It took her half an hour to tell that Minster was dead; that he really had drowned.
She ended, saying, “It was his penance, his own way of finding salvation and deliverance. You can rejoice in that.”
As she finished, a warm gust of air bloomed out of the mangroves, dense with iodine and sulfur. No Mas, at anchor, shifted beneath the stars like a slow weather vane.
I tried to change the subject, but Sally wasn’t done with it. After a few minutes, she said, “So Geoff really is gone. I feel bad because we’d become strangers.”
“People change,” Tomlinson said gently. “No one really knows what goes on in the heart of another human being. We probe and pretend. But few of us ever truly connect with another.”
I said, “It seems odd for someone like your husband, the entrepreneurial type-an intelligent guy-to be taken in by a cult leader.”
“I would’ve agreed until I started learning about it,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe how many successful people join the Ashram. Some of the names-famous people; people with money-I was shocked.”
Still speaking softly, in his reflective mode, Tomlinson said, “She’s right. The Ashram and organizations like it appeal to two basic types: the successful, proactive sort and the homeless.
“I was telling Doc, a lot of it’s stolen from Scientology. If you work hard, stay disciplined, do what they call your ‘au diting,’ you’ll keep moving up the spiritual ladder. Goal-oriented people like that.”
He added, “I think for some of them that there’s so much pressure in their professions, it’s a relief to finally let go. To stop worrying, and have someone tell them what to do for a change.”
Sally said, “That’s what happened to Geoff. He’d already started building his theme villages. Worked twelve-, fourteen-hour days, then couldn’t sleep at night, worrying over details, money.”
I said, “Theme villages? I thought he did shopping malls. That sort of thing.”
“In the beginning, yes, malls were his specialty. But then he came up with this theme-village idea-he was a genius when it came to marketing.”
Geoff’s idea was a variation of the theme-park industry that has become synonymous with the plasticized, theater ized and stucco grotesquerie that too many people believe is Florida. It was to buy up large tracts of raw land in Florida and south Georgia, and build gated, turnkey villages. Each village would have a unique theme, built to attract people who shared passionate interests.
He built his first theme community in the rolling pasture-lands north of Gainesville. It was called Cross Country-a lush, secure village designed to appeal to fitness hobbyists.
There were miles of wooded running trails and bike paths. There were lap pools and fitness centers. There were artificial rock towers designed to challenge beginner, intermediate and expert climbers. The village employed its own staff of triathlon, marathon and fitness coaches-all part of the monthly maintenance fees.
Cross Country was such a success that Minster began to build three carbon-copy villages-one outside Atlanta, another near Lauderdale, the third, north of Cape Coral.
“It was way too much, too soon,” Sally said. “That’s when he began to have cash-flow problems. It got worse and worse until he just couldn’t handle it anymore. Instead of hustling off to the office every day, he began to avoid work. Hated the mention of it. Same with his obligations.
“He bought a Harley; stayed out all night sometimes. He began hanging out with what I’d call weirdo types-” She turned and looked at Tomlinson. “Old hippies, no offense.”
“None taken,” Tomlinson said, amused.
“It was like he went through the adolescence he’d never had. He was smoking marijuana, going to bars, hanging around Coconut Grove and South Beach. Then he took up the martial arts, and started studying meditation.
“By that time, I was in my corporate-wife mode. So I’m the one who actually ran things, took care of all the details. What a strange reversal, huh?”
It was around that time that Geoff met Bhagwan Shiva-the most important “karmic event” of his life, he told Sally. He found the Church of Ashram “fascinating.” Better yet, Shiva was looking for big-profit investment opportunities. He had cash, and he was enthusiastic about Minster’s theme communities.
Shiva perceived an additional advantage: He suggested that each community also have a “Meditation Center” staffed with Shiva’s followers.
“At first, he wanted to call them Ashram Centers, but there were some legal problems with that. So they settled on Meditation Centers, but they were the same thing.”
Other theme communities were built. Audubon Estates was designed to attract people who loved bird-watching, natural history, astronomy. There were butterfly gardens, landscaped sections of rain forest and cypress swamps, all built far inland in what was once cattle and sugarcane flatland, so there was no light pollution.
It was even more upscale than the Cross Country projects.
In the Everglades, closer to Miami, they built their most exclusive community, Sawgrass. Sawgrass was designed to attract the adventurer types, the sporting market. Fly-fishing, hunting and shooting. Several well-stocked bass lakes, quail-shooting from horseback, a landing strip, a hunting lodge, a restaurant with mahogany beams, stone fireplaces, animal heads on the wall.
According to Sally, Sawgrass was Shiva’s favorite, and so it became Geoff’s favorite.
“The hunting and fishing, it attracted the big-money guys. The heavy drinkers, the gambling and hard-living types. The best Scotch whiskey, the best Cuban cigars and the main restaurant serves nothing but prime beef. It was so exclusive, Shiva and Geoff could both let their hair down a little. He began to spend more and more time there. In fact, the month before he disappeared, he didn’t spend more than a night or two at home.”
DeAntoni said, “That’s where I was headed next. Sawgrass. I’m going to talk to people who knew your husband. There’s a little redneck town nearby. I hear they aren’t so happy about rich Yankees and Shiva’s followers taking over the area. People like that might be a good source of info.”
Sally told us that Sawgrass was southeast of Immokalee, in the Everglades region between Alligator Alley and the Tamiami Trail. It was near a crossroads settlement called Devil’s Garden, out in the middle of nowhere. There was a bar, a feed store, a couple of houses.
She added, “About the people who live around Devil’s Garden-gator poachers and Seminole drunks is the way Geoff described them-you’re right. There’ve been some nasty scenes between Shiva’s people and the locals. It’s because the Ashram owns most of the land around Devil’s Garden; a couple of thousand acres. It’s where Shiva wants to build his casinos.”
DeAntoni looked at me, and said, “That was my deal with the chewing tobacco. I was experimenting with ways to go down there and maybe blend in a little better with the rednecks.”
I said, “Shrewd. No way they’d recognize your New York accent while you’re throwing up.”
“Funny. Maybe what I need is some local cover. You talk like a college professor, but you still got a little bit of Florida boy in your voice. You want to come along?”
I told him no, I had a business to run, but then Tomlinson spoke up, saying, “Count me in. I’d love to go back to the Everglades. What about you, Karlita?”
As she was telling him, yes, they could go there and try to tune in to Shiva’s dark vibes, Tomlinson was staring at me. He waited for her to finish before he said, “I wonder how those gator-poaching types are going to react to two enlightened visitors like me and Ms. ’Lita? A couple of long-haired flower children.”
Trying to disguise his distaste, but not doing a very good job, DeAntoni said, “If this guy, your hippie pal, tags along, I can’t be responsible.”
Meaning I had no choice.
I listened to Frank add, “Sally, I’d appreciate it if you’d drive home and stay there. Just to be safe. Not tonight. Tomorrow, I mean.”