Kate Carlisle: Murder Under Cover

The fourth book in the Bibliophile Mystery series, 2011

“You’re having sex!” my best friend, Robin, cried as soon as I opened the door. “I mean, not currently, thank God, but recently. Oh, I’m so happy for you!”

“Say it a little louder, why don’t you?” I yanked her into my apartment and quickly shut the door behind her. “I don’t think they heard you up in Petaluma.”

She dropped her bags on my worktable and pulled me into a hug. “Your closest neighbors are two lesbians. Do you really think they’ll judge?”

“It’s nobody’s business,” I grumbled. “I’m not even going to ask how you can tell.”

“It’s a gift.” She patted my cheek. “Besides, just look at you. You’re glowing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, feeling my cheeks warm up. So maybe she was right; maybe I was glowing. Did she have to point it out to the world?

Robin Tully had been my BFF for years, ever since we were eight years old and our parents joined the same spiritual commune in the hills of Sonoma County. We first bonded over Barbie dolls, Johnny Depp, and a mutual disgust for dirt. Now all that dirt has transformed itself into the upscale town of Dharma, a wine country destination spot for Bay Area foodies. But back in the day, it was backwoods enough to make two fastidious little girls go berserk.

Robin grinned, amused by my reaction. Then she scooped up her bags from the table. “I brought wine and presents.”

“I ordered pizza,” I said, leading the way down the short hall to my living area.

“I’d kill for pizza.”

“No need. I’ll share.” I pulled two wineglasses from the kitchen shelf and set them on the smooth wood surface of the bar that separated my kitchen from the living room. “I missed you a lot. How was India?”

“India was exotic and wonderful and smoggy, and I missed you, too.” She pulled the bottle of wine from one of her bags and handed it to me to open. “And I missed showers. And ice cream. And hamburgers.”

“The pizza’s got sausage and pepperoni.”

“Oh, God, meat.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “It sounds like heaven.”

“I have ice cream, too.”

“I love you. Have I told you that lately?”

With a laugh, I poured the wine and handed her the glass. “Welcome home.”

“Thanks.” We clinked glasses and she took a good long drink. “You have no idea how happy I am to be back.”

The doorbell rang and I ran to pay the pizza deliveryman. After piling pizza and salad onto plates and pouring more wine, we sat at my dining room table to eat.

Besides Robin’s work as a sculptor, she owned a small travel company that specialized in tours of sacred and mystical destinations all over the world. In the beginning, she had catered mainly to fellow commune members, but her client base was growing. It seemed there were more and more people interested in stone circles, pyramids, Gothic cathedrals, and harmonic power centers. And who better to guide them than my friendly and gifted pal Robin? Her tours catered to the adventurous seeker of esoteric knowledge who had tons of cash to throw her way. She had just returned from leading a group of four couples on a three-week tour of India.

So for three long weeks I’d been gnashing my teeth, unable to share my exciting news-specifically, the news about me and my mysterious British boyfriend-with my closest friend. And Robin had guessed it the very first second she saw me. I supposed that’s what the whole BFF thing was all about.

We opened another bottle of wine as she regaled me with the highlights of her India trip and I filled her in on all the news about me and Derek Stone, the hunky British security expert I’d met a few months back during a murder investigation. Yes, we’d done the deed, as she’d shouted to the world earlier. And yes, he was opening a San Francisco branch of Stone Security. And yes, our relationship was so new that I still tingled every time I thought of him, and yes, I’d boldly offered him a place to stay-with me-until he found a home in San Francisco. So yes, he was staying here, but no, he wasn’t home at the moment. Right now, he was flying back from Kuala Lumpur, where he’d provided security for an installation of priceless artwork from the Louvre.

And yes, I’d been threatened by another vicious killer. Robin had been packing to leave for India at the time and wasn’t around to hear the entire story, so I filled her in on all the gory details. The killer was safely tucked away in jail now. And that was my last three weeks in a nutshell.

As we cleared the dishes, I figured it was time to ask Robin the burning question I’d avoided long enough.

“So, did you see your mother?” I asked cautiously.

Robin scowled. “And we were having such a lovely evening.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault,” she said with a sigh. “Yes, I saw her. I left my group in New Delhi and flew down to Varanasi to spend some time with her. And yes, she’s just as annoying as ever.”

That was no big surprise. She and her mother, Shiva Quinn, had always had issues.

Shiva’s real name was Myra Tully and she was raised by missionaries. Suffice to say, Myra had a real savior complex from the get-go. In the 1970s, Myra had accompanied the Beatles to India to see Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. While there, she changed her name to Shiva Quinn. No one was sure where Quinn came from. As for Shiva , Robin always thought it was telling that her mother had named herself after the supreme god of Hinduism.

When Robin was really irritated with Shiva, she’d call her Myra.

It didn’t help that her mother was tall, glamorous, and model thin. She was also sophisticated and interesting and everyone loved to be around her. Her missionary upbringing gave her an awareness of the world and its problems, which led her to become the spokesperson for a humanitarian organization called Feed the World.

By the time Robin was ten years old, her mother was traveling constantly, returning home every few months for only a day or so. But that was okay with me, because when Shiva left the commune, Robin would stay at my house. We had a slumber party every night. I would’ve been happy if Shiva stayed away permanently, but I could never say that to Robin.

“How long did you visit with her?” I asked as I started the dishwasher.

“Three excruciating days.” Robin laughed drily. “She’s such a drama queen. She couldn’t settle in London or Paris. No, she had to go live in Varanasi. I swear she thinks she’s Mother Teresa in Prada. She shows up at the marketplace and women beg for her advice on everything from child care to fashion. Child care. Are you kidding me?”

“That’s a little surprising.”

“You think?” Robin shook her head. “But you know she loves it all. Never mind. I promised myself I wouldn’t bitch about her, but it’s always so tempting. Anyway, the city of Varanasi itself was awesome. I’ll probably return with a tour group sometime. I saw the Monkey Temple and walked for hours along the Ghats overlooking the Ganges. It was amazing. I took lots of photos. I’ll send you the link.”