Stay Tuned for Murder Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Praise for the Talk Radio Mystery Series

  Reel Murder

  “A breezy, quick read, with oddball characters and a warm, tropical setting.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “A well-paced story.”

  —I Love a Mystery

  “[R]ich characters and a moving plot that will keep you guessing until the last wonderful page.”

  —TwoLips Reviews

  “With a lively cast of characters, including Maggie’s hilarious mother, and a spellbinding mystery to solve, Kennedy continues to delight and surprise her readers with this winning addition to the cozy mystery genre.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “There is no doubt . . . Reel Murder is nothing but a win-win for the reader.”

  —Once Upon a Romance Reviews

  Dead Air

  “If you’re thinking of committing murder in South Florida, beware of Mary Kennedy’s delightful radio psychologist, Maggie Walsh, one of the most appealing amateur sleuths to come along in years. Hook her up with Jessica Fletcher and no murderer shall ever go unpunished.”

  —Donald Bain, author of the Murder, She Wrote series

  “Tune in for a great new series featuring insightful Dr. Maggie, a radio talk show psychologist who says it like she sees it in a wry and clever debut. Huge fun.”

  —Carolyn Hart, author of Laughed ’til He Died

  “Mary Kennedy’s smart and sophisticated radio shrink uses her wit and wiles to catch a killer. Frasier would be jealous!”

  —Nancy Martin, author of the Blackbird Sisters series

  “Floridians can claim another sleuthing marvel—and Kennedy has the beginning of a hit series. Charming, humorous, sassy psychologist Maggie Walsh is a cross between Carrie Bradshaw and Dr. Jennifer Melfi as she deals with flaky coworkers, a screen-siren mother, and the attentions of a sexy detective and a gorgeous hotelier. The plot lures the unsuspecting reader into the laid-back Florida coast before turning up the volume on the competitive world of New Age gurus.”

  —Romantic Times (4 stars)

  “Dead Air is a fun, fast-paced mystery set in steamy Florida with a bright, engaging heroine.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “You definitely want to tune in to this one.... Dead Air is the excellent start to the Talk Radio Mystery series. The characters are fresh, fun, and exciting.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “Mary Kennedy opens up her new amateur sleuth series with a delightful homicide that will keep the audience guessing just who the killer is.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “Dead Air has more twists and turns than an old country road!”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  Other Talk Radio Mysteries by Mary Kennedy

  Dead Air

  Reel Murder

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

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  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, January 2011

  Copyright © Mary Kennedy, 2011

  eISBN: 9781101481011

  All rights reserved

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Sandy Harding

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to my wonderful agent, Holly Root. She accomplishes miracles and makes it all seem effortless.

  Thank you to the excellent team at Penguin Obsidian for their enthusiasm, their creativity, and their marketing savvy. You’re the best.

  I’m very grateful to my husband, Alan, my computer guru.

  A big thank-you to Gail Link, author, friend, and RWA Bookseller of the Year.

  A shout-out to the fabulous Becke Davis, talented author, dear friend, who does such a great job with the Barnes & Noble Mystery Book Club.

  Hugs and thanks to Bob and Jill TenEyck, who continue to be my number one fans.

  To Lieutenant Colonel Lisa Schieferstein and the brave men and women of the 389th Renegades. Thank you for your service. You are my heroes.

  As always, thanks to Mark Bouton, fellow mystery author and friend, for all his expertise on crime solving, forensics, and the FBI.

  Chapter 1

  You would assume that people who talk to the dead would be as pale as vampires, their luminous eyes filled with unspoken secrets and timeless wisdom. You would expect them to speak in hushed tones,
their voices floating like whispers on a tropical breeze as they invoke spirits from the beyond. You’d probably picture them as quiet and introspective, pondering the mysteries of life and what lies beyond the grave.

  You would be wrong. Dead wrong.

  Chantel Carrington, the new “psychic sensation” in Cypress Grove, is none of the above. Everything about Chantel is larger than life, strictly va-va-voom. Think of one of those giant Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons bobbing over Manhattan.

  Big. Brash. Garish. Inescapable.

  Oh, yes. And full of hot air.

  From her booming “Hello, dahlings!” as she rolls down the WYME corridors to her eye-popping Hawaiian muumuus, Chantel steals the spotlight every time.

  Today she was the featured guest on my afternoon radio talk show, On the Couch with Maggie Walsh. She’s been on the show four times in the past two weeks, and I hate to admit it, but each time the ratings have skyrocketed.

  It seems that my entire listening audience is jonesing to communicate with the dearly departed, and Chantel does her best to accommodate them. Cyrus, the station manager, is so thrilled with her otherworldly chats that I’m sure he salivates, just thinking about all that extra advertising revenue pouring into WYME.

  Vera Mae, my producer, and I are less happy with the arrangement.

  When I first arrived in Cypress Grove to host my own radio show, I’d been pretty naive about the topics I’d be covering. A former clinical psychologist with a cushy Manhattan practice, I’d gained quite a following for my work in what the shrinks call “behavioral medicine.”

  Behavioral medicine is based on the idea that if you change your thinking, you can change your behavior, leading to a more positive mental outlook. No Freudian claptrap, no endless discussions of your dreams or Jungian archetypes.

  But after a few brutal winters in the Big Apple, I’d become sick of the city, frustrated by the skyrocketing real estate prices, and worst of all, I discovered I was tired of listening to people’s problems all day long. Yes, tired of listening to people’s problems.

  Some days I felt like I was trapped in a Jerry Springer marathon.

  A shocking revelation, right? Practically career suicide to say it publicly, but there you have it. I was whipped, emotionally drained, with nothing left to give.

  I had total burnout.

  So what did I do? I diagnosed the problem and wrote my own prescription. I made an executive decision, as The Donald would say. I knew I needed a complete change of pace, and I made it happen. I closed up shop, transferred my patients to a trusted colleague, sold my IKEA furniture, and moved to a sleepy Florida town.

  Dr. Maggie, heal thyself.

  At least, that was what I thought I was doing. I picked a town that was more like Mayberry than Manhattan, a place that was north of Boca, not too far from Palm Beach, and a pleasant ride to Fort Lauderdale. As the chamber of commerce says, “Cypress Grove: we’re near everyplace else you’d rather be!”

  I figured I’d use my clinical expertise and introduce my listening audience to the hottest topics in behavioral medicine, featuring the latest news in mental health issues. I’d select a topic and invite a fascinating guest expert to join me on the airwaves.

  Except for one tiny problem. Where was I going to find a bunch of fascinating guests? It had never occurred to me that we’d have trouble persuading A-list experts to make the trek to Cypress Grove to appear on my show. We don’t pay our guests, so unless they’re hawking a book or a tape, there’s really not much in it for them, except for the proverbial fifteen minutes of fame. And all the stale glazed doughnuts they can scarf down in the break room.

  When Chantel Carrington blew into town last month to promote her latest book, I Talk to Dead People—and You Can, Too! I invited her to do a guest spot on my show. It was against my better judgment, but I knew Cyrus would be pleased, and frankly, my ratings could use a bit of a boost.

  During the last Nielsen ratings, On the Couch with Maggie Walsh tied for last place, right down there with Bob Figgs and the Swine Report. I was running neck and neck with a show that features pigs!

  I had no idea Chantel would be such a huge success and, worst of all, that she would pick Cypress Grove as the perfect place to work on her next book. Before you could say woo-woo, she’d rented an apartment near Branscom Pond and was hosting séances in town.

  So here I was, entertaining her as a guest on my show and making the best of a bad situation. I was making lemonade out of lemons.

  Ironic, really, because this is the same annoying bit of advice I used to give my patients. Funny how our bromides come back to haunt us.

  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.