Stay Tuned for Murder (17 page)

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.

Vera 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.

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 tiny 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.”

“Oh, no need to write it down. I’ll just keep it up here in my steel-trap mind,” Vera Mae said drily. She tapped her temple with her index finger.

Cyrus sat down and reached for a doughnut with a sheepish grin. “I was going to start Atkins today, but I think this calls for a celebration.” He wolfed down a jelly doughnut in three bites before reaching for a glazed bear claw. “So how many calls did we get today? Was anybody keeping track?”

I shook my head, and Vera Mae stepped in. “More calls than I could keep up with, Cyrus. The lines were pretty much jammed after the first commercial break, and they stayed that way for the rest of the show.”

She flashed me an apologetic look, and I shrugged. Ratings are ratings; this was no time for hurt feelings. My name is on the show, so spectacular ratings make me look good, right? (Freud would say this was rationalizing, but I wasn’t in the mood for psychoanalytic ramblings at the moment.)

“I knew it!” He reached over and gave Vera Mae a triumphant fist bump. “Wait till we get the ratings at the end of the month. We’re going to top every station around—I can’t wait.” He was looking longingly at a lemon-filled doughnut when Vera Mae and I stood up, ready to make our way back to our offices.

When he realized we were leaving, Cyrus suddenly scooted his chair close to Chantel, oozing charm. “Can you stay and talk for a minute? There’s something I want to run by you.” He let his hand rest lightly on her wrist, and she smiled at him.

I took a good look at his face and nearly giggled. I don’t think he had the slightest idea that he had a big smudge of confectioners’ sugar right smack on the middle of his nose. He leaned close, locking eyes with her like he thought he was Johnny Depp.

Vera Mae nudged me at the doorway. I lingered for a second, just long enough to hear Chantel purr, “Of course I can stay and talk with you, Cyrus. I always like to hear good news.”

Good news?
How did she know it would be good news? Oh, yeah, she’s psychic. Silly me.

I did a few errands after work, picked up some veggie stir-fry at Johnny Chan’s for dinner, and pulled up in front of the town house around six thirty. I was surprised to see an elderly Ford Focus with a bad paint job parked outside, right next to a flowering hibiscus bush. It had a WYME parking tag on the rear bumper.
Irina?

Baffled, I let myself in the front hallway as the mellow sounds of Jimmy Buffett drifted out to greet me. Jimmy was singing about cheeseburgers and the joys of paradise. This is an ongoing debate here in south Florida: the constant pull between developers and local preservationists. The builders argue that their projects bring money and jobs to the area, but the locals are protective of their town and prefer that things stay pretty much as they always have been. As a new-comer, I’m somewhere in the middle. I can understand the developers’ point of view, but I was drawn to Cypress Grove because of its rustic charm, and I’d hate to see that disappear.