Stay Tuned for Murder (7 page)

Mom came out on the balcony to join me, wearing a silk Japanese dressing gown, reading a copy of
Variety
. Even though we’re three thousand miles from Hollywood, she likes to stay “plugged in,” as she calls it, and follows all the latest casting news in Los Angeles.

“They’re holding auditions for a Lifetime movie,” she said. “And listen to this: they’re looking for a
young
Mia Farrow.” She paused dramatically. “A
young
Mia Farrow! Can you believe it?” She sounded shaken. “I remember her in
Rosemary’s Baby
,” she said quietly. “She was wonderful in that movie. And she looked so young, hardly more than a girl.” Mom looked wistful, her blue eyes thoughtful.

“Well, yes, Mom, of course she looked young. She
was
young. You have to remember,
Rosemary’s Baby
was filmed more than forty years ago. She’s a beautiful woman, but it’s been quite a while since she could play an ingenue.”

I wondered whether Mom realized that Mia Farrow is playing grandmother roles at this stage of her career. Lola probably did know this on an intellectual level, but maybe she blocked the information out of her mind. I think she would find it depressing beyond belief if she let herself dwell on it.

“Time flies,” Mom said with a heavy sigh. “I haven’t seen her on the screen very much recently.” I knew what she was thinking. If Mia Farrow was getting older, that meant she was getting older as well.

She flipped through the paper for a few moments and then tossed it aside. “All the casting notices seem to be for girls in their twenties and thirties,” she said, giving a little frown. “Well, no surprises there. That seems to be par for the course.” She pursed her lips and stared out into the sunny garden, apparently lost in thought.

“Do you have an audition today?” I spotted a script in her lap.

“Yes, it’s just a small part, but I better get cracking on it. My memory isn’t what it used to be.” She paused. “Lately, I seem to have trouble concentrating. That’s why I turned off the TV and the phone this morning.”

“I noticed.” Mom needs complete silence when she has to memorize lines. “I’m sure you’ll do a great job.”

“Don’t be so sure.” She made a face. “There will be tons of young girls auditioning. And then there’s me. I bet I’ll be the oldest person in the room.” She heaved a little sigh.

Mom knows that Hollywood isn’t kind to “women of a certain age,” and as she says, the clock is always ticking. There’s only a small window of opportunity for them to practice their chosen craft. For every Sally Field, Meryl Streep, and Helen Mirren, there are thousands of actresses who never work in their “mature” years. The parts just dry up, and no one sends them out on auditions. They simply become invisible.

Sometimes the same thing happens to male superstars.

“The Tab Hunter story comes to mind.” Mom smiled. “You’ve heard it, right?”

I nodded. “The four stages of Hollywood stardom.” I smiled, remembering the old joke.
Get me Tab Hunter. Get me a Tab Hunter type. Get me a young Tab Hunter. Who the hell is Tab Hunter?

Lark called out that the coffee was ready, and I brought out two mugs on a tray with a couple of croissants. Mom and I sat side by side, enjoying the bright Florida sunlight, the dazzling bougainvillea, and the sweet smell of magnolia drifting across the soft breeze.

Nothing bad could happen on a day like this, I thought.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Vera Mae called me on my cell around noon, just as I was getting ready to leave for the station. I had dressed casually in a pair of white capris and a sleeveless yellow blouse from Ann Taylor. I was just stuffing my cell phone in my tote bag when I realized it was vibrating. I quickly flipped the lid open, and before I could even say hello, Vera Mae’s voice raced across the line.

“Holy moley, girl, haven’t you heard the news? Are you watching channel six?”

“What’s up?” I said idly. I was doing a mental rundown of what I needed to stash in my tote: show notes, briefcase, water bottle, day planner, granola bar. I had the vague feeling I was forgetting something. Maybe hair spray? My shoulder-length auburn hair turns into a fuzzball when it’s humid, and I have to use industrial-strength products to tame it.

“What’s up? Miss Althea is dead—that’s what’s up. I thought surely you’d have heard by now.”

Althea dead?
I tuned out everything except those two words. A muscle jumped in my cheek, and my head throbbed with the news. While I’d been sitting outside enjoying the sunny day with Lola, Althea Somerset had died. I shook my head in disbelief at the randomness of events.

If I shared Lark’s view of the world, I’d have no trouble accepting this odd dichotomy. Lark believes that whenever the cosmos favors you with good fortune, it immediately sends a bolt of darkness and sadness. Every joyful moment is followed by tragedy. Yin and yang, Lark calls it. Sunny days are always balanced by rain. I’m glad this philosophy makes Lark happy, but I don’t buy it.

“Althea Somerset? But what happened? She was fine last night,” I said idiotically. My mind was doing loops at the impossibility of it all. It always amazes me what pops out of people’s mouths when they’re hit with the news of someone’s death.

I wasn’t a close friend of Althea’s, but she’d been kind to me when I was new in town, feeling my way. I felt a wave of sadness at her passing, and I took a deep breath to steady myself.

“She was murdered in a home invasion.” Vera Mae paused; her voice sagged. “Right there at the historical society. Bludgeoned to death with a fireplace poker.” Vera Mae had known Althea for more than two decades, I remembered. No wonder she was upset. “It was all over the news a few minutes ago.”

“We’ve had radio silence here this morning,” I said. “Lola was studying her lines. She’s going on an audition tomorrow. You know how she is when she’s memorizing a part. No one can make a sound.” I walked away from the kitchen, down the little hallway that leads to my bedroom.

Lark and Lola had headed out the front door for a shopping trip at Sawgrass Mills just a few minutes earlier. I felt a little pang when I realized they’d find out the news as soon as they turned on the car radio. I tried to gather my thoughts, which were scrambling like leaves in the wind.

Sudden death was shocking enough, but murder was unthinkable. And why Althea? It was impossible to think of her as a murder victim.

“I need to call Rafe,” I said quickly. “And Nick Harrison.”

I knew Nick, my reporter friend at the
Cypress Grove Gazette
, would be on top of the news and was probably already out interviewing sources. Even though he covers arts and entertainment, he never misses a chance to tackle the crime beat.

And Rafe, my on-again, off-again boyfriend, who happens to be a detective with the Cypress Grove PD, was probably working the case right this minute. I needed to get information from both of them, and I needed it fast.

“Well, Rafe’s already called here for you. I told him we were both at that séance last night, along with Lola and Lark. It’s weird to think that we were probably some of the last people to see her alive, isn’t it?”

Along with about thirty other people,
I thought. And of course Chantel. Could the murder be connected to the séance? But how? And who would benefit from Althea’s death?

“How fast can you get in here?” Vera Mae asked, breaking into my thoughts. “I’m thinking of putting together a memorial show about Althea and her work with the historical society. We won’t be able to get it ready in time for today, but we can certainly run it tomorrow.” She paused. “And Cyrus wants me to step up those promos for the time capsule ceremony. That was one of Althea’s pet projects.” There was a little catch in her voice.

“I know, Vera Mae,” I said softly. “That would be a wonderful tribute to her, a great way to honor her. We can work on the promos as soon as I get there. I’m on my way.”

I scrolled through my messages as I zipped out to my little red Honda parked on the street. Rafe had called my cell three times. Interesting. I thought of calling him back and decided against it. I knew he’d go ballistic if I tried to talk to him while I was driving, and I wanted to get to the station as quickly as possible.

I’d just pulled into the WYME parking lot and was scrambling out of my car when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

“I think you’ve done it again, Sherlock.” A male voice, low and husky, with a sexy undercurrent that made my heart go flip-flop. I recognized the voice immediately, that sultry tone with a teasing edge could belong to only one person.

“How’s that?” My heart was thumping in my chest, but I tried to sound casual as I glanced over my shoulder. I grabbed my tote bag off the front seat, closed the car door, and took my time pushing my sunglasses on top of my head before I turned to face him.

We were standing just a few feet away from each other, and I felt a wave of emotion body slam me. Rafe was wearing a black T-shirt and dark denim jeans and looked like a million bucks. Life is unfair. It isn’t standard cop attire, but he’s a detective and often works undercover, so I guess he can wear whatever he wants.

Rafe and I have an on-again, off-again history, but my traitorous hormones always kick into high gear when I’m standing this close to him. It’s like he’s putting out pheromones that draw me back into his web. Is he even aware that he’s doing it? I’ve often wondered about that. Something about the sexy little smile that plays over his lips tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“It looks like you’ve gotten yourself involved in another murder, Maggie,” he said lightly. “You’ve heard about Althea Somerset, right?” I nodded and he went on. “Vera Mae tells me you were the last person to see her alive. I’d like to hear more about that.” A smile, coaxing, played on his lips.

I decided it was time to set him straight. “What Vera Mae said isn’t quite accurate, Rafe. I was
one
of the last people to see her alive.” For a homicide detective, he was remarkably casual about his choice of words. Or maybe he was being deliberately obtuse, trying to throw me off guard, something he enjoys doing from time to time.

“There were at least thirty people at the historical society last night,” I continued. “And a handful of them were chosen to actually get up onstage and participate in the séance. But you probably know all this, right?” I said, goading him a little.

“Of course. I have a copy of the guest list,” he said in that maddening way. “Luckily Althea asked people to sign the register at the door. And Vera Mae filled me in on which guests Chantel chose to sit at the table with her. I know Althea was one of them. In any case, Duane and I plan on interviewing every single person who was at the historical society last night. And a few other people who might have knowledge of the case.”

“Really? Other people?”

Rafe shrugged, not willing to give anything away. “Duane is checking out some collateral contacts for me.”

“Have they established the time of death?”

“The coroner is still working on that. It could be late last night or early this morning. Duane is going to call the medical examiner’s office for an update.”

Officer Duane Brown is a freckle-faced rookie cop whom I secretly call Opie because he’s a dead ringer for that kid from Mayberry. He barely looks old enough to get a library card, much less carry a gun.

Rafe rubbed his hand over his jaw, looking thoughtful. “But since you were right there last night, in the thick of things, I thought I’d start with you. And Chantel Carrington, of course. I figured I could talk to both of you at the same time. Vera Mae told me Chantel was coming into the station today.”

“Really? That’s news to me. She doesn’t have a show scheduled.” I thought for a moment. “Maybe she’s hoping to cash in on some publicity for herself,” I muttered. “That’s exactly the kind of thing she would do. She probably thinks of Althea’s death as a golden opportunity. It might even create some extra buzz for her new book.” It would also boost my ratings the next time she appeared, but I decided not to point that out to him.

“Is that a fact?” His eyes narrowed a little at the corners, and I could see the wheels clicking in his mind. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a tiny notebook.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t write that down,” I said, only half seriously. Rafe makes copious notes about his cases, and I didn’t want my snarky remark to be immortalized in a police report somewhere. “You know I didn’t mean it. I’m just not a big fan of Chantel and her mumbo jumbo.”

Officer Brown drove up just then in a black-and-white cruiser and slid into a parking place next to us. He jumped out, nodded to Rafe, and greeted me, looking uncomfortable in his scratchy serge uniform.

“Will you be doing a psychological profile on the perp, Dr. Maggie?” Opie asked me.

I could see Rafe biting back a smile. Opie is a huge fan of detective shows—
CSI Miami
,
Law & Order
, and
The Mentalist
—and he sprinkles cop talk into every conversation. Opie is wildly impressed that I did forensic work back in Manhattan, and he has an idealized view of the field. And of me, for that matter. He says I remind him of Dr. Elizabeth Olivet, the classy police psychologist who used to be on
Law & Order
.

“Afraid not,” I told him. “I just found out about the murder a few minutes ago. As far as I know, no
perp
has been identified. In fact, I don’t think there are any suspects at the moment.” I tossed a questioning look at Rafe, who was keeping a poker face. “And I really don’t think the local police are too interested in anything I’d have to say,” I continued. “They believe that good old-fashioned detective work trumps forensic psychology any day.”

This is an old argument between Rafe and me. Rafe insists that forensic psychology is useless and refuses to believe it can reveal anything about personality and motive. I’ve helped solve two murders since moving to Cypress Grove. One victim was a New Age guru and the other a film star, but Rafe always acts as though he’s two steps ahead of me.