Part 7 (1/2)
”You're kidding!” This was even better than I'd hoped. Not only was Guru Sanjay a fake; he was a criminal!
”He has a long rap sheet, and I'm amazed that the tabloids haven't picked up on it.”
”A rap sheet? What sort of crimes are we talking about?”
”Petty crimes. Forged checks, a couple of stolen cars that he claimed he borrowed, things like that. The guy's slippery, and my contact with the Sioux Falls PD said trying to pin a charge on him was like trying to nail Jell-O to a wall. Everyone knew he was a lowlife, but it was hard to prove. There were a few widows who lost their life savings to him. Sounds like he must be some sort of sweet-talker. He'd befriend lonely old ladies and convince them that he should be handling their investments for them. The investments would go belly-up, but it was hard to prove that the money went into his pocket.”
”Wow.” I was stunned. ”You know, there was something very slick about him. I felt it right away. Underneath the phony charm, I thought I saw the soul of a sociopath. It was really odd.”
”Well, didn't they say that Ted Bundy could be pretty charming if he wanted to be?” Nick raised his eyebrows.
”Yes, they did. The shrinks call it superficial charm. It's all an act, but somehow there's something compelling about it. That's how Ted Bundy lured his victims into his web, and I guess that's what Sanjay did. On a much smaller scale, of course.”
”Sanjay was strictly small-time,” Nick added. ”People lost their money, not their lives.”
”Tell me more about Lenore Cooper,” I said, suddenly feeling energized. I attacked my fettuccine with gusto while Nick flipped open the folder in front of us.
He began to read from the first page. ”She's a licensed psychologist--”
”Now I remember! I heard her speak at a regional psychology conference back in Manhattan. But she wasn't into metaphysical mumbo jumbo; she was talking about bipolar depression in adolescents, I think. I know she was the real deal, and she certainly wasn't a con artist like Sanjay.” I paused for a moment, remembering the confident woman in the black Armani suit standing at the podium, giving a Power-Point presentation.
Nick quickly riffled through his notes. ”Apparently she gave up private practice when she made it big with the books and seminars. Sanjay met her, and the next thing you know, he was up on stage with her. They coauth.o.r.ed a few books, and then they both were reeling in the big bucks. But there's no doubt about it; Lenore was the brains of the operation. Lenny was just along for the ride, and he knew a good opportunity when he saw one--Lenore Cooper was the best thing that ever happened to him. They got married six months after they met.”
”Sounds like a sweet deal for him.”
”It was until he got involved with Lenore's eighteen-year-old a.s.sistant. The two of them had a thing going, and Lenore found out. She kicked Sanjay out of the mansion that same night and divorced him, but he bounced right back. By that time, thanks to Lenore, he had a national platform. He got an A-list agent and started making his own book deals and giving his own seminars. He was speaking to crowds of five thousand people in big venues, and his CDs were selling like crazy. Last month, his agent was angling for a television deal for him with one of the networks--he figured he'd be bigger than Oprah.”
”All thanks to Lenore,” I muttered. ”He probably stole all her best material.”
”Exactly. And he was certainly quite the showman. She had more substance, but he had the flash and the charisma. The audiences loved him. It's hard to believe, but his books were hitting the best-seller lists, and Lenore's star had already started to fade.” Nick stopped to savor his vodka penne. ”I guess it's a case of the student surpa.s.sing the master.”
”Which can be pretty d.a.m.n annoying for the master,” I pointed out. But the big question was, Was Lenore Cooper furious enough to kill Sanjay? ”Can you give me some contact information on Lenore?”
Nick scribbled a phone number on a paper coaster and pa.s.sed it across the table to me. ”You didn't get this from me.”
I widened my eyes. ”Absolutely not.”
”That's her cell,” Nick said helpfully. ”She lives in New York, but she's traveling in Florida right now, promoting her latest book.”
My pulse ratcheted up a notch. ”She's here in Florida? Right now?”
”Just thirty miles away,” Nick said placidly, ”over in Lakeville. You could probably catch her at her book signing tonight. Bargain Books--it starts at six o'clock.”
”I'll be the first in line for her autograph,” I said, my heart thudding with antic.i.p.ation. Lenore Cooper, here in Florida. Now I had three suspects to investigate--Miriam Dobosh, Olivia Riggs, and Lenore Cooper--and they all had good reasons for wanting to see Guru Sanjay dead.
Or rather, ”transitioned,” I reminded myself.
It was obvious from the small turnout in Lakeville that Lenore Cooper didn't have the same devoted fan base as Guru Sanjay. I'd called Lenore at six and said I'd be at the bookstore in an hour or so. Traffic was light and it was nearly seven when I parked on a narrow side street lined with little shops and family restaurants and walked two blocks to the address she'd given me.
Bargain Books was a tiny bookstore wedged between a pizza joint and a shoe store, and, like most of Lakeville, it looked like it had seen better days. Even the palm trees at the curb looked dejected, their fronds spa.r.s.e and tinged with yellow at the tips. The bookstore had a faded green awning that hung limply over the transom and a concrete planter filled with wilting pink impatiens marking the front entrance.
There was an entire window display devoted to Lenore Cooper, and someone had made a pyramid of copies of her latest t.i.tle (Imagine It, Dream It, Do It!) along with a hand-lettered sign announcing: MEET THE AUTHOR TONIGHT!
Lenore was sitting at a card table, talking on her cell when I walked in. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, but it was obvious that she hadn't drawn a huge crowd.
In fact, she hadn't drawn any crowd at all--the book signing was a bust. A dozen or so folding chairs--all empty--were arranged in front of the card table, presumably so the author could entertain her fans, if she felt so inclined. Two young female clerks wearing Bargain Books T-s.h.i.+rts were sitting on the floor, chewing gum and stripping books headed back to the publisher.
One of them started to scramble to her feet, but I motioned that I was waiting to see Lenore, and she immediately plopped back down on the floor, returning to her task. It was deathly quiet in the store, except for the lazy whirring of a Casablanca fan, and the narrow aisles and low lighting gave the whole place a claustrophobic feel.
After a moment, Lenore snapped the cell shut, and just for a second, her features slumped in disappointment, like one of those mournful Weimaraners you see on greeting cards. She had an angular face with very pale skin and looked to be in her mid-fifties, with a dramatic streak of white running through her shoulder-length dark hair. I caught myself staring at it, wondering whether it was some sort of genetic mutation or she had actually paid her hairdresser to create it.
”Maggie Walsh?” she said tentatively. She focused her dark eyes on me, and her expression was sharp and speculative. She had a Kathleen Turner voice, so sultry and whiskey smooth, she must have practiced to bring it down to that low register.
”Thanks for seeing me, Lenore,” I said, moving forward to shake hands. Her grasp was limp and clammy, and she quickly dropped my hand to wave me to a seat next to her.
”It's wonderful to meet you. I've heard all about your show.” She was smiling into my eyes, and I had the feeling she was being deceptively friendly, the way many celebrities are when dealing with reporters.
”Having a radio show is a nice change of pace for me,” I said carefully. ”I interviewed Guru Sanjay on my radio show, and I want to offer my condolences. His . . . um . . . pa.s.sing must have been a terrible shock to you.” I just couldn't bring myself to say ”transition” one more time. As far as I'm concerned, dead is dead.
”Thank you,” she said, her lips tightening almost imperceptibly. ”It's been several years since we've been divorced, but of course it's still a shock.” She took a little breath and let it out, but she managed to keep her tone even and not break eye contact. I had to admire her; she was a pro.
A beat of silence fell between us as I pondered my next question. Asking her how the book signing was going would obviously be too unkind, so I picked up a copy of her latest release. ”Your tenth book! Quite an accomplishment.”
”Have you read it?”
”Not yet,” I admitted. I fumbled in my shoulder bag for my wallet. ”I'd like to buy a copy right now, though.”
”Oh, don't be silly. I'll give you one. Here, let me sign it.” She scribbled her name on the t.i.tle page with a black Sharpie and handed it back to me. ”Not much chance we'll run out of books tonight,” she said wryly, looking at the empty store.
”I suppose it's hard to predict how these things will go,” I said diplomatically, ”and with all the news coverage of Sanjay's death--”
”Yes, exactly,” she said, interrupting me. ”Who would think he'd find a way to upstage me, even from beyond the grave. Some things never change!”
”What did you say?” She'd blindsided me with that remark, and I didn't have time to cover my shock.
Her eyes widened, and she flushed with embarra.s.sment as she touched my arm. ”Oh, G.o.d, 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 Murder on the Beach in Delray. 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 whether 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, skyrocket to success, and make all the best-seller lists.