Part 21 (2/2)

The desk sergeant gave me a ”not you again” look when I marched into the Cypress Grove PD the following morning and demanded to see Rafe Martino. I didn't call ahead, deciding it was better to just show up unannounced and take my chances. I waited in the lobby, and a scruffy-looking guy with bleached blond hair and a soul patch nodded to me. A surfer dude. I hesitated, then nodded back, and then he winked.

He's winking at me?

Not good. My eyes dropped, and then I noticed he was handcuffed to a metal loop on the wall. Hmm. Was this a lobby or a holding cell? Loverboy was still winking, but I turned my back on him, opened my purse, and delved into the latest Donald Bain mystery.

I always carry a paperback with me and read on the fly. Reading even a few pages of a mystery relaxes me and transports me to another time and place. It's my escape hatch, my stress buster.

After a few minutes, Rafe strolled down the hall, looking like a million dollars in a white knit s.h.i.+rt and khakis. He looked like he should be playing golf with Donald Trump in West Palm Beach instead of working in a small-town police department.

I ignored the little thrumming in my heart at the sight of him and tried to focus on what I was going to say. I was going to be concise, confident, and in control, just like I encourage my patients to be in my a.s.sertiveness-training cla.s.ses.

Except when I saw Rafe I melted. He looked good, he smelled good, and he stood a little too close when he greeted me. Or maybe it felt that way to me. Maybe it was projection, as Freud would say. Maybe I was the one who wanted to stand too close, so I projected that desire onto Rafe. I could have pondered that theory in more depth, but how could I think straight when Rafe was standing right next to me?

”Dr. Maggie,” he said, flas.h.i.+ng a s.e.xy grin. ”To what do I owe the pleasure?” He had a Mario Lopez dimple. I tried to ignore it. I also tried to ignore the ”Dr. Maggie” jibe. Whenever anyone calls me that, I think I should be munching cookies with Oscar the Grouch on Sesame Street.

”I have new information about Sanjay's death. Information that will break the case.” I tried to ignore my heart, which was doing a salsa rhythm in my chest. ”Can we go somewhere to talk about it?” I felt strangely out of breath, as if I'd just delivered a long speech or run a marathon.

He pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. ”Is my office okay? I'll even get you a cup of coffee.” Again, the trademark grin. One look from Rafe Martino and I was a goner.

A few moments later, I was sitting on a metal folding chair holding a cup of brown sludge that Rafe had produced from a battered pot. I stared at it suspiciously.

”It's not a grande latte with skim milk, two Splendas, and a light dusting of cinnamon,” he said.

”How did you know?” That's my standard order at Star-bucks.

”Just a lucky guess.” He glanced at his chirping cell phone, scrolled through some messages, and then put his elbows on the desk and stared at me. Suddenly he was all business. ”So what gives? What's the new evidence and where did you get it?”

I was a little startled by the abrupt transition, and it took a few seconds for my synapses to make the connection. ”It's sus.h.i.+,” I said, stammering a little. Rafe was looking at me so intently with those fiery dark eyes that I was finding it hard to concentrate. ”Sus.h.i.+,” I repeated in a thin little voice that ended in a quaver. So much for sounding brisk and professional.

”Sus.h.i.+.” He said the word flatly, and there was a long beat of silence between us.

”Sanjay's sus.h.i.+.”

”Sanjay's sus.h.i.+,” he repeated. It suddenly sounded like ”Peter Piper,” and I had to resist the urge to laugh. This wasn't a laughing matter. Lark's life was at stake.

I flushed. ”That sounds silly when you say it that way, but yes. Sanjay's sus.h.i.+. I just learned from Lark that Sanjay was eating sus.h.i.+ the night he died. Or if he wasn't eating it, he certainly ordered some from a take-out place. So we have to a.s.sume he ate it?”

”Do we?” It was clear from Rafe's tone that he didn't think we had to a.s.sume anything at all. He reached for a file and began to flip through it. ”I don't recall anything about sus.h.i.+ at the crime scene, either in the reports or in Ms. Merriweather's statement.” He riffled through some papers. ”It's not in here.”

”It wasn't in the original statement she gave you because she just remembered it.” I nearly added ”Honest!” and then stopped myself in time.

”Really.” His tone was flat, and one eyebrow rose. It was obvious he didn't believe me. ”She just magically remembered it?”

”Something like that. It's a long story.” I decided not to tell him about Mom's failed attempt at hypnosis. But had it really failed? Who knows, maybe the trance state--if there was one--had jiggled Lark's memory and she really had recalled the sus.h.i.+ because of Mom's intervention.

Rafe was drumming his fingers on the desk. ”Don't you think we would have found some evidence of the sus.h.i.+ at the crime scene? Our investigators went over the room very carefully. They're all top-notch CSIs.”

”Did they check the wastebasket?”

”Of course.” I heard a hint of irritation in his voice, and he sneaked a look at his watch. ”If there was a take-out box, we would have found it.”

I thought about this for a moment. ”Maybe so, but if Lark says she saw it, then it was there. Somewhere. Sanjay certainly didn't eat the box.” I realized I didn't sound very convincing and my story had a million holes in it. Where was the white take-out box? How come it hadn't been discovered? Both were good questions, and I knew Rafe was going to demand answers. I noticed he wasn't taking notes, which made me think he didn't believe me at all.

”You're not going to write this down?” I demanded.

With a world-weary sigh, he reached for a legal pad. ”Okay, I'll write it down. You realize this is all hearsay. Why doesn't Miss Merriweather come in herself if she has something to add to her statement?”

Good question. ”I'm sure she will,” I said with all the strength I could muster. I remembered that the best defense is a good offense. ”And maybe you could start looking for that take-out box, since you must have missed it the first time around.”

”I'll be sure to do that,” Rafe said, standing up. His look said it all. I was just a radio talk show host; he was a skilled investigator who didn't have time for my silly insights.

I knew I was being dismissed.

What next? A quick call to Ted Rollins at the Seabreeze confirmed my worst fears. Ted told me he hadn't seen anyone make any deliveries that night, and that drivers always have to stop at the front desk. Not what I was hoping to hear.

”Can you think of a restaurant that serves sus.h.i.+?” I asked. I felt like I was failing a major test and needed to use a lifeline.

A beat pa.s.sed while he considered the question. ”Here in Cypress Grove?” His tone was doubtful. ”Maggie, you're not back in Manhattan. We don't really go in for sus.h.i.+ here. Maybe red snapper,” he added playfully. ”Or even catfish.” Catfish? I flashed on Ray Hicks, standing over the grill, cooking up catfish. But there was no way anyone could mistake catfish for sus.h.i.+, was there?

I thanked Ted and then dashed into WYME to do my afternoon show. Vera Mae greeted me with a big hug like I was a returning war hero.

”How's it going, girl?” She was bustling around, lining up the spots to be read live that day during my show.

”Fine. Can you do me a big favor?” I slapped my briefcase on the desk and checked my phone messages. Nothing urgent--a few calls from publicists hounding me to invite their clients on the show. Nothing from Nick; nothing from Rafe. Although why would there be?

”Just name it, sugar.”

”Do a Google search for me. Find out if there are any restaurants around Cypress Grove that serve sus.h.i.+. You'll have to check surrounding towns as well, but don't make it too far away. Close enough that they'd do a take-out delivery to the Seabreeze.”

Vera Mae raised her eyebrows but didn't ask any questions. We both went into the studio, and she gave me the bio on the day's guest. Then she zipped into the control room to organize things before my two o'clock show and fielded some phone calls from Cyrus and Big Jim Wilc.o.x.

The protocol for guests was always the same. Irina would greet the guest (Dr. Samuel Nitterstein, author of Keeping Sane in Crazy Times) in the lobby and walk him back to the studio.

There'd be time for a quick bathroom break, or a cup of coffee in the green room, but once he was in the studio, he'd have to hit the ground running. I used to greet the guests myself and make small talk in the lobby, and then I realized that it was better to just meet them in the studio. That way our conversation sounded more spontaneous, less planned, and I came up with more interesting questions. It seemed to work better when I was meeting the guest at the same time the listener was.

I didn't think Dr. Nitterstein would say anything controversial. He'd sent me a tape he'd done for NPR, and he was well informed, if a little pedantic. No one could ever accuse him of being Mr. Charisma.

Ever since I'd had Sanjay on the show, I'd been deluged with calls from authors peddling their self-help books. It didn't seem to bother any of them that Sanjay had appeared on my show and been murdered that same night. They just wanted to be on the show and were giddy with excitement at the idea.

The show with Dr. Nitterstein (who insisted I call him ”Dr. Sam”) went by quickly, and the control board was lit up with calls the whole time. It was a topic everyone in Cypress Grove seemed to relate to--who knew so many people were questioning their sanity? Most of the callers were women, and my guest told me during the break that women seemed to fear losing their minds more than men did. Interesting. Was this scientifically proven or just anecdotal? Sometimes guests fudge the facts a little to make a better story.

Were women really more p.r.o.ne to worries about their mental health than men were? Or were women just more willing to admit to their fears? The show ended on a high note, and Dr. Sam gave me an autographed copy of his book.

I thanked him and practically rushed him out of the studio because Vera Mae had slipped me an intriguing note during the last commercial break. ”Looking for sus.h.i.+? Try the Golden Palace.” She scribbled the address of a restaurant near Stuart, Florida. Even with rush-hour traffic, I figured I could drive there in twenty minutes. I called home to leave a message for Mom and Lark. ”Bringing home Chinese takeout for dinner; don't cook.” My heart was leaping in my chest. Was the Golden Palace the break I'd been looking for?

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