakfast and a little bit of lovin’ from a hot young thang, then I’m fixin’ to go night-night. And, hey, Marts, I’m serious about the modeling. Think about it.”

  “Sure thing, Ed,” I said, only half listening. I didn’t even wait for him to get out the door before I started getting the booth set up to my preferences.

  First, I adjusted the lighting. Ed worked with the booth lights turned way down low, like he was at home in bed or something. I preferred working in a slightly brighter, but more natural light and usually just turned on a single light until the sun rose and brightened things up. The booth was equipped with both regular and fluorescent lights and everything was adjustable, so I flipped on one of the regular lights and spun the dimmer until I got it at a good level. Ed also liked it a bit colder than I preferred, so I shrugged on my skuzzy Virginia Tech hoodie and adjusted the thermostat up a couple of degrees. I’d have liked to have turned it up a little warmer, but the pricy electronics were finicky and liked it cold. Herb had forbidden us to go above sixty-seven.

  Once I had everything situated to my liking, I plopped down in the swivel chair and checked out the program schedule. There were about six songs I loved, a couple I liked, a few I tolerated, and three I loathed. Those three were all by Ricky Ray, of course.

  He was in the rotation a lot lately because of the up-coming concert. The station was a major sponsor of the event, a fund-raiser for a local kids’ charity, so we were going to be promoting pretty much non-stop. I glanced up at the clock and shook my head. In five minutes, our show was scheduled to start and my “partner” was across the hall, hamming it up for the chirpy TV reporters. Not exactly the beginning I’d hoped for.

  I’ll admit, I was looking forward to being back on the air after my layoff. It felt good to put on my headphones and do the other tasks that were almost second nature to me after years on the air. I watched the countdown and listened to the new jingle for the “Giselle and Marty: Morning Drive Party”.