One Fine Day You're Gonna Die by Gail Bowen Page A

and I opened the car door and climbed out. As I watched the hearse disappear into the fog, the opening lines of an old schoolyard rhyme floated to the top of my consciousness.
    Do you ever think when a hearse goes by
That one fine day you’re gonna die?
They’ll wrap you up in a cotton sheet
And throw you down about forty feet. The worms crawl in,
The worms crawl out…
    There was more, but I had to cut short my reverie. It was October 31. Halloween. The Day of the Dead. And I had a show to do.

CHAPTER TWO
    L ate at night, Studio D is a fine and private place. The CVOX offices are empty, and except for the security guy and a technician down the hall, our show’s producer, Nova Langenegger, and I are on our own. After ten years of working together, Nova and I know each other’s moods, and we anticipate one another’s needs.
    Tonight Nova anticipates that I need a guest expert on death and grieving to keep me from going into freefall during the show. Halloween is tough for me. I met Ariel, the woman I loved and lost, at a Halloween birthday party. We were seven years old. She was dressed as the sun, and the memory of her shining face surrounded by rays of golden foil still stops my heart.
    Nova is not often wrong, but as soon as I walk into the control room of Studio D, I know that we’re in for a rocky ride. The guest expert and my producer are standing toe to toe, and they both look grim. A stranger who didn’t know the combatants would put his money on the guest expert.
    Dr. Robin Harris is a goddess. In her stilettos, she’s taller than me, and I’m an even six feet. Her skin is creamy; her eyes are green; her auburn hair falls in luxuriant waves over her shoulders. Her black leather coat is close-fitted to showcase her many assets.
    At my request, Nova is wearing the caterpillar costume that she’d worn to a party earlier in the evening. Her six-month-old daughter, Lily, had been dressed as a butterfly. On a good day, Nova ticks in at a little over five foot two. In my opinion she’s a beauty, but these days she’s haunted by the few extra pounds she picked up when she was pregnant.
    The tension in the control room is thick, and the body language is hostile. I attempt to defuse the situation.
    â€œDr. Harris, I presume.” I offer our guest my hand. “I’m Charlie Dowhanuik.”
    Dr. Harris pivots on her stilettos. She ignores my outstretched hand. Her eyes are flashing. “I’ve asked your producer to block a certain caller, and she refuses.” Dr. Harris’s voice is the kind of deep rich mezzo that makes my knees weak, but the caterpillar and I have a history.
    â€œWe don’t block callers unless there’s a reason,” I say.
    â€œThere’s a reason,” Robin Harris says. “Dr. Gabriel Ireland and I were in a relationship. It’s over, and he’s not dealing with it well. He makes threats.”
    â€œAgainst you?” I say.
    Robin Harris shakes her head impatiently. “Against himself,” she says. “He threatens to commit suicide.”
    â€œIn that case, he shouldn’t be ignored,” I say. “Maybe I can help.”
    Robin Harris’s thrilling voice drips contempt. “I doubt it,” she says.
    Nova catches my eye and points to the darkened studio on the other side of the glass.
    â€œYou’d better get in there,” she says.
    â€œWe’re on air in one minute, five.”
    I open the door to the studio and stand aside for Dr. Harris. As she glides past me, I catch her perfume. It’s sultry. We take our places at the round broadcast desk. I point to her earphones.
    â€œThose are yours. Could you say a few words, please? Nova needs to do a sound check.”
    Dr. Harris flicks the button on the base of her microphone and the tiny light indicating that she’s on the air comes to life.
    â€œIf you don’t block Dr. Gabriel Ireland’s calls,