The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (Dharma Detective: Tenzing Norbu Mystery) (38 page)

“Hey. There’s the missus.” Arlene, loyal wife to the last, was making her way to a seat in the front row. The rigid set to her back told me she wouldn’t be loyal for long.

I wished her well. She was in for her own dose of life lessons, and very soon. Our meeting at her house this morning was only the beginning . . .

I’d parked outside. The paparazzi were long gone, leaving behind patches of flattened grass where they’d camped out. Arlene had answered the door in a terry cloth bathrobe, belted over dark stockings and low black heels, as if she had been too tired to finish dressing. Her eyes were red, the flesh underneath small pillows of pain.

She’d led me into the living room, where Harper waited on the sofa, her expression unreadable. Arlene stood next to her, arms tightly crossed.

“I’m here about the knife found next to Marv’s body,” I said. “Your knife.” Both bodies stiffened. “You see, at first I was confused, because the last time I was here, I checked your kitchen. And nothing was missing from the knife block.”

Arlene had lowered herself next to Harper, her eyes never leaving my face.

“But then I realized. I was working on a limited assumption. A habit I’m trying to break, by the way. Because you have two kitchens, don’t you?”

“For keeping kosher,” Arlene had whispered.

“Right. Two separate kitchens with two sets of knives. Which makes two possibilities, sharing one alibi. So the only question is, which one of you was there when Marv died?”

Arlene thrust out her wrists. “Arrest me! It was me!”

I kept my voice gentle. “Nobody’s getting arrested, Arlene. And I don’t believe that’s true.” I’d turned to Harper. “That’s why you went back, wasn’t it? To get the knife?”

Harper looked at her mother with something like pity.

“Can I talk to you alone?” she said to me.

“No!” Arlene crossed her arms. “No. I need to hear this.”

Harper’s eyes flashed. “Fine. It was happening again, okay? The late nights. The way he was always whistling. My father’s so obvious. We both knew, didn’t we Mom? He was fucking somebody again. And you did what you always do. Bail.”

Arlene bit her lip. Gave a tight nod.

“That lecture you took me to? At the temple? ‘Women and redemption’? Those women kicked ass! We came home, and you started making excuses for why he wasn’t here, and I just couldn’t take it anymore, you know?”

“How did you know where to find him?” I asked.

“Dad, like, he took me there, lots of times. I even knew the code. Did you know that, Mom? He called it his little getaway. Told me not to tell you. He’d bring me to the apartment, and there she’d be. His latest chick, whatever, he called them his ‘discoveries.’ We’d eat take-out, and then we’d go on the roof and look at the city lights. When I got older, he’d let me smoke a joint with them.” Harper’s voice was oddly matter-of-fact. “I think it made him feel less guilty, you know? Like we were both just having our little fun. So yeah, I knew where he was. And the later it got, the more pissed off I got. I waited until Mom’s Ambien kicked in. Then I grabbed the knife and drove over. Nobody answered the apartment, so I checked the roof, just in case. And that’s where I found Dad.”

Arlene reached toward Harper. “Honey.”

“No, Mom, just listen for once. He was passed out. Oblivious to everything. Me. You. Everything. I was so angry, I wanted to stab him. But he looked so weird. His lips . . . I . . . I dropped the knife, and I shook him! And shook him! And . . . “ Harper’s voice cracked. “And I . . . He . . . He didn’t wake up! He didn’t . . . he was dead!”

Arlene touched her daughter’s back. Harper wheeled on her mother. “Go away! I hate you! I hate you both!” Then she’d fallen into Arlene’s arms, sobbing . . .

Now I craned my neck around the amphitheater. No Harper to be seen; she’d taken a pass on her father’s memorial, and I couldn’t fault her. Someday she, too, would discover the parts of her that were just like her parents. Someday, hopefully, she’d trade in the painful pleasure of blaming others for the subtler but more rewarding joy of accepting herself. Someday she’d let go of the knife blade she held to her own heart. But not today.

A hand touched my arm, sparking a tingle that radiated throughout my body. “Sorry,” Heather whispered, slipping into her seat. “Got trapped with an acutely inflamed liver.” She had pinned her hair up, and her skin smelled like fresh strawberries. One fingertip lightly traced my swollen lip. “You get that in the monastery?”

I grabbed up her hand and kissed it. “Practicing fierce compassion,” I said. We smiled at each other, a matched pair of goofy grinners, and kept smiling until Clancy cleared his throat.

“Heather, this is my friend Clancy,” I said. “Clancy, this is my . . . “ I swallowed. Heather gave my knee a little squeeze. “My girl, Heather.”

A microphone crackled. The first speaker walked up. With his schlubby brown suit and bald fringe, he stuck out like a . . . I smiled.
Like a monk at a police academy.

“Marv . . . “ The mike gave off a loud
Pop!
He started again. “Marv and I, we go way back.” His accent was thick, his voice shaking with nerves. “We grew up on the same block in the Bronx. We went to the same schools. He could be a jerk sometimes, but I never met a guy who dreamed bigger or loved movies more.” He swallowed. “Anyway, I like to think I’m the reason we’re all here. I took him to Atlantic City on his 21st birthday. And he won big that day. Roulette. I still remember the numbers.”

My pulse sped up. I knew what was coming. I was betting Arlene did, too. 481632, I thought.

“Forty-eight. Sixteen. Thirty-two,” he said. “He made a bundle. ‘It’s my seed money,’ he told me. ‘You just watch. I’m going to make it big one day.’ Well I watched. And he did.”

Marv’s lucky numbers. Until he used them, viciously, and for the wrong reason. Karma.

The childhood friend was the highlight. A painful parade of self-congratulation, artfully disguised as reminiscence, followed. I was glad for the little band of spiritual warriors I’d briefly joined last week, sitting shivah to ease the passage of Marv’s broken soul.

I glanced at the program. We were just about done.

“Let’s go,” I said. We slipped out, and I led Clancy and Heather across the lobby to a private screening room.

“What’s going on?” Heather asked.

I explained. Clancy yelped and started struggling to set up his camera.

“You okay with this?” I asked Heather.

Her eyes gleamed. “Only if I get to tell my mother.”

The door opened. Keith Connor slipped in, swaddled in a scarf and dark sunglasses.

“It’s cool,” he said. “Nobody saw me.”

I had Heather unclip her hair. Clancy helped me pose the scene, making sure that only Heather’s slender back and blonde tresses were visible. Beautiful, but unidentifiable.

There was no missing who Keith Connor was.

Click
.

Tomorrow morning, some lucky gossip site would be emblazoned with the image of Keith Connor, caught in a close-up embrace with a mysterious blonde. Keith’s movie would get a nice big bump of free publicity. And Clancy? He finally got his money shot.

I walked Heather to her car. She’d be joining me at home later. But what I had to say couldn’t wait.

“Heather?”

“Hmmm.”

“I . . . “ I paused. I wanted to get the words right.
Feel your feelings. Tell the truth.
“I’m really nervous right now. I’m not very practiced with romantic stuff.”

She inhaled, as if breathing in my words.

“But here’s the thing.” My heart was pounding so hard I felt sure she could hear it. “I’ve held people at arm’s length my entire life. Especially women. I don’t want to do that anymore. I don’t want to keep running away. Playing it safe. I need . . . “ I swallowed. “I need a
sangha
. A spiritual home. A safe haven, where I can love, and be loved back. And I think I’d like to start with you. And me. With a, you know, a
sangha
of two. Us.”

Heather’s smile started in her eyes, and proceeded to spread, like sunshine, until it included us both in its warmth.

“Do you know,” she said, “I think that’s the most romantic thing any man has ever said to me.” Then she kissed me.

C
HAPTER
26

I sat on my deck, Tank purring like a chainsaw on my lap. Inside, a decanted cabernet did deep breathing exercises on the kitchen counter. I’d set out a selection of Seventh Ray salads: cashew-crusted tofu, roasted beets with candied walnuts. The wild mushroom flatbread was keeping warm in the oven.

I was smitten. That was obvious. I knew the time would come when I’d start discovering her flaws, and that was okay with me, too.

My fingers found the fluffy undercoat beneath Tank’s chin, and his whiskers quivered.

“We have company coming tonight,” I said.

Tank’s steady
prrrttt
paused for an instant, then started right up again.
If she makes you happy.

“She does. You’re a good guy, you know that?”

I savored the snap in the air, the eerie sheen of canyon rock, steeped in the blue light of the full moon.

I thought about family. Marv and his daughter. Julius and his sister. Bill and Martha and their two little girls. Something twisted, deep in my heart.

The moon nudged at me, urging me to stay with the pain. To hear, maybe even to embrace, the message it carried from the other side of the world.

Somewhere out there, in a small bed, in a cold room, a man was dying.

Seven thousand miles away, another man—a man, not a boy—was grieving the father he never had.

What do we inherit? Sometimes, it’s up to us to decide.

I stroked Tank’s ears, translucent in the moonlight. They fluttered beneath my touch, like fierce, delicate wings.

“I’m going away again, Tank,” I said. “Just for a bit. My father needs me.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

GRATITUDE FROM
GAY HENDRICKS

First, a deep bow of gratitude to Tinker Lindsay, who began as a gifted co-author and became a treasured friend. You are a bundle of wonders, Tinker. Long may we write together!

I’d like to send a big thank-you to our growing community of Tenzing Norbu fans. I’ve been deeply moved by the reception Ten has received from readers and reviewers around the world. The reviews have been not only heartwarming but also remarkably insightful.

I’m grateful to Louise Hay, Reid Tracy, and the Hay House team for giving a good publishing home to Ten, Tinker, and me. It is deeply satisfying to work with people who are not only trusted professionals but also good friends. I’m especially grateful to Patty Gift for her early enthusiasm for Ten; it meant a great deal to me that a person of her experience and stature would see the potential of the series.

Our agent, Sandy Dijkstra, is an author’s dream. Sandy has a passion for books, authors, and the whole literary enterprise; the power of her passion has made a profound difference in my life. Thanks also to Sandy’s team, Andrea Cavallaro and Elise Capon, for their efficient help whenever we need it.

Many thanks to the detectives of the Santa Barbara Police Department for their graciousness in taking calls from harried mystery novelists about obscure criminal topics. Just up the road from SBPD, the good gentlemen of the Far West gun shop were always there when I needed to tap into their expertise.

I also want to thank two undercover ATF agents, who must of necessity remain nameless, for helping me understand many unsavory aspects of life such as tactical nuclear weapons and drug cartel management styles. I admire your courage and appreciate your generosity. Next time you’re going to let me pick up the tab.

Lucy, our beloved 17-year-old Persian cat, can almost always be found sitting near me when I’m writing, as she is at this moment. Her good vibes and purrs are an essential nutrient for the creative process around the Hendricks household.

I’ve been richly blessed for 32 years to have a magnificent mate, Kathlyn Hendricks, who is also my muse, best friend, and creative partner. She is always the first audience for the adventures of Ten; her generous listening and keen feedback are crucial elements in everything I write. Katie, my gratitude to you is infinite.

GRATITUDE FROM
TINKER LINDSAY

First and foremost, gratitude and thanks to my co-author, Gay Hendricks. Gay’s talents are huge, in exact proportion to his heart, and I wake up every morning in a state of happy shock that I get to play with him and the products of his abundant imagination. (And special thanks to his wife, Katie, for welcoming me into a world of warmth, creativity, and unbelievable cooking.)

My heartfelt appreciation to the entire Hay House team for their enthusiastic support, including our lovely editor, Patty Gift, Reid Tracy, Quressa Robinson, Charles McStravick, and the amazing Louise Hay.

Deep appreciation, as well, to Sandy Dijkstra and Elisabeth James of the Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency for helping shepherd our detective, Tenzing Norbu, into future incarnations. He is in capable hands.

The following generous people made researching this book more fun than I can say. I owe them an enormous debt of gratitude. Whatever I got right is thanks to their knowledge and experience. Whatever I got wrong is due to my own inadvertent missteps:

Ed Winter, assistant chief of the operations bureau, L.A. county coroner’s office, shared his time, expertise, and thoughtful observations, especially regarding how high-profile homicides in L. A. play out publicly and privately.

John L. Grogan, private eye extraordinaire, patiently walked me through the specific steps necessary to the journey from cop to private investigator and regaled me with his behind-the-scenes professional adventures.

My nephew and favorite techno-DJ, Roddy “the Ride” Lindsay, served as translator and guide into the mysterious warehouse-world of traveling underground techno-shows.

I panned much gold from the work and words of Cheri Maples, Dharma teacher, former police officer, and co-founder of the Center for Mindfulness and Justice. Thanks, too, to co-founder and Operations Director Maureen Brady, for providing me with a sample daily retreat schedule, as well as her warm support.