I watched Ted hurry over to the front desk and allowed myself a sad little sigh at the way his brown hair looped s.e.x ily over one eye and his broad, muscular shoulders filled out his blazer. There he was: smart, handsome, successful, kind-hearted, and single. Cypress Grove's most eligible bachelor, everything you could want in a man.

And he wanted--me!

There's nothing he wouldn't do for me. This is the guy who surprised me by ordering a special "Beefy Liver doggy birthday cake" for Pugsley from the Sweet Cakes bakery over on Main Street. He sent over the hotel gardener with a bouquet of yellow roses last week, and hand delivered a pot of chicken soup last month when Lark had the flu. He even power washed my deck when I said it was looking a little grungy.

h.e.l.l, he'd probably paint my bathroom if I asked him to. So what's the problem? Okay, maybe I'm crazy. But here's the hitch.

Call me shallow, but can you imagine having hot monkey s.e.x with a guy who says things like "skedaddle"?

I rest my case.

Chapter 7.

I waited until Ted disappeared into his office behind the front desk and watched while he shut the door behind him. There was one person who might hold the key to the puzzle.

Miriam Dobosh, right hand to the guru himself.

After taking another quick peek to make sure Ted's office door was still firmly shut, I bounced to my feet and trotted along the back hallway to the stairs to the second floor and the Magnolia Ballroom. The double bra.s.s doors were closed, but I could hear the soft murmur of voices inside, along with some ethereal music. At least I think it was supposed to be ethereal. It sounded like whale sounds, a mournful elegy punctuated by a series of squeaks that reminded me of Pugsley's squeeze toy.

Cautiously, I opened the door a crack, only to find myself face-to-face with yet another of the Sopranos-type body-guards. He was a Goliath. I'm five-ten, and I had to crane my neck to look up at him.

"This is a closed workshop," he rasped, all set to slam the door in my face like I was the Avon lady offering him a free lip gloss.

"But I've been invited!" I protested.

"Yeah?" His eyes slid over my short-sleeved salmon-colored Tommy Bahama blouse and tan pencil skirt. "If you're a registered conference guest, go down to the front desk and pick up your name tag." His tone was brusque and his black eyes glittered as cold and hard as river rocks.

"I've got a press pa.s.s," I said quickly. I reached for my pa.s.s and found to my horror it was missing. Hoping for the best, I pulled out my laminated Cypress Grove Public Library card and waved it at him. A beat of tense silence fell between us.

He ignored the card, so I shoved it back in my bag. Either he doesn't read a lot or he was on to me.

"Look, I'm with WYME, and I interviewed Guru Sanjay on my radio show yesterday. We were going to continue our conversation last night and I was shocked to learn he had died."

This earned me an even icier glare. Oops! Nix the word "die." I'd forgotten that death doesn't exist in the world of Sanjay Gingii. Time for damage control.

"I mean before he . . . um . . . transitioned to another dimension. He asked me to attend the conference today as his special guest."

"I don't know nothing about that." He had a rough New York accent (maybe Bed-Stuy?) and looked like his nose had been broken a few times. His beefy arms were bulging out of his black Team Sanjay T-shirt, and I couldn't take my eyes off his neck. It was as thick as a sequoia and decorated with a creepy weird tat that looked like a forest of kudzu vines gone wild.

"The guru and I bonded with each other," I went on quickly, "and he was going to explain more of his metaphysical theories to me. Today. At this workshop."

My stomach was p.r.i.c.king with anxiety, and I tried to ignore the stream of pure adrenaline shooting through me. If this Neanderthal wouldn't let me in, how would I ever gather any information?

"Do we have a late arrival?" A tall woman dressed from head to toe in navy blue polyester appeared behind him. A navy pillbox hat balanced tipsily on her frizzy gray hair, and she looked ghostly pale, either because she was grief stricken or because she wasn't wearing a smidgen of makeup. She pushed past bouncer guy to give me a quick once-over. From the pinched expression on her face I could tell she didn't like what she saw.

She was pretty hefty and looked as if she had bought out the entire "slimming collection" from the Home Shopping Channel. Not a natural fiber anywhere on her body.

I hoped no one lit a match around her--she'd go up in flames like a human torch.

"Maggie Walsh from WYME," I said quickly. I extended my hand, and she reluctantly shook it. A hint of alarm registered in her eyes, but she said quietly, "I'll handle this, Bruno," waving the thug away. I tried to peer into the ballroom, but she closed the door behind her and stepped into the hallway.

"Is there something I can help you with? I'm Miriam Dobosh, executive a.s.sistant to Guru Sanjay."

Miriam Dobosh! I had hit pay dirt on the very first try. An amazing piece of luck. The detective G.o.ds were with me.

"I just have a few questions to ask you," I said, gesturing to a pair of cushy wicker armchairs arranged in a conversation nook a few feet away. I whipped out a notebook and pen before she could change her mind.

"We're right in the middle of a seminar--"

"It'll only take a second, honest!" I put on my most winning smile, but I knew that this was going to be a hard sell. "We're putting together a eulogy for the guru--"

"A eulogy? That's for dead people," she snapped.

"Sorry, I meant to say a retrospective." I paused for a beat, and she lowered herself into the chair next to me. "I just wanted to get a few quotes from you. Something that the guru's followers would want to know--you know, a personal anecdote or two. I'm sure you have some wonderful memories of him."

I pulled out my tape recorder and slid it onto the coffee table in front of us.

"I'll be taking notes as well; this is just to refresh my memory," I said, catching her frown. I know that people feel intimidated when you whip out a tape recorder, which is why I never taped my psychotherapy sessions with my clients back in New York. But I thought it might give me some journalistic cred (since my public library card clearly wasn't cutting it).

Miriam was already drawing away from me, leaning back lightly in her chair with her arms folded over her cushiony chest. Uh-oh. Closed body language. I knew I had to act fast to rea.s.sure her or she'd snap shut like a North Atlantic clam.

"I want to make sure I capture every word." I looked straight into her eyes and hoped that she fell for the bait. The guru's words preserved for generations to come! Who could resist the offer? Apparently Miriam couldn't.

"Well, I suppose I could tell you a few things . . ."

I let her ramble on for a few minutes, hoping she didn't notice that the red light on my tape recorder wasn't blinking. I'd slapped a WYME sticker on it so it would look official but never remembered to buy batteries for it.

"In the last five years, Guru Sanjay's appeal has skyrocketed. He's made esoteric metaphysical concepts accessible to a ma.s.s-market audience," she droned, as if she were reading from a press release.

"Hmm." I nodded, encouraging her.

"He's become such a pop-culture icon, he's known all over the world. If you say the name Sanjay, everyone knows who you're talking about, just like Oprah, Bono, or Dee pak."

Or Flipper, I added silently.

I sneaked a look at my watch. There was something oddly flat about her voice, and underneath all the hype, I wondered whether I sensed a note of something sinister in her tone. A touch of jealousy? A flare of resentment? I knew that all was not right with the head of Team Sanjay, and I decided to foster a guess.

In psych terms, they would call this an "interpretation." You ignore the surface of the speech and go for the subtext, the meaning behind what the client is saying. On The Sopranos , this is the point where Dr. Melfi would say to Tony, "So, what I hear you saying is . . ."

"Miriam, it sounds like you practically ran the whole organization. You were the real power behind the throne, the person responsible for his success. I hope that he appreciated you."

Her eyes flickered with surprise and then clouded. Bingo. Then I realized that I had been as subtle as a brick to the forehead. Time to rephrase or I'd lose her again. "I mean, it's obvious that the guru relied on you to keep things going smoothly."

"Well, he did," she admitted, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle in her polyester skirt. "I've been with him from the beginning. When he was just starting out."

"Really?" I pretended to make a note of it. "Can you tell me something about those early years? When it was just the two of you building his empire?"

"It wasn't much of an empire back then," she said, her mouth tightening. "Sanjay was giving seminars to civic groups at community centers. Sometimes there were only thirty people in the audience at a fire hall out in the boondocks in some Podunk little town. Sanjay self-published his first book, and we used to sell copies out of the trunk of his car."

"But somehow people were drawn to him and he became famous. I bet that had a lot to do with your promotional skills."

"Oh, I wouldn't go so far as to say that." She shook her head, her double chin quivering. "It was Sanjay's gift that drew people, his understanding of the cosmos and human emotions. I just handled all the administrative details for him. You have to remember, Sanjay was the greatest thinker of this generation, not someone who could be bothered with the mundane details of running a business."

Hmm. So it seemed that she'd hitched her star to the guru's many years ago. But where had it gotten her? There was something about her tone that made me think she wasn't thrilled with being relegated to an outer ring of the Planet Sanjay. I wondered whether her fortunes had risen as rapidly as his. Judging from her shiny polyester suit, they hadn't.

"So all the books and the podcasts and the teleseminars came later?" I tried to look awed. "You must be a marketing genius. There's a lot of compet.i.tion in the motivational field. I know plenty of psychologists who can't get a book deal or attract a national audience. They have the academic credentials, but they don't know how to get their name out there or how to connect with people who can guide their careers." I managed a bashful smile. "I wrote a self-help book myself, and it sank like a stone."

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 d.a.m.n 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 gla.s.s, 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 ma.s.s 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?