Homicide in Hardcover Page 11

  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.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

  Holy spoilage, Batman. What in the world was Minka LaBoeuf doing in Dharma?

  I turned and saw her. She stood barely two feet away from me, clutching a glass of red wine with one hand and Enrico Baldacchio’s arm with the other. She wore another one of her dominatrix ensembles, a black leather skirt and matching vest over a white lace blouse with poufy sleeves, accessorized by leopard-patterned gloves and matching pillbox hat with a black tuft of mesh that covered most of her face.

  She’d already spilled wine on her white shirt. Such a waste of good wine.

  “Minka,” I said, trying not to choke on the word.

  “Brooklyn,” she said, stretching the mesh veil back so she could actually see me. “You remember Enrico, don’t you?”

  Of course I remembered Enrico. He was an unpleasant little man with a tendency to sweat. And he’d been present at the Covington Library the night of Abraham’s murder.

  Abraham had told me they’d tried to work together again but it had ended badly. Before that, they’d barely spoken in years, beginning back when they wound up on opposite sides of a lawsuit involving a counterfeit Marlowe folio sold to the Palace of the Legion of Honor years ago.

  “Hello, Enrico,” I said. “It’s been a long time.” Not long enough, I thought, but didn’t say aloud because I’m basically a nice person.

  “Che piacere è vederti, il mio caro.” He grabbed my hand and kissed it.

  Minka cut in. “He’s saying something like, ‘How are you, my dear? Such a pleasure.’ Blah, blah, blah.”

  “Yeah, I get it,” I said, then cringed at the trail of slime Enrico left on my hand. I furtively wiped it off with my appetizer napkin.

  “Che posto bello!” he cried, sweeping his arm around. “Una montagna bella! Una montagna bella! Un giorno bello-ma che tragedia!”

  “Uh, right. It’s a real tragedy.” I thought that was what he said. But what was up with the Italian? With a name like Baldacchio he had to be Italian, of course, but I remembered him coming from New Jersey.

  “Quite a service,” Minka said, but I could see her tongue in her cheek so I knew she was lying. She viewed the crowd for a moment, then said, “Where the hell are we?”

  I detested her with all of my being, but this was my town, my home, and my mother would be appalled if I treated any visitor badly, so I sucked it up and said stiffly, “Sonoma County. Really glad you could make it.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

  I turned to Enrico. “What are you working on now, Enrico?”

  “Ah, signorina.” He shrugged dramatically and fiddled with the cuffs of his dark brown shirt.

  Minka slipped her arm through his. “We’re working with an important collector whose name cannot be revealed.”

  My bullshit meter must’ve been showing on my face because she continued. “It’s true. He made us sign a confidentiality agreement.”

  Who was she trying to impress? And why was she speaking for Enrico? I remembered him speaking English.

  “Enrico,” I persisted, “I was so glad to see you at the Covington the other night. It gave me hope that you and Abraham had become friends again. Is that true? Did you bury the hatchet, so to speak?”

  “Hatchet?” His eyes widened. “No hatchet! I did not do it.”

  “Enrico,” Minka said through gritted teeth as she tightened her hold on his arm. “That’s an American joke. It means, you’ve made friends with Abraham.” She glared at me. “Stop baiting him.”

  “I’m not,” I protested, then said to Enrico, “I’m sorry. I meant, I’m so glad to hear you and Abraham were able to be friends again.”

  Minka nodded. “And his death is even more tragic because Baldacchio and Karastovsky”-she struck a dramatic pose-“the two greatest bookbinders in all the world, had once again joined together on a very important project.”

  Enrico pulled a silk scarf from his pocket and dabbed his dry eyes. “Sì. È una tragedia.”

  Minka’s head bobbed in agreement. “The book world has suffered a double blow.”

  “Totally,” Enrico said, blowing the Italian for a moment. He nodded rapidly, like a bobblehead. “Sì, sì, si, signorina.”

  So not only was he faking the accent, but he was lying about his renewed friendship with Abraham, who’d told me himself that Enrico was a deceitful thief.

  “That must’ve been such a comfort,” I said. “To know that you became friends again before he died. Otherwise, you might’ve had to live the rest of your life feeling guilty for never repairing the friendship.”

  “Guilty?” he cried. “Non sia stupido! I do nothing! Karastovsky! He try to ruin me! Guilty? Siete pazzeschi! ”

  He continued sputtering in outrage. I might’ve touched a nerve. But did he just call me stupid? I hated that.

  “Oh, great,” Minka said. “Now I’ll have to listen to this crap all the way home. Thanks a lot.”

  “Sorry,” I said flimsily.

  “I need more alcohol.” She stomped off, leaving me with one angry Italian. I needed alcohol, too.

  “Enrico, I apologize.” I grabbed his oily hand. “I’m so sorry. I did not mean to accuse you of anything.”

  I was starting to talk with an Italian accent.

  “That’s right. You donna know what you-a talking ab
out, missy.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” I took a deep breath and wrapped my arm through his. “Enrico, we’ve both lost a good friend, and today is no time to talk about business.”

  He seemed mollified for the moment. “You right.”

  I squeezed his arm. “Would you like more wine?”

  “No, no.” He seemed to enjoy my cozying up because he stroked my hand. “You take over Karastovsky’s work at the Covington?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  He looked left and right, then whispered, “I could-a tell you a thing or two about Karastovsky and those Winslows.”

  I looked around, too. “Really?”

  “Sì. They think Baldacchio’s a fool but I show them. They promise me a business deal, and I make sure they donna screw me. Baldacchio, he has the last-a laugh.”

  “How in the world did you do that?”

  “A little insurance.” He rubbed his shoulder against mine. “Maybe I show you sometime.”

  “That would be lovely,” I said softly. “Maybe we could meet next week and catch up on old times. Are you busy Monday?”

  He was taken aback for a moment, then slowly grinned. “Quello è molto buono. You’re a smart-a cookie.”

  His Italian came and went like the tide. I patted his arm. “I’m glad you think so. Shall I come to your studio? Say, around two o’clock Monday?”

  “Perfetto. I show you my latest treasure.” He moved even closer and I could see the comb marks in his overly gelled hair. “And maybe I show you a little something extra you will find extremely interessante.”

  “Interesting?”

  “And provocative. Tell no one. We do some business together, eh?”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “You’re a good girl,” he said, unexpectedly avuncular; then he frowned and shook his finger at me. “But do yourself the favor and stay away from the Faust.”

  “The Faust?”

  “The curse. I could-a lost my eye. Quel libro maledetto.”

  “Your eye? What?”

  The memory seemed to cause him pain because his eye began to twitch. He rubbed his forehead, then threw up his hands dramatically. “Eh! We talk Monday. You come see me and we talk.” He handed me his business card and strolled away. I saw Minka corral him by the dessert table and force him out the door.