Dead Air Part 4

I'd been trying to call Lark on her cell every ten minutes and was frustrated that I kept getting her voice mail. "I just can't believe she's a murder suspect," I repeated peevishly.

"I can't believe it, either. What in tarnation would her motive be?" Vera Mae pondered.

"It beats me," I told her. I yanked off my headphones and we ducked into the break room to grab a whole-wheat donut and coffee (hey, fiber is healthy, right?) before heading back to the studio.

"She never even met the fella. Why would she want to kill him?"

"Exactly!" I shook my head. "The police are on the wrong track, and the sooner they figure it out, the better." Vera Mae carefully wrapped up the donut crumbs for Tweetie Bird and bought a package of peanuts for him out of the vending machine.

"And if she was at the town house all night, then I don't think those cops have a thing to go on. If they come sniffing around here asking questions, you can be darn sure I'll give them a piece of my mind. They're just spinning their wheels and wasting taxpayers' money by barking up the wrong tree. And I'm not a bit afraid to tell them so!"

She stopped as if she had run out of breath. Then she stared hard at me, her uncanny mental radar kicking in. "Maggie, is there something you're not telling me? Lark was with you last night, right?" She lowered her voice as if she was afraid that the break room might be bugged.

"Well, you see, that's the problem," I admitted. "She was home for dinner, but then she slipped out on an errand."

"Oh, lordie," Vera Mae moaned. "This is a whole different kettle of catfish. Did you tell the police this?"

"Not exactly. I hesitated and never really answered their question directly. They probably suspected I was holding something back." I bit back a sigh. You know what they say about hindsight being twenty-twenty. What if I had made things worse for Lark by fudging the facts?

"That might not have been the wisest choice, hon. But I know your heart's in the right place and you wanted to help her." Vera Mae pressed her lips tightly together, and I knew she was dying to give me a lecture on the value of truthfulness. "The police don't take kindly to folks withholding information from them. Obstruction of justice, they call it. Or maybe even an accessory to a crime."

Obstruction of justice? Accessory to a crime? I knew Martino would like nothing better than to slap those handcuffs on me again and dance me down the hallway in front of my coworkers. "Vera Mae, I may have made a tactical error, but I think it will all work out right in the end. You know what they say: The truth will come out."

I gave a good facsimile of a nonchalant chuckle, even though I suddenly felt cold inside. For all I knew, I'd be next on Martino's. .h.i.t list, but at the moment, my only concern was for Lark.

"It's a done deal!" Jim Wilc.o.x crowed, charging into the break room, startling me so much that hot coffee slopped over onto my wrist. "I just interviewed the police chief and it sounds like your roommate is guilty as sin, Maggie." He waggled his fingers at me, looking inordinately pleased with himself.

"She's not guilty," I said between clenched teeth. "No way in h.e.l.l is she guilty."

"Hot d.a.m.n! They're gonna nail her skinny b.u.t.t to the barn door. To the barn door!" His face was bright red, and he was shouting like he was announcing a Hail Mary pa.s.s at a Cypress Grove Cougars football game. He rubbed his hands together gleefully.

Lark was guilty? Impossible! I knew I was gaping like a goldfish, but it was Vera Mae who trounced him.

"Well, my, don't you have a way with words, Jimbo," she chirped. "Nailed to the barn door? Sounds like you're the judge, jury, and executioner. I didn't realize you were a legal eagle as well as a sports announcer. And what exactly did you find out at the police station, pray tell?"

"Lark was dragged down there for questioning," he gloated. "They had her in the interrogation room, and she wasn't looking any too happy about it. If only I could've been a fly on the wall. You know what they do in there, don't you?"

"I don't think we need to hear this," Vera Mae interrupted.

Big Jim snickered. "Well, I'll tell you," he rushed on. "They turn the air-conditioning way down so the suspect starts to sweat. Then they saw off a couple of inches from both front legs of the chair. That way the poor sucker has to sit with his a.s.s muscles tensed tight as a drum, miserable as h.e.l.l, trying not to slide off onto the floor."

"Charming." Vera rolled her eyes at me.

"I saw that on CSI the other night." Big Jim's eyes were glazed, and his voice had a high, jittery edge to it. "I wonder if I could do a jailhouse interview and get her to confess?" he mused. "That's the kind of thing that can get you on Dateline. I can see it now: 'Women Who Kill! A Jim Wilc.o.x Exclusive.' "

Jim spread his beefy hands out in front of him, as if he could see a brilliant career in big-league broadcasting unfolding before his bulging eyes.

"I can't believe Lark's down there right now in a jail cell," I said miserably. "I need to talk to her right this second and find out how I can help her. Maybe I can finally reach her on her cell." A horrible thought hit me. "Unless they took it away from her." I pictured Lark in a lonely, dark cell with nothing but a thin gray blanket and a Roller Derby queen named Killer to keep her company.

"We need to get over to the jailhouse right now," Vera Mae said.

"Well, there's no point in you two playing Thelma and Louise, because the fact is, she's probably on her way home by now," Big Jim huffed, taking his voice down a notch.

"What? She's on her way home? You had us thinking she was on death row!" Vera Mae glared at him, her hands on her hips.

Big Jim shrugged. "They released her--but that's just for now," he added darkly. "She's their number-one suspect, though. They're probably biding their time, building a case. I tried to get a statement as she was getting into her car, and she darn near ran me over with that little foreign number of hers."

He brushed at an imaginary piece of lint on his powder blue polyester jacket. "It could have been a case of vehicular homicide. She's lucky I'm such a nice guy. Anybody else would've pressed charges."

"Oh, vehicular homicide, my patootie," Vera Mae exclaimed. "Is the girl all right? That's all we want to know."

"She seems to be," he said, helping himself to the coffee, ignoring the "honor jar" filled with quarters. "She's a feisty little thing, isn't she? But stay tuned, folks," he said, his good humor restored. "That girl's in a heap of trouble."

Chapter 6.

I finally managed to catch up with Lark during a thirty-second commercial break on my show ("The Last Call Funeral Home! We're dying to please you!"). She sounded tired and listless, as if all the energy had been sucked right out of her. She said she was going directly to bed, and I promised to pick up some of her favorite Chinese takeout for a late dinner together.

Veggie stir-fry for her, veggie lo mein for me, and a heart-healthy dumpling for Pugsley--steamed, not fried, no soy sauce, no MSG. It's probably significant that the dog eats healthier food than we do, but this wasn't the time to dwell on it.

This also wasn't the right time for a heart-to-heart talk with Lark, I decided.

I needed to get through my s.h.i.+ft and then do some investigating before getting the lowdown from her. If Detective Rafe Martino was determined to zero in on the wrong person, that was his business. I would outmaneuver him and outfox him every step of the way, and I knew exactly where I had to start.

It was a no-brainer.

I needed to scope out the place where the guru had met his untimely end, or his "transition" into the cosmos, as he would call it.

So that meant I needed to see Ted Rollins, general manager of the Seabreeze Inn.

"Maggie, good to see you!"

"You, too." He pulled me into a gentlemanly hug and kissed me on the cheek.

Ted is the proverbial nice guy, the kind your mom and all your friends wish you would marry. He's tall and ruggedly handsome, with sandy brown hair and a terrific smile. He was wearing a crisp white s.h.i.+rt with a wheat-colored blazer that set off his deep tan, along with some expensive-looking Italian loafers.

Ted has been asking me out ever since I moved to Cypress Grove, and I've always turned him down. What can I say? I always pick bad boys, the kind the nuns warned me about. You know, the guys who don't call, trample on my heart, and wreak havoc with my emotions. And naturally I pursue them relentlessly, doomed to fail, like a salmon swimming upstream only to dash itself against those pesky rocks hidden underwater.

Which probably explains why I'm still single at thirty-two and Ted and I will never be more than good friends.

"Terrible news about the guru," I murmured as Ted ushered me into the empty breakfast room off the lobby and poured coffee for us. I shot a sidelong glance at him. He was acting very calm and collected, as always. How much did he know?

It was a cheerful place with a high ceiling, blue chintz tablecloths, and a wide bay window that offered a dazzling view of the hotel gardens. The polished heart-pine floors were scattered with handmade yellow and blue braided rugs that gave it an upscale yet cozy feel.

I heard the chatter of cicadas and glanced outside as we sat down. It was early summer, and the garden was spectacular, a riot of blooms and color. Delicate yellow roses and day lilies vied for attention with flashy hibiscus and purple bougainvillea. A Casablanca fan swirled lazily in the breakfast room, and a faint scent of honeysuckle wafted in from an open window.

If I hadn't been feeling so wired, it would have been a great place to relax.

Breakfast was served from seven to ten every morning, but Ted always keeps free coffee, juice, mineral water, and m.u.f.fins available for the guests all day long. That's just the kind of guy he is.

"It's awful," he said, pulling his chair close to me. "I still can't believe it happened right upstairs," he added, shaking his head. "I've been fielding questions from reporters all morning, and we've already had a few guests cancel their reservations."

"Really?" I kept my tone neutral, but my pulse skittered.

"It's very upsetting for them, you know. To think that someone died under suspicious circ.u.mstances, right here at the Seabreeze. I tried to rea.s.sure them, but what could I say? No one really knows what happened to Guru Sanjay. I guess they're considering the possibility of foul play, but they're not giving out much information. His team is going ahead with the conference, but they're all pretty sh.e.l.l-shocked. They're upstairs right now in the Magnolia Ballroom. A pretty good turnout."

"Is that so? I'm surprised they didn't just cancel it." So Team Sanjay was still here. In the Magnolia Ballroom. That gave me an idea. I could start my investigation immediately.

"Miriam Dobosh--she seems to be in charge now--said it's what the guru would have wanted. They're going to head back to South Beach to arrange for the funeral right after the closing ceremony tomorrow morning. Of course, there's always the possibility they'll have to return to Cypress Grove for questioning. I guess it all depends on what the police decide to do. They haven't even released the body yet."

"I'm sure it's very unsettling for everyone," I said demurely, wondering how I could find out what else he knew. He'd mentioned suspicious circ.u.mstances and foul play. Was that an educated guess, or had he heard something? I needed to find out exactly what he knew--fast.

"Of course, he could have died from natural causes," he said, breaking into my thoughts.

"Oh, absolutely." I smiled brightly at him, hoping he would say more.

"I heard your interview with him yesterday," he said, resting his hand lightly on mine. "You did an excellent job, as usual. It made me want to run out and buy his book, and I'm usually not into that self-help stuff." He gave a little self-deprecating smile.

I nodded. Ted listens to my show every single day. Just like my mother, I thought wearily, and then realized that Freud would have a field day with that one.

"I'm not into all that cosmic stuff, either," I admitted, slathering a blueberry m.u.f.fin with honey b.u.t.ter. I'm into calories and cholesterol, I thought, resisting the urge to slide a cheese Danish onto my plate. And those tiny banana-nut minim.u.f.fins at the Seabreeze--they're the best. I poured two Splendas into my coffee to even out the calorie count.

"I suppose it was very hard for you to get the news," he went on. "You know, I've been worried about you, Maggie. I'm glad you stopped by today. I was going to call and see how you were doing." (See what I mean? He's not only kind and good-looking; he's sensitive and worried about my feelings. Maybe I aminsane not to take our relations.h.i.+p to the next level!) I nodded, trying to look properly somber. "It was certainly a shock." I toyed with my teaspoon, wondering how to broach the subject. "Do the police have any leads?" I asked innocently.

"I'm not sure," Ted said, his tone grave. "They were here late last night interviewing the staff, and the lead detective was back again this morning. He's sort of an annoying guy," he said, his face clouding.

"Really?" My heart rate bounced up a notch. Annoying, irritating, and impossibly s.e.xy.

"Yeah." His blue eyes glinted and his smile was sardonic. "He came on pretty strong and tried to steamroll his way over everyone. I guess he was only doing his job, but I'm not looking forward to seeing him again. And I have the feeling he'll be back."

"Detective Martino?" I blurted out without thinking.

Ted looked surprised. "Yes, how did you know?"

"I think I may have heard his name mentioned at the station," I said glibly, not wanting to explain the early-morning visit. "You know, Big Jim Wilc.o.x usually covers the crime beat. But he was tied up this morning, and I think I saw Martino's name on a news report Jim had filed."

"Well, he certainly grilled Carmela, who was working the front desk last night." Ted frowned. "She's not completely fluent in English, and I think she was intimidated by him. If I'd been thinking straight, I would have insisted on having an interpreter there for her. He can be something of a bully, and I don't appreciate him manhandling my staff."

"He can have that effect on people." I allowed myself a small, derisive snort.

"So you know him?"

"No, of course not. But that's what I've heard. You know, around the station," I said, backpedaling quickly as Ted's eyebrows shot up. "So, what did she tell him?"

"He wouldn't let anyone sit in on the interview," Ted said morosely. "But I know that Carmela told him a young woman visited the guru in his room last night. Someone slim and blond who was carrying a big tote bag. I guess it was a purse, but Carmela said it was so big, she thought it might be an overnight bag."

Lark and her yellow Coach bag! That clinched it. Lark was at the Seabreeze, but when? And why? She hadn't paid a surprise visit to her idol, had she? My thoughts were scrambling like a gerbil on steroids. But Carmela must have been mistaken. Maybe Lark had just left a note for the guru at the front desk, I decided. There was no way she would go up to his room, was there?

"Did Carmela know the girl's name?" I asked, trying to keep my voice bland.

"I don't think so, but I know that Martino took down a description and Carmela said she's seen her in the neighborhood. Very slim, s.h.a.ggy short blond hair, about five-two. Funny, but if I didn't know better, I'd say she could be Lark's twin."

Lark's twin. My spirits sank like a stone, but I managed a wan smile. "Hey, wouldn't that be something?" I said, joining in the fun. "Maybe Lark has a long-lost twin who has a thing for gurus, but I guess that only happens in detective novels." I bit back a nervous laugh that ended in an embarra.s.sing squeak.

"I guess," Ted said, looking puzzled.

"So," I said, clearing my throat, "it sounds like Martino may have a lead. But did anyone else visit the guru last night? Did Carmela mention any other suspects? I mean guests?" I corrected myself quickly.

"Carmela didn't see anyone else."

I glanced out into the lobby. "Yes, but someone could have slipped by the front desk if things were busy. See how easy it would be? All they had to do was follow that hallway toward the garden, and then they could take the back stairs and walk right up to his room."

"I guess it's possible."

"Or maybe it was someone in the guru's own party; you know, one of his staff members. He could have had some sort of confrontation with him, and maybe he accidentally killed him." I paused, thinking it over. "I bet lots of people had access to his room. He was on the second floor, right?"

"How did you know that?"

"Well, he told me he hated elevators. He said he refused to use one. We were talking about claustrophobia during the commercial break yesterday, and I just couldn't picture him hoofing it up several flights of stairs. So I figured he'd ask you for a room on the lowest floor."

"Maggie Walsh, ace detective," Ted teased me. "You know, you sound like you're conducting a homicide investigation. For all I know, you could be working undercover as Martino's partner."

"No chance of that."

He grinned and gave me a searching look while I busied myself pouring more coffee for us. "Is there something you're not telling me, Maggie? You're not here on a.s.signment, are you? Covering the story for WYME?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that," I rushed on. "It's just that . . . well, you know, I interviewed Guru Sanjay, and I feel terrible that he died. Or was murdered. Right here. In this hotel."

I felt my face flus.h.i.+ng, and I could feel a trickle of flop sweat crawling down my spine. I knew I had said too much. Was Ted suspicious? My mental 8-Ball said: "Signs point to no." He was slipping his arm around me, big-brother style.

"Hey, Maggie, honey, you can't let this get to you." He pulled me close to him for a moment, his voice warm with concern. "Just let the police do their job, and it will all come out right in the end, you'll see. They'll find out who killed Guru Sanjay."

Manuel, the busboy, suddenly materialized next to us. "Senor Rollins," he said softly. He pointed to the front desk, where Carmela was pantomiming that Ted had to take an important phone call.

"Oops, that's a call from Corporate I've been expecting. I've got to skedaddle." He smiled into my eyes before sliding back his chair and standing up. "I don't want you worrying over this anymore, Maggie. The police will get to the bottom of it; they're the professionals, you know."

"I know."

He playfully touched the end of my nose, his deeply tanned face breaking into a wide grin. "So I want you to promise me you won't give it another thought."

"I promise." I fake-smiled back at him and for the first time in my life raised three fingers in the Girl Scout sign, even though the closest I've ever gotten to the world of Scouting is scarfing down an entire box of Samoas at one sitting.

Somehow I knew he would like the three-finger salute, though, and sure enough, he gave me a big thumbs-up. I made a show of leaning back and reaching for that luscious cheese Danish, the one that had been sitting on the plate all that time, calling my name. I did it just to show Ted how relaxed and worry free I was (even if mildly carbohydrate addicted and maybe even insulin resistant).