Reel Murder (3 page)

“Hi there, Dr. Maggie.”

Kevin is barely twenty but he dresses like someone forty years older. Today he was sporting Larry King suspenders, a Matlock seersucker suit, and wire-rimmed glasses. Bizarre.

Worse, I noticed he was squinting at a sheaf of papers that looked vaguely familiar. Oh God, the Arbitron Ratings “Maybe if you have a sec, you can explain something to me.” He gave a wide smile, showing a large number of teeth, which gave him an unfortunate resemblance to Eeyore.

“Sure, Kevin. I’ll certainly try.” I flashed a helpless look at Vera Mae, who raised her eyebrows. Maybe she knew what was coming.

“Dr. Maggie, what does it mean exactly when the Arbitron Ratings says your show has a minus twelve? How could you have a negative number? I’m afraid we haven’t covered that yet that in broadcasting school.” His toothy grin never wavered.

“A minus twelve?”
I shrieked, pulling the papers out of his hand. I forced myself to take a deep, calming breath. I stalled for time, even though the numbers were right there in front of me. “Well, Kevin, a minus twelve means . . .”

“Yes, Dr. Maggie?”

“It means not only is no one watching my stupid show, but twelve people are marching outside, picketing the station and throwing rocks!” I snorted in disgust. “That’s what it means.”

Kevin’s face crumpled and he put his fist to his mouth, his eyes wide with shock. “Dr. Maggie! Bite your tongue! You shouldn’t be saying things like that.”

“She’s kidding,” Vera Mae said quickly. “Kevin, why don’t you go check and see if the coffeepot is turned on in the break room. I filled it with hazelnut decaf this morning, but I may have forgotten to turn it on. You know how the announcers get antsy if they don’t have their morning joe.”

“Sure thing, Miss Vera Mae.” Kevin grinned and loped off down the hall like an obedient border collie, glad to have something to do.

“Could my show really be a minus twelve?” I asked, aghast.

Vera Mae gently took the papers out of my hand. I hadn’t realized I was holding them in a death grip; my knuckles were white and I was hyperventilating. “Maggie, you’re gonna have an aneurysm if you let this stuff get to you. I’m worried about you, girl.”

“I’ll be fine, Vera Mae.” I gritted my teeth and tried to come up with a game plan. I had to increase my ratings, but how?

“Well, first off, you can’t be telling Kevin things like that,” she chided me. “Even in jest.”

“It wasn’t said in jest,” I said tightly. “I was dead serious.”

“Well, it’s not a negative number,” she said, peering at the sheets. “See, look right here; it’s a tiny bit better than you thought.” She flipped to another page and pointed to a column of numbers. I was listed right under Bob Figgs, the King of Pork. It wasn’t a negative twelve after all.

“It’s still bad.” I let out my breath in a slow whoosh.

“You’re right, sugar; there’s no way to put a good spin on this. We need something to boost these numbers. A movie would do the trick. Let me get right on it. I’ll make some calls. If no one’s covering it locally, maybe we could get an exclusive interview with some of the stars. The first thing we need to do is find out who knows a dang thing about the movie. We have to start at the top.”

“I’m going to put in that call to Nick at the
Gazette
,” I said. “And I might even call that AP stringer up in Boca.”

“I know something that’s a lot quicker.” Vera Mae grinned. “I’ll just call Wanda at the House of Beauty. If there’s a movie company comin’ to town, she’ll know about it. There’s not much that gets by Wanda.” She heaved herself out of the chair and grabbed a couple of Twizzlers for the road. She tapped her watch and gave me a meaningful look. “You can’t spend too much time frettin’ over this; you need to go through some of that listener mail.”

I nodded grimly. “I’ll get right on it.”

“Hey, Maggie, what’s up?”

Nick Harrison’s voice came racing across the line. Nick and I have been friends since I first arrived in town and he interviewed me for the
Cypress Grove Gazette
. Nick covers arts and entertainment, but he’d love to be an investigative reporter and he’s angling to get into a bigger market like Miami or Atlanta.

“I need to pick your brain.”

“Slim pickin’s,” he teased. “What can I do for you?”

“Any news about a movie being shot here?
Death Watch
, by a director called Hank Watson?” I heard Nick typing in the background.

“How’d you hear about it?” he asked idly.

“My mother has a part in it. But she doesn’t know the start date and I’m wondering if it’s legit.”

“If it’s Hank Watson, it’s probably legit. Probably one of his straight-to-video epics. I bet it’s an indie, though.” He sounded preoccupied and I heard more tapping in the background. A long beat passed. “Okay, here it is.
Death Watch
is legit, and filming is supposed to begin in Cypress Grove this week, maybe as early as tomorrow. The film company should be rolling into town late today. Gotta run; I’ll keep you posted.
”

A few minutes later, Cyrus Still, the station manager, handed me a press release and asked me to start plugging the movie on my show. So now it was official.

“How did Cypress Grove ever persuade Hank Watson to come to town? I figured he’d rather shoot exteriors in Boca or Palm Beach, or maybe even Key West.”

Cyrus grinned. “In this business, connections pay off, Maggie. Big-time. Not many people know this, but Hank and I went to Ohio State together.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Yeah, it sure beats all. Hank went out to Hollywood and I guess I missed my chance because I fell in love with small town radio. Oh well, you know what they say, woulda, shoulda, coulda. Can’t complain; I’ve always been happy here. Maybe I’m just a hick at heart.”

It’s true, I suppose. As Irina always says, Cyrus is a “big wheel in a little pond.”

Cyrus paused, helping himself to a Reese’s peanut butter cup from the jar I keep on my desk. “When I heard that they planned to shoot in south Florida, I called up the production office out in L.A. and got the name of the location manager, Eddie Kosinski It turns out that he was looking at Manalapan and a couple of other places in Palm Beach County.”

“Manalapan? Interesting.” I knew that Manalapan and Lake Worth were popular with cinematographers.
Body Heat
, the steamy flick that launched Kathleen Turner’s career, was shot in both those cities. I still was amazed that a film company would want to come to a little boondocks town like Cypress Grove. I wondered if Cyrus had an ace up his sleeve.

“And that was all it took? A phone call?”

I was stunned by his initiative. It was totally out of character. In many ways, Cyrus has a lot in common with Pugsley. They both enjoy long naps, are addicted to junk food, and try to get as little physical or mental exercise as possible.

Cyrus nodded, pleased with himself. “Well, luck was with me. It turns out Eddie went to Ohio State, too, so I sent him some digital shots of the town and the beach. I guess he liked what he saw.” He reached for another candy. “Plus we offered them a really sweet deal. A lot of the stars will be staying at the Seabreeze Inn, and we’re picking up the tab. Figure it’s a small price to pay for all the free publicity we’ll be getting. The town will be flooded with tourists.”

“Tourists? Yes, I suppose it will.” I thought of Vera Mae’s views on tourists:
If it’s tourist season, why can’t we shoot them?
Vera Mae likes the cozy, Mayberry-like feel of Cypress Grove and wouldn’t be thrilled that a gawker invasion was in the works.

“You know, my mom has a part in the movie,” I said idly, flipping through my phone log.

“Really?” Cyrus stopped chomping on the peanut butter cup long enough to look surprised. “You could have her back as a guest on the show, if you want. I remember the ratings were really good that time she cohosted with you. In fact, they were through the roof.”

“I remember,” I said, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. How well I remembered Lola’s guest appearance on my show! A guest had canceled at the last minute and Vera Mae had come up with the bright idea of Lola cohosting the show with me.

It was a success for Lola and a disaster for me. The listeners remembered Lola from her soap opera days and she practically hijacked my own show right out from under me. All the calls were about Lola’s soap opera career and everyone wanted her advice on life and love.
On the Couch with Maggie Walsh
had morphed into
Lola Walsh: My Life in Soaps.

“So do you want to schedule Lola for next week? Maybe do a special show on her first day on the set, something like that?”

“Sounds good. She’d like that.” Total understatement. Correction. She’d
love
that.

Vera Mae bustled by, carrying a stack of newspapers—probably the
Miami Herald
, the
Sun-Sentinel
, and the
Palm Beach Post
. Even though we’re a small town market, Vera Mae is always on the lookout for news stories featuring visiting celebrities, authors, or other people who might be interesting show guests.

She waited until Cyrus ambled off before darting into my office and plunking the papers on my visitor’s chair. “Well, I guess you heard the news.” Her expression was glum. “It’s really gonna happen. Wanda gave me the lowdown on
Death Watch
. They start shooting here tomorrow and that means the trailers and trucks will be rolling in this afternoon. And they even hired Wanda as a part-time hairdresser on the set! That girl is over the moon.” She heaved a sigh.

“You don’t sound too happy about it,” I teased her. “Maybe this will finally put Cypress Grove on the map.”

“Maybe,” she said slowly. “It’ll mean a lot of tourists. What if we end up like Key West?”

“Key West?”

“Yeah, can you imagine a bunch of people running around town in parrothead hats, looking for Margaritaville?”

I bit back a laugh. “I don’t think Cypress Grove will ever be that famous, Vera Mae. Maybe it’ll all turn out better than you think.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” she said morosely. “Hollywood’s comin’ to town, and there’s not a gosh darn thing we can do about it.”

“Can you believe it?” Mom asked me that evening, flashing her pearly Hollywood teeth. “Tomorrow is show time.” She was dancing around the condo clutching Pugsley as she swayed to “Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac. When the song ended, she finally returned Pugsley to the sofa and sank onto a kitchen chair.

Lark, my roommate, had returned earlier in the day and had cooked a big pot of veggie fettucine alfredo for dinner.

Lark was ladling out the pasta when Mom clutched her hand dramatically to her chest. “Oh, that Stevie Nicks. I could have been in her shoes, you know. I would need extensions, of course.” She picked up a lock of her platinum hair and let it fall back softly to her shoulders.

Lark and I exchanged a look and I thought I detected just the hint of an eye roll. Lark is slim and petite with choppy blond tresses that give her a young-Meg-Ryan sort of look. She has a sweet, pixiesh face and is the kindest person I’ve ever met. She’s much too polite to ever challenge Lola on her flights of fancy and she either deftly changes the subject, or says something flattering.

At twenty-three, she hasn’t been beaten down by life and has a sunny optimism that is at odds with my own rather cynical personality. Her favorite movie is
Forrest Gump
and mine is anything by Woody Allen. I think that says it all.

“I can just picture you in a rock band, Lola,” she said loyally. “You’d be terrific.”

“Yes, sometimes it’s like a knife in my heart to know that I could have been up there on stage with Lindsey Bucking-ham.” She gave a heavy sigh, and Pugsley gave a little yip of concern, trotting over from the sofa.

He’s incredibly sensitive to human distress, and he’s also a big fan of Lark’s pasta.

You decide.

“It’s all right, Pugsley,” Lola said, reaching down to pet him. “Opportunity knocks but once, as they say, and this is a brutal business.”

I felt another stroll down memory lane coming on. I sat down, fortified myself with a hefty slug of Chardonnay, and tossed a tiny chunk of French bread to Pugsley. He opened his mouth like a sea lion and swallowed it whole.

“Mom,” I began, “you’re not really suggesting that you could have joined Fleetwood Mac, are you? You can’t even carry a tune. I thought you auditioned for a music video once and the director said you were tone-deaf.”

“Well, he had to say that, didn’t he, my dear?” She leaned over to Lark and winked. “He had already picked out a girl for the role, you see. Some sweet young thing caught his eye, and I didn’t have a chance. He was blind to my charms.”

“That’s awful; so unfair,” Lark said staunchly. She patted Lola sympathetically on the arm. “You can’t let it get to you, though. I believe in karma, Lola, and I bet that girl never went anywhere with her career. You’ve probably had a lot more success than she’s had.”

Lola hesitated, her cornflower blue eyes flickering down to Pugsley. “Oh well. She did all right, I suppose. In fact, she’s made something of a name for herself in the music business.”

“Really? Who is she?”

“Beyoncé.”

Lark raised her eyebrows, her lips twitching. Lola has a vivid imagination and some of her show biz stories are so over-the-top, one can only smile.

“Give me the rundown on your schedule tomorrow,” I said briskly. “You’re going to meet with Wardrobe and then do a quick line rehearsal?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Lola replied, returning to Planet Earth. “I’m going to have to wriggle into my Spanx if I want to squeeze into my outfit. I told the wardrobe mistress I was a size four. What was I thinking?” She eyed the big ceramic bowl of veggie pasta, as if angling for a second portion, and then sipped some iced tea instead.