by Lois Winston
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 she was wearing a white cotton pique pantsuit with purple trim, and I wondered if 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 were 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. Tapes and workbooks were stacked in a neat pile and a price list was helpfully displayed on an easel nearby.
Sanjay 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 Nick had loaded his plate with pastries and sliced kiwi and mango, as if he hadn’t eaten in three months.
Nick caught my glance and sheepishly put three almond tarts back on the tray.
“It’s Kabballah,” he said, between mouthfuls, looking mournfully at the scones as if they were calling to him.
“Kabballah? As in Madonna-wearing-a-red-string-bracelet Kabballah?”
Nick nodded. “I think so. See that one over there? It says Tikkum. That’s from the Kabballah. It means two opposing desires.”
“Like the Super-Ego and the Id,” I murmured.
“You got me there.” Nick took a heft swig of mimosa and practically slapped his lips in enjoyment.
“Freud,” I said absently. “It’s the basis for his psychodynamic theory. The Id represents all our unconscious wishes and hidden desires–it’s what drives us to act, sometimes irresponsibly, or even self-destructively. If you have dark secrets, they’d be found in the Id. The Super-Ego is what keeps us in check. It’s all the rules and regulations society imposes on us, plus of course, our own moral values and conscience. So the Id and the Super-Ego balance everything out. Sort of like this tikkum you mentioned.”
“Whatever you say, professor.” Nick politely stifled a yawn.
“Sorry,” I said, flushing a little. I have to remember that most people don’t find psychoanalytic theory as fascinating as I do.
“Speaking of dark secrets,” Nick murmured, moving a little closer to me and lowering his voice, “there’s something you should know about your friend Lark.” He shot me a speculative look. “Or maybe you already do.”
I felt a little twinge in the pit of my stomach. Whatever Nick was about to say, it couldn’t be good. Nick’s hazel eyes had clouded and a muscle in his jaw was starting to give a little telltale twitch. Uh-oh.
I shook my head wordlessly, and I felt my stomach tighten with trepidation.
“I didn’t think you did.” He drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. “Okay. She has a police record.”
“What?” I reached for a flute of cranberry juice and my trembled, sloshing a few drops of wine-colored liquid over the ivory tablecloth. “That’s impossible. If Lark were a criminal, I’d certainly know it. I see her every day, for heaven’s sake.” I looked around quickly to make sure no one had overheard him. “There must be some mistake, Nick. She’s as wholesome as white bread.” Okay, not the best analogy, but my mind was reeling at the news that I’d been living with a convicted felon.
Nick quirked an eyebrow. “Sorry, but there’s no mistake.” His tone was tinged with sympathy and his eyes locked onto mine. “I’m an investigative reporter, that’s what I do, Maggie. I dig up facts people would rather stay buried. I know you’re her friend, but you can’t hide your head in the sand on this one. I’ve got the goods on her, so that means Cypress Grove’s finest does too.”
“Oh, no,” I moaned. Lark a criminal? Was Lark even her real name? Come to think of it, I’d never seen her driver’s license, and all her mail was addressed to L. Merriweather. Why would you go by an initial?
A neon sign over my head flashed: Alias. Alias. Alias.
But her name wasn’t the issue, the crime was. What had she done?
Nick was more than ready to fill in the blanks. “I did a quick background check and came up with some interesting facts.” He put down his plate, handed me his mimosa and whipped out a tiny notebook, just like the one Martino used. My blood froze. Suddenly, it all seemed real, not hypothetical.
“Let’s start with her name. You knew her name wasn’t Lark, right?”
“Not really.”
“ C’mon, Maggie, who would name a kid Lark?”
“Have you heard about Moon Unit Zappa and Pilot Inspektor? Or Apple and Moxie Crime fighter?”
“Whatever,” Nick said dismissively. Either he doesn’t watch Access Hollywood or he wasn’t impressed by my knowledge of celebrity baby names.
“Lark’s real name is Lilith Merriweather.”
“Lilith?” My mouth gaped open like a flounder’s. “She doesn’t look like a Lilith,” I said idiotically.
“That’s the least of her worries. She’s from Flint, Michigan and she was arrested on an aggravated assault charge five years ago. She slugged a guy in a bar and she plea-bargained down to simple assault. Really did a number on him, dislocated his jaw and knocked out three teeth.” Nick squinted to read his scribbled notes .”Plus multiple contusions and lacerations when his head hit the mirror hanging over the bar. The vic had surgery on his temporal-mandibular joint, had three herniated disks and was in traction for a week.”
“Lark did all that?” My mouth was so dry I could hardly force the words out. “She’s so tiny, so petite. I just can’t believe it.”
Nick gave a little laugh. “Believe it. She may be tiny but she’s tough. Did you know she has a black belt in karate?
“Karate?” I gulped. “I knew she had training in martial arts, but I thought it was Tae Kwon Do. The whole idea is passive resistance. Lark always says the trick is to use your opponent’s strength against him. It’s not aggressive at all, it’s a self-defense technique.”
“Believe me, there was nothing passive about the attack. The only reason she didn’t have to serve serious jail time is that the guy was a drug runner and the jury didn’t have much sympathy for him.” Nick slapped the notebook closed and grabbed a fizzy peach cocktail from one of the servers who was walking around with a tray. “I’d hate to meet your roommate in a dark alley.”
Nick wandered away to interview some Sanjay-ites and I was alone with my whirling thoughts. Words were flying through my brain like a meteor shower. Aggravated assault. Contusions. Lacerations. Was Lark really capable of harming another human being? How is that possible? She picks up worms from the sidewalk and places them gently in the grass, so they don’t broil to death in the Florida sun. She lets Pugsley sleep in her bed even though she’s so allergic to dog fur, she has to use an inhaler.
Lark involved in a barroom brawl? Impossible!
I remembered how s
he’d described the scene with Sanjay in the hotel room. She said he’d lunged at her, made a disgusting pass, and she’d pushed him away. But it had been an act of self-defense, and seemed completely justifiable to me.
Or had she just been putting a good spin on it? Was she really that calculating and manipulative? How could I have missed that trait in her personality after all the long heart-to-hearts we’d had?
I was still trying to wrap my mind around the idea that Lark had a criminal record when a middle-aged woman approached me. She was attractive, probably early sixties, but thanks to some surgical enhancement, she could have easily passed for late forties. Her face and neck were smooth and unlined, but the hands are always the give-away. Ask any cosmetic surgeon.
She was wearing a beige custom tailored Armani suit paired with a white silk blouse, Frappuccino-colored Chanel pumps, and she carried a clutch bag probably made from an endangered reptile species. Her thick auburn hair was pulled back into a loose chignon at the nape of her neck, an excellent choice for south Florida weather. If it hadn’t been for the anonymous dead reptile, the outfit would have been perfect.
“Dr. Walsh?” Her voice was low and husky, feminine but with a touch of authority. I immediately thought: steel magnolia.
“Yes, but please call me Maggie.”
“Kathryn Sinclair.” She extended a delicate hand. She had long, French-manicured nails and was sporting an emerald ring the size of a walnut.
Kathryn Sinclair! I nearly swooned. The investigative gods were surely with me, because she was next on my list of subjects to interview. I couldn’t wait to pick up where Ted Rollins had left off. My mind darted back to our conversation on the porch of the Seabreeze. Ted had told me that a guest named Kathryn Sinclair detested the Guru and had argued with Miriam Dobosh.
I could hardly believe that a new lead was dropping into my lap.
“Can we talk for a moment? I heard your radio interview with that man, that dreadful man,” she said, her voice faltering. “I wanted to call in, but I didn’t trust myself to speak.” Just for a second, her eyes blurred with tears and her mouth trembled.
“You heard my show with Guru Sanjay?”
“Guru Sanjay,” she said sarcastically, her eyebrows arching. Her mouth twisted and she permitted herself a lady-like little snort, deep in her throat. “Well, Maggie, he can call himself whatever he likes, but that wasn’t his real name, you know.” She paused, not making eye contact, gazing into the distance, and her lips quivered a little. I could see that she was making a monumental effort to compose herself, and I nodded encouragingly, hoping she would go on.
This is the strategy I always used with my clients when they were about to divulge sensitive material during a session. Timing is everything. Jump in too fast with a comment or an interpretation and the moment is past. Then they clam up on you and whatever they were about to reveal is pushed back into the murky depths of their psyche and lost forever.
A long beat passed between us. “You knew him?” I ventured. I spoke softly, not wanting to interrupt the story she seemed so eager to tell me.
“I know quite a bit about him.” She looked directly at me then and her pale green eyes suddenly blazed with an inner light. She grabbed my hand and squeezed my fingers so tightly I winced. “You see, Maggie, Guru Sanjay killed my daughter.”
TWELVE
“He killed her?” I blurted out. This was the last thing in the world I was expecting and I took a quick breath, my chest tight. A chill snaked up my spine and my pulse ratcheted up a notch. I had to resist the impulse to yank my hand back.
“Well, not physically.” She finally released my fingers from her death grip and gave a dismissive little wave. “In some ways, what he did is even worse, because he killed her spirit, her soul,” she said, her eyes drilling into mine. “Do you know what I mean, Maggie?”
“He harmed her in some way psychologically.” I remembered what Ted had told me about the marathon encounter group session and what an ordeal it had been for her.
“Yes, that’s it. He ruined both our lives, because I’ll never be the same either. Sometimes I don’t know how I’m going to go on. There are days I can hardly drag myself out of bed.”
Her words ran together and ended in a wrenching sob. Suddenly she reached out, her jeweled hand leaning heavily on the buffet table. The color had suddenly faded from her cheeks and she’d turned such a deathly shade of white I was afraid she might pass out.
I grabbed her elbow to steady her. “It’s the heat, Kathryn,” I said tactfully. “Let’s sit down somewhere where we can talk privately.” I motioned towards the umbrella tables set up on the flagstone patio outside the Seabreeze breakfast room. It was secluded and the lush wall of arbor vitae muffled the sounds of the Sanjay-ites who had started some eerie chant in a minor key.
“I don’t where to start,” she said, settling herself on a black wrought iron patio chair. A waiter stopped, and I ordered two club sodas with lime.
“Start anywhere,” I prompted her. I knew the important thing was for her to tell the story in her own way and her own time.
“I had such high hopes for Sarah when she first told me about the Guru,” she said ruefully. “Sarah was in her second year of college and having a hard time adjusting. I thought it was just the usual adjustment that most kids go through, you know, first time away from home. She’s an only child and I suppose I’ve been a bit over-protective with her.” She shot me a challenging look, as if daring me to disagree with her.
“It’s normal for mothers to want to protect their children,” I said lightly “What happened exactly?”
Kathryn drew in a long breath, her green eyes filled with sadness. “She had read one of Sanjay’s silly books, and she was just enthralled by him. I figured it was harmless, the sort of psychobabble that you see everywhere.” I figured this wouldn’t be the right time to tell her I had written a pop psych book myself. Unlike Sanjay’s tome, it had plummeted to well-deserved obscurity.
She propped her chin on her elbow and fixed her gaze on me. “But then it got out of hand. She seemed almost obsessively devoted to him. She bought all his books and tapes and even had a poster of that loathsome man in her room. As if he were a rock star! Can you imagine such a thing?”
I shrugged. “He seems to attract some pretty devoted followers.” And he certainly loved publicity, I added silently. I noticed that garden was thick with mourners, mostly women, all wearing virginal white dresses. They couldn’t all have attended the conference. Word must have gotten out about the memorial service, because I saw Ted hastily setting up a few more rows of folding chairs and the catering staff was bringing out more trays of cakes and fruits.
“She went to a weekend retreat on the California coast. It was over her summer vacation from college. It sounded harmless enough, although it did have a rather retro flavor to it. It reminded me of one of those encounter groups, you know, the kind that were popular back in the sixties?” Kathryn gave a sad little smile. “I told Sarah I thought she was wasting her money, but she swore it was just what she needed. She said it would ‘open up her spirit’ and that she would be completely transformed by the experience.”
“What happened?” The server silently placed our club sodas on the table. Kathryn was so caught up in her story, I don’t think she even noticed.
“I’m still not clear on the details.” She blew out a little puff of breath. “Well, for one thing, Sarah is a diabetic, did I tell you that?” I shook my head. “She has juvenile diabetes, type one.”
“That can be serious,” I murmured sympathetically
“Very serious,” Kathryn said. “She’s what they call a brittle diabetic and her blood sugar can suddenly plummet with no warning, you know? It can be life-threatening.”
“And they knew all this? The people organizing the meals at the conference?” I immediately thought of liability issues. Had she told them she was a diabetic? Had they provided the proper food for her? Was medical help available on
the site? It seemed surprising that such a well-oiled machine as Team Sanjay wouldn’t have explored all those possibilities, and taken legal steps to protect themselves.
“She wrote it all out on the form. I insisted she make a copy of the contract before she submitted it with her check.” A smart move, I thought. My instincts been right about Kathryn, she was definitely someone to be reckoned with.
“And then something happened? She had some sort of medical crisis at this retreat?”
“They deprived her of food and water, can you imagine? She had taken some diabetic granola bars with her, but they took them away from her, as if they were contraband!” Her eyes blazed at the memory. “And then she and the others were all forced to sit in a circle for hours without moving, without even taking” —she paused delicately—”a bathroom break.”
“Sounds awful.” And dangerous. Especially for someone with health issues.
“It gets even worse,” she said darkly. “After hours of this silly naval-gazing, or soul-searching, or whatever they call it, everyone had to get up on a stage one at a time. The rest of the group would shout at them, taunt them, tell them were worthless. Verbal abuse. Each person had to just stand there and endure it, until the leader finally decided they ‘got it’ and could step down.”
“What were they supposed to ‘get,’ I wonder?”
Kathryn shook her head. “I have no idea. But you see how crazy the whole thing was. Sarah ended up collapsing on stage and being rushed by ambulance to the local hospital, she’s been ill ever since. Both mentally and physically.”
“You’re right, it does sound like one of those early California encounter groups,” I agreed. “I didn’t know anyone did those anymore.”