Aphrodisiac (2 page)

“Focus, will ya.” Benita stood there with her arm wrapped around the heavy bag to steady it for me. Her enviably flat abs showed beneath a gray crop tee. “Bend those knees. You’re starting to look like the damn Statue of Liberty.”

“I
am
bending them.” I went into a deep crouch.

“Now you look like a friggin’ crab.”

“My arms are ready to fall off, and you’re expecting Raging Bull.” So, I wasn’t exactly Olympic material. My petite hourglass figure wasn’t all that bad, despite my eternal hope that I’d still grow a few inches. “I’m getting dizzy. I need a donut.”

“Are you here to eat or work out?”

“The gym’s snack bar has Danish. Then there’s a Blazing Donutz on Jay Street.”

“You said you wanted to lose some pounds.”

My concentration just wouldn’t kick into gear. You’d think I’d be fantasizing a skinny-dip in a cool stream with Oscar De La Hoya, but after last night my mind kept recycling the same questions about Gwen. I just couldn’t believe her death was a suicide, even though the medical examiner reported no signs of struggle and the police found two empty vodka bottles on her desk, plus a good-bye note in her handwriting.

Yeah, she sometimes drank too much and, granted, she needed antidepressants when Rob left her. The thing is, I knew her like a book. I would have seen it coming. And rule out the accident theory. Gwen wasn’t into getting bombed and roaming the docks. She was murdered. I could just feel it. But why? She didn’t hang out with low-life criminal types.

Benita’s keen eye picked up on my thoughts. “I know what’s going on in your head. Give it up.”

“But what if the police were wrong?” I said, punctuated with my best one-two of the day.

“Come on, Saylor. They checked for foul play. There wasn’t any. And Gwen’s body had enough booze in it to drop an elephant. What more do you want?”

“I want to know the reason she was wearing a fanny pack.”

“Same as anyone else. To carry her money and cards. Now, put more on that jab.”

“Would you carry an ID if you were going to kill yourself?”

“Of course. How else would they know me once the fish started eating my face?”

I dropped my hands. “That wasn’t funny, Binnie.”

She rested her forehead against the brown leather bag. “Look, I can’t keep going over this territory with you. We need to start letting go, all right?”

“I’m sorry.” Six weeks had passed since Gwen’s death had hit us like a wrecking ball. I sometimes forgot that Benita, my rough-on-the surface buddy, was a vulnerable tenderheart underneath. But I came from Russian Jewish stock; digging into human suffering was in my blood. I wasn’t about to let go until I found out the truth. In fact, I’d already e-mailed Gwen’s twin brother, Darryl.

I shifted my thoughts by using the only subject as powerful as death and danger. Sex. I focused on the men around me. Their naked torsos were shiny with perspiration. Their fabulous breathing came in bursts, hissing in and out through the nose, interspersed with short grunting sounds. So carnal. I was in testosterone heaven. “I love the smell of men when they sweat. Studies prove that women experience mood elevations when exposed to the scent of male underarm secretions.”

“Not your sweaty armpit theory again.”

“Well? Doesn’t it make sense?”

“Maybe if you’re a female deer,” she said. “Now zip that hole in your face and show me some work.”

I caught a glimpse of a guy shadowboxing in one of the four rings. He was as sculpted as Michelangelo’s
David
. Say hello to instant orgasm. My next punch missed the bag completely.

Benita rolled her eyes. “Unreal. Whose buns are you watching this time?”

A dull beep signaled break time, and the percussive symphony filling the gym subsided to a murmur. I stepped close to my friend’s ear. “In the second ring. No shirt. Black and red trunks. Shaggy brown hair.”

She followed my gaze and turned back to me. “That’s Eldridge Mace. Retired pro. Half- Mohawk, half-Irish.”

Made sense. That mix of copper skin with pale blue eyes. “Please tell me he’s not married with six kids.”

“Thirty-five and single. But, trust me, you don’t want to mess with that. He’s going nowhere these days. You can do better.”

“Don’t worry. He wouldn’t be interested in me, anyway.”

Jaleel Thomas, Benita’s friend and trainer for the past eight years, ambled our way. “I heard you two ladies were playing hide-and-seek down on Plymouth Street last night.”

He was a bear-sized, baby-faced man with shoulder-length dreads hanging beneath his black do-rag. Jaleel no longer resembled the aspiring middleweight he’d once been. Five years back he married a female attorney who also happened to make the best cheesecake in Brooklyn, and he shot up to his current two hundred fifty pounds. He extended a cordial fist to Benita, who then gave it a light pound with her own. Respect.

“Today we got worse problems.” Benita pointed her thumb at me. “Saylor’s gone hot for Mace.”

Jaleel laughed. “Uh-oh. Good boxer, but watch out, Saylor. I hear a woman never come back the same after a night with the Mace-man.”

Sign me up. “He seems mysterious.”

Jaleel rocked the bag with a short left hook. “Crazy more like it.”

“I’m a therapist; I like crazy people.” In fact, I was a magnet for dysfunctional men. I’d helped Peter get over a painful divorce, Simon overcome his panic attacks and Mickey face his alcohol problem. True to form, they all dumped their surrogate mother figure as soon as they got back on their feet.

When the beep sounded for the next round, Jaleel tapped Benita on the shoulder and left. “I’m going for a jog on the treadmill,” I said, slipping off my gloves. I picked up my bottle of Poland Spring and strolled away. It wasn’t as if I was the only person wandering around. People often showed up at Gleason’s just to watch the fighters train. It was one of the few gyms where kids from the projects, movie stars, Wall Streeters and even a klutz like me could train alongside world-class champions. On my way I paused for a closer glimpse of Eldridge Mace. Just to study his form, of course.

I suddenly realized who he reminded me of. Eddie Rivera. My first. A sleek sprinter with a sweet, sexy mouth that every girl in my high school had been dying to kiss.

On a balmy July night in the parking lot behind Lazkov’s Deli he’d actually kissed
me
, the munchkin. One ecstatic month later we did it in his father’s car. By September he not only stopped calling me, but the buzz in study hall was that I’d been a yock he’d practiced on while his real girlfriend was away for the summer. The fact that Eldridge Mace provoked a spontaneous regression to my unhappy youth should have made me instantly turn and leave. Instead I found myself inching forward in a slightly mesmerized state, until I stood smack against the edge of the ring’s elevated floor.

Eldridge zigzagged his way around the ring, shadowboxing his imaginary opponent. His hands were wrapped in bright orange tape and moved in a blur of speed. Beware of men with fast hands. He pivoted and glanced right at me. Caught unsuspecting, I felt a shudder of discomfort. His eyes definitely had a scary, distant, I-could-hurt-you-and-not-care look.

Trying to appear unruffled, I casually sipped on my water bottle and took my time screwing the cap on tightly. Eldridge spun ninety degrees and backpedaled in my direction. Just as I began to hope he might be purposely moving closer to me, my bottle of spring water slipped from my hand and bounced into the ring.

“Heads up!” I shouted. “No, I mean down!” Too late. His right foot rolled over the bottle, and the most graceful man I’d seen since Baryshnikov slid onto his butt.

Eldridge got to his feet in a flash, snatched up the bottle and stepped toward me. “This yours?” he asked with a slight Brooklyn accent.

I nodded. Guilt City.

“Figures.”

I stood there feeling clumsy and squat with my thighs bulging against my tight capris. Running shoes were not exactly the footwear of choice for a woman my height. “I’m really sorry. I’ll gladly pay for any doctor’s bills.”

“I’m good,” he said, bending and flexing his right ankle. In one fluid movement he slipped through the ropes, jumped down and handed me the bottle. “What’s somebody like you doing here anyway?”

His attitude caught me off guard. And pissed me off. “What’s that suppose to mean? I’m hardly the only female in this club who’s learning to box.”

“You? A boxer?” He coughed out a short laugh.

Just because he had a point didn’t mean he had to be rude enough to share it. “I happen to be a natural athlete. I played semi-pro soccer for two years and pitched in a women’s softball league.” I sounded positively pathological, but as long as I was lying I might as well chuck in a biggie. “And in college I led our gymnastic team to the nationals.”

“Then how come you couldn’t hold on to that plastic water bottle?”

Oooh. “I should have thrown it at you instead. Then you would’ve really needed a doctor.” I already half hated him just for resembling Eddie Rivera.

He crossed his arms, visibly amused. “Hot-blooded.”

“That’s right. I’m a Mars in Aries.” I tossed him a nasty, sexy grin. “So, next time I’m around, you better watch your step.”

“Or what? You gonna trip me again?”

“That was an accident. Maybe you should be more careful where you put your feet. I mean, isn’t that part of boxing? Don’t blame me if you’re not attentive.”

“I can be very attentive.” Those chilling eyes of his were on me once again. In fact they were studying me from head to toe. I felt my face go hot. And a few other parts. The I’d-like-to-screw-your-brains-out energy between us was as thick as a gob of K-Y jelly. Typical me, I sabotaged the delicious moment by wondering if it was my anger that excited him or if maybe he got off on pint-sized portable models he could easily maneuver into position.

A voice near the front desk called out, “Dr. Saylor Oz!”

Could it be? I looked past Eldridge to see Tara Buckley. As if I hadn’t been through enough trauma in the last twenty-four hours. Tara breezed her way across the floor in her tiny shorts. Miss D-Cup Hollywood Blonde with the Legs. Turning heads as usual. Including the Mace-man’s.

“Hi.” I put my face on auto-smile.

“I know I’m early,” Tara said, giving Eldridge a quick squeeze and a peck on the mouth.

I couldn’t believe it. Of all the single women in New York City, he would have to pick Tara Buckley. Or, knowing Tara, she most likely picked him. The Mace-man’s body language was super casual, not possessive. Were they an item or just fuck buddies?

She turned to me with her own well-practiced look of canned sincerity and compassion. The kind only a twenty-five-year-old life coach who’d become a multimillion-dollar self-help guru could give. Perfect for winning over blank-faced audiences on book tours. For the past year she and I had been on the same speakers and seminar circuit. Except that Tara was usually the featured guest, while I was relegated to a filler spot. Her book,
How To Be The Woman Every Man Dreams Of
, was going into its second year on the bestseller lists.

She spoke in one of those melodious, breathy voices that women find repulsive but that apparently stimulate the male species. She grasped Eldridge’s hand with two of hers while leaning her cheek against his shoulder. “Saylor is one of my
older
colleagues. What a surprise that you know Ridge.”

Ridge? “Actually, I’m new here,” I said. “He was just offering me some tips on my hand-eye skills.”

The corners of his mouth turned up in a boyish half smile that made my knees weak.

“Wait’ll you hear how Ridge and I met,” Tara gushed. “I saw this incredibly sexy Spider-Man dangling thirty-one stories above Third Avenue, right outside my office window. The only thing between him and the sidewalk below was this itty-bitty seat under his cute little heinie. I wrote a note on a piece of paper, pressed it against the glass, and Ridge had a coffee break in my office he’ll never forget.”

Like I really needed this. My only consolation was the uncomfortable look on Eldridge’s face. “You’re a high-rise window-washer?” I asked.

Eldridge nodded. “A drop-man. Not to be confused with a person who drops things.” He watched for my reaction.

I kept a straight face. “I assume it also doesn’t mean you drop off the side of a building.”

“Actually it does,” he said. “We don’t use scaffolding. Just ropes and a harness. Then we drop straight down from floor to floor. More fun that way.”

Fun? Jaleel was right. He is nuts. Heights scared the hell out of me. Climbing on a footstool to reach my closet shelf gave me vertigo.

Eldridge looked at me and said, “Now it’s your turn.”

“My turn for what? To do you in my office?”

He looked tickled. “I was asking about your work.”

“Let’s just say orgasms are my business.”

His eyebrows shot up. That got his attention.

Tara moved in quickly to dampen the effect. “Saylor’s a sex therapist whose specialty is teaching women how to give themselves orgasms. Necessity is the mother of invention, right? Of course, I’m a woman who never has to fly solo.” She winked at Eldridge.

I forced a smile. The kind you flash people before running them over in your truck.

“Well, gotta hurry. My weekly Clitoral Culture Group meets at eight in SoHo.” Perfect exit line.

Not so fast. Tara was on a roll. “Saylor also gives workshops for couples who need help with their sex life.” A breathy laugh. “Guess you could say, ‘Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach’.”

Please Universe, may a pigeon with a rare disease leave its droppings in her hair.

As Tara rambled on, Eldridge remained poker-faced. Couldn’t figure if he was concealing a case of advanced nausea, as I was, or if he was just another sexy looking asshole.

Why was I wasting my time here, anyway? There could be a response from Gwen’s brother sitting in my e-mail right now.

TWO

Wednesday. Four weeks since I’d moved to DUMBO, and I was finally starting to feel at home. My bedroom here in my aunt’s loft was larger than the one I’d had in our Williamsburg apartment. I could actually fit in a queen-sized bed plus a small oak dresser, mini-desk and night table without turning the space into a rush-hour subway car. And the windows were enormous.

With the vertical blinds opened for maximum sunlight, I sat on the cool hardwood floor unpacking a few leftover boxes. After arranging my collection of plastic dinosaurs on one of the bookshelves freshly constructed by my orderly do-it-yourself fanatic roommate, I sorted through some CDs — Dave Brubeck’s Classic hits, Brahams cello and piano sonatas, Alicia Keys — and set them in a pile next to the stacks of books I hadn’t yet shelved. Every ten minutes I checked the e-mail on my new laptop.

Aha, there it was. An e-mail with an attachment from Darryl Applebee, Gwen’s twin brother. He was only twelve minutes older than Gwen, but that had never stopped him from acting the part of officious older brother. Including with me.

Like the time back in seventh grade when I was brushing up for a big speech contest by practicing in front of Gwen at her house. In walked Darryl, the man with all the advice. He told me he knew a trick used by all great public speakers: “Whenever you get nervous, nod your head.” The nodding would supposedly relax my neck, while making me look intelligent to the audience. The second I got on stage and saw all those faces, I found myself in a panic. I went into a very serious nodding spree, which made my fellow students snicker and murmur things to the person sitting next to them. More nerves, more nodding, more laughter. Finally, I scrapped the rest of my speech and bolted from the auditorium.

Thanks, Darryl. I went from munchkin to bobblehead for the rest of the week.

In Darryl’s e-mail he dismissed my theory about the fanny pack as nonsense, but at least he sent an attachment with a scanned copy of the suicide note. It only took him six weeks. I’d been asking to see the note since the day he notified me of his sister’s death. With all respect to Darryl’s grieving over the loss of his twin, I knew there was another reason behind his lack of responsiveness. Us. Mr. Conservative tended to look down on Binnie and me as a pair of weirdos who encouraged Gwen’s off-the-wall behavior. Truth was, we had to work to keep up with the strange mind of his sister.

I opened the attachment. The fancy loops and curves of the writing were unmistakably Gwen’s. Darryl had told me her suicide note was “another one of those corny poems.” He was referring to the absolutely over-the-top lyrical poetry Gwen used to write. She’d been published in several journals. I skimmed the page and smiled. Tears came to my eyes. He was right. It was undeniably one of her gloppiest.

Reading it again, I got stuck on the first line: “This is my farewell, golden priestess of the sa-zi-ga.”

Golden priestess of the
sa-zi-ga
? Wait a sec. That was a nickname Gwen had given to me. The
sa-zi-ga
were ancient Mesopotamian remedies and incantations used primarily to cure men’s sexual difficulties. Yep, even four thousand years ago guys had problems with their dicks. According to Gwen I was a contemporary version of a
sa-zi-ga
priestess.

When I thought about it, addressing her final note to me seemed a reasonable thing to do. I had keys to Gwen’s place. She must’ve assumed I’d be the first one to check in on her as the days went by. But only one day had passed before her body was found in the water. At least that’s what the police said. And because there was ID in her fanny pack, the cops went straight to Gwen’s next of kin. Darryl.

I read through the poem again and noticed another line: “The loyal sentry of my youth.” That couldn’t be referring to anyone else but me. But why didn’t she just use my real name? Why hide it? Why not say, “This is my farewell, Saylor”? Was Gwen’s artistic nature the reason? Or was she trying to tell me something she didn’t want anyone else to know?

I had an ominous feeling about this.

***

One great thing about moving into my aunt’s place was the fact that I could give up paying a colossal rent for a dingy closet-sized office at Eleventh and Broadway. Her DUMBO loft came with a home office just perfect for my private therapy clients. And, oh, those windows. All that sunlight pouring in had to have a positive effect on client morale. On the wall was an abstract painting done by my aunt back in her expressionistic period at the Art Students League. It was awful, but it came with the room, and I didn’t have the heart to remove it. In the corner was a futon sofa bed that my aunt sacked out on during those nights she came into the city.

The open floor plan of the loft and walk-thru kitchen allowed for speed when traveling between my office and the refrigerator. I could zing to the food zone, down a mouthful of pasta salad and be back in my chair before my clients returned from their trip to the bathroom. Of course, there was the time Marjory Lolopps gave me a strange look and said, “Eew. Is that a noodle on your sweater?”

My Wednesday noon session was with a dental hygienist I’d been treating for Hyperactive Sexual Desire. Kim assured me she’d gone past the G-spot and was now on her way to H. As soon as we finished, I stuffed a printout of Gwen’s poem into my purse, spritzed on the bold scent of Stella and hopped into the Salsa red Camry Binnie and I had bought from her cousin. I drove to the Seventy-fourth Precinct. It covered the area of Red Hook where Gwen had been living. And where she died.

Detective Dan Roach had a heavy Brooklyn accent and puffy eyes that spoke of too much caffeine and not enough sleep. “Just to make sure I understand you, you’re referring to the floater we found in the basin last month. Suicide victim.”

“Victim, yes. Suicide, no.” Dressed in a beige linen suit with a snug-fitting blazer and A-line mini, I sat in an office chair beside his desk, trying to sound direct and businesslike. Men weren’t always inclined to take women seriously when we acted like, well, like women.

All around us, cops at gray desks drank their coffee. Loud voices talking, phones ringing, air conditioners buzzing. “So, you’re saying the robbery of your apartment and a group of men chasing you on the streets at two a.m. have something to do with Gwendolyn Applebee?” His gaze never left my legs. It’s hard to sound businesslike to a man when he’s talking to one of your body parts.

I tugged at my skirt. “Correct. Don’t you see? Binnie and I were her best friends.”

He gave me a blank look. “So?”

“That’s only the beginning, Detective. I also know that Gwen would never want herself to be found wearing one of those marsupial things. A fanny pack. She had style. I mean, occasionally her taste in clothing was truly abominable. There was her cargo pants period. They just weren’t right for her figure. Sometimes she’d even pair them with a baggy Planet Hollywood sweatshirt that made her head look like a peanut —”

“Hold on, Ms., um, what was your name?”

“Oz.” I counted down. Ten, nine, eight…here it comes.

An amused glint. “Like the wizard?”

“Exactly.” Remind me to change my name.

“Ms. Oz, I’m familiar with the case, and I can tell you our medical examiner was quite certain there was no struggle.” He opened a file and slid a pair of glasses on for a quick read. “Nothing in the way of breaking and entering at her residence. Prescription antidepressants less than a year ago. Next of kin acknowledged some problems with alcohol. Both the brother and handwriting analyst confirmed that the suicide note was written by the deceased. Pretty open and shut.”

I’d heard it all before and wasn’t convinced. “The suicide note was my next point.” I placed my copy on his desk, since he made no effort to search the file for the one that was most likely in it. “See the first line about the golden priestess of the
sa-zi-ga
? That’s me.”

“What’s you?”

“I am the golden priestess of the
sa-zi-ga
.”

“Congratulations.” He nodded the way you do when humoring someone gone bughouse.

“I realize my dull strawberry blond curls may not look so golden at this moment. I’m overdue for a highlighting.”

“Tell me something. Just what does this crap have to do with your friend’s suicide?”

Time for the hard sell. “Gwendolyn Applebee’s suicide note is not a suicide note at all. It is a beautifully written poem filled with metaphors that contain a covert message. A message written under the eyes of a killer she needed to deceive. And the secrets within it will lead us straight to her murderer.”

“Right. I saw that movie, too. Unfortunately, in the real world most people in a situation like that couldn’t even write their own name, much less compose some kind of mystery poem.”

“Gwendolyn Applebee wasn’t ‘most people.’ She could name every botanical species on the planet. She could read three ancient languages. Her articles were published in academic journals. She was an accomplished poet. And, oh, you should have seen her watercolors.”

“I’m sure they were lovely. Sorry about your friend, Ms. Oz. However —”

“Believe me, this poem is not just a poem. One line refers to a magician. Then there’s the garden of bells and a pearl. A crescent moon. Oh, yes, the loyal sentry. That’s me again. I am the sentry as well as the
sa-zi-ga
priestess.”

“Welcome to the land of Oz,” he murmured, no doubt thinking I wouldn’t hear it. He cleared his throat. “Ms. Oz…”

“It’s
Dr.
Oz, Detective.” Reaching into my purse I handed him my business card. “With all due respect, I am a psychologist, and while Gwendolyn Applebee may have been a complicated woman, she was
not
suicidal.” I didn’t like being ridiculed, and the edge in my voice showed it.

He responded in kind. “I don’t care whether you’re Dr. Oz or the wizard himself. Unless you can come up with some earthshaking details, no way are we going to pursue this case any further.”

And to think I considered giving him a tube of Do-Me-Good personal lubricant as a thank-you gift for reactivating Gwen’s case.

Detective Roach casually glanced down at my card. “Sex therapist?”

“That is correct. And that is what the
sa-zi-ga
is all about. It’s an ancient form of sex therapy that was practiced about four thousand years ago. Remedies for helping men maintain their erections, increasing their ability to pleasure a woman, all sorts of things.”

He broke into a demented grin.

“Do you find this funny, Detective? You think there weren’t premature ejaculators in the days of the pyramids?”

He sat there speechless, his mouth hanging open like a hound dog’s on a hot day. His eyes panned left to right, checking out his colleagues at the surrounding desks. Leaning forward on his elbows, he lowered his voice. “So you’ve actually got patients who are men?”

“Of course.”

“Tell me something.” Detective Roach paused and flicked a glance at my legs and back up to my face. “If a certain man was to make an appointment with you…would this man, uh…you know…would he…”

“Would he what?”

“Get some?”

Oh, what I’d do right now for a can of Raid.

***

By the time I made it back to DUMBO I was still fuming over Detective Roach. I did my best to think happy thoughts while passing through the lobby of my new address. I didn’t feel like advertising my emotional state to my neighbors, even though looking pissed off and ready to kill is considered perfectly acceptable in New York City.

I entered the marble high-ceilinged foyer where Caspian, the concierge, manned his station. Our converted luxury loft had originally been one of several turn-of-the-century warehouses built by an ambitious industrialist. Such businessmen gave birth to Brooklyn’s commercial waterfront. Men like paper mogul, Robert Gair. He owned so many buildings here they once called this neighborhood Gair City. He also invented the corrugated box. Thanks to him our pizza gets delivered to us still hot and with that delightful cardboard taste.

On the sixth floor I opened the door to the loft and saw my sixty-nine-year-old Aunt Lana strutting around in her favorite state—butt naked and smiling in ecstasy. Seeing her classic “before” figure gave me impetus to put in that extra mile on the treadmill. Yep, same genes. My mother’s oldest sister. Unlike Detective Roach, she took the dirty out of
au naturale
. Still, I quickly pulled the door shut behind me. Wouldn’t want the neighbor’s kids to catch another glimpse of her in the nude. Three times was enough.

The bright, uncluttered living room area was flooded with waves of patchouli incense and audio bliss. After twenty years she was still into Kitaro. Aunt Lana knelt in the center of the room beside a small potted plant, studying its leaves. “I’m communing with this begonia. It’s not doing well. I tried rocking it in my arms, but it doesn’t want to be held.”

For most people, New York’s intense pace, competition and high cost of living created an overwhelming sense of urgency that made day-to-day friendliness and sanity a prized commodity. But Lana lived in a time-warp of harmony and balance—made possible by the joint I noticed in the ashtray and the fact that her late husband had been an ad agency kingpin who died leaving her about forty million dollars.

Since Aunt Lana now lived year-round at her house in East Hampton, she’d offered us a discounted rental on her DUMBO condo. Her only request was that she be allowed to make overnight stays. Consequently, the futon bench in my office. Not a problem. Who could refuse such a super deal? After our apartment in Williamsburg was ransacked, Benita and I agreed it had rotten security and negative energies.

Did the two of us actually earn enough to live in a cushy doorman building in a two-thousand-square-foot corner loft with two bedrooms, two baths, an office and floor to ceiling windows? Maybe, if it were in Allentown, Pennsylvania. But not in New York City where idiots like me pay five times the national average.

Warm hug. Big kiss. “Lana, I don’t see Uncle Pete.”

“I closed him inside Benita’s room. This begonia is in a delicate state, and Petey was making his usual offensive remarks.”