The Doom Diva Mysteries Books 1

by Sherry M. Siska

  “That cat tried to bite me,” she said accusingly. “He’s clearly got issues.”

  “Delbert does not have issues. If he tried to bite you, you must have done something to provoke him.”

  She eyed me over the top of the computer screen. “Nope. Just minding my own business. After my shower, I went in your bedroom to borrow some clothes and he just attacked me. You might think about taking him to a pet psychic. My spiritual guide, Reevasiana, had a dog with some serious past life trauma that caused him to go around humping people and the pet psychic was able to resolve the problem for her.”

  My eyes practically did a three-sixty, they rolled so high. “Delbert does not need a pet psychic. He’s a very well-behaved cat.” I handed her the bags and the receipt. “Here’s your stuff. You owe me $196. Now, I’ve got to get some sleep, so let’s get the sheets changed on my bed and get you settled.”

  She pulled the shampoo and other items from the shopping bag. “Oh. That’s the cheap store version. I use the kind that Tony Denito mixes up in his shop.” She sighed loudly a couple of times. “Oh well. I guess this will have to do. You have a fork so I can eat the salad?”

  I went to the kitchen and got her a fork. While she ate, I changed the sheets on my bed and cleaned up the rest of the apartment. “Okay, bed’s ready when you are. I’ve got to get up at 5:30, so I’ll leave the key to the apartment on the counter. I’ve got to go straight from my radio job to open my sister’s gift shop, so I probably won’t be home until about 6:15 or so. Oh! I almost forgot. I promised May Lynda I’d go over to the Riley’s to get Vivi’s stuff. So, probably more like 7:00. Do you think you’ll still be here?”

  She finished off the last dregs of the champagne and yawned. “I don’t know. I still have to get in touch with my manager and figure out a plan. You wouldn’t happen to have any cash you could loan me, would you? You know, in case I need to get a cab or something. Don’t worry, I’ll have my manager just add it to the check for what I owe you.”

  I had just gotten forty dollars out of the ATM while I was at the store, which I’d budgeted for walking around money and for gasoline for the rest of the week. “I guess I can loan you a little bit. I really need to get it back and the rest of the money by the end of the month, though. Twenty okay?”

  “Is that all you’ve got? I mean, I guess it will have to do if that’s all you’ve got.” She sighed loudly again. “Maybe I can donate some blood or something. I heard they pay you for that. Can you put the directions to the donation center in my phone for me?”

  She got me again. I pulled my wallet out of my tote bag and handed her the two twenties stashed behind my driver’s license. “I guess I can run by the ATM again tomorrow before I open the store.”

  It was almost one o’clock by the time Delbert and I got settled on my slightly uncomfortable sleep sofa, and it took me another forty-five minutes to finally dose off. At three, Beau went to the bathroom, and I woke up. At 3:30, Delbert decided he wanted to play “pounce on Marty’s feet” and I woke up. At 4:15, Beau got a drink of water and I woke up. At 5:30, my alarm went off. I did not wake up.

  At 5:57, I finally woke up, realized I was going to be late, and, looked for my phone so I could call the station and let the overnight guy know I’d be there as soon as I could and for him to put the show on voice track. Of course, I couldn’t find my phone. I finally just threw on some clothes and booked, foregoing everything but the most basic hygiene functions, and hoping, praying that the overnight guy’s telepathy skills had suddenly developed and, even more importantly, hoping and praying Herb wasn’t aware of the fact that I was late.

  13

  The good news was that I was only 28 minutes late. The bad news was that, despite all of my hoping and praying, Herb not only knew I was late, but, even worse, had been stuck filling in for me. When I burst through the door into the booth, he yelled so much and so loudly that I barely had time to appreciate his crazy suit. (It was turquoise with embroidered and sequined covered wagons, cacti, and other symbols of the wild west. It may have been my favorite one yet.)

  Thankfully, five minutes into his tirade, he got a text, muttered a couple of almost-curse words, and hot-footed it out of there, but not before leaving me with one final thought. “This better be the effing best show you ever done”, he shouted, shaking his pudgy fist in my direction, “or your pert-little be-hind is gonna be grass.”

  Although I wasn’t sure what he meant by his threat, I knew enough to not take it lightly. Not to mention, I myself wanted my show to be the effing best one I’d ever done. Oh, how I wanted it to be good. Or, at any rate, not awful. Alas, it was not to be. To put it mildly, it stunk worse than the sewer drain down by the meat packing plant. I never could get my rhythm and I kept getting tongue tied and messing up. Twice I committed one of the cardinal sins of radio by having a longish spurt of dead air. I’d have been better off just going home and running the whole thing on voice track. Of course, if I had, I wouldn’t have gotten paid, but as awful as the show went, I probably didn’t earn it any way.

  When I finally turned over the booth (thankfully, a different one from the one where Vivi had died) at ten, I slunk into the office to get my things and use the phone to call Tim to tell him I still couldn’t find my phone and ask him to text Charli and Mom to let them know that if they needed me, to call the gift shop.

  “So,” I said just before saying goodbye in what I hoped was a sexy and sultry tone, “about those handcuffs. What exactly would you be using them on me for.”

  I didn’t register Tim’s response because just as I made my suggestive comment, the door opened and someone slipped into the office. I mumbled a quick “I gotta scoot,” and hung up, knowing I’d never hear the end of it if it was Slammin’ Sammy or one of the other jocks. Worse still would be Herb. It wasn’t. When I turned around, I was shocked to see Georgina standing there instead. My face flamed with embarrassment. Having her hear me was about as bad as having had Mom overhear it. Maybe even worse.

  Thankfully, her only acknowledgment was a bright pink tinge highlighting both cheeks, but that might have actually been from her rouge since the color never completely faded.

  “Martina, dear, Herbert and I’d like to have a word with you in my office.”

  Georgina and Herb have a sort of Porter Wagner-Dolly Parton approach to life and usually look like they’re ready, willing, and able to step out on a stage and deliver a heartfelt duet or two. Her outfits are always tailored to coordinate with Herb’s suit of the day. Her turquoise polyester maxi dress also featured the sequined wild west theme of the day. Her hair, which she wears “high and yellow” and sprayed into a helmet, was decorated with combs that matched her dress and the toes of her turquoise cowgirl boots peeked out from under the dress.

  I checked the digital clock over her shoulder. It was already 10:15 and I was supposed to open the shop. Oh well. Maybe it wouldn’t take long for them to chew me out about how bad the show had been and give me the “you need to shape up” lecture. “Why of course, Mrs. Georgina. No problem at all.”

  Georgina is a quiet woman who usually defers to Herb in public, but everyone knows she’s really the one who metaphorically wears the pants in the relationship. She also is one of the shrewdest business women around. The station was still losing money, but since she’d bought it back, ad revenues were slowly turning around and I expected that by the end of the year it would once again be profitable; although, I think the main reason she’d bought it back was to keep Herb busy so that he wasn’t hanging around their house all day making messes and getting on her nerves.

  She stood there, waiting expectedly, so I left my tote bag and trundled along behind her to her rarely used, opulent office. She pulled open the heavy oak door which featured a bas relief carving of Elvis, ’69 version, on the front, and motioned for me to go on inside. The inside of the office was a veritable sea of pink, white, and gold with lots of tulle and feathers.

  Herb looked uncomfortable and way t
oo big for the frou-frou gold silk, French provincial sofa he was parked on. He cradled Georgina’s little white yappy dog, Tiffany, who was dressed in a miniature turquoise, sequined outfit just like his and Georgina’s, and was petting her and talking baby talk to her. “Whose a good widdle girl? Tiffy’s a good widdle girl!”

  He clammed up, barely looking at me when I said “Hey, Herb”.

  Normally, when he’s around Georgina, he’s practically a different person, speaking softly and forgoing his pretend cussing, answering meekly when she reminds him to watch his manners and his language, but I’d never seen him quite so subdued.

  Georgina indicated that I should sit on the sofa next to Herb, so I did, while she took the matching chair across from us. Herb shot me a look out of the corner of his eye, but immediately returned his full attention to petting the dog while his wife settled into her chair. I couldn’t help but wonder what on earth was going on.

  I didn’t have to wait long. Georgina got right to the point. “Martina, dear, Daddy, er, I mean Herbert and I have agreed that it’s time for us to part ways.”

  I was stunned. They’d been married for something like forty years, maybe even longer. Even though Herb is a boorish, ridiculous excuse for a man, I felt sort of sorry for him. He truly is all talk and is completely devoted to his wife. I wondered what had happened to bring it on. Surely not cheating. Maybe some sort of financial shenanigans?

  I also was surprised they’d felt the need to tell me privately. Probably because they thought of me as a sort of surrogate daughter. I wasn’t really sure what to say, so tried out my new approach to such situations – figure out WWMD (what would Mom do) and attempt to channel it.

  “Surely you two can work it out. Maybe just a trial separation. See how that goes before you commit to divorce,” I said, thinking that I’d really nailed it with that response. Clearly all those years of being around my mom had led to my absorbing her lessons on how to act like a caring human being through some sort of osmosis or something.

  Georgina appeared confused for a second. She fiddled around with one of the cacti hair combs, pulling it out and re-anchoring it, before finally speaking again. “No, dear. Not Herbert and I. With you. We’ve agreed that it’s time for our professional relationship to finally, once and for all, come to an end. The morning drive show just won’t work without Giselle, and, as you may have guessed, she’s been offered and has accepted the opportunity to return to television.”

  It was my turn to be confused. With everything that had happened the past couple of days, my brain was clearly not operating as smoothly as it normally does. I sat there like an idiot, wagging my head from Georgina to Herb and back to Georgina over and over again trying to make sense of what she was saying. I must have resembled one of those dolls the local baseball team gives out sometimes as a promotion.

  Finally, it sort of sunk in. “You’re firing me? Herb? Is this some sort of weird prank or something?”

  Herb nearly petted the fur right off of that poor dog. He shot me another glance out of the corner of his eyes, then with a slight nod, mumbled, “Yes. I mean no. Not fired. Letting you go.”

  I blinked and did a quick, hard shake of my head. “Letting me go? Letting me go? In other words, firing me. Be a freaking man, Herb. Call it what it is.” My voice was getting higher and louder with each word. I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I stood up, then sat back down, then stood up again.

  Georgina stood up too. “Martina, dear, there’s no need for cursing. You are not being fired. We are instead simply buying out your contract. As stipulated, we will give you one-month’s pay in lieu of notice and one additional month’s severance pay, plus a $200 bonus. Today’s show, though, was your last. Please stop by my secretary’s desk and she will provide you with the appropriate paperwork, including your release from the non-compete clause. You’ll receive your severance pay within the next two weeks.”

  I gave Herb one last pleading look, but he quickly looked away toward the wall. I thought, though, that I noticed a tear in his eye. Probably my imagination. Either that or he was allergic to the dog. I hoped so. It would have served him right if he broke out into big, ugly, red hives or, even better, nasty running blisters oozing with gross stuff.

  Georgina waved her perfectly manicured hand toward the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some additional business to attend to. Herbert, I’m sure that you do as well, especially since you’ve still been dealing with all of that sordid police business this morning.”

  Before I had a chance to react, Herb pushed the poor dog off his lap and hightailed it out of his wife’s office. He sprinted down the hall as fast as his chubby legs could carry him.

  I chased after him, hollering, “What the hell, Herb? What the actual hell?”

  He ducked into the men’s room.

  I was about to go barreling through the door after him, but Slammin’ Sammy came out, waving his hand in front of his nose. “Whew! I sure wish I hadn’t eaten those beans last night,” he said. When I tried to push around him in order to confront Herb, he grabbed my shoulders and stopped me. “Whoa, Marty. You can’t just go waltzing in there. Herb deserves his privacy. Not to mention, it already stinks to high heaven in there. Believe you me, that’s the last place you wanna be.”

  He had a point. I leaned against the wall outside the door to wait. Eventually Herb had to come out, and when he did, I planned to ambush him. Fire me without so much as a warning? What the heck was that all about? I mean, things hadn’t been all that great with the show, but I’d worked for him and Georgina for too many years to be treated so shabbily!

  Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. I grew angrier with every tick of the clock. Finally, I just said to heck with it and went on in. Herb sat slumped in an orange plastic lunchroom chair between the sinks and the urinals, squinting at his phone. He didn’t even glance up when I came in. “Hey, is Marty still out there?” he said.

  I blocked the door so he couldn’t escape. “No, Herb, I’m not.” I practically growled, I was so ticked off.

  He leapt up off of the chair and looked around wildly. “What the blankety-blank you doin’, Marty? You ain’t supposed to be in here. This is the effing men’s room.”

  I put my hands on my hips and tried to channel Wonder Woman. I’d heard standing like that gave an immediate confidence boost. “Then I guess I’m not the only one in the wrong place, Herb. Why didn’t you man up and talk to me instead of running and hiding? You owe me an explanation. You promised me after y’all bought back the station from that big conglomerate that my job was safe. Is this about Vivi Anne?”

  He sighed and stuck his phone in his jacket pocket. “Well, a little. I mean you gotta admit, Marty, you’re bringing us a lot of bad luck lately. First Big Ed, now Vivi Anne Conrad. But that ain’t all of it. It’s, well, the effing truth is, Marty, it actually just boils down to ratings. And money. Between what we’re paying you and Giselle, we are losing a crap ton of money ever’ month.”

  “That’s not true and you know it, Herb. Y’all pay me less than every other DJ. And, with Giselle out, you’d actually be saving money. Look, I know our ratings have been bad, but they were improving.” I tried really hard to keep from yelling. Or whining.

  Herb had the decency to look embarrassed. “All right. I’ll tell you the truth. Mama wanted to fire, uh, let you go when she first bought the station back, but I talked her into doing another effing survey, like that one Kyle Zagle did about six months ago. I figured it would say the same thing, about how you was the most popular jock we had, but it didn’t. And, well, I gotta be honest with you, even though it’s going to hurt your feelings. People don’t really like you no more, Marty.”

  Someone tried to come in the door, but I pushed back against it. Whoever it was tried again, then gave up.

  “What do you mean people don’t like me anymore? Of course they like me. I’m very likable.” So much for not sounding whiny. Obviously, the stupid pose thing didn’t work. Either
that or I’d done it wrong.

  Herb shocked me. He took my right hand in both of his and squeezed it gently. “I’m truly sorry, Marty. I was hoping you wouldn’t need to find out. See, turns out, people love Giselle. They think she’s a good Christian woman and all, but you, well, only about 26% of ‘em said they like you okay. Most of them said you had gotten too snotty and you’d been involved in too many scandals. They said you ain’t trustworthy no more, neither. And, you gotta effing admit, your shows have been pure-d awful ever since you been working alone this week. In fact, they’ve been worse than awful.”

  I forced back the tears that threatened to spill over. “That’s not fair, Herb. No way should you judge my job performance on how I did this week. Giselle bailed on me, Ricky’s missing, and Vivi Anne Conrad died while I was on the air. Considering the circumstances, my just being here and able to get through a four-hour show is a freaking miracle.”

  Herb kept talking, telling me he’d make some calls, write me a reference letter, and a load of other BS. The more he talked, the more I felt like sinking right on down into the scummy bathroom floor. In fact, if I had to describe my emotional state, sinking in a cesspool would be a good analogy.

  I barely even heard the rest of Herb’s blather. All I knew is that if I didn’t get out of that bathroom, out of that station right that very minute, I was going to have a complete and total breakdown. I backed out the door into the hallway and double-timed it down to the office to get my bag and my favorite coffee mug and the local radio personality of the year award I’d won two years before.

  Herb followed me, still yapping. I concentrated on breathing, walking, opening the door, things I could somewhat control, not trusting myself to say anything else.