Sleuthing Women

by Lois Winston

  “Sheesh girl, quit your babbling and get out the door!” She gave me a vigorous one-handed push. “You shrinks are all alike. You talk too much and you analyze everything to death.”

  I headed down the hallway, properly chastised, just in time to see the Cypress Grove FD burst into the reception area, dragging monster gray fire hoses behind them. Smoke alarms were shrieking in the background, an ear-piercing wail that never let up.

  The leader, a tall square-jawed guy who was a dead ringer for Kevin Costner, bellowed into a megaphone, “All personnel are ordered to evacuate the premises immediately. Repeat, immediately. Do not take any personal possessions. Stay close to the walls in a single file. Proceed in an orderly fashion out the front doors. Do not run, do not panic.”

  He glimpsed Vera Mae, trotting along with Tweetie in her cage and reached out a gloved hand to bar her way. “Sorry, ma’am, you’re not permitted to remove that cage from the building. Please put it down and proceed to the exit.”

  “Look Sonny,” Vera Mae said, drawing herself up to her full height of five feet two. “If that bird stays, then I stay.”

  “You need to vacate the building. That’s an order,” he barked. He moved ahead a few feet and started herding the secretarial staff along, when he glanced back and saw Vera Mae slip past the reception desk. Tweetie bird’s cage was still thumping against her leg and a frightened squawk peeped out from under my sweater.

  “Hey! I told you to drop it!” the firefighter protested.

  “Oh, put a sock in it, Billie Dean Rochester. I knew your momma when she was teaching over at Cypress Grove Elementary, so don’t even think of telling me what to do. Let’s go, Maggie.”

  I followed Vera Mae outside where the rest of the WYME staff had gathered in a tight little semi-circle. We stood uncertainly in the hot Florida sunshine for about fifteen minutes, until I spotted a couple of firefighters making their way out of the building.

  They’d taken off their helmets and were shrugging out of their heavy yellow coats. So there hadn’t been a bomb after all? Was it just a false alarm? But what about the smoke and the noise of the explosion?

  “That song’s enough to drive anyone crazy,” I heard one of the firefighters mutter.

  I looked at Vera Mae. “I put on Celine Dion.”

  Vera Mae flushed. “Celine Dion? Bad choice, Maggie. There’s a glitch, it repeats the first cut over and over.”

  “So my listeners are listening to My Heart Will Go On, endlessly?”

  “Afraid so,” Vera Mae said. “Wonder what this will do to the ratings?”

  A good point. I made an executive decision. I decided to risk going back into the building. I had to change that cassette!

  I skirted around the edge of the crowd, slipped by a drop-dead gorgeous guy mumbling into a walkie-talkie, and sneaked back into the station.

  I was making my way down the hall, and I couldn’t see any signs of fire or smoke damage. If it weren’t for the firefighters and the boys in blue patrolling the corridors you would think this was an ordinary day.

  Luckily everyone was too busy rolling out equipment to notice me. Or were they packing up their equipment, getting ready to leave? I couldn’t be sure.

  One thing was certain. I wanted to get back into the booth and finish out my show.

  And I would have, if it hadn’t been for a six-foot male hunk blocking my path. It was the guy with the walkie-talkie I’d spotted outside. How had he managed to get ahead of me?

  “Not so fast,” he said, pulling my hand away from the door to the recording booth. “This area is off-limits, and you’re supposed to be outside. All personnel are ordered to evacuate.”

  His grip was surprisingly strong and I winced a little as I yanked my hand away. Who was he? He wasn’t a cop and he wasn’t a firefighter.

  From the look on his face, I figured he wasn’t a fan.

  “I need to go inside to check on something.”

  “No.”

  I reached for the door again and this time he grabbed my hand in mid-air. He had very nice hands, with strong fingers and warm skin. I’m embarrassed to admit that even in times of crisis, I pick up on things like this. I noticed that he also had broad shoulders, thick dark hair and the sculpted features of a movie star.

  How did I notice all this in a split second?

  I admit it, I’m shallow.

  “What part of no don’t you understand?”

  Okay, he was hot-looking, but he had the personality of a storm trooper. I breathed a sigh of relief. Cancel immediate sexual attraction, storm troopers are not my type.

  Time for the famed Maggie Walsh feistiness to kick in.

  “Nobody manhandles me, bozo. Do you know who I am?”

  “I have absolutely no idea.” A little smile played around the corners of his mouth, softening his chiseled features and adding to his attractiveness. Damn! I hate it when guys like this are good-looking. It makes it so much harder to keep an argument going.

  “I’m Maggie Walsh.” I waited for a look of recognition, a pleased smile, maybe even a request for an autograph. Which, of course, I would graciously grant.

  Nothing. Nada.

  “Maggie Walsh, host of WYME’s On the Couch with Maggie Walsh show. I’m a ...a radio personality.” I stumbled a little over this last one, because according to the latest Nielsen reports, the Maggie Walsh show was running neck and neck with Bob Figgs and the Swine Report. We were practically tied for last place.

  Still, Bob Figgs called himself a radio personality, so why shouldn’t I?

  He raised one eyebrow. “Lady, I don’t care if you’re Rosie O’Donnell. You’re going back outside and that’s an order.” He frowned. “On the couch? That’s the name of your show?”

  “I’m a psychologist. A licensed psychologist,” I repeated. “On the couch is a reference to Freud. He used to have his patients lie on a couch while he analyzed them. He thought it helped them free-associate as he delved into their unconscious. There isn’t any sexual connotation to the term, if that’s what you were thinking.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that.” He looked me over, a look of cool appraisal in his smoky eyes. “In fact, that was the last thing on my mind.” He had sexy eyes and a lazy, heart-thudding smile.

  “It was?” Now I was getting annoyed. Not only did this guy have the personality of a Gestapo general, he didn’t even find me attractive. And clearly, my academic credentials didn’t impress him either.

  Who was he, anyway? He couldn’t be anyone official, he was wearing a pair of neatly pressed khakis, a white shirt and navy blazer, and boat shoes with no socks. Plus the annoying film star good looks and the throaty voice.

  I forced some iron into my voice and tried again. “And if you don’t get out my way this very instant, I’m going to...”

  I lost my train of thought just then, because hunky-guy stepped closer, so close I could see the golden flecks in his dark eyes, and the sexy curve of his mouth.

  “You’re going to do what?” he murmured, making it sound like the sexiest thing anyone had ever said to me. His voice was low and husky, and I felt a funny little tingling at the base of my spine.

  I paused for a second, ready to spring. “I’m going back in there, that’s what!”

  With a burst of adrenaline, I made a mad dash for the door once again, but something big and powerful stopped me. I slumped against the wall as if I had just run into a Subaru.

  Hot guy let out a big sigh. “Okay, lady, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.” He managed to slip one hand behind my back before I even realized what he was doing. “And I guess it has to be the hard way.” Another quick move and the other hand followed it.

  I felt something hard and metal fastening my hands behind my back.

  “Maggie Walsh, I am putting you under arrest.”

  Oh, no! My hands were pinned behind me and hot guy was perp-walking me down the hallway past the smoke-filled reception area, toward the double glass doors that opened onto the
parking lot.

  I gave myself a mental head-slap. This was not going as planned.

  “You’re a cop?” I gulped..

  A low sexy chuckle. “Detective Rafe Martino. At your service. Ma’am.”

  ~*~

  “Look, they’ve arrested Maggie Walsh!”

  Big Jim Wilcox couldn’t keep the delight out of his voice. “Why did you do it, Maggie? Do you have a statement for us? It will be a WYME exclusive. You’ll be famous!” He fumbled around for a mike, realized he didn’t have one, and pulled out a pen and notebook from his back pocket. “Let’s hear your side of it, Maggie. Was it a love affair gone bad, or did you finally snap?”

  I gave him a withering look and Vera Mae hurried over along with Cyrus Still, the station manager.

  “Good lord, Maggie. What in the world are you doing in those handcuffs?” she demanded.

  “Ask him!” It was impossible to gesture with my hands shackled behind my back, so I had to nod my head up and down like Mr. Ed.

  “It’s a case of false arrest, false imprisonment,” I squeaked. “This cop is taking me hostage. You’d better get me a good lawyer, Vera Mae.” I glared at Rafe who was standing next to me, a wide smile on his face. “Or maybe get him one.”

  “Now folks, let’s just simmer down here. Nobody needs a lawyer.” Cyrus gave me a speculative look and then turned his attention to Rafe. “Detective Martino, is there a problem here?”

  He called him Detective. So Cyrus knew this guy was a cop? Why am I always the last one to know these things?

  “No problem,” I muttered. “Just an innocent, private citizen getting strong-armed by one of Cypress Grove’s finest.”

  “I didn’t strong-arm you. You refused to obey me!” Rafe objected. “It’s a crime to disobey an order from an officer of the law.”

  “I didn’t know you were a cop,” I said hotly. I gave him the once-over. He looked like a J. Crew refugee in those neatly pressed trousers and crisp Egyptian cotton shirt. “Is that the new dress code for Cypress Grove’s finest? You look like a preppie on spring break.”

  “I’m a detective,” he said in an aggrieved tone. “We don’t wear uniforms.”

  “I try to do my job and you arrest me? What happened to protect and serve?” I demanded. Score one for Maggie.

  “Detective Martino, did you identify yourself as a police officer?”

  Score one for Cyrus.

  “I didn’t have a chance to flash my badge,” he said. “I was too busy restraining her from entering the recording booth. She was going to put herself in harm’s way.”

  “Now, Detective Martino, I’m sure Dr. Walsh didn’t mean to make things difficult for you,” Cyrus said in a softly wheedling way. “She’s a very devoted employee, she was probably worried about her listeners.”

  “Yes, I was!” I thought about my poor listeners and could only hope their psyches were still intact.

  I turned to my captor. “Have you ever listened to My Heart Will Go On for twenty minutes straight? Wouldn’t that count as cruel and unusual punishment? Like Chinese water torture? Or maybe bamboo shoots jammed under the fingernails?”

  Rafe looked puzzled and started fumbling with the handcuffs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but let’s call a truce. No charges, no arrest.”

  I yanked my hands in front of me and rubbed my wrists. I gave him my best Maggie Walsh glare, the one that I used on psychotics and convicted felons. No reaction, this guy was good. Okay, I could play it cool, too.

  “Have a nice day, Dr. Walsh.”

  I straightened my spine. Now was the time to deliver a snazzy zinger that he would never forget. A Maggie Walsh classic.

  “Detective Martino?”

  “Yes?” He turned back, his dark eyes questioning.

  “Um, you have a nice day, too.”

  Talk about lame! One look into those sultry eyes and my best one-liner flew out of my head.

  ~*~

  “So it wasn’t really a bomb?” Jim Wilcox asked in his booming announcer’s voice. I think he was secretly disappointed that I hadn’t planned on blowing up the station. What a ratings booster that would have been!

  I could just hear the teaser: “Local shrink goes berserk and blows up her own radio station. Get the full story tonight at six on WYME with Big Jim!” With a story like that, Jim might even be able to land a job at one of the Miami’s top stations doing the afternoon drive time. I bet it would go into his audition tape.

  “The Chief’s gonna make a statement in a minute,” one of the firemen answered him. “Don’t want to steal his thunder.” He grinned at Jim, who was a local celebrity. He leaned close to whisper something in Jim’s ear and then Jim burst out laughing.

  “You’re putting me on!” Jim said, clapping him on the shoulder. “What was she thinking!”

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “You’ll know soon enough,” Jim said, self-importantly. It was obvious the crisis, whatever it was, had been averted, but he wasn’t going to let me in on the secret.

  Just then, Fire Captain Chris Norton appeared on the grassy area in front of the station and removed his helmet. “We found the uh...source of the explosion,” he said. “Please step forward, Miss Yaslov.”

  Irina Yaslov, the station receptionist! She walked slowly out of the station, blinking in the bright Florida sunshine. “I made a big fault,” she said tearfully. “I was making the popcorn,” she said, wringing her hands. “How was I to know there would be big boom? I make it many times before and there is no boom. Just today.”

  Beautiful Irina is from Sweden and English is barely a second language for her.

  “You were making popcorn? In the microwave?” So that’s why I had flashed on a movie theater when I smelled something hot and buttery burning. And here I thought I was having an olfactory hallucination!

  Poor Irina looked mortified, her eyes darting back and forth between the station manager, Cyrus Still, and Jim Wilcox. “Yes,” she said softly. “I used metal plate. Maybe not such a good idea. Microwave is...how you say...history. Kaput.”

  “Well, sakes alive, girl. You should know better than to put a metal plate in a microwave. You scared us all half to death. You probably shortened Tweetie Bird’s life.” Vera Mae lifted a corner of my sweater to check on her bird, who was picking listlessly at a miniature corncob.

  “It’s okay, “Big Jim said gallantly. “Irina here is from Iceland,” he said helpfully to a female reporter I recognized from the Cypress Gazette. “They probably cook things differently over there. They eat a lot of whale meat, you know.”

  “I am from Sweden, not Iceland!” Irina protested. “And no, I do not eat the whale meat.” She shot an appealing look at Cyrus. “Really, I’m desolated this is happening and I’m hoping not to be losing my job.”

  Cyrus ignored her and shook hands with the firefighters. “Sorry we dragged you out here for nothing, guys.” Then he glared at Irina. “I’ll see you in my office, missy. Someone’s going to have to buy a new microwave and pay for those scorch marks on the wall.” He caught me staring at him. “What are you looking at? Don’t you have a show running? And why is that song playing over and over?” he said irritably.

  I glanced at my watch and scurried back into the building. Now that the fun was over, I had a show to do!

  THREE

  When Guru Sanjay Gingii showed up for his three o’clock guest slot, I was still frazzled from the morning’s events. The mystery caller never contacted us again and I didn’t have a clue about why he was so upset with the Guru. A faint cloud of buttery smoke hung in the air and Sanjay wrinkled his nose when he walked into the booth.

  Sanjay Gingii, a self-styled New Age “prophet” from South Beach, was in town for a conference at the Seabreeze Inn. My boss, Cyrus, is vice-president of the Cypress Grove Chamber of Commerce, and he insisted that I invite the Guru to be a guest on the show.

  Guru Sanjay was tall and portly, dressed all in white, with a Nehru type jac
ket pulled tight over his ballooning gut. He sported one of the worst comb-overs I’ve ever seen.

  “I am sensing a dark presence in the air.” He squinted his eyes and waved his hands in front of him like a blind person. Finally, he eased his bulky frame into the swivel chair next to me. After an uncomfortable silence, his eyes flew open and focused on me. “I am feeling a cloud of negativity, a miasma of despair.”

  His tone was low and mournful, a voice from another realm. Maybe even another planet. His two assistants, bouncer types who looked like extras from the Sopranos, nodded solemnly, their arms crossed against their massive chests. They refused to sit down and remained standing on either side of the door.

  “We had a little fire here today,” I said chattily. “It’s nothing, really, just some left-over smoke damage. By the way, I’m Maggie Walsh, host of On the Couch.”

  I stuck out my hand and but the Guru didn’t shake it. Instead, he peered at it, then began rubbing his fat thumb over my palm in a creepy way, as if he was rolling a Cuban cigar.

  “We go live in a couple of minutes.” I forced myself to sound bubbly. “We’ve done lots of promo spots about you, and I bet the calls will come rolling in. So...uh...welcome to the show.”

  I felt a shiver slither down my spine. Talk about a dark presence–this guy was giving off serial killer vibes with his loathsome touch. All my forensic training came front and center and I had a very bad feeling about the Guru.

  I suddenly knew, in a very visceral way, that he was a scam artist or a sociopath. How did I know this? Call it gut instinct, training, years of coming face to face with anti-socials on a daily spectrum.

  This guy was a fake, a grifter, a con man.

  I just knew it in my bones.

  “You are an old soul, Maggie,” he said, his face very close to mine. “I can sense that you have lived many lifetimes because your chakras still seek harmony. Perhaps with my help, they can finally be realigned.”