by Mary Kennedy
“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 jus
t 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.
Nick caught my glance and sheepishly put three almond tarts back on the tray.
“It’s Kabbalah,” he said between mouthfuls, looking mournfully at the scones as if they were calling to him.
“Kabbalah? As in Madonna-wearing-a-red-string-bracelet Kabbalah?”
Nick nodded. “I think so. See that one over there? It says ‘tikkun.’ That’s from the Kabbalah. It means two opposing desires.”
“Like the superego and the id,” I murmured.
“You got me there.” Nick took a hefty swig of mimosa and practically smacked his lips in enjoyment.
“Freud,” I said absently. “It’s the basis for his psycho-dynamic 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 superego 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 superego balance everything out. Sort of like this tikkun 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 hand 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 female Charles Manson.
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 have 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 do, 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 In spektor? Or Apple and Moxie Crimefighter?”
“Whatever,” Nick said dismissively.
“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 because of the victim’s character she was able to plea-bargain 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 temporomandibular 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 was 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 she’d described the scene with Sanjay in the hotel room. She said he’d lunged at her and made a disgusting pass, and she’d pushed him away. But it had been an act of self-defense, and it had 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 giveaway. Ask any cosmetic surgeon.
She was wearing a beige custom-tailored Armani suit paired with a white silk blouse and 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? Mr. Rollins pointed you out to me.” 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 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 ladylike 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.