One Book in the Grave (8 page)

My eyes widened and I looked around for an escape. “Gosh, Mom, I should probably go help Dad with…something.”

“No, young lady,” she said, taking my hand and pulling me out of the kitchen. “You’re coming with me.”

My shoulders slumped as we walked down the hall to the basement stairs.

“I’m very worried about you going off to find Max,” she said. “So humor me.”

Fine. I could use a little peace and safety in my life. Downstairs, she lit a fat stick of white sage and whooshed it around. “Now, when you find Max, I want you to bring him here. We’ll do sacred chanting and I’ll treat him to a cleansing Bhakti yoga shala bliss.”

“What in the world is that?”

“It’s a little concoction I dreamed up all on my own. Last week in my Ayurveda stretch class, Yoganina Robayana declared it
delicious
.”

“Good to know.”

“Now sit, and we’ll meditate. Have you seen my new drum?” Mom sat on a fat, fluffy, Indian-print pillow; picked up a two-sided drum off the table; and began to beat its sides in a slow rhythm. “First we’ll do the sacred chanting. Ohmmmmmmmmmmm.”

And she was off. I couldn’t just walk out and leave her, so I folded my hands together in a yoga pose and prepared myself for the show.

“Ohmmmmmmmmmmm.” She closed her eyes and smiled beatifically as she tapped both sides of the drum double time. “Dig this vibration, sweetie.”

“That’s quite a groove you’ve got going.”

She put down the drum, then waved her arms over her head in an undulating movement. “It’s the dance of the divine.”

“Awesome.” I made a face.

“Are you making a face?”

I gulped. Could she see with her eyes closed? “Never. It wasn’t me, Mom.”

She smiled patiently. “Have a little brahmacharya, sweetie.”

That meant “self-control.” Self-control was one of the yamas, or ethical codes of conduct outlined in the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali. There were others: nonviolence, truthfulness, nonstealing, nonpossessiveness.

Her eyes rolled back in her head and I think she went into a trance as she began to sing, “Shri Rama Llama Jala Walla Ram Ram.”

“Oy vey,” I muttered.

“Sing with me! ‘Shri Rama Llama Jala Walla Ram Ram / Shri Rama Llama Jala Walla Ram Ram / Shri Rama Llama Jala Walla Ram Ram.’”

“Mom,” I said loudly, but she kept singing the same phrase over and over again. She picked up the drum again and beat her fingers and thumbs rapidly against the skin in rhythm with her song.

“Shri Rama Llama Jala Walla Ram Ram.”

“That’s beautiful, Mom,” I yelled over the lyric, “but
I’ve got to go upstairs and get ready. Thank you for taking care of my peace and safety.”

“Wait,” she cried. “There are forty more verses!”

“I’ll be humming along,” I said.

She sucked in another breath and kept singing, “Shri Rama Llama Jala Walla Ram Ram.”

“Namaste. Love you, Mom,” I shouted over the pulsating rhythm, then clapped my hands together and bowed to her before escaping up the stairs.

That night, despite my reluctance to enjoy life while Max might be in trouble, Derek and I joined Mom and Dad for an incredible dinner at Savannah’s restaurant. My brother Austin and my pal Robin sat nearby at a cozy table for two. My sisters London and China and their husbands showed up for the occasion, too, along with half of Dharma. There were a few unfamiliar faces that might’ve belonged to those reviewers from San Francisco I’d heard about. I prayed their meals were excellent. For me, the service was impeccable and the food was phenomenal, and not just because my sister owned the joint.

I had moments of uneasiness during the meal whenever I remembered that Max was still alive. None of my sisters knew it and I couldn’t tell them. Not yet, anyway. Since there was nothing I could do about it for a while, I tried to relax and enjoy the fun company and the incredible meal.

Savannah came out later to say hello, and the entire room burst into applause. She wore the traditional white chef’s jacket over checked pants, but instead of the tall white toque on her head, she wore a red beret. It was adorably jaunty, but, yes, she still had a bald head. Somehow it worked for her.

I couldn’t believe everything I’d eaten was vegetarian. I’d been scared to death that we’d be chewing alfalfa sprouts and raw lentils, but no. I’d ordered an endive, goat cheese, and pear salad with all kinds of yummy little goodies sprinkled on top, followed by an amazing entrée
of handmade raviolis stuffed with butternut squash and wild mushrooms, all floating in a creamy herb butter sauce. The pinot noir our waiter recommended went perfectly with everything. And, hallelujah, there was chocolate mint soufflé served with a pot full of whipped cream for dessert.

By the time the check came, I was forced to admit that my loony, bald-headed sister had become a true artist with food, even if she refused to include red meat in her palette. At least she hadn’t turned her back on chocolate.

There were no freeways, no shortcuts, no easy way to make the long, circuitous drive west from Sonoma to Point Reyes Station in Marin County. There were only narrow two-lane roads that twisted and wound through rolling hills and mountain passes for more than fifty miles. But since it was a beautiful—if slightly treacherous—drive, and since I was being driven by Derek in his sleek Bentley Continental GT with Gabriel in the backseat—in other words, two of the most handsome men in the northern hemisphere—you wouldn’t hear me complain about it.

After checking the map and his GPS, Derek decided to drive a few miles north up to Santa Rosa, where we would pick up Highway 101 going south. It might have seemed like we were going out of our way, but the highway was actually faster and we’d make up some time before we had to turn west on Petaluma Point Reyes Road. That’s where we’d start to lose time on those winding mountain roads, but Derek assured us that the Bentley would handle the turns and switchbacks with class and ease.

“I’ll let you know how that works out from the backseat,” Gabriel said amiably as he squeezed in his six-foot-plus frame. I had offered to sit in the back, but he insisted, so I moved my seat forward to accommodate his long legs, and we hit the road.

As Derek drove, I filled in some of the blanks in Max
Adams’s history. I told them about Emily and how much I’d liked her, and how much she’d loved the
Beauty and the Beast
book I’d given them.

I was glad I’d brought the book along with me on this trip so I could show it to Max—if we were able to find him, of course.

I was still having a hard time believing that Max was alive. And oh, my God,
Emily.
How could he have done this to her and to all of us? How had he managed to keep us in the dark for three long years?
Max, what were you thinking?

I pulled out my cell phone to double-check my voice mail. But Emily hadn’t returned my phone call. It had been two days already, and I had to wonder why I hadn’t heard back from her. I knew I’d called the right number. Her voice hadn’t changed at all.

Would the people who lived at the address Guru Bob gave us be willing to lead us to Max? Did I really want to see him? Yes, but I had questions. Too many, really. I needed to know how his tools could have shown up next to a dead man and buried in my tire. I knew he hadn’t killed Joe. Max was too good a person to ever have killed anyone. But, then, the Max I knew would never have lied to his friends and family for three long years. Could he have turned into a cold-blooded killer?

Absolutely not. But I had to admit that I was getting a strange feeling about this whole adventure.

Derek touched my knee. “Stop worrying.”

“How do you know I’m worrying?”

His mouth twisted in a sardonic grin as he applied a little more pressure to my knee. “Your leg is shaking enough to overturn the car. You always shake your leg when you’re fretting over something.”

“I do?” I slapped one hand to my knee to hold it still.

“Yes, love, you do. And another thing.” He kept his eyes on the road but reached over and stroked my forehead with his fingers. “You get the tiniest, most adorable frown line right here, between your eyebrows.”

“Damn, I thought the Botox would take care of that.”

I appreciated the snicker I heard from Gabriel in the backseat.

Derek tweaked my cheek. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“There’s nothing adorable about frown lines,” I muttered.

“Everything’s adorable on you, darling.”

I smiled adorably at him, then laughed when Gabriel began swearing under his breath. I couldn’t quite catch what he’d said, but was pretty sure I didn’t want to know.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Derek said easily, keeping both hands on the steering wheel now as the twists in the road became more unwieldy. “We’ll find Max and bring him back to Dharma. Robson and Gabriel will make sure he’s unharmed until the police find the murderer.”

My leg was shaking again. I pressed my hand on my knee to make it stop, then shot Derek a look. Did I really have such obvious tells that he could know what I was thinking or feeling? Or was he just tuned in to me? I was tuned in to him, too, but I could no more tell what he was thinking than I could move that mountain on the other side of the pasture we’d just passed. It wasn’t fair.

“I’m not really worried,” I lied. “I’m more angry. And hurt. I was just thinking about Max and Emily and
Beauty and the Beast
, and, you know, everything that was happening back then.”

“This situation has brought up a lot of old feelings for you,” he said.

“True,” I admitted, then realized that Ian had said the same thing to me. The men in my life were a little too observant sometimes. “But that’s not what’s bothering me.” I turned in my seat so Gabriel could hear me, too. “I’ve been thinking that it wasn’t Joe’s murder that set everything into action to draw out Max.”

“What do you think it was?” Gabriel said.

“It was me.”

Derek took the curve too quickly and swerved, then
swore ripely as he maneuvered the Bentley back into the lane.

“Are you okay?” I asked, clutching the dashboard.

He said nothing, just glared at me with his teeth clenched in…anger?

“What did I say?”

“It’s okay, babe,” Gabriel said, and patted my shoulder. “Our driver’s got shaky nerves. Now, where did you get this idea that you’re the catalyst in all this?”

I cast another uncertain glance at Derek, then related what Ian had told me on Friday. “The book’s so-called owner suggested to Joe that he call the Covington to buy the book. Ian thought it was because the new children’s wing was getting a lot of attention, but I think it’s because they knew about Ian’s connection to me, knew that he would call me in to restore the book. They also knew about my connection to Max and that as soon as I saw the book, I would recognize it and go looking for Joe.”

“And find him dead,” Gabriel concluded.

“Exactly.”

I looked at Derek again. His jaw was clamped shut and it was pretty obvious why. Okay, so maybe I was able to tell his moods better than I had thought. And since it looked like he wanted to chew on the steering wheel, I decided to follow his lead, stop talking, and try to enjoy the scenery.

It was noon when we drove into the deceptively sleepy town of Point Reyes Station. The center of town consisted of one main street that stretched for three short blocks. The town had a faded sixties vibe with an eclectic blend of upscale cafés, building-supply stores, bakeries, cheese shops, art galleries, a funky old auto-repair garage, and a fresh fruit stand. On one corner was the Old Western Saloon, a Victorian-era bar that was a little seedy but had clean bathrooms, a classic rock jukebox, and a friendly bartender who took only cash.

It was hard to believe that this town was the driving force in the multimillion-dollar organic and artisanal food industry that served the San Francisco Bay area
and beyond. The cafés and restaurants in and around Point Reyes Station were like nirvana to food fanatics, who drove from all over northern California to sample the local artisanal cheeses, vegetables, baby lettuces, free-range chicken, grass-fed beef, pâtés, fruits and preserves, and oysters.

Derek drove around the corner and parked the car in front of the Cowgirl Creamery store.

I smiled tentatively. “Maybe we can get something to snack on here.”

“You can snack all you want,” he muttered. “I need a drink.”

He settled for a local beer on tap at the saloon. Gabriel had one, too. I ordered ginger ale. Gabriel took one long sip, then looked at me and Derek. He checked his pocket for change, winked at me, then walked over to the jukebox.

“Here’s the thing,” I said to Derek once we were alone. “I know you don’t like that I might be a target.”

“Don’t like it? I bloody well hate it.”

“I hate it, too. But for some reason, it’s happening again. So let’s not make it worse by being angry with each other.”

He slid an astonished look at me. “Do you think I’m angry with you?”

I looked at him evenly. “Do you think I’m dumb?”

He stared at his glass and absently smoothed away the condensation with his thumb, then finally met my gaze. “No.”

“Thanks,” I said, not feeling it.

“Come here,” he said, and pulled me into his protective embrace. I went gladly, needing to feel his hard chest pressing against me, marveling at how complete I felt in his arms.

Say what?
What was I thinking? That I wasn’t
complete
a moment ago? Ridiculous. I shoved that pathetic thought right out of my head. I was a complete person, damn it.

“I can feel your mind working even when you’re silent,” he murmured, chuckling.

“I can’t seem to shut it down once I get going.”

He leaned back and made eye contact with me. “You’re right; I was angry. It was a knee-jerk reaction and I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I gave him a quick, hard hug; then I stepped away and took a sip of my drink.

“No, it’s not.” He drank his beer, staring out the wide picture window at the front of the bar. “But I promise I wasn’t angry at you.”

As Bob Seger’s whiskey-smooth voice wafted out from the jukebox, singing about secrets shared and mountains moved, Derek turned and looked at me for a long moment. “You know I’m in love with you. And I think you’re the smartest, most courageous person I know. So, yes, I’m angry at the thought that you might become some idiot’s target again.”