The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (Dharma Detective: Tenzing Norbu Mystery) (12 page)

Heather let out a big sigh. “I am so happy to be here. This week has been rough.”

“Marv?”

“Marv, plus rotations, plus another autopsy. A thirty-five-year-old mother of two. No mystery there. She died from a thorn-prick on her arm. She was gardening, deadheading roses. The site got infected, and sepsis set in before she realized how bad it was and started on antibiotics. Sometimes you just have to wonder.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well . . . “ Heather seemed to shake the heaviness off. “I knew the job was tough when I signed on for it! Like I said, glad I’m here. Thanks for the Martha tip, by the way.” She lightly touched my arm. “I went with a Pinot Noir.”

I liked how her hand felt, resting on my wrist. I impulsively covered it with my own. My heart beat harder against my chest. Now what?

“Now what” was a waiter sliding two plates of steaming hot lasagna, bubbling with cheese, in front of us. Rescued by pasta. We concentrated on the lasagna, which was piping hot, stuffed with spinach, ricotta, and mozzarella cheese, drenched in a fresh marinara sauce, and very delicious.

Heather used a hunk of garlic bread to sop up the extra sauce. I did the same. Heather was a hearty eater. I smiled. I like a girl with a good appetite. Another waiter, a tenor, belted out a song about sending in clowns. For a song about clowns, it was pretty sad.

Bill staggered back with an empty bottle of Bell’agio Chianti, its woven straw covering now scribbled with messages. He set it down, and handed me a Magic Marker. “Write a birthday wish for Martha,” he said. “Keep it clean.”

I thought and wrote, “May you live with ease.” Not so original for an ex-monk, but heartfelt. I handed the pen to Heather. She rotated the bottle until she found a blank spot. She studied it, tilting her head, catching her lovely lower lip between her teeth. Finally, she drew a small, drippy pizza, decorated it with tiny candles
,
in the shape of a heart, and wrote
love
inside it. She caught my eye.

“When in doubt, make it cheesy,” she explained. I laughed.

Bill reappeared, fresh beer in hand. He squatted between us again. Uh oh.

“So, Dr. Magnuson,” Bill said. “I know you’re a very hard worker. What do you do for fun? And don’t say go to Dodger games, because the team is fuckin’ bankrupt.” Bill winked at me, and I realized this was his slightly clumsy way of giving me an opening.

“You mean outside of carving up corpses? Let’s see. Once in a while I like to go dancing,” Heather said. “But mostly I’m pretty happy curling up in bed with a good book.”

I liked the sound of that, too.

“I knew it! You and Ten here are kindred spirits. Aren’t you, Ten?” Bill was eyeballing me.
Leap!
his eyes said. Hard to leap, when you’re legs are made of lead. A familiar jumble of thoughts piled on:
too smart, too beautiful, you’re not ready, you’ll never be ready.

A waiter pulled Bill away. Heather picked up her fork and pushed it around her plate.

“Heather,” I said. Her eyes met mine, and I glimpsed a little girl peeking out.
She’s just as scared as I am.

I jumped, lead legs and all.

“I’d really like to see you sometime. Maybe have dinner, or something.”

I waited.
Breathe. Breathe.

“Okay,” she said. “Yes, I’d like that, Ten.”

We smiled at each other, suddenly shy.

Heather leaned close. Was she going to kiss me?

“Be right back,” she said. “Pit stop.”

She disappeared into the back of the restaurant.

Someone clinked on a glass as a dozen waiters and waitresses formed a semicircle around Martha. Maude started yipping and bouncing in her high chair, and Lola popped her right middle fingers into her mouth and sucked furiously, as Bill set a big blue-and-white cake shaped like a Dodger cap in front of Martha, ablaze with forty candles, plus one. I guess he hadn’t completely given up on his team. Martha found me with her eyes. She lifted one corner of my birthday shawl, wrapped around her neck, glowing orange in the candlelight. She waved it at me. She looked spectacular.

“Thank you,” she mouthed. The piano player banged out a crescendo of cascading notes, and it was on. The birthday song rocked the rafters, and the entire restaurant joined in.

Heather slipped back in her seat. My nose picked up the minty scent of toothpaste.

Uh oh, was she was one of those obsessive brush-after-every-meal types? She leaned against my shoulder, singing lustily. I decided I couldn’t care less.

Raucous cheers and claps greeted Martha’s blowing out of the candles. Lola shrank in her seat from the din and started to wail. I watched as Bill plucked her out of her high chair and held her tight to his chest, covering her ears, kissing the top of her head.
What a good father.
Martha leaned over to blow out the candles, and Maude, headband askew, poofed up her cheeks, a perfect little mimic. I laughed again, and my eyes filled.

Remember this. This is family.

Heather reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I had to let her hand, and the moment, go. “Sorry,” I said, and I was.

I checked my phone. It was a text from Clancy.

GOT SOMETHING.

I caught Bill’s eye. Pointed to my phone and the door. He pointed to Martha and the girls. Priorities. We both understood. I explained things to Heather and said I’d call about getting together soon. If she was disappointed, she didn’t show it. I didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but I was in a hurry to go, so I dismissed it from my mind.

Within half an hour, I was sitting next to Clancy as he clicked through another series of close-ups, this time of a slight figure leaving the Robinsgrove.
Click, click, click.
Tiny incremental shifts, stepping outside, looking up and down the street.
Click. Click.

Clancy angled his computer screen closer to me.

“Here,” he said. “Here’s the best one.”

“Can you make it bigger?”

He expanded the image. I squinted at the slight young woman, dark hair hanging straight down her back like a curtain, face creased with anxiety.

My pulse quickened.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s her. Really good work, Clancy.”

Two years ago, Marv Rudolph, in a bold move, had cast an unknown to play the lead in
Loving Hagar.
I was looking at his Hagar. Tovah Fields, with an “s.”

“What happened after this?”

He showed the next sequence of images. She turned right, walked along the sidewalk maybe ten yards, and turned right again into a canted entryway. She was wheeling a large suitcase.

“That’s the Robinsgrove’s outside lot,” Clancy said. Moments later, a series of photographs showed a white Toyota Scion pulling out and driving north on Rossmore, toward who knew where.

I had found the link between Marv, Harper, and the Robinsgrove. And maybe, just maybe, I had found the key to his death.
Click.

Driving home, I was surprised to note a dull ache behind my heart. I inhaled, feeling my way past it to what hid behind. Sadness. Loss.

What do you have to be sad about? You were laughing, eating cake with a beautiful woman a short while ago. What’s wrong with you? Get a grip!

I was doing it again. How many times had my father chided me with that exact tone?
Don’t feel that. Don’t think that. Don’t be that.

I was attacking myself with the same behavior I despised in my father. Limiting myself, now that he was no longer there to do it for me.
Second rule, Ten.

I took a second, deeper breath.
Let. It. Go.

I focused instead on the sadness, allowing it to just be, with no mind-story attached. The experience was quite painful, and my breath caught. But then, the ache softened.

I imagined cradling my sore heart, like Bill. . . .

Yes. Like Bill, holding Lola close, kissing her.
The image plucked a dull, untuned string deep inside me, the source of the hurt. To have a father like that: one who guided you, protected you. Whose face lit up whenever he saw you.

To have a father like that.

I couldn’t remember my father ever smiling at me, except maybe the day I told him I was moving to Los Angeles. That smile didn’t count for much: It was twisted, full of disapproval and contempt. It was confirmation that I’d never amount to anything.

I drove up the hill to my house. I turned into the tree-lined driveway. A crescent moon hung low in the sky. I turned off my car lights, leaving the graceful Japanese lines and curves of my home bathed in night shadows. A sigh escaped me, this one braided with joy. Sometimes my solo existence felt lonely, but right now, after the din of celebration, the dose of romantic possibility, the thrill of discovery, and the stab of sadness, a little solitude seemed very welcome.

I parked in the carport and walked into the kitchen. Tank was at the door, ready. With one slow, luxuriant rollover, he exposed the soft white fur of his belly. I sat next to him and rubbed the downy pelt, feeling, as much as hearing, his deep purr of contentment.

“Good cat. Good cat,” I said.

I gave him a small scoop of treats. As I walked into my bedroom, I could hear him crunching in the darkness.

C
HAPTER
10

A sharp
crack!
penetrated my sleep, and for a moment I thought I’d been shot. I pushed upright and switched on the light, fumbling for something, anything, to use as a weapon. My pulse raced. I had to take several deep breaths to bring my body back to a state of stasis. I listened. Inside, my house was quiet; outside, the night air cool and still. Tank lay nose to paws at the foot of my bed, his belly rising and falling.

My hand rose to my cheek. My jaw was killing me. I wriggled it back and forth.

“Owww!” My left jawbone let out a second, audible crack. Tank raised his head, suddenly alert.

“Really?” I said. “My jaw? That’s what woke me up?”

Tank lowered his head and closed his eyes.

“Your housemate is a bit of a mess, Tank,” I said. I checked my phone for the time. 3:20
A.M.
The hour my demons love to come out and play. Well, I could either order them to stay outside, where they would keep me up all night tapping at the windows, or I could invite them in and try to befriend them. I pulled on some sweats and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and took my aching jaw and hammering heart into my meditation room for some healing time.

I closed my eyes.

Heather. Did I actually ask her out? Did she actually say yes?

I opened my eyes. Not helping.

I closed my eyes, this time letting awareness roam through my body, looking for any particular areas of tension, of holding on.

Great. Basically, that would be everywhere.

For the next hour, I moved a light feather of attention from jaws to neck. Shoulders to chest. Down the spine, up through the belly, just resting on each clenched muscle and rigid bone, allowing, coaxing, breathing acceptance, leaving just enough space for things to shift slightly.

When I felt into the opening spaces, what I found was loneliness.

I reached out to Yeshe and Lobsang, using my quieted mind to seek connection with my friends on the other side of the world. It had been far, far too long. Whatever time it was there, they were probably also meditating, or about to be. I probed for their welcoming presence, but came up empty; the emptiness quickly filled with a small wave of anxiety. Why had my father returned the letter I had sent to my friends? Why were they no longer in contact with me?

I opened my eyes. Maybe I was the problem. Maybe I was too wired. Too much static in my system. I tried to remember the last time I had successfully met them in meditation, but I couldn’t. My small stone Buddha gazed back at me from my meditation table. I wanted to read compassion in his face, but in truth, he looked a little stern.

I stood and stretched, trying to mimic Tank’s fluid movements, to calm my body so I could try to mentally reach my friends again, when my iPhone chimed in the bedroom. Now what? Who was calling this early on a Sunday morning?

Bill, that’s who.

“Hey there, partner,” I said. “Great party last night. I’m surprised you’re not still sleeping it off.”

“You and me both,” Bill’s voice was hoarse. He sounded in pain. “Listen, they’re releasing Marv’s body.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Only way to avoid the media. I’m almost there. Any chance you can bring me a Venti Americano with a double shot?”

I thought about his several steins of beer.

“How about a bottle of Advil?”

Bill grunted. Then, “I don’t need a wife, Ten. I already have one.”

I was one customer away from the cashier when Bill sent a text:
ALSO A NONFAT VANILLA SOY LATTE. THX.

What was he up to now?

The coroner’s parking lot was empty and still in the pre-dawn darkness. Three white vans, their blue lettering and county coroner seals easily identifiable, sat vacant in their allotted spaces. A fourth white van idled in the middle of the lot, this one unmarked. It was identical to the vehicle used to spirit Michael Jackson’s body away. I noted a silver Honda Civic Hybrid, new plates; an older model Acura RL; and Bill and Martha’s Dodge minivan, a pair of empty carseats belted in the back. I parked in the visitor’s slot and climbed out, balancing my little cardboard carton of coffees. As I hurried around the corner, three funeral home attendants wheeled a body, carefully wrapped in white cloth, out the back entrance and over to the unmarked van. A young man in a yarmulke, maybe the same one from the waiting room, I couldn’t really tell, trotted beside the gurney. Arlene’s rabbi, what was his name? Fishbein, Rabbi Fishbein, followed, hands clasped, head down. Both were dressed in black suits. The chief medical examiner, Assistant Chief Summer, and Bill watched from the door. I glimpsed a blonde cap of hair behind Bill. Registered the lady-drink in my carton. Clever man, that Bill.

He caught my eye. “
Wait,
” his expression seemed to say.

I waited.

The attendants opened the back double doors of the van. Grunting and straining from the weight, they lifted the gurney and loaded the shrouded figure inside.