by Mary Kennedy
“We need to get over to the jailhouse right now,” Vera Mae said.
“Well, there’s no point in you two playing Thelma and Louise, because the fact is, she’s probably on her way home by now,” Big Jim huffed, taking his voice down a notch.
“What? She’s on her way home? You had us thinking she was on death row!” Vera Mae glared at him, her hands on her hips.
Big Jim shrugged. “They released her—but that’s just for now,” he added darkly. “She’s their number-one suspect, though. They’re probably biding their time, building a case. I tried to get a statement as she was getting into her car, and she darn near ran me over with that little foreign number of hers.”
He brushed at an imaginary piece of lint on his powder blue polyester jacket. “It could have been a case of vehicular homicide. She’s lucky I’m such a nice guy. Anybody else would’ve pressed charges.”
“Oh, vehicular homicide, my patootie,” Vera Mae exclaimed. “Is the girl all right? That’s all we want to know.”
“She seems to be,” he said, helping himself to the coffee, ignoring the “honor jar” filled with quarters. “She’s a feisty little thing, isn’t she? But stay tuned, folks,” he said, his good humor restored. “That girl’s in a heap of trouble.”
Chapter 6
I finally managed to catch up with Lark during a thirty-second commercial break on my show (“The Last Call Funeral Home! We’re dying to please you!”). She sounded tired and listless, as if all the energy had been sucked right out of her. She said she was going directly to bed, and I promised to pick up some of her favorite Chinese takeout for a late dinner together.
Veggie stir-fry for her, veggie lo mein for me, and a heart-healthy dumpling for Pugsley—steamed, not fried, no soy sauce, no MSG. It’s probably significant that the dog eats healthier food than we do, but this wasn’t the time to dwell on it.
This also wasn’t the right time for a heart-to-heart talk with Lark, I decided.
I needed to get through my shift and then do some investigating before getting the lowdown from her. If Detective Rafe Martino was determined to zero in on the wrong person, that was his business. I would outmaneuver him and outfox him every step of the way, and I knew exactly where I had to start.
It was a no-brainer.
I needed to scope out the place where the guru had met his untimely end, or his “transition” into the cosmos, as he would call it.
So that meant I needed to see Ted Rollins, general manager of the Seabreeze Inn.
“Maggie, good to see you!”
“You, too.” He pulled me into a gentlemanly hug and kissed me on the cheek.
Ted is the proverbial nice guy, the kind your mom and all your friends wish you would marry. He’s tall and ruggedly handsome, with sandy brown hair and a terrific smile. He was wearing a crisp white shirt with a wheat-colored blazer that set off his deep tan, along with some expensive-looking Italian loafers.
Ted has been asking me out ever since I moved to Cypress Grove, and I’ve always turned him down. What can I say? I always pick bad boys, the kind the nuns warned me about. You know, the guys who don’t call, trample on my heart, and wreak havoc with my emotions. And naturally I pursue them relentlessly, doomed to fail, like a salmon swimming upstream only to dash itself against those pesky rocks hidden underwater.
Which probably explains why I’m still single at thirty-two and Ted and I will never be more than good friends.
“Terrible news about the guru,” I murmured as Ted ushered me into the empty breakfast room off the lobby and poured coffee for us. I shot a sidelong glance at him. He was acting very calm and collected, as always. How much did he know?
It was a cheerful place with a high ceiling, blue chintz tablecloths, and a wide bay window that offered a dazzling view of the hotel gardens. The polished heart-pine floors were scattered with handmade yellow and blue braided rugs that gave it an upscale yet cozy feel.
I heard the chatter of cicadas and glanced outside as we sat down. It was early summer, and the garden was spectacular, a riot of blooms and color. Delicate yellow roses and day lilies vied for attention with flashy hibiscus and purple bougainvillea. A Casablanca fan swirled lazily in the breakfast room, and a faint scent of honeysuckle wafted in from an open window.
If I hadn’t been feeling so wired, it would have been a great place to relax.
Breakfast was served from seven to ten every morning, but Ted always keeps free coffee, juice, mineral water, and muffins available for the guests all day long. That’s just the kind of guy he is.
“It’s awful,” he said, pulling his chair close to me. “I still can’t believe it happened right upstairs,” he added, shaking his head. “I’ve been fielding questions from reporters all morning, and we’ve already had a few guests cancel their reservations.”
“Really?” I kept my tone neutral, but my pulse skittered.
“It’s very upsetting for them, you know. To think that someone died under suspicious circumstances, right here at the Seabreeze. I tried to reassure them, but what could I say? No one really knows what happened to Guru Sanjay. I guess they’re considering the possibility of foul play, but they’re not giving out much information. His team is going ahead with the conference, but they’re all pretty shell-shocked. They’re upstairs right now in the Magnolia Ballroom. A pretty good turnout.”
“Is that so? I’m surprised they didn’t just cancel it.” So Team Sanjay was still here. In the Magnolia Ballroom. That gave me an idea. I could start my investigation immediately.
“Miriam Dobosh—she seems to be in charge now—said it’s what the guru would have wanted. They’re going to head back to South Beach to arrange for the funeral right after the closing ceremony tomorrow morning. Of course, there’s always the possibility they’ll have to return to Cypress Grove for questioning. I guess it all depends on what the police decide to do. They haven’t even released the body yet.”
“I’m sure it’s very unsettling for everyone,” I said demurely, wondering how I could find out what else he knew. He’d mentioned suspicious circumstances and foul play. Was that an educated guess, or had he heard something? I needed to find out exactly what he knew—fast.
“Of course, he could have died from natural causes,” he said, breaking into my thoughts.
“Oh, absolutely.” I smiled brightly at him, hoping he would say more.
“I heard your interview with him yesterday,” he said, resting his hand lightly on mine. “You did an excellent job, as usual. It made me want to run out and buy his book, and I’m usually not into that self-help stuff.” He gave a little self-deprecating smile.
I nodded. Ted listens to my show every single day. Just like my mother, I thought wearily, and then realized that Freud would have a field day with that one.
“I’m not into all that cosmic stuff, either,” I admitted, slathering a blueberry muffin with honey butter. I’m into calories and cholesterol, I thought, resisting the urge to slide a cheese Danish onto my plate. And those tiny banana-nut minimuffins at the Seabreeze—they’re the best. I poured two Splendas into my coffee to even out the calorie count.
“I suppose it was very hard for you to get the news,” he went on. “You know, I’ve been worried about you, Maggie. I’m glad you stopped by today. I was going to call and see how you were doing.” (See what I mean? He’s not only kind and good-looking; he’s sensitive and worried about my feelings. Maybe I aminsane not to take our relationship to the next level!)
I nodded, trying to look properly somber. “It was certainly a shock.” I toyed with my teaspoon, wondering how to broach the subject. “Do the police have any leads?” I asked innocently.
“I’m not sure,” Ted said, his tone grave. “They were here late last night interviewing the staff, and the lead detective was back again this morning. He’s sort of an annoying guy,” he said, his face clouding.
“Really?” My heart rate bounced up a notch. Annoying, irritating, and impossibly sexy.
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“Yeah.” His blue eyes glinted and his smile was sardonic. “He came on pretty strong and tried to steamroll his way over everyone. I guess he was only doing his job, but I’m not looking forward to seeing him again. And I have the feeling he’ll be back.”
“Detective Martino?” I blurted out without thinking.
Ted looked surprised. “Yes, how did you know?”
“I think I may have heard his name mentioned at the station,” I said glibly, not wanting to explain the early-morning visit. “You know, Big Jim Wilcox usually covers the crime beat. But he was tied up this morning, and I think I saw Martino’s name on a news report Jim had filed.”
“Well, he certainly grilled Carmela, who was working the front desk last night.” Ted frowned. “She’s not completely fluent in English, and I think she was intimidated by him. If I’d been thinking straight, I would have insisted on having an interpreter there for her. He can be something of a bully, and I don’t appreciate him manhandling my staff.”
“He can have that effect on people.” I allowed myself a small, derisive snort.
“So you know him?”
“No, of course not. But that’s what I’ve heard. You know, around the station,” I said, backpedaling quickly as Ted’s eyebrows shot up. “So, what did she tell him?”
“He wouldn’t let anyone sit in on the interview,” Ted said morosely. “But I know that Carmela told him a young woman visited the guru in his room last night. Someone slim and blond who was carrying a big tote bag. I guess it was a purse, but Carmela said it was so big, she thought it might be an overnight bag.”
Lark and her yellow Coach bag! That clinched it. Lark was at the Seabreeze, but when? And why? She hadn’t paid a surprise visit to her idol, had she? My thoughts were scrambling like a gerbil on steroids. But Carmela must have been mistaken. Maybe Lark had just left a note for the guru at the front desk, I decided. There was no way she would go up to his room, was there?
“Did Carmela know the girl’s name?” I asked, trying to keep my voice bland.
“I don’t think so, but I know that Martino took down a description and Carmela said she’s seen her in the neighborhood. Very slim, shaggy short blond hair, about five-two. Funny, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say she could be Lark’s twin.”
Lark’s twin. My spirits sank like a stone, but I managed a wan smile. “Hey, wouldn’t that be something?” I said, joining in the fun. “Maybe Lark has a long-lost twin who has a thing for gurus, but I guess that only happens in detective novels.” I bit back a nervous laugh that ended in an embarrassing squeak.
“I guess,” Ted said, looking puzzled.
“So,” I said, clearing my throat, “it sounds like Martino may have a lead. But did anyone else visit the guru last night? Did Carmela mention any other suspects? I mean guests?” I corrected myself quickly.
“Carmela didn’t see anyone else.”
I glanced out into the lobby. “Yes, but someone could have slipped by the front desk if things were busy. See how easy it would be? All they had to do was follow that hallway toward the garden, and then they could take the back stairs and walk right up to his room.”
“I guess it’s possible.”
“Or maybe it was someone in the guru’s own party; you know, one of his staff members. He could have had some sort of confrontation with him, and maybe he accidentally killed him.” I paused, thinking it over. “I bet lots of people had access to his room. He was on the second floor, right?”
“How did you know that?”
“Well, he told me he hated elevators. He said he refused to use one. We were talking about claustrophobia during the commercial break yesterday, and I just couldn’t picture him hoofing it up several flights of stairs. So I figured he’d ask you for a room on the lowest floor.”
“Maggie Walsh, ace detective,” Ted teased me. “You know, you sound like you’re conducting a homicide investigation. For all I know, you could be working undercover as Martino’s partner.”
“No chance of that.”
He grinned and gave me a searching look while I busied myself pouring more coffee for us. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Maggie? You’re not here on assignment, are you? Covering the story for WYME?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” I rushed on. “It’s just that . . . well, you know, I interviewed Guru Sanjay, and I feel terrible that he died. Or was murdered. Right here. In this hotel.”
I felt my face flushing, and I could feel a trickle of flop sweat crawling down my spine. I knew I had said too much. Was Ted suspicious? My mental 8-Ball said: “Signs point to no.” He was slipping his arm around me, big-brother style.
“Hey, Maggie, honey, you can’t let this get to you.” He pulled me close to him for a moment, his voice warm with concern. “Just let the police do their job, and it will all come out right in the end, you’ll see. They’ll find out who killed Guru Sanjay.”
Manuel, the busboy, suddenly materialized next to us. “Señor Rollins,” he said softly. He pointed to the front desk, where Carmela was pantomiming that Ted had to take an important phone call.
“Oops, that’s a call from Corporate I’ve been expecting. I’ve got to skedaddle.” He smiled into my eyes before sliding back his chair and standing up. “I don’t want you worrying over this anymore, Maggie. The police will get to the bottom of it; they’re the professionals, you know.”
“I know.”
He playfully touched the end of my nose, his deeply tanned face breaking into a wide grin. “So I want you to promise me you won’t give it another thought.”
“I promise.” I fake-smiled back at him and for the first time in my life raised three fingers in the Girl Scout sign, even though the closest I’ve ever gotten to the world of Scouting is scarfing down an entire box of Samoas at one sitting.
Somehow I knew he would like the three-finger salute, though, and sure enough, he gave me a big thumbs-up. I made a show of leaning back and reaching for that luscious cheese Danish, the one that had been sitting on the plate all that time, calling my name. I did it just to show Ted how relaxed and worry free I was (even if mildly carbohydrate addicted and maybe even insulin resistant).
I watched Ted hurry over to the front desk and allowed myself a sad little sigh at the way his brown hair looped sex ily over one eye and his broad, muscular shoulders filled out his blazer. There he was: smart, handsome, successful, kind-hearted, and single. Cypress Grove’s most eligible bachelor, everything you could want in a man.
And he wanted—me!
There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for me. This is the guy who surprised me by ordering a special “Beefy Liver doggy birthday cake” for Pugsley from the Sweet Cakes bakery over on Main Street. He sent over the hotel gardener with a bouquet of yellow roses last week, and hand delivered a pot of chicken soup last month when Lark had the flu. He even power washed my deck when I said it was looking a little grungy.
Hell, he’d probably paint my bathroom if I asked him to. So what’s the problem? Okay, maybe I’m crazy. But here’s the hitch.
Call me shallow, but can you imagine having hot monkey sex with a guy who says things like “skedaddle”?
I rest my case.
Chapter 7
I waited until Ted disappeared into his office behind the front desk and watched while he shut the door behind him. There was one person who might hold the key to the puzzle.
Miriam Dobosh, right hand to the guru himself.
After taking another quick peek to make sure Ted’s office door was still firmly shut, I bounced to my feet and trotted along the back hallway to the stairs to the second floor and the Magnolia Ballroom. The double brass doors were closed, but I could hear the soft murmur of voices inside, along with some ethereal music. At least I think it was supposed to be ethereal. It sounded like whale sounds, a mournful elegy punctuated by a series of squeaks that reminded me of Pugsley’s squeeze toy.
Cautiously, I opened the door a crack, only to find myself
face-to-face with yet another of the Sopranos-type body-guards. He was a Goliath. I’m five-ten, and I had to crane my neck to look up at him.
“This is a closed workshop,” he rasped, all set to slam the door in my face like I was the Avon lady offering him a free lip gloss.
“But I’ve been invited!” I protested.
“Yeah?” His eyes slid over my short-sleeved salmon-colored Tommy Bahama blouse and tan pencil skirt. “If you’re a registered conference guest, go down to the front desk and pick up your name tag.” His tone was brusque and his black eyes glittered as cold and hard as river rocks.
“I’ve got a press pass,” I said quickly. I reached for my pass and found to my horror it was missing. Hoping for the best, I pulled out my laminated Cypress Grove Public Library card and waved it at him. A beat of tense silence fell between us.
He ignored the card, so I shoved it back in my bag. Either he doesn’t read a lot or he was on to me.
“Look, I’m with WYME, and I interviewed Guru Sanjay on my radio show yesterday. We were going to continue our conversation last night and I was shocked to learn he had died.”
This earned me an even icier glare. Oops! Nix the word “die.” I’d forgotten that death doesn’t exist in the world of Sanjay Gingii. Time for damage control.
“I mean before he . . . um . . . transitioned to another dimension. He asked me to attend the conference today as his special guest.”
“I don’t know nothing about that.” He had a rough New York accent (maybe Bed-Stuy?) and looked like his nose had been broken a few times. His beefy arms were bulging out of his black Team Sanjay T-shirt, and I couldn’t take my eyes off his neck. It was as thick as a sequoia and decorated with a creepy weird tat that looked like a forest of kudzu vines gone wild.
“The guru and I bonded with each other,” I went on quickly, “and he was going to explain more of his metaphysical theories to me. Today. At this workshop.”
