Stay Tuned for Murder (16 page)

“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.”

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 contestant. “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.

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
?”