Reel Murder (28 page)

“Dolphin squeaks? I don’t think that’s what she has in mind.”

“Did you know that dolphins are the only animals who commit suicide?” Vera Mae continued in a conversational tone. I learned early on that Vera Mae is an expert on trivia and little-known facts. “Although I can’t imagine why a dolphin would want to kill himself, can you?”

“Only if someone forced him to read this book. Then he’d so depressed, he’d swim right down to the ocean floor and never resurface.”

“Now you be nice, girl,” Vera Mae teased. “This show might turn out better than you think.”

“I doubt it,” I groused. “It’s going to be a train wreck, I just know it.”

I looked at the author page. With her big hair, big smile, and veneered teeth, Shirley Dawson could be a contestant on
American Idol
. “I’m not at all happy about this guest, Vera Mae.” I lowered my voice even though the studio was soundproof. “This woman sounds like a wack job. Who invited her on the show—and why? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“Here’s the thing. Her daddy is a real good friend of Cyrus’s family and they all play golf together over at the Parson’s Creek club.”

Vera Mae’s shoulders heaved as she blew out a little sigh. She shot me a sympathetic look as she made her last-minute preparations from the control room. Just minutes till air time, and I still didn’t have a handle on my guest. What in the world would I find to talk about?

“And—” I persisted.

“And we just had to have her on the show; there was no getting out of it sugar. You see what I mean? Besides, her daddy’s thinking of taking out some prime-time radio spots advertising her book. We’re talking big bucks here. You should have seen Cyrus, his eyes lit up like a pinball machine when he heard what their advertising budget was.”

“That would impress him, all right.”

“So you just do the best you can. You can make her sound interesting; I know you can. You always bring out the best in the everyone, Maggie.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Vera Mae.”

“It has so far, sugar; it has so far.”

Irina ushered my guest in right before showtime. Shirley Dawson reminded me of a real estate agent, well dressed in a pale green linen suit with a lacy white shell underneath. She extended a manicured hand to me (French, squared-off tips, buffed, no polish) and flashed me her veneers. I had the feeling she drove an immaculate, late-model car, maybe a Lexus or a BMW.

“I am a
huge
fan of your show,” she gushed. “Huge! And I brought you an autographed copy of my book.”

Shirley presented the book with another blinding smile and looked deeply into my eyes. She was attractive, mid-thirties, with long chestnut hair and green eyes, but there was something vaguely unsettling about her gaze. It seemed a bit practiced, as if the “eye lock” was something she’d picked up in a competing self-help book.

“Thanks, but your publicist already sent me a copy.” I held up my copy to show her, and hoped she didn’t suspect that I had only looked at the cover.

“Oh, you can give that one to someone on your staff, or maybe even have a radio promotion giveaway. Do you ever do contests?”

“Well, no, actually. At least we haven’t so far.”

I suppose we could have some sort of contest to promote her book, but why should we? The lines would be clogged with callers, and it would be a giant headache for the staff. I hoped Cyrus hadn’t promised her anything except the guest spot on my show. That was bad enough.

She settled herself in the visitor’s chair next to me and crossed her legs. Uh-oh. She reached into her bag and pulled out a grande latte from Starbucks. I never allow anyone to bring food or drinks into the studio, but now that she’d already plunked down the coffee cup on the console, what could I do? It would be a little awkward to snatch it away.

Luckily, Vera Mae saw the problem and came bustling in from the control room. “I’ll just leave this for you over here,” she said, whisking away the offending coffee and settling it on a low table by the door. “I’m Vera Mae Atkins, the producer,” she added by way of introduction.

“Oh, yes, we spoke on the phone. I just have to tell you, I am
such
a fan of the show,” Shirley said. “You have the
most
exciting guests. Here, I brought a personalized copy for you, too.” She reached into her seemingly bottomless Coach tote bag, and pulled out another copy. “This book will change your life!” She gave a triumphant smile, as if she’d done something impossible—like David Copperfield levitating over the Grand Canyon, or making the Statue of Liberty disappear.

“Well, now that’s really sweet of you.” Vera Mae looked a little startled. “I’ll get right down to reading this tonight.”

“And be sure to call me if you have any questions, or if you just want to talk,” Shirley said, oozing sincerity. “I put my unlisted phone number on the card, and you can always reach me on my cell, my BlackBerry, or my landline. And of course, I’m on Twitter, Facebook, MySpace, Gather, and LinkedIn. All my online contact information is on the back, including my Web site, my publicist’s private line, and my five blogs.”

This was a woman who was clearly in love with herself. Narcissistic personality disorder, I decided. Like the mythical figure Narcissus, she was entranced by her own reflection and thought we should be, too.

“Vera Mae, look at the time!” I said urgently. The second hand was winding down to 12; we’d be live in a heartbeat.
Enough with the love fest!

“Oh lordy,” Vera Mae squealed, making tracks for the control room. She jammed her headphones over her ears, twirled a dial, and pointed at me. “Go!” she mouthed.

The lines were jammed with callers, and to my surprise, Shirley did a good job on the air, even if her answers sounded a bit practiced. Her speech had a certain robotic effect. It was as if someone had implanted a Chatty Cathy chip in her memory storage banks, allowing her to give the right answer to any question.

Were there a finite number of comments on the chip? What if she encountered something unfamiliar, something she hadn’t been programmed to handle? Would she suddenly come to a squeaking halt like the esteemed psychiatrist Dr. Smoot? Luckily no one surprised her with any trick questions and I felt myself begin to relax. I let my mind roll downstream as she peppered her remarks with personal vignettes and feel-good stories.

They were inspirational, often straining credibility, but the listeners ate them up. (“I told her to visualize a pile of money coming her way. Just as she was going to be evicted from her house, a mysterious stranger came to her front door with a million dollars!”)

Still, the time passed quickly, and since I didn’t have to concentrate on the show, I could think more about the case. There were so many troubling aspects, so many loose ends. It was depressing to think that all I had were leads, no solid suspects, and I wasn’t close to finding the killer. I had the nagging feeling I was overlooking something important; but what?

And now there was a new element to be considered—the threatening notes I’d received. Were they real, were they pranks, or were they connected to Adriana’s murder? Was I really in danger, and had my “sleuthing” caught up with me? Rafe had always warned me that my “detective work” would be the death of me, no pun intended.

I knew Rafe would have an opinion on the notes and he wouldn’t be afraid to mince words
.

Rafe.
I caught myself smiling, just thinking about him. In spite of the craziness, the emotional turmoil, and the gut-wrenching stress of a murder investigation, Rafe was always a bright spot in my life. He was exciting, dangerous, and had enough sex appeal to melt my bones.

I glanced at my watch. Another half hour and I’d call him.

Nick called just as I was saying my good-byes to Shirley Dawson and promising to “do lunch” with her sometime soon. I put him on hold, and told him I’d be right back.

Shirley passed out a half-dozen more promotional copies of her book to the WYME staff, including Irina, who was intrigued by the idea that you could attract money just by visualizing it. Just make a wish, and you would be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams.

“But this is, how you say, amazing, really good stuff,” Irina said, flipping through the pages. She stared at Shirley, who was beaming at her in the reception area. “You mean, just by thinking many good thoughts about money, dollars will come to me. Is that simple?”

“It sure is, sweetie,” Shirley said. “It’s a secret, but I’m happy to share it. I’m revealing it to the whole world! Life as we know it will never be the same.”

Hmm. Another insight into the wacky mind of Shirley Dawson.

Shirley believes she holds the key to a world-shattering secret that will change the future of mankind.
Ooo-kay
. Grandiosity, anyone? Check your
DSM
for details. (The
DSM
is the
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders
, every clinician’s bible.) We’re talking serious bipolar disorder here, and we’ll keep the narcissistic personality disorder as well.

“In my country, many people do not have money to spend, not on food, not on clothes, not on nothing. Sad, very sad.” A cloud passed over Irina’s model-perfect features, and she tapped her fingernails thoughtfully on the book cover. “Maybe I mail this book home to my cousin Sergei; he reads a little English. This maybe help him do better in life.”

“Oh, that’s a wonderful idea, Irina,” Shirley said, her eyes moist. “What a touching story. I love the idea that I can reach out to people across the world!” She took Irina’s hand and squeezed it, her face radiant. “I promise you that this book will change your cousin’s life, and the lives of his whole family.”

“I think so, too,” Irina said, her face lighting up in a smile. “If Sergei has money, he will be happy. So is good news for everyone.”

“Yes, money will bring him happiness and security,” Shirley agreed. “And most important of all, it will bring him freedom. Don’t forget, Irina, freedom’s just—”

Another word for nothin’ left to lose?
No, wait, that’s Janis Joplin.

“—the key to a happy life,” Shirley finished.

“Yes, freedom.” Irina repeated the word slowly, rolling it around her mouth, her tone hushed and reverent. “You are right, very right. If Sergei has money, his life will change for good.” She nodded her head up and down several times, her blond tresses bobbing against her neck.

“That’s true.” Shirley clasped her hands together in front of her chest, steepled her fingers, and looked pleased with herself. She’d just brought another follower into Camp Shirley.

“And you know best part of all this?” Irina asked. Her shoulders heaved in a happy little sigh.

“What’s that?” Shirley’s green eyes glowed with pride. I bet she was already planning on how to incorporate this touching story into her next media appearance.

Irina smiled. “With money, Sergei not have to rob no more liquor stores, or sell no more drugs on street. As you say, dollars will just fall in lap. My mother and sister will be so happy, no more prison time for him. Whole village will celebrate.”

Prison time? Selling drugs on the street? Whoa there, missy, too much information!
Shirley’s eyebrows knotted together in disapproval.
Uh-oh
. I guess she won’t be using Irina’s touching story in her next media appearance, after all.

“Er, yes, quite right,” Shirley said, straightening up and backing away from the reception desk. She was moving at a good clip, heading for the double glass doors that exited onto the parking lot. “Thanks again, Maggie!” She flashed another Hollywood smile at me along with a cheery wave as I scooted back to my office to take Nick’s call.

“Hey, you kept me on hold long enough,” he protested. I heard his fingers tapping away in the background.

“Sorry, I was saying good-bye to a guest.” I figured I’d save the Shirley Dawson story for the next time Nick and I met for lunch at Gino’s. “What’s up?”

“My L.A. contact did a little more research and something interesting came up on that actress, Lori Taylor. You talked with her on the set, right?”

“Yes, but it was just for a couple of minutes. She seemed very sweet. Of course, Carla Townsend couldn’t resist making a sniping remark about Lori’s husband having an affair with Adriana, and Lori walked away in a huff. Carla’s always ready to dig up dirt on someone; that’s her stock-in-trade as a sleazoid journalist, I guess. The sad thing is, it’s probably true in this case. It seems that Adriana liked to sample the talent, and Lori’s husband is a good-looking guy.”

“Did Lori seem angry?”

“More hurt than angry, I’d say.” I paused. “I can’t believe Lori would have what it takes to kill someone, even if she did want Adriana out of the way.”

“There’s more to Lori than meets the eye.”

“Meaning what?” I pictured the pretty young actress chatting with me on the set. There was something vulnerable about her, something that went beyond her delicate features and soft voice.

“Did you know she used to live in Utah?”

“No, it never came up. Why’s that important, anyway?”

“She was part of a survivalist group out there.” Nick waited a beat to let this new information sink in. “We’re talking a David Koresh type of compound.”

“Yikes. Survivalist?” I couldn’t imagine Lori ever being part of a group like the Branch Davidians.

“Yeah, it surprised me, too. Appearances can be deceiving. She could be a steel magnolia; you know?”

“I can’t believe it. She looks so fragile, so innocent. She’d have to be brainwashed.”

“Look what happened to Patty Hearst.”

I flashed on that iconic photo of Patty Hearst holding a submachine gun. “You’re right. Anyone can break under pressure.” I thought of the young girl’s heart-shaped face and silky blond hair. “Poor Lori; she seems as delicate as a flower.”