Free Dead Air: A Talk Radio Mystery by Mary Kennedy Page A

more entertaining guests.
    Something to ponder: Did the fact that Guru Sanjay turned up dead after doing my show hurt my chances of getting A-list guests?
    Later that evening, after stopping at Johnny Chen’s for our take-out order, I cautiously unlocked the front door to the town house. I tiptoed inside, wondering whether Lark was awake and functioning, and was pleased to see her curled up on the sofa watching television with Pugsley at her side.
    Then I noticed that she was staring blankly at the Weather Channel, and I knew her mind wasn’t on rainstorms in Topeka or the blustery Santa Anas in Southern California.
    “Hey,” I said, setting the little white cardboard cartons with wire handles from Johnny Chen’s on the coffee table in front of her.
    “Is that dinner?” she asked listlessly.
    “No, I adopted a bunch of goldfish from Mike’s Marine World.”
    I took a close look at her and saw that her eyes were red rimmed from crying.
    “Bad joke,” I apologized, handing Pugsley his steamed dumpling on a napkin. He swallowed it in one gulp, and I took the remote out of Lark’s hands to kill the distracting chatter about cumulus clouds forming in the Pacific North-west.
    “We need to talk,” I said gently. It was dim in the room, and I switched on the ginger-jar lamp on the end table, flooding the room with soft pink light.
    “Okay.” A tiny, ghostly voice and a hopeless shrug.
    “But we can eat first if you want,” I added, taking in the stricken expression on her face. Her mascara was smudged from crying and she looked very small and vulnerable with her blue and white vintage afghan tucked around her legs.
    She reached for her carton of veggie stir-fry and stabbed at the contents in a desultory way with a plastic fork. We ate in uncomfortable silence side by side for a few minutes, with Pugsley hovering around us like a hungry jackal, watching our every bite, his little feet tapping a staccato on the polished oak floor.
    Finally Pugsley curled up under the coffee table. The town house became very still except for the solemn ticking of the grandfather clock in the entryway. Why wasn’t Lark speaking up, telling me she was innocent? I was convinced she had nothing to do with Guru Sanjay’s death, but for some reason, I needed to hear her say the words.
    Then I gave myself a mental head slap. What in the world was wrong with me? How could I even think Lark could be capable of violence? She’s so softhearted, she even rescues ants, carrying them outside in an envelope and setting them down gently in the garden.
    The idea of her killing someone was ridiculous. Even someone as odious as Guru Sanjay.
    Yet, something wasn’t right. My stomach started to prick with anxiety, and my nerves were strung as tight as piano wire.
    I drew in a long, slow breath, hoping to relax, and found that my chest ached from the effort. I shoveled in more veggie lo mein to soothe my jangled nerves with a little carb rush. Chinese food therapy: works every time.
    “Okay,” Lark said finally, breaking the silence. She shot a sidelong glance at me, pushed the afghan aside, and sat up straighter. “I think I’m ready to tell you what happened last night.”
    Finally, the moment of truth! I knew what was coming next. Lark would tell me what I already knew—that she had nothing to do with Guru Sanjay’s death and it was all a case of mistaken identity. The kind of thing that could happen to anybody—right?
    “Okay, let’s hear it.”
    She took a long, shuddering breath, and then she let out a little sigh. Her blue eyes were shining with intensity and her pupils were dilated. Her gaze dropped to her hands, folded primly in her lap.
    “Maggie, I think I may have killed him.”
    I felt like I’d been sucker punched and nearly dropped my carton of noodles on the polished oak floor, causing Pugsley to yip with excitement. My breath caught in my throat, as if it couldn’t make it all the way down to my lungs.
    “What? This is a