by Mary Kennedy
You bet. Unless Mom and I did something fast to divert attention away from Lark.
“I had a nice chat with your mother over at the Seabreeze. . . .” She let the sentence trail off. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to respond to that, so I said nothing. “Did she tell you I hoped we could all get together for drinks if you ever come down to Miami?”
Now I was thoroughly confused. “No, she didn’t mention that, Miriam. But I’d love to talk with you anytime.”
Mom tapped me on the arm. “Miriam?” She mouthed the name at me across the table, and I nodded.
“Actually, Mom and I are in Miami right now. We’re having coffee in South Beach at the News Cafe.”
“Perfect!” Miriam gushed. “I came to town to meet with my accountant, and we’re just wrapping things up. Meet me at the Delano in twenty minutes and I’ll buy you the best dirty martini in town.” I flipped the phone shut and stared at Mom. “You’re not going to believe this. We’re being summoned to the Delano to meet with Miriam Dobosh.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Really? What does she want?”
“To buy us the best dirty martini in town.”
“Make it a chocolate martini and I’m up for it,” Mom said gamely. “Dirty martinis are awful, you know.” She wrinkled her nose. “They put olive juice in them.”
Olive juice? Blech. “But what does she really want?” Mom persisted.
“Good question. And I have absolutely no idea.” I quickly paid our bill and we hurried back along Collins Avenue, which was quickly filling up with hungry tourists. Restaurant hostesses, all chic young women, tried to hand us menus as we rushed along the street, but I shook my head and barreled along, lost in thought.
I wondered how to play the meeting with Miriam. The investigation was taking a strange turn, but I had the feeling this might be my one chance to find out more about Sanjay. Who would know him better than the woman who had run his empire so successfully for all those years?
Miriam was waiting for us in the lobby. She was wearing a sleeveless sheath dress that revealed toned arms and an athletic build. My previous impression was mistaken—she was powerful rather than dumpy. “How lovely that we’re both in Miami on the same day,” she said warmly. “I have a table waiting for us in the Florida Room.” She walked ahead of us while we oohed and aahed over the magnificent lobby. The elegant Florida Room was decorated like an old speak-easy, and I couldn’t help but stare at the Lucite piano that dominated the room. The room was attractive, with a Bogey and Bacall feel to it.
Once we sat down and ordered (Mom and I wisely stuck to Evian and lime), Miriam leaned across the table, her voice oozing sincerity. “I hope you’re going ahead with your plans for a Sanjay retrospective. There’s been a lot of press about his death, and I hope we don’t forget what he accomplished in his life. I want to help any way I can,” she said, laying her hands on the table. “I’d like to be part of the effort, if I may.”
I noticed that her hands were large, and her nails were blunt cut, almost like a man’s. They looked powerful. Hands that could harm or even kill?
“You know I’d appreciate any information you can give us, Miriam. Was there something in particular that you recalled about the conference? Or about the guests?”
“Well,” she said slowly, “I’ve noticed a few things, but I’m not sure how significant they are.” There was something vague about her tone, and I realized that she was on a fishing expedition.
I thought of mentioning our meeting with Ray Hicks and decided not to. I was a little wary of telling Miriam all our secrets. Why did she want to be in the loop, anyway? Was it because she really wanted Sanjay’s murderer brought to justice?
Or was it something more sinister? Nick always told me that the best way to deflect attention from yourself as a possible suspect is to get involved in the investigation itself. Be part of the inner circle, and you have a better chance of knowing what leads the police have, what the evidence is.
“Go on,” I urged her. “Even the tiniest detail might be helpful.”
“I saw you talking to Kathryn Sinclair at the transition service.”
The transition service? I gave myself a mental kick and realized she meant Guru Sanjay’s memorial. “Yes, she told me quite a shocking story.” I locked eyes with Miriam, wondering how much she knew about the incident with Sarah Sinclair.
“It seems shocking at first,” she said smoothly, “but really, Maggie, if you knew a little more about Sarah’s background, you would see the girl was simply a train wreck. An accident waiting to happen. She was desperate for attention, you know.”
“Really?” I tried to sound noncommittal.
Miriam tapped her head. “Sarah had a long history of psychological problems, I’m afraid. Deep-rooted personality problems.” She smiled, her eyes gleaming with an inner light. Her devotion to Sanjay was beginning to seem almost pathological. There was definitely something off about the woman, and my antennae were twitching.
“But surely you screen for those sorts of problems before you let someone participate in the encounter-group weekend, don’t you?”
Touché. Miriam looked flushed and toyed with her dirty martini. “Well, yes, we make every effort to, but I’m afraid there are always a few people who slip under the radar screen. It happens very rarely, and I’m probably to blame. My mother was sick that week, and I was out of the office. I would have vetted her more carefully if I’d been the one reviewing the application.” She paused. “That girl has certainly caused a lot of trouble for all of us. I never want to go through anything like that again.”
“No, I imagine you don’t,” Mom said sympathetically.
“She was one sick puppy,” Miriam said, staring morosely into her drink.
I had the feeling that Miriam would do or say anything to preserve Sanjay’s reputation, and I was baffled. Why the blind loyalty? I could see it as a Lifetime movie: Obsession: The Miriam Dobosh Story.
And hadn’t Sanjay betrayed her? Wasn’t he going to hand over the reins to Olivia Riggs, the young woman who’d been crying in the ladies’ room that day? Miriam had insisted at the time that Olivia was distraught and delusional. I was beginning to see a pattern here. Anyone who Miriam didn’t like was labeled a head case.
“That’s not the impression I got from her mother,” I said mildly. There was no sense in antagonizing Miriam if I hoped to squeeze any information out of her. “I pictured Sarah as a sensitive, depressed young woman who probably was too emotionally fragile for an encounter group.”
“Fragile, my ass,” Miriam said bluntly. “She was a borderline, as manipulative as they come.”
“Borderline?” Mom asked.
“Borderline personality disorder. Borderlines do tend to manipulate people; they sort of suck you into their world,” I said slowly. I was surprised that Miriam even knew the term. It’s not commonly used outside of psychological circles. “They tend to be very emotional, very needy, and form instant attachments to people.”
I mulled this over. Could it be true? Hadn’t Kathryn Sinclair said that Sarah had idealized Sanjay at first, thinking he would be her savior, and then she completely turned against him? Idealizing someone and then devaluing him was classic borderline behavior.
“I think you might have been taken in by Kathryn Sinclair,” Miriam said, echoing my own thoughts. I could feel myself flushing. “She can be quite convincing.” I waited, toying with my Evian and nibbling on a cracker. “It could be a case of erotomania, you know.”
Erotomania?
Miriam’s eyes were bright with enthusiasm as she tossed around psychological terms. “That’s when someone is madly in love with someone else and is so delusional, she thinks he loves her back.” She said this for Mom’s benefit; Mom looked like her head was reeling with Miriam’s psychological mumbo jumbo.
“You think Sarah Sinclair was in love with Sanjay?” I was beginning to wish I had ordered that martini. Now my head was swimming, too.
“It�
��s very possible,” Miriam said darkly. “Maybe she decided that if she couldn’t have him, no one could. He had a devastating effect on women. Look at Lenore Cooper.” She went off on a five-minute rant on Sanjay’s ex-wife, while Mom and I sat silently. Interesting how she jumped from one suspect to the next, I decided.
“You really think Lenore Cooper might be involved in his death?” I asked.
“Lenore had it in for Sanjay because she stupidly thought he’d ruined her career. He had nothing to do with it. Her book sales went down and people didn’t flock to her seminars anymore, but it wasn’t Sanjay’s fault. He was the one with the charisma; all she had were some dusty degrees. Audiences loved him; that’s all that really matters.”
“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,” I offered, keeping my tone neutral.
“I just want to make sure you’re looking at the right people in the investigation,” she said finally, wrapping up her animated attack on Lenore Cooper. “Kathryn and Lenore: It’s really a toss-up, isn’t it? Mark my words, it’s one or the other.” She paused. “Or Sarah Sinclair.”
I nodded and finished my drink. Miriam looked satisfied with herself, and it was clear that she had no idea that I was more suspicious of her than ever. After her annoying tirade, I was ready to move her to the head of the suspect list. My only hang-up was motive. What did she have to gain by Sanjay’s death? As far as I could see, absolutely nothing. Was I missing something?
As we said our good-byes and left the Delano, I turned to Mom. “What did you think of all that?” I asked as soon as we had blended back into the crowd on Collins Avenue. “She certainly was going out of her way to prove her innocence.” I shook my head in bewilderment. “And she wants us to believe she’s looking for Sanjay’s killer. I don’t know what to make of her.”
Mom gave me an arch smile and repeated one of her favorite Shakespearean quotes. “ ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’ ” Mom has a quote from the Bard for every occasion. Sometimes they fit, and sometimes they’re a stretch. This one was right on target.
“Methinks the same thing.”
“So what’s next?” she asked as we headed back to the parking garage. An enticing smell of garlic and tomatoes was wafting out of an Italian restaurant, but I ignored it, focusing on the task at hand. I was a woman on a mission.
“I think we should go back to Cypress Grove,” I said. “But we need to make a stop along the way. A very important stop.”
“Okay,” Mom said, as agreeable as ever. She gave me a tentative smile, as if she knew something was up.
I felt it was only fair to warn her we were heading into treacherous waters. “Mom, I want you to know that we’re going to do something that’s illegal, foolhardy, and probably dangerous. We could end up with a criminal record. I could lose my license and we could both go to jail. If you want out now, just say the word. I can drop you back at your condo and go on by myself.”
Her blue eyes widened. “Illegal, foolhardy, and dangerous. Mmm, it sounds delicious. Let me guess. Are we going to kidnap Ricky Martin?”
“Worse than that,” I said dryly. “We’re going to pay another visit to Ray Hicks.” I paused, watching for her reaction. “And this time we’re going to break into his trailer. It might not be pretty. So, are you in or out?”
Mom blinked twice and giggled. Her face was lit with excitement, but her laughter had a nervous edge to it. “I love an adventure. Count me in.”
Chapter 23
Dusk was settling in as we left Miami and tooled along the two-lane highway toward Brentwood Bay Village. Mom was unusually quiet, and I had the sneaking suspicion she was feeling some twinges of doubt about my plan. Or maybe she doubted my sanity.
I had no idea what I might come across in the trailer, and I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for. I just knew that Ray Hicks was hiding something and that I had a better chance of finding it if he wasn’t there.
Mom gave a nervous cough and took a deep breath. “A thought just occurred to me, dear. What if Ray Hicks is outside, grilling another platter of that foul-smelling fish? And he might have a gun, you know. He looks like the type who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot us. I think Florida has some fairly liberal laws about what a homeowner can do to protect his property.” She toyed with the clasp on her knockoff Fendi bag. “A lot could go wrong tonight. You know what the Greeks say: ‘There’s many a slip twixt the cup and the lip.’ ”
I didn’t think she really expected an answer to that little gem, so I nodded and kept driving, my mind churning.
Mom’s face was a sickly shade of white, and I knew she dreaded another encounter with the delightful Mr. Hicks. She—and the Greeks—were right. It’s one thing to talk about breaking into his trailer and another to be faced with actually doing it.
I tried not to think about the penalties the Florida justice system would levy for the crime of breaking and entering. In spite of what Ray Hicks had said about eminent domain, I had the feeling Floridians are pretty big on property rights. A man’s home is his castle, even if it’s a double-wide in the middle of nowhere.
Breaking and entering, or B and E, is considered a major crime in the Sunshine State. I could just see Big Jim Hicks running the story on WYME. “Radio Shrink Charged with B and E in Trailer Park Heist!” Not that there would be anything in Ray’s trailer worth stealing, but Big Jim would play the story to the hilt. He’d love to see me handcuffed again, doing the perp walk, for his amusement.
Handcuffs. My thoughts veered toward Rafe Martino, and I wondered whether he would let me plea-bargain the charge down to malicious mischief. I realized my thoughts were bordering on the hysterical and I ordered myself to calm down and concentrate. Mom was already having her doubts about our excellent adventure, and I knew it was time to rein in my own fears and reassure her.
“Look, Mom, I’m counting on the fact that he won’t be there. Remember when he said he always goes out for a few beers on Friday night? He’s probably at some hole-in-the-wall tavern right this minute. We’ll have the place all to ourselves.” I forced a fake chuckle, even though I was quaking inside.
We turned down the road that led to number forty-six, and I felt Mom stiffen in the seat next to me, her hands trembling in her lap. “I wish I shared your optimism,” she said, and then suddenly one hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, god, oh, no!” she cried.
“What? What is it?” My nerves were jumping, and I nearly slammed on the brakes.
“The dogs.” She lowered her voice as if they could hear us. “Even if Ray Hicks is out for the evening, won’t the hounds from hell be there? They’ll tear us limb from limb.” She shivered, and I felt a fine line of goose bumps sprout up along my upper arm.
The dogs! I had forgotten about the dogs. We’d heard their fierce barking earlier that day, but I’d never caught a glimpse of them. I remembered that their barking had a big-dog sound to it. I went through some big-dog images in my mind, and I didn’t like the visual my brain pulled up.
Rottweilers, German shepherds, maybe even a pair of pit bulls. I pictured Cujo. Or maybe the Hound of the Basker villes.
There was no way those barks came from cuddly little schnauzers or Pomeranians with cutesy pink bows in their fur. These dogs would be straight out of a Stephen King novel; I just knew it.
I took a deep breath and scanned the property. Where were they lurking? I pulled up in front of the trailer. I didn’t see any evidence of a fenced-in yard; did he keep the dogs tied up in the back? We’d soon find out. It looked like we were in luck. No sign of the truck, and the lights in the trailer either were out or were turned down very low. The cheap brown curtains were tightly shut, so it was hard to tell.
“What do you think?” Mom said, her voice an octave higher than usual. “Is he out?”
“It looks that way. His truck is gone, and the trailer is dark.”
“But the dogs. What about the dogs?”
“I think they would have come tearing around the trailer by now. Or at lea
st there’d be some barking. They must have heard the car by now.” I turned off the engine, and we sat quietly for a moment, while I explored my options. One option (the sensible one) was to admit that I was on a fool’s errand and to make tracks back to Cypress Grove. A nice dinner at an oceanfront restaurant, and then back home in time for a glass of wine with Lark. Let the Cypress Grove PD sort out Sanjay’s death. That’s what they were paid to do, wasn’t it?
Since this was the sensible option, I immediately discarded it. In for a dime, in for a dollar. “Okay, listen up. Here’s the plan,” I said, sounding like an actress in a B spy film.
Mom leaned forward eagerly. “Yes?”
“I’m going inside the trailer.” I took a deep breath. “You’re going to stay out here.”
“Why do I have to stay out here?” I couldn’t tell whether she was annoyed or relieved.
I thought for moment. “Because I need you as a lookout. You can let me know if Ray suddenly comes barreling along in his pickup. You can talk to him and stall him while I sneak out of the trailer.” This was going to be a difficult feat. As far as I could tell, the trailer had only one door.
“But what will I say if he does show up?” she asked wildly. “How in the world will I explain that you’re inside his home? And how will you get in there, anyway? I’m sure he keeps it locked up tight. He seems like a suspicious sort.”
Good point. Actually, two good points. I licked my lips. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”
I opened the car door as quietly as I could and listened carefully. So far, so good. No canine attack team was headed my way. I took a deep breath and was about to slide out of the car when Mom put her hand on my arm.
“Wait a minute. You mean you haven’t figured out what I’m supposed to say, or you haven’t figured out how you’re going to get inside?”
“Both. I haven’t figured anything out yet.”
She looked crestfallen, but then she brightened, easing back into the seat. “Oh. Well, I’m sure something will come to you, dear,” she said warmly. “You’ve always been quite creative. Here, take this; you might need it.” She passed me a tiny flashlight, the one she keeps on the key ring, and then she leaned over and silently closed the car door.