Stay Tuned for Murder (6 page)

I frowned. “Joshua Riggs? I have to confess I haven’t heard of him.”

“He’s a British landscape artist, and he often didn’t sign his paintings. It’s practically a trademark.”

“That seems very odd to me. Why in heaven’s name wouldn’t he sign his work?” Mildred Smoot had joined us. Mildred, the town librarian, is in her late seventies and an amateur artist. She reached for a pair of bifocals that hung on a beaded chain around her neck and peered at the painting. “It’s not very good technically, is it?” She shook her head in disapproval. “I wouldn’t get away with this in my watercolor class. And the draftsmanship is horrendous. It looks as though he dashed it off in an hour or two. Not my cup of tea, I’m afraid.”

“It does have a sort of unfinished, amateurish look to it,” Althea agreed. “But that’s how Joshua Riggs painted in his later years. His early paintings are the valuable ones, the ones he did before the middle of the nineteenth century. In his later years, he fell onto hard times and ended up destitute, living in a friend’s attic.”

“Really? I hadn’t heard that,” Mildred murmured.

“According to his biographer, poor Joshua became quite paranoid and eccentric. He always thought people were out to steal his paintings, so he decided to hide the really good ones. He’d paint a second picture right over the first one. The top one is a decoy.”

“A decoy? What an interesting idea,” Mildred exclaimed. “Do you suppose there’s something wonderful hidden behind this one?”

I moved closer for a better view and discovered something odd. The painting was in a massive gold frame, and there was a tiny trace of blue paint in the bottom right corner. But there was no blue in the painting. Could there be another painting underneath? And somehow a streak from the hidden painting ended up on the frame? It seemed far-fetched, but not impossible. “Maybe someone could X-ray it to see if there’s another painting underneath,” I suggested. “Someone who specializes in restoring paintings, an art expert, could do that for you. I know they do that at the museums in New York.”

Althea considered this for a moment. “I doubt we have anyone like that in Cypress Grove, but I did make arrangements to have it reframed first thing tomorrow morning.” She paused. “Maybe the framer will have some ideas, or know someone I can contact.”

“I hope so,” I said warmly. “I think you may be sitting on a gold mine, Althea.”

“Do you really think so? I hope you’re right,” she said wistfully. “The historical society could certainly use the money.” She pointed to a pile of paintings stacked up against the wall. “There are some of the other ones I found in the basement. Maybe I should go through all of them. Perhaps there are some treasures lurking there.”

“If you find out that the painting really is valuable, make sure you tell Vera Mae. It will fit right in with some time capsule promos we’re running this week, and it will be a good chance to mention the work you do here.”

“Thank you, Maggie. I’ll do that,” she said warmly. “Every bit of publicity helps the society.”

It was nearly nine o’clock when we got back to the town house, after swinging by Banyan Way to drop Vera Mae off at her condo.

“That was quite an evening,” Lola said, kicking off her too-high heels and heading for the refrigerator. “I didn’t believe that whole bit about Michael and his tales of doom and gloom—that was a bunch of hooey—but you have to admit, Chantel has an amazing stage presence. She really had the audience eating out of the palm of her hand.” Mom let out a tiny sigh.

Was she a little envious? Well, if she was, who could blame her?

People were showering Chantel with lucrative book contracts and movie deals plus a chance to hit the lecture circuit and play at major venues. Chantel had created a great platform—talking to the dead—and was getting loads of media attention. When you thought of it, it was brilliant. Who could say she
wasn’t
talking to the dead? As one of my professors once said, it’s tough to prove a negative.

“Yes, she knows how to connect with the audience. She’s that way on my show, too. She ropes in the listeners right away, and the lines are always jammed with callers.”

I was feeling a little twinge of jealousy myself. If Chantel ever wangles her own show on WYME, I bet she’ll outpace
On the Couch with Maggie Walsh
in a heartbeat. It’s all about ratings, and Chantel knows how to work her magic, not just with the listeners, but with Cyrus Still, the station manager.

She’s savvy about promoting herself, and I don’t quite trust her. I have the feeling she’d step right over me to get to the top and would be willing to do whatever it takes. I still didn’t understand her motivation, though.

Why would she be interested in a small market like Cypress Grove? Or was it a stepping-stone to something bigger? I’d never really believed her line that she came here for some much-needed peace and quiet in order to write. From what I’ve seen of Chantel, peace and quiet—and isolation—are the last things she needs.

“I wonder if she’s had any theatrical training,” Mom said. “Or maybe she’s just a natural. Either way, I’d love to find out more about her. I have the feeling she’s a fellow thespian.”

A fellow thespian? A charlatan is more like it,
I thought.

But it was interesting that Lola believed she recognized a fellow actress, a kindred spirit, in Chantel. Lola has been pursuing an acting career most of her life. At fifty-eight, she’s still hoping to grab the brass ring, although the years may have dampened her over-the-top aspirations. In a youth-oriented culture, how far can Lola really go with her acting career, and what sorts of parts can she hope to play?

Lola has managed to snare some parts in B movies—the kind that go straight to video—and recently, she appeared in a Hollywood movie that was being shot right here in Cypress Grove. She got the part because of her friendship with Hank Watson, the director, but it still was an exciting time for her, and she loved being part of the production.

I was involved with the movie company as well, first as a script consultant, and then I found myself investigating a murder that happened on the set.

There’s a bustling film business in Miami, and Mom still trots off to auditions every time she gets the chance. She’s acquired a new agent, Edgar Dumont, who has an office in South Beach. He looks like he’s been around since the golden age of Hollywood, but he does send her on “go-sees” and auditions for the occasional low-budget flick or television commercial. It’s enough to keep her hopes up, I guess, because she never gives up on the business entirely.

“Intermittent reinforcement,” the shrinks call it. Give a pigeon a few crumbs as a reward from time to time (but don’t do it all the time) and it’s more effective than a regular pay-off. In other words, keep them guessing. Giving someone a few strokes occasionally and randomly will keep them coming back for more. Reward them every time and they lose interest in a hurry.

“Just call in the next time Chantel’s on the show and ask her whatever you want,” I suggested. “Vera Mae will make sure you get through. You can call Vera Mae on her private line. I’ll give you the number.”

“Well, I’d hate jumping ahead of the other listeners,” Mom said. “After all, you’re the host of the show. I don’t want anyone to think I’m being pushy or asking for special treatment.”

I laughed. “Are you kidding? Mom, I think I’m entitled to a few perks as a WYME talk show host.”

I wondered whether she realized I’d taken a huge pay cut to move to Florida and work at WYME. Even though it was expensive to live in Manhattan, I’d made a good living from psychology, especially since I specialized in forensic work.

I also had a small “concierge practice” on the side and saw only a dozen or so patients every week. I always thought of them as the “worried well” because they were high-functioning types, mostly high-powered executives and a few show business personalities. They didn’t use their health insurance cards because they didn’t want to leave a paper trail of their sessions with me, and they always paid out of pocket. Some of them even paid me a monthly retainer to make sure that I’d always be available to them.

Being a radio talk show host in a small market has a lot of positive things associated with it, but money isn’t one of them. It’s fun, it’s entertaining, you meet some terrific people, you become an instant celebrity, and you have your own parking spot.

But you don’t get rich. Trust me.

I bent down to hug Pugsley, who, even thirty minutes after our return, was still circling my ankles, yipping with excitement, delirious with joy at our return. Pugsley is the furry love of my life, a three-year-old rescue dog who understands my most intimate thoughts and feelings. He’s the next best thing to a soul mate and gives me what every woman craves.

Unconditional love and a ton of sloppy kisses.

Pugsley never has a bad day. I feel happier just being around him.

I scooped him up and settled down with him at the kitchen table. The kitchen is a cozy place, with oak floors, exposed beams, and cream walls dotted with abstract canvases ainted by local artists. Lark has an excellent eye for color, and she’s picked them up for a song at neighborhood yard sales.

Pugsley squirmed in my lap, watching Mom at the refrigerator, probably angling for a treat. We try to keep him on what Lark calls a heart-healthy diet, but we allow for the occasional snack. After all, what’s life without a few Liv-a Snaps now and then?

Mom pulled out a plate of blueberry-walnut scones and set it down in front of me while Lark filled the electric tea-kettle. Exotic teas and homemade goodies have become an evening ritual for us, and I’m very fortunate that Lark loves to cook. She’s into organic food and makes everything from scratch, using whole grains, flaxseed, soy powder, and other heart-healthy nutrients that she stashes in glass canisters. If she wasn’t so dedicated to her paralegal studies, I think she would make an excellent personal chef.

“I’m curious about your reaction to the séance, Lark,” Mom said to her. “Did you feel anything special when you were sitting there at the table tonight with Chantel?”

Lark looked pensive for a moment and then ran her hand through her choppy blond hair. Lark has a winsome look about her, and with her delicate bones and slim stature, people often mistake her for a teenager.

“I can’t really say,” she said finally, carefully measuring out some fragrant peach-vanilla tea into the pot. “I felt
something
, but maybe it was just the power of suggestion. Chantel has a very strong aura around her, you know. She comes across much more forcefully in person than she does on the radio.”

“It was hard for us to tell anything, sitting way back in the audience,” Mom said.

I suddenly remembered the puff of white smoke that danced for a few minutes in the air and then disappeared. I asked Lark about it.

“Yes, I saw it, too,” she said quickly. “It seemed to come out of nowhere.” She wrinkled her nose. “The funny thing is, it had a strange odor to it. Like a chemical smell.”

“Really? That’s interesting.” Maybe Chantel had released a vial that contained some sort of vapor that hung over the table for a few minutes before vanishing. It was a little odd, but I suppose it added to the air of mystery. I made a mental note to ask Nick Harrison, my friend at the
Gazette
, to check it out. I was sure Nick would have some ideas on magic tricks, or he’d at least know whom to ask. He has terrific connections on both coasts along with the tenacity of a pit bull when he’s hot on the trail of a story. I wrote
Call Nick
at the top of my to-do list before turning in to bed at eleven o’clock, with Pugsley nestled happily at my side. He fell asleep within minutes, caught up in a doggie dream, his tiny feet making galloping motions as if he was chasing a rabbit.

I reached over to pet him, my own thoughts going back to Chantel’s séance. Her silly conversation with Michael the spirit guide. Her blind ambition. Was she trying to take over my show? And what about her somber prediction that there was danger afoot in Cypress Grove? She warned that disaster would strike us, all because of greed, avarice, and some very dark secrets.

You notice how she kept the warning completely general, never specific. It would fit any situation, any set of circumstances, just like the horoscope column in the local paper. Who’d believe such nonsense?

I rolled over and gathered Pugsley in my arms like a teddy bear, but I couldn’t turn off my thoughts. Then I answered my own question.
Who’d believe in Chantel?
The same people who believed in crop circles, Area 51, and the idea that the Nazis had a base on the moon. Oh, yeah, and the wacky notion that supermarket bar codes were actually part of a secret government plot to control our thoughts and behavior.

Conspiracy theories. They might make for an interesting show, and I decided to run the idea past Vera Mae when I got to the studio the next day.

And that’s the last thing I remember before I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next morning was a perfect south Florida day, bright and sunny, with just a few puffy clouds drifting across a paint-box blue sky. I opened the sliding glass door to our tiny balcony, and Pugsley went flying outside while I plugged in the coffeepot.

I like to linger on the balcony with a cup of high-octane Hazelnut Delight before starting my day, and if Mom’s staying at the town house with us, she always joins me. Mom has her own place in Miami, but she visits frequently, and I’m glad I paid a little extra to have a three-bedroom unit.

The balcony is tiny, probably only fifty square feet, and simply furnished with a couple of navy canvas deck chairs I picked up at Tar-zhay plus a small wicker table. But it overlooks a pretty little fountain that spills into a pond and a nice little garden bordered by some magnolia bushes at the end of the property.

I got the coffeepot going and then sat out on a deck chair, watching the copper green metal dolphins twirling in the spray, the droplets looking like tiny crystals as they landed on the terra-cotta tiles edging the pond. It was one of those mornings that makes me grateful to be living in south Florida, a day when all is right with the world.