Free Stay Tuned for Murder by Mary Kennedy

happened at that séance, Maggie? Did somebody snap and come back later and kill Althea? Or do you think a ghost was out for vengeance? Maybe it was some kind of divine retribution. I want an exclusive, you know.” Jim was standing too close to me, as always, wearing too much Drakkar Noir, his eyes bulging with interest.
    Even though Big Jim covers sports, he’s trying to make the big leagues and keeps hoping for an investigative report to add to his demo reel. His biggest story to date is a human interest piece about Andy Layton, a high school sophomore who broke his ankle during football practice and had to sit out the rest of the season. That’s not the kind of scoop that will propel Big Jim into a major market, I’m afraid.
    When I first moved to Cypress Grove, Big Jim thought I’d gone insane and murdered my own talk show guest, a New Age guru. Even though the real killer was later brought to justice, Big Jim still harbors a nagging feeling that I must have been involved in some way. He believes “all shrinks are nuts,” and he expects me to go berserk at any moment. Actually, he’s hoping for it. I wondered whether he’d grab a tape recorder and try to get a comment from me. Or maybe he was wearing a wire and was hoping I’d say something incriminating. Nothing Big Jim might do would surprise me.
    “Well, what is it, Maggie?” he nattered on. “A ghost did it, right?”
    “I don’t think Althea was murdered by a ghost,” I said, keeping my voice level. I saw Opie whip out his notebook. I bet he was writing down every word.
    “No? Well, you can’t be sure, can you? You could do one of those psychological autopsies. I saw that on CSI Miami . Now, that would bring in a lot of listeners.” Big Jim paused to pop a breath mint and scratch his chin. “Although, come to think of it, how would you do an autopsy on a ghost? Bummer.” He gave a cackling laugh. “I guess even an ace shrink like yourself can’t figure that one out, can you, Maggie?”
    I shook my head. Big Jim was an even bigger moron than I’d thought.
    “Well, for one thing, a psychological autopsy is done on the victim , not the murderer . And it has nothing to do with a body. It’s a way of reconstructing what the victim thought, felt, and did. You know what the cops always say: ‘know the victim and you’ll know the killer.’ That’s the theory behind the psychological autopsy.”
    “What was that again?” I turned around, and sure enough, Opie was frowning and scribbling in his notebook. “Know the victim and—”
    “Know the victim and you’ll know the killer,” I repeated.
    “Huh?” Big Jim looked perplexed. “Is that true? Because I’m sure I read in the National Enquirer that ninety percent of all murders are—”
    “Look, we need to get started here,” Rafe interrupted him. “Maggie, the first thing we need is a quiet place to talk to people. If you’ll excuse us,” he said pointedly to the sports announcer.
    Naturally, Big Jim didn’t get the hint. Rafe walked over to Irina, our beautiful blond receptionist, who was watching spellbound from her desk.
    Whenever Irina sees Rafe, she blushes bright pink and her always-fragile hold on English slips away. She gave a girlish little giggle when she realized Rafe was headed her way.
    “Miss Yaslov, could you please get Miss Vera Mae Atkins for me? She’s expecting us.” Rafe stared at her for a long moment, while the synapses finally connected in her brain. Her face flushed an even deeper shade of salmon.
    “Ya, I will be doing these things even now as I am speaking to you,” Irina said, flashing him a gleaming supermodel smile. She had an impressive set of veneers, and I always wondered how she managed to afford them. I couldn’t imagine cosmetic dentistry being a big item in Sweden so I assumed she had them done over here. “Ya, you will see. I am calling her now, at our present moment.”
    “Great, thank you.” Rafe tossed her one of his heart-breaker