by Lois Winston
“Well, it was very irresponsible and I called Guru Sanjay to tell him so. Naturally, he has a wall of people around him, and I had to talk to one of his underlings, that dreadful Dobosh woman. She was completely unsympathetic and said there was nothing they could do. She even suggested that my daughter must have had emotional problems to start with, and reminded me that Sarah had signed a liability waiver.”
“So you never had a chance to talk to Sanjay directly?”
She hesitated. “No. I never did.”
I leaned back in my chair then while Kathryn sipped her club soda. The sunlight was filtering through the banyan trees and the white jasmine creeping over a wooden trellis was giving off a delicious scent. It would have been a beautiful scene if it hadn’t been completely overrun with those annoying Sanjay-ites.
Olivia Riggs approached me, looking considerably more cheerful than the last time when I’d seen her crying her eyes out in the ladies’ room. “Maggie? I’m so sorry for the melt-down the other day,” she said in a low voice. “I was just in shock at Sanjay’s death. He was my mentor and I thought my career was over. I thought my whole life was over.” She shook her head as if trying to dispel negative thoughts.
“No apology necessary. It must have been very difficult for you,” I murmured.
“It was.” She looked glum for a moment but then her expression brightened. “ But something amazing happened. Remember what Sanjay always said–when one door closes, another one opens? That’s exactly what happened for me!” She gave a wide smile. “I met somebody at the Seabreeze who offered me a marketing job with a string of health spas in California. I’ll be based in Laguna Beach and making twice the salary I was making here. Is that lucky or what?”
“I’d say that’s very lucky indeed.”
“Thanks for being so understanding.” Olivia touched my arm and flitted away, looking young and carefree in her flirty cotton sundress. From the depths of despair to Laguna Beach, I thought. Interesting.
I could see Miriam Dobosh fiddling with the microphone on the podium, probably preparing to make some sort of address, and I figured this might be a good time to make my exit. Kathryn and I had exchanged business cards and there was probably no reason to prolong the interview. There were probably more questions I should ask her, but they could wait.
But there was one last thing I had to know.
“Kathryn,” I said slowly, “I’m puzzled about something. Why did you come here today? If Guru Sanjay was the person responsible for harming your daughter, why would you turn up at his memorial service? Surely not to pay your respects?”
I let the question dangle while I pushed my hair out of my face. I could feel a thin sheen of perspiration forming on my temples, and I wished I could look as cool and collected as the woman sitting across from me.
Kathryn drained her club soda and stood up. I was relieved to see that a hint of color had flooded back into her face. Maybe telling me the story had been cathartic for her, because her expression had brightened and just for a moment, she seemed almost light-hearted.
“Pay my respects? Oh, you can be damn sure I didn’t come here for that, Maggie.” She tossed her head back and I saw a look of defiance cross her emerald eyes. She leaned across the table, her eyes fixed so intently on mine, I was starting to feel nervous. “I just wanted to make sure that bastard was really dead.”
~*~
“Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit! She really said that?” Vera Mae was bustling around the studio, doing her usual sound checks before the afternoon show. I’d come back to the station early and was munching on a cinnamon bagel (proving once again, you can never have too many carbs!) before checking my notes for the day’s show.
“Kathryn Sinclair really said it, but that doesn’t prove anything, you know. She was speaking metaphorically, and even if she wasn’t, making sure someone’s dead isn’t exactly an admission of guilt.”
“I still think you should call that Martino fellow and tell him to check out her alibi, if she even has one,” Vera Mae said. “It’s a well-known fact that murderers often attend the funerals of their victims.” Vera Mae is a big fan of CSI, Law and Order, and Criminal Minds, and fancies herself an amateur sleuth. “Another thing, it’s a darn shame you didn’t get her comments on tape. Haven’t I been asking you to get batteries for that little recorder you carry around?”
“Guilty as charged,” I agreed. “You’ve asked me about a dozen times. I’m not sure what the Florida law is on taping conversations without permission, and anyway, she didn’t really say anything incriminating.” I finished the last crumbs of the bagel and flipped through my day planner.
The afternoon show was going to be a snooze, I thought, spirits sinking. Cecilia Gregg from the Cypress Grove Horticultural Society on the Psychological Benefits of Gardening. I saw from her bio that her specialty was tubers. I had no idea what a tuber was and had even less desire to hit Google and find out.
My experience with gardening is somewhat limited. When I first moved into the condo, I planted some luscious pink and white begonias in the long wooden box sitting on the edge of the patio. They looked adorable but the little darlings must have made a suicide pact during the night, because they all were dead by morning. Lark swears they picked up negative vibes from me, but I don’t think that’s possible. I’m thinking they were psychologically unstable from the start and when I transplanted them from their little garden-store pots it pushed them right over the edge.
“Sounds pretty suspicious to me,” Vera Mae continued. “Going to a funeral just to make sure someone’s dead. Besides, it would give you an excuse to call that nice young detective, not that I think you really need one. A young feller like that, single and all, could probably use a home-cooked dinner. If I were thirty years younger, I’d invite him over myself. There’s nothing like a platter of chicken and biscuits to win a guy over, with a mess of greens on the side and a nice blueberry cobbler for dessert.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I murmured.
“You young girls never learn,” Vera Mae retorted. “The way to a man’s heart really is through his stomach. Ask any gal over fifty, and she’ll tell you.”
An inner office line buzzed and Vera Mae turned to answer it. She clamped the handset to her ear, listened to a voice on the other end and frowned. “You don’t say. Well, that’s a fine kettle of fish. All righty, I’ll tell Maggie and we’ll come up with something else. We always do.”
“Bad news?”
“That was Irina. Cecilia has the flu and can’t do the show today. She plumb forgot to cancel,” she said, raising her eyebrows. She was glancing out the big double window that looked out onto the parking lot. It was cracked open at the bottom and the buzz of cicadas drifted into the studio. “I figure we can always do an open call-in show, or maybe do a repeat of one of your last shows, or...oh, Lordie, is that who I think it is?”
Vera Mae broke off suddenly, her voice tripping into an uncharacteristic falter. She wrenched her gaze away from the window and stared at me.
Her eyes were bulging like she was auditioning for a Wes Craven flick. If this was a slasher movie, this is the point where Vera Mae would have just learned the terrifying phone calls were coming from inside the house.
“Vera, Mae, for heaven’s sake? Who’s out there? What did you see?” For some reason, Vera Mae’s anxiety was infectious. I sat frozen to my chair, heart pounding, a horrible feeling of impending doom spreading over me. Either all those venti caramel Frappuccino’s had set my nerve endings atwitter or I was teetering on the edge of a major panic attack.
“Maggie, I don’t know how to tell you this,” she began.
A wild gulp of laughter rose in my throat and I tamped it down. “Just spit it out, Vera Mae. You’re making me nervous.”
“Brace yourself, Maggie, and take a look outside.” I reluctantly pulled myself out of the chair and walked shakily to the window. “See that woman in the pink halter dress and those big Jackie-O sungla
sses? Gosh almighty, I think that’s your mamma come to pay us a visit.”
I peered out the window and my heart dropped into my stomach. The platinum hair, the swaying hips, a voluptuous frame delicately balanced on four-inch stiletto sling backs.
Gosh almighty, I think Vera Mae was right.
Lola was back in town.
THIRTEEN
“Kisses, everyone! Kisses!” Lola burst into the studio the way she did everything.
Full throttle.
She leaned in to give a startled Vera Mae an air kiss, before enveloping me in a quick hug and love-bombing me with a choking cloud of Arpege. Then she folded her fifty-eight-year-old—but still gorgeous—legs into a swivel chair and checked out the studio.
I know the tabloids are fond of saying some celeb-or-other is a “force of nature,” but in Lola’s case, it is absolutely true. My mother, Lola Walsh, has the style and panache of one of those long-dead heroines of the silver screen. The ones you see late at night on Turner Movie Classics, when it’s just you in your jammies with a pint of Chunky Monkey watching those feisty heroines of yesteryear.
Think Dorothy Lamour, Jayne Russell or even Lola’s icon, Marilyn (Monroe, not Manson.)
Everything about Lola is big. Big hair (Clairol Nordic Blonde, number 37), big lips (Sally Hensen lip plumpers) and a big voice. (“I’m not loud, dahling, I’m projecting, as we theater folks like to say. As the great director Hal Prince once told me, “They have to be able to hear you all the way in the back row of the mezzanine, Lola.”)
Talk about larger than life. Take a Barbie doll’s measurements, calibrate them to human scale and—Voila! Lola in the flesh. Her shocking pink dress, very retro, very seventies, was hugging her body like liquid polymer.
“What brings you to town, Mom?” My mother lives north of Miami and only ventures to Cypress Grove when she feels a compelling need to shop the outlets at Sawgrass Mills. After a tough day of shopping, she sometimes jumps back in the car, heads north on AIA and spends the night at my condo.
“I have some big auditions coming up, my love, and all my clothes are hopelessly out of date. Well, what I really mean is, they make me look out of date. Positively matronly. I have a new agent now, and Edgar thinks that I need to present a more youthful image.”
A more youthful image. Vera Mae and I exchanged a look. My mother has never come to terms with the fact that she’s “of a certain age” and her wardrobe is either early Nicole Richie or late night Lindsay Lohan.
She paused, looking around the studio hopefully, and Vera Mae filled the gap.
“My stars, Lola, if you looked any more youthful, you’d be jail bait. What does this Edgar know, anyway? Is he anyone I’ve heard of?”
Lola wrinkled her nose. Even she knew when a compliment was over the top, although she would certainly give Vera Mae an A for effort. “Edgar Dumont,” she said loftily. “He’s been a theatrical agent for many years and has only recently become involved with film and television. I believe his first client was James Dean.”
“James Dean!” Vera Mae chortled. “That must make him older than Methuselah. Are you sure he’s the right agent for you? And where does he get off telling you that you should look more youthful? He must be pretty long in the tooth himself.”
“Well, he’s been around for a while,” Lola admitted. “But that’s a good thing in an agent, being seasoned, I mean. He takes on very few clients, and I was thrilled when he agreed to represent me.”
She gave her Victoria’s Secret push up bra a little tug and her assets threatened to spill out of her shocking pink halter sundress. “I had to audition for him in a loft in South Beach last week, surrounded by all these sweet young things. I felt like I’d stumbled into a Hannah Montana look-a-like competition.” Just for a moment, a sour expression passed over her face. “Anyway, I did Portia’s speech from Merchant of Venice and blew everyone away. As Edgar said, I really nailed it. I was the only actor he signed that day.”
“Really.” Vera Mae busied herself with the pile of commercials, or “spots” scheduled for that day. “I don’t mean to break up this gabfest,” she said, glancing at the clock, “but what do you want to do for the show today? We go live in seven minutes.”
I swung around to my desk, suddenly all-business. In the excitement of Lola’s arrival, I had forgotten all about the missing Cecilia and her tubers.
“Is there a problem?” Lola asked.
Vera Mae grunted. “I’d say. Our guest cancelled at the last minute and we don’t have anything scheduled for today.”
Lola clapped her hands together. “No guest? No problem!” She smiled winningly, like the host of a cheesy late night infomercial. “Let me be your guest. I can talk about my life in the theater. I’ve met all kinds of people, some famous and some not so famous. I’ve worked with some real characters, I bet your listeners would be fascinated.”
“Mom, the topic has to be related to psychology,” I protested. Well, at least vaguely related, I thought, thinking of the You and Your Colon show we did a few days earlier.
Lola looked stumped. “Psychology? That sounds like a snooze.”
“Mom! It’s what I do, remember? Or what I did,” I said, between gritted teeth.
There was a brief silence and then Vera Mae snapped her fingers, “You know, we could try something different today. Stir things up a bit, just to keep it interesting. How would you like to be part of the show, Lola?”
“I’m going to be the guest? Fabulous!” Lola was already out of her chair and heading toward the visitor’s seat next to the control board.
“Not so fast,” Vera Mae blocked her path, clutching a pile of tapes in front of her like a shield. “You know, Lola, I was thinking about all those famous you’ve worked with and how you had to get along with them. How would you like to co-host the show today? It’ll be a call-in show, and you and Maggie will field questions from the listeners.”
“What’s the topic?” I asked, feeling alarm bells going off in my gut. I looked at the clock. Three minutes till we went live. Live!
Vera Mae gave a little smile. “Relationships, ladies. Relationships. The good, the bad, the ugly.”
Lola smile lit up the studio. “I love it!” she exclaimed. She was wriggling with excitement like Pugsley does when he hears the tell-tale crinkly sound of an open bag of potato chips.
Suddenly she gave a little moue of concern and rested her hand lightly on mine, her eyes serious. “But maybe you better let me do most of the talking, Maggie,” she said huskily. “After all, I’ve had three husbands, six fiancés and more gentleman callers that I can count, so this is really more my area of expertise than yours. No offense, darling.”
Gentlemen callers? I vaguely remembered that line from The Glass Menagerie, when Mom had played Amanda Wingfield in summer stock in Provincetown many years ago.
Lola gave a breezy smile as Vera Mae handed her an extra headset and I settled down next to her, fiddling with the mike. I noticed the board was already lighting up; we always have a few die-hard fans who are determined to be first in line, even if they don’t know what the day’s topic will be.
“Live in five!” Vera Mae yelled, dashing around to the production room. I sat up straighter in my chair as Vera Mae pointed at me and silently mouthed, “Go!”
~*~
“So the way I look at it, men are like shoes,” Lola was saying twenty minutes later in her smoky, theatrical voice. “They may look adorable, but if they don’t fit in the beginning, they’ll never fit right. Nothing you do will help. You’ll curse the day you saw them. I’m afraid the only thing to do, sweetie, is to toss them out and find yourself a new pair.” She gave a musical little laugh and paused for a beat. “Does that answer your question, Naomi?”
“It sure does, Miss Lola. Men are like shoes. Gee, I’ve never looked at it quite that way before.”
I bet, I said silently. It was annoying to admit, but all my years of psychological training couldn’t match my mother in action–
she was a huge success with the audience. Warm, accessible and witty, she managed to make an immediate connection with each listener. How did she pull it off?
I was in awe–and green with envy. Maybe it was her acting ability, maybe she was genuinely empathic, but Lola was a hit.
If anyone was measuring her Q score that day, it would be off the charts.
Meanwhile, my loyal followers were deserting me in droves. After the first few minutes, they didn’t bother directing their questions to me; they turned to Lola for help with their problems.
Or maybe I just wasn’t at my best. My mind was still going over Sanjay’s murder and my meeting with the formidable Kathryn Sinclair. Her anger at Sanjay was palpable and beneath her stylish exterior, she reminded me of a tigress protecting her young.
Was she capable of murder? My trusty 8 Ball would say, “Signs point to YES.” But what did she have to gain from his death, besides revenge? I drew a blank on that one.
And then there was Lenore Cooper, whose A-list shrink status had been usurped by her ex-husband. She might profit from his death, especially if she decided to write a tell-all book. The only trouble with that theory is that Sanjay had dumped her several years ago, so why would she take so long to do him in?
There seemed to be no immediate motive to murder him, or was I missing something? Wouldn’t there be more money and more buzz in a tell-all book if Sanjay were still alive? So why would she kill the golden goose, if writing an expose was her aim?
I was pondering my next move in the murder investigation when I suddenly realized there was a tiny sliver of dead air. Now was the time to jump in with a pithy comment, some keen psychological insight. Nothing came to mind, so a platitude would have to do.
“Um, you know sometimes it’s a mistake to bail out too quickly on a relationship,” I fumbled.
Vera Mae locked eyes with me for an instant and then jabbed a button. She must have decided that my inane comment didn’t even deserve a follow up. “Abigail on line three, she has a question for Lola.” Foiled again!