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“I’M MIRANDA DANIELS and this is Ramrod News, where the truth comes to live free.”
“The truth or something,” Sophie muttered as she handed me an ice-cold bottle of beer.
Sophie Halperin, a plump, gregarious bundle of energy in her mid-fifties, was the mayor of Crystal Harbor. She was also one of my closest friends. We’d been through a lot together. We were in her homey, old-fashioned den, about to enjoy, if that word could be said to apply, that evening’s episode of Ramrod News. The lofty catchphrase notwithstanding, I always thought of the sensationalist talk show as the place where the truth came to stumble, wheeze, and die an ignoble death.
Victor accepted a beer from his hostess. “Why do I suspect I’ll need something stronger before this thing is over?”
Sophie jerked her thumb toward the fully stocked wet bar behind us. “Help yourself.” She bestowed brisk scritches on Sexy Beast, who lay curled on my lap. I sat next to Victor on a massive leather sofa, which was adorned with colorful crocheted afghans and needlepoint pillows, the handiwork of Sophie’s mother, long in her grave.
And okay, so no one in that room was what you’d call a devoted Ramrod News fan, but this particular episode was required viewing for everyone in town. Hence our little three-humans-and-a-dog viewing party. Before leaving for the day, Sophie’s housekeeper, Maria, had whipped up a giant bowl of her locally famous guacamole, along with homemade tortilla chips. I put up with SB’s barely audible whining and soulful, gooey-eyed looks while I heaped guac and chips onto my plate, then informed him in the familiar singsong tone, “Not for puppy.” It didn’t take Kreskin to predict the spectacular results if I let the little guy fill up on this particular delicacy. He settled back down with a resigned snort.
“All right,” Sophie grumbled as she settled in an overstuffed leather armchair and reached for a chip, “let’s get this over with.”
Miranda Daniels was nattering on in her usual bellicose way about the murder case that had transfixed not only the good citizens of little Crystal Harbor, New York, but the nation as well, thanks to the celebrity status of the victim. “Today marks two weeks since beloved chef and TV personality Pierre ‘Swing’ Dewatre was savagely butchered in the kitchen of his own restaurant,” she announced, over silent video snippets of Swing doing a cooking demonstration on a morning news show and escorting a beautiful star at a movie premier.
“The Crystal Harbor Police Department has finally made an arrest. It took them long enough!” she went on, as more video filled the wide TV screen: Tucker Nearing and Romulus Tooley, surrounded by funeral picketers, yelling in each other’s faces. “That’s the suspect on the right of your screen. His name’s Tucker Nearing and he’s a junior at Crystal Harbor High School, and get this, the cops found blood-soaked sneakers in his closet—the very sneakers that tracked Swing’s blood all over the ghastly murder scene!” This was accompanied by a shot of the exterior of Dewatre garlanded with yellow crime-scene tape.
I cringed inwardly. I’d suggested to Victor that he skip the show, but he refused to be kept in the dark about anything related to his brother’s murder. I turned to Sophie, who for many years had worked as a paralegal in Sten Jakobsen’s law firm. “Can they give out Tucker’s name like that?” I asked. “And show his face? The kid’s a minor.”
“He’s been charged as an adult,” she said, “and that’s when most news organizations take the gloves off. You’re expecting a lot from the jackals at Ramrod if you think they’d hold back.”
Close-up of Miranda’s overly made-up face, her mean little smile. “Wait, it gets better. They found the kid’s fingerprints—his fingerprints!—on the murder weapon. An open-and-shut case, right? Well, not everyone agrees. Of course, Tucker has an excuse, big surprise. He says he just happened to stroll into the restaurant, which was closed at the time, and found Swing lying in a pool of his own blood, and then he tried to save him—yeah, that’s right, save him—by pulling out the knife.” Miranda let her exaggerated smirk say what she thought of that bizarre scenario. “Good luck with that one, Tucker. Let’s see what our panel has to say.”
The camera zoomed out to reveal four other individuals sitting in the studio with Miranda, two on either side of her at a curved rectangular table crafted of some kind of thick, frosted glass with artfully jagged edges, by all appearances salvaged from the explosion of Planet Krypton. The Ramrod News studio is located in midtown Manhattan, just a hop, skip, and hour and a half from Crystal Harbor, making it a relatively simple task to assemble a panel of “knowledgeable” locals eager to spew their opinions on the subject of whodunit.
Sophie took one look at the show’s guests and, even though she’d known what to expect, moaned, “Oy.” She took a healthy slug of beer.
Miranda gestured to her right. “He’s the spokesman for The Society for Endangered Animal Rights and had many dealings with Swing in that capacity. Romulus Tooley, welcome back to the show.”
Tooley offered a lazy wave. His graying blond hair had been buzzed down to a crew cut, a style decision that might have had something to do with the fact that he’d singed the heck out of it during his failed attempt to incinerate Dewatre.
Miranda indicated the woman sitting to his right. “She’s Swing’s former business partner, Lenore Romano, and... a chef? Is that right, Lenore? You’re a chef?”
Lee’s bloodless smile froze in place. The woman who aspired to be a household name said, “It’s Leonora and yes, I’m a chef.”
“Well, that’s great. And you’ve written a cookbook.” Miranda reached under the table, displayed the book for about half a second, blurted, “Lenore’s Kitchen, filled with delicious recipes,” and moved on to the guest on her left. “We’re happy to welcome Chloe Sleeper, Swing’s agent, back to the show.”
“Thank you, Miranda,” Chloe said. “I’m glad to be back.”
I happened to know that in fact Chloe had resisted a return to the Ramrod News studio. Her first appearance had apparently been more than enough for one lifetime, but Miranda had turned on the charm and managed to convince her that her input was crucial.
Miranda nodded toward the guest sitting to Chloe’s left. “She’s Nina Wallace, a close friend of Swing’s and a lifelong resident of Crystal Harbor—the current mayor, in fact.”
Sophie and I jerked upright in unison. “What?”
“Well, not quite yet,” Nina tittered. “The election isn’t until March, but I’m confident I can unseat the current mayor.” An upraised eyebrow hinted that the current mayor was not someone who merited reelection.
I won’t repeat Sophie’s next words. Suffice it to say Victor probably learned some interesting new Anglo Saxon vocabulary along with a couple of choice New York Yiddishisms.
I said, “Since when is Nina a close friend of Swing’s? Did they even know each other?”
“In passing maybe.” Sophie slumped back in her chair, scowling darkly at the screen. Sexy Beast, sensing a pack member in need—a member of his extended pack, anyway—hopped off my lap and onto hers. Absently she stroked him, and the unconditional doggie love appeared to do the trick. She began to visibly relax.
Nina looked adorable as always, elegant and stylish in a designer maternity dress, her dark hair cut short and feathery around her face.
“Well, good luck in the election, Ms. Almost Mayor!” Miranda said. “Sounds like they could use some fresh blood running the show there in Crystal Harbor.” She turned to Tooley. “So what do you think, Romulus? Did Tucker do it?”
“He sure did,” Tooley said.
I hollered at the TV, “Or here’s a wild thought, just thinking outside the box here, Rom, maybe you did it.”
“Tucker is a hero,” Tooley continued, “a young man driven by passion for what he believes in. The animals. SEAR.”
“You’ve got the passion part right,” Miranda said, “but it had nothing to do with endangered animals. It was about sex. Swing was messing around with Tucker’s girlfriend.”
I leaned forward and yelled, “No, he wasn’t!” Victor reached around my shoulder and pulled me back. And left his arm there. Which made me kind of, you know, forget what I’d been yelling about.
Chloe flinched at the reference to her fiancé getting frisky with a local teen. For her sake, I was glad no one in that studio knew of her engagement to Swing, which she’d kept strictly private.
Miranda was on a roll. “It’s the same reason the girl’s dad beat the tar out of Swing a couple of days before the murder. Although I have to say, if both your boyfriend and your dad have to work so hard to defend your honor, maybe there’s just not that much there to defend, you know what I mean?”
Will you be shocked if I tell you that Sophie had a few ripe words for that?
Victor shook his head. “The woman is shameless. Why do so many people watch this show?”
I shrugged. “Because the woman is shameless.”
Sophie tossed her hand at the screen. “Tooley’s full of it. Tucker, a passionate supporter of SEAR? They just showed video of the kid giving him hell.”
Miranda must have heard her. “I was there when you guys picketed Swing’s funeral reception, Romulus. I heard Tucker call you a shameless, publicity-hogging terrorist. And if he is the killer, he tried to blame it on you guys, remember? It was written right there on the floor!” She mimed writing in midair. “S-E-A-R!”
“Which only proves,” Tooley said, “that he identifies with our organization in his heart even if he doesn’t feel free to acknowledge it publicly.”
“This nonsense is getting old,” Victor groaned, “about Pierre and the animals. When will it stop?”
“Sooner than you might think,” I said, with a mysterious little smile. “Stay tuned.” I’d already informed Victor and Sophie that Lee Romano had instigated the rumor out of spite.
“Getting back to Tucker’s girlfriend,” Miranda said, “at first the cops thought that her dad, Dominic Faso, killed Swing. And why? Only because he did what any concerned father would do when his daughter’s being taken advantage of by an older man who should know better. Rearrange his face.”
Victor muttered something in French.
“Now, don’t get me wrong,” she continued, “we all loved Swing. But maybe that was part of the problem. He was like a kid in a candy shop.” She mimed choosing from an assortment. “I’ll have the blonde, the redhead, and oh, how about that juicy-looking brunette?”
I could hardly bear to look at Chloe, who managed to school her features but could do nothing about the angry flush scalding her face.
“We invited Mr. Faso on this panel, but he declined.” Miranda said this in a way that implied ulterior motives. So what did that make Dom, then? A red-blooded American father who’d taken manly action to protect his unworthy hussy of a daughter, or a murder suspect with something to hide? She couldn’t have it both ways. Or maybe she could. This was Miranda Daniels, after all, and Ramrod News. The network powers that be weren’t about to quibble over a few mixed messages as long as the ratings remained in the stratosphere.
“Show of hands,” I said. “How many of us here declined to be part of this farce?”
We all raised our hands. Yep, all three of us had received phone calls, first from a producer, then from Miranda herself, urging us to appear on the show and weigh in on the case. They even offered to send a car.
“What’s that, SB?” I said, and watched his little head snap up at the sound of his name. Or rather, his nickname. My dog’s smart, he answers to both. “No call from the network for you?”
Which was kind of unfair considering SB had in fact been the first to detect the presence of a corpse at the restaurant. Ramrod News thought that distinction belonged to me, which is why they’d wanted me on the panel.
Miranda said, “So, Romulus. You’re out on bail, right?”
The change of subject appeared to catch him off guard. “So?”
“So you mind telling us what you were arrested for?”
I shouted, “Yeah, tell us, Rom, tell us all about it!” Victor’s arm was still around my shoulders and he pulled me a little closer. I tried to think of what else I could yell at the TV.
“It was an act of defiance,” Tooley said, “a political act on behalf of all of Swing’s nonhuman victims, all those endangered animals he butchered and cooked over the years.”
Sophie poked at an incisor. “’Scuse me, that darn gorilla meat always gets stuck between my teeth.”
Onscreen, Tooley’s self-righteous face was replaced with shaky amateur video, obviously taken by a bystander, showing him shrieking and writhing on the street outside Dewatre in a frantic effort to extinguish his flaming hair and jacket. And there, right on schedule, was Cheyenne O’Rourke abusing the heck out of him with those mile-high platform sneakers.
“Guess it didn’t go quite the way you planned,” Miranda said, with that malignant little grin that never failed to raise the hair on my nape.
Tooley tried to salvage his pride. “It brought attention to our cause, and that’s the important thing.”
“Who’s going to be spokesman for SEAR when you’re behind bars for first-degree arson?” she asked. “There were people in the building you set on fire!”
“I didn’t know that at the time,” he huffed.
“Would it have stopped you if you had?”
He hesitated an instant too long. Before he could compose a response, Miranda said, “We have someone on the line who might offer a different take on your ‘act of defiance.’ Brett Griffith, thanks for joining us by phone.”
I recognized the name. Griffith was one of the mental giants who’d helped Tooley firebomb Dewatre. Specifically, it was Griffith, wearing a rhino mask, who’d tossed the brick through the window. Tooley looked surly as a man’s nasal voice said, “Yeah, hi, I love your show, Miranda. Never miss an episode. Keep up the good work.”
“Thanks, Brett. Your pal Romulus here told the cops it was your idea to set fire to Dewatre. True?”
Most of Brett’s response was bleeped. Ramrod News aired live, but clearly there was a profanity delay of a few seconds to allow for censoring. The truth might come to live free on the show, but naughty words got the snuff treatment.
“I think our audience at home got the gist of that,” she snickered, “but try to express yourself in words we’re allowed to air.”
Tooley shouted, “Why are you listening to this loser? I don’t appreciate being ambushed—”
“Yeah,” Griffith hollered back, “and I don’t appreciate ending up arrested after you tell me and Billy it’s gonna be a quick job with no risk. I’m glad you set yourself on fire, you stupid—” Cue the bleeps.
“Brett, I have to ask you,” Miranda said, “since you’re part of SEAR, did you have anything to do with Swing’s murder?”
“Nah,” he said, “that was another of Rom’s brilliant ideas. I didn’t want anything to do with it.”
“Whoa!” Sophie straightened, causing SB to leap off her lap in alarm. “Did he just say what I think he said?”
I sat dumbfounded, staring at the screen. “I think so,” I managed. I looked at Victor, who slowly leaned forward, a look of grim concentration on his handsome face.
“That’s a lie!” Tooley was half out of his seat. “You’re a lying sack of—” It was bleepity-bleep city for a while as the two devoted animal lovers screamed obscenities at each other.
“That’s enough, guys!” Miranda barked. “Let’s keep this discussion civil.” Which should have been funny, Miranda Daniels demanding civility, but I wasn’t in a laughing mood at the moment.
“Rom was all for taking out Swing,” Griffith said. “He told everyone the guy was an animal murderer and needed killing.”
“By ‘everyone,’” Miranda said, “do you mean members of SEAR?”
“Yeah. One of our guys did it for sure,” Brett said, “’cause Rom told us to.”
“I can’t believe you took all that seriously,” Tooley cried. “It was hyperbole!”
Brett remained silent, probably because he had no idea what “hyperbole” meant.
Suddenly Leonora Romano broke in. “It wasn’t Tucker or this idiot!” She flung her hand at Tooley, sitting to her left. “Swing was murdered in cold blood by his brother, Victor Dewatre.”
“Here we go,” Sophie grumbled. Victor rose and headed for the wet bar. “Bring me a Scotch,” she said.
Miranda started to interrupt, but Lee raised her voice, talking over her. “Swing was terrified of his brother. I know! We worked closely in my restaurant for eight years. He used to tell me how unstable Victor was, how scared he was of what he might do.”
“Lenore—” Miranda started.
“He told me more than once, ‘If anything happens to me, make sure they know it was Victor,’” Lee continued. “I have no intention of failing Swing. He deserves for his killer to be brought to justice.”
Miranda tried to regain control of the discussion. “Lenore—”
“It’s Leonora!” Lee shouted. “Not Lenore! For God’s sake, is that so difficult to remember? Victor Dewatre hired a hit man to kill his brother while he stayed home in Paris, keeping his hands clean. And why?” She was staring right into the camera now, speaking directly to the viewers at home. “Revenge! Swing slept with his ex-wife, and his pride couldn’t take it. I was there when Victor barged into my restaurant kitchen and threatened his brother’s life. Also, and this is no small thing, Swing was a wealthy man and Victor was his sole heir. Is that enough motive for you?”
Lee paused for breath and Miranda jumped right in. “This is the tale you’ve been spreading all over, but if it’s true, why are Tucker’s footprints the only ones at the crime scene? His fingerprints too.”
Lee gave the other woman a look of withering contempt. “You can’t figure that one out for yourself? It’s because Tucker’s story is true. He came upon the murder scene and inadvertently erased whatever evidence Victor’s hit man left behind.”
Victor handed Sophie her drink and resumed his seat next to me. He took a sip of whiskey. “Do you think Lee believes this?”
“No,” I said. “She’s still trying to punish you for supposedly nixing her chances with the Food Network.”
“Plus it’s a publicity grab,” Sophie said. “She has a lot invested in her success, and she sees it all going down the tubes. Doesn’t care who she takes down with her.”
“Tooley’s doing essentially the same thing,” I said. “Using Tucker to boost publicity for SEAR.” Not that I believed in Tucker’s innocence, much as I wanted to. The physical evidence against him was hard to refute.
Miranda was talking about Lee’s very public campaign to hold Victor responsible for his brother’s death. Now she addressed the viewers. “Do you know what murder groupies are? They’re women who develop a sexual obsession with a murderer. Ted Bundy had his share of groupies. So did Richard Ramirez, the so-called Night Stalker. Dahmer, Gacy, they all had these sick, pathetic females sending them letters, sending them money, wanting to marry them. You just want to shake these broads and yell, ‘Get a life!’”
Another Bundy reference. I had a bad feeling about where Miranda was going with this.
“Leonora has made sure the whole world considers Victor a suspect,” she went on, “so guess who now has not one but two Facebook fan pages! Here’s a hint—it’s not Leonora.”
My head swiveled toward Victor as his swiveled toward me. We gaped at each other in disbelief. Sophie cackled. Sexy Beast, once more ensconced on my lap, emitted what sounded like a snort of amusement.
“One of the fan pages,” Miranda said, “presents Swing’s brother as this drop-dead-gorgeous hunk with a sexy accent who’s totally innocent and totally hot. The other page presents him as this drop-dead-gorgeous hunk with a sexy accent who’s totally guilty and—spoiler alert!—totally hot. Either way, he needs the love and understanding of a good woman, poor thing.”
Lee did not appear pleased by this turn of affairs. “You’re right about one thing, Miranda—those women are pathetic. I only wish the police would take my allegations as seriously. There’s a dangerous killer on the loose, living right in Crystal Harbor, and no one but me seems to care.”
“Victor isn’t the only one who had a run-in with Swing,” Miranda said. “You two had a serious falling out, am I right?”
Lee was ready for this. “Oh please, that’s all ancient history. Swing and I were both strong businesspeople with strong personalities. There was a little unpleasantness when we parted ways, but it was quickly forgotten.”
“‘A little unpleasantness’?” Miranda mocked. “More like World War Three, from what I’ve heard. You blamed him for destroying your precious restaurant. We just heard you claim Victor was motivated by revenge. The same could be said of you, couldn’t it?” Without giving Lee a chance to respond, she added, “Still, something good came of all that free time you were left with. We’re talking a serious transformation. Let’s show the folks at home.”
Miranda’s smirking face was replaced by a pair of images on a split screen: on the left, a homely, obese, gray-haired woman wearing a tentlike chef’s jacket and thick eyeglasses; on the right, the glamour shot from Lee’s book jacket, showing her in all her sleek, blond, surgically enhanced glory.
Sophie said, “Wow. I didn’t know medical science had advanced that far.”
I cringed. Was I really feeling sorry for Leonora Romano? Yes. No one deserved this brand of public humiliation. But then, humiliation was Miranda’s specialty. I’d been on the receiving end of it myself not too long before.
Just when I expected Lee to shrink into herself and admit that the bigger bitch had won, she gave an airy laugh and said, “Isn’t it amazing? None of my friends recognized me! Thank goodness for talented plastic surgeons, that’s all I can say.”
I didn’t buy her act for a moment. Her pride had to be crushed, but she refused to show it. I couldn’t help feeling a grudging admiration.
Miranda seemed momentarily at a loss. She covered it by bringing Nina into the conversation. “As a Crystal Harbor insider, Nina, who do you think murdered your friend Swing? Was it Tucker?”
“I’ve known Tucker Nearing his entire life,” Nina said. “I know the evidence is compelling, but I simply can’t believe he’s capable of such a horrific crime. Then again, young people nowadays, you never know what they’re getting into, drugs and what-all.”
I yelled, “Why do you have to bring drugs into it, Nina? Who said anything about drugs?”
Victor tucked me a little closer against him. Did he even realize he was doing it? And was it more romantic if he did realize it or didn’t? I couldn’t decide.
“I have two teenage daughters of my own,” Nina continued. “I know firsthand how challenging it is to keep them focused on healthy choices and wholesome values.”
Miranda smiled. “With another on the way, I see.”
“Another girl.” Nina caressed her gently mounded belly. “Laura’s due around Thanksgiving.”
I wondered how deeply Miranda had dug into this particular guest’s past. Deeply enough to have discovered that the baby Nina carried wasn’t fathered by her husband? I mean, speaking of wholesome values and all. If Miranda knew that little Laura had been sired by a certain notorious individual from Crystal Harbor’s recent past, she wouldn’t hesitate to turn it into fodder for the Ramrod News meat grinder. I dreaded the possibility. It wasn’t Nina I was thinking of, but her baby. No child deserved to come into the world under a stink-bomb cloud like that.
“I do want to make an important point,” Nina said, “about my dear friend Swing and the irresponsible rumors that surrounded him.”
“You mean about all the women he boffed?” Miranda said.
“Um, no, I’m talking about the endangered species,” Nina said. “The stories about him cooking and serving exotic animals. None of that is true.”
Tooley came back to life. “Yes it is! The man was a speciesist villain and got what was coming to him.” He shot his fist at the camera. “Tucker, your brothers and sisters in the fight honor you.”
Ever the lady, Nina maintained her composure. “That ridiculous rumor was cooked up by Leonora Romano after her restaurant went under. She was just trying to get back at Swing.”
Lee wasn’t expecting this, I could tell. Nevertheless, she held her own. “Nonsense, I got wind of those allegations when everyone else did. Where on earth did you get the absurd idea I had anything to do with them?”
“Since you ask, I’ll tell you,” Nina said sweetly. “I got the ‘absurd idea’ from the media folks you used to get the word out three years ago. There was a certain restaurant reviewer for a slick food magazine, remember him? I believe he owed you a favor, something to do with a deeply discounted rehearsal dinner when his son got married. And then there’s the influential food blogger who just happens to be an old sorority sister of yours. You were really sweet to introduce her to all the major players when she was just starting out.”
The sangfroid so recently on display began to desert Lee. She stared unblinking at Nina, a mottled flush suffusing her throat.
“And let’s not forget your nephew the entertainment reporter,” Nina said, “the one you helped put through college and who’s on radio and TV all the time now.”
“I’ve been in the restaurant business a long time,” Lee blustered. “I know a lot of people. So what? You’re grasping at straws.”
“I only mentioned the ones who’ve actually admitted to dropping hints about Swing at your request,” Nina said.
Lee was, for once, speechless. Meanwhile Tooley sat silent and deflated, a man with much on his mind.
Victor was suddenly animated. “Is all this true? How does she know these things?”
“Because I fed Nina the information,” I said, “once I learned she’d be on the show. She was happy to oblige. My only problem now, speaking of favors...” I made a face.
Sophie finished for me. “Is that now you owe her one.” She gave a dramatic shudder.
Victor said, “But how did you find out about the blogger and the nephew and all that?”
“I called Ben Ralston,” I said. “In less than an hour he came back with all these names, Lee’s partners in rumormongering. Didn’t even charge me.” The PI had thought it great fun to investigate the origins of the rumor and to help prove that Swing had been no... how had Tooley put it?... speciesist villain.
Miranda was asking Nina how she knew all this. Nina responded that she wasn’t at liberty to reveal her sources. Miranda turned to Lee. “How about it, Leonora? Is Nina telling the truth? Did you deliberately start that rumor?”
It would have been useless for Lee to persist in her denials. Without a doubt, millions of viewers, armed with smart phones and tablets, already had identified her accomplices.
As I watched, Lee straightened in her seat. Where moments earlier she’d looked trapped, all I saw now was self-righteous determination. She said, “You’re not looking at some spineless doormat who takes all the crap the world has to offer and then whines, please, sir, I want some more! The restaurant industry—every industry, in fact—is filled with women who put their needs last because that’s the way they were raised or because they don’t have the cojones to stand up for themselves or, God help them, because they’re afraid of upstaging their man!”
Miranda said, “I asked whether you—”
“I’m not finished!” Lee snapped in an imperious tone that made Sexy Beast come to attention with the obedient yip he reserved for those at the very top of the pack. “And don’t even think about cutting my mic!” Again she spoke directly into the camera, addressing the viewers glued to their screens. “No progress will be made until women become their own advocates, their own heroes. You’re never going to get that wonderful career you want, or be paid what you’re worth, or treated with the respect you deserve if you don’t demand it and yes, when necessary, step on a few toes.” In a sneering tone she added, “If that’s too hard or makes you unpopular, well, boo-hoo, go back home and keep squirting out babies.” Her stony gaze landed on the prettily pregnant Nina, who gaped in outrage.
“Well, whaddaya know,” Sophie said, “someone’s finally out-Miranda’d Miranda.”
I said, “That’ll be the last time Lee’s invited on the show.”
Miranda hesitated, clearly debating the wisdom of pressing Lee for an answer to her question, which had not been addressed except in the most roundabout way. She chose instead to move on to the one guest who had yet to be heard from.
“Chloe, you’ve been very patient,” Miranda said. “Let me ask you, as someone who knew Swing better than most—was he afraid of his brother?”
“Absolutely not,” Chloe said. “He never expressed anything but love and affection for Victor. I said it last time I was on this show and I’ll say it again. If Swing wasn’t murdered by Romulus Tooley himself, then the killer was a member of SEAR who took his instructions from Tooley. Now that the world knows what I’ve never doubted—that that hideous rumor had no basis in fact—it makes Swing’s death even more—” She choked up for a moment, her eyes glistening. “It makes it even more pointless. He was killed by fanatics who believed a preposterous lie without bothering to verify it.”
“When I said you knew Swing better than most,” Miranda told Chloe, “I wasn’t referring to the fact that you were his agent. Isn’t it true you two were engaged to be married?”
Chloe froze. Lee Romano looked as surprised as the other guests.
I shivered. “Creeps me out when Miranda grins like that.”
Sophie said, “Makes me want to reach for the shark repellant. So Chloe and Swing were getting hitched?”
Victor turned to me. “I thought you and I were the only ones who knew. That’s what she told us, yes?”
“The only ones besides Cullen,” I said. We exchanged a disgusted look. “Case closed.”
“What?” Sophie said. “Chloe didn’t even tell her family about the engagement? Her closest friends?”
“Apparently not,” I said. “She asked us to keep quiet about it, said she didn’t want the attention.” Now I knew why Miranda had worked so hard to convince Chloe to come on the show. She had a nice juicy bombshell to drop.
Onscreen, Chloe was groping for a response. “I—I—” she stammered. “That’s— How did you find that out?”
Instead of answering, Miranda said, “You had to know Swing was hooking up with all sorts of women, Chloe. You can’t be that naïve. Did you two have some kind of understanding? Were you sleeping with other men? Were you into threesomes? Partner swapping?”
“Fair warning,” I told Sophie. “I’m about to throw something big and heavy at your expensive television.”
Sophie lifted the handmade pottery bowl full of guacamole and offered it to me. “Here. Miranda looks good in green.”
“It wasn’t...” Chloe said. “That’s... That’s degrading. How can you say something like that about Swing? Our love was pure, it was perfect.”
“Chloe, Chloe...” I pleaded, “stop talking! You’re walking right into it.”
“I know how I’d feel if my man were slipping around on me all the time,” Miranda said. “With actresses, underwear models...” Just in case the dimmer members of the viewing audience failed to grasp her meaning, she added, “Didn’t you ever just want to...” She mimed strangulation.
Chloe fought back tears. “You don’t know anything about him. About us. I’m not... I refuse to talk about this anymore.”
Miranda had now succeeded in establishing three of her four guests as suspects in Swing’s murder. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see her go after Nina next. It was a sad day for law enforcement when Miranda Daniels’s bellicose brand of investigative journalism managed to show up a police investigation.
“Fortunately,” Miranda said, “we have someone on the line who isn’t afraid to talk. For reasons that will become clear, he has requested anonymity. Thank you for joining us, sir. You’re on the air.”
“Thank you, Miranda,” the voice said. “The name is Doe. John Doe.”
Sophie said, “Since when does Sean Connery call in to Ramrod News?”
“I do not believe this,” I muttered. “That’s Martin.”
“Martin McAuliffe?” Sophie chuckled and reached for her Scotch. “Well, of course it is.”
Miranda said, “You have information about the police investigation, isn’t that right, um, John?”
“About the detective in charge of the investigation,” Martin said. “Paul Cullen, aka Paulie the Perv. That’s how he’s known by certain unfortunate members of the community he’s supposed to be serving.”
As Martin spoke in his spot-on Connery burr, I heard background noise: multiple voices, the clink of glassware, muted bluegrass music. “He’s calling from Murray’s Pub!” I said. “He’s on the bar phone!”
“Paulie the Perv?” Miranda snickered. “What does a cop have to do to earn a nickname like that?”
“He has to abuse his position as a law-enforcement officer to sexually harass females suspected of minor crimes such as traffic violations. This has been going on since he was a patrolman.”
“If that’s true,” Miranda said, “why has it been allowed to continue? Don’t these women file complaints?”
“It is my understanding,” Martin said, “that Cullen threatened retaliation if any of his victims came forward. A few brave women did, though, over the years. Those complaints were swept under the rug by Cullen’s fishing buddy, Chief George Larsen.”
“Larsen,” Sophie growled. “That guy’s always been a thorn in my side.”
I asked, “Doesn’t the mayor appoint the police chief?”
She nodded. “Larsen had been chief for about fifteen years before I was elected. Never did anything egregious enough to get fired, nothing I found out about, anyway. That might be about to change.”
Victor said, “How long has Martin known about this?”
“Not long, I’m guessing,” I said, “or we’d have heard about it before now.”
“If your allegations are true,” Miranda said, “then this Detective Cullen doesn’t sound like someone I’d want investigating a high-profile murder.”
“My thinking precisely,” Martin said. I heard an unmistakable metallic racket and pictured him cradling the phone with his shoulder while wielding a martini shaker. Yeah, that’s right, shaken, not stirred. “But you know what they say,” he added, “a fish rots from the head down. I’d take a hard look at Chief Larsen, too.”
