Part 25 (1/2)

Mary Kennedy's next Talk Radio Mystery,

REEL MURDER.

Coming from Obsidian in June 2010 Something was horribly wrong.

I knew it before I opened my eyes, before I saw the faint pinkish orange light seeping between the faux-teak blinds that shutter my bedroom windows. It was barely dawn, yet I could hear someone rattling around my condo, moving from the hall into the kitchen.

I instantly slammed into DEFCON 1. I sat up straight in bed, pulse racing, nerve endings tingling, skin p.r.i.c.kling at the back of my neck. An icy finger traced a trail down my spine and I crept out of bed, yanking my arms into my favorite terry bathrobe.

I was gripped by a fear so intense, I could hardly breathe.

A home invasion? Call 911! I reached for my cell phone, then realized with a stab of despair that I'd left it in the kitchen. How annoying. Not only was I going to die, I was going to die because of my own stupidity, just like the heroine in a Kevin Williamson flick--never an ideal way to go.

I could only hope there would be enough of my body left for the police to make a positive ID. Maybe the pale blue bathrobe decorated with goofy yellow ducks would give them a clue. My roommate, Lark Merriweather, always says that no one older than twelve years old would be caught dead in it.

Or alive, for that matter.

I tiptoed to the bedroom door, my heart lodged in my throat. I felt the beginning of flop sweat sprouting under my arms as I cautiously turned the doork.n.o.b. At least Lark would be spared. She was away for the weekend, visiting friends in Key West. But where was my dog, Pugsley? He'd been dozing at the foot of my bed when I'd drifted to sleep watching Letterman. Had he been abducted? The victim of foul play? I couldn't face life without Pugsley. My hysteria was rising.

And then I heard a familiar voice.

A breathy, smoke-filled voice, early Kathleen Turner. My shoulders slumped with relief and I shuffled out of the bedroom, my pulse stuttering back to normal.

In the kitchen, I found both good news and bad news awaiting me.

The good news was that there was no sign of a crazed serial killer, no ax murderer.

The bad news was that my mother, Lola Walsh, was back in town.

In my condo, to be precise. She must have let herself in with her key sometime during the night, and now she was padding around my living room, talking on her cell.

”That would be just fabulous, darling, fabulous! How can I ever thank you?” A pause, and then, ”Oh, you naughty boy. I'll have to think of something, won't I? But will your wife approve? You know what they say: 'What the mind doesn't know, the heart doesn't feel.' ” Her tone was lascivious, bordering on high camp, and I had to stifle a grin. She turned around and flashed me a broad wink.

Lola was on full throttle, charming someone with her Marilyn Monroe ”Happy birthday, Mr. President” voice. Lola's an actress, although she's having trouble finding parts these days because she's ”of a certain age,” as she likes to say.

According to Lola, the Hollywood establishment has been highjacked by the Lindsay Lohans, the Hannah Montanas, and the Lauren Conrads, long-legged ingenues who edge out cla.s.sically trained actresses such as herself. Although G.o.d knows, she tries her best to stay in the game.

Sometimes she tries too hard.

Today, for example, she was wearing a spaghetti-strap tank top with a pair of skintight, red and white Hawaiian-print capris. Her considerable a.s.sets were spilling out of the tank top, making her look like a geriatric version of a Hooters girl.

Age is ”just a number” to Lola. A flexible number. I'm thirty-two, and ten years ago Lola listed her age on her resume as thirty-eight. As far as I know, she's still thirty-eight. Don't try to do the math; it will make your teeth hurt. And her head shot is a sort of reverse Dorian Gray, since it makes her look younger than I do. She often introduces me as her sister, which would probably have me in a.n.a.lysis for years, if I didn't happen to be a shrink by profession.

”You're awake!” she said, flipping the phone shut and enveloping me in a hug. Her voice was as warm and breezy as a summer's day. ”Maggie, you'll never guess who that was,” she added playfully.

”Nicolas Sarkozy?”

”Oh, don't be silly. He's married to that supermodel Carla Bruni.” She glanced at the clock. ”Besides, it's two a.m. in Paris. C'mon, try again.”

I gently untangled myself from her embrace and made tracks for the coffeepot. I always set everything up the night before so all it takes is a quick push of the ON b.u.t.ton. That's all my sleep-fogged brain can handle first thing in the morning. A nice mug of steaming dolce de lecheto start the day. I was still feeling shaky with adrenaline and took a couple of deep calming breaths.

”Mom, you know I hate to guess.” She made a little moue of disappointment and I sighed. I knew I had to play the game, or I'd never be able to drink my coffee in peace. ”Okay, Daniel Craig called. He wants you to fly to London and have drinks with him at Claridge's tonight.”

”Nope.” She giggled and clapped her hands together. ”Although that certainly sounds like fun. I love his movies and he's a major hunk.”

I smelled the coffee brewing, my own extracaffeinated type, and greeted Pugsley, who heard my voice and came racing in from the balcony. 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.

Plus he's game for anything, if it makes me happy. I can't think of many guys who would curl up on the sofa with me on a Sat.u.r.day night to watch Marley & Mefor the third time.

Mom's voice pulled me back from my reverie.

”Guess again! Who called!” She held up my favorite WYME mug and dangled it just out of reach. WYME is the radio station that I left my Manhattan psychoa.n.a.lytic practice for; I host a call-in show, On the Couch with Maggie Walsh. It's a small south Florida market, and strictly a bottom-rungs-of-show-biz operation, but I love my job and I don't miss those New York winters.

”Mom, I swear I don't know.” I sank into a chair at the kitchen table and put my head in my hands. I said the first Hollywood name I could think of. ”Aaron Spelling?”

”Don't be silly. He's already pa.s.sed,” Mom said crisply. ”It would take James Van Praagh to reach him now.”

”Then I give up.”

Mom shook her head. ”You give up way too easily.” She paused dramatically. ”Okay, that was Hank Watson on the phone.” She waited for a reaction, her blue eyes flas.h.i.+ng with excitement, her magenta nails beating a tattoo on the table. ”The Hank Watson.” She raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows for emphasis.