by Mary Kennedy
“Someone certainly did,” I said, remembering the corkscrew sticking out of his chest. I took a sip of coffee, hoping to shake off my dark mood. “What does your schedule look like for today?” I asked.
“Very light,” Mom answered. “If I feel really energetic, Edgar has me up for an audition for a potato chip commercial at three in South Beach. I’d be driving back in all that rush hour traffic, so I may pass on it.”
“Potato chips?” Pugsley recognized the word for his favorite snack and waddled in from the living room with a little yip of pleasure.
Mom made a face. “Tiny Thin Crisps,” she said in a weary tone. “I don’t think I’ll bother going, though. It’s a cattle call, and I shouldn’t have to do those at this stage of my career, should I?”
“Probably not.” Mom has always fancied herself a classical actress, along the lines of Meryl Streep. “Will Edgar be annoyed if you don’t go?”
Mom blew out a little breath of air. “He’ll remind me that a young Brad Pitt dressed up as a chicken and danced around a parking lot to advertise a supermarket. That was before he became famous in Thelma and Louise, of course. Edgar always says it’s part of paying your dues. But as far as I’m concerned, I paid my dues decades ago.” She tossed Pugsley a tiny piece of croissant and his little body quivered with excitement.
My cell chirped and I checked the read-out. Vera Mae’s private line. Greg Towner’s death would be the lead-story at WYME Radio and I quickly texted her that I was on my way. “Mom, I need to head out,” I began apologetically. “Can you walk Pugsley while I jump in the shower?”
“Of course, that’s what grandmothers are for,” she said. “C’mere, you little love bug. Let’s get your leash.”
CHAPTER FIVE
As my producer, Vera Mae would say, things were hoppin’, at the station as I whizzed by Irina at the reception desk. Greg Towner’s death was getting a lot of air time and as I walked into Vera Mae’s office, I heard Big Jim Wilcox announcing a one-hour special airing tonight, Murder at the Mansion. It had a vaguely Agatha Christie sound to it, although I doubted that Big Jim, our annoying announcer had ever heard of Dame Agatha. It was probably Vera Mae who came up with the title.
“Anything from the police?” I asked, grabbing a cup of coffee from the pot Vera Mae always keeps brewing on the windowsill.
“Nothing yet,” she answered, preoccupied with a stash of press kits. As a small south Florida station, we’re deluged with promo material from local authors, entrepreneurs, hoteliers, restaurateurs and garden club devotees. In other words, anyone who wants a bit of free publicity for their business or charity. We usually oblige with an announcement, and if the subject is interesting enough, I may invite them to be a guest on my call-in show, On the Couch with Dr. Maggie.
And of course, the station manager always manages to get some of his golfing buddies booked on my show. Nepotism is big in broadcasting. Some guests are interesting and most are a snooze but that’s the breaks of small-town radio. I have to remind myself that I moved here to escape Manhattan, with its brutal winters, insane real estate prices and mind-numbing traffic. Plus, if the truth be known, I was getting weary of hearing people’s problems all day long and was happy to close up my practice.
Listening to problems on the radio is different from running a real-life psychology practice. I don’t have a professional relationship with the callers, I’m not responsible for their care and it’s all about ratings and entertainment. Once the segment has ended, I rarely hear from any of the callers again.
“Found it!” Vera Mae said, extricating a packet from a towering pile on the edge of her desk. “Mayfair House,” she said, holding up a pale blue folder. “I knew it was in here somewhere.” She handed me the press kit and leaned over to answer her three phone lines that were buzzing all at once. “See if there’s anything you can use for your show today, hon.”
“We’re doing Mayfair House today?” I asked when she’d dealt with the phone calls, transferring all of them to the newsroom with a gleam in her eye. The callers had probably already contacted the news staff, been told “no comment” and decided to try their luck with Vera Mae, who always seems to have the inside track. And who also loves a good bit of gossip.
“Strict orders from Cyrus,” she said. Cyrus Still, the station manager, has to okay all the guests. “We’ve already bumped the garden club lady you had scheduled for this afternoon and put in Molly Sanders instead. I wanted to get the president of the Preservation Committee but she’s on vacation.”
Molly, the organizer of the event at Mayfair House, had seemed distraught last night and I wondered if she would be up to being interviewed on live radio. She must have decided it was a command performance and agreed to it. I wouldn’t have pressured her to go on the show right after the murder, but it wasn’t my call.
“What’s the angle? The police haven’t released any information, so we can’t get into the murder investigation.”
“Just keep it general. Talk about the history of the mansion, how the whole community came together with the idea of turning it into an arts center. Ask them if they’re going to attend any events, sign up for any classes. I called an elementary school teacher and she said she’ll get some of her fellow teachers to call in. I tried to get Mr. Morgan’s two daughters to come on the show and talk about their father’s legacy but they never called me back.” She glanced at the clock. “I suppose I could try one more time. Maybe we can still fit them in today.”
“Vera Mae, no one’s going to want to talk about Mr. Morgan’s legacy or the history of Mayfair House. They’ll all want to hear juicy details about the murder and about Greg’s affair with Shari Phillips.”
Vera Mae sighed and pushed back a stray lock of carrot colored hair that had escaped her beehive. “Well, sometimes we don’t get what we want in life, sugar.”
Hah. So true. Sometimes I think Vera Mae was a philosopher in another life.
“The phone lines will be dead and I’ll be sitting there twiddling my thumbs for the whole show,” I said glumly. Three more hours of air time and I was already dreading it.
“Well, don’t just whine, do something productive. Take a gander at that press kit, maybe it will inspire you.”
I settled in on her battered—but comfortable—black leather couch and flipped through the pages. Some history of the mansion, pretty superficial, and a few photos of bored socialites from years ago at a Mayfair Garden Party. There was even a Black and White Ball—very Truman Capote—held in the seventies. The women were elegant and thin with their strings of pearls and Audrey Hepburn hair-dos, the men looked paunchy with florid complexions.
I skimmed over a map of the interior of the mansion; it was included as part of a tour package. A visit to the mansion, both public rooms and private rooms, along with a tea and cookie reception at twenty-five dollars a head.
I was about to shove the map back into the packet when I realized something was missing. Where was the cellar speakeasy? It wasn’t pictured on the map. Neither was the hidden storeroom behind it. I fought back a little shudder as I thought of Greg Towner’s body lying there. I was still traumatized by the events of the previous evening. I knew I had to pull my mind back from those disturbing images or I wouldn’t be able to get through my show today.
I heaved a sigh and closed the press packet. The moment Vera Mae got off the phone I asked her about the “missing” speakeasy on the map. “Could it be significant?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” she said. “It could be that the speakeasy was being renovated when the map was drawn, or it might be that they really didn’t want people exploring it. They wanted tourists to check out the public rooms but certain areas were off limits. That would be my take.”
I nodded. She was probably right. I looked at the clock and realized I had plenty of time before my show. Feeling suddenly restless, I decided to hit downtown Cypress Grove for an hour. What was the name of that wine shop that Ted told me about? Bacchus. That was going to
be my first stop.
* * *
The interior of Bacchus was cool and refreshing after my brisk walk from WYME. The Florida heat was out in full force and I’d felt like I was pushing against a solid wall of hot air as I hurried along King Street. Usually there’s a light breeze floating off the river, but today everything was deathly still and tourists were fanning themselves as they sat at umbrella tables at sidewalk cafés.
“Are you looking for something in particular? These are a nice group of French Cabernets.”
A jovial looking man materialized at my side and gestured to a display of wine bottles.
I’m no wine connoisseur but I gave an appreciative smile. “You have a wonderful selection,” I told him. “Are you the owner?”
“Gavin Benson,” he said, extending his hand. He was sandy-haired, mid-sixties with a ginger beard. He looked like a former athlete who’d gone soft around the middle. He held my hand just a moment too long and then raised an index finger to his lips. “You look familiar,” he said slowly. “Have you been in the shop before?”
“No, never.” I looked around at the dark wood floors, elaborate moldings and wainscoting. “It’s a lovely place you have here. I bet there’s a lot of history attached to the place.” I recognized the fine workmanship from another century, common in many restored homes in south Florida.
He was beaming. “Regentrification. I picked up this building for a song and then put a lot of money into restoring it. Are you looking for something in particular?” Like any good salesman, he steered me toward some of his most pricey items. “We just got a delivery of reds this morning.” He nodded toward a display. “Here’s a nice Joshua Phelps Insignia, and a Tenuta San Guido Sassicaia.…”
I glanced at the price tag and tried not to gulp. Both wines were running close to two hundred dollars a bottle. Definitely out of my price range. And I probably wouldn’t appreciate them anyway. I wouldn’t know a Tenuta San Guido from a twelve-dollar Pinot Grigio. “I guess I’m just browsing,” I told him. “My neighbor buys wine from you. Ted Rollins.”
“Oh yes, the Seabreeze Inn. We’ve just started selling to Ted. Great guy.” He stared at me, sizing me up. I wondered if my Caribbean Joe capris and blue parrot print shirt passed muster. One of the advantages of working in radio is that I don’t have to dress up for the audience. “Are you in the hospitality business, like Ted?”
“Oh no, I’m a radio host. I have a local show, On the Couch with Dr. Maggie.” I whipped out my WYME business card and gave it to him.
“So you’re Dr. Maggie!” A broad smile creased his face. “It’s an honor to meet you. I listen to your show almost every day.” When I first heard this, I swelled with pride, but after a few weeks in town, I realized it was just part of southern manners for people to tell me they knew me and loved my show. “Do you ever feature wine on your show?” he asked shrewdly. “I’d love to be a guest, if you think your listeners might be interested.”
“Do you have a card? I’ll give it to my producer,” I told him, neatly side-stepping the question. “We’ll probably do a wine-and-food show in a couple of months and she’ll call you if she can fit you in.”
“That would be wonderful,” he said excitedly. “Do you have a date for that?” He whiped out his iPhone. He was really pulling out all the stops.
“Not yet.” A customer arrived just then and I pretended to be studying the pricey selection he’d guided me to. “Go ahead,” I urged him, “I’ll just browse for a while.”
“If you’re sure. It was a pleasure to meet you, Maggie,” he said flashing another big smile before hurrying off.
I wandered up and down the aisles for a few minutes, not sure what I was looking for, but eager to soak up the atmosphere. I studied a group of framed black-and-white photographs on a back wall of the shop. It looked like there had been another Bacchus, down in Key West. A smaller shop on Duval Street. I took a closer look. Unless I was mistaken, it was a photo of a younger Gavin Benson sharing a glass of wine and a cigar with a fellow in military fatigues. And it looked like they were in Havana, not Key West. Interesting. I glanced at the front of the store to make sure Gavin was still busy with the customer and then snapped a photo with my phone.
A glance at my watch told me it was time to hustle back to the station. I wasn’t eager to do the show on Mayfair House and if I guessed correctly, poor Molly Sanders would be even less inclined. I stopped to pick up a bag of fresh croissants for the WYME crew at a lovely bakery on Canal Street and then trotted back to the station.
* * *
Vera Mae was waiting for me. “Molly’s here and she seems upset,” she said. “I’ve got her sitting in the break room with a cup of coffee.”
“Will she be okay?”
“She’s a little shaky, but I think she’ll be all right. Molly’s determined to do her duty.” She sighed. “She brought a ton of publicity for us. Take a few minutes and flip through it, if you want.”
I headed down the hall to my office, glanced into the break room and spotted Molly staring out the window, her hands clenched at her side, her body coiled for flight. I could practically feel waves of tension rolling off her. The middle-aged woman was clearly stressed and I needed to spend a little time with her before we went live.
“Hey, Molly,” I said, forcing some cheer into my voice “Thanks so much for doing this. I know this must be a chore for you. I think we’re all still feeling the effects of last night. Let’s sit down and chat a little.”
I guided her to a Formica table, pulled up a chair next to her and hoped we’d have the room to ourselves for a few minutes. The last thing I needed was one of the announcers popping in with some intrusive questions.
“It’s been rough,” she admitted. “None of us slept much last night. It’s worse for Shari Phillips, of course. And those poor little children of Greg’s. My heart just breaks when I think of them. To be so young and lose a parent, it’s just devastating.”
“I would have stalled this off if I could have,” I said quietly, wishing Cyrus hadn’t insisted on going full steam ahead with the Mayfair House show.
“I know you would have, Maggie, and I appreciate it.” She sniffled a little and then gave a wan smile. “But I think something good can come out of this. We can let the public know what a great architect Greg was and we can share his vision for Mayfair House. Sometimes it takes a tragedy for people to appreciate what’s right in front of them.” Her face brightened and her voice grew stronger.
I sat back, feeling a little reassured that she’d be able to make it through the show. I glanced at the clock above the sink. Five minutes ’til air time. “I’ll start off with some simple questions, Molly, okay? I’ll ask you how Mr. Morgan chose Greg to do the design for the house, why he decided to turn it into an art center, that sort of thing. I’ll give you plenty of time to get out whatever information you want about the mansion, so don’t feel rushed.”
“I’ll do my best. I just hope I can remember all the important dates and names that go with the house and the history.” She fingered the folder in front of her like it was a lifeline and I hoped she wasn’t planning on reading from it. I’ve had nervous guests do that and it’s awful; a real buzz kill. Better nip that instinct in the bud if that’s what she had in mind.
“It’s better to be spontaneous, Molly,” I said, trying to look helpful. I gently took the folder out of her hands and tucked it under my arm. Sometimes people hold onto notes like a crutch and it never works on the air. I gave her my perkiest smile. “Just remember, you probably know way more about the mansion than anyone else, and people would love to hear personal stories about your experiences there.”
“Like what?” she asked, puzzled.
“Well, anything that comes to mind. A little inside view about the place and the people who’ve lived there.”
Three minutes till air. Time to hustle Molly into the studio and get her seated at the console. I was starting to feel less encouraged about her ability to dredge
up some interesting information.
It looked like Molly would be calm and composed but deadly dull.
I walked her across the hall to the studio and Vera Mae helped her into her seat. Molly was all set to grab the folder, but Vera Mae took it back to the control room with her. Good thinking.
“I have no idea what to talk about,” Molly said with a heavy sigh. “You’ll have to give me some hints.”
I felt like sighing myself. “Well,” I said, improvising quickly. “Was there ever a ghost associated with Mayfair House? Any sightings or strange rumblings in the night? People love stories like that.”
“Oh, we’ve never had a ghostly sighting,” she shot back. “I’m pretty sure the staff would have reported it and Mr. Morgan never would have tolerated it,” she said, her voice flat. “He was quite conservative, you know.”
So much for that idea! Two minutes to air. “Here’s another possibility. Maybe you could tell us about the most interesting guest you’ve ever had at Mayfair House. A visiting celebrity, a famous politician, perhaps?” I was feeling a tad desperate as I slid into my chair. “Maybe a duel? A juicy scandal? An historic event?” As soon as the words went out, I felt my face flush. Greg Towner’s murder was probably the most exciting thing to happen at Mayfair House in its two-hundred-year history.
Molly just sat there, staring at me blankly, her hands in her lap.
This was going to be a very long show.
CHAPTER SIX
The first twenty minutes went pretty well and as we headed to break, Molly asked for a glass of water. “Are you okay?” I asked nervously. I had a guest faint right on the air once and I didn’t want a repeat of that unhappy experience.
“Oh, I’m fine,” she assured me, popping a small white pill. “Just a touch of hay fever, my allergies are acting up.” She gave a little laugh. “I don’t want to sneeze on the air.”