Stay Tuned for Murder (11 page)

“Yeah? A secret? This is the first I’ve heard of it.” Nick automatically patted his pocket as if he hoped to find his notebook tucked away there. When he came up empty, he grabbed a paper napkin and a ballpoint pen Lori had left on the table. “Tell me everything you know.”

He wrinkled his brow in concentration, his voice low and intense. I had the feeling Nick figured this was the scoop that would catapult him into the major leagues. I hated to disappoint him, but I was as much in the dark as he was.

“Here’s the problem. I don’t know very much,” I admitted. “Mildred just said she’d been researching the topic for weeks and that she’d found out something important.”

“Something important?” He stopped writing and stared at me. “That’s pretty vague, Maggie. That could mean anything.”

I nodded. “I know, but I couldn’t get any specific details out of her. Believe me, I tried. I have the feeling she had access to something very sensitive, something that would cause shockwaves if it ever became public.”

“I don’t know. It’s not much to go on.” He heaved a sigh, doodling on the napkin, lost in thought. “There’s got to be some other avenue to explore. I’m drawing a blank.”

Lori reappeared with Nick’s dinner just then and flashed him a blinding smile as she put the plate in front of him. Too bad the toothy grin was completely wasted on him. She stood there for several seconds, one hand on her hip, chest jutting out, still hopeful. When she finally realized he preferred doodling on the napkin to drooling over her, she stomped away.

“Yes, it’s discouraging. She said just enough to tantalize the listeners, and then she clammed up. It was frustrating.”

“Maybe she’s a tease.” Nick eyed the heaping plate, practically salivating. He looked ravenous. “Um, do you mind if—”

“Go ahead and start,” I told him. He immediately plunged into his dinner, scarfing down a huge forkful of pasta. Nick always acts like he hasn’t eaten in a month.

“You said Mildred was a tease?” I thought of Mildred in her polyester pantsuit and orthopedic shoes and giggled. “I think that’s a bit of a stretch.” The idea of Mildred being a tease was about as likely as her becoming a Hooters girl.

Nick grinned. “You know I didn’t mean that kind of a tease. I meant maybe she’s just trying to drum up some interest in the time capsule. After all, when does a librarian get a chance to be the star? She probably knows more about Cypress Grove history than anyone else in town. This could be her big moment to shine. Or maybe we’re both reading too much into this.”

“We’ll see,” I said grudgingly. I sat back in my chair while Lori slapped my roasted veggie platter in front of me. It was loaded with eggplant, leeks, and three kinds of sweet peppers.

“Watch out for the tray, hon. It’s right out of the oven,” she said in a bored tone. “It’s really hot.”

I poked my dinner with my fork, spearing a piece of eggplant
.

It was barely lukewarm.

 

It was dusk when I arrived back at the town house and spotted Ted Rollins arranging the sprinklers on the front lawn of the Seabreeze Inn. A dozen or so guests were milling around on the wide-planked porch, enjoying the night air and the complimentary wine-and-cheese party that Ted hosts every evening.

The way Ted keeps up the place, you’d think
Architectural Digest
was planning to use the Seabreeze for a photo shoot. It’s a charming Victorian with a bright yellow exterior and glossy white gingerbread trim, and it looks more like a private house than a B and B. Colorful bougainvillea and night-blooming jasmine bushes in the garden make it smell like paradise. Baskets of lush ferns hang from the rafters, and porcelain pots of lipstick pink primrose are artfully arranged around the chairs. It’s on the historic register and always looks camera ready.

Ted hurried over when he saw me crossing the lawn, gathered me into a brotherly hug, and kissed me on the cheek. Ted would like to be more than a friend—what can I say? He’s the proverbial nice guy, the kind your mom and all your friends wish you would marry. Lola always says that if I don’t marry Ted, she will. I think she’s only half kidding. Tall and ruggedly handsome with sandy brown hair and a terrific smile, he’s quite a catch, by anyone’s standards.

Can I help it if I’m attracted to bad boys, the kind the nuns always warned me about? The kind of men who exude danger and excitement (think Rafe Martino) and can make my pulse jump with one sultry look?

Ted and Rafe are on opposite ends of the continuum. Ted is steadfast, loyal, and reliable. Rafe is none of those things. Rafe is the kind of guy who exudes heat, magic, and raw masculinity. He’s wild and unpredictable, and you feel like anything can happen when you’re around him.

Rafe is the guy who makes my heart go pitter-patter right before he breaks it. Ted is a warm and cuddly big-brother type who brings me homemade soup when I’m sick, bought a doggie birthday cake for Pugsley, and offered to power wash my deck.

Naturally, I picked Rafe over Ted. Go figure.

“Maggie, good to see you! Have a glass of white wine,” Ted urged. He took my arm and steered me toward the guests mingling on the front porch. “Terrible news about Althea,” he said, his voice laced with concern. “It must have been very hard on you, doing today’s show. I happened to catch it. You were wonderful, as always. It was a beautiful tribute to her.”

“Thanks, Ted,” I said, giving his hand a little squeeze. See what I mean? Ted listens to my radio show every single day and compliments me on my performance. The only other person who routinely listens to my show every day is Lola. And Lola doesn’t count, because after all, she’s my mother.

“Hey, Maggie, there’s someone I want you to meet,” Ted said, breaking into my thoughts. He waved at a tall guy in his late forties and motioned for him to join us.

“Trevor! Come on over here for a sec. I need to talk to you.” The man put down his drink, and Ted did the introductions. “Maggie Walsh, this is Trevor McNamara.”

“Nice to meet you, Maggie.” His accent was cultured, and his crisp white shirt and perfectly pressed pants were expensive. Ditto the buttery leather Italian loafers. I guessed from his cultured accent that he was from the northeast corridor. Maybe somewhere near Boston? He struck me as a fish out of water here in the little backwater town of Cypress Grove.

“Maggie’s a radio talk show host, Trevor. You’re new in town, but her show is really popular. She’s a celebrity.” Ted is always a little over-the-top when he talks about me. Lark tries to explain it by saying he’s madly in love with me, and I hope for his sake she’s wrong.

“I’m not a celebrity.” I smiled and extended my hand. “Ted just likes to pretend that I am. Are you here on vacation?”

As soon as the words popped out, I knew the answer would be no. Trevor didn’t look like the kind of guy who’d be doing a garden tour of south Florida, and I couldn’t imagine him whiling away his day fishing for grouper from the pier.

I pictured him in Miami, making deals at the Delano, or churning through Biscayne Bay in a cigarette boat stocked with a couple of supermodels.

“Actually, it’s a business trip.” He had piercing green eyes, and he held my hand just a second too long. “I’m a real estate broker and I’m thinking about investing in some properties in Cypress Grove.”

“Really? Commercial real estate?” I immediately pictured a string of tawdry strip malls and big box stores, urban monstrosities that would ruin the small-town feel of the place. But something about the idea didn’t ring true.

He shook his head. “Oh no, nothing like that. I’m interested in vacation properties.” He glanced out at the quiet street, the tall palms and lush foliage making a postcard-pretty view against the evening sky.

I must have looked doubtful, because he felt compelled to explain himself. “It’s a nice climate here,” he said, spreading his hands out in front of him. “And you don’t have the traffic congestion and hassles of some of the big resort cities. I’m thinking Cypress Grove could be a great place for family vacations.”

“Family vacations?” If I sounded incredulous, it’s because I was.

“Sure, this would be the perfect spot. No casinos or night-life, just a quiet town with warm weather, great restaurants, and some interesting sights.” He quirked an eyebrow ever so slightly, and I wondered whether he was flirting with me. “And of course, friendly people,” he added. “People I’d like to get to know better.”

I was silent for a moment. Nothing he’d said made sense. Why would anyone want to vacation in Cypress Grove? It was one thing to live here, grow up here, surrounded by friends and family, but there was no way Cypress Grove could compete for tourist dollars with places like Orlando and Miami. You could see the whole town in half an hour, and then you were back on I-95, heading north toward Palm Beach or south toward Fort Lauderdale.

Even a three-day weekend here would seem like overkill.

“The chamber of commerce will be thrilled to hear you like this place so much,” I told him.

I thought about Cyrus, my station manager at WYME, who would be absolutely salivating over Trevor and his plans to inject money into the town. “The folks at the chamber are always eager to meet developers.” I paused, still trying to make sense of what he’d told me. “You know, I’m really surprised the bigger cities haven’t courted you. We might have a sort of Mayberry charm, but the major resort areas have a lot of attractions that our little town can’t offer.”

“I told Trevor that I’d help him line up some vacation rentals,” Ted said, always the Boy Scout.

“Vacation rentals? Does Cypress Grove have any?” As far as I knew, Ted’s place was the only decent B and B, and outside of the big chain hotels next to the interstate, there wasn’t much to choose from.

“There’s the Regal Palm Hotel downtown,” Ted said uncertainly. “We send our overflow there when things get busy.”

“I’m not really interested in rentals. I’d rather line up some sale properties for my clients. I’m looking for multifamily houses,” Trevor said quickly.

“Multifamily houses?” I nearly laughed. “Well, good luck with that. I don’t think there are any. I managed to find a town house when I moved here a few months ago, but it was sheer luck. There wasn’t much to choose from.”

“I thought some of those big Victorians on Main Street might be available as sale properties,” Trevor said vaguely. “I might knock on a few doors and see what I come up with.”

Ted and I exchanged a look. The Victorian mansions in town are owned by longtime residents, people who never would consider turning their homes into a condo or a B and B in a million years. These are the kind of grand old homes that stayed in the family for years, passed down from one generation to the next. It would be unthinkable that an owner would sell one to an outsider. And sell to a developer? Never!

Trevor must have picked up on the negative vibes, because he said quickly, “Well, I’ve just started my search. It’s still early in the game. Nice to meet you, Maggie.” He checked his watch. “Catch you later, Ted. I’m running late for an appointment in town.” And with that, he took off down the wide expanse of lawn, heading for his car.

I looked at Ted for a moment. “That was odd. I don’t think he’s looking for rental properties at all.”

Ted smiled and tousled my hair in a big-brother way. “You know what your problem is, Maggie? You think too much.”

“Get me a white wine and maybe I’ll think a little less,” I teased him.

I zipped into the station early the next morning to help Vera Mae with the time capsule promos. I’d left Mr. Big dozing happily in my bedroom with a fresh litter box, a full dish of Meow Mix, and a water bowl. My beloved Pugsley had been banished to the den sofa last night. I’m sure he and Mr. Big will reach a detente eventually, but I figured it was a good idea to keep them separated for a week or two.

I found Vera Mae in her cluttered office chatting with Kevin, who’d been assigned the task of writing and producing a series of thirty-second spots on the event. She waved me to a box of fragrant apple cider doughnuts balanced on top of her printer. “Help yourself, Maggie. They’re fresh from Wilson’s Bakery.”

“Wilson’s Bakery. I always like it when they send their account exec over here.”

“Well, take what you want. Once Big Jim spots them, they’ll be history.”

I grabbed a doughnut, moved a pile of papers and files from the molded plastic visitor’s chair, and plopped myself down. Vera Mae and Kevin were deep in conversation about the best way to run a contest and what sorts of prizes would rope in the most listeners.

I let my mind wander back to Althea Somerset and the picture in the front hall of the historical society. Was it an important clue? Or a blind alley? Maybe there was a perfectly ordinary explanation for why it was hanging in a different place.

I figured I had two choices: I could tell Rafe my suspicions right now, or I could try to track down some information on the painting myself. (And then tell him my conclusions, like Hercule Poirot does. I could even adopt that slightly supercilious manner, which was bound to annoy Rafe and would be enormously satisfying.)

But I needed some leads and I wasn’t sure where to start looking. Would Mildred know why the painting had been moved? I remembered she’d made some disparaging remarks about it the night of the séance. I made a mental note to check with Mildred as soon as I got the chance.

As far as I knew, the police still didn’t have any leads on who the killer might be, and what the motive was.

Motive, means, opportunity—it was all still up for grabs.

“Maggie, what do you think about the contest?” Vera Mae asked, breaking into my thoughts. “We can do this a couple of different ways. Should we ask the viewers to
guess
what’s in the time capsule, or should we ask them what items
they’d
put in a time capsule?” Vera Mae was chewing on a pencil, decked out in one of her crime-of-fashion outfits: a bright blue sleeveless blouse over shocking pink capris.