Kate Carlisle - One Book In The Grave

“Possibly.” Lee pulled out her cell phone and dialed the police dispatcher. After requesting patrol assistance, she hung up. To us, she said, “We’ll do some canvassing, but I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for someone to come forward.”

In less than a minute, we heard a siren.

“Can we go now?” I asked.

“Sure, you can go,” she said with an evil grin. “But not in your car. It’s just been turned into a crime scene.”

Reluctantly, I left my trusty hybrid in the hands of the San Francisco Police Department and Inspector Lee, who promised I could have it back by Tuesday. Then, to cajole me out of my depressed, dead-body-magnet mood, Derek drove straight to my favorite steak house. We were ushered to a comfortable, dark green booth in the corner with a view of the bustling room.

I was hoping a bottle of wine would magically appear on the linen-covered table.

Chalk it up to ennui or just plain exhaustion, but for the first time in my life, I allowed a man to order dinner for me. Derek knew all my favorite foods, namely, red meat, red wine, and chocolate soufflé. We both began with a lettuce wedge doused in blue cheese dressing, and I felt myself rebounding as the meal progressed. The comfort food, the dark green booths, the wood-paneled walls, the waiters in white shirts with their long black aprons tied neatly at the waist-all of it gave the room a warm, clubby feel that pampered and soothed my spirit.

Some women might’ve chosen a pedicure or a massage to perk them up, but for me, it’s all about food. The steak house provided the miracle cure I needed. The fact that Derek had known exactly what would work to snap me out of my doldrums was just one more feather added to his cap. Seriously, what woman wouldn’t love a boyfriend who acted all James Bond, looked all Hugh Jackman, and knew me well enough to ply me with my favorite foods?

We got to bed early that night, since we’d planned to leave the next morning to spend a few days in Dharma. Tomorrow was the grand opening of my sister Savannah’s new restaurant, Arugula, on Shakespeare Lane.

Dharma had grown to become quite the wine-country tourist spot, and the Lane, as it was called, was currently the hottest destination in the area. Everyone in my family was geared up to make Savannah’s opening a great success.

But Joe’s death and his connection to Emily and Max’s Beauty and the Beast had caused me to rethink some of my weekend plans. I felt as though I’d lost Max all over again. The knives I’d found at the crime scene and in my tire had spooked me badly. I wanted to spend some time commiserating with my family and others in Dharma who had known Max all those years ago. I was also hoping to talk to Guru Bob about the whole dead-body-magnet phenomenon. With any luck, he would have some good advice for me.

Derek and I were on the road at eight o’clock the next morning. It was a disturbingly early start, especially after having shared a bottle of wine the night before. I was happy Derek was driving, because I figured I could work in a quick nap on the way, but we started talking and I realized I’d much rather be wide-awake to enjoy his company than sleep for a few extra minutes.

As we drove over the Golden Gate Bridge and into Marin County, Derek reached across and patted my leg. “Darling, why don’t you give your mother a call and ask her to arrange a meeting for you and Robson? Then you won’t have to worry about trying to track him down all day.”

“Good idea,” I said, and searched in my bag for my phone. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because your mind’s been occupied by bigger and darker problems.”

“True.” I gazed at him, unsure whether to be relieved or worried that he could read me so well. I decided to go with feeling ridiculously pleased. “Thank you.”

He reached across the console and squeezed my hand, holding on to it while I spoke with my mother. Mom insisted that she was thrilled to play my appointments secretary for the day and assured me that everything would be taken care of. She signed off by saying, “Peace out, Punkin’,” and I hung up feeling lighter already.

An hour later, we left the highway and drove into Dharma. Derek slowed down as we cruised Shakespeare Lane, so I could get a good look at Savannah’s restaurant space.

A wide picture window revealed a light, wood-paneled room with a good number of tables covered in white linen. The tables were already set with sparkling crystal and flatware, and I imagined every table was spoken for. A small bar in the back corner was fully stocked and six barstools stood in front of it.

There was no actual signage out front, just a pretty painted picture of a thick bunch of green arugula tied with a pink ribbon. It was whimsical and colorful, just like my sister. I knew she was already at work in the kitchen, knew she would be nervous all day, knew that a number of well-known restaurant critics were driving up from San Francisco to experience the opening-night menu. But I also knew without a doubt that Arugula would be wildly successful and that Savannah Wainwright, my bald-headed, slightly wacky sister, was on her way to becoming the next celebrity chef of the Bay Area.

At the end of the Lane, Derek turned right and drove up Vivaldi Way toward my parents’ home. Over the years, a number of commune members had built homes in the hills overlooking Dharma, and as we climbed, we passed Abraham’s Spanish colonial on the right where his daughter, Annie, now lived. The Westcott family lived in the Tudor-style home tucked into the hillside on the left side of the road. Around the next turn, Carl Brundidge, the lawyer for most of the commune members, owned the sleek contemporary on the right.

Despite being in a commune, we all had our own individual styles and our houses demonstrated that.

A minute later, we pulled up in front of my parents’ spacious ranch-style home. Before the car had rolled to a stop, Mom and Dad came running out to greet us. They were holding hands, and seeing them together eased more of the tension around my heart.

The weather was warm enough that Mom had pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and she wore a tie-dyed tank top, cargo shorts, and utility boots. Mom had great legs and her arms were toned from the exercise she got picking apples and grapes all year long.

“Looks like Mom’s been out in the orchards this morning,” I said to Derek. “You know what that means?”

He shut off the engine and glanced at me. “What?”

“She might be making her crazy-delicious apple crisp while we’re here.”

“Apple crisp?” His eyes were instantly alert. “Don’t toy with me, Brooklyn.”

I laughed as I climbed out of the car. Mom’s crazy-delicious apple crisp with its awesome, spiked caramel sauce was worth the hour-long drive from the city to Sonoma.

I hugged my dad, surprised to see him all dressed up in Dockers and a clean, pressed, denim work shirt. His loafers were shiny, too, and he was wearing one of the Jerry Garcia ties I’d given him for Christmas. For Dad, this was formal wear. The man rarely wore anything but faded jeans and a T-shirt, since he spent most of his days out in the vineyards or in the barrel room, tasting and experimenting with the wines.

I knew I was probably prejudiced, but I thought my parents were adorable. They never seemed to age, which probably should’ve annoyed me, since I was getting older all the time, but it didn’t. It just made me happy to be here with them.

“I’ve invited Robson and some of the children over for lunch,” Mom announced after she’d hugged us both and tried to wrestle my overnight bag from me. As we walked into the house, she turned to Derek and added, “And I’ve cooked up a few of your favorite dishes.”