by Lois Winston
I wondered how much Martino had told her when he’d interrogated her and I figured he was keeping the main details of the investigation to himself. Still, he might have given her a hint of what sort of case they were building against her. I had the horrible, sickening feeling that Lark was right. She was their prime suspect. Their only suspect.
“It was the bottle of Calming Essence,” she said, surprising me. “That’s what did it.” A mirthless smile crept across her face. “It’s like that quote from Oscar Wilde. No good deed goes unpunished. If I hadn’t brought it with me, none of this would have happened.”
“What in the world are you talking about? “ I was flummoxed.
“You know, the gift I brought Guru Sanjay. I put it down on his dresser when I first walked into his hotel room, and then I just forgot about it. When he attacked me all I wanted to do was get out of there fast!”
“The Calming Essence!” I said, light dawning. “It had one of those handmade labels on it, didn’t it?”
Lark nodded miserably. She does beautiful calligraphy work on hand-made paper and attaches a tag to each gift bottle. With her name and address and an inspirational quote.
Bingo.
What a terrific bit of luck for Martino. He didn’t have to be Adrian Monk to track her down with a clue like that staring him in the face!
“Tell me what happened down at the police station. Did you ask for a lawyer?”
She shook her head. “No, nothing like that,” she said quickly.
“Did that detective–Martino–offer to get one for you?”
“Oh yes, that’s the first thing they told me. That I could have a lawyer and that I was free to leave any time I wanted. Of course, they said since I hadn’t done anything wrong or committed a crime, I wouldn’t be needing a lawyer.”
Hmmm. Clever move. Nice bit of forensic psychology at work here. I knew Martino was smart enough not to jeopardize his case by denying Lark her rights but he wasn’t going out of his way to protect her interests, either. “So they interrogated you for a while and then let you go?”
Lark nodded, stifling a yawn. “It seemed like hours. I told them exactly what happened and at first they seemed to believe me.” She shook her head. “Then another detective came in and asked me a couple of times if I’d been really angry with Guru Sanjay for coming on to me.”
“And you said—”
“I admitted that I’d been really angry and disappointed. But I certainly didn’t kill him. Why would I?”
Why, indeed? I needed to know what Martino’s next move was going to be. Had he accepted Lark’s explanation, or was Big Jim Wilcox right? Were they really focusing on Lark exclusively? It certainly looked that way.
And what about Miriam Dobosh and Olivia? Did Martino even know about their connection with the Guru and what his death might mean to them? Why was he focusing on Lark and ignoring some other hot leads? And what was the cause of death? Had that been determined? It sounded like the cops knew that Sanjay was the victim of foul play, but they were still hazy on the details. Or they weren’t ready to show their hand just yet.
At midnight, I decided to turn in, leaving Lark and Pugsley curled up together, watching Sense and Sensibility. Ideas were flying inside my brain but I popped a tape of “Soothing Ocean Waves” into my tape deck, snuggled under the comforter and tried to make my mind go blank.
Tomorrow was another day and I had a good idea where to pick up my investigation.
NINE
The next morning, I called a reporter friend, Nick Harrison, from the Cypress Grove Gazette and invited him to lunch. Nick, a young reporter in his early twenties, covers arts and entertainment for the paper, and I’d heard he was planning a big piece on Guru Sanjay for the Sunday supplement. He’s a good-looking guy, tall and athletic-looking, with a boyish smile and dirty-blond hair worn on the longish side. Today he was wearing what I call Cypress Grove Casual, a snowy white golf shirt and pressed khakis with Reeboks.
Nick and I have sat through a couple of local press club dinners together, and I figured meeting him for pasta would be the quickest way to get some background information on Guru Sanjay Nick’s laid-back, a nice complement to my Type-A personality, and there’s enough of an age difference that he thinks of me as an older sister, not potential date material.
We met at Gino’s, a tiny Italian restaurant close to the station. Gino’s is so much like the Italian bistro in Billy Joel’s song it’s almost a cliché, with red and white checked tablecloths and photos of long-dead Italian opera singers lining the walls. The only thing missing is a chianti bottle on each table, with multi-colored strands of candle wax dripping down the sides. The food at Gino’s is first-rate, the prices reasonable and the service fast, so it’s popular with the business crowd. After settling ourselves into one of the red leather booths and making an agonizing choice between vodka penne and fettuccine Alf redo, we got right down to business.
“Guru Sanjay was quite a piece of work,” Nick said, reaching for his icy mug of draft beer. “I’m just getting into the story and no one has anything good to say about him. Of course I’m saving the corporate people for later in the week; right now I’m concentrating on his personal life. The guy sounds really loathsome; I don’t know how he attracted such a big following.”
“Tell me about it,” I agreed. “I had to sit through three hours on the air with him, remember?” I sipped my mango iced tea and tried not to look enviously at Nick’s frosty glass of beer. I would have joined him, but I had a show to do that afternoon.
“So what was your take on him?”
“Well at first I couldn’t see how he managed to become a New Age superstar. I guess I just didn’t get his appeal. But somehow, once he was live on the air, he changed. He was like a different person. He was magnetic, almost mesmerizing. I can see how people want to believe in him, and how they’re taken in by his message.”
“Sucked in, you mean.” Nick said wryly.
“Yeah, definitely sucked in. The phones were ringing off the hook. It’s hard to explain, the guy has charisma. I hate to admit it, but he does. He’s almost like a religious figure, a cult figure.”
“I think he tells people what they want to hear,” Nick said. “Maybe he plays on their vulnerabilities, their insecurities.”
“That he does,” I agreed.
“I think I’m going to use a lot of quotes from his ex-wife in the opening of the piece,” he went on, his brown eyes soft and reflective. “Or maybe highlight them in a sidebar. The problem is her quotes are going to be pretty inflammatory, so I’ll have to edit out the expletives.” He patted a thick file next to him on the table. “In fact, I better run some of the material by the managing editor before I turn in my article. I don’t want Sanjay Ginjii, Limited, to hit us with a defamation suit—I’ve heard they have a crack legal team on retainer.”
“Wow, is it that bad?” I was so excited I nearly forgot my fettuccine. So the Guru had an angry ex-wife, and she was ready to tell all. Was there anything here that could further my own investigation?
“Worse than you think. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, you know.”
“Are you telling me Sanjay left her for someone else?”
Nick nodded. “He got involved with another woman and the timing couldn’t have been worse. He cheated on Lenore right after she made him famous. She’s the one who created the whole Guru Sanjay persona, you know; the seminars, the tapes, the talks. Before he met her, he was nothing.”
The story was getting better and better. “So he wasn’t always a guru? How does someone get to be a guru, anyway?” I mused. “I’ve always been puzzled about that. I wonder if it’s like being a psychic or a ghost-whisperer. There’s no qualifying test–if you say you’re one, that’s it. You’re in.”
The corners of Nick’s mouth quirked and I noticed a couple of girls at the next table giving him the once-over. He really did have an adorable smile, complete with dimple. “Well, the first thing you do is latch on to
someone in the motivational field who has a national audience, along with Ivy League academic credentials and some big commercial appeal. Someone with a platform. Someone like Lenore Cooper, Sanjay’s ex-wife.”
“Lenore Cooper? Why does that name sound familiar?”
“Lenore is a psychotherapist and she was the one with the big career when she first met Sanjay. And he wasn’t calling himself Sanjay Ginjii back then. His name was Lenny Vitter and he spent his time selling used cars and writing bad checks back in Sioux Falls, Dakota.”
“You’re kidding!” This was even better than I’d hoped. Not only was Guru Sanjay a fake, he was a criminal!
“He has a long rap sheet, and I’m amazed that the tabloids haven’t picked up on it.”
“A rap sheet? What sort of crimes are we talking about?”
“Petty crimes. Forged checks, a couple of stolen cars that he claimed he borrowed, things like that. The guy’s slippery and my contact with the Dakota PD said trying to pin a charge on him was like trying to nail Jell-O to a wall. Everyone knew he was a low life, but it was hard to prove. There were a few widows who lost their life savings to him. Sounds like he must be some sort of sweet-talker. He’d befriend lonely old ladies and convince them that he should be handling their investments for them. The investments would go belly-up but it was hard to prove that the money went into his pocket.”
“Wow.” I was stunned. “You know, there was something very slick about him. I felt it right away. Underneath the phony charm, I thought I saw the soul of a sociopath. It was really odd.”
“Well, didn’t they say that Ted Bundy could be pretty charming if he wanted to be?”
Nick raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, they did. The shrinks call it superficial charm. It’s all an act, but somehow there’s something compelling about it. That’s how Ted Bundy lured his victims into his web, and I guess that’s what Sanjay did. On a much smaller scale, of course.”
“Sanjay was strictly small time,” Nick added. “People lost their money, not their lives.”
“Tell me more about Lenore Cooper,” I said, suddenly feeling energized. I attacked my fettuccine with gusto while Nick flipped open the folder in front of us.
He began to read from the first page. “She’s a licensed psychologist–”
“Now I remember! I heard her speak at a regional psychology conference back in Manhattan. But she wasn’t into metaphysical mumbo-jumbo, she was talking about bi-polar depression in adolescents, I think. I know she was the real deal, and she certainly wasn’t a con artist like Sanjay.” I paused for a moment, remembering the confident woman standing confidently at the podium, giving a Power Point presentation in a black Armani suit.
Nick quickly riffled through his notes. “Apparently she gave up private practice when she made it big with the books and seminars. Sanjay met her and the next thing you know, he was up on stage with her. They co-authored a few books, and then they both were reeling in the big bucks. But there’s no doubt about it, Lenore was the brains of the operation. Lenny was just along for the ride, and he knew a good opportunity when he saw one—Lenore Cooper was the best thing that ever happened to him. They got married six months after they met.”
“Sounds like a sweet deal for him.”
“It was until he got involved with Lenore’s eighteen-year-old assistant. The two of them had a thing going and Lenore found out. She kicked Sanjay out of the mansion that same night and divorced him, but he bounced right back. By that time, thanks to Lenore, he had a national platform. He got an A-List agent and started making his own book deals and giving his own seminars. He was speaking to crowds of five thousand people in big venues and his tapes were selling like crazy. Last month, his agent was angling for a television deal for him with one of the network–he figured he’d be bigger than Oprah.”
“All thanks to Lenore,” I muttered. “He probably stole all her best material.”
“Exactly. And he was certainly quite the showman. She had more substance, but he had the flash and the charisma. The audiences loved him. It’s hard to believe but his books were hitting the best-seller lists, and Lenore’s star had already started to fade.” Nick stopped to savor his vodka penne. “I guess it’s a case of the student surpassing the master.”
“Which can be pretty damn annoying for the master,” I pointed out. But the big question was: was Lenore Cooper furious enough to kill Sanjay? “Can you give me some contact information on Lenore?”
Nick scribbled a phone number on a paper coaster and passed it across the table to me. “You didn’t get this from me.”
I widened my eyes. “Absolutely not.”
“That’s her cell,” Nick said helpfully. “She lives in New York, but she’s travelling in Florida right now, promoting her latest book.”
My pulse ratcheted up a notch. “She’s here in Florida? Right now?”
“Just thirty miles away, “ Nick said placidly, “over in Lakeville. You could probably catch her at her book signing tonight. Bargain Books, it starts at six o’clock.”
“I’ll be the first in line for her autograph,” I said, my heart thudding with anticipation. Lenore Cooper, here in Florida. Now I had three suspects to investigate—Miriam Dobosh, Olivia Riggs and Lenore Cooper–and they all had good reasons for wanting to see Guru Sanjay dead.
Or rather, transitioned, I reminded myself.
~*~
It was obvious from the small turnout in Lakeville that Lenore Cooper didn’t have the same devoted fan base as Guru Sanjay. I’d called Lenore at six and said I’d be at the bookstore in an hour or so. Traffic was light and it was nearly seven when I parked on a narrow side street lined with little shops and family restaurants and walked two blocks to the address she’d given me.
Bargain Books was a tiny bookstore wedged between a pizza joint and a shoe store—like most of Lakeville, it looked like it had seen better days. Even the palm trees at the curb looked dejected, their fronds sparse and tinged with yellow at the tips. The bookstore had a faded green awning that hung limply over the transom and a concrete planter filled with wilting pink impatiens marking the front entrance.
There was an entire window display devoted to Lenore Cooper, and someone had made a pyramid of copies of her latest title (Imagine it, Dream it, Do it!) along with a hand-lettered sign announcing: Meet the Author Tonight!
Lenore was sitting at a card table, talking on her cell when I walked in. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, but it was obvious that she hadn’t drawn a huge crowd.
In fact, she hadn’t drawn any crowd at all. The book signing was a bust. A dozen or so folding chairs–all empty–were arranged in front of the card table, presumably so the author could entertain her fans, if she felt so inclined. Two young female clerks wearing Bargain Books T-shirts were sitting on the floor, chewing gum and stripping books headed back to the publisher.
One of them started to scramble to her feet but I motioned that I was waiting to see Lenore and she immediately plopped back down on the floor, returning to her task. It was deathly quiet in the store, except for the lazy whirring of a Casablanca fan, and the narrow aisles and low lighting gave the whole place a claustrophobic feel.
After a moment, Lenore snapped the cell shut and just for a second, her features slumped in disappointment, like one of those mournful weimaraners you see on greeting cards. She had an angular face with very pale skin and looked to be in her mid-fifties, with a dramatic streak of white running through her shoulder-length dark hair. I caught myself staring at it, wondering if it was some sort of genetic mutation, or had she actually paid her hairdresser to create it?
“Maggie Walsh?” she said tentatively. She focused her dark eyes on me and her expression was sharp and speculative. She had a Kathleen Turner voice, so sultry and whiskey-smooth, she must have practiced to bring it down to that low register.
“Thanks for seeing me, Lenore,” I said, moving forward to shake hands. Her grasp was limp and clammy and
she quickly dropped my hand to wave me to a seat next to her.
“It’s wonderful to meet you, I’ve heard all about your show.” She was smiling into my eyes and I had the feeling she was being deceptively friendly, the way many celebrities are when dealing with reporters.
“Having a radio show is a nice change of pace for me,” I said carefully. “I interviewed Guru Sanjay on my radio show, and I want to offer my condolences. His, um, passing must have been a terrible shock to you.” I just couldn’t bring myself to say “transition” one more time. As far as I’m concerned, dead is dead.
“Thank you,” she said, her lips tightening almost imperceptibly. “It’s been several years since we’ve been divorced, but of course it’s still a shock.” She took a little breath and let it out, but she managed to keep her tone even and not break eye contact. I had to admire her; she was a pro.
A beat of silence fell between us as I pondered my next question. Asking her how the book signing was going would obviously be too unkind so I picked up a copy of her latest release. “Your tenth book! Quite an accomplishment.”
“Have you read it?”
“No yet,” I admitted. I fumbled in my shoulder bag for my wallet. “I’d like to buy a copy right now, though.”
“Oh don’t be silly, I’ll give you one. Here, let me sign it.” She scribbled her name on the title page with a black Sharpie, and handed it back to me. “Not much chance we’ll run out of books tonight,” she said wryly, looking at the empty store.
“I suppose it’s hard to predict how these things will go,” I said diplomatically, “and with all the news coverage of Sanjay’s death–”
“Yes, exactly,” she said, interrupting me. “Who would think he’d find a way to upstage me, even from beyond the grave. Some things never change!”