Reel Murder (35 page)

“Really?” I quavered. “You could have fooled me.”

His expression was seductive but his touch was playful, as chaste as a hug from Ted Rollins next door. He stared at me for a long moment. “If I ever decide to court you, Maggie, I promise you one thing.” He pretended to cross his heart, his expression intent, his dark eyes serious.

“What’s that?”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

I’ll be the first to know?
The words crashed into my brain but I couldn’t really absorb what he was saying. I was drowning in his sexy eyes and killer smile, and a white-hot dash of excitement went through me. I felt like I was falling into a void, and then suddenly it didn’t matter anymore because he leaned forward and kissed me.

A light kiss that sizzled on my lips and sent my pulse thrumming with desire.

I stared into those dark eyes flecked with gold, heat rising fast as a wave of pure (or not so pure!) animal attraction body-slammed me. What was going to happen next? He brushed the back of his fingers against my cheek, letting them linger there for a heart-stopping moment. I tried to move closer to him, but he was already backing away, moving down the steps.

“Sleep tight, baby.” He tossed the line over his shoulder, and followed it with that heart-stopping smile and a sexy wink.
Sleep tight?
My mind tried to make sense of what had just happened.

A quick kiss on the lips and a fleeting caress?

It could mean everything. Or nothing.

And with that, Rafe Martino, man of mystery, blended into the Florida night.

You would assume that people who talk to the dead would be pale as vampires, their luminous eyes filled with unspoken secrets and timeless wisdom. You would expect them to speak in hushed tones, their voices floating like whispers on a tropical breeze as they invoke spirits from the beyond. You’d probably picture them as quiet and introspective, pondering the mysteries of life and what lies beyond the grave.

You would be wrong. Dead wrong.

Chantel Carrington, the new “psychic sensation” in Cypress Grove, is none of the above. Everything about Chantel is larger than life, strictly va-va-voom. Think of one of those giant Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons bobbing over Broadway.

Big. Brash. Garish. Inescapable.

Oh, yes. And full of hot air.

From her booming “Hello, dahlings!” as she rolls down the WYME corridors to her eye-popping Hawaiian muumuus, Chantel steals the spotlight every time.

Today she was the featured guest on my afternoon radio talk show,
On the Couch with Maggie Walsh
. She’s been on the show four times in the past two weeks, and I hate to admit it, but each time the ratings have skyrocketed.

It seems that my entire listening audience is jonesing to communicate with the dearly departed, and Chantel does her best to accommodate them. Cyrus, the station manager, is so thrilled with her otherworldly chats that I’m sure he salivates just thinking about all that extra advertising revenue pouring into WYME.

Vera Mae, my producer, and I are less happy with the arrangement.

When I first arrived in Cypress Grove a few months ago to host my own radio show, I’d been pretty naive about the topics I’d be covering. A former clinical psychologist with a cushy Manhattan practice, I’d gained quite a following for my work in what the shrinks call “behavioral medicine.”

Behavioral medicine is based on the idea that if you change your thinking, you can change your behavior, leading to a more positive mental outlook. No Freudian claptrap, no endless discussions of your dreams or Jungian archetypes.

But after a few brutal winters in the Big Apple, I’d become sick of the city, frustrated by the skyrocketing real estate prices, and worst of all, I discovered I was tired of listening to people’s problems all day long. Yes, tired of listening to people’s problems.

Some days I felt like I was trapped in a Jerry Springer marathon.

A shocking revelation, right? Practically career suicide to say it publicly, but there you have it. I was whipped, emotionally drained, with nothing left to give.

I had total burn-out.

So what did I do? I diagnosed the problem and wrote my own prescription. I made an executive decision as the Donald would say. I knew I needed a complete change of pace, and I made it happen. I closed up shop, transferred my patients to a trusted colleague, sold my IKEA furniture and moved to a sleepy Florida town.

Dr. Maggie, heal thyself.

At least, that was what I thought I was doing. I picked a town that’s more like Mayberry than Manhattan, a place that’s north of Boca, not too far from Palm Beach and a pleasant ride to Ft. Lauderdale. As the chamber of commerce says, “Cypress Grove. We’re near every place else you’d rather be!”

I figured I’d use my clinical expertise and introduce my listening audience to the hottest topics in behavioral medicine, featuring the latest news in mental-health issues. I’d select a topic and take calls myself on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I’d invite a fascinating guest expert to join me on the airwaves.

Except for one tiny problem. Where was I going to find a bunch of fascinating guests? It never occurred to me that we’d have trouble persuading A-list experts to make the trek to Cypress Grove to appear on my show. We don’t pay our guests, so unless they’re hawking a book or a tape, there’s really not much in it for them, except for the proverbial fifteen minutes of fame. And all the stale glazed doughnuts they can scarf down in the break room.

When Chantel Carrington blew into town last month to promote her latest book,
I Talk to Dead People—and You Can Too!
I invited her to do a guest spot on my show. It was against my better judgment, but I knew Cyrus would be pleased, and frankly, my ratings needed a bit of a boost.

During the last Nielsen ratings,
On the Couch with Maggie Walsh
tied for last place, right up there with
Bob Figgs and the Swine Report
. I was running neck and neck with a show that features pigs!

I had no idea Chantel would be such a huge success and, worse, that she would pick Cypress Grove as the perfect place to work on her next book. Before you could say woo-woo, she’d rented an apartment near Branscom Pond and was hosting séances in town.

So there I was, entertaining her as a guest on my show and making the best of a bad situation. I was making lemonade out of lemons.

Ironic, really, because this is the same annoying bit of advice I used to give my patients. Funny how our bromides come back to haunt us.

Chantel was carrying a cup of Starbucks coffee as she breezed into the studio and collapsed into a chair next to me at the control board. Chantel is a large woman in her late forties, with violet eyes (colored contacts?) and a mane of black curls trailing Gypsy-style down her back.

She favors bright red lipstick and odd-looking z-coil shoes that make her look like she might levitate up to the ceiling or spring into the netherworld without warning. Today she was wearing a peekaboo lacy white shawl over a yellow muumuu festooned with bright blue parrots.

“Two minutes till airtime,” Vera Me yelled from the control room. She glanced at me and made a two-fingered peace sign. I nodded back. Then Vera Mae spotted Chantel’s coffee, shook her head and thinned her lips in disapproval. Uh-oh. No one is allowed to have food or drinks in the studio, but Chantel seems to be a law unto herself. I knew Vera Mae would dart in at the first commercial break and whisk the coffee away.

Chantel fanned herself with a copy of the daily traffic log. She had a thin layer of perspiration on her upper lip and her face was flushed a sickly shade of Pepto-Bismol pink.

“I should have worn something cooler today,” she confided. “You’d think the weather guys would get it right for once.” She tugged at the shawl, which she wore Martha Washington—style, fastened in front with a tortoiseshell brooch.

I bit back a smile. Why would a psychic need the Weather Channel?

“Live in thirty seconds.” Vera Mae slapped her headphones on and pointed to the board. It was already lit up with callers. We’d been running “talk to the dead” promos for the last three days. We usually don’t get this many callers unless we’re giving away tickets to a Reba McIntire show or offering a free style and cut at Wanda’s House of Beauty.

“Showtime,” I said to Chantel, who licked her lips and squiggled her hips a little in her chair, gearing herself up for her big performance. I grabbed my headphones just as Vera Mae pointed at me and mouthed the word
Go
.

Vera Mae’s towering beehive quivered with excitement as she leaned over the board. I’ve tried to get Vera Mae to ditch her Marge Simpson volcano of carrot-colored hair, but she believes, “The higher the hairdo, the closer to God.”

There’s always that electric moment when the phone lines open, and I feel a little rush of adrenaline thumping in my chest. Okay, this was it. We were live on the air in south Florida.

“You’re
On the Couch with Maggie Walsh
,” I said, sliding into my trademark introduction. “Today, we have the renowned psychic and bestselling author Chantel Carrington with us. Welcome to the show, Chantel. It looks like the lines are flooded with calls. Are you ready to get started?” This question, of course, was strictly a formality. I could see that Chantel was more than ready; she was practically quivering with anticipation, like Sea Biscuit at the starting gate.

“Ready!” Chantel sang out, looking giddy with excitement.

“So, Vera Mae, who do we have first?”

“We have Sylvia on line one, Maggie. She’s calling from Boca and she wants to communicate with Barney, who passed recently. It was just last week, in fact—”

“So sorry for your loss, Sylvia,” Chantel cut in smoothly, talking over the tail end of Vera Mae’s comment. “Can you tell me a little bit about Barney? I’m getting some strong vibes that you were lifelong partners.” She pursed her lips, staring up at the ceiling for a moment, as if seeking inspiration.

I followed her gaze. All I saw were some loose sound-proofing tiles, so I turned my attention back to the control board.

“We were together for eight years,” Sylvia sniffled. It sounded like she was biting back a sob. Interesting she used the word
together
; she didn’t say
husband
. I immediately wondered, was Barney a boyfriend? Fiancé? Friend with benefits?

“Eight wonderful years,” she went on. “My bed is so lonely at night, I cry myself to sleep without Barney there. I just can’t believe he’s gone.”

I watched as Chantel whipped out a notepad and scribbled:
Eight years. Cries herself to sleep. Guilt? Unresolved issues?
Then she scrunched up her face in a fake-sympathetic look, her forehead creased in concern.

“But he’s not really gone,” she interjected. “You know that, don’t you, Sylvia? He’s watching over you this very minute. I can feel his love, can’t you?” Chantel was making notes as she talked, spouting the familiar lines by rote.

The idea of the dead watching over us is one of her favorite themes. The dead aren’t really gone on Planet Chantel. They are just out of sight, like the sun when a cloud passes in front of it. They’re still with us, we just can’t see them.

Sylvia tried to rally. “Well, I know you say that in your book, Chantel, and I really do try to believe it, but sometimes I wonder—”

“There’s nothing to wonder about.” There was a steely edge to Chantel’s voice. “You
must
stay positive and believe that you’ll see Barney again. Remember, our lives here on earth are short, ephemeral,” she said, warming to her subject.

She lifted her right hand for emphasis and a half dozen little gold bracelets clanked together. Vera Mae winced as the mike amplified the sound and the arrow on the volume meter flipped into the red. I pointed to the bracelets and Chantel, ever the media pro, slapped her left hand over her wrist to stop the jangling sound.

“If you’ve read my book,
I Talk to Dead People
, you should have a good understanding of my views on mortality, Sylvia. There is no room in your heart for doubt. You must choose love and optimism over doubt and despair.”

I glanced into the control room and saw Vera Mae give me a little eye roll. We’d been forced to listen to Chantel’s spiel over and over, and it was getting old. Plus, Chantel never misses a chance to mention the title of her book. Once or twice is okay, but her shameless self-promotion was beginning to grate on my nerves.

Yesterday Vera Mae threatened to hang a Chinese gong in the control room and give it a good whack every time Chantel plugged
I Talk to Dead People
. I caught myself drumming my fingertips on the console and made a conscious effort to stop. I glanced over at Chantel as she mouthed her all too familiar clichés. They were so cloying they made my teeth ache.

I stared hard, narrowed my eyes and tried to send her a psychic message.
Chantel, please don’t say our time here is like a drop of water in the ocean. Please, I’m begging you.

“Our time on earth is like a drop of water in the ocean,” she said.

So much for thought transference. Or maybe she’d heard me and had decided to tune me out. I watched as she leaned forward, her bloodred lips aiming for the mike like a heat-seeking missile.

“We’re like a grain of sand on the beach.”

Ouch.
I knew what was coming next. Think eye. Blink. Millisecond. Here it comes.

“Believe me, Sylvia, our life on earth is over in the blink of an eye.”

Hmm. I glanced at the clock. Life might be over in the blink of an eye but this show felt like it was stretching into tomorrow. We were two minutes into the first hour so that meant it was time for her to plug one of her books. Again.