Vera Mae made a throat-slitting gesture in the control room and then closed her eyes and let her head flop to one side in her famous dead-producer pose. The woman would have been brilliant as a stand-up comic, but I wasn’t chuckling.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” my guest chided me. “Accuracy is key when you’re dealing with historical matters.” He gave me a stern look over his horn-rims as if daring me to disagree with him.
But this is entertainment! I felt like shouting. Maybe he thought this was the History Channel.
He locked eyes with me and tapped the folder with a self-important air. “These are the predictions, and I daresay your listeners will be astounded when they hear them. Shall I share them with your listeners?”
“Yes, please!” I urged him, glancing at the clock. I crossed my fingers. Maybe there’d be a couple of juicy tidbits in there. Miracles do happen, right?
“The famous astronaut John Glenn predicted that we would discover an antigravity system.” He read slowly, enunciating every word, and raised his eyebrows when he finished. Maybe he was waiting for a round of applause.
I blinked twice and stared at him. That’s it?
“Ah,” I said, trying to sound suitably impressed. “Antigravity, imagine that!”
I wasn’t sure what an antigravity system was, but it sounded like a big deal. I thought of those boots that were popular in the seventies that allowed you to hang upside down. Weren’t they called antigravity boots? Or was it gravity boots? I didn’t dare admit my ignorance because I knew he’d launch into a half-hour lecture if I asked for an explanation.
“Interesting,” I murmured. “Anything else?”
“Here’s another prediction that made it into the time capsule.” He put on his Ben Franklin glasses to peer at a jumbo index card. “William Pickering, the well-known astronomer, predicted that we’d be traveling to nearby stars—at the speed of light! It’s certainly possible, but Pickering predicted it positively. Imagine that!”
His eyes lit up, and he leaned forward into the mike. Oh, dear. All those p’s were wreaking havoc with the sound system. It sounded like someone had turned on a popcorn popper in the studio.
I saw Vera Mae waving her hands from the control room. I reached over and adjusted the mike so the professor was talking at an angle, and not directly into it.
“That’s it?” Laura, the caller, broke in. Her tone was annoyed, challenging. “That’s the most interesting thing that anyone’s ever put into a time capsule?” It was clear that Laura had no interest in scientific breakthroughs, amazing or not.
“Well, yes,” Professor Grossman said, clearly surprised that she didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm. “Here’s another one that might catch your fancy. Have you heard of Fred Whipple?”
“Can’t say that I have,” Vera Mae said from the studio. “Unless he’s Mr. Whipple from those ‘Don’t Squeeze the Charmin’ ads.” She glanced at me. “That was before your time, Maggie. We’re talking twenty-five years ago.”
Professor Grossman frowned at her. “Fred Whipple was an astronomer who predicted the control of fusion. That was certainly a major prediction.” Dead silence from Laura. She’d either hung up or fallen asleep.
I was about to break in when he continued, “And he also predicted that the use of ordinary hydrogen in 1995 would lead to a comparatively infinite supply at relatively low cost.”
Aha. Stunning news. I wasn’t sure why I needed an infinite supply of hydrogen. Did I dare ask? The silence stretched out for another beat, and I spotted Vera frowning as checked the screens.
“And now it’s time for a word from Slim’s Auto Repair!” Vera Mae sang out. A jingle filled the studio, and I leaned back in my chair. I motioned to Professor Grossman that he could take his headphones off. “We’ve got a five-minute break,” I told him. “They do the local news and weather, so if you want to get up and stretch your legs, or get a coffee, now’s the time to do it.”
“Thank you. I think I will,” he said, getting to his feet. “I think that went rather well, don’t you?”
“Brilliantly.” I put my head in my hands the minute he left the studio.
My mind was reeling. I had brain freeze from listening to Bernard Grossman, and we were barely twenty minutes into the show. There were only a couple of lights flashing on the phone; the call-in lines were nearly dead. My listeners had already tuned out—literally.
All because of my guest professor, who was probably listed in the Guinness book of world records—as the Most Boring Human Being in the Western Hemisphere.
“Girl, we’ve got to do something. And we’ve gotta do it quick!” Vera Mae yanked off her headphones and tore out of the control room into the studio.
“I know we have to do something, but what? I’m out of ideas.”
I felt hopeless, helpless, and powerless—a classic case of what the shrinks call “learned helplessness.” That’s what happens when you’re trapped in a completely impossible situation and you think you’re powerless. It’s the sinking feeling you get when you’re up against a brick wall—you’ve run out of options and there’s no way it’s going to end well.
“Well, we just have to take charge, here,” Vera Mae said. “Right off the top of my head, I can think of a couple of things that will help.” She glanced at the clock. “We have four minutes and counting till we go live again.”
“What sort of things?”
She held up her index finger for silence and then picked up the intercom and paged Kevin to the studio. Stat. I raised my eyebrows. Then she paged Chantel to the studio. Chantel? I hadn’t even realized Chantel was in the building.
“Chantel? I don’t get it. What are you up to, Vera Mae? And what’s My Favorite Psychic doing here today?”
“Chantel came in to do some promos for the time capsule ceremony,” Vera Mae said in a panicked staccato. “And it’s a good thing she did, because we can use her right this minute. She’s our ace in the hole.”
“You’re putting Chantel on my show?” Now I really did feel like putting my head down on the console and crying.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures, sweetie.” She pointed to the phone lines, and I followed her gaze. Not a single line was lit up. “Look at that. They’ve all switched to another station. Cyrus is going to have a conniption, that’s for sure.”
“I know things look bad, Vera Mae, but I’m really not comfortable with the idea of calling in Chantel.” I tried to put a little backbone in my voice, but it was hard. Deep down, I knew that Vera Mae was right.
“You’re not comfortable with that?” Vera Mae’s shrill tone reminded me of the time I dropped a fork into the garbage disposal while it was running. “Did I hear you correctly? You’re telling me you’re not comfortable?”
I probably should explain that Vera Mae goes ballistic when I slip into what she calls “shrink speak.” And the word “comfortable” nearly always sends her round the bend. (“How do you feel about that?” is another dangerous thing to say around her.) It was time for a quick backpedal, but Kevin was already racing into the studio, and I could hear the clipclop of Chantel’s Birkenstocks in the corridor.
She sounded like an eager Clydesdale heading back to the barn. My barn.
“We’re not talking about comfortable,” Vera Mae said, her hands on her hips. “We’re talking about life and death.”
“We are?” Life and death? I wondered where she was going with this.
Vera Mae nodded, her towering beehive slipping slightly. “We’re talking ratings, Maggie. Ratings! And ratings trump feeling comfortable any day, in my book. I don’t need a PhD in psychology to figure that one out, now, do I?” She paused, drawing in a deep breath. She leaned closed to me. “At this very moment, we’re running neck and neck with Bob Figgs and the Swine Report. Do you want Billie Bob to jump ahead of us?”
Bob Figgs and his pigs. He’d dropped the Billie from his on-air name because he wanted to sound more professional.
V
era Mae knew my Achilles’ heel, and I had to admit she had a good point.
“Maggie, it’s your decision. Shall I bring Chantel into the studio or not?” She gave me a long, meaningful look, like an actor in a soap opera. My breath caught in my throat, and I blinked as her eyes drilled into mine.
I was in the throes of an existential dilemma. What to do? Stand for my principles, or cave? I blew out a long breath. Caving can be a good thing, I told myself. (Rationalization is also a good thing. Freud said it’s a classic defense mechanism.)
“You win. Bring her in,” I said weakly. I leaned back in my chair, limp with defeat. If Chantel could save the day and boost the ratings, then I’d just have to deal with it. The thought of Bob Figgs and his Swine Report had taken the fight right out of me.
Chapter 16
Okay, true confession time. It’s galling to admit this, but Chantel knows her stuff. Even though she could win a lifetime achievement award for being annoying, the woman seems to be a walking Google, a font of information on arcane subjects.
Maybe she’d been reading up on time capsules because she knew we were doing a series of promos? Or maybe time capsules were one of her pet interests? An odd choice, but anything was possible. Or maybe she was just a quick study.
In any case, she “took the ball and ran with it,” as Big Jim Wilcox, our sports announcer, is fond of saying. Not only did she run with it, but she scored a virtual touchdown. She jumped into the fray, leaving poor Professor Grossman out of the game and sulking on the sidelines.
Bernard Grossman, by the way, wasn’t quite the mannerly gentleman I’d thought him to be. He wasn’t at all gracious in defeat. “Who took my briefcase, my books, my notes?” he bellowed, returning to the studio and pounding his fist on the console. “I left them right here!”
Vera Mae opened her mike with a tsk-tsk expression on her face. “Sit down, Professor. We can worry about that later. Trust me. They’re tucked away someplace safe. A man with all your education and fancy degrees shouldn’t need all that stuff anyway. You should have all that information stored up here.” Vera Mae tapped her head and flashed a fake smile at him.
“This is outrageous!” Professor Grossman opened his mouth and shut it abruptly, suddenly noticing Chantel, who was sliding into the chair right next to mine. “What are you doing? That’s my chair!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, take the other one!” Chantel hissed. It was true. We’d played a little musical chairs number on him. Professor Grossman’s chair was pushed farther down the line, like a second-rate guest on a late-night talk show. He had a set of headphones in front of him, but the mike was clearly angled toward Chantel. He stared at the microphone for a few seconds, and I could almost see the wheels churning in his mind, his mouth turned downward into a scowl.
I think he realized he was benched for the rest of the game.
“What have you covered so far?” Chantel asked. She was all business, the consummate professional. She was wearing another muumuu creation, a pale yellow cotton plastered with pink hibiscus blossoms. Her gaze briefly met mine, then flicked away again to the phone lines. “Looks like the lines are dead. It must not be a hot topic,” she added with a snide smile at Professor Grossman.
“We’ve just started taking calls on time capsules,” I said, trying to marshal my thoughts. “The callers seem interested in hearing about time capsules from the past, what happened when they were opened, what they contained, that sort of thing.” I would have liked to add that Professor Grossman had run that topic into the ground with his incredibly boring answers, but I figured Chantel could guess that from the dead phone lines.
“There are loads of fun stories about time capsules,” she said confidently. “The kind of thing your listeners will really eat up.”
“Fun stories?” Professor Grossman groused. “I thought this was going to be a scholarly exploration of the topic.”
You did? I longed to ask.
“Live in ten!” Vera Mae hollered. She put her headphones on and began twirling the dials, her brows knitting together in concentration.
“We could run a contest right now,” Chantel suggested. “We can give away copies of my book as prizes. That would bring some calls in right away.”
“A contest? Well, I don’t know . . .”
“A contest? Love it. It’s a great idea,” Vera Mae cut in. “Live in five!” she yelled before I could object. Then she pointed to me and we were live once again.
I opened the show, mentioned that we had a new guest, and then abdicated my power, like a Latin American dictator. The board lit up the moment my listeners realized that Chantel was on the air, and the calls started flooding in, just as she’d predicted.
“So the thing to remember,” Chantel was saying in her melodic voice a few minutes later, “is that the objects in a time capsule should reflect the spirit of the present. It’s actually a rather Zen idea. It’s all about being in the moment and being aware of what is unique about today.” She paused and looked at me, probably wondering why I was sitting there like a mute.
The fact is, I had nothing to say. She was handling everything well. Too well.
“Can anyone tell me what’s the largest item ever found in a time capsule? We’re offering a free copy of I Talk to Dead People to whoever can answer this question. C’mon, guys, you know you want to read my book. Why not get it for free? I’ll even autograph it,” she wheedled.
Like magic, the board lit up. Chantel couldn’t resist tossing me an “I told you so” look.
“Cindy from Hialeah thinks she knows the answer,” Vera Mae said from the control room. “Line four.”
“Is it a horse?” a raspy voice asked. “I thought I read somewhere that a person buried a horse in a time capsule.”
“Well, if they did, it’s news to me,” Chantel said smoothly. “Maybe you’re thinking of that woman in Wyoming who asked to be buried with her horse. The horse died three years after she did, and I think they had adjoining graves.” She paused. “But let’s get back to the time capsule. Here’s a hint: I’m thinking of four wheels and bucket seats. Does that help?”
A car? Vera Mae mouthed from the control room. Chantel nodded. Okay, it was a car. I had no idea, but apparently my listeners did, because all the lines lit up like fireworks. “Take line one. It’s Leslie from Fort Lauderdale,” Vera Mae said.
“I think I know the answer! I know it! I know it! Oh, my God, I think I’m going to faint!” Leslie was so excited she was practically hyperventilating as her voice raced over the line and spiraled into a high-pitched squeak.
“Slow down, Leslie,” Chantel said good-naturedly. “We’re not going anywhere. Now, take a deep breath and give it your best shot.”
“Okay,” she gulped, “I’ll try.” A long pause, a noisy breath, and then, “It was a car. It was a brand-new Chevy Vega! Some guy in Nebraska put it in a vault and then buried and sealed it. That was back in 1975, and he buried it in front of his furniture store. Don’t ask me why—who knows why people do what they do!” Leslie gave a nervous laugh, and I realized that she sounded like someone on the edge of hysteria. You’d think she was competing for a trip to Puerto Vallarta, not a copy of Chantel’s new book.
Chantel raised her carefully plucked eyebrows. “You are absolutely right, Leslie. I’m impressed. So tell me, how did you come up with that so fast?”
“My son’s writing a term paper on time capsules,” Leslie panted. “I was helping him with it last night, and it’s sitting right here on the kitchen table in front of me.”
“Nice work,” Chantel said.
“Did I win?”
“Yes, you certainly did. If you’ll just call back the main number and leave your address with the receptionist, I’ll make sure that an autographed copy gets to you.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you! I am so excited. I’ve never won anything in my whole life.”
“Well, now you have, my dear.” Chantel glanced at me, her lips twitching in amusement as she gave a t
iny eye roll.
For a moment, I almost felt myself liking her. After all, we were partners in this crazy business.
She leaned into the mike, and her tone turned brisk. “Now, let’s get back to some other questions, shall we?”
In the next half hour, Chantel asked the audience what Nicolas Cage movie featured time travel (Knowing), and the lucky listener won a copy of her book. The phones lines were jammed. I could see Vera Mae frantically pushing buttons, putting a few callers on hold, and generally trying to manage the chaos.
Chantel asked whether anyone knew about the location of the time capsule that was buried for the 1970 World’s Fair. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, someone called in with the right answer (Osaka).
How do people know this stuff? Either all my callers are geniuses or they’re quick with Google.
“What’s the best way to make sure someone will actually be able to find the time capsule?”
Hmm, I’d never thought of that angle. From the look on Professor Grossman’s face, he was drawing a blank as well. An excited caller from Miami had the right answer “That’s easy. Just write down the GPS coordinates.”
When the show was over, Professor Grossman beat a hasty departure out of the studio. Kevin had returned his books and notes to him at the last break and had been rewarded with a stony stare.
“Well, that’s a wrap,” Vera Mae said, taking off her headphones. “Nice work,” she said to us. I nodded, feeling more than a little embarrassed. It was obvious that Chantel had saved the day, and I still was baffled by the depth of her knowledge. Maybe she wasn’t as superficial as I’d thought.
Another thought occurred to me. It was odd that Chantel knew so much about time capsules and she had showed up in time just for our big time capsule unveiling. Coincidence? Or something sinister?
Cyrus bounded into the break room a few minutes later as I was pouring coffee for Chantel and Vera Mae. He was rubbing his hands together, his jowly face red with excitement. “Terrific job, everyone! Now, this is the kind of show we should be doing every day. Vera Mae, make a note of that.”
Stay Tuned for Murder Page 13