Homicide in Hardcover (9 page)

There was some scattered applause. I calculated that it took both bartenders less than ninety seconds to make forty Irish coffees. Given the way the two men eyed each other, I had a feeling there was some competition involved.

I held up my hand and made eye contact with my guy. He grinned and placed an Irish on a napkin in front of me.

“Thanks,” I said.

“
De nada,
” he said in a twangy Texas accent and I noticed his name tag said “Neil.” He must’ve been a new hire because I didn’t recognize him. Even though I hadn’t been here in a year, I still knew the faces of most of the employees. There was very little turnover here. Seriously, they still called one busboy “the kid” and he had to be seventy years old.

I blissfully sipped my drink, drawing the hot coffee through the cream so I could taste the individual flavors without stirring it all together and losing both the coolness of the cream and the heat of the coffee.

Turning on my stool, I glanced at the thick crowd behind me and the picture-perfect view beyond. There was nothing complicated here, nothing to deal with other than the sounds of laughter and the aroma of Friday night clam chowder.

I didn’t want to think about Abraham or murder or blood or books. I was tired of spinning my wheels, going around in circles and ending up back where I’d started. So instead, I spun around on my stool and ordered another drink. From here on out, I would forget about solving murders and spend my energy tracking down Abraham’s journals. That was all I wanted. I didn’t need to unravel any mysteries other than the mystery of the book. The police could do the rest.

“Is that so much to ask?” I wondered, and took a healthy sip of my new drink.

“Wha’d you say?” Neil, my tall bartender, asked. I did like an attentive bartender.

I smiled and took a chance. “Do you know someone named Anandalla who comes in here regularly?” I asked casually.

“Anandalla.” His eyebrows squinched together, so I figured he was thinking. “You a friend of hers?”

“Sort of. She told me to meet her here tonight.”

“Huh.” He grabbed a wet towel and dragged it along the well where the multiple Irish coffee creation had taken place. I imagined it got pretty sticky if they didn’t mop up immediately. “I haven’t seen her since, hmm, must’ve been Wednesday.”

Could I be this lucky? Could we really be talking about the same Anandalla? But seriously, how many women with that name were running around San Francisco?

“Is she out of town?” I asked.

“Nah, I don’t think so.” He pulled twenty glasses out of the tray the busboy left and began lining them up to make another batch. “She said something about going north for a few days.”

“You mean like Canada or something?”

“Nah, she’s got relatives up in the wine country. Said she might hang out there for a few days.”

“Oh. Must be nice to have a place to stay up there, huh?”

“Bet your ass.”

I smiled thinly. I’d have to leave a nice tip for Neil because he’d been so forthcoming, even though I still didn’t know much. I still didn’t know how she knew Abraham. Was she a bookseller? Another bookbinder? Was she the one who’d torn his studio apart?

“Oh, hell, maybe she’s a hooker.” I shook my head in disgust. Neil had given me some answers, but now I had more questions. I hated when that happened.

“Hey, you,” Robin shouted, tapping me on the shoulder.

I bounced four inches off the stool and almost spilled my drink.

“Aren’t you the jumpy one,” she said.

“People keep sneaking up on me,” I complained.

“That’s got to be a problem since you’re currently surrounded by a few hundred of them.”

“Never mind. You want an Irish coffee?”

“Sure.”

I caught Neil’s eye and held up two fingers. Then I stood up and gave Robin a hug.

“Only one barstool,” I said. “Do you want it?”

“You go ahead. I’ve been sitting all day.”

Neil was waiting with our drink when I turned the stool around. The new kid was okay.

“Remind me again why we’re here,” Robin shouted.

“I love this place.”

“So do I, but you’ve got to be a masochist to show up on a Friday night. I had to park three blocks away.”

“Sorry about that.” I filled her in on everything that had happened since we last spoke. I left nothing out. Well, except for the irritating twinge I got in my stomach whenever Derek Stone looked at me with those eyes that saw too much. I didn’t mention that.

When I was finished, Robin shook her head and ordered another round of drinks since we’d both plowed through the ones we had.

“Okay, this better be my last one,” I said, toasting her.

“Famous last words,” she murmured, clicked my glass with hers and drank.

“So, what do you think?” I said.

“What can I say? I think you’re insane.” She took another sip, then looked me up and down. “And even though you have atrocious taste in clothing and worse taste in shoes, I’ll really miss you if you get yourself killed.”

“That’s so sweet,” I said, reaching out to hug her and almost falling off my stool. “I would miss you, too.”

“Yes, but I’m serious.”

“I know.” I patted my heart. “Thank you.”

“No, I mean about your atrocious taste in clothes,” she said with a smirk.

I glanced down at my gray suit. “You picked out this outfit. And come on, my shoes are hot.” They were killing me, too. Working in four-inch heels should be against the law.

“Okay, you look good today,” she allowed. “But I still have nightmares about those Birkenstocks.”

“This is San Francisco,” I shouted over the din. “Everybody wears Birkenstocks.”

“If everybody jumped off the bridge, would you jump, too?”

I rolled my eyes and turned on my stool to check on the bartenders. I’d lost count of the number of drinks I’d had, but that didn’t mean it was time to stop, did it?

The mirror behind the bar reflected both Robin and me as well as the burgeoning crowd and the lights of the bay behind us.

“So you didn’t call me stupid and I appreciate that,” I said. “But you did call my clothes stupid.”

“No, I didn’t. I called them atrocious.” She sipped her drink. “Atrocious. I like to say that word.”

I stared in horror. “Oh my God, you’re drunk.” I giggled. “You never get drunk.”

“I’m not drunk. I don’t get drunk. I’m a control freak.” She downed her drink. “We should go.”

“Not yet.” The Irish whiskey was definitely taking effect and I couldn’t quite figure out why I’d been so offended by Robin’s words.

Oh yeah, my atrocious clothes. But she’d hate to see me dead, which was nice, although it implied that I was stupid enough to get myself killed.

I pointed at her. “I have no intention of getting myself killed simply because I’m looking for a few answers.”

“Okay, good.”

“But if you think it’s a possibility that I could get myself killed, then you must think I’m stupid.”

“How do you figure?” she asked.

“Is that a trick question?”

She laughed, but I knew she was trying to confuse me. And thanks to the booze, it was working. Robin thought she had the upper hand just because she was relatively sober compared to me. Maybe I was two drinks ahead of her, but I was also a Wainwright. We did all our best thinking when our brains were marinated in alcohol.

And coffee fueled the brilliance. I was fast approaching the intellectual level of Albert Einstein.

“What was the question?” I asked.

Robin laughed and sipped her drink.

“Miss?”

“He’s talking to you, Brooklyn,” Robin shouted.

I turned. It was the bartender, the kid. What was his name? Oh yeah, it was right on his shirt. Neil. “Yes, Neil?”

“Anandalla’s at the end of the bar if you want to talk to her.”

I tensed up. Here was my chance. I leaned back on the stool but couldn’t see her from where I sat. Then I remembered the bar mirror. Now I could see the whole room, including the woman sitting at the end of the bar. She looked short, with dark curly hair, cute, probably in her mid-twenties. She twisted around in her stool, searching the crowd, her eyes wide, her jaw tight.

I watched her gaze drift to the mirror and her eyes suddenly met mine. She recoiled but recovered in a flash, threw some cash on the bar and disappeared in the bar crowd.

“Hey!” What was that about? Did she know me?

I jumped up. “Let’s go!”

“Are you nuts?” Robin said. “I’m not finished. We haven’t paid our bill.”

“Hold my bag,” I shouted. “I’ll be back.”

My heavy bag hit her in the stomach, but she managed to grab it before it slid to the floor.

“You’re insane,” I heard her say as I thrust myself into the horde.

Once I was out the door, I looked both ways and saw Anandalla sprinting up Hyde Street toward North Point. I took off after her, watched her reach the crest of the hill. She glanced left and right, chose right and disappeared.

The hill was unbelievably steep. Halfway up, I had to stop and hold my stomach, which was starting to cramp from the combination of alcohol, four-inch heels and a skirt that was tighter than it had been when I put it on this morning.

I leaned one hand against the building, panting and puffing like an old man.

It wasn’t my best moment.

But why had she run away from me? How did she know me?

I turned and saw Robin waiting patiently at the bottom of the hill. With another heavy breath, I shuffled back down and she handed me my bag.

“I paid the bill,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“You owe me.”

“I know.”

We crossed Hyde when the signal changed. For a few minutes we strolled without speaking, enjoying the evening air. We’d walked three blocks and were passing Ripley’s Believe It or Not when Robin finally spoke.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“That was the girl I was looking for,” I explained as I stared at a two-headed ferret in the Ripley’s display. “That was Anandalla.”

“Anandalla? The one whose note you found in Abraham’s studio?”

“Right. And as soon as she saw me, she ran away.”

“How do you know it was her?”

“The bartender said so.” I absently studied Ripley’s poster of a pregnant man who used to be a woman. “And how many women have a name like that?”

Robin twisted her lips. “I’ve never heard it before.”

“She looked straight at me, Robin. She recognized me. I don’t know how, but she knew me. And as soon as she saw me, she raced out of there. I tried to catch up with her, but I guess I’m a little out of shape.”

“You’re in great shape,” she said. “You’re just drunk.”

“Not anymore, sadly.” I cast an artful glance her way. “Maybe we should have one more.”

“That’s one of the seven warning signs,” she said.

“Okay,” I conceded. But a tingling sensation along my spine made me glance around. Why did I feel as though someone was watching me? I’d felt it earlier at the Covington. I rubbed my arms briskly to ward off the icy apprehension. I’d never experienced this before. Then again, I’d never had a friend murdered in cold blood before. And I’d never been surrounded by so many suspicious characters before.

I took another look around. Was Anandalla standing in the nearby shadows, watching me?

“You’re getting weird,” Robin said with a sigh, and slipped her arm through mine. “Come on. We can’t come this close to Ghirardelli Square and not stop for a hot fudge sundae.”

I woke up in my own bed wearing my own underwear, always a good thing. I just couldn’t quite remember how I got there.

I was shaking. Had I forgotten to turn on the heater? As I contemplated whether to jump out of bed and check, I considered the distinct possibility that the shaking might be a result of consuming four-five?-Irish coffees the night before.

If yes, I didn’t need to turn the heater on, I just needed some aspirin and more sleep. I was going with yes.

I jumped out of bed and my legs almost crumpled under me.

“Oh Lord, that hurts.”

Why did my legs feel like two lead weights? I wobbled into the bathroom, where I gulped down two aspirins, then scuffled back to bed and pulled the covers up. I had a vague memory of running up Hyde in high heels. Big mistake. I closed one eye to focus on the alarm clock and was pretty sure it said six o’clock. I really hoped that was a.m., not p.m.

The next time I opened my eyes it was nine o’clock. I threw the covers back and jumped out of bed. Then moaned and sank back down, clutching my pounding head with one hand while trying to knead my aching calves with the other.

“Oh, sweet Jerry Maguire, what did I do?”

The sudden and distinct memory of sucking down all that alcohol and caffeine did little to help my swirling stomach. I stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the hot water and stepped into the shower to do what I could to wash away the misery.

Forty minutes and two more aspirins later, after downing a cup of weak Earl Grey and a piece of dry toast, I managed to get myself down to my car and headed out of the parking garage.

I reached the Valley of the Moon in one hour and six minutes flat. Turning onto the road to Dharma, I said a silent prayer of thanks to the traffic gods, then another one to the wine gods who kept most tourists from starting their wine country tours until at least noon.

I wasn’t speaking to the Irish coffee gods.

I parked the car a block from the large town hall at the top of the hill. As I walked across the blacktop parking lot, I heard a tenor from the Dharma choir sing the first tremulous notes of “In My Life.”

I snuck in through one of the back doors. The arena-style auditorium had a capacity of six hundred and today it was standing room only. I stood at the back and gazed down at the backs of the colorful crowd. It only took a moment to pick out my mother and father seated three rows from center stage. My brother Jackson sat next to Mom, and my sister China sat next to Dad. Their spouses were with them, but I didn’t see any of the kids. Probably a wise decision to leave them home.

On the stage, Guru Bob stood at the podium, his head lolling serenely to the music of the choir behind him. He sported a purple dashiki and matching rufi, the fez-style hat he wore on special occasions. For a tall, fair-haired man, it might’ve seemed an odd choice, but Guru Bob was nothing if not eclectic in his wardrobe choices. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him in anything from a formal tuxedo to a cashmere bathrobe. I think he liked to keep his flock guessing.

As I stared at the backs of the people, a disturbing question invaded the tranquility I’d begun to feel with the harmony of the music and the familiar faces and surroundings.

Was Abraham’s murderer here in this room?

The thought gave me the heebie jeebies. Most of those gathered here were commune people who had known Abraham for twenty or thirty years. What would any of them have to gain from his death? The others in attendance were probably friends or business acquaintances of Abraham’s. Again, where was the motive?

I glanced to the left and abruptly met Inspector Jaglow’s pointed stare. He stood against the wall thirty feet away, but even from that distance I could feel the severity of his disapproval. I tried to smile at him, but his frown didn’t change, so I looked away, clutching my coat more tightly around me.

What was that about? Was I in trouble? Was I going to get a ticket for being late? Maybe Derek had told him I was meddling in their investigation, which wasn’t true at all. Nevertheless, I felt guilty and vaguely sick to my stomach.

I tried some deep breathing, matching my breaths to the rhythm of the music. That might’ve helped if I wasn’t recuperating from a slight hangover, but I was, so it just made me dizzy. I leaned back against the door and waited for the room to stop spinning.

“You’re not going to pass out again, are you?”

I jumped, then saw it was Derek.

“Stop sneaking up on me,” I whispered irately. He merely smirked, so I ignored him as Guru Bob began to speak in measured phrases, starting off with a short but stirring cosmological lesson in how planetary body types align in order to produce conscious harmony in all things-always a favorite topic at our house.

“Today,” he said, “with the loss of our dear friend, we all suffer. I remind you that with great suffering comes true purification-if we can only remember to suffer willingly and consciously. Only then can our suffering create a cosmic connection that will allow us to cross over to higher ground, higher consciousness, bridging the interval to begin a new octave.”

I snuck a peek at Derek to see whether he was gagging or falling asleep, but he was attentive, his strong arms folded across his chest, his feet planted firmly on the foor. He wore black as usual, but he seemed taller. Or maybe my headache made me imagine I was shrinking.

“Brother Abraham is on the astral plane now,” Guru Bob assured us, spreading his arms toward the ceiling. “He has shed his mortal coil to travel at light speed, free of all fears, free of lamentation and regret. There is only joy now. He is the sun.”

The commune people nodded their heads and murmured words of encouragement and praise, but I figured most of the visitors were wondering what in the world he was talking about.

“Brother Abraham has embraced the fire and the light of true humility that may have eluded him on this earthly plane. We urge our brother, in his glorious journey along this astral plane, to embrace the wonder, the splendor, the reality of higher consciousness. And in so doing, he raises all of us to a higher plane.”

There were shouts of “That’s right” and “Teach, Avatar,” around the room.

Derek leaned in and whispered, “Who is that guy?”

I bristled. It was fine for me to carp on Guru Bob, but nobody from the outside world got that privilege.

“Avatar Robson Benedict is a highly evolved being.”

“Clearly.” Derek nodded. “Very powerful.”

I looked at him in surprise. Was he kidding? Most people either laughed nervously or ran off into the woods after experiencing a stirring oration from Guru Bob.

Then the service was over and Derek and I were abruptly separated by the thick stream of people exiting the hall. After a brief moment of panic, I allowed myself to be carried along in their wake. Knowing my people, I had high expectations that we would wind up at some massive buffet of food and liquid refreshment.

Sure enough, the crowd headed straight for the dining hall, where tables had been laid with every sort of finger food imaginable, from tiny cheeseburgers to miniature pigs in blankets to more gourmet fare such as toasted squares topped with caviar and salmon. Everything had an accompanying sauce or dip or spread, naturally. Guru Bob did enjoy a good spread.

A wide table at one end of the room held every kind of dessert imaginable. Chocolate éclairs, pies, cakes, puddings and flan and mousse, lemon bars and cookies everywhere.

At the other end of the hall were several long tables where five or six men poured glasses of wine. There was a huge keg at one end, and barrels stuffed with soft drinks and water bottles.

I figured it would be better to eat a little before I headed for the wine, given my slight overindulgence the night before. But as I bit into my petite chicken salad sandwich, I felt my stomach twist.