FM for Murder by Patricia Rockwell Read Free Book Online Page B

his food.
    “Black Vulture,” repeated Angela, “Ted Ballard, the disc jockey. Did they find the person who killed him?”
    “Black Vulture? That’s his name?”
    “His goth name,” replied Angela.
    “Not yet,” said Pamela, “but it’s been on the news. Hopefully, anyone with any information will come forward.”
    “I hope so,” said Angela, nibbling on the broccoli without much enthusiasm. “He was a good dj. I really liked his program. It was the only radio show that played any good alternative music.”
    “Really?” asked Pamela. “There weren’t any other stations that played this—what do you call the type of music he played?”
    “Some people call it goth,” answered Angela, “some, alternative rock. There are lots of names and really lots of different styles. But Black Vulture—I mean Theodore—knew them all. He really investigated the different bands and introduced a lot of new groups on air. Kent liked him too.”
    “Why did they call him Black Vulture?” asked Rocky.
    “I don’t know,” said Angela. “A lot of people in alternative music have alternative names.” She was moving the broccoli around on her plate, possibly in hopes that it would disappear by itself.
    “Did you ever see this Black Vulture, Angie?” asked Pamela, eyeing her daughter’s food machinations.
    “No, Mom, I’ve just heard him on the radio,” answered her daughter, “but Kent’s seen him. He’s seen him at the Blue Poppy.”
    “The Blue what?” asked Rocky, taking his empty plate and his wife’s empty plate to the kitchen. He remained there as he started to scoop portions of peach cobbler into bowls.
    “It’s a goth club in downtown Reardon,” said Angela. “You know, a few blocks down from the Factory.” The Reardon Coffee Factory, known to locals as “The Factory” was the most famous eatery in the area. Its standard fare of sandwiches and salads wasn’t what brought in the crowds. No, the Factory sat on the site of one of the few original coffee substitute plants in the country—this one founded by Romulus Reardon to brew potable beverages from various plants for the Confederate troops during the Civil War. Customers came from around the globe to sample the various coffee-like drinks.
    The doorbell rang and Angie leaped up from her broccoli manipulations, while at the same time dropping a small piece of pork down to Candide, and ran to answer it.
    “Hi!” she said, greeting a young man standing on the porch, dressed in similar garb--jeans, sneakers, and a t-shirt. His spiky hair had twinges of purple throughout.
    “Hey,” responded Kent Drummond to Angela.
    Pamela walked to the door behind her daughter and greeted the young man.
    “Hi, Kent,” she said, “Won’t you come in?”
    “Hey, Dr. B,” replied the young man, “Angie and I are just going down to the library for a few hours, if that’s okay. I’ve got that paper of yours I need to work on and she has a research project she needs to get started on too. If that’s okay with you?”
    “Yes, of course it is, Kent,” said Pamela, as she led the young couple back to the dining room. “Why don’t you have a seat first and join us for dessert? My husband just made some peach cobbler.”
    “Great, sounds good. Hey, Mr. B!” he yelled his greeting to Angela’s father who he could see in the kitchen.
    “Hello, Kent,” answered Rocky, bringing in several bowls of cobbler topped with scoops of vanilla ice cream. “Here you go.” He placed the desserts in front of the two young people and handed Kent a spoon. The two college students immediately began gobbling down the dessert. Rocky returned to the kitchen and came back with cobbler for his wife and himself. For a few moments all was quiet as all four ate in silent pleasure.
    “So, Kent,” said Pamela, almost finished with her cobbler, “I understand from Angie that the two of you heard the murder of this Ted Ballard last night. She says you even know him.”
    “Dr.