A stocky red-haired woman came into the room, holding scissors and smelling of fresh rosemary and something roasting. Potatoes, maybe? And chicken?
“Ah, you must meet Mary,” Helen told us with another toss of her head. “My reason for living.”
“Oh, hell,” said Mary, her skin pinkening beneath freckles. “Music is your reason for living.”
They laughed in unison and Huzza howled in agreement.
“Has Helen told you she’s the lead cellist with the San Ricardo Symphony Orchestra?” Mary asked then.
We both shook our heads. I felt a twinge of guilt. I was far too ignorant of the music world thrumming around us. I didn’t even know San Ricardo had a symphony orchestra.
“And that she’s the director of the Zantano Music Workshop in—”
“Enough, enough!” Helen cried dramatically, but I could see the happy squint in her eyes underneath her thick glasses as Mary went back to the kitchen.
“Mary writes romances,” Helen whispered once her reason for living had left the room. “She makes a lot of money doing it too, but she won’t talk about it.” She winked largely. “Sam wrote romances too, before he made it in the human potential movement. But he wouldn’t talk about it either. Would you believe I was married to a man who wrote romance novels for a living, and now I’m married to a woman who writes the same kind of books for a living?”
“Romances?” was all I could say.
I guess Wayne was stunned too. I hadn’t heard a word from him since we’d been swallowed up by the red velvet couch.
“Sam was into every New Age movement that came around the sacred peak. For years,” Helen continued cheerily. Maybe she was used to stunning her guests. “TM, Ram Dass, Open Encounter, est. But he was always a bridesmaid, never a bride. He ‘assisted.’ He wrote pamphlets. He even ghosted biographies for some of the biggies. But he never really got his career off the rocks until Sally died. So he wrote romances for the money.”
“Sally—” I began.
“Oh, all that stuff about Sally,” Helen admonished, lowering her head and rolling her eyes over the rims of her glasses. “Sam never hit me. He wouldn’t have dared. But Sally! Jesus, that woman was mean. Always swinging her fists at him. That doesn’t really excuse Sam’s swinging back, but hell, what do you expect? ‘Course, it served Sam right. He married Sally for her money. Her inherited money. Sally sparred with her previous husband regularly, but he was some twenty years older than Sally, and in a wheelchair. He certainly died conveniently enough. But Sam, Sam was a lot bigger than Sally. He could have restrained her without hitting back.”
“Did Sam—” I began again.
“Push Sally over the balcony?” Helen finished for me. She furrowed her elegant brow. “I was never sure. But he did really grieve for her. He even went to a grief therapist.”
She bent forward, winking once more. Huzza bent forward too, for the punch line. “A grief therapist who used puppets to express grief.”
“Grief into growth?” I whispered.
“Got it in one,” she replied and leaned back again. “When Sam got the idea, he ran with it. He stole some of his shtick from his grief therapist, with a little from Tony Robbins, a little from John Bradshaw, and a little from Richard Bandler. Not to mention Werner Erhardt. Then he stirred it all together, wrote Grief Into Growth, and became the Skyler Institute. Finally, he was in the spotlight.”
She paused and sighed. Huzza put a paw on her knee.
“I liked him better when he was hostile. He used to carry a chip around on his shoulder the size of my cello. When we first met I asked him if his cologne was Eau Contraire.”
She laughed then. I joined in along with Huzza, who emitted a brief hoot in appreciation of the pun.
“See, the poor guy was the son of a failed evangelist,” Helen added, more seriously now. “That man beat Sam every day of his life. And kept his wife, Irene, beat down too. Irene completely neglected Sam. And Sam loved her so. Sam was so damn Oedipal, it hurt. Poor kid had no one to love him back. I always think that’s why he craves attention so much. ‘Course, Nathan could tell you more about Sam’s psychology than I could. But Sam’s an adoration junkie now, that’s for sure.” She put her face into her hands. “Damn, I mean he was. It’s so hard to believe he’s dead. Sam Skyler, his own Institute.”
I saw tears leaking from beneath her glasses.
“You liked him, didn’t you?” I asked, stunned once more.
“Couldn’t help it. The man was so damned needy.” She pulled out a handkerchief and blotted her eyes.
Wayne made throat-clearing noises and stood up. I stood up with him. It wasn’t easy. The red velvet couch was eating me alive. I just hoped it had taken the biggest bites from my thighs.
“Sorry,” Helen mumbled, standing too. She gave us a halfhearted grin. “Bad ‘heir’ day. I found out I wasn’t in the will.”
Then she showed us out.
“Come back if you have any more questions,” she said as she closed the door behind us.
Moments later, we heard the sound of her cello. And Huzza begin to howl.
Our ride home in the Jaguar was brief. And quiet. I was lost in the life of an abused kid who was so needy that he built an empire. And was murdered. Was he murdered for his empire?
It was dark when we shuffled up the front stairs. Neither Wayne nor I noticed the slender figure waiting for us, sitting silently on a porch chair.
It wasn’t until she rose gracefully from that chair, the sudden sight of her goosing my feet into an impromptu hop and my heart into extended gymnastics, that I recognized Diana Atherton. My pulse was still thumping in time when she spoke.
“Gary and I have thought it over,” she whispered in place of a greeting, her saucer blue eyes wide under the porch light. “We think you should stop investigating.”
- Fourteen -
“Are you serious?” I asked, still shaken by Diana’s unexpected ghostly appearance under the porch light.
It was a stupid question really. Diana was always serious. If not serious, then earnest at the very least.
“Um…yes,” she answered, tilting her head, her hands folded neatly in front of her.
“But why do you want us to stop investigating?” I demanded. Now that my pulse was getting back to normal, my mind was too. I wanted to throttle her.
“Because it’s causing everyone so much pain—”
“Who’s everyone?” I cut in impatiently.
“Oh…” Her eyes widened again and she turned away from me, her long black braid whipping along behind her. I had a feeling we were in for the crying routine.
We were.
“Because…” She gulped back a sob. Loudly. “Because my dreams are my own, and Gary says if it is a murder, it could be very dangerous. And…and—”
Her own sobs brought her to a choking stop. Then she really began to cry, alternating long, gulping sobs with piercing wails. Tantric yoga definitely does something for the lungs, I decided, putting my hands over my ears.
I turned to Wayne. His eyes were invisible in the weak light. Especially with his brows at half mast. But at least he wasn’t rushing forward to comfort her. Or to invite her into the house.
“You want us to quit investigating?” Wayne asked again once Diana’s sobs and wails had tapered off into sniffling. I thought I caught the tang of anger in his low, quiet tone.
She turned back to face us, looking waiflike under the light.
“Uh-huh,” she whispered finally.
“Need to talk to a few more people tomorrow at the memorial service,” he warned her.
All right, Wayne! My inner cheerleader did a few twirls and kicked out her legs as Diana shrugged and lowered her head. If I’d had a puppet, I would have wiggled it.
I crossed my arms instead, just in case Diana stooped to make a request of me personally to stop investigating. I wasn’t going to agree to stop looking into Sam Skyler’s death now. It wasn’t about Diana anymore. It was about Sam
.
C.C. came out onto the deck and stared at Diana through slitted eyes. Without a sound.
That made three of us.
“Well…um…” Diana tried. She peered into Wayne’s eyes, then mine, her own eyes scrunched up as if she’d been physically beaten. Then she just shook her head sadly and walked past us and back down the stairs, her long black braid flapping against her erect spine.
Long after she’d driven off, and Wayne and I were tucked into bed, I began to feel guilty. I remembered Diana’s hurt look before she left us. Talk about your whipped dog. And if I felt guilty, I could bet that Wayne—
I turned to look. He lay with his eyes wide open, staring up into the skylight. But I’d have bet he wasn’t seeing the sky.
I moved closer to him and put my head on his chest.
“Hold me?” I suggested. And he did.
*
Wednesday was Sam Skyler’s memorial service. I got up at six and worked on Jest Gifts until ten. Then Wayne and I got ready for the services. We hadn’t discussed Diana’s request to stop investigating. That would have opened a can of worms that could wriggle across the Golden Gate Bridge. We’d told each other we were too tired the night before. And too busy the next morning. So I ran scenarios through my head solo as I paid bills and checked invoices, assuming Wayne was doing the same as he worked. And I waited for him to bring it up. He still hadn’t by the time we drove up to the Skyler Institute For Essential Manifestation where the memorial service was to be held. The reception would come later, at Skyler’s home, farther up the road in Golden Valley.
I was surprised there was still any room for my Toyota in the mammoth parking lot at the Institute. Even though the event hadn’t been publicly announced, the lot was almost full, and there were rented buses at the gates, for what purpose I wasn’t sure. The building was still three stories of rounded redwood, but it looked a little less like a spaceship this time since it was surrounded by people and vehicles in motion. Lots of people and vehicles in motion.
My friend Barbara made her way through the crowd to meet us as we joined the line of people snaking in through the doors. Almost as if she’d known we’d be arriving at that very instant. She probably had.
“Felix is here,” she whispered as she gave me a hug. Then she got in line behind me, in front of Wayne. A man with knitted puppets on his fingers and tears in his eyes took his place behind Wayne.
“Any murderer vibes?” I whispered to Barbara over my shoulder.
“Not yet,” she answered, “but the woman at the door— Jeez Louise, I wouldn’t want to share a mind with her for very long. Not even a room.” She made a fairly subtle gagging motion and then turned to hug Wayne.
The woman at the door was, of course, Martina Monteil. I should have guessed after the gagging routine. Martina greeted each of us with a special word and a well-practiced wistful look on her model’s face. She was flanked by two guards, the one we had met before and a new, scarier-looking one.
“Fantastic,” she murmured as she shook my hand.
I had no idea what she meant.
“Monumental,” she told Barbara.
I never did hear what she said to Wayne.
Two Alicia look-alikes were herding everyone down the plushly carpeted hallway into a room at the end. How were all of us going to fit?
I shouldn’t have worried. The room was an auditorium the size of a stadium. Or as near to the size of a stadium as it could be and still remain tasteful. And tasteful it was, right down to the three-story vaulted ceilings, shimmering skylights, beige walls, and teal multitiered seats. Seats that were close to full.
Felix had saved a few for us near the front. Wayne wasted no time, plopping down next to Felix and making rumbling noises in his direction. Felix started wriggling in his seat as he hissed back. The two of them sounded like my stomach on a bad day.
I was too busy scanning the crowd to even try to eavesdrop as they argued. It was easy to spot Diana’s long black braid in the front row. I assumed Liz and Gary Atherton were the two heads to her left. And I was pretty sure I saw Nathan’s furry head on her right. And next to him, the woman with her hair in a knot at the back of her neck had to be Helen Skyler. I couldn’t identify the French roll next to her, though. And I wouldn’t have been able to spot Chief Woolsey and Officer Fox if they hadn’t turned to glare behind them. Of course, that black ponytail behind them had to be Yasuda. And seated right beside him, an aurora of curly blond hair—was that Yvonne O’Reilley? Yep, I decided as she began waving her hands. Did she just happen to sit there or—
Sound issuing forth from loudspeakers shook the room.
“Grief into growth,” came a voice, Sam Skyler’s voice.
And then the puppeteers joined in.
Damn, it was cold all of a sudden. I shivered in my seat.
Even Wayne and Felix settled down as the loudspeakers continued the litany. I went back to my eyeball search of the crowd, easily finding Emma Jett’s oddly divided red hairdo next to Campbell’s conservative cut. And an upswept mass of gray curls that had to be Tessa’s next to Ray’s smoother gray hair.
Quite a turnout for a Wednesday morning mourning, I thought, and saw Ona and Perry slinking in, with guilty expressions. Guilty for attending a funeral of a man they didn’t care for? Or was it the sound of “control into cooperation” on the loudspeakers? Or just that they were late?
Suddenly, the lights dimmed and the loudspeakers went silent. As did the crowd.
Then Martina Monteil entered the room, lights shining around her, brighter and brighter, as she climbed to the podium at the front, back straight, her arms spread wide as if to envelop the whole room.
“Sam Skyler was a monumental man,” she said. And suddenly I understood her words at the door. Each was an homage to Sam. Her voice deepened and the crowd leaned forward en masse. She swayed slightly. “He was an empowered man, a passionate man.” She paused and brought her hand out from her heart. “How shall we grieve for his passing?”
“GRIEF INTO GROWTH!” the crowd bellowed.
I might not have joined in the chanting, but I was mesmerized as much as anyone else by Martina’s performance. And a performance it was, right up to the presentation of a plaque made from Sam’s ashes (and other organic ingredients). And after.
“And we will continue as Sam would have wished,” Martina finished up. “We will be unstoppable!”
“Yes!” the puppeteers agreed in unison.
Then she leaned forward and held out the plaque to the whole room. It was a home run. The crowd roared. The puppets rippled.
And then the lights dimmed once again as Martina Monteil disappeared. With the plaque.
I saw Sky-Guy and the man from Growth Imperatives, Unlimited on the way out of the Institute. Luckily, neither man seemed to see me in the crowd that surged out the doors and hurried toward their cars to follow the blacktop road up the next couple of rolling miles to Sam Skyler’s home.
I saw the reason for the hurry when we got there. Sam’s home had a parking lot too, but not as big as the Institute’s. Lots of people had opted to leave their cars at the Institute and ride in the rented buses I’d noticed before. But I hadn’t even thought to ask about the function of the buses, so Wayne and I, along with half of the rest of Marin, drove to Sam Skyler’s. I ended up parking in the first legal space I could find, nearly a mile away.
As Wayne and I huffed and puffed back up the long, winding road, past all the illegally parked cars between my Toyota and Sam’s driveway, I couldn’t help hoping the Golden Valley Police Department had been informed. They could probably make their year’s revenue in parking tickets this afternoon alone.
The exterior of the house looked a lot like the Institute, a slimmer version of the redwood spaceship, complete with the glass and brass and skylights and solar collectors and oddly shaped projections.
But inside it was different. Very different.
Once Wayne and I muscled our way through the crowd outside, p
ast the front door and into the living room, we both looked up. And up. Sam’s living room was a cathedral. Golden light streamed down from a ceiling at least four stories high, illuminating the candelabra, the velvet and gilt furnishings, the rows of bookshelves filled with leather-bound books, and the grand piano. Not to mention the gilt-framed works of art work on the walls. And I mean Art with a capital A. The horde of humans crowding in hardly seemed to put a dent in the room. Vertically that is. Horizontally, it was getting hard to breathe in there.
Nathan and Diana stood together near the door, forming an impromptu receiving line. At least it looked as if neither of them had planned any such thing. Both seemed dazed as people shook their hands and offered condolences. Wayne and I moved toward them, propelled by the crowd. Diana pulled out a little bottle of oil and rubbed her hands during a lull. I could smell the scent of honeysuckle floating on the air.
Martina stood a few feet away, momentarily ignored. There was a chilly expression of anger on her face as she looked over at Diana and Nathan. But then a woman with puppets on her hands approached Martina and bowed. If there had been more room, I’m sure the woman would have prostrated herself. Martina’s beautiful face took on a look of solemn concern. And then she was lost in a swarm of puppeteers.
“Hello there, Kate,” someone whispered in my ear and I twisted my head far enough around to see Tessa, her small frame as upright as ever, though I could smell a faint whiff of alcohol on her breath.
I couldn’t blame her. This must have been a real busman’s holiday for her. But at least she didn’t have to direct Sam’s memorial.
“How’re you doing?” I greeted her back, but before I got any further, my attention was diverted by a mourner I hadn’t seen before. The woman who stepped up next to Nathan with a smile on her face was probably in her seventies. But her bouffant hair, done up in a French roll, was jet black with tendrils of curls softening her wrinkled forehead, and her skirt was at least six inches above her knees. She had great legs.
A Cry for Self-Help (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Page 15
