Broadcast 4 Murder Page 2

  When I told her about my mother’s latest endeavor as we munched on baked subs from the deli around the corner, Augusta grimaced. “A radio show? A murder mystery radio show? Let’s hope it turns out better than her last theatrical performance. Last thing you need is another murder.”

  I let my fork slip back onto the plate. “Bite your tongue. I’m sure they’ll just be talking about murders.” Too bad I was wrong.

  CHAPTER 2

  My mother and Myrna had gotten the grand tour of the radio station on Tuesday, and she wasted no time telling me about it that evening. I kept moving the phone from ear to ear because my neck had started to develop a cramp. Meanwhile, Marshall gave me a funny look and a wink as he grabbed the remote and plunked himself into a chair. I moved to the kitchen, leaned an elbow on the table, and muttered “Uh-huh.”

  “So, like I was saying, Phee, it’s a very easy setup. George Fowler—that’s the station manager—was very helpful. And Howard Buell, the programming director, gave us the complete tour. Myrna and I will each have our own mics and all we have to do is talk. The program runs for a full hour. The station door will be open, so we can go directly to the broadcast table. Someone should be around to help us, but if not, we know exactly what to do.”

  “Um, why wouldn’t anyone be around to help you?”

  “Normally they would, or I should say Howard Buell, the programming director, would, but his pickleball team has a match in the morning. Granted, those courts are only a few yards away, but still, it’s not as if he can answer a cell phone or anything if he’s whacking around a pickleball. Besides, it’s a small setup, and most shows are live but also taped. George said he’d be in and out and not to worry about it. Myrna and I are certainly capable of pushing a few buttons.”

  Thank God they didn’t volunteer for the aviation club. “Sounds good. What’s your first show going to be about?”

  “Murder in general. We’ll mention our favorite authors and go from there. In the future, George or the DJ will show us how to accept callers so we can answer their questions. Oh, before I forget, I called your aunt and told her about the show. She practically shrieked in my ear. Wants to do a segment on Bulgarian mystery authors with a penchant for pistols. Guess we’ll cross that bridge when the time comes. Of course, knowing Ina, it will be sooner than we think.”

  “So, next Tuesday, huh?”

  “At ten sharp. Say, you take a break around that time, don’t you?”

  “I, um, er, it varies.”

  “Mark it on your calendar and take your break at ten. That way you’ll be able to hear the beginning of our show. Maybe Nate and Marshall would like to—”

  “No. They won’t. They’re working cases. They don’t have time to listen to murder mystery book club chats.”

  “Never mind, it will be taped. Oh, I almost forgot to mention the most exciting part about this. Myrna and I will get to attend the Greater Phoenix Broadcast Dinner next month. All the Phoenix radio stations attend. Maybe I’ll even be able to chat with Beth from Beth and Friends from 99.9 KEZ. It’s some sort of an award dinner. Herb went last year, but all he talked about was his porterhouse steak. Oh my gosh, maybe Myrna and I will win an award.”

  “Uh, I wouldn’t get too carried away if I were you. I think those awards are meant for outstanding broadcasting.”

  “Myrna and I can be outstanding. We can certainly be—I’ve got to run. Streetman is whining at the door. I’d better hurry. He gets very impatient.”

  “Okay, catch you later.” I hung up and plopped myself onto the couch. “Remind me to thank Streetman or I’d still be on the phone.”

  “Good timing,” Marshall said. “NCIS: New Orleans starts in a few minutes. I’ll mute the commercials and you can tell me all about KSCW’s latest programming.”

  KSCW’s latest programming, as it turned out, was the hot topic of conversation for the week leading up to my mother’s radio debut. Without fail, she called me every night to keep me informed about the show. Mostly reiterating odds and ends of gossip she or Myrna heard regarding their show.

  “Can you imagine,” my mother said a few days before her show was set to air, “that obnoxious Sylvia Strattlemeyer told Myrna we stole the radio slot from her? Now I ask you, who on God’s green earth would want to listen to an hour on the intricacies of selecting the appropriate beading needle? Her audience would be lining up to poke her in the arm with it. Sylvia told Myrna that Howard Buell himself promised her the slot. Of course, if you want to know the honest truth, Myrna told me Sylvia and Howard had been dating, but he broke it off. I suppose that’s why she didn’t get the slot. I’ve only met him that once, but I can tell you one thing: He was smart to call it quits with Sylvia.”

  I tried to be as supportive as I could, but her endless diatribes were getting on my nerves.

  The worst was the Monday night before the show. Her call came in like clockwork at eight forty-five. “We may lose the show, Phee! Lose the show! It’s awful. I feel as if someone poked a lance through my stomach.”

  “Lose the show? What are you talking about?”

  “I was at the checkout line in the supermarket today, and out of nowhere this balding man with a potbelly tapped me on the shoulder. I’d never seen him before, but apparently he knew who I was because he addressed me by name.”

  “What did he say?”

  “ ‘You must be Harriet Plunkett.’”

  I stifled a groan. “Then what?”

  “I said yes, and he said, ‘Hope your radio show tomorrow doesn’t turn out to be your last, because the station is going to do away with all of the live broadcasting if I have anything to say about it.’”

  “Then what?”

  “Then the cashier asked to see my loyalty card so I could get a discount, and by the time I was done, the man was gone. Anyway, I called George Fowler as soon as I got home and told him what had happened. According to George, the broadcast club that runs the station has been offered a lucrative sum of advertising money by local businesses if the programming was to go more commercial. You know, lots of product pitches every two seconds.”

  “Did George have any idea who that man was?”

  “He sure did: Malcolm Porter. He owns a small variety store in Peoria and lives in Sun City West. Said Malcolm has been duking it out with Howard over the advertising. Even accused Howard of canceling some of the ad contracts.”

  “Did he? Cancel those contracts?”

  “No. Only the station manager can do that. But still, I’m worried, and I can’t tell if George supports the live programs or not.”

  “Well, no sense worrying about it now. I’m sure your show will be a big hit with lots of followers and KSCW will want to keep you on the air indefinitely.” My God! I’ll stop at nothing to get off the phone.

  The next morning I made it a point of letting Augusta know that at precisely nine fifty-nine we were to drop everything, take our breaks, and turn on the radio to KSCW, 103.1 FM. Marshall had left at the crack of dawn for Florence, a good two-hour drive, and Nate was conferring with a client, the first of his many appointments. At least those two would be spared.

  “The coast is clear,” Augusta announced. “Grab a coffee and I’ll meet you in the breakroom. If anyone comes in, we’ll hear them. I’ll leave the breakroom door open.”

  “Geez. I can’t believe I’m actually nervous about this. I hope my mom and Myrna don’t get all mucked up or babble on and on without making any salient points about the books they’ve read.”

  Augusta turned on the radio to 103.1 and smiled. “I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

  A commercial for Melvin and Sons Plumbing ended and a prerecorded announcement came on. I guess my mother did know how to push the right buttons.

  “And now for our next local show. Allow our hosts to introduce themselves.”

  My mother’s voice came across very loud, and I wished there was some way to tell her to tone it down.

  Augusta saw me cover my ears and laughed. “Do
n’t worry. Half the listeners probably forgot to put in their hearing aids.”

  My mother seemed to go on and on, and I wondered when Myrna would get a chance to speak.

  Then, like a bullhorn, Myrna’s voice came through. “Harriet, do something! Someone’s been murdered!”

  “That should catch the listeners’ attention,” Augusta whispered.

  Myrna continued, “There’s a knife in his chest! And blood. Lots of blood.”

  “You’re right,” I whispered back to Augusta. “Myrna’s really good. Lots of emotion. I wonder what book she’s talking about. It could be anyone’s guess.”

  Myrna’s voice got even louder, if that was at all possible. “It’s a scissors! Not a knife, Harriet. A pair of scissors is sticking out of his chest!”

  Augusta crinkled her nose. “It can’t be Agatha Christie. She liked killing with poisons.”

  Just then, my mother was back on the air. “Don’t touch anything. Get away from that closet! My God, Myrna! The killer could be in here with us!”

  “Wow,” Augusta said. “This is better than I thought.”

  Myrna let out a scream and the station went dead. Only a robotic hum remained. Augusta and I looked at each other for a few seconds.

  “I don’t think that dead air is part of their radio show,” Augusta said.

  I was already out of my seat and at the door. “Do me a favor, call nine-one-one, tell them what you heard, and I’ll head over to Sun City West. The radio station is inside the Men’s Club building on Meeker Boulevard. Let Nate know, too. Last I knew, he was with a client in his office.”

  “Got it. Call me when you know anything.”

  I don’t remember leaving Glendale or making the twenty-five-minute drive to the radio station. Everything was a blur. I tried to tune in to KSCW from the car radio, but all I got was static. Maybe my mother hit a wrong button and turned everything off. Maybe there’s nothing to worry about, and this is really her idea of a murder mystery show.

  No matter how I tried to rationalize the situation, I couldn’t shake the thought that Myrna had somehow discovered a dead body in the radio station. But how? I thought she and my mother were supposed to be seated at the broadcast table. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t about to take any chances.

  As I pulled into the parking lot behind the Men’s Club, I saw a tall man wearing an Ohio State Buckeyes jersey race to the station door. His long, curly hair bounced up and down on his forehead, and I thought perhaps he was sporting a toupee.

  I bolted from my car and was at his heels in seconds. “Hold on,” I shouted. “My mother’s in there.” Off to our left was a sheriff’s posse car, so I knew Augusta had placed the call.

  Sun City West was a municipality serviced by the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office, unlike the nearby City of Surprise, which had its own police force.

  “Which one?” the man asked. “Plunkett or Mittleson?”

  “Plunkett, Harriet.”

  “I’m George Fowler, the station manager. I stopped in to Dunkin’ Donuts for a quick coffee when someone recognized me and asked why there was dead air at the radio station. I figured your mother and her friend ran into some sort of problem.”

  “Um, you could say that. Myrna just informed the West Valley that there was a dead body in there, along with a possible killer.”

  “Holy crap! It better be part of their show. If not, we’re in deep doo-doo. We’ll be forced to cancel our live programming in favor of digital broadcasts. Heck, the station won’t even be in Sun City West. It would be in name only. Let’s hope it was a mechanical glitch.”

  Just then, two sheriff’s cars pulled into the driveway, both of them with flashers on.

  I knew I had to move fast or one of those deputies would prevent me from entering the building. “Sorry, Mr. Fowler. Somehow I don’t think this was mechanical.”

  I charged past him and pulled the door open, praying to the gods that the dead air was due to my mother and Myrna’s broadcasting incompetence and not the result of something much worse.

  CHAPTER 3

  My mother and Myrna, along with a stout male posse member, whose white hair looked as if it had recently been slicked down with gel, stood in front of a large, walk-in closet as if they were stuck to the floor. The three of them turned their heads in my direction as soon as they heard me enter. The man from the posse rubbed his large mustache and motioned for me to stay back.

  Meanwhile, George Fowler charged in, but instead of dealing with the obvious situation in front of him, he went straight to the broadcast table and immediately plunked a tape into a large, rectangular machine that resembled an oversize computer tower. “Easy listening music. Can’t have dead air.”

  No sooner had he uttered the word “air” when two other respondents entered the room, and my stomach immediately began to churn. My dumb luck. The county sent the two deputies with whom I had a history, and not a very pleasant one at that. Deputies Bowman and Ranston were the very ones who’d dealt with the other murders in Sun City West and took all the credit for their resolution, when it was Williams Investigations that deserved the kudos.

  Deputy Bowman wasted no time barking orders. The man reminded me of a grizzly bear that had just come out of hibernation. “Everyone! Away from the closet! Step back!”

  Then Deputy Ranston put in his two cents. “We received a call from the local posse that a deceased person was found in the radio station closet.” With his chest puffed out and his chin tucked below his neck, he strode to the spot where my mother and Myrna were still standing.

  “Not deceased! Murdered!” Myrna shouted. “See for yourself. There’s a large pair of sewing scissors sticking out of his chest.”

  “You’ll have to take a step back.” Deputy Bowman motioned for my mother and Myrna to move out of his way.

  George Fowler, who was still at the broadcast table, charged over to where the deputies were standing. “Christmas trees in July! We can’t have a dead body in here! And what’s this about scissors?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay back,” Deputy Ranston said. “I’ve placed a call to my office and they’re sending a forensics team, along with the coroner. Now, please, step back.”

  “My God!” my mother shrieked. “Did you get a look at those scissors, Myrna? They’re Vernadeen’s! Those are her fancy-dancy Gingher scissors. You know, the ones with the golden color on the eye rings. She did an entire show about the five best kinds of sewing scissors to buy, and those were her favorite. Nine-and-a-half-inch shears, if I remember correctly.”

  Myrna bobbed her head up and down. “I think you’re right. She did mention they were extremely sharp and maintained their sharpness even after constant use.”

  It was unbelievable. I caught a glimpse of the body in the closet and, believe me, scissors would be the last thing I’d recall. Frankly, I was surprised my mother and Myrna had homed in on the weapon instead of the obvious corpse sporting them. I supposed maybe it was the shock of the situation.

  The victim appeared to be in his late sixties or early seventies, with short, brown hair and a decent tan. He was wearing dark-blue jogger pants and a nondescript, light-blue sweatshirt, now permanently stained and ripped, thanks to that Gingher, or whatever my mother called those scissors. A pair of Nikes completed the outfit. He was slumped on the floor amid open cartons of old tapes and an endless supply of bottled water, Arrowhead brand to be exact.

  “I’ll need statements from each of you,” Deputy Bowman said while Deputy Ranston appeared to be having his own conversation off to the side of the room with the posse member first to arrive at the scene.

  George Fowler elbowed Deputy Bowman and leaned into the closet. “Dear God! That’s Howard Buell, our programming director. What’s he doing dead on our floor? I thought he was supposed to be playing pickleball. And who on earth would want to kill him?”

  The gnarly deputy turned to George. “Sir, we cannot say for sure if he was murdered until our forensics team has complete
d their part of the investigation and the coroner has rendered a decision.”

  I thought the veins on George Fowler’s head would burst. “Can’t say for sure? The guy has a pair of freaking scissors sticking out of his chest. What do you think happened? He came in here to grab a bottled water from the closet and, in lieu of returning to the pickleball courts, he committed hara-kari instead?”

  “Sir, you’re going to need to calm down. In fact, all of you need to calm down. We’ve got to get statements from everyone and contact information.” Then he gave me a look. “Miss Kimball, I believe your contact information is on file, along with Mrs. Plunkett’s.”

  Myrna grabbed my mother by the arm. “Why should your contact information be on file, Harriet?”

  “Shh! Yours should be on file, too. Remember? The murder at the Stardust Theater?”

  “Oh, that.”

  Suddenly, it was as if my mother remembered she had a daughter. “Phee! Did you bring Nate or Marshall? And how did you know we’d be standing over a dead body?”

  “I didn’t. Augusta and I were listening to your show when, out of the blue, there was radio silence. We thought you and Myrna were talking about some novel your book club read.”

  My mother’s face turned ashen. “The book club. Goodness. I can’t imagine what they must be thinking.”

  “I’ll tell you what they’re thinking,” I said. “The same thing Augusta and I were. That you or Myrna accidently hit the wrong button and stopped broadcasting.”

  My mother shook Myrna’s arm. “Oh no. They’ll think we’re incompetent. Quick, Myrna, start calling them and tell them what happened. I’ll take Shirley and Lucinda. You can have Cecilia and Louise. They can call the snowbirds later.”

  “No one is calling anyone!” Deputy Ranston bellowed, having finished his conversation with the posse member. “This is an active crime scene, and until we get clearance from the sheriff’s office, no one is to call anyone or say anything. Now, please, take a seat. I see some folding chairs against the wall. Find one and sit down. We need your statements.”