Dead Air: A Talk Radio Mystery (11 page)

We chatted about books and the self-help movement for another twenty minutes, and I told Lenore I would include her in a self-help weekend we were planning at the station. She seemed to accept my cover story and thanked me warmly for driving over to see her.

I was saying my good-byes when her cell phone rang. She turned away from me to grab it, and I immediately sensed that the call was important.

“Sorry, I have to take this; it’s my agent,” she said, excitedly hitting a button.

“I’ll be in touch.” I started to gather up my things but took my time, hoping I could hear a little of the conversation.

“Oh, really?” she said into the cell, her voice vibrating with excitement. For the moment, she sounded young and girlish. “I’m just amazed. This certainly changes everything. This is more than I could have hoped for. It’s a really good sign, don’t you think?” She suddenly noticed that I was dawdling and flashed me an irritated look.

I gave her a cheery wave and quickly made my exit.

So Lenore had just received some very good news, I decided on the drive back to Cypress Grove. The call had been from her agent, so that meant it had something to do with her career.

I had absolutely no proof, but I just knew that somehow or other, Lenore was going to profit big-time from Guru Sanjay’s death.

Chapter 10

It was dusk when I pulled up in front of my town house, and I sat in the car for a moment with the windows wide-open, enjoying the soft evening air scented with honeysuckle and roses.

I reached into the glove box and added Lenore’s name to my notebook. I was keeping track of everyone I talked to—describing their relationship to Sanjay, why they might be involved with his death, and how they could profit from it. At the moment, all I had was a handful of names and a few suspicious comments, probably not enough to interest Martino.

My only hope of clearing Lark’s name was to connect the dots and point the cops in the direction of the real killer. I was chewing on the tip of my ballpoint, mulling over the possibilities, when I spotted Ted Rollins striding purposefully into the Seabreeze Inn next door.

“Ted!” I cried, bounding out of my car. I slammed the car door and hurried to catch up with him.

He frowned, peering into the darkness, and then his face broke into a welcoming grin. “Maggie! Come in for a night-cap.” He gave me a quick hug, wrapped his arm around my waist, and ushered me into the wide veranda of the inn. His touch felt warm and comforting, but as always, I marveled at the complete lack of chemistry between us.

Hugging Ted is a lot like hugging Pugsley, except Ted smells like breath mints and Pugsley smells like liver snacks.

“Are you busy with something? You don’t usually work in the evening.” Ted has an oceanfront condo, and he makes it a point to leave everything to the inn’s night staff once his workday is over.

“Something came up tonight,” he said lightly. “That annoying detective—”

“Martino?” I kept my voice level, but my heart did a little flip-flop just the same.

“That’s the one. He called me at home half an hour ago and asked me to save some audience evaluation forms from the conference. I figured I’d better find them and put them someplace safe before Housekeeping throws them out tomorrow. Martino’s coming by first thing in the morning to pick them up. I don’t feel like having him prowling around the hotel, so I plan on leaving them at the front desk. With any luck, I won’t have to talk to him at all.”

“Audience evaluation forms?” I was baffled. “Where did they come from? And why would Martino care about them in a murder investigation?”

“Beats me. He seems to think they’re important, though. The conference organizer passed them out with the registration packets, and then in all the confusion over the guru’s death”—he shrugged—“no one ever thought to collect them. They’re probably still up in the Magnolia Ballroom.”

He paused for a moment, gesturing to the cushy wicker gliders and rocking chairs on the wide-planked porch. It was a peaceful spot, with baskets of lush ferns hanging from the rafters and porcelain pots of primroses artfully arranged between the graceful chairs and end tables. “Want to sit out here and have some wine? It’s a nice night.”

“Sure.” I dropped gratefully into the glider, my mind whirling with possibilities, while he hurried inside to get our drinks. So Martino was coming by the Seabreeze tomorrow morning—interesting! And I’d read in a WYME news report that there was going to be a sunrise memorial service for Sanjay, right before everyone headed back to South Beach.

I’d have to make sure Cyrus agreed to let me cover it for the station. I wondered whether I could find a way to interview a few more members of Team Sanjay at the memorial service. With any luck, Olivia would be there and I could find out whether she really was next in line to be Sanjay’s assistant, or whether this was just wishful thinking, as Miriam Dobosh had suggested.

“Found them!” Ted said, breaking into my thoughts, waving a sheaf of papers. “I don’t think Martino’s going to find them very interesting, though. I only glanced at a few, but they seem to be positive. It looks like the audience really loved Sanjay.”

“Somebody didn’t,” I said thoughtfully. “Can I take a look at them?”

“Help yourself,” he said, laying them on the glass-topped wicker coffee table. I’d just started to leaf through them when Ted was called away to deal with a late arrival, a middle-aged couple named Parker, in matching Florida T-shirts, who insisted on seeing both of the garden rooms before checking in. Ted shot a helpless look in my direction and herded them up to the second floor. I smiled at him and went back to my reading.

Ted was right: The audience evaluation forms were all wildly complimentary, except for one that chilled me to the bone. It was unsigned, and the writer clearly wasn’t a fan of Guru Sanjay—hatred and venom practically rose off the paper. It was hard to read in the dim light of the porch, but a few words jumped out at me, followed by a flurry of exclamation points. “Charlatan! Con Man! Fraud!! Your day will come!!!”

I sat back, stunned. I had to get a copy of this piece of paper—and fast. Once Martino got ahold of it, it would officially become evidence and I’d never get a peek at it again.

Ted was still busy with the Parkers, and no one was man ning the front desk. I slipped the form into my pocket, strolled into the lobby, and, after making sure no one was in the office, slapped the page on the copy machine. I heard Ted coming down the stairs just as the copy rolled into my hands, and I shoved it into my pocket, along with the original.

“I was looking for some munchies,” I said by way of explanation.

“I’ve got a jar of those pistachio nuts you like in the kitchen. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring them out on the porch, along with a bottle of wine.”

I returned to the glider, slipped the original form into the pile with the others, and swung back and forth a little, lost in thought. I was pondering my next move when Ted joined me.

“Finally got them settled,” he said, easing himself into a chair. “What a pair! They couldn’t decide if they wanted the white room with the blue-tiled bathroom or the yellow room with the green-tiled bathroom. She wanted white; he wanted yellow. It was like trying to hammer out a Middle East peace accord.”

I smiled to show I absolutely understood the craziness of hotel guests.

“Interesting reading,” I said, patting the pile of audience evaluations. “But nothing out of the ordinary.” Ted nodded. “I didn’t think you’d find anything significant.” He paused to sip his wine, looking out at the darkening sky. “You didn’t happen to come across one from Kathryn Sinclair, did you?” he said, sitting up a little straighter.

“No, who is she?” I pulled the papers onto my lap and began riffling through them a second time. I heard a scuffling sound in the darkness and wondered whether one of Ted’s many cats was out there. Funny, but I had the eerie feeling someone was watching me.

“She’s the proverbial fly in the ointment. Probably the one person in the group who isn’t a Sanjay fan. I forgot to tell you about her, but she was having a screaming match with that woman who was Guru Sanjay’s assistant. Miriam something-or-other.”

“Miriam Dobosh,” I said excitedly. “Why was Kathryn Sinclair arguing with Miriam?” I finished flipping through the evals but didn’t see anything from her. Either she hadn’t attended the conference or she didn’t bother filling out the audience evaluation. Or . . . she’d written the threatening anonymous note I’d just copied. In any case, I needed to find Kathryn Sinclair and talk with her.

“I didn’t get all the details, but apparently Mrs. Sinclair’s daughter went to one of those weekend marathons Sanjay puts on. The ones out on the West Coast.”

“Get Real and Feel It!” I murmured. “I’ve heard about them; they sound awful. They’ve been condemned by all the mainstream psychological associations, you know. The weekend marathons were probably big moneymakers for Sanjay, but they can be a disaster for people who are emotionally fragile. They can actually be very dangerous.”

Ted nodded. “Well, this one sounded like it was pretty confrontational. Mrs. Sinclair said that her daughter wasn’t allowed to have anything to eat or drink all day, even though she’s a diabetic. Plus, the leader and the group members verbally attacked her. She was in tears the whole time.”

“It always amazes me that anyone would pay to go to them,” I murmured. “And not only do they deprive you of food and water; they don’t even let you take bathroom breaks.” I shuddered at the thought.

“What’s the point behind it?” Ted asked. “It sounds wacky.”

“The idea is that if you’re miserable and in physical distress, all your defenses will be down and you’ll have some sort of epiphany. At least, that’s the philosophy behind it. It’s an old idea; it goes back to the California encounter groups in the sixties. Guru Sanjay was the only person who still offered them.”

Ted raised his eyebrows. “Does it ever work?”

“Not as far as I know.” Sanjay’s encounter weekends sounded like a Gilligan’s Island version of psychotherapy.
No phone, no light, no motor cars, not a single luxury . . .
I turned my attention back to Ted, who was giving me a speculative look. “So tell me what happened with Mrs. Sinclair’s daughter. Did she walk out?”

“Not quite. It seems that she already had some pretty serious emotional problems to begin with and the marathon weekend just put her right over the edge. She collapsed from the strain and had to be rushed to a hospital for hypoglycemia and dehydration. Mrs. Sinclair is still furious over it and was talking about a lawsuit against the corporation. You know, hit them where it hurts, and everyone knows Sanjay Gingii, Limited, has deep pockets.”

“Is Mrs. Sinclair still here at the hotel? I’d love to talk to her.” I tried to keep my expression neutral, but my nerves were zinging with excitement. Had I just found suspect number four?

“I think so,” Ted said slowly. “You can probably see her if you attend that sunrise service tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll be there!” I assured Ted.

Chapter 11

I spotted Nick in the garden of the Seabreeze Inn the next morning. He was squinting into the bright sunlight and scarfing down a bran muffin without spilling a drop of the frosty mimosa balanced on top of his notebook. (Reporters and free food—what can I tell you? Yin and yang.)

It was a beautiful clear day, the sky enamel blue with a couple of fat clouds on the horizon. The perfect day for a funeral. Er, transition.

Ted and Team Sanjay had gone all out to make this a memorable memorial service, planting a podium and microphone in front of a flamingo pink hibiscus bush at the back of the garden. The flagstone walkway was strewn with ivory rose petals, and a white silk tent was set up to protect the Sanjay-ites from the morning sun. Two giant pots filled with white calla lilies flanked an oversize photo of Guru Sanjay, who looked twenty years younger, had a body like Mark Wahlberg, and was Photoshopped down to his fluorescent white teeth. At least Sanjay had kept his veneers up, right till the end.

The perfect photo op, I decided. The whole garden had a stagy look to it, as if it were part of a theatrical set.
Sayonara Sanjay, the Musical
. At least fifty chairs were arranged on the grass, and almost all of them were already occupied by grieving followers. Most of them were clad in snowy white, reportedly Sanjay’s favorite color.

Miriam Dobosh was flitting around like a bird of prey, planting poles with bright silk banners flying from them at the perimeter of the garden. I noticed that she was wearing a white cotton pique pantsuit with purple trim, and I wondered whether the wardrobe choice was driven by some unconscious desire to attain royal status. After all, purple was the color of kings in ancient times, so perhaps she figured she was next in line for the Sanjay throne. (Or maybe my psychology training was getting the better of me and the purple trim meant nothing at all. After all, even Freud said that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.)

I was puzzled by the banners—fluttery squares of orange and yellow silk with strange words stenciled on them. Words from a foreign language, known only to Sanjay-ites? Or maybe they were just acronyms. I made a mental note to check them out.

A towering pyramid of Sanjay’s books was artfully displayed on an antique refectory table covered with a bright blue Indian batik, and people were lining up to buy them. One of the acolytes was thoughtfully sticking an autographed bookplate inside the front cover of each volume. I’m sure if there was a way for Sanjay to sign autographs from beyond the grave, he would have done so. From a marketing point of view, the bookplates were the next best thing. CDs and workbooks were stacked in a neat pile, and a price list was helpfully displayed on an easel nearby.

Sanjay the guru might be gone, but Sanjay the brand was still going strong.

“What’s with the banners? It looks like a Renaissance fair,” I said to Nick, who had finished the muffin and moved on to the basket of tempting little orange and walnut scones, another of Ted’s specialties. I noticed that Nick had loaded his plate with pastries and sliced kiwi and mango, as if he hadn’t eaten in three months.