“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.