The building that housed WMBK-AM radio was so nondescript we drove right by it the first time. The big satellite dish would have given it away, but it was on the back side. Jaida made a U-turn and pulled into the nearly empty parking lot on one side of the long, one-story expanse of brick. We left the windows down for the dogs and headed toward the front door.
It opened before we could push inside, and a man exited. My jaw slackened in surprise when I saw who it was.
His precision-cut hair was the color of heavily salted caramel. The fine lines etched into his face further indicated his age. Irises so light gray they seemed to have no color at all were ringed with deep charcoal. And there was that curve to his upper lip, which exactly mirrored his son’s.
Heinrich Dawes. Steve’s father. One of the richest businessmen in Savannah—heck, in Georgia, if not the United States. And leader of the Dragohs, the exclusive druid clan that had existed in the area since before Savannah had even been established as a city.
Not, I might add, the most ethical druid clan. The spellbook club had worked with them once, but I had serious questions about how their magical men’s club did business.
He paused for a split second when he saw us, quickly schooling his face into a bland smile. “Katie Lightfoot. It’s been a while.” A slight bow that would have looked corny if anyone else had done it. “And Ms. French. A delight, as always.”
“Mr. Dawes,” she said.
He tipped his head to the side and regarded me. “Let me guess. You’re up to your old tricks.”
I bristled. “Meaning?”
“It’s big news in town that Dana Dobbs died in the Fox and Hound on Saturday night. Right next to your little bakery. Since she taped her shows here, I assume you’re here in some kind of connection with that.”
“For your information, I’m here to talk about advertising with the station manager.”
One eyebrow slowly lifted. “Not the ad manager?”
“Bing Hawkins happens to be a friend of Mimsey’s,” Jaida said. “She referred us to him directly.”
“And you?” I asked. After all, if he was going to be rude, so could I.
Little bakery. Ergh.
“Business,” he said curtly.
Fine. “I saw Steve yesterday. When did he get back into town?”
Jaida’s gaze slid sideways to me.
A stony expression settled on Heinrich’s face. “My son and I are not currently speaking to each other. I certainly am not inclined to speak about him, either. Good day, ladies.”
I frowned as he walked by, watching as he climbed into a dark Mercedes and drove away.
“What was that all about?” Jaida asked.
“No idea,” I said, and pushed through the door.
“But Steve’s back?”
“Well, he was driving down Broughton Street yesterday. That’s all I know.”
Inside the station, the air smelled of burnt coffee and Pine-Sol. Somewhere, speakers broadcasted someone talking about politics, the volume low enough that I couldn’t make out most of what he was saying. The small entry was decorated with fake ferns that needed a good dusting, a few Scandinavian-style chairs, and a low table strewn with magazines. Industrial carpeting led down a hallway studded with doors on the left side and a big glass window on the right. We glanced at each other and started down the hall.
The first door was open, showing an empty office. The next was closed, and the sign on the door said PRODUCTION STUDIO. Across the hall, the window revealed the working studio. Two desks were packed with computer consoles, a board with all sorts of little levers, and a series of boxes and consoles covered with buttons and lights that performed who knew what functions. A woman sat behind one of the desks, a huge microphone arching over her head on an articulated arm. It didn’t look like she was on the air, but she was doing something on the computer and didn’t look up. The talking head droned on in the background, evidently a recorded show rather than a live one. The place felt empty and weirdly quiet.
Movement at the end of the building caught my attention, and I looked just in time to see none other than Phoebe Miller walk around the corner and go through one of the doors.
“You must be Katie Lightfoot.”
I turned to see a man coming out of an office one door down from where we stood. In his late thirties, he was about my height. His dark hair was pulled back from a receding hairline and twisted into a hipster man bun. As he came near, the smell of wet dog wafted from his flannel shirt.
“Guilty as charged. And you must be Bing.” I smiled and shook his hand. “This is Jaida French. She’s another friend of Mimsey’s, and, er, helps with our marketing.”
“Nice to meet you both,” he said. “Come into my office so we can chat.”
We followed him inside and perched on the guest chairs. He plopped into his desk chair, already speaking a mile a minute.
“So you want to buy some airtime. Excellent! It’s really the best way to spend your advertising dollar, especially for a business like yours. Mims said you have a bakery? Perfect!”
“Well, we’re just exploring—”
“Oh, believe me, you’re going to want to do more than explore. Radio is immediate, it’s intimate, and it reaches the audience in every aspect of their lives—work, play, in their cars, when they wake up in the morning, as they go to sleep at night. It’s cost-effective and reaches the customer over and over. After all, the more someone hears about your business, the more they’ll remember it, and the more likely they’ll frequent it. And I haven’t even talked about the theater of the mind yet!” He beamed at us.
“Wow. That all sounds very interesting,” I said. “And I know Mimsey is quite pleased with how your station has helped her flower shop.”
Bing opened his mouth, and I hurried on before he could get going again. “So can you choose when your ad will play? I was thinking of The Dr. Dana Show, because she was so popular, but then, well . . .” I trailed off.
He sighed. “Right. You heard about what happened. Horrible. Just horrible. And yes, you can certainly choose. Different slots cost different amounts, of course. Ad slots in her show were our most expensive for the very reason you just mentioned—she had a huge audience. But I’m afraid there’s no Dr. Dana Show without Dr. Dana.”
“I’m very sorry,” I said, feeling like a heel.
“We heard there was a movement to shut down the show,” Jaida said.
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. I mean, sure—there were a few letters suggesting that we take Dana off the air. But there are always nuts out there who write in. You think Rush Limbaugh doesn’t get hate mail as well as fan mail?” He made a rude noise. “But we’d never have fired Dana. Sheesh.”
“Because of the ad income?” she asked.
Bing frowned. “That, but WMBK made a lot more from syndication.” He brightened. “But let’s talk about which shows would work for you! I’d advise hitting the airways in the morning before people leave for work, again at noon, and then when people are driving home. In fact—”
“Excuse me,” I cut in. “Do you happen to have a restroom I could use?”
He blinked. “Oh. Sure. There’s one at the end of the hall.”
Jaida gave me a slightly puzzled glance, but she stepped in like a trouper. As I left Bing’s office, I heard her say, “Perhaps you could tell me a little more about how syndication works.”
I hurried down the hall, slowing as I neared the door I’d seen Phoebe go into. It was open. I stopped in front of it.
“Excuse me, is the restroom . . . Oh, hi.”
She looked up, and surprise crossed her tired face. “Katie, right?”
“Right.”
The space looked like it was used primarily for storage, with file cabinets along one wall, banks of cupboards on both sides, and a table stacked with all manner of equipment in the middle of the room. One of the cabinet doors was open behind Phoebe, and a cardboard carton sat open on the table. She put the stack of notebooks she was holding into the box.
“Are you looking for someone?” she asked. I could tell she was wondering why the heck I was there, and I saw her eye the bandage peeking out from under my skirt.
“I was just chatting with Bing about buying some radio time and needed to use the restroom.”
I stepped into the room, casually looking in the box. It was mostly paperwork and a couple of hardback books. Then I saw one of them was simply titled Tarot Spells. A shiver ran down my spine. Nestled next to it were several red candles with burned wicks, and a purple velvet bag that reminded me of the one Jaida used to store her tarot deck.
All that from a single, quick glance, but Phoebe saw me looking. Her face turned pink, and she quickly shut the cardboard flaps.
“I’m just clearing out some of Dana’s things. She recorded her show here, you know. Then she distributed it all over the country.” Her gaze flicked to the now-closed box. “My sister had some . . . unusual interests.”
Lots of people are interested in tarot. But those candles. Good heavens, was Dana Dobbs a witch? The thought made me a little dizzy, but I managed a noncommittal smile.
“I know some people didn’t care for her methods. For the kind of old-school, traditional-value advice she dispensed,” Phoebe said.
“Radical Trust.”
She snorted. “More like Radical Control.” Her eyes widened, and her next words sounded defensive. “But it worked for her and Nate. She helped a lot of people, you know.”
I nodded.
Phoebe ran one hand over her face. “God, she could be a royal pain in the patootie sometimes. She went through four assistants before I took the job. Heck, we were late to the signing the other night because she was firing her literary agent.”
My ears perked up at that nugget of information.
“I knew how to manage her, though,” Phoebe said. “She was my sister, and I knew her better than anyone. She was a good person at heart.” Her eyes welled.
“I’m really sorry,” I said, feeling helpless.
She reached into the cupboard and drew out a couple of envelopes. Shook them at me. “Do you know what these are?”
I shook my head.
“The letters I told you about. The ones that Kissel woman sent.” She shook her head. “But this was just the tip of the iceberg. She sent e-mails to all the other stations around the country that carry the show.”
Great. I wondered whether Detective Quinn knew that. My bet was that Bing Hawkins was right—most radio personalities received both good and bad audience feedback—but it didn’t make Angie look good at all.
Phoebe waved her hand. “Listen to me going on and on. I guess packing up this stuff is more difficult than I expected.” Her laugh had a bitter edge to it. “And here you just wanted to find the restroom. It’s right around the corner there.”
“Thanks.” I was sorry I’d interrupted the painful process of clearing her sister’s things. But I stopped in the doorway. “Did you find your wallet?”
She blinked. “Oh! Yes. On the floor of my car. Thanks for asking.”
“And you mentioned a memorial for your sister. I’d like to come if there is one.”
“Yes, I managed to put something together on the day after tomorrow. I tried to get Bryson Hall, but they were booked for a wedding. So we’re having it outside, in Chippewa Square. The station will announce it a few times over the next couple of days, and I’m hoping her local fans will attend.”
“I’m sure there will be a big turnout for your sister.”
“It’s at two in the afternoon.”
“I’ll try to make it.” I backed into the hallway, remembering at the last second to turn toward the restroom.
A few minutes later I was back in Bing’s office. Jaida was on her feet and thanking him for answering all of her questions.
“No problem!” he said. “Not very many people are interested in how syndication works. And I’m looking forward to working with you in the future.” He nodded to include me in the you.
My smile tightened. “Working with us?”
Jaida gave me an apologetic smile. “Bing really thinks we need to try out a few ads for the Honeybee during the holiday season.”
I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it. “You can fill me in on the details in the car,” I finally managed.
“I’ll call you to follow up,” Bing said, his tone triumphant. “I guarantee you’ll see the difference in business in no time.”
Smiling weakly, I said good-bye. We went back out to the familiars waiting in the minivan, who greeted us with wagging tails and slurping kisses.
“Now, don’t get mad,” Jaida said once we were buckled in. “I didn’t sign anything. I didn’t even say yes.”
“He seems to think you did. You know Uncle Ben will blow a gasket.” I groaned. “Especially after all his warnings about what a good salesman that guy is.”
She grimaced and started the vehicle. “You can tell the guy you changed your mind. Say I didn’t have the authority to even say we’d consider it—which is totally true, of course. But he did make a lot of good points, and he offered a steep discount.”
“Because of Mimsey?”
“Partly. But the station is in dire straits and needs the business. They had a lot of eggs in the Dr. Dana basket.”
I looked sideways at her. “Sounds like you drew Mr. Hawkins out quite a bit after I left.”
She grinned and pulled into traffic. “You’re not the only one who can find things out, you know.”
I held up my hands. “Boy, do I ever. You’ve helped me so many times I’ve lost count. So what did you learn?”
“A lot of boring stuff about how syndication works. In a nutshell, most talk shows are syndicated through a radio network. Dana Dobbs’ show was self-syndicated, however. So rather than a network acting as a go-between with other stations around the country, WMBK produced and recorded all her shows and then distributed them via FTP download directly to the other stations they’d sold rebroadcasting rights to. Turns out, that’s what Bing really concentrated his sales abilities on. They partnered directly with Dana Dobbs and one other investor. International syndication was next.”
“That sounds like a lot of work for a small station like that.”
She nodded. “From what I understand, once everything is in place, it’s not too hard to maintain. But when they started out, they needed more staff and a pile of money.”
“The third investor?”
Our eyes met briefly before Jaida looked back at the road.
“Heinrich Dawes,” I guessed. It made sense. Dawes Corp. was a venture capital firm. Investing was what he did.
“Bing didn’t mention a name,” she said. “But it would explain why he was leaving the station. He might be out a lot of money.”
“I wonder if Steve would know,” I mused. It was a perfectly reasonable excuse to call him.
“But his father said they weren’t speaking.”
Steve, who had a column in the Savannah Morning News, had begun working for Dawes Corp. soon after he’d joined the Dragoh clan.
“How could they not be speaking?” I made a face. “Something weird is going on there.”
Jaida was quiet for a few beats. Then: “Does Declan know Steve’s back in town?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t mention it. He says he’s okay with our friendship. I wish it were true. After all, it’s been . . . oh, my God.”
“What is it?”
“I’m an idiot.”
She laughed. “How so?”
“I was wondering why Deck came in this morning and made such a big deal about supper tonight. I totally forgot that tomorrow is our one-year anniversary. And he’s on shift starting tomorrow morning, so we’re celebrating tonight.”