Stay Tuned for Murder (14 page)

“You told her she speaks like a savage?” I thinned my lips and gave Simon Brent the hairy eyeball. Let Mr. J.Crew try to talk his way out of this one.

“I’m afraid there’s been a slight misunderstanding.” Simon Brent crossed his arms over his chest and gave a deep chuckle, managing to flash an adorable dimple. Very Mario Lopez. “I didn’t say a
savage
, Irina. I said a
native
. You speak like a
native
. Remember, we talked about that in class the other day? Someone who is born in this country is called a native.” He paused, watching me. “A savage is something else entirely,” he concluded lamely.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were studying English, Irina?” I asked. “We could have helped you with your lessons.”

“But I wanted to make the big surprise to you,” she said, her plump lips turning downward. “At end of four weeks, you will think I am living here the whole of my life.”

“Amazing,” Vera Mae cut in. She’d been standing in the corridor, following the whole conversation. “How is that possible? You must be a heck of a teacher, sonny.”

“Er, actually, Irina’s a very good student,” Simon Brent said in a strangled voice. “I really can’t take credit for her, um, remarkable progress.”

Irina pursed her lips, her eyes dreamy. “I remember first day of class. You tell me that I speak English with perfection. But just one big problem. Americans do not seem to understand me when I speak English. That is true, right? You explain it all to me. You say it is all their fault if they cannot understand own language. Too bad for them, you say.”

Simon Brent glanced down at the tile floor as if he wished it would part like the Red Sea and swallow him whole. “Well, it’s a little more complicated than that, Irina.” He gave a nervous chuckle, and I saw a thin film of perspiration sprouting on his upper lip. “That’s not quite what I said. I think you might have taken it the wrong way.” He was clearly backpedaling as fast as he could, without much success.

“So now I am giving Mr. Simon Brent tour of station,” Irina continued. “And I saved the least for last, Maggie.” Her voice was brimming with pride. “Dr. Maggie Walsh and her
On the Couch
show.”

Saving the least for last? Gee, thanks a bunch
. Irina must have caught my expression, because she quickly corrected herself
.
“No, I am not saying that right. You are not the least. You are the best. We saved the best for last.”

“So did you like the show?” I asked, curious what his response would be.

“It was wonderful,” he said, looking deeply into my eyes. “You have so much energy and enthusiasm. I can see why your show is so successful.” I had the feeling he was thrilled to change the subject. “Actually, I have a favor to ask. I was hoping I could have a moment with your cohost. Do you think that would be possible?”

“My cohost? Oh, you mean my guest.” I squeezed out a good-natured laugh. “I think Chantel is in the break room grabbing a coffee right now. I’m sure she’d be happy to chat with you. Irina can take you back there right now, if you have a minute.”

“I’d like that,” he said, grabbing Irina by the arm. “Nice to meet you both,” he added, hurrying away.

“Well, if that don’t beat all,” Vera Mae said the moment they were out of earshot. “You know, that young feller is no more an English teacher than I’m a supermodel.”

“I know. The whole thing is bizarre. Something just doesn’t smell right.”

“I’ve had the feeling all day that something real bad was about to happen,” Vera Mae said ominously. Since Vera Mae has these feelings of foreboding at least half a dozen times a week, I tend to ignore them.

“What else could go wrong?” I asked her as we made our way down the corridor to her office.

Kevin was waiting for us inside Vera Mae’s cubicle. He looked pale under the fluorescent lights and had a stricken expression on his face. “Dr. Maggie, Ms. Vera Mae.” There was a note of urgency in his tone, and I felt the first twinges of foreboding go through me. A little shiver tickled my spine. “I’m afraid I’ve got some real bad news for you.” I noticed his lower lip was trembling, and he grabbed the desktop for support.

“Well, for heaven’s sake, what is it, Kevin? Spit it out.” Vera Mae said. She stopped dead in her tracks and tossed a bunch of files on her desk before she turned to face him.

“It’s Miss Mildred.” A couple of seconds of silence and then, “You know, Miss Mildred Smoot, the librarian.” His voice stuttered to a stop, and he swallowed hard. Vera Mae and I exchanged a baffled look and then stared at him.

“What about her, Kevin?” My heart jumped into my throat, and I tried to swallow it, before touching him lightly on the shoulder. “Did something happen to Mildred?”

Kevin took a deep breath and blew it out slowly before answering. “There’s no easy way to say this, Dr. Maggie. Miss Mildred is dead.” He widened his eyes, and his fist involuntarily flew to his mouth. “I can’t believe it, but it’s true. She was murdered late last night. They just found her body.”

For a second, I felt like my heart had stopped. Mildred dead? It seemed impossible. I could barely wrap my mind around it, and I sank like a stone into Vera Mae’s visitor chair. Two deaths in our tiny town; it seemed like a macabre joke. But from the ashy gray pallor on Kevin’s face, I knew it was all too real.

Vera Mae pushed Kevin into her own swivel Aeron chair. “Sit down, boy. You look as pale as a ghost.” She reached into the tiny fridge she keeps under her desk and grabbed a can of Dr. Brown’s cream soda. She popped the tab and handed it to Kevin. “Drink this. It’ll put some color back in your face.” She waited while he took a few sips. “And then tell us what you know, when you feel ready.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said slowly, taking a sip. “I just found out a few minutes ago. Detective Martino called for you, Dr. Maggie, but I told him you were on the air. He wanted to talk to you right away, and I think he only told me about Miss Mildred because he wanted me to know how important it was.”

“It’s very important,” I agreed. I felt tears springing into my eyes when I thought of Mildred on my show, how nervous she had been, and how she’d rallied, so eager to talk about Althea’s work with the historical society. I blinked a few times to make the tears disappear. This was no time to cry.

I had to figure out what had happened to her. Althea Somerset and Mildred Smoot. Both had been struck down with no warning. Were the two murders connected? How could they not be? One small town, two old ladies. There had to be some common thread, right?

“Rafe said you can call him on his cell,” Kevin said, breaking into my thoughts.

“Use my phone, hon.” Vera Mae’s eyes looked troubled. I knew she was having trouble dealing with this second death, as well.

I picked up the handset on Vera Mae’s desk and punched in Rafe’s number, but it went straight to voice mail. “It’s me,” I said tersely. “I just heard about Mildred. Catch you later.”

Vera Mae said, “Cyrus is going to want to run a news piece on this right away.” She flipped open her desk calendar. “Big Jim is covering a game over in Lakesville. Maggie, do you suppose you can get some information from the desk sergeant at the police department? Or even call up Nick?”

“I’ll try. I’ll call you the minute I know something.” I decided the best thing would be to go directly to the PD and hope to see Rafe or, at the very least, get some concrete information from one of the investigating officers. I hurried to my own office, grabbed my purse, and was sailing through the lobby when Irina called to me. She was back at the reception desk, and there was no sign of her hunky instructor.

“Maggie, you have message,” she said, waving a piece of paper at me.

“Can it wait?”

“Is sort of urgent,” she replied. She glanced down, probably trying to decipher her own handwriting. “About a man.”

“A man?”

“Mr. Big. A woman called, and she said she wants him back.” She gave me a sly smile. “Maggie, I think you have been very naughty girl—”

“It’s not what you think,” I said, grabbing the paper out of her hand.

I skimmed the note as I dashed through the parking lot behind WYME. The message was from Candace Somerset.
Candace Somerset? Why did that name sound familiar?
I gave myself a mental head slap. Of course. Althea’s sister. Mildred had told me that Althea had a sister who was flying in to handle the estate.

And now it seemed she was here in Cypress Grove.

And she wanted Mr. Big.

 

Rafe was strolling through the lobby when I flew in the double glass doors to the Cypress Grove PD.

“Maggie,” he said, grabbing me lightly on the upper arms. “I got your message. We need to talk.”

I nodded as he motioned me to follow him back to his office. The moment we were inside, I sat down, feeling like my knees were ready to buckle. “What happened to her?” I asked, feeling a bubble of anger rising in my chest. “Who would hurt someone so sweet, so helpless? And coming right on the heels of Althea’s murder,” I rushed. “The two murders are connected, right? They have to be.”

Rafe silently handed me a cup of the brown sludge that passed for coffee in the department. I wrapped my hands around the cup, feeling oddly comforted by the warmth. I felt chilled to the bone inside, and my thoughts were scrabbling through my head like manic squirrels.

“We don’t know much yet,” he said, sitting across from me. “The CSIs are combing the place for clues. All we have so far is the murder weapon.”

“The weapon?”

“An antique silver letter opener. And it was left at the crime scene, the Cypress Grove Library.”

A letter opener.
I winced. “Just like the poker was left at Althea’s,” I pointed out. “You see, they have to be connected!”

“It’s too early to tell. We’ve got a long way to go to make that assumption. None of the forensic evidence is back yet. This isn’t
CSI Miami
, you know.”

I nodded. Law enforcement guys always get a kick out of the “
CSI
effect.” Audiences are so used to crimes being solved in the space of a one-hour TV show, they tend to forget that real investigation and evidence gathering can take weeks and months.

“So you don’t have any credible leads? Even a wild hunch or two?”

“Nothing I’d want to talk about.”

Here’s something else I’ve noticed about Rafe. He can clam up like a sphinx when he wants to, and he makes it a rule never to jump to conclusions. We have totally different personalities. I rely on instinct and snap decisions; Rafe is calmer, takes a more measured approach. I like to trust my gut feelings, and he relies strictly on the hard evidence.

He doesn’t believe in hunches or educated guesses; he deals only in facts. I like to tell him that he was Joe Friday in another incarnation.
Just the facts, ma’am. Just the facts.

“But there is one thing the crimes have in common. It’s the séance,” I said flatly. “There’s no way to ignore that. That’s the link that ties everyone together.”

“Go on.” He took a big gulp of his coffee and didn’t even grimace. Besides having an analytical mind, he must have a cast-iron stomach.

“Don’t you see? Mildred and Althea were both at the séance that Chantel held at the historical society the other night. And now two people are dead. Chantel predicted something like this would happen.”

He gave me one of those “And your point is?” looks. I think you have to have Mediterranean heritage and dark eyes to really do it justice. Rafe has it down to an art form.

“Mildred. Althea. Chantel. Don’t you see? Three women. Somehow they’re all connected. Think about it, Rafe. A phony psychic blows into town, and all hell breaks loose. First Althea is murdered, and now Mildred is killed. Maybe this sounds irrational, but I have the feeling none of this would have happened if Chantel hadn’t come here.”

Did I sound bitter? Probably. Not an attractive quality, but there you have it.

“Chantel did say there was a curse on Cypress Grove,” Rafe said, lost in thought. “Nick reported it in that piece he wrote for the
Gazette
.”

“Oh, I don’t mean the part about the curse,” I said. “That was sheer hype. She just said that because she’s trying to pimp her new book.”
And take my job at WMYE,
I added silently.

“You’re not seriously suggesting that Chantel would kill two people to promote her book, are you?” From the look on his face, I figured he considered it a pretty far-fetched theory, even for me.

“I suppose not,” I said grudgingly. “But nothing else is really going on in town. Both these women have lived here for half a century—” I stopped suddenly. Half a century. I had just insisted that nothing else was going on in town, but that wasn’t quite true. There was plenty going on in town. The time capsule was going to be unearthed. Bingo. Somehow I’d have to factor that into the equation. “And there’s something else—”

Rafe must have read my mind. “The time capsule,” he said slowly. “I thought of that angle, too. Both Althea and Mildred probably know more than anyone else in town about the town’s history. They had access to information that was lost in the fires all those years ago. But where does that leave us?” He swirled the last of the coffee in his cup before pushing his chair back and standing up.

“That leaves us back at square one. Unless . . . you think some long-buried secret might emerge when they dig up the capsule.”

“It’s possible.” He shrugged and looked at me. “At the moment, that’s all we have to go on.”

Something nudged my mind, and I remembered the call from Candace Somerset, Althea’s sister. “She called me because she wants Mr. Big,” I explained. “She’s staying in Althea’s apartment at the historical society. I guess she’ll be in town long enough for the funeral and to take care of Althea’s things.”

“Why not drop the cat off with her,” Rafe suggested, “and stay for a while and try to chat with her. Try to get a feel for her relationship with Althea. She’s the only surviving heir, you know.”