Dead Air: A Talk Radio Mystery (17 page)

I paused, thinking. “You said she was a juvenile. So this is your younger sister?”

“Yes, my kid sister. She was barely seventeen when she met this guy. She was very young and impressionable. She was working at a Dairy Queen, saving money for college. You can’t get more middle American than that, can you? He told her he was a performance artist from New York. A performance artist, can you imagine?” She made a little snorting noise. “I wonder where he came up with that line.”

“He probably wanted to explain why he didn’t have a nine-to-five job, like the rest of us working stiffs,” I said dryly.

While living in Venice Beach one summer in my early twenties, I learned that the term “performance artist” is often code for “unemployed.” I met a few guys who spent their days panhandling and their nights sleeping in their cars, and they all called themselves performance artists. “So she met this guy and she was completely taken in by him, maybe even fell in love with him?”

“Big-time. She was always into the arts, and he filled her head with crazy ideas that the two of them would escape to New York or L.A. Just crazy, drug-fueled dreams. I never thought she’d get into drugs, though. She just got into the wrong crowd, smoked some grass with them, and then she got hooked on X and crystal meth. The heavy-duty stuff.”

“What happened next?”

“I got her into rehab and she did the twenty-eight-day thing. It worked. Then she came home and the judge ordered her to a twelve-step program. Ninety-ninety. Ninety meetings in ninety days and she had to have a little card stamped to prove she really went every day.”

“Sounds like she was compliant with treatment. A lot of drug addicts aren’t.”

Lark nodded. “I know. They warned me that there was always the chance of relapse, but Rain knew a good thing when she saw it. And she was grateful for getting a second chance. She said she learned a lot in rehab and she’s stayed off drugs ever since. She’s a good kid.”

“Rain?” I smiled.

“Short for Rainbow. What can I say? My parents were hippies.”

“It could have been worse; they could have named her Mango. Or Kiwi.”

“Exactly . . . I just wanted you to know the whole story, Maggie. You know I didn’t kill Guru Sanjay, but I bet the cops will try and use this against me.”

Pugsley guided us through the last stretch of the evening’s walk, and we headed for home after he’d enjoyed a long, leisurely sniff at a neighbor’s bougainvillea bush. A dog behaviorist appeared on my radio show last month, and he explained that a dog sniffs a bush or tree the way you and I read the newspaper. It’s endlessly fascinating to him. Who would think so much drama could be found on the base of a tree trunk or a lamppost? Love, hate, revenge, betrayal, all the makings of a Shakespearean play sitting within sniffing distance of Pugsley’s shiny black nose.

It’s his way of scoping out the local news. Who’s been on his home turf? Are they fearful? Friendly? Aggressive? Apparently dogs can tell all this from one sniff. He might pick up the scent of some familiar neighbor dogs and the occasional new dog on the block. My guest expert told the listeners never to hurry their pets through this little ritual, and said, “Remember, it’s only a walk around the block to you, but it’s the highlight of your dog’s day.”

Mom had made hot chamomile tea for us, and we sat com panionably around the table, munching almond biscotti. I glanced over at Lark, petting Pugsley, who was happily curled up in her lap munching one of his organic dog biscuits. Lark looked more composed and relaxed than she had before we took the walk together, and she bent down to nuzzle him. When our eyes met over the top of his furry head, she gave me a guileless smile, her expression radiating sweetness and innocence.

Except now I knew there was another side of Lark, a dark side of her that could turn violent if provoked. This is the kind of thing a prosecutor could have a field day with. I shuddered at the image of Lark in a prison jumpsuit with a chain around her waist and willed it out of my mind.

There was no way Lark could have killed Guru Sanjay, and I was going to have to prove it. And I had to do it quickly, before the Cypress Grove PD could ask the DA to slap her with a murder charge.

Chapter 16

It was almost eight thirty when Mom had a sudden craving for a cappuccino float from Sweet Dreams, a trendy little ice cream shop that’s just a few blocks away on Magnolia Street, the main drag in Cypress Grove. “It’s still open, isn’t it?” she asked, grabbing her purse.

“It closes at ten; we have plenty of time.” Lark fastened Pugsley’s leash and pulled on her running shoes. “Let’s walk. It’s still light out and it’s a nice night.” She glanced at me. “You’re coming, right, Maggie?”

I hesitated for about two seconds, reminding myself that I needed to prepare for tomorrow’s show, and then I caved. Sweet Dreams’ signature dish, a tangy lemon sorbet topped with fresh raspberry sauce, was calling my name.

We’d walked only a block when I suddenly remembered I had agreed to do a pre-interview with one of my upcoming guests, Dr. Cornelius Abramson, a psychology professor from the local junior college. He was teaching an evening class and I’d promised to phone him at nine o’clock sharp tonight.

I’d been putting off calling him for days, partly because I was so involved with the murder investigation and partly because I’d met the professor socially a couple of times and the guy was mind-numbingly dull. But since he and Cyrus, the station manager, are golfing buddies, I couldn’t think of any polite way to wriggle out of it.

Cyrus had promised the professor that he could speak on his favorite subject, Jungian archetypes. Since I was confident my entire listening audience wouldn’t know an archetype from an armadillo, I felt fairly certain the show was doomed to be a total snooze. The purpose of the pre-interview was to try to encourage him to come up with some interesting anecdotes. Wildly entertaining would be even better, but I didn’t want to press my luck. This guy wasn’t Jay Leno.

A show about the mind of a serial killer would get good ratings, I thought wistfully, but I had no idea how that would fit in with Jungian archetypes. And I doubted that the good professor would, either.

I decided to call him from Sweet Dreams but patted my pocket and sighed when I realized I’d forgotten my cell phone. So after I made my apologies to Mom and Lark, there was nothing for me to do but head back to the condo. I made it back in a record four minutes flat and was panting a little when I turned the corner to my street. The sky was darkening but the humidity was still high, and my short-sleeved blouse was clinging to me.

I had just bolted up the front stairs and stepped into the hallway when my heart skipped a beat.

The front door to the condo was open a crack.

I stared at it for a long moment, thinking. My breath caught in my throat. If it really was open, I should scurry down the front steps and get help, right? But was it really open? I was torn with indecision. I took another look.

There it was. Hardly noticeable, but yes, there was the tiniest sliver of light spilling out onto the darkened landing. I felt a prickly sensation creep up my spine and forced myself to take a deep breath to steady myself.

Was it my imagination, or just a trick of the light, or did I see a shadow moving inside?

Time seemed to stand still, and I hesitated, inching forward. It was like a freeze-frame in a movie. A hyperaware ness had kicked in. I was suddenly aware of the crickets chirping in the hibiscus bushes in the front garden, the sweet fragrance of the magnolias drifting into the hallway. And the hammering of my own heart in my chest.

Everything seemed normal, and yet different. I took another look, squinting in the semidarkness, my heart beating like a rabbit’s. Yes, the door was definitely open. A fraction of an inch.

I remembered I had left the radio on, tuned to an oldies station, and the melancholy sounds of “Moon River” were wafting under the door. My heart lurched as I tried to make sense of the situation. I was the last one out; had I simply forgotten to pull the door shut?

The wood on the doorjamb is warped from the Florida humidity, and it takes a pretty hefty tug to close it properly. I must have been careless when I barreled down the steps with Mom, Lark, and Pugsley. That was the only logical explanation. In my eagerness to get to Sweet Dreams, I’d stupidly left the door unlocked.

Nearly giddy with relief, I felt my pulse ratchet down and I gave the door a tentative little push. It swung open immediately. The first thing I noticed was that the living room was a little darker than usual. Funny. The table lamps were turned off and the only source of light was the bright overhead fixture in the kitchen. Lark calls it the “operating room light” because it casts a harsh white glow over the breakfast table, tingeing everything a fluorescent blue. I thought I remembered leaving a reading lamp on, the big ginger-jar one next to the sofa, but I wasn’t really sure.

I shut the door quietly behind me, taking stock of the situation. Everything looked normal, the dinner dishes still sitting in the sink, the sliding door opening onto the balcony, Pugsley’s chew toy lying on the Navajo rug.

And of course, the silky notes of “Moon River” drifting out from the radio.

I was fumbling for the light switch when suddenly a figure clad all in black dashed out of the bedroom and rushed straight toward me. Instant panic. A scream froze in my throat as my mind scrabbled in a million directions, trying to come to terms with the unthinkable.

I was going to die. Or suffer horribly, or be torn apart, or maybe even be eaten alive. (I’m embarrassed to say that being threatened with death tends to bring out the drama queen in me. It would probably take years of analysis to explain this annoying personality quirk.)

Images of every slasher flick I’d ever seen flipped crazily through my mind, like I’d uncovered a giant Rolodex of B movies. Freddy Krueger, Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers, all whizzed by at twenty-four frames a second.

The intruder leapt toward me like a panther. My heart lurched as I jumped to one side, but I was too slow and I slammed my knee against the sharp edge of the end table. It was like being trapped in one of those awful anxiety dreams when you try to run but your legs have suddenly turned to concrete and you flail helplessly, rooted to the spot.

I felt a powerful body pinning me against the wall, and then I dimly saw a hand raised in the air, followed by a crashing blow to my head. A stick? A baton? A baseball bat?

Whatever it was, it hurt like hell.

I was down for the count, my nails scrabbling the length of the wall as I crumpled to the floor. I was vaguely aware of the front door opening and shutting.

The intruder had left. I knew that I had to get up, find the phone, and dial 911. But somehow, it all seemed like too much trouble, and I could feel my eyelids fluttering like butterflies as the darkness started to close in on me, warm and comforting.

As I drifted into oblivion, the song played on, the lyrics blending with my scattered thoughts, just below the level of consciousness. Who had just broken into the condo? Who had hit me over the head? I took shallow breaths, kept my eyes tightly shut, and listened to the final stanza of “Moon River,” trying to figure out the puzzle. It’s a beautiful song, but Andy Williams was no help at all, crooning about dream makers and heartbreakers.

Because whoever had hit me over the head certainly wasn’t my huckleberry friend.

“Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod,” I could hear Lark chanting. I was still flat out on the floor, and she was bending over me, while Pugsley swiped me with his fat tongue, treating me to a blast of doggie breath. “Maggie, are you all right?” she shrieked.

“Of course she’s not all right,” I heard Mom say. “She’s got a lump on her head the size of a golf ball. Somebody must have really walloped her.”

I made a halfhearted motion to sit up and was immediately hit by a wave of dizziness and nausea. “Just stay still, Maggie,” Lark implored as she eased me back down. “The paramedics will be here any minute.”

“Para . . . ?”

“Paramedics.”

“Don’ need para, para, whatever you said,” I mumbled. My voice sounded as thick as if I’d been on a weekend bender, and I could hardly get my tongue around the words. I gingerly touched the tip of my tongue to the roof of my mouth and tasted blood. Was I missing any teeth? Maybe my jaw was dislocated. I had a sharp pain on the left side of my face, and it felt like someone was jamming me in the ear with a screwdriver, the remnants of an old TMJ problem.

“Who could have done this?” Lark wailed. “Maggie, did you see who it was? Was it just one person, or was there a gang? And how in the world did they get in?”

“Shhh,” Mom said, kneeling down next to me and taking my hand. “She’s not supposed to talk.”

“Why noth?” I gurgled.

“Well, because . . .” Mom shot me a quizzical look. She thought for a moment, idly rubbing my hair back from my face. “That’s what they told us on
Stolen Passions
. I played a nurse and Marco was brought into the ER with a concussion, remember? I said to him, ‘Don’t try to talk.’ ” She used her throaty television voice and played the line as if she was doing a final taping. “It was just one line, but I put my heart and soul into it.” She paused for effect. “Don’t try to talk.”

She looked at me. “I said it just like that, with that exact intonation.”

“Thass amazing. How dith you rumembah dat?” I said with an effort. “The parth ’bout not tawking if you haf a concuss’n.”

“Rumembah? Oh, remember. You always remember your first line in the business, dear,” she said cheerfully. “Three years of waiting tables and finally my big break. A speaking part in a soap!”

I tried to get up but sank back to the floor. It was easier to think lying down, I decided. At least the living room had stopped twirling like a Cirque du Soleil dancer on a silk streamer, and I could feel myself drifting off to sleep.