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seersucker suit, and wire-rimmed glasses. He’s annoyingly cheerful, as effervescent as a club soda.
    “Great show, Dr. Maggie, Miss Vera Mae.” He’s also unfailingly polite. He was on his way to the production office with a pile of tapes, but he stuck his head in my cubicle to say hello.
    “Do you really think so, Kevin?” I asked. He seemed blind to the fact that the show had been a train wreck from start to finish. I wondered what it would take to burst that sunny bubble of optimism he carried around with him.
    “Oh, yes, ma’am, I did. I always do enjoy hearing Miss Chantel. I learn something new every day from her.” He gave a toothy grin, which along with his weak chin, gives him an unfortunate resemblance to Eeyore.
    “You don’t think we’ve done this topic to death, Kevin?” Vera Mae asked. “No pun intended,” she added with a grin.
    “No, ma’am! I don’t think your listeners will ever get tired of talking to dead people. In my own family, we have loads of people who talk to the departed on a daily basis.”
    And they’re not hospitalized? Or on medication?
    His tone was solemn and so reverential that I resisted making a cheap joke. “It seems to be the women in the family, mostly.” He wrinkled his forehead in thought. “Come to think of it, the women are the ones who have all the psychic powers in the Whitley clan. They just love to keep up with relatives who’ve passed.”
    I exchanged a look with Vera Mae. “And why do you suppose that is, Kevin? Why would women be more in touch with the spirit world than men?”
    “I’m not really sure. I think that maybe women have more to say. They’re just better at connecting with people, you know?”
    “Damn straight we are,” Vera Mae said. “You got that one right.” She turned to me. “Maggie, didn’t one of your guests say that women talk six times as much as men?”
    I nodded, not sure where the conversation was heading. “There’s a famous study on male-female communication,” I said. “The researchers discovered that in a one-on-one conversation between a man and a woman, a woman uses six times as many words as a man does. Maybe that’s what you’re thinking of.”
    “It doesn’t surprise me. Men don’t listen to us, so we have to repeat everything half a dozen times,” Vera Mae said darkly.
    As soon as Kevin made his way to the production room, I decided it was time to broach the subject of Irina.
    “You’re going to talk to Cyrus about hiring a real copywriter, right? That House of Beauty commercial was awful. I nearly said ‘blow job’ on the air.”
    Vera Mae laughed. “I know you did, sugar, and I’m real glad that you didn’t. The phones would be ringing off the hook with furious callers.” She sighed. “I really meant to read over that copy before I put it on the schedule, but you know, things get crazy around here. I don’t always get the time to do the things I should be doing.”
    “It’s not your fault, Vera Mae. It’s Irina. She’s just not cut out to be a copywriter. English is a second language for her. Why can’t Cyrus see that?”
    “He can’t see past saving a few bucks, honey, and that’s a fact.” She scooped up a pile of press packets. “But don’t worry. I’ll talk to him. I’ll just fib and tell him Wanda complained,” she added with a wink. “A word from the sponsor always gets his attention. You better believe it.”

Chapter 3
    The last moments of sunset were streaking across the western sky when Vera Mae and I left WYME for the séance at the historical society. But first we had to swing by my mock-hacienda-style town house to pick up Lark and Lola. As we turned onto the leafy street lined with banyan trees, I thought how lucky I was to have found this place. It’s a three-bedroom unit in a quiet residential neighborhood just ten minutes from WYME.
    A row of fragrant gardenia bushes separates my building from the Seabreeze Inn, a bright yellow and white Victorian B and B