Stay Tuned for Murder

by Kennedy, Mary

“So you have your own talk show?” Candace asked. “That must be very exciting.” She was younger than Althea and smartly dressed in a tailored beige suit with an apricot shell and understated gold jewelry. She was tall and willowy, like Althea. Her blond hair was streaked with expensive highlights, and she was wearing designer peep-toe pumps.

  “Some days it is.” I gave her an Idiot’s Guide explanation of how I had given up my Manhattan psychoanalytic practice and moved to Florida to become a radio shrink for WYME. I’d told the story so many times, I had it down to a science. A few people think I was crazy to give up my practice (“all that education and training!”), but most folks are fascinated by my new job and think that I struck a good bargain.

  “I know there’s been a lot of media coverage about Althea’s passing,” she said in a low voice.

  “Not as much as you might think,” I replied. I wondered whether it would be greedy to reach for another buttery jam tart and took one anyway. “The police really haven’t said much about the details of the”—I paused, searching for a word—“investigation, so there hasn’t been too much to say.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. It seems awful to think of people gossiping about . . . you know, how she passed. As if her last few moments on earth were more newsworthy than all the years that went before.”

  Candace’s eyes clouded for a moment, and I suddenly realized that she wanted to be assured that Althea’s life and achievements would be honored. That the details of her death wouldn’t be sensationalized and overshadow everything else about her. Of course, there really isn’t any way to guarantee this in a murder case. The public seems to have an insatiable appetite for violent crimes. That’s true whether you’re in Cypress Grove or Manhattan.

  “Will you be in town long?” I wondered whether she minded staying in the large Victorian mansion where her sister was murdered. It seemed macabre to me, and I had to repress a little shudder.

  “Just a couple of weeks. There are the funeral arrangements to attend to, and I need to decide what to do about her things.”

  Hmm. No mention of the sizable estate she was going to inherit. “I wondered what you think of the place. A little town like Cypress Grove must seem like the boondocks to you. Althea mentioned to me that you lived in Boston.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You know I’m from Boston? Word travels fast, doesn’t it?” There was a sharp edge to her voice, and I could tell she wasn’t pleased that I knew any details about her personal life. I wondered why. Did she have something to hide?

  “It goes with living in a small town,” I said, spreading my hands in a “don’t shoot the messenger” gesture.

  “Yes, well, I suppose I do like it here.” She smoothed her skirt and forced a slight smile. “I haven’t really spent much time in Cypress Grove over the years, if that’s what you’re really asking.” She waited a beat. “Althea and I had a complicated relationship. We were certainly fond of each other, but you know how it is with some relatives. You do better if you only see them occasionally.” She gave an uncertain little laugh. “But you’re a psychologist, so of course, you already know all about these things.”

  I made a small, noncommittal sound. “I’ve seen that happen, yes. Family relationships can be complex.” I glanced at my watch. I couldn’t seem to get a handle on Candace Somerset, and I wondered where to steer the conversation next.

  “Terrible about Mildred Smoot,” she said, surprising me.

  “Did you know her?”

  “No, but Althea mentioned her to me several times. Even though I didn’t visit much, Althea and I stayed in touch through e-mail. She had considered Mildred a dear friend. And they had a lot in common. They both loved Cypress Grove and were dedicated to its history. There’s probably nothing that went on in this town that they didn’t know about.” She paused. “Who would think that they would both fall victim to a serial killer,” she said with a sad shake of her head. “It’s shocking.”

  “A serial killer?” I had to bite back a laugh. Was Candace serious? “Is that what you think happened to Althea and Mildred?”

  “Well, yes, of course I do,” she said without missing a beat. “What else could it be? There certainly wouldn’t be any motive for someone to just randomly kill two women in the same week. Especially in such a tiny town,” she added.

  She must have read my expression, because she said, “Isn’t that what you think happened? An attack by a serial killer? I heard that you used to be a forensic psychologist. So I’m sure you know much more about the criminal mind than I do.”

  Not if you have firsthand experience. Not if you had something to do with your sister’s death.

  I took another sip of tea, wondering how much to say, what cards to lay on the table. There was no point in showing my hand to Candace. In the space of a few minutes, she’d somehow managed to turn the tables and was grilling me for information. But why? Was it morbid curiosity or was something else going on?

  I had the feeling that Candace had a secret agenda and simply wanted the murder investigation to just go away. “No, I’m afraid I can’t agree with you on the serial killer theory,” I said finally. “Mildred and Althea simply don’t fit the victim profile of any serial killer cases I’ve studied.” I waited for a couple of seconds. “There were similarities, of course. The crimes were committed where the victims worked, and the weapon was left at the scene. And of course they were both elderly women.”

  “A random act of violence, then?”

  “In Cypress Grove?” I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  She gave an exasperated little sigh. “Well, what do you think happened to my sister? And to that poor librarian?”

  Her voice crawled over my skin, and I felt myself recoiling a little. I had the feeling she was holding something back and was playing with me, trying to ferret out information.

  “What do I think happened? I think someone wanted them dead.”

  It was nearly ten thirty when I zipped down the corridor of WYME the next morning. I noticed that Vera Mae had a visitor in her office. I was planning to scoot right past to my cubicle, but she spotted me and stepped out into the hall. “Cyrus told me to give this guy the VIP tour,” she said under a breath. “He’s probably going to buy a lot of ad time on the station. So Cyrus figures big bucks. In other words, play nice.” She winked at me.

  She pulled me into her office and introduced me to her guest. “Mark Sanderson, Maggie Walsh,” she said. There was no place to move in her cramped office. We smiled and shook hands awkwardly over the top of a file cabinet. There was absolutely no place to sit; every available surface was covered with piles of papers and unopened mail.

  I felt a sudden wave of claustrophobia wash over me, and my heartbeat ratcheted up a notch, like I was trapped in a phone booth.

  “Mark’s a real estate developer from Georgia, and he plans on spending a lot of time in our little town.” Vera Mae gave me a meaningful look. I got the message. “Mark, you’ve probably heard of Maggie Walsh. She’s our star. She’s the host of On the Couch.”

  “Not a star by any means,” I said.

  “I heard your show when I was driving into town yesterday. Very nice.” He was attractive, early forties, and looked buff, like he worked out every day.

  He was wearing a snowy white knit shirt with a Lake-view Golf Club logo. A golfer; I should have known. Probably good for business. Cyrus always says he makes half his business deals on the links.

  “I’ll get Kevin to rustle us up another chair,” Vera Mae said vaguely, reaching for her phone.

  “That’s okay. I really can’t stay, but it’s nice to meet you, Maggie.” He dug into his pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to me. “I know your schedule is probably jammed, but if you ever have time for coffee or lunch, I’d love to talk to you.”

  I glanced at the card. “Sanderson Properties,” I said slowly. “Why does that ring a bell?”

  “Mark was on the Today show last week. Remember that feature th
ey did with Barbara Corcoran? Mark’s got a big development project planned for Cypress Grove.” Vera Mae was frowning, glancing around the office as if she could magically make a chair appear.

  Of course. A visiting developer. No wonder Cyrus wanted us to treat him like a visiting celebrity. Ka-ching, ka-ching.

  Mark nodded. “We’re doing a condo project on the grounds of the old courthouse.”

  “The old courthouse?” I was puzzled. As far as I knew, there was only one courthouse, the one right on the town square.

  “Well, I mean the present courthouse,” Mark said hastily. “We’re going to raze it in the next couple of months and then start construction on the Royal Palm Towers. We’re planning on twelve stories, and we’ll have studios, as well as one-, two-, and three-bedroom units. And of course, a fully equipped state-of-the-art gym. We’re offering furnished and unfurnished units and low maintenance fees.”

  I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d whipped out the blueprints and shown them to me on the spot. Instead he reached down into his briefcase and handed me a full-color brochure.

  “Looks impressive,” I said idly. I was being polite. Judging by the artist’s rendition, the building was bland and uninteresting, a tower of tan brick with small windows.

  “The interior shots are from a place we did up in Jacksonville. The furnished units will be very similar. As you can see, the living room and kitchen area are quite large by industry standards.”

  “Ah, yes, I see.” I tried not to wince; the interiors looked like they were straight out of a Holiday Inn. I thought how lucky I was to have snared my hacienda-style town house in its beautiful garden setting. If I had to live in a place like the Royal Palm Towers, I might as well have stayed in New York.

  “Who are you hoping to attract?” I asked. “Cypress Grove is a small town.”

  Mark nodded. “But it’s perfect for a bedroom community. We can beat the big-city condo prices, and commuters can just zip home from work on I-95. They’ll save a bundle.” When I didn’t say anything, he pressed on. “The units are going fast, so if you know anyone who happens to be in the market—”

  “I’ll be sure to put them in touch with you.” I paused, frowning. Something was tickling the edges of my mind. Some memory about the courthouse. “There’s just one thing. Maybe I’m mistaken, but I thought—”

  “What’s that?” Mark shot me a keen glance, and I noticed his eyes were very blue, piercing into mine.

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I’m probably getting the facts mixed up. I thought the courthouse was on the historic register, or something like that. You know, designated as a building that has to be preserved. But apparently, I was mistaken.”

  “That was the old courthouse you’re thinking of,” Vera Mae cut in. “The one that burned down all those years ago. Mark’s talking about the current courthouse, the one standing on the town square right now. That was a gift from old man Paley. Ronald Paley. He gave the county the land for it. He owned practically all the land around here, acres and acres of it.”

  “Vera Mae, you amaze me.”

  She grinned. “I read up on all this because we’re having a history professor on the show today.”

  Mark checked his watch. An expensive Patek Philippe, I noticed. “Got to run, ladies, but I hope we meet up again. Cyrus invited me to play a few rounds of golf with him, so I’ll be in town for a while.”

  “Sounds good.” I kept my voice deliberately neutral.

  “Why the thoughtful look?” Vera Mae asked after Mark Sanderson had left. “He seems like a nice guy. A little pushy maybe, but that’s to be expected. He’s got to sell those concrete boxes”—she gave a disdainful little sniff—“and he’s got his work cut out for him. I wouldn’t have one of those things for free.”

  “Neither would I. I’m just thinking that it’s a little odd. He’s the second real estate person I’ve met this week. The other guy says he’s buying up vacation properties.”

  “Vacation properties? Here in Cypress Grove?” Vera Mae sniffed. “That doesn’t pass the smell test.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought.”

  Chapter 15

  Professor Grossman was waiting in the break room for me, loaded down with books, folders, and legal pads. I took one look at the mountain of papers sitting in front of him and my heart sank. Whenever a guest comes armed with a ton of notes, it doesn’t bode well.

  Why? It usually signals a lack of confidence. Meaning the person isn’t quick on his feet and won’t be the least bit spontaneous or entertaining on the air.

  A lack of spontaneity makes for a very dull guest. I introduced myself to the good professor, ushered him into the studio, and then made an excuse to zip outside for a moment. I ran down the hallway, looking for Kevin, and found him filing press packets in an empty office.

  “Kevin,” I whispered. “How did things go with Grossman? You were supposed to do a preinterview with him, remember? I wanted you to get some short, snappy stories. I think he’s dragged half a research library into the studio.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I sure do remember, Dr. Maggie.” Kevin scrambled to his feet, a stricken look on his face. “I tried to do exactly what you said, but I had a devil of a time getting him to loosen up, you know? He kept staring at the ceiling and talking really slow. And most of it wasn’t very interesting. It sounded like he was giving a lecture to some of his grad students. It nearly put me to sleep.”

  “That’s just what I was afraid of.” I bit back a sigh. “He gives new meaning to the term ‘dry,’ doesn’t he?” I shook my head. “I should have known he’d be a tough nut to crack. Did you manage to get anything interesting out of him?”

  “There’s not much to work with, I’m afraid.”

  “Meaning—”

  Vera Mae brushed by me, heading to the studio, and gave me a friendly nudge. “Live in five, girl!” she yelled over her shoulder. “Time to hustle!” I nodded and turned my attention back to Kevin.

  “Meaning he rambled on for about twenty minutes or so, telling each story,” Kevin continued. “And to be honest, Dr. Maggie, I didn’t really get the point of any of them. I think I may have dozed off for a few minutes.”

  “Twenty minutes? Kevin, this is live radio.” I snapped my fingers. “He’s got to be quick, compelling, on the mark. We’re talking sound bites here.”

  “I understand, Dr. Maggie. I did the best I could.”

  Kevin looked so crestfallen, I patted him on the shoulder and managed an encouraging smile. After all, we were talking about Professor Grossman. You don’t usually hear the words “Bernard Grossman” and “fascinating” in the same sentence, I thought drily.

  Maybe I was asking for the impossible. The whole concept of live radio was probably completely foreign to an academic like Professor Grossman. “It’s okay, Kevin. I’m sure you did the best you could. Maybe he’ll surprise us and be a terrific guest, you know? Maybe he’ll be bright, witty, and loads of fun.”

  Or maybe not.

  The first twenty minutes of the show plodded by as Professor Grossman fiddled with his notes and textbooks, giving way too much information. The topic was fairly interesting, but he didn’t have any idea how to cull the material, giving the audience the most compelling tidbits.

  “Laura from Dania is on line two,” Vera Mae cut in. “She wants to know about the most interesting thing people have tucked away in time capsules.”

  “The most interesting?” Professor Grossman repeated. I knew the body-language clues by now. First a sage nod of the head and then straight into Lecture Land. Think of the most boring textbook you’ve ever read, turn it into an audio-book, make it human, and you’ve got my guest.

  “Well, I’d have to say I think the most interesting things are the predictions people make about the future. In 1963, a time capsule was buried in San Diego. It was to be opened exactly one hundred years later, in the year 2063.”

  “Really? That’s fascinating.” I sounded as bubbly as a game-show contest
ant. “And what was the most surprising thing about this particular time capsule?” I nudged him.

  “That’s a tough choice.” He allowed himself a scholarly chuckle. “They asked the leading scientists, astronauts, politicians, and military commanders to make some predictions about the future. All their comments were stored in the time capsule for future generations to ponder.”

  “Amazing,” I murmured. “That would certainly be something to . . . um, ponder.” I wondered how much pondering my listeners were doing, or if everyone had changed stations by now. Or fallen asleep.

  Vera Mae caught my eye from the control room and held up one of her famous hand-lettered signs, “MIAB,” which means “Move it along, buster.” (She has another sign for women, “MIAS,” which means “Move it along, sister.”)

  I think of Vera Mae as my own version of a Greek chorus. She has a variety of these signs and holds them up at key points through the show. She twirled her index finger in a “let’s hurry it up” gesture and pointed to the clock. I knew we weren’t far from a commercial break, and we always try to end on a cliff-hanger before we slide into a commercial. It keeps the listeners tuned in and pumps up their interest. At least that was the theory.

  But Professor Grossman, it seemed, was not to be hurried.

  “That certainly sounds interesting,” I said brightly. I’d bet that Laura, my caller, was hoping for something juicier than this. “What sort of predictions did they make?”

  “A few startling ones,” Professor Grossman said, stroking his white goatee. “I believe I have a copy of the booklet somewhere in my notes.” He fumbled around with his folders, scrabbling through sheaves of yellowed papers covered in tiny handwriting. “Naturally, they kept a copy of the booklet they put into the time capsule.”

  “Naturally.” I wondered whether there was any way to light a fire under him. Uh-oh. He was pulling out a wad of papers the size of the Manhattan telephone book. “You can just give us the gist of it,” I pleaded. I could hear a note of desperation creeping into my voice. This guy needed media training. Badly.