Sleuthing Women

by Lois Winston

  “What did you say?” She’d blind-sided me with that remark and I didn’t have time to cover my shock.

  Her eyes widened and she flushed with embarrassment as she touched my arm. “Oh god, I never should have said that, Maggie. What was I thinking? You won’t use it in your feature, will you?” She rubbed a hand over her eyes for a moment and blinked several times, struggling to compose herself. “The stress of this book tour is really getting to me, I guess. Twelve cities in fifteen days. And as you can see, the turnout has been less than stellar. My publicist was supposed to get me signings in fabulous bookstores like City Lights in San Francisco and The Strand in Manhattan. I never thought I’d end up in this burg!”

  “It sounds pretty grueling,” I agreed.

  She grabbed my arm. “Please say you won’t use my awful comment about Sanjay. My readers would be horrified to think I could say something so cruel and mean-spirited.”

  So she was thinking about sales, interesting. Maybe she was more like the Guru than she wanted to admit.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t use it,” I said slowly. “Now tell me about your book.” I whipped out a small notebook and nodded encouragingly. I figured I’d get her talking about her latest self-help tome and then gradually move into her history with Sanjay. Talking about herself would be a good way to get the conversational ball rolling.

  I listened while she described her latest inspirational book and how she’d integrated solid psychological concepts with real case histories to make the material come alive. None of it seemed exciting or compelling and I wondered if she longed for the days when she and Sanjay wrote books together. Books with legs, as they say in the industry, books that fly off the shelves, sky-rocket to success and make all the best-seller lists.

  Who wouldn’t long for that? And how angry she must have been when her dreams fell apart and her career took a downward spiral.

  I asked a few perfunctory questions about her publishing history, wondering how I could encourage her to talk about Sanjay when she surprised me by mentioning his name.

  “I divide my books into BS and AS,” she said cryptically. A wry smile flitted across her sharp features and her face flushed with amusement.

  BS and AS. I was blank for a moment and then grinned. “BS and AS. Got it!” I exclaimed. “Before Sanjay and after Sanjay.” She visibly relaxed, enjoying her own joke and I waited a beat before adding, “All the books you co-wrote with Sanjay are still in print, aren’t they?”

  She frowned and pivoted in her chair to grab a hardcover book from a nearby shelf. “They’re all doing well, still hitting the best-seller lists,” she said ruefully. “I hate to admit it, but the numbers are much better than the numbers I’m getting on my own. And look at the covers! I’m afraid this says it all, it’s beyond insulting!” She held up a copy of Healing Hearts, co-written with Sanjay Ginjii.

  She tapped the glossy cover with a long-magenta colored fingernail, and her chin jutted forward, the muscles in her jaw tightening. Something in her expression made me go cold inside.

  “Healing Hearts,” I said mildly. “I remember this one, I read it when it first came out. In fact, I used it in one of my couples’ counseling groups. This is the first book you wrote with Sanjay, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve done your homework.” She looked pleased and then her face clouded, her dark eyes turning stony. “ But as you can see, they’ve repackaged it. It’s the same book but they gave it a completely different cover and a new design.”

  “Ah, “ I said, wondering where she was going with this. “Still the same title...”

  “Yes, but look at our names!” she prodded. “It’s simply outrageous.” She arched an eyebrow and her lips thinned, giving her a strangely predatory look. “It certainly shows who’s the top dog, doesn’t it?” She leaned toward me, her voice sliced with bitterness and I found myself drawing back in my seat.

  I glanced at the book. Sanjay’s name was plastered across the cover in giant letters, taking up the top half of the book. The title was in the middle. And Lenore’s name was tucked way down low at the bottom, in tiny letters. It was as though she was an after-thought, like a ghostwriter. It must have been irksome for her, to say the least. “They seem to have put your name in the smallest font possible,” I said sympathetically.

  “That’s an understatement,” she snapped. “If my name were any smaller, it would be on the inside of the book!” She turned the book face down on the table as if she couldn’t bear the sight of it.

  “And your agent can’t do anything about it, I suppose?” I was eager to keep her talking, hoping her anger at Sanjay might cause her to slip up and reveal something I could use.

  “Nothing. The man is useless. Sanjay kept my original agent when we parted company.” She snorted. “Along with a big chunk of my corporation. He might as well have rolled a Brink’s truck upright up to my bank account and emptied it. He took two of the houses and three of the cars.” Her right eye twitched, a nervous tic, I decided. “And a large portion of my career and following. I’ve never re-gained the momentum I had in the old days.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Now that Sanjay was gone, I wondered what would happen to the royalties on those earlier books. Would they revert to Lenore, or would they become part of the Sanjay Ginjii estate? I couldn’t think of any diplomatic way to ask her, so instead I said, “Is Lakeville the first stop on the Florida section of your book tour?”

  “Oh heavens no,” she said carelessly. “I was in a department store in Boca earlier in the week and a big chain bookstore in Palm Beach yesterday. Of course, none of it really mattered, because I didn’t get any good crowds. I didn’t sell a single book in Boca. An old lady came up at the book signing to me asked me where the ladies’ room was.” She snorted derisively. “I suppose the publisher won’t make the mistake of sending me on a book tour again.”

  So Lenore was in the area the night Sanjay was killed. Could she have slipped up the stairs at the Seabreeze to confront him and had the meeting turned deadly? It was certainly a possibility. For the time, I wondered if Sanjay’s death would breathe new life into her stalled career. Maybe she could even write a tell-all book about life with the Guru, who knew?

  We chatted about books and the self-help movement for another twenty minutes, and I told Lenore I would include her in a “self-help” weekend we were planning at the station. She seemed to accept my cover story and thanked me warmly for driving over to see her.

  I was saying my good-byes when her cell phone rang. She turned away from me to grab it and I immediately sensed that the call was important.

  “Sorry, I have to take this, it’s my agent,” she said excitedly hitting a button.

  “I’ll be in touch.” I started to gather up my things wondering but took my time, hoping I could hear a little of the conversation.

  “Oh really?” she said into the cell, her voice vibrating with excitement. For the moment, she sounded young and girlish. “I’m just amazed, this certainly changes everything. This is more than I could have hoped for. It’s a really good sign, don’t you think?” She suddenly noticed that I was dawdling and flashed me an irritated look.

  I gave her a cheery wave and quickly made my exit.

  So Lenore had just received some very good news, I decided on the drive back to Cypress Grove. The call had been from her agent so that meant it had something to do with her career.

  I had absolutely no proof, but I just knew that somehow or other, Lenore was going to profit big-time from Guru Sanjay’s death.

  TEN

  It was dusk when I pulled up in front of my townhouse, and I sat in the car for a moment with the windows wide open, enjoying the soft evening air scented with honeysuckle and roses.

  I reached into the glove box and added Lenore’s name into my notebook. I was keeping track of everyone I talked to–describing their relationship to Sanjay, why they might be involved with his death, and how they could profit from it. At the moment, all I had was a handful of n
ames and a few suspicious comments, probably not enough to interest Martino.

  My only hope of clearing Lark’s name was to connect the dots and point the cops in the direction of the real killer. I was chewing on the tip of my ballpoint, mulling over the possibilities when I spotted Ted Rollins striding purposefully into the Seabreeze Inn next door.

  “Ted!” I cried, bounding out of my car. I slammed the car door and hurried to catch up with him.

  He frowned, peering into the darkness, and then his face broke into a welcoming grin. “Maggie! Come in for a nightcap.” He gave me a quick hug, wrapped his arm around my waist and ushered me into the wide veranda of the Inn. His touch felt warm and comforting but as always, I marveled at the complete lack of chemistry between us.

  Hugging Ted is a lot like hugging Pugsley, except Ted smells like breath mints and Pugsley smells like liver snacks.

  “Are you busy with something? You don’t usually work in the evening.” Ted has an oceanfront condo and he makes it a point to leave everything to the Inn’s night staff once his workday is over.

  “Something came up tonight,” he said lightly. “That annoying detective–”

  “Martino?” I kept my voice level but my heart did a little flip-flop just the same.

  “That’s the one. He called me at home half an hour ago and asked me to save some audience evaluation forms from the conference. I figured I’d better find them and put them someplace safe before Housekeeping throws them out tomorrow. Martino’s coming by first thing in the morning to pick them up. I don’t feel like having him prowling around the hotel so I plan on leaving them at the front desk. With any luck, I won’t have to talk to him at all.”

  “Audience evaluation forms?” I was baffled. “Where did they come from? And why would Martino care about them in a murder investigation?”

  “Beats me. He seems to think they’re important, though. The conference organizer passed them out with the registration packets and then in all the confusion over the Guru’s death–” he shrugged–” no one ever thought to collect them. They’re probably still up in the Magnolia Ballroom.”

  He paused for a moment, gesturing to the cushy wicker gliders and rocking chairs on the wide-planked porch. It was a peaceful spot with baskets of lush ferns hanging from the rafters and porcelain pots of primroses artfully arranged between the graceful chairs and end tables. “Want to sit out here and have some wine? It’s a nice night.”

  “Sure.” I dropped gratefully into the glider while he hurried inside to get our drinks, my mind whirling with possibilities. So Martino was coming by the Seabreeze tomorrow morning–interesting! And I’d read in a WYME news report that there was going to be a sunrise memorial service for Sanjay, right before everyone headed back to South Beach.

  I’d have to make sure Cyrus agreed to let me cover it for the station. I wondered if I could find a way to interview a few more members of Team Sanjay at the memorial service. With any luck, Olivia would be there and I could find out if she really was next in line to be Sanjay’s assistant, or if this was just wishful thinking, as Miriam Dobosh had suggested.

  “Found them!” Ted said, breaking into my thoughts, waving a sheaf of papers. “I don’t think Martino’s going to find them very interesting, though. I only glanced at a few, but they seem to be positive. It looks like the audience really loved Sanjay.”

  “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 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 manning 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 refill on the 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 appeared and 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.” I didn’t tell him about the really nasty evaluation that was practically breathing sulfur into my pocket.

  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 if one of Ted’s many cats were 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 anonymous note in my pocket. 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 week-end 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 week-end marathons were probably big money-makers 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 you
r 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, going 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 food, no phone, no phonograph, 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 Ginjii Limited has deep pockets.”

  “Is Mrs. Sinclair she 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.

  ELEVEN

  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 blindingly clear day, the sky a glossy enamel blue with just a couple of fat clouds scudding across 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 over-size photo of Guru Sanjay, who looked twenty years younger, had a body like Mark Wahlberg and was photo-shopped down to his fluorescent white teeth. At least Sanjay had kept his veneers up, right till the end.