Dead Air Part 1

Dead Air.

Mary Kennedy.

To Holly Root, who made it all happen.

Chapter 1.

I think it was the call from the furrie that put me over the top.

I'd just started my afternoon show at WYME Radio when Vera Mae Atkins, my producer, scrawled the word "furvert" on a piece of paper and waved it at me from the production room.

Furvert?

Once she had my attention, she flashed me a p.u.s.s.ycat smile. "You have a call from Seymour on line one, Dr. Maggie. He says he's a furrie." Then her lips gave a telltale quiver and I spotted the wicked gleam in her eye, a seismic shaking in her narrow shoulders. I expected her to break into the happy dance at any moment.

Enjoy! She mouthed the word through the large gla.s.s window that separates the production area from the cramped recording booth where I sit for two hours every weekday. She circled her index finger next to her ear in a Looney Tunes gesture and tossed me a broad wink.

Okay, the truth finally hit me. I had a furvert on the line.

"Furvert," in case you're wondering, is a derogatory term--a mixture of the words "furrie" and "pervert." What's a furrie (sometimes called a plushie by those in the know)? Here's an Idiot's Guide explanation. If you enjoy dressing up like a chipmunk and having s.e.x with someone wearing a racc.o.o.n costume, you would call yourself a furrie. Or maybe you're a snow leopard who likes to do the horizontal mambo with a giraffe. Or you could be a brown bear with a yen for a wildebeest--well, I'm sure you get the idea.

If that's what floats your boat, then Vera Mae--and others--would call you a furvert.

Most days, my training as a clinical psychologist leads me to be less judgmental, more accepting of all alternative life-styles, including furries and their bizarre couplings. At least that's what a psychoa.n.a.lytic approach would endorse. Two consenting adults dressing up as animals and having s.e.x--no harm, no foul.

But here's the thing (as Dr. Phil would say)--I just wasn't in the mood to be PC today.

I bit back a sigh. As the host of On the Couch with Maggie Walsh, I've had my share of unhappy callers--bored housewives, bitter employees, frazzled parents, desperate singles, and out-and-out crazies. In my quiet moments, I compare myself to Dr. Phil, or, as Vera Mae likes to say, "Dr. Phil without the money, fame, or glory."

Gee, thanks for reminding me, Vera.

I punched line one. "h.e.l.lo! You're on the couch with Maggie--"

Before I could belt out the rest of my signature welcome, a male voice slammed over the line, practically hyperventi lating with rage.

"So you think we're a bunch of weirdos, is that it? A bunch of crazy kooks?"

Uh-oh. This was going to be worse than I'd thought. I glanced up to see Vera Mae grinning from ear to ear, her towering beehive bouncing from side to side like a dashboard bobblehead. Vera Mae, who hails from southern Georgia, believes that "the higher the hairdo, the closer to G.o.d." Her carrot-colored tresses could give Marge Simpson a run for her money.

She held up a sign with YES! on it, followed by another that read d.a.m.n STRAIGHT!

I should explain that Vera Mae has an infinite number of these hand-lettered signs, and she delights in holding them up at strategic moments during my call-in show.

I like to think of her as a Dixie version of a Greek chorus.

"Really, sir, I have no idea--"

"Your coverage of our annual furrie convention in Cypress Grove left a lot to be desired, young lady," the voice went on in a harsh rasp. A smoker's voice, I decided. One of those gravelly whines that made you think he'd inhaled an entire truckload of Camels and was threatening to hack up a lung any minute. "I'd expected that at the very least you'd invite our esteemed president, Clarence Whittaker, on your show as a featured guest . . . but no, you walked right by him at the Furrie Awards without even a h.e.l.lo."

I frowned, trying to remember. The Furrie Awards. Oh, yeah. I'd done a live remote broadcast outside the Cypress Grove Convention Center last week, covering the Annual East Coast Furrie Convention, but it was all a blur.

Which one was Clarence Whittaker, anyway? Was he the guy in the Smokey the bear getup? Or the portly skunk with the swishy tail? Or maybe the gray fox who'd patted my behind with his mangy paw? There must have been two hundred people milling around the square, all dressed as their favorite animal, paws entwined, drinking champagne and dancing in a conga line.

Is it any wonder I'd blocked the whole scene from my memory? As Freud would say, there are no accidents. I wanted to forget, so my mind was a blank.

"It's discrimination; that's what it is! I'm sure my con gressman would like to hear about this. It's un-American." His voice quivered with self-righteousness.

"Hmm. Well, I certainly apologize if I overlooked your esteemed . . . uh . . . leader, but--"

"But nothing! Did you know that over half of our furrie members are in a committed relationship with another furrie? And that most of us are college-educated and upstanding members of the community? We're doctors, lawyers, and teachers. We even have a few preachers in our midst . . ."

This call was going nowhere. I looked up at the window. Vera Mae was pretending to slit her throat.

"No, I didn't know that, but I'll make a note of it. And the next time you come to town, I'll be sure--"

"Well, listen, girlie, the next time we come to town, you be sure to give us the attention we deserve. And don't forget the furrie slogan." He had another coughing fit as I leaned toward the board to cut him off.

"I'll certainly do that. And thank you for calling WYME."

I punched a b.u.t.ton and disconnected him. "Well, Vera Mae, I guess now we'll never know what the furrie slogan is, will we? What a loss."

"Oh, I can think of a good slogan for that group," she purred. "How's this?" She leaned forward so her mouth was almost touching her microphone. "Once you try yak . . . you never go back!"

Ouch. "My producer thinks she's a comedian," I said quickly. I could just picture the phones ringing off the hook at her yak comment. "Who do we have next, Vera?" I struggled to put a note of professionalism into my voice.

After all, I am a licensed PhD psychologist, although my grad school adviser would probably burst an aneurysm at the career path I've taken. The truth is, I'd gotten sick of New York winters and rising real estate prices. When I spotted an ad for a radio psychologist in sunny Florida, I auditioned for the job and grabbed it.

I'm thirty-two and single and I figured this was the time to do something a little reckless in my life. So I closed my private practice in Manhattan, sold my IKEA furniture, and moved into a two-story mock-hacienda-style town house in a tiny town called Cypress Grove, Florida. It's north of Boca, not too far from Palm Beach, a pleasant drive to Fort Lauderdale.

As the chamber of commerce says, "Cypress Grove--it's near everyplace else you'd rather be!"

That was three months ago, and I've never looked back. Well, not too often, anyway.

Vera Mae stopped snapping her gum and sprang to attention. "We have Sharlene on line two." Meaningful pause. "Again."

Could this day get any worse? Sharlene calls my show like clockwork, three times a week, always ready to complain about Walter, her supercontrolling husband. She's a cla.s.sic codependent, never ready to take responsibility for herself or change her life, and her voice grates on my nerves like teeth on tinfoil. Even over the phone line, she manages to suck the energy out of me.

I leaned forward to hit line two but spotted Vera Mae waving at me frantically.

"Is there a problem, Vera Mae?"

"Oh, wait a minute. Dang it, I goofed. Sharlene will have to wait a darned minute. Because now it's time for a word from our new sponsor, the Last Call Funeral Home."

Vera Mae jammed a ca.s.sette in the machine, but nothing happened.

Dead silence. I made a "what gives?" signal with my hands in the air.

"Oops, sorry, Dr. Maggie, but someone filed a blank ca.s.sette by mistake. You'll have to read the ad copy live; it's sitting right there by the mike."

Ah, the joys of small-town radio.

Reading the occasional commercial, or "spot," as they're called, is part of my job description. So I sat up straight, adjusted my headphones, and crossed my legs. No time for a bathroom break when there was a sixty-second spot to read.

Since our last copywriter quit two weeks ago, Irina, the Swedish receptionist, is the new WYME scribe. Irina is doing her best to learn English, but puns, humor, and slang expressions go whizzing over her beautiful blond head. This has led to some embarra.s.sing double entendres that I know will be the highlight of the blooper reel trotted out at the next WYME office party.

But how can Irina think straight with our studly sports announcer, Big Jim Wilc.o.x, breathing down her neck? Or worse yet, staring down her impressive cleavage.

I put on my best talk radio voice, oozing warmth and sincerity, like a QVC host.

"So just call on the friendly folk at the Last Call Funeral Home in your hour of needs." Needs? "Er, need," I said hastily. Couldn't someone at least proofread Irina's work? "We have many ways of helping your dead ones." Dead ones? Vera Mae snickered, and I glared at her. "Um, that should be loved ones, folks. Sorry about that. Yes, it definitely should be loved ones."

Finally I got to the Last Call slogan: "Remember, at the Last Call Funeral Home, we leave no stone unturned in our quest to help you."

No stone unturned?I bet Jim Wilc.o.x helped her with this one. It was just the sort of soph.o.m.oric humor that would appeal to the middle-aged sports jock.

"Ready to take a call? Sharlene is still on the line," Vera Mae said in a sugary voice.

"Bring it on!" I was gritting my teeth so hard, I knew I'd need a bite plate before the day was out.

"Line two!"

"h.e.l.lo, Sharlene, you're on the couch . . ."

"Oh, Dr. Maggie, you've just got to help me," Sharlene wailed. "I don't think I can take another minute of this. It's just not fair!" She began sobbing and snuffling, a walking ad for divorce court.

"Now, Sharlene, try to calm down and tell me what's going on. I'm sure I can help you." Actually, I was pretty sure a good lawyer could help Sharlene a lot more than I could, but for the moment, she was my problem. More m.u.f.fled sobs. "Is it your husband? Is that what's troubling you today?"

This provoked an even bigger wail from Sharlene. "He's ruining my life. My mama warned me not to marry him. I always thought I could change him."

"Sharlene, you know we've talked about this issue before. When a woman marries a man hoping to change him . . ." I allowed myself a small, knowing chuckle. "Changing a man is as likely as--"

"As teaching a pig to fly!" Vera Mae's voice boomed into the booth. I think I liked it better when Vera Mae confined herself to holding up signs. Her homespun wisdom can be a bit unnerving on live radio, but she has a heart as big as an IMAX screen.

"Thank you for that gem of wisdom, Vera Mae."

I could hear m.u.f.fled sobs from Sharlene. "Sharlene, do you remember some of the options we discussed the last time you called? We talked about various strategies you could use in dealing with Walter."

Vera reached for one of her favorite signs and held it up.

KHATTC.

Translation: Kick his a.s.s to the curb. This is Vera Mae's surefire solution for an errant husband or boyfriend.

Don't ask; don't reason; don't plead. Just KHATTC.

"Well, I appreciate your help, Dr. Maggie, but somehow I just can't get up the energy to do anything. And you know, Walter can be real mean when's he's been drinking, and he seems to have a sixth sense or something, just like Patricia Arquette on Medium." I gave an involuntary little shudder. There was something creepy and predatory about Walter, and I hoped he never discovered my home address or phone number. I do my best to protect my privacy, but there's always an element of risk when you do a live radio show five days a week. ZabaSearch will get you every time.

You can't hide in a tiny market like Cypress Grove. You never know when a disgruntled listener might take offense to your advice and then track you down to even the score.

"Let's try to stick to the issue of you and Walter, Sharlene. Can you pinpoint a time when things started to go wrong between you?"

"Well," she said hesitantly, "things have never been the same since he threw me through the plate-gla.s.s window last Christmas."

Hmm. This poor girl needed more help than I could give her on a radio show.

"Oh, no!" Sharlene's voice rose to a terrified squeak. "I hear him coming, Dr. Maggie. I've got to hang up right now. Lord knows what he'll do if he finds me talking to you. He's been making some threats and--"

"Sharlene!" A male voice boomed in the background, and suddenly the phone went dead. For a moment, I just stared at the microphone. Poor Sharlene. Would anyone be able to help her? Would she ever find the strength to leave Walter?

Finally, Vera Mae broke the silence. "Are you ready for another call?" She sounded shaken, and for once, she wasn't making any smart-a.s.s jokes. "I'm leaving a line open for you, Sharlene," she added softly.

The next couple of calls were routine, and as we slipped into a commercial, Vera darted around the part.i.tion and stuck her head in the studio. "Maggie, there's some nut on line four. He's got his panties in a twist. I think it's about that Sanjay fellow we've scheduled for later today. He's making threats. Crazy threats."

Crazy threats? We came back from the break and Vera Mae said smoothly, "Take line four, Dr. Maggie. It's important."

"All our calls are important, Vera Mae," I said, confused. Who was on the line and what did he want? And why would he be upset about our upcoming featured guest, Guru Sanjay Gingii? Gingii was a popular radio and television personality. A little nutty, but harmless, in my professional opinion. New Age gurus aren't my cup of tea, but this guy has a huge following, a book deal, a movie deal, and a syndicated newspaper column.

"You're on the couch with Dr. Maggie," I said, swiveling back to the board.

"Your days are numbered," a m.u.f.fled voice said. The voice was soft, insinuating, chilling. I swallowed hard, and my mouth suddenly went dry. I felt the skin p.r.i.c.kle across my shoulders. "Did you read the note I sent you?"

"The note?"

"It's in a bright yellow envelope. It was hand delivered this morning."

I looked over at Vera, who was frantically flipping through the listener mail. She held up a canary yellow envelope with no stamp and waved it at me. Then she ripped it open, read the note inside, and blanched.

"Did you read the note?" the caller persisted.

"Why don't you tell me what it's all about?" I said quickly. "We always welcome listener opinions, good or bad."

A nasty chuckle from the mystery caller. "This one's bad," he rasped. "This is going to be the apocalypse."

"The apocalypse?"

"Like I said in the note, the end is coming quicker than you think. Much quicker. It will end with a bang, not a whimper. It's the end for you and for those G.o.dless Sanjay-ites."

Sanjay-ites?Oh, yeah, the people who dressed in white and were followers of Sanjay Gingii. There was something eerie about the whispery voice, and I felt little icy fingers tap-dance up and down my spine. I couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman.

I took a deep breath, my mind skidding over my options. Was it best to keep this person talking? Or break off the connection?