Well, he had me there. I chewed at my bottom lip, caught my mom’s eye, and realized we were both thinking along the same lines. It was so out of character for the Max we knew. But murder? There was no way Max was responsible.
“This whole thing’s got to be some kind of setup or something.”
“How do you figure?” Gabriel asked as he tapped his fingers on the table.
“Well.” I took a last sip of wine to give myself time to think. “Someone wanted to divert suspicion away from themselves. Or wanted to specifically blame Max for Joe’s murder. I just can’t figure out why yet.”
“It’s possible.” Gabriel shrugged. “That means that whoever killed the bookseller must know Max Adams pretty well.”
“That’s right,” I said, and wondered why I hadn’t thought of that already. I suppose a vague feeling had been circling around my consciousness, but it hadn’t caught hold. The fact was, I hadn’t been thinking very clearly since I found Joe’s body. “So maybe the killer wants to draw Max out into the open.”
Derek leaned against the butcher-block table by the stove, his eyes narrowed in thought. “If the act of killing Joseph Taylor was meant to draw out Max, then the killer must know he’s alive.”
I shivered and pulled my sweater tight around me. That hadn’t occurred to me, either. But now that it had, I was scared to death for Max. “Which means the killer could already know where Max lives.”
Gabriel said, “He may be in big trouble out there.”
Derek had seen my reaction and pointed his finger at me. “And that’s why you ought to stay right here with your parents while we go collect him.”
“Nice try, but you won’t get rid of me that easily.”
“I don’t want to get rid of you, darling,” he said softly. “I want to protect you.”
“Aw, that’s sweet,” Mom said.
“Yes, it is.” I smiled at him. “Thank you, Derek. But the fact is, you need me there with you.” I pushed myself away from the sink. “So let’s go.”
“Whoa, hold on. Nobody’s going anywhere today,” Mom said. “Tonight is Savannah’s grand opening and I expect you all to be there.”
“But Max might need us,” I insisted.
“He’s been on his own all this time. He can wait one more day.” She flashed a piercing look at Guru Bob. “And if I know Robson, he’s probably got some sort of fail-safe number Max can call if he’s in deep trouble. Probably goes to some untraceable cell phone somewhere. Am I right?”
Guru Bob said nothing but held up his hands in surrender, as if to admit he couldn’t pull anything over on my mother. But he had, hadn’t he? For years now.
“Mom, how do you expect us to enjoy ourselves tonight, knowing Max is stuck out there all alone?”
She patted my cheek. “Because, my darling girl, tonight is all about good food.”
“But I’m already so stuffed from lunch.”
“You’ll be hungry by seven o’clock tonight.”
She had a point. I didn’t like skipping meals. It wasn’t healthy, right? Yeah. So, okay, I would force myself to enjoy an evening with family and friends, eat a fabulous meal, get a good night’s sleep, and rescue Max Adams in the morning. Once I was sure he was alive and in a safe place, I was so going to bop him over the head with something big and heavy.
Before Guru Bob left Mom and Dad’s, he pulled Derek aside and handed him a slip of paper. Then he said good-bye, and we all walked outside with him.
As soon as he drove away, I turned to Derek. “What did he give you?”
He smiled as he smoothed a strand of hair away from my cheek. “Nothing escapes you, does it?”
“No, so just make it easy on yourself and tell me what he slipped you.”
Chuckling, he pulled a small square of bond paper from his pocket and handed it to me. It was an address in Point Reyes Station, a small town in Marin County near Drakes Bay.
“Is this it?” I asked, gazing up at him. “Is this Max’s address?”
“No.” Derek took the note back. “Robson said we should go here first and they’ll tell us where to find Max.”
“Sounds like a scavenger hunt,” I said, wrinkling my nose.
With a frown, he said, “Let’s hope it’s not that complicated.”
“It’s already complicated. We’re going off to rescue a dead man.”
“Good point.”
Chapter 8
Later that afternoon, the irresistible aroma of warm baked bread filled the kitchen as Mom pulled the last loaf pan from the oven. She set it on a rack next to two other loaves, then whipped off her apron and turned to me. “The bread can cool while you and I go downstairs to perform a peace-and-safety ritual.”
My eyes widened and I looked around for an escape. “Gosh, Mom, I should probably go help Dad with… something.”
“No, young lady,” she said, taking my hand and pulling me out of the kitchen. “You’re coming with me.”
My shoulders slumped as we walked down the hall to the basement stairs.
“I’m very worried about you going off to find Max,” she said. “So humor me.”
Fine. I could use a little peace and safety in my life. Downstairs, she lit a fat stick of white sage and whooshed it around. “Now, when you find Max, I want you to bring him here. We’ll do sacred chanting and I’ll treat him to a cleansing Bhakti yoga shala bliss.”
“What in the world is that?”
“It’s a little concoction I dreamed up all on my own. Last week in my Ayurveda stretch class, Yoganina Robayana declared it
“Good to know.”
“Now sit, and we’ll meditate. Have you seen my new drum?” Mom sat on a fat, fluffy, Indian-print pillow; picked up a two-sided drum off the table; and began to beat its sides in a slow rhythm. “First we’ll do the sacred chanting. Ohmmmmmmmmmmm.”
And she was off. I couldn’t just walk out and leave her, so I folded my hands together in a yoga pose and prepared myself for the show.
“Ohmmmmmmmmmmm.” She closed her eyes and smiled beatifically as she tapped both sides of the drum double time. “Dig this vibration, sweetie.”
“That’s quite a groove you’ve got going.”
She put down the drum, then waved her arms over her head in an undulating movement. “It’s the dance of the divine.”
“Awesome.” I made a face.
“Are you making a face?”
I gulped. Could she see with her eyes closed? “Never. It wasn’t me, Mom.”
She smiled patiently. “Have a little brahmacharya, sweetie.”
That meant “self-control.” Self-control was one of the yamas, or ethical codes of conduct outlined in the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali. There were others: nonviolence, truthfulness, nonstealing, nonpossessiveness.
Her eyes rolled back in her head and I think she went into a trance as she began to sing, “Shri Rama Llama Jala Walla Ram Ram.”
“Oy vey,” I muttered.
“Sing with me! ‘Shri Rama Llama Jala Walla Ram Ram / Shri Rama Llama Jala Walla Ram Ram / Shri Rama Llama Jala Walla Ram Ram.’”
“Mom,” I said loudly, but she kept singing the same phrase over and over again. She picked up the drum again and beat her fingers and thumbs rapidly against the skin in rhythm with her song.
“Shri Rama Llama Jala Walla Ram Ram.”
“That’s beautiful, Mom,” I yelled over the lyric, “but I’ve got to go upstairs and get ready. Thank you for taking
