Dead Air: A Talk Radio Mystery (34 page)

“With Ted Rollins? Good lord, no. He’s just a friend. Like a brother.”

Rafe gave my hand a squeeze and edged a little closer to me on the sidewalk. “Just a friend? Oh, Maggie,” he said feelingly, “that’s exactly what I was hoping to hear.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To Kristen Weber, for her wonderful editorial guidance and killer sense of humor. And to the whole terrific team at Obsidian—you’re the best.

To Stephen Viscusi, author, friend, and rainmaker. Stephen, you’re an inspiration to millions of people.

To my Florida friends who helped me research settings and attractions in their beautiful state, Michael Aller, tourism and convention director for the city of Miami, and author Brian Antoni.

To Alan, who is not only my fabulous British husband but also my computer guru.

To Nancy Martin and Kate Collins, my longtime writer pals, and to new friends Carolyn Hart, Hallie Ephron, and Jan Brogan from Sisters in Crime.

To Jerry Lee, for his generous help with Spanish phrases and dialogue. Any mistakes are mine, not his.

To James V. Tsoutsouris, Esq., for sharing his legal expertise with me.

And of course to Sally and Eric Ernsberger, guardians of the delightful Pugsley, who is the model for Maggie’s pug in this series. Pugsley, sweetie, I owe you a gallon of maple walnut ice cream.

Something was horribly wrong.

I knew it before I opened my eyes, before I saw the faint pinkish orange light seeping 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 DEFCON 1. I sat up straight in bed, pulse racing, nerve endings tingling, skin prickling at the back of my neck. An icy finger traced a 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 older than 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 dozing at the foot of my bed when I’d drifted to sleep watching Letterman. Had he been abducted? The victim of foul play? I couldn’t face life without Pugsley. My hysteria was rising.

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, Mr. 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 highjacked by the Lindsay Lohans, the Hannah Montanas, and the Lauren Conrads, long-legged ingenues who edge out classically trained actresses such as 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-strap tank top with a pair of skintight, red and white Hawaiian-print 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 résumé 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 as 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.” She glanced at the clock. “Besides, it’s two a.m. in Paris. 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
dolce 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 extracaffeinated type, 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. I can’t think of many guys who would curl up on the sofa with me on a Saturday night to watch
Marley & Me
for the third time.

Mom’s voice pulled me back from my reverie.

“Guess again! Who called!” She held up my favorite WYME mug and dangled it just out of reach. WYME is the radio station that I left my Manhattan psychoanalytic practice for; I host a call-in show,
On the Couch with Maggie Walsh
. It’s a small south Florida market, and strictly a bottom-rungs-of-show-biz operation, but I love my job and I don’t miss those New York winters.

“Mom, I swear I don’t know.” I sank into a chair at the kitchen table and put my head in my hands. I said the first Hollywood name I could think of. “Aaron Spelling?”

“Don’t be silly. He’s already passed,” Mom said crisply. “It would take James Van Praagh to reach him now.”

“Then I give up.”

Mom shook her head. “You give up way too easily.” She paused dramatically. “Okay, that was Hank Watson on the phone.” She waited for a reaction, her blue eyes flashing with excitement, her magenta nails beating a tattoo on the table. “
The
Hank Watson.” She raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows for emphasis.

She released the mug and I immediately crossed to the counter and poured myself a hefty cup of coffee. Ah, sweet bliss.

“Hank Watson!! Director Hank Watson,” she added, shaking her head in exasperation. “Don’t you watch
Access Hollywood
? What in heaven’s name
do
you watch? The History Channel? C-SPAN?”

“I take it he’s a film director.” I sipped my coffee, enjoying that first quick jolt of energy flooding my system.

“Not just any film director.” Her voice was gently chiding. “He’s a master of the horror genre. Didn’t you ever see
Night Games
? Or
Highway to Hell
? And what about
A Night to Forget
? He won the Okaloosa County Film Festival Award for that one.”

I frowned. These all sounded like B movies that probably played to three people in Kentucky before going straight to video. Only one name rang a bell. “
A Night to Forget
? Was that the old flick about the
Titanic
?”

“No, that was
A Night to Remember
,” she said with heavy patience.

“Okay, tell me about Hank Watson. And the phone call.” Pugsley jumped into my lap, hoping for a piece of croissant that didn’t materialize. Unless Lark had picked up some “bakery” before she left town, Puglsey and I were both going to be stuck with a healthy breakfast. Kibble for him and high-fiber cereal for me.
Blech.

“Well, brace yourself, darling. Hank made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Your mom’s going to be a movie star—again.” She sat down across from me, her cornflower blue eyes dazzling.

“A movie star?”

“It’s a speaking part,” she said, backpedaling swiftly. I raised my eyebrows. “No, it’s not an under-five,” she added quickly with a toss of her head. “It’s a small role, but you know what they say . . .”

“There are no small roles, only small actors,” I parroted.

She grinned. “I’ve taught you well.” She smiled approvingly. Some of Mom’s recent roles had been the dreaded “under-fives,” meaning she had fewer than five lines of dialogue. As an “under-fiver,” she’s relegated to lousy pay and the tiniest of bit parts. Last month she was a waitress in a Georgia barbecue joint (“Do you want hush puppies with that, hon?”), and just last week she played an emergency room nurse (“Get the crash cart! He’s flatlining!”).

In an industry rife with rejection (98 percent of Screen Actors Guild members are unemployed at any given time) mom has learned not to turn down work. You never know when another part will come along, and the competition is fierce. Five hundred people can turn up to audition for a two-line role.

“Tell me about the movie.”

I rummaged in the pantry, found a five-day-old Enten mann’s crumb-topped coffee cake and zapped it in the microwave for exactly five seconds. Then I cut a hefty wedge for each of us. Fiber has its place, but you can never go wrong with Entenmann’s. Breakfast of champions.

“Well, you know Hank and I go way back,” she began. “Years ago, when I was getting my feet wet in Hollywood, Hank was making a name for himself as a director.”

“So the two of you started out together?” I broke off a corner of coffee cake for Pugsley, who was beating a staccato on the floor with his tiny feet. He wolfed it down and gave me one of those intent stares that pugs do so well, his dark eyes riveted on my face.

“In a way,” Mom said cautiously. “I’m much younger than Hank, of course.”

“Of course.” I plastered a nonchalant look on my face. According to Mom, she’s younger than everyone in Hollywood, with the possible exception of Dakota Fanning. “So he wants you to fly out to Hollywood to work on his latest flick?”

“No, something better! He’s going to be filming part of the movie right here in south Florida, in Cypress Grove. How perfect is that? He got a really good deal from the Florida Film Commission, and he can’t wait to start shooting here. You know, the sunlight, the ocean, the scenery—this place is paradise for a cinematographer.” She was as giddy as if she’d taken a hit of ecstasy. “Just think, Hank and I will be together again, just like in the old days.”

“I’m happy for you, Mom. What’s the movie called?” I wanted to take a peek at the
Cypress Grove Gazette
that was spread out on the table, but I knew Mom was on a roll and I figured I’d better play along. I couldn’t imagine anyone shooting a movie here, but I decided to take Mom’s word for it.

Cypress Grove is a sleepy Florida town, north of Boca, not too far from Palm Beach, and a pleasant ride to Fort Lauderdale. As the Chamber of Commerce says on their welcome sign, “Cypress Grove. We’re near everyplace else you’d rather be!” I never could figure out if that was said tongue-in-cheek. Maybe, maybe not.

“The film is called
Death Watch
, and it stars Adriana St. James. It will be wonderful to work with her again. I haven’t seen her in years, you know.”

I frowned. “Adriana St. James? Mom, I thought you loathed her. How can you stand to be in a movie with her?”

“Oh, that was nothing, a mere creative difference of opinion.” Mom reached down to pat Pugsley, her face melting into a dreamy smile. “You know how it is with us theatre people. One minute we’re discussing Larry Olivier and
Hamlet
and the next we’re arguing over whether Jeremy Piven really had mercury poisoning when he bailed out of that David Mamet play.” She gave a wry little laugh. “It doesn’t mean a thing, darling. It’s just the artistic temperament shining through. We’re bound to clash from time to time. We always kiss and make up.”

“Mom, you told me Adriana dumped a very large Caesar salad in your lap at Chased’s one night. She claimed you were sleeping with her husband. The whole story was on Page Six.”

“Oh, yes, the Caesar salad.” Mom frowned. “You know, I never did get that stain out of my Chanel suit. I had to donate it to charity. Just think, some poor homeless person is probably wandering around Rodeo Drive wearing a vintage Chanel with a really big stain on the skirt.”