Robert Mander, seen in this handout photo, committed suicide March 17, leaving behind little evidence of the $50 million or so in loans he had taken from investors in southern Ontario. (CBC News sources)

The death of Ponzi-scheme suspect Robert Mander comes as no surprise to those who encountered him and experienced what they called his web of lies, a web that stretches back more than a decade to the West Coast.

Tasha Fluke, a former business partner of Mander's in Oakville, Ont., told CBC News she could only see three possible outcomes for Mander — that he would have a heart attack from the stress of keeping his lies straight, that someone would kill him, or that he would kill himself.

"It was a ticking time bomb," she said of Mander's situation.

Mander committed suicide March 17 in his Freelton, Ont. home north of Hamilton, leaving behind little evidence of the $50 million or so in loans he had taken from investors in southern Ontario.

He had signs of wealth — his 2010 Jaguar, six properties worth $9.2 million and $440,000 in watches and jewelry — but he owed $3.8 million in mortgages, had racked up $150,000 debts on his credit cards, and he left behind a preposterous labyrinth of lies that has left many people close to him wondering whether they ever knew the 52-year-old from Ottawa.

"He was a genius, and could have been a good businessman had he used his brain for good," said Fluke. "But he wanted more."

Fluke met Mander in 2002 when they were both starting out at Freedom 55 as financial security advisers. They would talk stocks late into the night, and Fluke, almost 20 years younger than Mander, decided to go into business with him in 2003. At the time, they were making real investments and making good returns.

But in 2006, Fluke said she noticed Mander was acting in dubious ways, such as setting up feeder companies for investment loans. She said she told Mander she wanted to take her money out of the business, and he began to talk in a threatening manner.

It all came to a head on July 26. Mander, Fluke said, reached across as if to strangle her and she went running from their office in downtown Oakville, fearing for her life.

Robert Mander ran his investment company from this building at 225 Church St. in Oakville, Ont. It is currently listed on www.realtor.ca for $1.68 million. The Dunn Street Gallery can be seen at the left of that building. (From www.realtor.ca)

She initiated two lawsuits — the first to get money back for the 16 investors she had brought into their company, and the second to recoup more than $1 million she believes he had taken from her in their business dealings. She succeeded in getting her former partner to repay her clients, but her own case is still in the courts, because Mander kept changing lawyers and failing to turn up for court proceedings.

Despite being drained financially, Fluke said she persevered, paying lawyers in a determination to put the stamp of "fraudster" on Mander.

Part of Mander's image relied on his Buddhist spirituality, she said, but his modus operandi was to read people and figure out their personalities.

"He had a gift," she said, "a radar for finding good people who would think the best of other people and, of course, the best of him."

The Vancouver con

Such is the story of Sandy Moore, who met Mander when he was scraping to get by in Vancouver in the late 1990s. She said she was introduced to him at Buddhist gatherings, and thought she could trust someone so spiritual when he proposed the idea of investing some of her money.

Investors say they can't fathom what motivated Mander. (CBC News sources)

At first she gave him $1,000, and he showed her a return. Then she gave him $5,000, and she got her money back with interest. Then he convinced her to empty her RRSP and give him $20,000.

"I think he was living on the money I gave him," said Moore, 58, who works at an aboriginal college in Vancouver. "He never lived anywhere glamorous. He went from two scarcely furnished apartments to a nice loft that he said he owned."

She said she later found out that was a lie, as would be the story he told her — one he would often tell in Ontario — that his father was extremely wealthy. "He said if the investment doesn't work out, my father is so rich, I'll get him to cover the losses."

(R.S.M. Richter, the court-appointed receiver for Mander's business debts, has found out his father was far from wealthy and that Mander never got a huge inheritance, as he claimed. Nor did he have a $42 million property in New York City. According to a preliminary report by the receiver, who appeared in court March 31 for an update, there were no major holdings of stocks in Mander's name, and investors will be lucky to get back about 10 cents on the dollar.)

Moore took Mander into her home in Vancouver when he fell on hard times, and let him sleep on an air mattress. In 1999, he said he had to go home to Ottawa, so she agreed to pay for his flight. When she asked him about her money, he started questioning whether she was paying all her taxes on a rental property she owned. The implication, she said, was that he wanted her to shut up about her investment, and he wouldn't make trouble for her with Revenue Canada, even though she had no issue with taxes.

"He always seemed mild-mannered, but he had a dark side," said Moore. "It's unfortunate he was so totally greedy — or was he just a lost soul?

"I can't fathom what motivated him."

Moore managed to get her money back by leaning on Buddhist leaders in Vancouver and Toronto to coerce him to honour his debts. Six years later, when he finally paid her back, he even threw in an extra $5,000, which came from the company he was running with Fluke.

Mander's religious ruse

Tony Meers, who runs the Soka Gakkai International Buddhist Centre in Toronto, said he can't recall the story of Mander being influenced by his Buddhist colleagues to honor his debts.

This $3.28-million property at 1225 Lawrence Cr. in Oakville, Ont., was being sold by owner Robert Mander, who killed himself on March 17. (Dave Seglins/CBC)

He said if Mander played on his Buddhist spirituality to draw in investors, it's a "total violation of everything we're about. We have strict rules about not loaning and not soliciting business from fellow members. If there were a situation like that, we would take steps to rectify it, and absolutely would never condone it."

Meers would not comment on what donations Mander might have made to the organization, but he said it is co-operating fully with the receiver.

Meers said Buddhism is humanism: "total respect for fellow humans and everything around us. Like all major religions, we have the golden rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

That was Fluke's philosophy when she made sure her investors did not suffer from Mander's games, but she was aghast that some of the people she helped get their money back reinvested with Mander, putting their $400,000 at risk.

Mander never married, but he did have a son who just turned 10. Everyone interviewed by the CBC felt badly for the son's loss.

Fluke said she felt immediate relief that she was no longer physically threatened by Mander. Three days after learning the news of his death, she sobbed all night.

"Part of it was relief from all the tension I felt, and part of it was reviewing the entire ordeal," said Fluke, who studiously kept her whereabouts secret from Mander during her almost four-year-long legal battle.

"Then I thought about the current investors, just embarking on all the emotion I've gone through. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy."

Any tips on this or any other story can be sent to john.nicol@cbc.ca or dave.seglins@cbc.ca.