The only thing worse than sweeping snow out of the satellite dish on the roof is scraping slush out of it.

It’s the ugly little secret of running a small local radio station. Even though I do my best to keep the meters moving with the voices of people who actually live here in Simpson, Vermont – or who have important information for them – we still rely heavily on a satellite music service. And somebody has to keep that dish clean.

Of course, that somebody up on the WSV roof is me.

So here I am, hanging off the fire ladder with a broom in one hand, trying to push the slush out of the dish, clinging to the slippery metal with the other hand, not to mention both feet, which I’ve wedged between the step and the brick wall. Sweeping doesn’t work with slush – you have to push it out – and it has to go somewhere.

Yep, right in my face.

As the slush gave me a little unwelcome exfoliation, I muttered something that would not have made my grandmother proud, and kept at it.

Finally, the dish was clear. I climbed down and gingerly picked my way back inside my daughter’s bedroom window.

Just another fun day for me.

I jokingly call myself the Queen of the Night on the air, but mostly I answer to Jaye Jordan, except at my daughter’s school, where I’m still Mrs. Metz out of respect to her. Ryan is the reason I’m in this frozen corner of East H-e-double-hockey-sticks trying to make a go of local radio, after all.

See, her dad survived the cancer, but our marriage didn’t. I bought the radio station with the severance from my old employer in New York City, and moved with Ryan into the top-floor apartment. David settled across the river in Charlestown, New Hampshire, with his parents, and took over the community college English department. It’s all close enough for Ryan, but far enough apart for us.

But it’s sure not easy.

Dumping angry satellite talk for local programming – a voice-tracked morning show and love songs at night – got me nothing but grief from the fans of the second-rate screamers. Of course, they think it’s a political statement.

Sorry not sorry, but that’s not my game. I only take strong positions on leggings (yes, they are pants) and kale (it’s a garnish, not a food).

But try to tell that to the two guys who show up with muskets every Tuesday night at the former air time of the Edwin Anger show to chant “Edwin is Angry and so are we!”

Well, only one of them chants. He may be the only one who can.

The muskets freaked me out for a while, but I eventually realized they’re just for show – even if they’re probably real. Maybe loaded.

Since it was Monday night, I didn’t have to think about Howard and Harold for a while anyway.

“ROWR!”

The yowl and nip at my ankle told me I’d quite literally put a foot wrong while climbing back inside.

“Neptune! Don’t bite Ma!” Ryan looked up from her copy of Who Was Sally Ride? as her giant gray cat stalked away with a contemptuous tail flip. She turned to me. “You know, he’s pretty stressed.”

“Aren’t we all?” I shook slush out of my hair and glared at my sweet baby girl. “Reading light off in half an hour, young lady.”

“Sure, Ma.”

Ryan returned to space, dismissing me with the tween’s total lack of interest in the bo-ring parental unit.

Downstairs in the studio, my pal Rob Archer was at the board, after stepping away from his restaurant for a few minutes to cover for me. It was fine, since the sleet had scared away most of his customers. When he saw me, he grinned.

And not just the bad-brother grin I would have expected to get because of wet hair and soaked fleece.

“What?”

“Just got a little note from the Governor’s Office. . .seems the Honorable will be gracing the Chamber of Commerce thing at the restaurant next Tuesday.”

“Will he, now?” I played it cool. When I was up here the first time, just out of college, Will Ten Broeck had been the hot pol on the way up. After a rather impressive crash and burn on the national stage, he’d won a new term. Yes, I kept track. No, it’s not important.

Really.

“Yep.” Rob’s pale blue eyes had a devilish sparkle.

“Fine. We all know I had a crush twenty years ago. Your point is?”

“Who knows? You’re both single now, after all.”

“Do I assume that you’ve spent the last twenty years dreaming of your old crush?”

“I’d better.” The grin softened into a loving smile. “I married him.”

“Not fair.”

“But accurate.” Rob stood and handed me the commercial log. “Everything’s fine here, and I need to get back to the restaurant.”

“Thanks for holding the fort.”

“Always a pleasure. Wish I could do a real show like the old days.”

We shared a sigh.

After he left, I talked up the nightly playing of “You’re the Inspiration” and settled back into my show, thinking about what Rob had told me about next week.

Protestors and the governor in the Plaza on the same night?

It was going to be a very interesting Tuesday here in Simpson.

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Live, Local, and Dead, A Vermont Radio Mystery #1
Genre: Cozy
Release: February 2022
Purchase Link

Death waits for snowman in Nikki Knight’s new Vermont-based cozy series, perfect for fans of Connie Archer and Mary Kennedy.

In a fit of anger, radio DJ Jaye Jordan blows a snowman’s head off with a Revolutionary War-style musket. But the corpse that tumbles out is all too human. Jaye thought life would be quieter when she left New York City and bought a tiny Vermont radio station. But now, Edwin Anger—the ranting and raving radio talk show host who Jaye recently fired—lies dead in the snow. And the Edwin Anger fans who protested his dismissal are sure she killed him.

To clear her name, Jaye must find the real killer, as if she doesn’t have her hands full running the radio station, DJing her all-request love song show, and shuttling tween daughter Ryan to and from school. It doesn’t make matters easier that the governor—Jaye’s old crush—arrived on the scene before the musket smoke cleared. Fortunately, Jaye has allies. . .if you count the flatulent moose that lives in the transmitter shack, and Neptune, the giant gray cat that lives at the station.

If Jaye can turn the tables on the devious killer, she and the governor may get to make some sweet, sweet music together. But if she can’t, she’ll be off the air. . .permanently.

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About the author
Nikki Knight is the pen name of an award-winning New York City radio news anchor. She’s been on the air since she was a teenage DJ in her small Western Pennsylvania hometown, working in newsrooms in Pittsburgh, Vermont, and Connecticut – and never losing her love of radio, or her hatred for snow. As Kathleen Marple Kalb, she writes the Ella Shane historical mystery series for Kensington. The first Jaye Jordan Vermont radio mystery, Live, Local, And Dead is due on February 8, 2022 from Crooked Lane Books. She, her husband and their son live in a Connecticut house owned by their cat.

All comments are welcomed.