Today I've been working on revisiting the characters for my mystery, "Dead Air." I'm fleshing them out, regaining their personalities since the first attempt at writing this probably 15 years ago...or more. It takes place in a small radio station in a Southern port city (guess which one, LOL!) during World War II. The characters are based on people I have known through the years in radio. I completed a rough draft that was sent to a publisher all of those years ago and the first and second chapters made them want more. Then disaster struck and the file and backups were corrupted. Those two chapters survived. This is the beginning of the second chapter (full disclosure - it needs lots of work) but I think you will understand why the character of Samantha Starr was such a hit with the publisher. 
Hm, I wonder who is going to be murdered? It begins in the station's studio "B"...
Hm, I wonder who is going to be murdered? It begins in the station's studio "B"...# # #
"Well, Martha,” Trent Goodlow said, “it looks like we’re about to end this charade once and for all.”
The crash of thunder accentuated Goodlow’s point, momentarily stifling the sound of a torrential downpour in the background.
“You’ll never get away with this, Trent!” Martha shouted with fear in her voice. “The police are on to you.”
“Nonsense,” Goodlow said calmly. “Only you and I know we’re here, my dear. Only you and I.”
Just then, a muffled sound could be heard, unrecognizable at first, then undeniable. It was the sound of footsteps jogging up a rickety staircase. The sound stopped only to be replaced by the sound of a fist pounding on a door.
“Alright, Goodlow,” a voice drenched in Irish brogue shouted. “This is the police!”
“But, but how?” Goodlow stammered.
“You underestimated me, my dear,” Martha said, her voice now calm, reserved, confident. “My real name is Brenda. Brenda Daring. I’m a private eye!”
“You tricked me!”
“Yes, just like you tricked those helpless punks on the street who trusted you, who thought of you as their mentor. Then you pulled the rug out from under them and perverted their world, sending them off to either jail or the morgue, you scum. You’re nothing but a two-bit thug, and not a good one at that.”
The sound of a door bursting off of its hinges broke the momentary silence.
“Boys,” Brenda said, “take him away.”
The dramatic sound of an organ sliced the air loudly then faded into the background as a man with a deep but precise voice began to speak clearly, enunciating every word, every syllable precisely.
“Be sure to join us again next week for another exciting adventure with Brenda Daring: Private Eye, brought to you by Hoffman’s Fertilizer. Remember, for your Victory garden or cotton farm, use Hoffman’s Fertilizer.”
The organ stopped and faded to memory. The room went silent until the light bulb that cast an eerie red glow over the only door into Studio B and proudly beamed the words, “On Air”, snapped off.
“That’s a wrap, boys and girls,” Brad Peterson announced, slapping his hands together then happily rubbing them together briskly. “Thank you, all. Great job tonight. Don’t forget, rehearsals have been moved to nine tomorrow morning. Be prompt.”
The woman who voiced the character of Brenda Daring, actress Samantha Starr, slung the papers that were her script at an empty desk, the pages skittering off and fluttering to the floor.
“Be prompt,” she said bitterly. “If Mr. Bandera would care to quit drinking long enough tonight maybe we could make it on time for once.”
Samantha sashayed across the room heading toward the studio door. She was good looking and she knew it. Each day she would arrive at radio station W.M.A.L. dressed in elegant silk dresses with provocative plunging necklines and even lower cut backs. What material there was didn’t leave much to the imagination, something unheard of in 1943 Mobile, Alabama. The dress clung to every part of her body, outlining her curvy frame. Her black high heels accentuated her already voluptuous figure.
She had elegance that was hard to describe as she walked, throwing her head back just enough to flick her hair seductively over one shoulder, lifting her left hand delicately and holding it mid-air above her waist, the other hand lightly placed on her hip. It was just the way a movie star would do it. But that was Samantha. She was the consummate performer who believed that Hollywood would be calling her at any moment. So far the call had not arrived.
This was a daily ritual for Samantha and one that the men of W.M.A.L. anticipated. Every day she would purposefully do this sensual strut, making sure to walk brisk enough that the slit in her dress would breeze back giving them a good look at her long legs. Out of the corner of her hazel eyes, she would glance over to make sure that the eyes of every man in the room followed her out.
Her husband, Ralph Bandera, who played the role of every villain Brenda Daring would put in jail, watched his wife slink out the door, turning with a flourish as she walked through the transom and into the hallway. Her long, flowing blonde hair whipped around her shoulders, the light from the hallway backlighting her dress so that the faintest outline of her soft body could be seen. You could hear the men gasp in unison ever so slightly.
Ralph could only roll his eyes and shake his head to show his disbelief and disgust. Taming Samantha was a lost cause.
