by Mary Kennedy
“Yes?” He turned back, his dark eyes questioning.
“Um, you have a nice day, too.”
Talk about lame! One look into those sultry eyes and my best one-liner flew out of my head.
“So it wasn’t really a bomb?” Jim Wilcox asked in his booming announcer’s voice. I think he was secretly disappointed that I hadn’t planned on blowing up the station. What a ratings booster that would have been!
I could just hear the teaser: “Local shrink goes berserk and blows up her own radio station. Get the full story tonight at six on WYME with Big Jim!” With a story like that, Jim might even be able to land a job at one of Miami’s top stations doing the afternoon drive time. I bet it would go into his audition tape.
“The chief’s gonna make a statement in a minute,” one of the firemen answered him. “Don’t want to steal his thunder.” He grinned at Jim, who was a local celebrity. He leaned close to whisper something in Jim’s ear, and then Jim burst out laughing.
“You’re putting me on!” Jim said, clapping him on the shoulder. “What was she thinking?”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“You’ll know soon enough,” Jim said, self-importantly. It was obvious the crisis, whatever it was, had been averted, but he wasn’t going to let me in on the secret.
Just then, Fire Captain Chris Norton appeared on the grassy area in front of the station and removed his helmet. “We found the . . . uh . . . source of the explosion,” he said. “Please step forward, Miss Yaslov.”
Irina Yaslov, the station receptionist! She walked slowly out of the station, blinking in the bright Florida sunshine. “I made a big fault,” she said tearfully. “I was making the popcorn,” she said, wringing her hands and struggling with her imperfect English. “How was I to know there would be big boom? I make it many time before, and there is no boom. Just today.”
“You were making popcorn? In the microwave?” So that’s why I had flashed on a movie theater when I smelled something hot and buttery burning. And here I thought I was having an olfactory hallucination.
Poor Irina looked mortified, her eyes darting back and forth between Cyrus Stills and Jim Wilcox. “Yes,” she said softly. “I used metal plate. Maybe not such a good idea. Microwave is—how you say?—history. Kaput.”
“Well, sakes alive, girl. You should know better than to put a metal plate in a microwave. You scared us all half to death. You probably shortened Tweetie Bird’s life.” Vera Mae lifted a corner of my sweater to check on her bird, who was picking listlessly at a miniature corncob.
“It’s okay,” Big Jim said gallantly. “Irina here is from Iceland,” he said helpfully to a female reporter I recognized from the Cypress Grove Gazette. “They probably cook things differently over there. They eat a lot of whale meat, you know.”
“I am from Sweden, not Iceland!” Irina protested. “And no, I do not eat the whale meat.” She shot an appealing look at Cyrus. “Really, I’m desolated this is happening, and I’m hoping not to be losing my job.”
Cyrus ignored her and shook hands with the firefighters. “Sorry we dragged you out here for nothing, guys.” Then he glared at Irina. “I’ll see you in my office, missy. Someone’s going to have to buy a new microwave and pay to have those scorch marks removed from the wall.” He caught me staring at him. “What are you looking at? Don’t you have a show running? And why is that song playing over and over?” he said irritably.
I glanced at my watch and scurried back into the building. Now that the fun was over, I had a show to do!
Chapter 3
When Guru Sanjay Gingii showed up for his three o’clock guest slot, I was still frazzled from Irina’s popcorn misadventure. The mystery caller hadn’t contacted us again, and I didn’t have a clue about why he was so upset with the guru. A faint cloud of buttery smoke hung in the air, and Guru Sanjay wrinkled his nose when he walked into the booth.
Sanjay Gingii, a self-styled New Age “prophet” from South Beach, was in town for a conference at the Seabreeze Inn. My boss, Cyrus, is vice president of the Cypress Grove Chamber of Commerce, and he insisted that I invite the guru to be a guest on the show.
Guru Sanjay was tall and portly, dressed all in white, with a Nehru jacket pulled tight over his ballooning gut. He sported one of the worst comb-overs I’ve ever seen.
“I am sensing a dark presence in the air.” He squinted his eyes and waved his hands in front of himself as if he were blindfolded. Finally he eased his bulky frame into the swivel chair next to me. After an uncomfortable silence, his eyes flew open and focused on me. “I am feeling a cloud of negativity, a miasma of despair.”
His tone was low and mournful, a voice from another realm. Maybe even another planet.
His two assistants, bouncer types who looked like extras from The Sopranos, nodded solemnly, their arms crossed against their massive chests. They refused to sit down and remained standing on either side of the door.
“We had a little fire here today,” I said chattily. “It’s nothing, really, just some leftover smoke damage. By the way, I’m Maggie Walsh, host of On the Couch.”
I stuck out my hand, but the guru didn’t shake it. Instead he peered at it, then began rubbing his fat thumb over my palm in a creepy way, as if he were rolling a Cuban cigar.
“We go live in a couple of minutes.” I forced myself to sound bubbly. “We’ve done lots of promo spots about you, and I bet the calls will come rolling in. So . . . uh . . . welcome to the show.”
I felt a shiver slither down my spine. Talk about a dark presence—this guy was giving off serial-killer vibes with his loathsome touch. All my forensic training came front and center; I had a very bad feeling about the guru.
I suddenly knew, in a very visceral way, that he was a scam artist or a sociopath. How did I know this? Call it gut instinct, training, years of coming face-to-face with anti socials on a daily basis.
This guy was a fake, a grifter, a con man.
I just knew it in my bones.
“You are an old soul, Maggie,” he said, his face very close to mine. “I can sense that you have lived many lifetimes because your chakras still seek harmony. Perhaps with my help, they can finally be realigned.”
So he wants to realign my chakras? I just bet he does! Maybe he could rotate my tires at the same time, but I bet that wouldn’t be nearly as much fun for him.
His stubby thumb left a greasy trail up my bare arm. I yanked my hand away just as Vera Mae slapped on her headphones and pointed at me.
“Line three, Dr. Maggie. Thelma has a question about . . . bioenergetic healing.” Vera Mae permitted herself a small eye roll as Thelma’s voice burst into the booth.
“Well, thank the Lord I finally got through! I’ve been calling for hours and all I got was Celine Dion and that dopey song—”
“Sorry about that, Thelma, but we’re here now to help you.” I plastered a grin on my face because someone once told me that smiling helps to inject warmth into your voice. “And your question is . . .”
“It’s for your guest. Guru Sanjay, I just have to say, I’ve read all your books and I think you’re just amazing. You’re my hero!”
The guru gave a mock-humble bow. “I am but a channel, a funnel for all of life’s mysteries, a river for spiritual healing. But if I have helped you in some small way, then I am gratified.”
He glanced over at the two thugs at the door, and they nodded approvingly. I bet they had heard this all before.
“And your question is . . . ,” I repeated, breaking up the lovefest.
“Well, I’m getting a lot of bad vibrations from my boss. I can see his aura, and let me tell you, it’s mighty scary. I think he might be trying to control my mind.”
“You were very wise to call me today, Thelma.” The guru’s voice was low and soothing. “Because I can feel some very negative energy emanating from the phone and disturbing the glowing white light at the center of your being. You are right to be alarmed.” He paused. “Let me guess. Ar
e you calling from work at this very moment?”
“Why, yes! Yes, I am calling from work.” Thelma sounded awestruck. “That’s incredible; you really are psychic!”
“When you are in tune with the universe, it cannot surprise you. I know all of its secrets. Now, how can I help you?”
“I guess I need some specific ways to deal with my boss,” she said hesitantly. “I’ve read Heal the Cosmos, Heal Yourself , and I tried out some of the things you suggested.”
“Ah, yes, Heal the Cosmos, my latest release. It’s only $6.95 in paperback and just $12.95 for the audio version. Both are available on my Web site, GuruSanjay.com, and at fine bookstores everywhere.”
Before Thelma could reply, Vera Mae piped up, “Say, Thelma, did you ever read a book called Working with Jerks? It’s my bible. I bet it could give you some tips on how to deal with this guy.”
“I’ve never heard of it, but I could look it up on Amazon—”
“Here is what you must do, Thelma,” Guru Sanjay cut in swiftly. “You must stand firm as a spiritual seeker and not let any negativity influence your aura. You have within you the power to be a healer, a human energy force field, and you must emit only good energy.” He paused dramatically. “Do you understand me? You have the power within you, Thelma. Never forget that.”
I think he stole that line from Glinda, the Good Witch, in The Wizard of Oz, but I could tell Thelma was falling head over chakras for it. I hated to admit it, but put him in front of a mike and the guy had charisma. He had an uncanny way of tapping into people’s thoughts and feelings and telling them what they wanted to hear. All good performers have this talent, and I reminded myself that sociopaths are experts at reading people and scoring on their hopes and dreams.
“Yes, I do have the power!” Thelma gushed. “You’ve helped me so much, Guru. I’ll never be able to thank you!”
Again, the modest bow. Difficult to do sitting down, especially with an expanding gut in the way. Funny, but on television, he looked imposing, not fat, and I wondered whether he wore a corset for his public appearances.
“I am but an instrument. I am here today merely to explain the mysteries of the cosmos, through my understanding of kinetics and the human energy field.”
That’s all, just the mysteries of the cosmos? Maybe next week he can tackle global warming and the Middle East crisis. Oh, yeah, and the Riemann hypothesis; I’ve never been quite clear on how that works.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vera fingering her selection of signs. I just knew she was itching to hold up the BS! one. I gave her a tired smile as we headed into a Sassy Snippers commercial.
Who knew I would actually welcome the chance to hear about Twyla Boyd’s hair salon and her Thursday special on foils and perms?
Anything was better than the mystical mumbo jumbo coming from the guru!
“I can’t believe you met him,” Lark Merriweather said later that day. “If I could meet Guru Sanjay, even for five minutes, it would be the high point of my life.” Lark is into all things New Age: pyramids, crystals, incense, tarot, I Ching, channeling, and chi.
She sat back with a little sigh, her cornflower blue eyes wistful. Lark is slim and petite with a choppy blond bob that suits her pixieish face. Physically, we’re polar opposites. I tower over her at five-ten with straight auburn hair that can be sleek or frizzy depending on the famous Florida humidity.
“Really? I should have remembered you’re into Eastern mystics,” I said ruefully. Or pretend mystics, I felt like saying. Deep in my bones, I knew that Guru Sanjay had as much in common with mysticism as I did with aboriginal tribes in New Guinea.
The sun was beginning to dip in the western sky, and the last traces of sunlight spilled onto the round oak dining table. I’d finished my shift at WYME a couple of hours earlier and we were sharing a veggie pizza in the kitchen of our town house. It’s a cozy place with wide oak floors, exposed beams, and creamy walls dotted with colorful canvases that Lark picks up at local flea markets.
Lark and I have been roommates for the past three months and are on our way to becoming best friends. When I rented the three-bedroom condo on a quiet street lined with bright pink hibiscus bushes and flaming bougainvillea, Lark was the first person who asked to be my roommate.
Plus, she and Pugsley hit it off, and I knew it would be a good match. Pugsley is my three-year-old pug adopted from an animal shelter, and I’ve always subscribed to the adage “Love me, love my dog.”
Lark is twenty-three but seems younger sometimes. Maybe it’s because of her perpetually sunny personality. She has a kind of “life hasn’t crushed me yet” optimism that’s a nice balance to my Manhattan-style pessimism. Her favorite movie is Forrest Gump, and mine is anything by Woody Allen. That about sums it up.
Lark’s studying to be a paralegal, and I had no idea she was a fan of the guru. I could have invited her to sit in on the broadcast today, even though we don’t usually allow visitors in the booth.
“He’s my idol. I can’t believe I missed the show,” she said plaintively. “Why didn’t you let me know it was on today? I would have called in with a question. I’ve read all his books!”
I gave myself a mental head slap. “I’ll bring you a tape of the show—how’s that? And if you’re really interested in going to one of his workshops, I can give you a couple of press passes he left at the station. He’s doing a breakfast presentation in the morning, and there’s a big awards ceremony tomorrow night. I have tickets for some of the events.”
“Oh, I couldn’t take your tickets!” Her eyes were shining with excitement. “How could you ever part with them?”
“I’m not going to use them. Really.” I had to smile at her enthusiasm. “The dinner is right next door at the Seabreeze Inn, so the food should be good. The guru and his staff are staying there.”
We live next to one of the town’s nicest small hotels, and Ted Rollins, the manager, is a friend of mine. Sometimes I think he’d like to be more than friends, but somehow the chemistry just isn’t there. Not for me, anyway.
“The Seabreeze, huh?” She shook her head in wonderment. “Just think. Guru Sanjay is only a few yards away from me, this very minute. I wonder what he’s doing right now?” She peered out the window with her chin cupped in her hand, like Nicole Kidman staring out over the Paris rooftops in Moulin Rouge. “I bet he’s meditating,” she added in a dreamy voice.
“Ommmmmm.”
“What?”
I grinned. “You said he was meditating.”
“Oh, nobody says ‘om’ anymore. He’s probably sitting in the lotus position, chanting his mantra.” She sighed, as if the thrill of it all nearly sucked the air out of her chest.
Not a good image. A picture of a half-naked guru with his gut hanging over his yoga pants drifted into my mind, and I blinked quickly, willing it to disappear.
Lark continued to stare at the side entrance of the Seabreeze, as if willing Guru Sanjay to materialize like a genie out of a bottle. “I could practically reach out and touch him.”
Ewww. Who would want to?
I nodded. “You’ll have to catch him tomorrow if you really want to see him. He told me Team Sanjay is driving back to South Beach right after dinner. So this is his last night in town.”
“Really!” Lark glanced at her watch and then scrambled to her feet, tugging her burgundy knit top down over her low-rise jeans. She gave a little hip twitch and adjusted her studded leather belt so it cinched her tiny waist more tightly. “You know, I just remembered I need to pick up a few things at the drugstore. Do you want anything?”
“No, I’m fine, but what about your pizza?” It was Lark’s favorite, a mouth-watering concoction of goat cheese and fresh basil called Pizza Margarita, from Carlo’s.
“What? Oh, the pizza . . . I’ll take it with me.” Lark popped into her bedroom for a moment and returned carrying her yellow leather faux-Coach bag. It was a knockoff but very realistic. I noticed she’d fluffed her hair and had dabbed on
some new peach lip gloss. “I’ll eat it in the car,” she said, grabbing a generous slice and folding it over into a napkin, calzone style. “See you later!”
And with that, she was gone.
A minute later, I realized her car keys were still sitting on the counter.
“Can you cover the morning news? The eight o’clock drive time? Everyone’s out on assignment this morning. Things are really hopping at the police station, and I think the mayor’s gonna give a statement later today.” Cyrus Still’s voice boomed over the phone, crashing through my sleep-fogged brain with such force, it made my teeth hurt. Someone told me that Cyrus has permanent hearing loss from covering so many rock concerts in his younger days and that’s why he always sounds like he’s shouting into a hurricane.
“Wha—” I sat straight up in bed, winced, and glanced at the clock. Six a.m. I was barely conscious and my station manager wanted to discuss the news of the day. I didn’t know which was more remarkable: the fact that Cyrus expected me to be coherent at the crack of dawn or the fact that I was working for someone who actually says things like “really hopping.”
I desperately needed an infusion of caffeine, an adrenaline rush, and oh, yeah, a functioning brain. “I can be there in forty-five,” I told him, running a brush through my hopelessly matted hair as I searched for my terry robe.
Thank god it’s radio and not television, I thought, taking in my pale skin and sunken eyes in the wall mirror. A vision of loveliness. I’d fallen asleep watching Conan O’Brien and had barely woken up when Lark had tiptoed in, sometime after midnight.
Something niggled at the edges of my consciousness. News . . . the police station . . . the mayor. “Cyrus, what’s going on?” I asked, padding along the terra-cotta tiled floor to the kitchen. No sign of Lark and no coffee brewing. Lark and I have an arrangement. Whoever wakes up first makes the coffee, and today that would be me. Lark’s door was firmly shut.
“You mean you haven’t heard the news?” Cyrus sounded incredulous.
I stifled a jaw-popping yawn. “Haven’t a clue. Fill me in.”