Part 9 (1/2)
”Very serious,” Kathryn said. ”She's what they call a brittle diabetic, and her blood sugar can suddenly plummet with no warning, you know? It can be life-threatening.”
”And they knew all this? The people organizing the meals at the conference?” I immediately thought of liability issues. Had she told them she was a diabetic? Had they provided the proper food for her? Was medical help available on the site? It seemed surprising that such a well-oiled machine as Team Sanjay wouldn't have explored all those possibilities and taken legal steps to protect themselves.
”She wrote it all out on the form. I insisted she make a copy of the contract before she submitted it with her check.” A smart move, I thought. My instincts had been right about Kathryn--she was definitely someone to be reckoned with.
”And then something happened? She had some sort of medical crisis at this retreat?”
”They deprived her of food and water. Can you imagine? She had taken some diabetic granola bars with her, but they took them away from her, as if they were contraband!” Her eyes blazed at the memory. ”And then she and the others were all forced to sit in a circle for hours without moving, without even taking”--she paused delicately--”a bathroom break.”
”Sounds awful.” And dangerous. Especially for someone with health issues.
”It gets even worse,” she said darkly. ”After hours of this silly navel-gazing, or soul-searching, or whatever they call it, everyone had to get up on a stage one at a time. The rest of the group would shout at them, taunt them, tell them they were worthless. Verbal abuse. Each person had to just stand there and endure it, until the leader finally decided they 'got it' and could step down.”
”What were they supposed to 'get'? I wonder.”
Kathryn shook her head. ”I have no idea. But you see how crazy the whole thing was. Sarah ended up collapsing onstage and being rushed by ambulance to the local hospital; she's been ill ever since. Both mentally and physically.”
”I've read about those groups, but I've never been to one.”
”Well, it was very irresponsible, and I called Guru Sanjay to tell him so. Naturally, he has a wall of people around him, and I had to talk to one of his underlings, that dreadful Dobosh woman. She was completely unsympathetic and said there was nothing they could do. She even suggested that my daughter must have had emotional problems to start with, and reminded me that Sarah had signed a liability waiver.”
”So you never had a chance to talk to Sanjay directly?”
She hesitated. ”No. I never did.”
I leaned back in my chair then, while Kathryn sipped her club soda. The sunlight was filtering through the banyan trees, and the white jasmine creeping over a wooden trellis was giving off a delicious scent. It would have been a beautiful scene if it hadn't been completely overrun with those annoying Sanjay-ites.
Olivia Riggs approached me, looking considerably more cheerful than the last time I'd seen her, crying her eyes out in the ladies' room. ”Maggie Walsh? A reporter told me your name. I'm Olivia Riggs. I'm so sorry for the meltdown the other day,” she said in a low voice. ”I was just in shock at Sanjay's death. He was my mentor, and I thought my career was over. I thought my whole life was over.” She shook her head as if trying to dispel negative thoughts.
”No apology necessary. It must have been very difficult for you,” I murmured.
”It was.” She looked glum for a moment, but then her expression brightened. ”But something amazing happened. Remember what Sanjay always said--when one door closes, another one opens? That's exactly what happened for me!” She gave a wide smile. ”I met somebody at the Seabreeze who offered me a marketing job with a string of health spas in California. I'll be based in Laguna Beach and making twice the salary I was making here. Is that lucky or what?”
”I'd say that's very lucky indeed.”
”Thanks for being so understanding.” Olivia touched my arm and flitted away, looking young and carefree in her flirty cotton sundress. From the depths of despair to Laguna Beach, I thought. Interesting.
I could see Miriam Dobosh fiddling with the microphone on the podium, probably preparing to make some sort of address, and I figured this might be a good time to make my exit. Kathryn and I had exchanged business cards, and there didn't seem to be any reason to prolong the interview. There were probably more questions I should ask her, but they could wait.
But there was one last thing I had to know.
”Kathryn,” I said slowly, ”I'm puzzled about something. Why did you come here today? If Guru Sanjay was the person responsible for harming your daughter, why would you turn up at his memorial service? Surely not to pay your respects?”
I let the question dangle while I pushed my hair out of my face. I could feel a thin sheen of perspiration forming on my temples, and I wished I could look as cool and collected as the woman sitting across from me.
Kathryn drained her club soda and stood up. I was relieved to see that a hint of color had returned to her face. Maybe telling me the story had been cathartic for her, because her expression had brightened, and just for a moment, she seemed almost lighthearted.
”Pay my respects? Oh, you can be d.a.m.n sure I didn't come here for that, Maggie.” She tossed her head back and I saw a look of defiance cross her pale green eyes. She leaned across the table, her eyes fixed so intently on mine, I was starting to feel nervous. ”I just wanted to make sure that b.a.s.t.a.r.d was really dead.”
”Well, b.u.t.ter my b.u.t.t and call me a biscuit! She really said that?” Vera Mae was bustling around the studio, doing her usual sound checks before the afternoon show. I'd come back to the station early and was munching on a cinnamon bagel (proving once again, you can never have too many carbs!) before checking my notes for the day's show.
”Kathryn Sinclair really said it, but that doesn't prove anything, you know. She was speaking metaphorically, and even if she wasn't, making sure someone's dead isn't exactly an admission of guilt.”
”I still think you should call that Martino fellow and tell him to check out her alibi, if she even has one,” Vera Mae said. ”It's a well-known fact that murderers often attend the funerals of their victims.” Vera Mae is a big fan of CSI, Law & Order, and Criminal Minds. ”Another thing--it's a darn shame you didn't get her comments on tape. Haven't I been asking you to get batteries for that little recorder you carry around?”
”Guilty as charged,” I agreed. ”You've asked me about a dozen times. I'm not sure what the Florida law is on taping conversations without permission, and anyway, she didn't really say anything incriminating.” I finished the last crumbs of the bagel and flipped through my day planner.
The afternoon show was going to be a snooze, I thought, spirits sinking: Cecilia Gregg from the Cypress Grove Horticultural Society on the psychological benefits of gardening. I saw from her bio that her specialty was tubers. I had no idea what a tuber was and had even less desire to hit Google and find out.
My experience with gardening is somewhat limited. When I first moved into the condo, I planted some luscious pink and white begonias in the long wooden box sitting on the edge of the patio. They looked adorable, but the little darlings must have made a suicide pact during the night, because they all were dead by morning. Lark swears they picked up negative vibes from me, but I don't think that's possible. I'm thinking they were psychologically unstable from the start and when I transplanted them from their little garden-store pots it pushed them right over the edge.
”Sounds pretty suspicious to me,” Vera Mae continued. ”Going to a funeral just to make sure someone's dead. Besides, it would give you an excuse to call that nice young detective, not that I think you really need one. A young feller like that, single and all, could probably use a home-cooked dinner. If I were thirty years younger, I'd invite him over myself. There's nothing like a platter of chicken and biscuits to win a guy over, with a mess of greens on the side and a nice blueberry cobbler for dessert.”
”I'll keep that in mind,” I murmured.
”You young girls never learn,” Vera Mae retorted. ”The way to a man's heart really is through his stomach. Ask any gal over fifty, and she'll tell you.”
An inner office line buzzed and Vera Mae turned to answer it. She clamped the handset to her ear, listened to a voice on the other end, and frowned. ”You don't say. Well, that's a fine kettle of fish. All righty, I'll tell Maggie and we'll come up with something else. We always do.”
”Bad news?”
”That was Irina. Cecilia has the flu and can't do the show today. She plumb forgot to cancel,” she said, raising her eyebrows. She was glancing out the big double window that looked out onto the parking lot. It was cracked open at the bottom, and the buzz of cicadas drifted into the studio. ”I figure we can always do an open call-in show, or maybe do a repeat of one of your last shows, or . . . Oh, lordie, is that who I think it is?”
Vera Mae broke off suddenly, her voice tripping into an uncharacteristic falter. She wrenched her gaze away from the window and stared at me.
Her eyes were bulging as if she were auditioning for a Wes Craven flick. If this was a slasher movie, this would be the point where Vera Mae would have just learned the terrifying phone calls were coming from inside the house.
”Vera Mae, for heaven's sake! Who's out there? What did you see?” For some reason, Vera Mae's anxiety was infectious. I sat frozen to my chair, heart pounding, a horrible feeling of impending doom spreading over me. Either all those grande lattes with cinnamon had set my nerve endings atwit ter or I was teetering on the edge of a major panic attack.
”Maggie, I don't know how to tell you this,” she began.
A wild gulp of laughter rose in my throat, and I tamped it down. ”Just spit it out, Vera Mae. You're making me nervous.”
”Brace yourself, Maggie, and take a look outside.” I reluctantly pulled myself out of the chair and walked shakily to the window. ”See that woman in the pink halter dress and those big Jackie-O sungla.s.ses? Goshalmighty, I think that's your momma come to pay us a visit.”
I peered out the window and my heart dropped into my stomach. The platinum hair, the swaying hips, a voluptuous frame delicately balanced on four-inch stiletto sling-backs.
Goshalmighty, I think Vera Mae was right.
Lola was back in town.
Chapter 13.
”Kisses, everyone! Kisses!” Lola burst into the studio the way she did everything.
Full throttle.