Reel Murder

Table of Contents

 

 

By the time Hank and I reached her, Maisie had grabbed Adriana’s wrist and then placed two fingers on her throat. She kept her fingers there for a long time and then slowly looked up at us, her face pale in the harsh sunlight.

I noticed a dark red patch was spreading from Adriana’s chest to her collarbone—a concealed packet of fake blood, I decided. They call them squibs in the movie business. The actor presses her hand to her chest and the thin plastic packet explodes, leaking blood everywhere. The blood looked frighteningly real as it trickled down her neck and then spilled onto the grayish sand around the pond.

“Hank—” Maisie said, as he knelt down next to Adriana in the sand. I noticed her eyes were blurring with tears and her voice was trembling. “She’s not unconscious. I think . . . I think she’s dead.”

Other Talk Radio Mysteries by Mary Kennedy

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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, June 2010

Copyright © Mary Kennedy. 2010

All rights reserved

eISBN : 978-1-101-42747-7

 

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For Kristen Weber

Thank you to Sandy Harding for her wonderful editorial skills, her kindness and her sense of humor.

Kudos to the entire Penguin art department and marketing team for all their hard work and creativity.

I’m grateful to my friend and fellow author, Mark Bouton, for answering my endless questions on crime scene investigation, forensics and law enforcement.

Thank you to Bob and Jill TenEyck for being my cheer-leaders, for loving every single one of my books.

And I’m deeply grateful to Alan, my husband and computer guru, for his design skills and his technical expertise.

Something was horribly wrong.

I knew it before I opened my eyes, before I saw the faint pinkish-orange light seeping in between the “Faux-teak” blinds that shutter my bedroom windows. It was barely dawn, yet I could hear someone rattling around my condo, moving from the hall into the kitchen.

I instantly slammed into Def Con 1. I sat straight up in bed, pulse racing, nerve endings tingling, skin prickling at the back of my neck. An icy finger traced a lazy trail down my spine and I crept out of bed, yanking my arms into my favorite terry bathrobe.

I was gripped by a fear so intense, I could hardly breathe.

A home invasion?
Call 911!
I reached for my cell phone, then realized with a stab of despair that I’d left it in the kitchen. How annoying. Not only was I going to die, I was going to die because of my own stupidity, just like the heroine in a Kevin Williamson flick. Never an ideal way to go.

I could only hope there would be enough of my body left for the police to make a positive ID. Maybe the pale blue bathrobe, decorated with goofy yellow ducks, would give them a clue. My roommate, Lark Merriweather, always says that no one over twelve years old would be caught dead in it.

Or alive, for that matter.

I tiptoed to the bedroom door, my heart lodged in my throat. I felt the beginning of flop sweat sprouting under my arms as I cautiously turned the doorknob. At least Lark would be spared. She was away for the weekend, visiting friends in Key West. But where was my dog, Pugsley? He’d been sleeping at the foot of my bed when I’d drifted off to sleep watching Letterman. Had he been abducted? The victim of foul play? I couldn’t face life without Pugsley. Rising hysteria!

And then I heard a familiar voice.

A breathy, smoke-filled voice, early Kathleen Turner. My shoulders slumped with relief and I shuffled out of the bedroom, my pulse stuttering back to normal.

In the kitchen, I found both good news and bad news awaiting me.

The good news was that there was no sign of a crazed serial killer, no ax murderer.

The bad news was that my mother, Lola Walsh, was back in town.

In my condo, to be precise. She must have let herself in with her key sometime during the night and now she was padding around my living room, talking on her cell.

“That would be just fabulous, darling, fabulous! How can I ever thank you?” A pause and then, “Oh, you naughty boy. I’ll have to think of something, won’t I? But will your wife approve? You know what they say, ‘what the mind doesn’t know, the heart doesn’t feel.’ ” Her tone was lascivious, bordering on high camp, and I had to stifle a grin. She turned around and flashed me a broad wink.

Lola was on full throttle, charming someone with her Marilyn Monroe “happy birthday, mister president” voice. Lola’s an actress, although she’s having trouble finding parts these days, because she’s “of a certain age,” as she likes to say.

According to Lola, the Hollywood establishment has been hijacked by the Lindsay Lohans, the Hannah Montanas, and the Lauren Conrads, long-legged ingenues who edge out classically trained actresses like herself. Although God knows, she tries her best to stay in the game.

Sometimes she tries too hard.

Today, for example, she was wearing a spaghetti-strapped tank top with a pair of red and white Hawaiian-print skintight capris. Her considerable assets were spilling out of the tank top, making her look like a geriatric version of a Hooters Girl.

Age is “just a number” to Lola. A flexible number. I’m thirty-two, and ten years ago, Lola listed her age on her resume as thirty-eight. As far as I know, she’s still thirty-eight. Don’t try to do the math; it will make your teeth hurt. And her head shot is a sort of reverse Dorian Gray, since it makes her look younger than I do. She often introduces me as her sister, which would probably have me in analysis for years, if I didn’t happen to be a shrink by profession.

“You’re awake!” she said, flipping the phone shut and enveloping me in a hug. Her voice was warm and breezy as a summer’s day. “Maggie, you’ll never guess who that was,” she added playfully.

“Nicolas Sarkozy?”

“Oh, don’t be silly. He’s married to that supermodel, Carla Bruni. C’mon, try again.”

I gently untangled myself from her embrace and made tracks for the coffeepot. I always set everything up the night before, so all it takes is a quick push of the ON button. That’s all my sleep-fogged brain can handle first thing in the morning. A nice mug of steaming dulce de leche to start the day. I was still feeling shaky with adrenaline and took a couple of deep, calming breaths.

“Mom, you know I hate to guess.” She made a little moue of disappointment and I sighed. I knew I had to play the game, or I’d never be able to drink my coffee in peace. “Okay, Daniel Craig called. He wants you to fly to London and have drinks with him at Claridge’s tonight.”

“Nope.” She giggled and clapped her hands together. “Although that certainly sounds like fun. I love his movies and he’s a major hunk.”

I smelled the coffee brewing, my own extra-caffeinated version, and greeted Pugsley, who heard my voice and came racing in from the balcony. Pugsley is the furry love of my life, a three-year-old rescue dog who understands my most intimate thoughts and feelings. He’s the next best thing to a soul mate and gives me what every woman craves.

Unconditional love and a ton of sloppy kisses.

Plus he’s game for anything if it makes me happy. How many guys can you think of who would curl up on the sofa with me on a Saturday night to watch
Marley and Me
for the third time?