Free Dead Air by Robin Caroll Page B

the engine of her vehicle, Gabby hit the speed-dial number of her cell phone for the Realtor’s office. She glanced at the clock. Yeah, they’d probably left for the day, but she’d leave a message.
    “Mystique Realty.” Wow, they were still there.
    “May I speak to Margaret Worth, please?”
    “Just a moment.”
    Elevator music filled her ear, annoying her further. Why couldn’t the local businesses support the radio station and pipe in KLUV’s broadcast?
    “This is Margaret. May I help you?”
    “Hi, Margaret, it’s Gabby.”
    An uncomfortable pause echoed against Gabby’s eardrum. “Oh. Hi, Gabby.” Another long beat of silence. “I guess you heard the house sold.”
    “I did.” Gabby’s hand shook as she tried to steer and clutch the cell phone at the same time. “I thought we had an understanding you would give me some warning when a bid was placed on the house.”
    “I’m sorry, Gabby. Really. It all happened so fast. He just moved to town, needed a house fast. That one was vacant and ready to move into.”
    “I see.” But she didn’t. Oh, her head understood the good fortune of the realty company, but her heart screamed at the betrayal.
    “I’m really sorry. Mr. McKay had cash for the asking price, so there was no delay in the processing. I didn’t have time to call you.”
    Mr. McKay? So he had bought her house.
    “He’s such a nice man.”
    A nice man? He’d done moved into her house. She knew she wasn’t exactly being fair—it’s not as if he’d known—but it was hard to remember to be reasonable.
    “Thanks, Margaret.” She snapped the phone shut, not wanting to hear any more apologies or platitudes.
    Gabby slammed the side of her fist against the steering wheel. What an awful thing to find out about Clark McKay. And just when she was starting to like him, too.
    Her breath caught. Starting to…She hadn’t really thought she was starting to like him, had she? Mercy. Maybe this news had come at just the right time. Liking Clark McKay was the last thing she wanted to do.
     
    “Good thing you didn’t drive it back on Friday night. The brake line was cut.”
    Clark stood in the garage, staring at Lou, hearing his words, but not wanting to accept them. “Someone deliberately cut my brake line?”
    “No question, Mr. McKay.” He held up the damaged part. “See here, it’s jagged and diagonal. Means somebody did it quick. From the part cut, looks like it was accessed by the tire well. You must not have had your tires straight, had to have been turned a little when you parked. Gave somebody easy access. Guess they figured if you didn’t heed that warning, they’d make sure you’d have no choice but to speed right on out of town.”
    Someone wanted to hurt him. “Have you told the sheriff?”
    “I did. He wants me to send this over to him as soon as possible.” Lou waved the cut line. “I’ll have Fred drop it by the station this evening.”
    Who would want to hurt him?
    “But the good news is, your car is fixed and ready to go, new paint job and all.”
    “Thanks, Lou. I really appreciate you getting right on this.” Who would do this to him? Why? “Here’s a question for you—how long ago do you think the line was cut? I mean, did it have to have just happened before I had the accident?”
    Lou punched in Clark’s invoice in the cash register. “Not necessarily. Depending how often you’ve driven it and how often you’ve used the brakes, it could’ve happened several days before the accident.”
    Someone could’ve done it before Howard’s murder. This could be not even slightly connected to his owning KLUV. But who? Why?
    Then again, it could’ve happened since, which made more sense.
    Clark handed over his credit card and waited for Lou to complete the transaction. But his mind spun.
    Howard—once a part owner of the station, shot dead. Robert—previous owner of the station, knocked unconscious and left for dead, providing Clark didn’t believe he’d