I tugged at my skirt. “Correct. Don’t you see? Binnie and I were her best friends.”
He gave me a blank look. “So?”
“That’s only the beginning, Detective. I also know that Gwen would never want herself to be found wearing one of those marsupial things. A fanny pack. She had style. I mean, occasionally her taste in clothing was truly abominable. There was her cargo pants period. They just weren’t right for her figure. Sometimes she’d even pair them with a baggy Planet Hollywood sweatshirt that made her head look like a peanut —”
“Hold on, Ms., um, what was your name?”
“Oz.” I counted down. Ten, nine, eight…here it comes.
An amused glint. “Like the wizard?”
“Exactly.” Remind me to change my name.
“Ms. Oz, I’m familiar with the case, and I can tell you our medical examiner was quite certain there was no struggle.” He opened a file and slid a pair of glasses on for a quick read. “Nothing in the way of breaking and entering at her residence. Prescription antidepressants less than a year ago. Next of kin acknowledged some problems with alcohol. Both the brother and handwriting analyst confirmed that the suicide note was written by the deceased. Pretty open and shut.”
I’d heard it all before and wasn’t convinced. “The suicide note was my next point.” I placed my copy on his desk, since he made no effort to search the file for the one that was most likely in it. “See the first line about the golden priestess of the sa-zi-ga? That’s me.”
“What’s you?”
“I am the golden priestess of the sa-zi-ga.”
“Congratulations.” He nodded the way you do when humoring someone gone bughouse.
“I realize my dull strawberry blond curls may not look so golden at this moment. I’m overdue for a highlighting.”
“Tell me something. Just what does this crap have to do with your friend’s suicide?”
Time for the hard sell. “Gwendolyn Applebee’s suicide note is not a suicide note at all. It is a beautifully written poem filled with metaphors that contain a covert message. A message written under the eyes of a killer she needed to deceive. And the secrets within it will lead us straight to her murderer.”
“Right. I saw that movie, too. Unfortunately, in the real world most people in a situation like that couldn’t even write their own name, much less compose some kind of mystery poem.”
“Gwendolyn Applebee wasn’t ‘most people.’ She could name every botanical species on the planet. She could read three ancient languages. Her articles were published in academic journals. She was an accomplished poet. And, oh, you should have seen her watercolors.”
“I’m sure they were lovely. Sorry about your friend, Ms. Oz. However —”
“Believe me, this poem is not just a poem. One line refers to a magician. Then there’s the garden of bells and a pearl. A crescent moon. Oh, yes, the loyal sentry. That’s me again. I am the sentry as well as the sa-zi-ga priestess.”
“Welcome to the land of Oz,” he murmured, no doubt thinking I wouldn’t hear it. He cleared his throat. “Ms. Oz…”
“It’s Dr. Oz, Detective.” Reaching into my purse I handed him my business card. “With all due respect, I am a psychologist, and while Gwendolyn Applebee may have been a complicated woman, she was notsuicidal.” I didn’t like being ridiculed, and the edge in my voice showed it.
He responded in kind. “I don’t care whether you’re Dr. Oz or the wizard himself. Unless you can come up with some earthshaking details, no way are we going to pursue this case any further.”
And to think I considered giving him a tube of Do-Me-Good personal lubricant as a thank-you gift for reactivating Gwen’s case.
Detective Roach casually glanced down at my card. “Sex therapist?”
“That is correct. And that is what the sa-zi-ga is all about. It’s an ancient form of sex therapy that was practiced about four thousand years ago. Remedies for helping men maintain their erections, increasing their ability to pleasure a woman, all sorts of things.”
He broke into a demented grin.
“Do you find this funny, Detective? You think there weren’t premature ejaculators in the days of the pyramids?”
He sat there speechless, his mouth hanging open like a hound dog’s on a hot day. His eyes panned left to right, checking out his colleagues at the surrounding desks. Leaning forward on his elbows, he lowered his voice. “So you’ve actually got patients who are men?”
“Of course.”
“Tell me something.” Detective Roach paused and flicked a glance at my legs and back up to my face. “If a certain man was to make an appointment with you…would this man, uh…you know…would he…”
“Would he what?”
“Get some?”
Oh, what I’d do right now for a can of Raid.
***
By the time I made it back to DUMBO I was still fuming over Detective Roach. I did my best to think happy thoughts while passing through the lobby of my new address. I didn’t feel like advertising my emotional state to my neighbors, even though looking pissed off and ready to kill is considered perfectly acceptable in New York City.
I entered the marble high-ceilinged foyer where Caspian, the concierge, manned his station. Our converted luxury loft had originally been one of several turn-of-the-century warehouses built by an ambitious industrialist. Such businessmen gave birth to Brooklyn’s commercial waterfront. Men like paper mogul, Robert Gair. He owned so many buildings here they once called this neighborhood Gair City. He also invented the corrugated box. Thanks to him our pizza gets delivered to us still hot and with that delightful cardboard taste.
On the sixth floor I opened the door to the loft and saw my sixty-nine-year-old Aunt Lana strutting around in her favorite state—butt naked and smiling in ecstasy. Seeing her classic “before” figure gave me impetus to put in that extra mile on the treadmill. Yep, same genes. My mother’s oldest sister. Unlike Detective Roach, she took the dirty out of au naturale. Still, I quickly pulled the door shut behind me. Wouldn’t want the neighbor’s kids to catch another glimpse of her in the nude. Three times was enough.
The bright, uncluttered living room area was flooded with waves of patchouli incense and audio bliss. After twenty years she was still into Kitaro. Aunt Lana knelt in the center of the room beside a small potted plant, studying its leaves. “I’m communing with this begonia. It’s not doing well. I tried rocking it in my arms, but it doesn’t want to be held.”
For most people, New York’s intense pace, competition and high cost of living created an overwhelming sense of urgency that made day-to-day friendliness and sanity a prized commodity. But Lana lived in a time-warp of harmony and balance—made possible by the joint I noticed in the ashtray and the fact that her late husband had been an ad agency kingpin who died leaving her about forty million dollars.
Since Aunt Lana now lived year-round at her house in East Hampton, she’d offered us a discounted rental on her DUMBO condo. Her only request was that she be allowed to make overnight stays. Consequently, the futon bench in my office. Not a problem. Who could refuse such a super deal? After our apartment in Williamsburg was ransacked, Benita and I agreed it had rotten security and negative energies.
Did the two of us actually earn enough to live in a cushy doorman building in a two-thousand-square-foot corner loft with two bedrooms, two baths, an office and floor to ceiling windows? Maybe, if it were in Allentown, Pennsylvania. But not in New York City where idiots like me pay five times the national average.
Warm hug. Big kiss. “Lana, I don’t see Uncle Pete.”
“I closed him inside Benita’s room. This begonia is in a delicate state, and Petey was making his usual offensive remarks.”
Crossing to Benita’s door, I opened it a crack and was greeted with the latest one-liner from her pet mynah bird. “Fuckin’ bitch pussy! Fuckin’ bitch pussy!” This addition to his vocabulary arrived courtesy of those refined gentlemen who robbed our last apartment.
Don’t thieves ever just plain whistle while they work? That isn’t to say that what Uncle Pete picked up listening to my roommate and me was Shakespeare. He just had a flair for dialogue that came straight from the crotch.
I dropped a handful of food pellets into his cage and stroked my fingers along his shiny black feathers, repeating the irresistible line, “I’m a pretty bird.” Ever the optimist, that’s me. I closed the door behind me.
“You’re so tense,” Lana said, studying me. Silver-streaked auburn hair tumbled to her waist, tan sloping shoulders peeking through. “Still grieving over your friend.”
“You want the truth? I think Gwen was murdered. And no one believes me. I just spent forty minutes with a cop who practically came out and called me a nutjob.”
“Don’t let that bother you, sweetie. Lots of people call me that. Take off your clothes and relax. I’ll make some tea, and you can tell me all about it.”
I knew those words meant I was about to have a therapy session with the woman who’d sparked my interest in psychology. Hippie, Earth Mother and Esalen devotee, Dr. Lana Klein was an endangered species. She still had a small private practice of clients who stayed amazingly loyal. In fact, she mainly came into the city to give her Love Your Body, Love Your Self workshops. Friday evening I’d be assisting.
It didn’t take much to get me talking, crying and ranting. Lana had always been my favorite shoulder to weep on. When I was growing up, my preoccupied and emotionally unavailable father never had a clue, and my mother usually got so hysterical I’d pretend to be fine just to calm her down.
My parents used to run The Foam Barn in White Plains. Foam cut while you wait. Cushions. Mattresses. Open Wednesdays and Fridays till nine. Financing available. I worked the register after school when I wasn’t babysitting my younger brother, Steven. To this day he can’t sleep without his egg crate mattress pad. I always envied Marilyn Gorman, whose dad was the local beverage distributor and brought home tons of orange and cherry soda. Meanwhile, my dad made sure I had all the foam a girl could ever dream of. Then again, Marilyn never had an insider’s view on the rise and fall of the Nerf ball.
During my high school years, Aunt Lana’s apartment in the Village became the place where I escaped. She took me to the Guggenheim and Lincoln Center, introduced me to Indian food, cappuccino and Jung. She showed me a world filled with people who didn’t all look, think or act the same. This afternoon she didn’t laugh or criticize or tell me not to be angry. And she offered me more than comfort. When we finished she suggested I hire a private detective and send her the bill.
***
After Lana left to have dinner with her latest boyfriend, I checked the phone I kept on the oak night table in my bedroom so it didn’t interfere with my clients’ sessions. It was my official, more public phone. A trusty landline relic with old school voice mail.
One flashing light. I hit the PLAY button. Who else? Walsh Plunkett. This marked his fourth call. Mr. Plunkett was the squeamish type when it came to actually scheduling his first appointment. Never met the gentleman, but on the phone he sounded rigid. There was a tightness in his voice, possibly indicative of a sexually repressive parent. I’d already given him all the assurance I could. There simply wasn’t anything left to say.
“Doctor Oz, I enjoyed our conversation on Monday. I would like to take you out for lunch. Just to talk some more. Please call me at 908-333-2378.”
Was he pulling the old sneakaroo? Conservative middle-aged man in need of sex therapy but too ashamed to sign up. Or did he want to fulfill the “score with a younger woman who’s a sex expert” fantasy? Maybe he got the wrong impression from my website. Think I’ll invite him to my next Do-Me-Good sex toy party and evaluate him safely in a crowd of twenty people.
While I jotted down his number, my phone rang. Caller ID broke the news. “Hi, Mom.”
Silence. Great. Whenever my mother started with a long pause, it meant she was composing herself before opening fire. “Saylor, I just got off the phone with your cousin Naomi. She saw you on one of those dirty cable shows. A program called Sex 4 Real. How could you?”
“Mom, it was a documentary.”
“Your cousin was too embarrassed to describe what she saw.”
Naomi? Right. A closet porn star. “It was about a retreat for couples with intimacy problems. Strictly educational.”
“Whoever heard of a sex therapist? I still don’t get it. My daughter, the smut peddler.”
Time to change subjects. I wasn’t about to worry her with my latest theory on Gwen or tell her about our adventure on Plymouth Street. And I didn’t dare suggest she listen to the Kahuna Derrick Maui Sunrise Relaxation CD that I gave her. Hmm. Maybe the weather. “It must be awfully hot in Miami now. Why don’t you come up to East Hampton and stay in Aunt Lana’s guest suite? She’s always inviting you. She’ll be in town for—”
“I didn’t call long-distance to blab about my big sister. That kook. I blame her for ruining you. I had such hopes. You could have been a respectable doctor. Straight A student, graduated at the top of your class.”
“Mom, I—”
“Why didn’t you become a cardiologist? Or even a dermatologist like Felice Resnick’s daughter. She gives her mother free collagen injections. My daughter gives me heartburn.”
“There’s my call-waiting.” Saved. “Might be a client. I’ll buzz you later this weekend.”
It was Ti-Jean, a Haitian artist I’d met through Gwen. He was one of her neighbors in Red Hook. Ti-Jean made plaster casts of people’s belly buttons. He and I dated about a year ago. After four months, I thought we might actually be getting serious, until he told me our long, heartfelt discussions gave him the courage to admit he preferred men. Oh well. At least I can say my tummy was a hit at the Venice Biennale.
“You hear anything from Gwen’s brother about who might be moving into her old place?” he asked. Darryl Applebee was a friend of the building’s owner.
“I had no idea it was even rented yet.”
“For the past two nights I’ve seen carpenters working over there. At least I hope that’s who they are. Hate to think they could be the new tenants. Look like a bunch of macho lumberjacks. Scary looking. Straight out of Deliverance.”
Lumberjacks? That was all I needed to hear. My detective cap was on.
As soon as I hung up, I flipped through my Rolodex on the night table. My eyes locked onto a card next to Darryl Applebee’s—Gwen and Rob, 718-555-2791. A wave of sadness swept over me. Three years ago Gwen and her rock musician lover had moved into a giant warehouse in Red Hook, one of Brooklyn’s oldest waterfront neighborhoods, south of DUMBO and much bigger. When Rob walked out on her four months later, taking his band to Berlin, Gwen turned more and more to Benita and me, and the three of us started hanging together once again.
I called Darryl. No answer, so I left an urgent message for him to get back to me pronto. In the meantime I decided to have another look at Gwen’s so-called suicide note.
Something was definitely off here.
THREE
Being a vegetarian, pasta was one of my staples. I emptied a pack of linguine into boiling water and dumped a jar of marinara into a saucepan. A portable Sony TV sat on the kitchen counter. I turned it on so I wouldn’t wander off and burn the sauce. All too often smoke detectors acted as my kitchen timers.
“¿Que pasa?” Benita walked in wearing a sheath of soft turquoise. She looked more like she’d just stepped out of a Bloomingdale’s catalog than the York Street subway stop. Even after six rounds in the ring, she could go from gym rat to fashion model in a New York second. A talent I wish I had. She set her briefcase on the kitchen island and climbed onto a wooden stool.
I slid her a Pellegrino and leaned against the counter in my grubby shorts. “Forgive me for not asking how your day went. I’m in the middle of processing my anger.”
“In other words, you’re halfway through the Eskimo bars.”
“Not there yet.”
�
�Just save me a few.”
“The policeman I met with didn’t even blink at the information I gave him.”
Benita shook her head. “I told you the cops would blow you off. Where I grew up they’d shoot you thirty times just for going for your pocket comb. You think they want to start all over on a closed case involving some unemployed academic? You ought to watch Law And Order, then you’d understand these things.”
“But I’m certain Gwen was murdered,” I said, draining the pasta. “I can feel her spirit is not at rest. At this very moment she’s probably wandering the streets of Red Hook, singing a heartrending lament.”
“I hope you didn’t say that down at the precinct.”
I was about to bring up Ti-Jean’s phone call, but my roommate was no longer listening. She was glaring at the TV, watching her ex-husband describe a blast of much needed Canadian cool sweeping into the tristate area.
“And by the middle of the week we can say farewell to the muggies.”
Voted New York’s favorite weatherman, Fippy did look damn good standing there all proper and shiny with his radiant smile and just enough pinch in the brows to convey that professorial side all meteorologists pretend to have when pointing out frontal systems on the Doppler.
She grabbed the remote and switched off the TV. “I’m in no mood for Mr. Weintraub’s phony cheer.”
Back when Benita had completed her master’s in business, she’d landed a job at a major television network, where she met Phillip “Fippy” Weintraub, then a budding weatherman wannabe. They married while Gwen and I were still at Columbia University working on our doctorates— hers in archaeobotany, mine in psychology. My thesis was titled “The Unconscious Response To Sexual Objectification and Inferiority In The Female Organism.” In other words, do women with small breasts feel threatened when shopping for melons at the supermarket? Anyway, a year ago Benita’s marriage fell apart. Fippy had trouble controlling his addiction to breaking in the station’s twenty-one-year-old interns. Upon my advice, she’d refrained from using her boxing skills on his perfectly sculpted chin, and instead she took a new job as a financial analyst for a midtown securities firm, opted for a hefty alimony rather than their co-op apartment in Murray Hill, and moved in with me.
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