Stay Tuned for Murder (2 page)

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 Mae 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 McEntire show or offering a free cut and style 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,” and she didn’t say “husband.” I immediately wondered, was Barney a boyfriend? Fiancé? Friend with benefits?

“Eight wonderful years,” she went on. “After Barney died, my bed was so lonely at night, I cried myself to sleep. I just couldn’t believe he was 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 missed a chance to mention the title of her book. Once or twice was 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 Chantel to plug one of her books. Again.

“In chapter three of my sequel,
Dead People Talk to Me
, I’ll be covering this topic in some detail.”

Aha, right on schedule. And now she was hawking the sequel to
I Talk to Dead People
, a book that wasn’t even in print yet! Genius, right? Chantel glanced up just in time to catch Vera Mae making a throat-slitting gesture. She glared at Vera Mae for a long moment, while I ducked my head and pretended to be studying my notes.

“Yes, but to answer Sylvia’s question,” I prodded. I looked up and plastered an innocent-looking smile on my face.

“I was
getting
to that,” Chantel said testily. “I want you to know I’m feeling very strong vibes from Barney right this minute, Sylvia. In fact, he’s here in the studio.” She looked past me and gave a faint smile. “I can practically reach out and touch him. Do you see him, Maggie? He’s right behind you.”

Vera Mae gave a startled yelp and dropped all her show notes on the floor. As she scrambled to pick them up, my heart thumped in my chest and my pulse zoomed into overdrive. A little rash of goose bumps sprang up on my arm, and I willed them away. I thought I felt a cool breeze fluttering somewhere behind my left shoulder, or was I imagining it? I refused to turn around; I wasn’t going to play into her silly game.

I forced myself to maintain eye contact with Chantel. She was obviously a master manipulator and was playing tricks with my head, making me doubt my own perceptions. I hated to admit it, but she was good, very good.

I don’t believe in ghosts. Again, there was another little puff of cool air behind me, and the papers ruffled slightly on the console. It was my imagination.
It had to be.
Or maybe the always-temperamental air-conditioning unit was pumping out erratic blasts of icy air. That was why the papers were moving ever so slightly on the counter top.

No way was it a sign from the dearly departed Barney!

Was it?

I don’t believe in ghosts.

Do I?

“Yes, he’s here,” Chantel continued, her voice low and silky. “I feel his presence. Don’t you feel it, Maggie?”

“Well, um, actually—”

“You
would
feel it if you were more open to it.”

“Barney is standing right next to you, practically screaming to be heard.”

I was sure pure shock registered on my face, because she added, “I’m speaking metaphorically, of course. His spirit, his aura, is in the room, not his corporeal form. I’ll send you an advance copy of my next book, Maggie, and you’ll learn how to tune in to the spirit world.”

See what I mean? Chantel has an uncanny ability to steal the show, put me down with a snide remark, and draw the conversation back to herself. Who could compete with her “I see a dead guy in the studio” shtick? Ghosts trump psychological insights with the audience every time. Trust me.

“Ohmigod, Barney’s in the studio? Is he all right?” Sylvia shrieked through the headphones. I jumped in surprise, my right elbow slipping off the console. I’d been so caught up in the saga of Barney the Friendly Ghost, I’d completely forgotten about poor grieving Sylvia, waiting patiently on the other end of the line.

“Ask him if he needs anything! Does he look good? Is he happy?” Sylvia was so excited, she was almost hyperventilating.

“He’s very happy, Sylvia,” Chantel said warmly. “He has everything he needs. And he looks fine to me.” Chantel gave me a sly smile. “How does he look to you, Maggie?”

Ah, a trick question. How would a dead person look? I thought for a minute and drew a blank.

“Well, I guess he looks . . .”
Dead?
I wanted to say. I started to sweat a little, even though the AC was cranked up to the max. I thought I heard a faint cough sound behind me.
Do ghosts cough?

This time I really had to force myself not to look around. I was developing a nervous tic in my left shoulder, and I was stammering a little, which is also something I do when I get nervous. “I mean, I think he looks—”

“Maggie thinks he looks fine, too, Sylvia,” Chantel interjected. Then she waited a beat, lowering her voice to a funereal tone. “But he’s worried about you, dear. He doesn’t want you to be sad or unhappy at his passing.”

“But I miss him!” Sylvia wailed. “Of course I’m sad and unhappy.”

“Barney wants you to know that you didn’t do anything wrong,” Chantel said firmly, her forehead wrinkling in thought. “There’s nothing you could have done differently. He knows you feel troubled about something. It seems like he left this earth very quickly. That is correct, is it not?”

Chantel always tries to get “those left behind” to agree with her as part of her shtick. Then she builds on what they say, or changes tack if she thinks she’s veering off course.

Dead air for a beat. “No, not really.” Sylvia sounded confused.

Chantel frowned. “He passed unexpectedly, did he not?” Her tone was wheedling, argumentative, like Sam Waterston’s when he’s grilling a witness on
Law & Order
.

“Well, no—”

“One minute he was here, and the next he was not. That is correct, is it not?” Chantel was in rare form. She could give James Van Praagh a run for his money any day.

“I suppose so—”

“Then that’s
unexpected
, right?” She gave a derisive little snort, very unladylike. “Here one moment and gone the next. You can’t
get
much more unexpected than that, sweetie.” She snapped her fingers for emphasis, and all the bracelets jangled together again.

“Yes, if you put it that way.”

Chantel closed her eyes for a moment and put her fingertips to the bridge of her nose, as if lost in thought. “I’m sensing there was a problem with his heart, or it might have been cancer.”

Heart disease or cancer. A safe choice. Don’t most people die of those things?

I mean, she could have gone out on a limb and said “leprosy” or “malaria,” but why should she? Nothing like hedging your bets. I found myself hoping that Barney had died in a bizarre way.

Maybe an avalanche?
Admittedly, an avalanche would be a rarity in southern Florida, but I would have loved to see Chantel try to talk her way out of that one.

“But he didn’t have heart trouble, and his cardiac function was fine.”
Uh-oh.
A doubtful note was creeping into Sylvia’s voice. Grief stricken or not, she wasn’t falling for what Vera Mae calls Chantel’s phony-baloney.