Wicked Craving Read online

  The smile disappeared from Bonnie Saperstein’s face, and a fire burned in her eyes with an intensity that Savannah had to admit was a bit scary.

  “Oh, you don’t have to buy me coffee,” the woman said. “Let me buy you some coffee. I have quite a lot to say about Robert Wellman.”

  Chapter 15

  Savannah sat with Dr. Bonnie Saperstein in a cozy horseshoe-shaped booth in La Rosita Cantina and sipped her virgin margarita, wishing it had lost its virginity at the hands of the bartender, the way Bonnie’s had.

  There were advantages to being off duty.

  But whether her margarita had the zip of tequila or not, it still had a salted rim and the tangy citrus taste. And as she looked around the cantina, she savored the ambiance of the place, tequila buzz or not.

  The gleaming white stucco walls were decorated with brilliantly colored sombreros, serapes, and matador pictures. Patterns of light danced on the copper-topped tables with their tin luminaries all hand punched with delicate designs. Piñatas in various animal forms hung from the ceiling in each corner, all lending the place the laid-back, festive air of Mexico. The music of the Gipsy Kings filled the onion-and-pepper-scented air.

  And the enormous bowl of guacamole and accompanying corn chips in the center of the table didn’t hurt, either.

  “This is a nice midday treat,” Savannah said as she scooped some of the creamy dip onto a warm chip. “I’m glad I happened to catch you coming out of your office.”

  Bonnie Saperstein gave her a sly, knowing grin. “And how long did you have to hang out there in the parking lot before you ‘happened’ to catch me?”

  “Just five or ten minutes. Not long at all as stakeouts go.”

  Bonnie chuckled. “It must be fascinating, what you do.”

  “Stakeouts and report writing aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. But if you catch a bad guy, or gal, and get justice for the victims and their families, it’s pretty satisfying.” Savannah took a sip from her margarita, then licked the salt off her upper lip. “Tell me about what you do. Hypnosis for weight loss and addiction recovery…now that sounds fascinating.”

  “The human mind is fascinating. I never get tired of seeing what we do, how we struggle, the coping mechanisms we invent just to get through this adventure called ‘life.’”

  Savannah decided to dive right in, even at the risk of ruining the instant rapport they had established. “Dr. Saperstein,” she said, “does hypnosis really work?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So, what Wellman’s doing…selling people those weight loss CDs…in your opinion, that’s all legit?”

  Saperstein’s demeanor changed in an instant. And, once again, Savannah saw a deep and potent rage flare in her eyes.

  “Hold on,” she said. “I said hypnosis works. For a practitioner who knows how to use it, it can be a powerful tool. When used with other forms of therapy, it can make all the difference for some patients.”

  “But Robert Wellman isn’t one of those practitioners?”

  “Robert Wellman is a leech, feeding on people who have enough sorrow and difficulties already. The last thing they need is the false hope of a quick fix for their complex problems. He’s far worse than a thief who robs people in a dark alley.”

  Savannah leaned back in her seat, instinctively distancing herself from the waves of anger that were coming at her from across the table. She found herself wondering why Saperstein felt so intensely about the topic. To disapprove of a colleague was one thing, but this degree of hostility…?

  “What is it about his approach that upsets you most?” Savannah asked her.

  Bonnie thought for a moment before answering. “I suppose it’s the fact that he’s selling half-truths. And half a lie is worse than a lie.”

  Savannah nodded. “I agree with that. You can see a lie coming a mile off, but a half-lie can suck you in.”

  “Exactly. And he’s sucking people in by the thousands. He’s telling them that by listening to him, they can instantly reprogram their subconscious minds and lose weight.”

  “And they can’t?”

  “Not by listening, once or twice, to the junk he’s selling. No.”

  “But don’t you sell tapes and CDs and DVDs yourself?”

  “I do. And on my tapes I, also, guide my listener through relaxation techniques and visualizations. I talk to them about them releasing the extra weight, surrendering it to the universe, letting go of painful memories, and self-limiting, defeatist attitudes.”

  “That sounds like the sort of things he says, too.”

  “Yes, he does. But the difference between Wellman and me is—I also have my patients visualize themselves eating wholesome food in healthy portions, daily moving their bodies in some form of exercise that they love, and actively reducing stress in their lives. I encourage them to examine their life priorities and rearrange them so that food isn’t their best friend and consolation.”

  She took a deep breath and a long drink from her margarita. Savannah watched her, thinking that here was a woman who was, indeed, passionate about her work. And she decided that she genuinely liked Dr. Bonnie Saperstein.

  “What Wellman is selling,” Bonnie continued, “is magic thinking, a hurtful fantasy. He’s not just robbing them of their money. It’s far worse than that. He’s setting them up for more self-loathing when they fail…again…like they’ve failed so many times before.”

  Savannah nodded, understanding. “And the last thing anyone needs when they’re trying to make a major change for the better in their life is more discouragement and self-loathing.”

  “Yes. Because, no matter how much we all would like to think otherwise, nobody is going to lose weight and keep it off without changing what they eat and how much they move. Everything else is a magician’s smoke and mirrors.”

  “So, I guess it’s safe to assume that you hate Robert Wellman?”

  “Yes. I do.” She closed her eyes for a moment and seemed to be making an effort to quiet herself. “There are very few people on this earth whom I even dislike, but I despise him. And not just for the reasons we’ve just discussed. He’s a vile man and a disgrace to our profession on so many levels.”

  And speaking of disgraceful conduct…Savannah thought. “I understand that a former client of his is now a patient of yours. Karen Burns.”

  “I’m sorry, Savannah, but I can’t discuss any of my patients with you.”

  “I understand, and I won’t ask you to. But I’d like to tell you what I know about her, okay?”

  Bonnie nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “She says that she’s been having a sexual relationship with Wellman. She also tells us that she’s pregnant with his baby.”

  Bonnie said nothing, but she didn’t look at all surprised. Apparently, this wasn’t news to her.

  “It seems she’s ass-over-teakettle in love with him,” Savannah said. “Go figure.”

  Bonnie shrugged. “Not all romances are the storybook kind…with knights on white horses and fairy tale endings.”

  “That’s for sure. A lot of those knights on horses turn out to be donkeys’ behinds.”

  Both women helped themselves to another guacamole-laden chip. Then Savannah said, “You have to wonder how people get drawn into these situations…spending their money and pinning their hopes on Wellman’s scam materials.”

  She thought of Karen Burns, the baby she was carrying in her belly, and the father of that child who wouldn’t even tell his lover his real name. She thought of Lydia Mahoney and her scarred lip. “You wonder why they stay with a guy long after they find out he’s a monster.”

  “Each person is different. If you talk to one hundred people, you’ll find they have one hundred reasons why they allow themselves to be deceived by the cheats of this world. Most of them are in terrible pain and looking outside themselves for relief. My job is to turn their search inward.”

  “And I suppose Karen Burns is in terrible pain. I met her mother. Sheez-z-z, what a
mouth on that one!”

  Dr. Saperstein didn’t reply to that, either, but again, Savannah could tell it was old news to her.

  “Here’s what I’m wondering,” Savannah said. “I’m wondering if Robert Wellman murdered our victim. And I’m wondering if Karen Burns is unstable enough to either help him do it or at least provide a false alibi for him.”

  Bonnie was silent for a long time as she stared into the frosty drink in her hand. Finally, she said, “I can’t tell you anything specific about Karen. Even if it weren’t illegal, I wouldn’t do it. My patients trust me with their deepest secrets, and to me that’s a sacred trust. But I’ll tell you what I know about women…at least some of them.”

  “Okay,” Savannah said. “That would be helpful.”

  “Some women…for myriad, sad reasons…have terribly low self-esteem. They hate their lives, and they want a way out. They look for a man to provide that new life.”

  Savannah nodded. “Oh, I know the story all too well. Prince Charming comes riding through the forest glen on that white steed of his, red cape flapping in the breeze, and he carries them away to his castle in the clouds. That’s a pretty popular fantasy. We heard it all the time growing up as little girls.”

  “Yes, but once we become big girls, there are no more excuses. It’s time to get real and figure out how things really are. We have to figure out our own life plans, not just look for some guy who will allow us to attach ourselves to him and his dreams.”

  “But some women never make that distinction, between fairy tales and life. It’s deeply engrained in us from the start.”

  “So true. And when certain women receive attention from a man—especially one who’s rich or powerful—they start to believe that their wonderful, new life has arrived. That perfect man is going to sweep them into his arms and take them to his world, a utopia of his making, where they’ll always have enough money, be young, be healthy, be beautiful and slender.”

  “And when it doesn’t work out…”

  “When the dream starts to fall apart, these women become desperate. Their fear takes over—that terrible fear of being stuck in their pain like they were before. Only now it’s worse because, once again, they’re without hope. They’ll do almost anything to hold it together.”

  Savannah leaned across the table and looked deep into the doctor’s eyes. “They’ll do anything?” she said.

  Bonnie Saperstein returned the steady look without flinching. “I truly believe…some of them will do anything.”

  Chapter 16

  “Other than your front room and your backyard, this here park is my favorite place in California,” Gran told Savannah as they sat together in folding lawn chairs in the shade of an enormous oak tree and watched the town’s citizens enjoying the downtown park.

  An hour earlier, they had tossed the lawn chairs into the Mustang’s trunk, grabbed a couple of cold sodas from the refrigerator and a big zip-shut bag full of Savannah’s home-baked, chocolate chip and pecan cookies, and taken off for the park.

  Now they sat, enjoying each other, their snacks, and the park’s ambiance. All around them, children and dogs chased Frisbees and balls, wieners and hamburgers cooked on the barbecue pits, kids dug in sandboxes, and lovers lazed around on the grass, exchanging hugs and kisses.

  All was well in San Carmelita. At least on this square block.

  Across the street sat the old mission in all of its ancient glory. One of a chain of twenty-one missions that had been built along the Pacific coast by the Franciscan friars, the San Carmelita Mission had stood in gentle, quiet dignity for over two hundred years. Her strong, thick, adobe walls had withstood earthquakes, fires, and even a tidal wave, though they hadn’t protected the church treasures from pirates in her early years.

  She had been lovingly restored after each catastrophe—man-made and natural—and her gleaming white walls, dark beams, red-tile roof, and lofty bell tower drew tourists by the thousands every year. Everyone wanted a picture of themselves with their arm around the statue of the founder, Padre Serra.

  It also didn’t hurt that the mission was only a few blocks from some of the most beautiful beaches in Southern California.

  “I just feel close to the Lord when I’m sitting here under this tree, lookin’ at that church,” Gran told Savannah. “What a work of faith a building like that is. The people who accomplished that, all those years ago, must have been truly devoted to God.”

  Savannah thought of all the Native Americans who had been forced into slavery and died under harsh conditions building that structure. But she decided not to say anything. Why ruin it for Gran?

  “I’m tickled that I’m getting to spend some quality time with you,” Savannah said. “I feel like either you or I have been on the run since you got here. Me investigating this case with Dirk and you gattin’ around with either Tammy or Ryan and John.”

  “Don’t you worry about me,” Gran said. “I’ve been having myself a good time. Riding that merry-go-round was the most fun I’ve had in ages. That’s about the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life—’cept you on the day you was born.”

  Savannah leaned over and took Gran’s hand in hers. “Ah,” she said, “don’t make me cry. I’m PMSing, and it wouldn’t take much for me to tear up.”

  “Well, it’s true, Savannah girl. You made me a grandma. That’s a mighty special moment in any woman’s life.”

  Savannah did a bit of mental math. “Oh, mercy,” she said. “I just realized something. When I was born, you were younger than I am now! That’s a scary thought.”

  Gran laughed. “Not to me. It was the most natural thing in the world. I was ready for it.”

  “You didn’t mind becoming a grandma?”

  Gran squeezed her hand. “I thought I might mind a little bit, before you were born. But once you were here, I looked into that beautiful little face of yours, you wrapped those tiny sweet fingers around my pinky, and I knew—I sure as shootin’ didn’t mind becoming your grandma.”

  Savannah thought about the dining table there at Gran’s house, where she had eaten most of her meals as a child. It was actually a dining table sandwiched between two card tables, one on each end.

  She thought of all the piles of laundry, mountains of it, that had been done every single day. Except Sunday. Sunday was sacred and everyone rested on the Sabbath.

  At least, as much as a family with nine children could rest.

  Much of that laundry wasn’t permanent press fabric, which mean that either Gran or Savannah spent many hours standing at the ironing board, steaming and pressing clothes on steamy, oppressive Georgia summer days.

  And it had to be done because no Reid kid went to school dirty or wrinkled. Gran wouldn’t abide it.

  The washing machine and the clothesline were always filled with dresses, jeans, shirts, blouses, and underwear galore that had seen better days. Some of the clothes had seen better years, as they were handed down from one kid to the next and to the next.

  Receiving a new outfit was usually reserved for a Christmas present or a birthday gift.

  She thought of what it must have cost in money, time, and energy to buy and prepare enough food to cover that table three times a day and fill the bellies of nine perpetually famished children. “I don’t know how you did it,” she said. “Raising all of us like that.”

  “We did it. You and me and Pa…till he took sick.”

  Savannah was tempted to argue with her, but then she remembered a heck of a lot of potato mashing and dish washing. Not to mention all that time spent gardening and selling any extra vegetables and fruits to other folks in town. Anything to make an extra dollar was part of the job description when you were the firstborn in a big family.

  “Well, that’s what happens when you’re the oldest,” Savannah said. And your mother’s too busy hefting drinks in the local bar to mess with a stove or an ironing board, she added to herself. “I’m sorry Shirley put you in that position,” she said. “Leaving you to rai
se her brood.”

  “Don’t you ever apologize to me for that,” Gran said in her best pseudostern voice. “I’m sorry Shirley didn’t do right by you kids, but as for me? She did me a favor. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

  “Not even when Marietta had boyfriends climbing through the bedroom window at all times of the night?”

  “I could’ve done without that.”

  “Or when Macon let the air out of the pastor’s tires when he came calling that Sunday afternoon?”

  “Please, don’t remind me. I prefer to remember those days through a rosy pink haze.”

  “Called denial?”

  “It works for me. Don’t mess with it.”

  Savannah laughed, then squinted her eyes, looking across the expanse of green grass at a figure walking toward them. “I declare,” she said, “I do believe that’s Dirk, coming our way.”

  “I reckon it is. What do you suppose he’s doing here?”

  “I can tell by his face that something’s wrong,” Savannah said. “And knowing him, he’s just gotta complain to somebody about it or he’ll have a conniption.”

  “He hunted you down and came over here just so’s he’d have somebody to gripe to?”

  “Yeap. That’s Dirk for you.”

  “Why didn’t he just call you up on the phone?”

  “It’s not as much fun as bellyaching in person.”

  Dirk hurried up to them, and he certainly did look disgruntled about something.

  Some kid threw a Frisbee that struck him squarely on the chest, and he didn’t even pause for a moment to yell at them. So Savannah knew it had to be bad.

  “Man, I am so bummed,” he announced when he reached them. Turning to Gran, he gave her a brief smile and a nod. “Hi, Granny. Good to see you.”

  “Good to see you, too, sugar.” Gran gave him a closer look. “Boy, you feeling okay? Your color’s a bit offish there. Kinda orange.”

  “So I’ve heard.” His frown firmly back in place, he turned back to Savannah. “This just stinks. Wait’ll you hear this.”