Kate Carlisle - The Lies That Bind

Derek saw me drive up and park, so he left his men to deal with Gunther and he and I walked in together. I was grateful for that. As we took our seats, I glanced around and saw Inspectors Lee and Jaglom standing on the sidelines.

The service was blessedly short, with no sniffling, no sad moans emitted in moments of remembrance. Layla had no family except her niece, so other than Naomi, I didn’t see one person raise a tissue to wipe away a tear. Even the singing, which usually got to me no matter who was being memorialized, didn’t elicit any outward signs of grief. That is, until the small choir began to sing “You Are So Beautiful.” That’s when Tom Hardesty choked up audibly and had to pull the handkerchief from his pocket. He was sitting two rows in front of me, and I saw his wife, Cynthia, elbow him. He flinched and straightened up immediately.

There was no graveside service, thanks be to Buddha.

Naomi had arranged for the after-service gathering to be held at BABA. By the time I got there it was two o’clock and the bar had a line three deep, snaking across the upper gallery. I noticed (because I notice these things) that the vigilant bartenders had set up several large trays of glasses already filled with white or red wine for the masses to grab as they passed. Grateful for their attention to detail, I obliged, taking a glass of red that turned out to be surprisingly good.

When I saw Naomi near the north hall entrance, deep in conversation with fellow staffers Karalee and Marky, I couldn’t help raising an eyebrow. She had changed her outfit in between the service and the wake and was now dressed to kill. She should pardon the expression.

It was a little creepy, seeing her in a spandex top and skintight black pants with stiletto heels. She looked like the Mini-Me version of Layla, right down-or up-to her hairdo, which was piled high on top of her head and spilled over in a sexy cascade.

Despite Naomi’s eerie similarity to her aunt, I had to give her kudos. She’d pulled this party together and the place was jumping with two open bars and rows of tables filled with hearty appetizers, finger foods, and desserts. The BABA board members seemed to be impressed and I’m sure that made Naomi happy.

There were current and former BABA students, teachers, artists, and book people from all over the Bay Area. Losing a luminary like Layla was a big deal to this community. Even if you didn’t like her, you had to acknowledge her power and influence on the business of books and fine art.

I greeted my friend Ian McCullough and his significant other, Jake, who were talking to Doris and Teddy Bondurant. I stopped to chat about books and Layla for a few minutes, then moved on to schmooze with others in the room.

Naomi was working it as she’d never done when Layla was alive. I figured she wanted the board to recognize that she was the one person capable of taking Layla’s place.

I scanned the room and finally picked Alice out of the crowd. A number of board members surrounded her by the south hall and they carried on an animated conversation. Alice was a real asset to BABA and I wondered if the board would consider her more capable than Naomi of filling Layla’s shoes.

Looking from one side of the room to the other, from Naomi to Alice, reminded me that the board of directors would have to make a decision soon. Who would run BABA in Layla’s absence? Taking in the current scenario, Naomi on one side, working the bar and hanging with her peeps, and Alice on the other, talking like a grown-up to the board members, I was beginning to realize where the power in the room lay. Despite the wardrobe change and the party planning, Naomi didn’t stand a chance. But that was just my opinion.

As I sipped my wine and soaked up the party atmosphere, I had another thought. Even though BABA was run as a nonprofit, that didn’t mean Layla hadn’t been paid handsomely, or that she didn’t have other income. Because of the way she had hobnobbed, the way she had dressed, the quality of her accessories-yes, even I could tell they were pricey-I’d always assumed she was somewhat wealthy in her own right. Would Naomi inherit everything, or did she have other relatives waiting in the woodwork?

Chances were, Naomi stood to inherit it all. And suddenly I smelled a motive. Not that she didn’t already have one, but it would have been nice to find out Naomi had killed her aunt Layla for good old-fashioned greed, rather than the simple fact that auntie had been an infuriating bitch.

Speaking of infuriating bitches, I spotted Minka at the buffet table, scarfing up the guacamole as she talked to Karalee, who gazed around the room, seeking a safe place to hide. I wanted to look away, but seeing Minka in her black cabbie hat that didn’t quite cover her still-bandaged head, I was reminded that Gabriel had been injured, as well. And I’d vowed to discover any possible connection between Gabriel, Minka, and Layla.

I drained my wineglass, because if I was going to have to talk to Minka, I needed fortification. On the way across the room I gave myself a pep talk to remind myself that if Minka could shed the slimmest ray of light on recent events, we-I mean, the police-might be able to track down the killer.

I straightened my shoulders and gritted my teeth. I could do this. I approached the buffet table. Karalee saw me first and her eyes lit up. I grabbed hold of her arm in a show of fondness, sure, but really I just wanted to keep her from running away. It wasn’t easy. She was ready to escape Minka, but I was even more determined to keep her here. I needed a shield.

“Hey, Minka,” I said jovially, like a complete fraud. “How’s your head feeling?”

She whipped around and her mouth gaped. Not a pretty sight. I would never eat guacamole again.

Her upper lip twisted in a snarl. “You’re joking, right? Am I supposed to believe you care?”

Today, in honor of the dearly departed, she wore her favorite clothing mash-up: pleather, spandex, and animal prints. Her pants were black and brown cougar spots and her short shiny jacket was a bold zebra print. But the most disturbing part of her outfit was what it didn’t cover up. Two wide inches of pale belly fat were exposed between the jacket and the pants.

“Of course I care,” I said, swallowing my distaste. “I saved your life, remember?”

“No, you didn’t. You’re so full of shit.”

What could I say? She was right. “But I just hate the idea that anyone might be attacked here at BABA. And then poor Layla was killed two days later. I mean, don’t you think that’s scary? That could’ve been you.”

“Whatever.” She glanced at Karalee and rolled her eyes.

“I’ve got to go,” Karalee said quickly, and tried to break away.

“No,” I said, jerking her back to my side. I exhaled from the exertion. “So, Minka, here’s what I was wondering about the other night. Do you remember hearing anything right before you were hit? Like heavy footsteps, maybe. Or somebody humming or whistling. Were there any sounds coming from any of the offices?”

Did I sound as big an idiot as I felt? Probably.

She wrinkled her nose. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I didn’t hear anything besides the usual crap-ass chamber music coming from Layla’s office.”

Crap-ass? Layla had played pretty classical music. Figures Minka would hate that.

“What about odors?” I persisted. “Do you remember smelling anything unusual? You know, like perfume? Men’s cologne? Minty fresh breath? Sweat, maybe? Garlic?”

“God, you’re so bizarre.”

“Is that a yes or a no?” I said.

“That’s a go-fuck-yourself.”

“Minka, that’s rude,” Karalee said.

“Yeah, well, fuck you, too.”

I gave up on the niceties. “What the hell were you doing in the hall, anyway? Weren’t you supposed to be teaching a class?”