Part 3 (1/2)

And with that, she was gone.

A minute later, I realized her car keys were still sitting on the counter.

”Can you cover the morning news? The eight o'clock drive time? Everyone's out on a.s.signment this morning. Things are really hopping at the police station, and I think the mayor's gonna give a statement later today.” Cyrus Still's voice boomed over the phone, cras.h.i.+ng through my sleep-fogged brain with such force, it made my teeth hurt. Someone told me that Cyrus has permanent hearing loss from covering so many rock concerts in his younger days and that's why he always sounds like he's shouting into a hurricane.

”Wha--” I sat straight up in bed, winced, and glanced at the clock. Six a.m. I was barely conscious and my station manager wanted to discuss the news of the day. I didn't know which was more remarkable: the fact that Cyrus expected me to be coherent at the crack of dawn or the fact that I was working for someone who actually says things like ”really hopping.”

I desperately needed an infusion of caffeine, an adrenaline rush, and oh, yeah, a functioning brain. ”I can be there in forty-five,” I told him, running a brush through my hopelessly matted hair as I searched for my terry robe.

Thank G.o.d it's radio and not television, I thought, taking in my pale skin and sunken eyes in the wall mirror. A vision of loveliness. I'd fallen asleep watching Conan O'Brien and had barely woken up when Lark had tiptoed in, sometime after midnight.

Something niggled at the edges of my consciousness. News . . . the police station . . . the mayor. ”Cyrus, what's going on?” I asked, padding along the terra-cotta tiled floor to the kitchen. No sign of Lark and no coffee brewing. Lark and I have an arrangement. Whoever wakes up first makes the coffee, and today that would be me. Lark's door was firmly shut.

”You mean you haven't heard the news?” Cyrus sounded incredulous.

I stifled a jaw-popping yawn. ”Haven't a clue. Fill me in.”

”The guru,” he barked. ”He's dead.”

”Dead? Guru Sanjay is dead? Guru Sanjay the guy I interviewed?”

I couldn't get my mind around the fact. He'd seemed perfectly healthy yesterday, if a trifle overweight with a florid complexion that probably hinted at metabolic syndrome. But he couldn't really be dead, could he?

In Heal the Cosmos, Guru Sanjay insisted that death is just a state of mind, a transition of energy from one form to another. I wondered what this would do to his book sales.

”How many other gurus do you know?”

Ah, point taken. So Guru Sanjay was dead and was now part of that ultimate cosmic consciousness he always talked about. Now he was just a tiny (well, maybe not so tiny) blip of energy, flas.h.i.+ng around the universe like a manic firefly. Ironic, isn't it?

But there was still Cyrus's nagging comment about cops and the mayor. I forced myself to focus. ”Why are the police involved?”

I was cradling the phone on my shoulder so I could spoon half Dunkin' Donuts decaf and half French vanilla high voltage into the coffeepot when I heard someone pounding on the front door.

Mrs. Higgins! We have an eighty-year-old neighbor who loves to go for early-morning walks and sometimes forgets to take her key. Lark, pet.i.te little thing that she is, always manages to find an unlatched window in Mrs. Higgins's house and squeezes in, saving the day.

”Look, Maggie, I'll explain it when you get here, okay? Make it snappy.”

”Just give me the short answer. I can't stand the suspense.” The hammering on the door intensified, a maddening counterpoint to the drilling noise in my head.

”The short answer is, Guru Sanjay Gingii may have been murdered!”

With that Cyrus hung up.

I ignored the pounding, filled the pot with filtered water, pressed the red b.u.t.ton, and padded to the door. Six in the morning, a dead guru, and a forgetful neighbor. Things couldn't possibly get worse.

They could and they did.

Standing on my doorstep, looking way too s.e.xy for such an early hour, was none other than Cypress Grove's finest, Detective Rafe Martino.

Chapter 4.

My first thought (after noticing that he looked like a million bucks) was that I was looking my absolute worst. Pale, s.h.i.+ny morning face, bed head, and a ratty yellow bathrobe decorated with faded blue ducks that had seen better days.

”Sorry to wake you, Dr. Walsh,” he said, not looking the least bit repentant. ”May we come in?”

I s.h.i.+elded my eyes from the glaring suns.h.i.+ne and noticed he had a uniformed cop with him, a gangly guy who looked about twelve in his scratchy blue serge uniform.

”Officer Duane Brown,” he said, gesturing to the Opie look-alike who was s.h.i.+fting uncomfortably from one foot to the other and mopping his forehead with a white handkerchief. It was early morning, but they were predicting a scorcher and the day already had a hazy glow to it.

”What's this about?” I said quietly, not wanting to blast him with morning breath. (Although when you think of it, what does he expect, when he comes barging into someone's house at this unG.o.dly hour?) ”It's about a homicide investigation,” Detective Martino snapped, suddenly all business. ”Could we come inside?”

I reluctantly stepped back, yanking the robe more tightly around me. He must be talking about Guru Sanjay! ”If this is about the guru, I don't know anything about it.”

I regretted the idiotic remark the second the words flew out of my mouth. Why did I immediately a.s.sume it was about Sanjay Gingii? Methinks the lady doth protest too much!

Maybe Martino wasn't up on his Shakespeare, because he lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug and made a noncommittal sound.

”But you can come in, since you seem determined to,” I said inhospitably. I glanced over my shoulder toward Lark's door and thought I saw it open a tiny crack. Was she standing there listening to our conversation or was I imagining it?

”Where were you last night?” Detective Martino asked abruptly. He moved past me into the living room, eased himself into the green and white wicker love seat, and whipped out a tiny notebook.

I noticed Officer Brown took a cus.h.i.+ony armchair and looked like he was ready to settle in for the long haul. Were they going to play good cop, bad cop? (Or have I been watching too much Law & Order?) ”I was here. I came straight home after my s.h.i.+ft at WYME. I ate a pizza, watched TV, and then went to bed.” Dear G.o.d, he was writing all this down! Now all of Cypress Grove would know about my nonexistent social life.

”No unusual occurrences?” Opie asked.

I had the feeling he'd piped up just to be saying something. Martino shot him a look and he sank a little deeper into the armchair. He was so slight, the padded arms engulfed him, threatening to swallow him whole like an amoeba.

”Well, just one. They forgot to put extra cheese on my pizza.”

”Do I write that down?” he asked Martino, who silenced him with a look.

”So . . . you're claiming you were alone?”

”I'm not claiming I was alone. I was alone.”

”I see.” A beat of silence fell between us. His eyes skimmed over my terry bathrobe, and there was a wry twist in his voice. The corner of his mouth quirked, and I knew exactly what he was thinking: No wonder she is alone!

The notion of me having a hot date was about as likely as Mother Teresa pledging Delta Gamma.

He stared at me and I stared back. He had a strong mouth and, of course, those smoldering eyes. Wary, watchful eyes. Cop eyes.

”So,” he continued, staring at his notebook as if for inspiration, ”what can you tell me about Guru Sanjay Gingii?”

He stumbled over the tongue twister of a name, but I resisted the impulse to smile. I had the uneasy feeling that I was in trouble, even though for once in my life, I was completely innocent.