One Book In The Grave Page 12

  As he spoke, I flashed back to the moment yesterday when he’d matter-of-factly pulled that serious-looking gun from his jacket on his way out to hunt down a killer.

  So he wasn’t completely domesticated yet. I breathed a sigh of relief at the realization, then wondered how one man could be so normal and yet so dangerous at the same time. I didn’t know the answer, but I think it was that very dichotomy in Derek that most appealed to me. Was there something wrong with me that I loved his tough, dangerous side a lot? Was it wrong that I found it thrilling that this guy would go to any lengths, including carrying a gun and hunting down killers, to protect me and the people I loved?

  But, hey, I also found it thrilling that he liked to make sandwiches and sit around watching TV, too.

  “Your brain is working overtime again,” Derek said as he reached out and pulled me closer, moving his hands up and down my arms and across my shoulders.

  “Just thinking about how much I’ll miss you,” I said, and wrapped my arms around him.

  “Such a bad liar,” he murmured.

  “I’m not lying about that,” I said, laughing.

  “No, you’re simply withholding information.”

  “Never.”

  He chuckled and we stood holding each other for a while, until he leaned back and looked at me. “I know right now isn’t a good time, darling, but once Max’s problems are taken care of and things are back to normal, we have to talk.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “Is everything okay?”

  His eyes were focused on me, intense and indecipherable. “What do you think?”

  Am I missing something? “I think everything’s wonderful.”

  His knuckles grazed my jawline and moved down my neck, causing shivers and tingles to rise with his touch.

  What does he want from me? I mean, besides the usual sexual favors and mindless devotion.

  I was kidding, sort of.

  “Are you feeling all right?” I asked, serious now.

  “Yes.” He kissed me then, touching my lips so tenderly that I went boneless, almost dissolving in his arms. My eyes fluttered open to see him smiling at me in a way that was almost…victorious? Had I just capitulated to something? Was there a contest I didn’t know about?

  “Be careful, please,” he murmured, kissing me again. “I love you.”

  “And I love you,” I said. It was getting easier to tell him how I felt, especially when he said it first. Was that so wrong? It wasn’t like I needed permission to say it. But it was still nice to hear him say it first. Was I being neurotic? Hell, when it came to matters of the heart, when was I not?

  He pulled open the car door and slid into the driver’s seat. “I’ll call you this afternoon when I’m on my way out of the city.”

  “Okay. Be safe.”

  He flashed me one of his sexy, twisted grins that made my whole body sit up and take notice. I smiled and waved as he started the engine and drove away.

  Instead of racing back into the house, I stopped to pull some weeds growing among the flowers along Mom’s walkway.

  Derek and I had been together for almost six months now. The fact that we’d managed to maintain a strong relationship, given Derek’s secret security assignments and my odd predilection for finding dead bodies, was a monumental achievement. If that wasn’t love, what was it, right? So why rock the boat when it looked like smooth sailing ahead?

  I mentally rolled my eyes. Rock the boat? Smooth sailing? So many clichés, so little time. It was never a good thing to hear myself thinking in clichés.

  I had a great-aunt, Aunt Jessica, my dad’s father’s sister, who spoke only in clichés and the occasional mixed metaphor. Instead of ever giving advice or admonishing, Aunt Jessica would nod gravely and say, “Sleeping dogs.” Or she would wink at one of us and murmur, “Bird in the hand.”

  So from an early age, my siblings and I recognized the true wisdom of her words. We would outdo one another trying to come up with some ridiculous comment to describe a given situation. Finally, my father outlawed all clichés and silly metaphors. He decreed that we were allowed to think only original thoughts. It was silent at the dinner table for a few nights until he relented. But we learned our lesson, and from then on we did try to avoid clichés like the plague. Ha!

  My point was that when I caught myself thinking in metaphors, mixed or otherwise, I knew I was either extremely tired or in serious danger of losing my heart. Both of these circumstances could cause brain cells to diminish. It was a well-known fact.

  I just hoped I wasn’t getting stupid where Derek was concerned. He’d told me straight out that he worked in dangerous situations all the time, but maybe I’d missed the subtext. Maybe that meant he didn’t want to face danger when he came home. Maybe that’s what he wanted to talk to me about. Maybe he’d rather come home to someone more settled, someone less likely to stumble over dead bodies. Someone who didn’t attract death like honey attracted flies. Or was it bees?

  Didn’t matter. Either way, it was another cliché. Good grief.

  “Well, that’s too damn bad, pal,” I said stoutly, as I stood and brushed bits of grass and dirt off my pants. “You’re stuck with me and I’m stuck with you.”

  And just like that, I felt better. Lighter. Happier. Weird, but I guessed I would have to pull weeds more often. No wonder Mom often looked and acted so Zen-like. Through her gardening, she had found a way to clear her mind. Good to know.

  Walking around the side of the house, I tossed the handful of weeds into the green trash can to be dried and mulched.

  Mom was waiting in the kitchen, putting away the last of the breakfast dishes. I smiled at her outfit: work boots and a faded denim jacket over a long-sleeved purple T-shirt and a calf-length crinkly skirt she’d tie-dyed several shades of sage green.

  I felt so plain standing next to her in my blue jeans, a thick navy sweater, and loafers.

  But her eyes lit up when I walked inside. “There’s my beautiful girl.”

  “Mom, you look fabulous.”

  She whirled around like a little girl and we both laughed. Then she sobered. “I’m feeling a little antsy about our mission so I’m going to perform a success ritual before we leave.”

  Our mission? Ooh, boy. And rituals? God help me. I thought about stopping her, but how could I argue with a success ritual? After all, I’d never admit it to Mom, but I was a little antsy, too. I’d had a few bad dreams last night featuring Solomon and Angelica. And this morning, the same fearful thoughts had been recycling through my mind.

  I could picture them both gloating over their malevolence, rubbing their hands in excitement at the power and control they wielded. I would really hate to run into them on the street in Dharma, knowing they’d be able to read the fear and loathing on my face.

  As I waited for Mom to gather her herbs and tools, I recalled that summer I taught the bookbinding class at the Art Institute. I had loved my class, loved bookbinding, and enjoyed teaching in general. But any thoughts of pursuing a career as an art teacher had been effectively squelched, thanks to Solomon and Angie.

  I suppose it was unfair to blame my decision not to teach solely on the two of them. Academia was a strange, provincial world and I simply didn’t fit in. The insular attitudes of many of the professors and staff were suffocating at best. And Solomon, while fascinating in the classroom, ruled his department like a despot, handing out praise, assignments, and retribution as though he were Julius Caesar.

  Angelica was worse. She was gorgeous, yes, but haughty and domineering. And possessive. Not just with Max, I realized now, but with the school itself and the students. This was Angie’s territory and how dared I think I could ever be a part of it?

  I shivered, and all of a sudden it struck me that I was still holding on to so much fear of her. I knew I would have to confront her one of these days.

  “Assume the position,” Mom said as she walked back into the room. She chuckled at her own joke while she assembled her ritual herb
s and tools on the dining room table.

  I gave her a look. “Very funny, Mom.”

  “Never gets old.”

  When my siblings and I were growing up, Mom and Dad used to regale us with tales from the sixties. One of their favorite stories was of the time they were arrested at China Lake for protesting nuclear weapons. (That’s where my sister China was born, the day after Mom was released from jail. My parents were sentimental that way, naming us all after the places where we were born or conceived or, apparently, where they’d spent a night in jail.)

  Mom had advised us that when the cops were arresting you, they would tell you to assume the position. That meant you should stand facing a wall with your feet apart and both hands on the wall. The better to be frisked, she explained.

  Of course, Dad always maintained that the actual position you were meant to assume was the one where you bent over and kissed your ass good-bye.

  So every once in a while, for no apparent reason, one of my parents would suddenly tell us to assume the position. Being obedient children, we would.

  Some of us would go with Mom’s position and stand facing the wall. But some-usually my two brothers-would go with Dad’s choice. Mom and Dad would howl with laughter and we would all make faces and roll our eyes at them. My parents were a couple of cards. No wonder we didn’t do drugs; things were zany enough around our house without the added buzz.

  Mom placed three small dishes on the table, filled with rosemary, sage, and dried lotus petals to represent memory, concentration, and truth.

  “Here, sweetie,” she said, handing me one of the thick sticks of sage she used to cleanse, purify, and eliminate negativity. “You light the sage.”

  “Okay.” I took a deep whiff of the sage before I flicked Mom’s lighter on and held it to the top leaves. They began to smoke, then burn. I let the fire spread across the top of the stick before blowing it out. The strong aromatic smoke filled the room.

  “I’m lighting the copal, too,” she said, holding another, more bristly looking herbal smudge stick. Copal was a type of tree resin with a mild pine scent that was often used in incense. Mom used it sparingly with other herbs when she needed an extra boost to attract good spirits.

  Seeing the copal made me realize she was even more antsy than she was willing to admit. I guess I was, too.

  I waved the sage bundle around, making sure the smoke wafted over us both, up and down and around our bodies and over our heads, while she did the same with the copal stick. We probably looked like idiots, and maybe we were, but I usually found Mom’s rituals oddly comforting.

  She rested the copal stick in a small pot she’d filled with sand. As she plucked up bits of herbs and petals and sprinkled them in two circles on a piece of white cloth, she chanted,

  Sage and rosemary,

  Clear our misty minds.

  Lotus, lead the way

  To the truth that we must find.

  Spirit, show yourself to me,

  Shine the light that we may see.

  Spirit, once this day is done,

  Your knowledge and mine will be one.

  Mom waved the smoldering copal stick over the herb circles and tapped a tiny bit of ash onto each of them. Then she buried the burnt end of the stick in the bowl of sand and did the same with the sage bundle.

  With scissors, she carefully cut the cloth in half and gathered each of the corners together around the little piles of herbs and ash. After tying each of the bundles with a short raffia string to make two small sachets, she handed one to me.

  “Hold this close and I’ll do the same. It’ll keep our minds open and our thoughts pure. That way, we’ll recognize the truth when we hear it.”

  “Cool.” I slipped my sachet into the pocket of my jeans.

  Mom pressed her hands together, closed her eyes, and breathed slowly in and out. After a minute, she opened her eyes and blinked at me. “The spirits believe you will succeed, Brooklyn.”

  “They do?” I nodded, not quite sure of the proper response. “That’s great. Thanks, spirits.”

  “The spirits say, ‘No problemo.’” She grinned. “Let’s boogie.”

  As we walked down the Lane toward Warped, my sister China’s yarn and weaving shop, Mom leaned close. “Tell me more about the people we’re looking to get intel on.”

  Intel? Seriously? But I relented and gave her some of the history of Solomon and Angelica, explained Max’s desperation and his reasons for staging his own death. Mom had tears in her eyes and I wondered if I’d said too much. But I figured if Max ever needed help in the future, Mom would know why and would be there for him. She was easily the most empathetic person I knew.

  Mom stopped me a half block up from Warped and stared right into my eyes. “Can you honestly see either of these odd people getting in a car and following all of you to Marin, then taking out a long-range rifle, aiming at you, and pulling the trigger?”

  Now that she put it like that, all black and white and out in the open, I really had to think about it. Frankly, I had a hard time picturing anyone in the world doing something so horrible. I didn’t see evil in the world like Derek or Gabriel saw it. It always caught me by surprise.

  Finally I admitted, “Solomon was a creep, but I don’t see him as a murderer.”

  “What about the woman?”

  I sighed. “Maybe my memory of her is a little distorted because she was cruel to me, but she seems fully capable of pulling the trigger. On the other hand, around the campus she passed herself off as the artistic earth-goddess type in bare feet who loved all creatures and wouldn’t be caught dead with a gun in her hand. I didn’t buy her act for a minute, but a lot of people seemed to believe it.”

  “Okay, not very helpful,” Mom said, nodding. “Let’s see what we can find out around town.” She wove her arm through mine and we continued walking. I gripped her arm, not sure why I was so nervous. We were just strolling along the lane, the same as we would do on any other day of the week. We were going to visit my sister China, then check in with my sister Savannah across the street at her new restaurant. It would be fun to see how well the restaurant was doing and find out how the critics had enjoyed their meals. After that we would stop at Anandalla, our friend Annie’s kitchen shop. Along the way, we would talk to friends, greet other people on the sidewalk, and try to find a killer. The usual.

  Chapter 14

  “You should talk to Savannah if you want the scoop on Angelica,” China said after we told her what we were looking for. “She would know a lot more about those people than I would.”

  “Why do you think so?” I asked.

  China gazed at me as if I’d lost part of my brain. “You don’t remember that Savannah took her first cooking classes at the institute before going off to study in Paris?”

  “Um, I know she did, but…so what?”

  China shook her head. “She used to party with that whole crowd. Don’t you remember she called Angelica a bitch with attitude?”

  “She should talk,” I muttered. Savannah could be prickly when she wanted to be.

  “I know, right?” China glanced quickly at Mom, who was on the other side of the shop, comparing skeins of neon purple yarn. Only God knew what she planned to knit with that.

  “I heard that,” Mom said mildly. “Be nice.”

  China and I exchanged glances. Had we really thought we could get away with saying anything negative about our siblings? Mom had the ears of a desert fox.

  I frowned at China. “How do you remember all that stuff about Savannah and Angelica?”

  “I was younger than you two so I hung on your every word.” She held up her hand instantly. “And no, I don’t do that anymore.”

  “Too bad,” I said, grinning.

  “Anyway, I remember everything Savannah used to say when she’d come home from the culinary school. I thought being a chef would be the most exciting thing ever. I mean, food everywhere, right? I was captivated by everything she told us about her training.”


  “Huh. I just tried my best to ignore her.”

  “Like we all do with London,” China whispered.

  I snorted and we both whipped around to see if Mom had heard. She didn’t brook any disparaging words uttered about her youngest and most darling daughter, London. After all, our little sister led a charmed life in nearby Calistoga with her gorgeous, wealthy doctor-cum-oenologist husband and twin babies.

  A bell tinkled prettily to alert China that the door to the shop had opened. We turned and saw Crystal and Melody Byers, two sisters who’d gone to high school with us.

  “Yoo-hoo, China,” Crystal said, as she rushed over to hug my sister, then me. “Brooklyn, it’s so good to see you. We saw you coming in here and thought we’d stop in to say hello.”

  “Hey, Crystal,” I said, smiling. “How are you?”

  Mom walked over to greet the sisters, then said, “You girls look so cheery today. Melody, that color is perfect on you.”

  Melody preened in her golden yellow jumpsuit. It was a good color for her blond hair and lightly tanned skin, but lately when I saw a jumpsuit, it reminded me of a prison uniform. If hers were slightly more orange, she would fit right in at the county jail.

  Crystal was my age and we’d been in the same classes all through grammar and high school. Melody was a year younger. Both were pretty, blue-eyed blondes, tall and big-boned, who were strong from years of working in their parents’ orchards, where they grew olives, walnuts, and apples. Thanks to the two Byers sisters, our high school women’s basketball and baseball teams had held the state championship for five years running. The sisters were popular with the girls at school, but most of the boys were afraid of them, probably because the two girls could beat them at almost any sport.