Dead Air: A Talk Radio Mystery (8 page)

She looked at me with new interest, as if I had finally said something intelligent. “Most people have no idea what it’s like,” she said, her face hardening. “It’s a lot tougher than it looks. The books and tapes drive the speaking deals, and you have to top yourself each time. It’s all about the numbers, and these tours are murder. There are a million things to think about.”

“I was surprised Guru Sanjay agreed to offer a workshop in our little town,” I said, watching her closely. “I know that he usually speaks to thousands of people at a time in big venues.”

“I’d heard he had a connection to Cypress Grove,” she said hesitantly. “The story was someone from here helped him in the past, and he felt obliged to return the favor.” She stood up and gave me a little smile. “I better get back to the seminar now. Can I have your card?” Her tone was definitely warmer than it had been in the beginning. I fumbled in my bag and handed her my card. “We’ll be here till tomorrow morning,” she said as she turned and left.

I thanked her and sat there for a few minutes, going over my notes. So Guru Sanjay was here in Cypress Grove once before? And Miriam might feel unappreciated by him? Maybe she had put in years of hard work for nothing? Who bene fitted from his death? Had he left his fortune to Miriam? Would she be running his empire now that he was in a galaxy far, far away?

These were all issues worth investigating, the “story behind the story,” as Cyrus is fond of saying. But at the moment, I had a more urgent matter on my mind. I needed to make a pit stop at the Seabreeze ladies’ room before heading back to the station.

I was surprised to find a weeping Sanjay-ite huddled in a love seat in the cozy anteroom that led to the actual rest-room. She was young and blond, probably in her early twenties. It looked as if she’d been crying for quite a while, because her face was blotchy and her eyelids puffy. She was clutching a tear-stained copy of
Heal the Cosmos
and swiping her nose ineffectively with a paper towel.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, obviously intruding on a private moment. “I’m just going to use the . . . uh . . . facilities,” I said, heading for the tile-walled room with the sinks and toilets. She nodded, sniffling, and then my psychology training kicked in—how could I leave her there in distress?

I heard myself saying, “Is there anything I can do to help you? A drink of water?”

She shook her head, drew her knees up on the couch, and gave full vent to her grief. “I can’t—I can’t believe he’s gone,” she said between sobs. She obviously hadn’t finished reading
Heal the Cosmos
or she’d know he wasn’t really “gone,” just transitioned, but I decided not to point this out to her.

“Did you know the guru very well?” I said softly, slipping into an armchair next to her.

She nodded. “For over five years. I’ve read all his books and I’ve gone to all his seminars.”

Wow, quite the devoted little acolyte
, I thought.

“So you’re a follower . . .”

“Oh, I meant more to him than that,” she said miserably. “He has millions of followers, you know.”

I nodded sagely. She meant more to him? What was she talking about? Had I struck pay dirt again?

She leaned forward, her eyes locking on mine, her voice soft and full of tears. “I was going to take over the number-one spot in his organization.” She dabbed her eyes. “He was going to announce it this weekend, and now it’s all gone.” She threw one arm out in a hopeless gesture, railing against fate. “It’s over!” she said, jumping to her feet. “Now that dreadful woman will run his empire right into the ground, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.” She turned and stormed out into the hallway.

I sat back, stunned. This was more than I’d bargained for. The dreadful woman had to be Miriam Dobosh. Was there really going to be a change in command? Or had Guru Sanjay been toying with this sweet (and pretty) young girl? And did Miriam Dobosh have an inkling about what was going on?

I stood up shakily, pondering my next move. First a pit stop and then—I jumped back in surprise when a tall, stocky figure came barreling out of one of the stalls.

Miriam Dobosh. It was like the scene in
Fatal Attraction
when Glenn Close suddenly pops up in Anne Archer’s bathroom, and I staggered backward in shock.

“She’s insane,” she hissed, her face close to mine. “Insane!” At this angle, with her flat, broad features and glittery eyes, Miriam looked a little demented herself.

“The girl who was just in here?” I said stupidly.

“Her name is Olivia Riggs.” She shook her head up and down, nearly dislodging her Jackie Kennedy hat. “Completely delusional. She was infatuated with Sanjay. Sanjay wanted nothing to do with her. She’s an annoying little pest.”

She glanced in the mirror, grabbed the hat pin, and viciously jabbed it into her pillbox to anchor the hat more firmly on her head. Our eyes met for a moment in the glass, and her mouth was tight, her face contorted with rage.

“So you’re saying there never was any chance that she was going to—” I wasn’t sure how to tactfully finish the sentence.

“Take my job? Oh, please.” Miriam gave a sardonic chuckle. “The girl has the IQ of a pigeon. She could never do what I do, not in a million years.” She tapped her gray curls in a self-satisfied way. “It was all in her head,” she said meaningfully. “She has a vivid imagination.”

I did my business and scurried out, not sure whether I could take any more surprises.

Chapter 8

Of course I knew I had one more big surprise waiting for me back at the town house.

Lark. I glanced at my watch. In just a few hours, I’d know what really happened the previous night with Guru Sanjay.

But first I had another show to do. Two shows in one day, but this was an easy one—no callers, just a guest interview. We’d rerun this show for a holiday broadcast—a girl has to get some time off. I peeled out of the Seabreeze parking lot in a cloud of blue smoke, heading straight for the station. My guest was Dr. Hyram Rosenkrantz, author of
You and Your Colon: A Fragile Alliance
. We were low on mental health experts and Vera Mae had the bright idea of adding some shows on wellness and lifestyle issues.

I waggled my fingers at Irina, who frowned at me and pointed to the giant wall clock over the reception desk. “You are cutting it close to the bone,” she said reproachfully. “Vera Mae is going pecans, wondering where you are. And your guest, he is looking to be losing it.”

“I’m running a little late, sorry!” I tossed the apology over my shoulder as I sprinted down the hall. Grabbing a donut out of the break room barely broke my stride, and I kept on running straight into the booth, just as Vera Mae scurried to her spot at the board.

She glared at me through the window. “Holy buckets, girl, where’ve you been? Big Jim was going to rerun one of his sports broadcasts to fill the time slot.”

I slapped my headphones on as Ray, the intern, hustled Dr. Rosenkrantz into the booth and settled him in a chair. My spirits sank when I got a look at my guest. He was a Pillsbury Doughboy of a man with a mass of yellow-white facial hair that nearly obliterated his pudgy features.

No time to offer him mineral water or coffee, not a moment to introduce myself or to make any attempt to put him at ease. The eminent doctor treated me to a scowl as I gave him a breezy smile. He was going to be a disaster on the air—I just knew it.

No time to worry about that, though, because we were going live in ten seconds!

I’d like to say the next two hours flew by, but really, how much can you say about colons? Dr. Rosenkrantz wasn’t the most scintillating guest in the world, but in all fairness, he had a pretty grim topic—flatulence, constipation, and diver ticulitis, all leading to the dreaded IBS, or irritable bowel syndrome.

The thrill of it all nearly sucked the air out of the booth.

His message was primarily cautionary: Be kind to your intestines and they will be kind to you. A sort of gastrointestinal Boy Scout oath.

I waved my whole-wheat donut at him to show I was with the program, but he seemed unimpressed and looked mournfully over his notes during the commercial breaks. Perhaps he needed a little more roughage himself?

Note to self: Ask Cyrus to find more entertaining guests.

Something to ponder: Did the fact that Guru Sanjay turned up dead after doing my show hurt my chances of getting A-list guests?

Later that evening, after stopping at Johnny Chen’s for our take-out order, I cautiously unlocked the front door to the town house. I tiptoed inside, wondering whether Lark was awake and functioning, and was pleased to see her curled up on the sofa watching television with Pugsley at her side.

Then I noticed that she was staring blankly at the Weather Channel, and I knew her mind wasn’t on rainstorms in Topeka or the blustery Santa Anas in Southern California.

“Hey,” I said, setting the little white cardboard cartons with wire handles from Johnny Chen’s on the coffee table in front of her.

“Is that dinner?” she asked listlessly.

“No, I adopted a bunch of goldfish from Mike’s Marine World.”

I took a close look at her and saw that her eyes were red rimmed from crying.

“Bad joke,” I apologized, handing Pugsley his steamed dumpling on a napkin. He swallowed it in one gulp, and I took the remote out of Lark’s hands to kill the distracting chatter about cumulus clouds forming in the Pacific North-west.

“We need to talk,” I said gently. It was dim in the room, and I switched on the ginger-jar lamp on the end table, flooding the room with soft pink light.

“Okay.” A tiny, ghostly voice and a hopeless shrug.

“But we can eat first if you want,” I added, taking in the stricken expression on her face. Her mascara was smudged from crying and she looked very small and vulnerable with her blue and white vintage afghan tucked around her legs.

She reached for her carton of veggie stir-fry and stabbed at the contents in a desultory way with a plastic fork. We ate in uncomfortable silence side by side for a few minutes, with Pugsley hovering around us like a hungry jackal, watching our every bite, his little feet tapping a staccato on the polished oak floor.

Finally Pugsley curled up under the coffee table. The town house became very still except for the solemn ticking of the grandfather clock in the entryway. Why wasn’t Lark speaking up, telling me she was innocent? I was convinced she had nothing to do with Guru Sanjay’s death, but for some reason, I needed to hear her say the words.

Then I gave myself a mental head slap. What in the world was wrong with me? How could I even think Lark could be capable of violence? She’s so softhearted, she even rescues ants, carrying them outside in an envelope and setting them down gently in the garden.

The idea of her killing someone was ridiculous. Even someone as odious as Guru Sanjay.

Yet, something wasn’t right. My stomach started to prick with anxiety, and my nerves were strung as tight as piano wire.

I drew in a long, slow breath, hoping to relax, and found that my chest ached from the effort. I shoveled in more veggie lo mein to soothe my jangled nerves with a little carb rush. Chinese food therapy: works every time.

“Okay,” Lark said finally, breaking the silence. She shot a sidelong glance at me, pushed the afghan aside, and sat up straighter. “I think I’m ready to tell you what happened last night.”

Finally, the moment of truth! I knew what was coming next. Lark would tell me what I already knew—that she had nothing to do with Guru Sanjay’s death and it was all a case of mistaken identity. The kind of thing that could happen to anybody—right?

“Okay, let’s hear it.”

She took a long, shuddering breath, and then she let out a little sigh. Her blue eyes were shining with intensity and her pupils were dilated. Her gaze dropped to her hands, folded primly in her lap.

“Maggie, I think I may have killed him.”

I felt like I’d been sucker punched and nearly dropped my carton of noodles on the polished oak floor, causing Pugsley to yip with excitement. My breath caught in my throat, as if it couldn’t make it all the way down to my lungs.

“What? This is a joke, right?”

“It’s no joke. It never should have happened this way. I never meant to hurt Guru Sanjay.”

“I believe you, but start from the beginning.” I tried to rein in my rampaging emotions. So much for eight years of psychoanalytic training! I was an emotional wreck, and my thoughts were swirling like dry leaves in the wind as I struggled to make sense of what she was saying.

“I’ll try, but some of the evening is a blur. I think I must have blocked part of it out of my memory. I told that to Detective Martino, but he didn’t believe me,” she added ruefully. “He thinks I’m guilty, you know.”

“Don’t worry about Detective Martino right now. He thinks everybody’s guilty. Just tell me what happened,” I said firmly, “and don’t leave anything out.” I gave her a sharp look. “That bit about going out to the drugstore last night wasn’t true, was it?”

“No, it was just an excuse,” she said, flushing a little. “I went straight next door to the Seabreeze as soon as I left here. I knew you’d think it was crazy, so I felt too embarrassed to tell you the truth.”

So Carmela was right, I thought grimly. I wondered whether Lark knew she’d been spotted in the hotel lobby and had probably already been positively identified by the front-desk clerk. That must be why Martino had dragged her down to the station this morning. Otherwise, why would he have reason to suspect her?

“I was going to call Guru Sajay on the house phone to ask him to autograph my copy of
Heal the Cosmos
—”

“You had it with you, right? That’s why you were carrying that big yellow Coach knockoff; you had the book in there.”

Lark nodded, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. With her choppy blond haircut and winsome features, she looked about twelve years old.