Play Dead - Softcover

Leslie O'Kane is the author of The Cold Hard Fax, the latest book in her Molly Masters mystery series. She lives with her husband and two children in Boulder, Colorado.

Talk about "dead air," I thought as I scanned the shabby lobby of the radio station. KBXD was completely deserted. At two p.m. Friday on a gorgeous spring day in Boulder, Colorado, I'd expected that my upcoming radio interview would not glean many listeners, let alone new clients. I had, however, expected to see some personnel.

I opened a heavy wooden door and entered an unadorned L-shaped hallway. Puzzled, I listened to a woman's halting, sniffling speech, and followed the sound to the nearest corner of the shiny faux-mahogany-paneled wall. A built-in speaker blared what I realized, with a sinking feeling, was not a TV soap opera, but the actual KBXD radio broadcast.

"--just can't believe they would shut us down with no notice like this," the woman's voice, strained with barely checked emotion, was saying. "So we want all our listeners to call in throughout the rest of our programming today. Complain. Share the memories. Share the sorrow. You're listening, for the last time, to the Tracy Truett Show."

"Oh, great," I muttered to myself. My first radio spot ever and the station is shutting down? I cautiously rounded the corner, considering my options. I shuddered at the idea of trying to talk enthusiastically about my newly chosen profession, all the while with "listeners" calling in to share their grief about the radio station closing.

Through an interior window, I spotted radio host Tracy Truett. She was a large, square-jawed woman with short blond hair in wet spikes surrounding the headband of her black earphones. Her heavy makeup was smeared. She was wearing what was probably a nice-looking outfit when she'd first come to work that day--sky-blue pants suit, paisley blouse--but the jacket was off and hanging haphazardly on a chair back, and the bow on the neckline of her blouse was untied and unbuttoned, revealing a sturdy bra strap. One thick, black shoe was on top of the table between Tracy's microphone and a liquor flask.

She continued into her microphone, "--Or, should I say, after a word from our soon-to-be-former sponsor, is our regularly scheduled program, 'Boulder Business Women.' Today, we'll be talking with Allida Babcock, who's just opened her new business here in town as a dog psychologist."

"Did you say a dog psychologist, Tracy?" a male voice broke in. He was not in my vision, but I quickly surmised that this must be the voice of the show's producer, speaking from the control room overlooking Tracy's booth.

"That's right, Greg. So now both our depressed listeners and their depressed pooches can call in and cry with us. Or howl, as the case may be."

I cringed, then made a swift executive decision. I turned on my heel and headed for the exit. Just then, from the corner of my eye, I saw Tracy Truett rise and gesture for me to come in.

Before I could make a clean getaway, Tracy leaned out the door and called, "Are you Dr. Allida Babcock?"

I turned back and forced a smile. "No, I just came in here to use your bathroom."

"You are too," Tracy stated crossly. "You sent us this photo of you in your press release, remember?"

I glanced at the eight-by-ten glossy in Tracy's hand, which was unmistakably my likeness--short, sandy brown hair, dark brown eyes, button nose. As if the facial features alone weren't enough, I realized to my chagrin that I was now wearing the very same bright yellow cable-knit sweater I'd worn for the photo.

"True, but I meant I'm not a doctor. Technically, I'm a behaviorist. I just call myself a dog psychologist in my advertisements because I thought it would catch people's attention faster."

"Yeah?" Tracy said, arms akimbo and eyeing me as if I were a disobedient child. "Looked to me like you were trying to leave us in the lurch. It's people like you, not showing up for their interviews, that caused our owners to shaft us in the first place."

I held the woman's gaze. "It's just that, with the station suddenly closing and everything, I assumed you wouldn't want guests on your show. Wouldn't you prefer to reminisce amongst yourselves?"

"Sure. But that's not what it says on today's program schedule, now is it? I fully intend to act like a professional, even if nobody--"

"Tracy? Get back in here!" the same male voice boomed over an intercom. "You've got dead air!"

Tracy grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the sound booth, then rushed over to the nearest mike. "Yes, dear listeners, we're still here, for today, at any rate." She rounded the table and reclaimed her chair, using one hand to give herself a swig from her flask, and gesturing frantically at me with the other hand to sit down at the second mike. "Today, our guest is Allida Babcock, who's here to tell us all about her new business as a dog psychologist." She shot dagger looks over the table, but her voice was pure honey. "Welcome, Allida. Glad you could join us." She slipped her earphones back on as she spoke.

"Thank you, Tracy," I said as smoothly as I could while sitting down. The chair was way too low for me. The air in the small room smelled of whiskey. Sheets of gray foam rubber were haphazardly stuck on the walls as though a child had gone wild with packing material. The low-hanging ceiling tiles gave me the impression that the roof was about to cave in on us. Somehow, I'd always pictured radio studios as fancier than this. I craned my neck and said into my microphone, "It's a pleasure to be here."

"However short-lived," Tracy added under her breath. "So, Allida. Speaking of which, you're extremely short, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am, Tracy. Thank you."

"What are you? Four-ten? Four-eight?"

"I'm five feet even," I answered, which was only accurate when I poofed my hair a little and raised up on my toes. Determined to make the most of this mess and keep the conversation focused on my profession, I continued smoothly, "Yet my height has never adversely affected me when training dogs. You see, even though a dog might greatly outweigh his or her owner, dogs are pack animals. What's important for training purposes is that you quickly establish that you, not your dog, are the top dog, the alpha dog, the leader of the pack."

"Maybe so," Tracy said with a chuckle, "but from where I'm sitting, you can barely see over the table, not to mention the microphone. How old are you, anyway? Twelve?"

"Thirty-two, actually, and I've spent twenty-five years now training dogs. During that time, I--"

"Greg," Tracy interrupted. Though she'd turned in her seat to face the pimply faced man in the control room, she still spoke directly into her microphone. "We've got to get this poor girl a dictionary or a pillow to sit on. She's going to sprain her neck at this rate. Got a dog bed back there anywhere we can fold up and stick on her chair?"

"As I was saying, Tracy," I continued, hoping my rising agitation was not reflected in my voice, "I've trained dogs for many years--" I rose to surrender my chair to the dutiful Greg, who had yanked off his own earphones, left his post, and entered the broadcast booth "--and am now working specifically with the so-called behavior-problem dogs."

Tracy let out a loud burst of laughter, then asked, "Got any tips for badly behaved employers--such as station owners?"

"Not unless they're canines," I said calmly, though my face was growing warmer by the moment. Beside me, Greg chuckled quietly as he cranked the chair into a higher position. He was older looking than his pimples and wardrobe--jeans and Boyz II Men T-shirt--would normally indicate. I guessed him to be in his late thirties. Unshaven and potbellied, he reminded me of the janitor who worked at my school in Berthoud, Colorado, more than a decade ago.

Tracy Truett scoffed and took another drink. "You could call 'em dogs, all right. Or heartless swine."

Watching her, all I could think was: Are you nuts, lady? Don't you ever want to work in radio again? Heart pounding, I forced a smile and leaned over the mike to say as sweetly as I could, "I can't imagine why they've canceled your show, Tracy. That's such a shame."

"Yeah, me neither. We got a call on line one." She flipped a switch on the phone opposite her shoe and liquor bottle and said, "Hello, Russell, you're on the air."

"Hi, Tracy. I'm calling with a question for Ms. Babcock."

Thank you! I thought. Any interruption in the show was a welcome relief, although I recognized the voice of Russell Greene, an electrical engineer who'd rented half of his two-room office to me. Russell Greene had been in love with me--or thought he was--from the minute we met three weeks ago. I'd answered his ad for office space to rent. Handsome-featured with thick, shiny dark hair and mustache, Russell had risen when I came to see him about the ad, and, as our eyes met on an even plane, his face lit up. He seemed to interpret our mutual vertical challenge as a sign that we were fated for each other--two of the same miniature purebreds.

Problem was, there was no chance, as far as I was concerned. He didn't like dogs.

"Go ahead, Russell," Tracy said.

"Ms. Babcock, I was wondering if you're as beautiful as your voice makes you sound."

I clenched my teeth and sank into the seat that Greg had adjusted and was now holding for me. In truth, I'm "cute," not beautiful, and I hate the sound of my own voice. Now able to speak into the mike without neck strain, I said evenly, "My physical appearance has nothing to do with the psychology of dogs. In fact, that is one of the many appealing aspects of dog ownership--our dogs love us regardless...