Stay Tuned for Murder Read Online Free PDF

right next door. Ted Rollins, the manager and owner of the Seabreeze, was hosting one of his nightly wine-and-cheese receptions, and I spotted a dozen or so guests mingling on the wide front porch.
    It was a lovely evening, the air soft and balmy, the cicadas humming in the trees. Lark and Lola were sitting outside on the front step, deep in conversation.
    I was relieved to see that my mom was decked out appropriately for the occasion. She was wearing a pair of white capri pants, a striped navy-and-white boater’s sweater, and four-inch stiletto heels. This is a pretty tame outfit for a woman who’s fond of shopping at Wet Seal. The term “age appropriate” never crosses her lips; as she says, she’d “rather dress like Nicole Richie than Helen Mirren.”
    She figures the “classic look” is a slippery slope for a woman of a certain age. You’ll never find her in a pastel pantsuit and sensible pumps. She finds the whole idea of “dressing her age” terrifying. As Lola says, “Why, the next you know, I might be ordering the early-bird special at Applebee’s and dating a man named Sid who wears a rug.”
    At fifty-eight, Mom has the style and panache of one of those long-dead actresses of the silver screen, Dorothy Lamour, Ava Gardner, Marilyn Monroe. She dresses a little young, but since she never tells anyone her real age, it probably doesn’t matter. Mom has been known to fudge the truth. The résumé stapled to the back of her head shot still lists her as “thirty-eight,” but a more accurate listing would be “thirty-eight and holding.”
    Think about it. I’m thirty-two. At the rate she’s going, she’ll soon be younger than I am, and she’s been known to introduce herself as my sister. According to Lola, she’s younger than every actress in Hollywood, with the possible exception of Dakota Fanning.
    Lola and Lark sprang to their feet when I pulled up in front of the town house.
    “This is going to be an amazing evening,” Lark said, climbing into the backseat after Mom. “I’ve never been to a séance, although I have seen auras around people.”
    “Is that so?” Vera Mae asked diplomatically. “Too bad you’re weren’t in the studio today. You might have seen Fido’s aura.” Vera Mae winked at me.
    “You mean Barney,” I corrected her.
    “Who’s Barney?” Lark asked.
    “He’s a dog.” I checked my watch and pulled away from the curb. We’d be a little early for the séance, but I wanted to get a good seat.
    “A dead dog,” Vera Mae offered.
    “Well, you can’t leave us hanging,” Lola said. “I missed the show today. What happened?”
    “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it later,” I promised.
    “Do you suppose the press will be there tonight?” Mom asked breathlessly.
    I glanced in the rearview mirror, and I could see her touching up her lip gloss. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d tucked a few extra head shots in her tote bag. Mom likes to be prepared. She once chased a guy with a beard who was wearing a baseball cap five blocks down Rodeo Drive. When she finally caught up with him, she realized it wasn’t Steven Spielberg.
    “The press? I don’t think so,” Vera Mae said. “Not unless the Cypress Grove Gazette sends someone. What about that reporter friend of yours, Nick Harrison? Do you suppose he’ll be at the séance, Maggie?”
    “No, I remember distinctly that Chantel said she didn’t want any media present. The event is open to the public, so she can’t keep them out, but she certainly isn’t encouraging it. The presence of reporters disturbs the spirits, she told me.”
    “Ha! I bet Chantel said that because she’s afraid they’ll run an exposé on her. The reporters must know this is all a load of malarkey. You know, someone should do a little investigating on that girl, Maggie. She gave us that press packet, and we’ve been accepting it as gospel truth.” Vera Mae raised her eyebrows. “Maybe there are some dark secrets in her