Murder Under Cover

Chapter 1

“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.”

The Ghats were the flights of steps that ran for miles along the Ganges River. “It all sounds fascinating.”

“It was. And I have a surprise for you from my mother.”

“For me?”

“Yes.” She held up one of the bags she’d brought with her. “Do you want to see it?”

“Of course I do.”

“Let’s go to your workroom.”

My curiosity piqued, I picked up our wineglasses and followed her to the front room of my loft, where I did my bookbinding work. We pulled two tall chairs close together and sat at my worktable. Robin turned the shopping bag on its side and slid the contents out onto the surface. It was a worn leather satchel made in the style of a courier bag, with a long, wide shoulder strap, but it had to be decades old.

“It’s… a bag,” I said. “How thoughtful.”

Robin chuckled. “Wait for it. You know my mother. We must build the suspense.”

She unbuckled the satchel and pulled out something wrapped in a wadded old swathe of Indian print material.

“Um, is it a scarf?” I said, touching the pale, woven fabric. Once, it might’ve been dark green with burgundy and orange swirls of paisley, but it was faded now. Colorful beads, tiny brass animals, and chunks of mirrored glass were woven into the fabric and tied into the braided fringe at each end. “Is this really for me?”

“Hell, no.” Robin wrinkled her nose at the matted material. “That’s my mother’s idea of wrapping paper, I guess.”

“Ah.”

“She told me I could keep it and wear it. She just doesn’t get me. Never did.” Resigned, she flicked one of the silvery beads.

“No, she never did.” The threadbare fabric had an ethnic style that was intriguing, but I knew Robin wouldn’t be caught dead in it. I stroked the worn leather of the satchel. “This bag is nice.”

“I suppose it is, if you’re a camel driver.”

I laughed, then fingered the old scarf again. “Maybe Shiva’s been in India a little too long.”

“You think?” She shook her head as she gingerly unwrapped the cloth. “Okay, get ready.” She pulled the last of the fabric away. “This is for you.”

“Oh, my God,” I whispered.

It was a book. The most exquisite jeweled book I’d ever seen. And possibly the oldest. It was large, about twelve inches tall by nine inches wide, and almost three inches thick. I suppressed the urge to whip out my metal ruler.

The heavily padded leather binding was decorated with intricate gilding and precious gems. Teardropshaped rubies were affixed to each corner. Small, round sapphires lined the circular center, where a gilded peacock spread its tail feathers. Tiny diamonds, emeralds, and rubies were encrusted in the feathers. The thickly gilded borders of the cover and turn-ins were reminiscent of the patterns used by royal French bookbinders of the eighteenth century. Some of the gold had flaked off and the red leather was rubbed and faded in spots.

“Peacocks are the national bird of India,” Robin said. “Did you know that?”

“I had no idea.” I picked up the book and studied the foredge. With the book closed, the pages were deckled, or untrimmed, for a ragged effect. I could tell that the paper itself was thick vellum.

I checked the spine. It read, Vatsyayana. I looked at Robin. “What is this?”

“Open it and find out.”

“I’m almost afraid.” But I lifted the front cover and turned to the title page. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“The Kama Sutra?”

“Yes.” Robin grinned.

“From your mother?”

Now she laughed. “It actually belongs to one of Mom’s friends who’s been wanting to have it refurbished for a long time. Mom insisted there was no one better for the job than you.”

“That’s so sweet.”

“I thought so.” Robin sipped her wine as she watched me ogle the book.

“Who’s her friend?” I asked.

“His name is Rajiv Mizra and she’s known him forever. Nice man. Wealthier than sin, naturally, or why would Mom hang out with him? I think he’s been in love with her for ages, but she always says they’re just good friends.”

“Very interesting.”

“Yeah, I wonder if maybe they’ll get together eventually. Anyway, he wrote a letter of authorization and tucked it inside the book. That’s to let you know he’s consented to let you do whatever is necessary to make it sparkle and shine. So, you think you can clean it up?”

“I can take it apart?”

She laughed. “I guess, but you don’t have to sound so excited about it.”

“Are you serious? I live for that.”

“Good times.” She took another sip of wine.

“It is for me.” I stroked the corded spine, counting the ribs.

“Once it’s cleaned up, they’d also like you to have it appraised.”

“Sure.” Opening the cover, I studied the dentelles, the lacy patterns of gold that were worked into the leather borders. Some dentelles were so intricate and unique, they were as good as a bookbinder’s signature. I couldn’t wait to study this pattern more closely. “I wonder why your mom recommended me to do the work.”

“Apparently, Abraham visited her a few years ago and talked you up.”

“Really?” I smiled softly. “Isn’t that nice?” Abraham had been my bookbinding teacher for years. He’d died a few months back and I still missed him every day. I turned another page with care, unwilling to disturb the binding too much. The book more than one hundred years old, and I was amazed to see that it was written in French.

I turned to a page near the middle of the book and saw a hand-painted illustration of a couple having sex in a most fascinating style. I closed it quickly. Then I couldn’t help but sneak another peek.

“Wow, it’s painted by hand,” I said after clearing my throat. “Isn’t that interesting?”

“Yeah, it’s all about the strokes.” She snickered. “Paint strokes, I mean. Beautiful.”

We both began to giggle. It must’ve been the wine.

Robin let out a deep breath. “Well, hey, speaking of sex…”

“Were we?”

She laughed. “Sort of.” She waved her hands as if to get rid of that thought. “And I’m not talking about the sex you’re having. It’s about me. I met a man.”

“Oh.” That got my attention. “In India?”

“No. Here in San Francisco, just last night. I was on my way home from the airport and I was starving, so I stopped at Kasa to get some food to go. He came in right after me, so we were both waiting for our orders and struck up a conversation.”

“You went to Kasa after coming back from India?”

She laughed again. Kasa was part of a small, local chain of good Indian restaurants. “I still had a taste for the food. But that’s not important just now.”

“You’re right. So who is this guy?”

“He’s…” She looked baffled. “He’s… wonderful.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “What’s his name?”

“Alex.” She smiled dreamily. “He’s an engineer. Can you believe it? He was born in the Ukraine, but he’s lived here forever. His full name is Alexei Mikhail Pavlenko. Isn’t that cute? He’s great. Really handsome and funny. And smart.”

“You found out all that while waiting for to-go food?”

“We ended up grabbing a table and eating there together. It was his idea. He said he didn’t want to be a ship passing in the night, never to see me again.”

“That’s sweet.”

“He really was. I’m feeling very sappy about the whole experience.” She even shook her head to wipe the sloppy smile off her face, but it was useless. “Anyway, we had a great conversation and found out we actually have a lot in common. He’s wonderful; you’ll see. We’re going out tomorrow night.”

I stared at her in surprise. “Oh, no, you’re blushing. You never blush. You really like him.”

“Give me a break.” She rolled her eyes. “I blush sometimes. But yeah, I like him.”

Disconcerted, I glanced down at the Kama Sutra and decided that further inspection could wait. I closed the book and looked up at Robin. “Okay, he sounds great, but I have to ask why you’re seeing Mr. Wonderful when you’re in love with my brother.”

Her lips curved into a frown. “Austin hasn’t made any moves in my direction lately.”

I frowned, too. “Well, it’s not like you live in the same neighborhood anymore. He’s going to have to make an effort to come after you.”

“Yes, he is,” she said pensively. “Look, he traveled and partied for years and now he’s ready to settle down back home in Dharma and run the winery. But I’m not ready to do that yet. Not that he’s asked me to.”

I sighed. “I don’t want my brother to blow this.”

“I don’t want him to, either.” Her chin jutted out stubbornly as she added, “But I’m not going to sit at home waiting for the phone to ring.”

I wanted to kick my brother sometimes. Robin had been in love with Austin since grammar school, but he had always considered her too young for him. That had all changed a few years ago, when he finally settled down in Dharma and realized that Robin was perfect for him. That was right around the time she moved to San Francisco and was beginning to be recognized as a talented sculptor and artist.

But instead of pressing Robin to move her work to Dharma and live with him, Austin had decided to back off and give her space to have fun and enjoy her life as he had been doing all those years before he moved back home. Now, every time she suggested that she might come back to Dharma, he brushed her off, telling her she should experience the world and live every moment to the fullest.

With all the mixed signals, Robin had decided to let Austin make the next move. But if he didn’t move soon, he would lose her.

Timing was everything, as they say.

She looked like she could use a hug, so I jumped off the chair and wrapped my arms around her. “You know I love you, no matter what happens. So I hope you have a good time with Mr. Wonderful.”

“Yoo-hoo!”

We both jolted in surprise. I turned and saw my neighbors, Jeremy and Sergio, poking their heads through my open door. I guessed I hadn’t locked it earlier.

“Hi, guys,” I said. “Come on in. You remember Robin, right?”

“Of course,” Jeremy said, waving both of his hands at us as he walked in.

Sergio gave me a hug, then said, “Hi, Robin.” Then he handed me a small white paper bag. “I brought you some cookies from the restaurant.”

My eyes widened as I opened the bag. “You brought cookies? Did you make them yourself?”

“Of course,” he said modestly. Sergio was a world-class chef whose pastries and desserts were the stuff of dreams.

“Thank you,” I whispered, overcome by the sight of the half dozen tiny, chocolate-laden, delicate puff-pastry circles all bundled up in plastic wrap. In a separate packet were fragile pastel-colored macaroons. I opened it up and handed one to Robin, who reverently placed it on the tip of her tongue and closed her eyes.

“We’re sorry to bug you,” Jeremy said, pacing around my workroom, staring at the shelves, “but I’m preparing for my performance-art debut at the Castro Street Fair in a couple weeks and I’m on the hunt for accessories. Do you have a boa or any girlie hats or big jewelry?”

“Big jewelry isn’t really my style,” I said, “but I probably have a hat you could use.”

“I have lots of pretty things at home,” Robin said, wiping a tiny cookie crumb from her lips.

“Your stuff is probably too nice for what he wants,” Sergio said, then whispered, “He’s presenting an homage to the homeless.”

“Yeah, the tackier, the better,” Jeremy said with a grin. “Ooh, what’s this?” He grabbed the funky Indian scarf and wrapped it around his neck. “Is it me?”

“It’s totally you,” Robin said.

“I love it,” he said, holding the material out and studying it. “It’s so scruffy.”

Sergio nodded in approval. “Very ethnic, with a touch of grunge.”

“It’s yours if you want it,” she said.

“And I have other stuff you can look at,” I added.

“No, this is perfect. Shabby but colorful.” Jeremy scurried over to the small mirror hanging near the front door and tossed the length of the scarf back and forth and over his head. “I love the sparkly beads.”

“Take it,” Robin insisted. “Consider it an even trade for the cookies. Besides, I’ll never wear it. My mother is insane to think I would.”

“Thank you,” Jeremy cried, and clapped his hands. “I want you both to be there. It’s two weeks from tomorrow. Write it in your calendar.”

“I love the Castro Street Fair,” Robin said. “I go every year.”

I got up and found a pencil, then wrote the event in my office calendar. In one of the cabinet drawers I found a clean white cotton cloth, and as I wrapped the Kama Sutra up to protect it, I asked, “Would you guys like a glass of wine?”

The men exchanged a look; then Jeremy waved his hand with indifference. “Only if you insist.”

“I’ll get the wine,” Robin said, laughing. “You show them your sexy new book.”

“You have a sexy book?” Sergio said, moving closer to the worktable. He was fascinated with my bookbinding work. I unwrapped the cloth and pushed the book his way.

“Is this it?” He touched the spine of the Kama Sutra.

“Yes, and wait till you see it,” I said, excited all over again. I opened the book and turned to the page Robin and I had been peeking at earlier.

Jeremy began to squeal and slapped my arm. “You naughty girl.”

“This is fantastic,” Sergio said in awe, as he carefully ran a finger over the outer edges of the page.

“I know. I can’t wait to take it apart.”

“Ooh, that does sound exciting. Maybe I should sign up for that bookbinding class you teach after all.”

Later that night, I read the letter of authorization from Shiva’s friend Rajiv Mizra. In the same envelope, he’d included the original sale document from the Mumbai bookseller who sold him the Kama Sutra. The document indicated that the book, though undated, was thought to have been made in France between 1840 and 1880. That would be easy enough to verify once I’d examined the ink and paper and gilding style. Rajiv had paid 1,801,200 rupees back in 1997. I had no idea how much that was in U.S. dollars. I would calculate it in the morning, but I had no doubt the book would be worth much more in today’s market.

In his friendly note, Rajiv gave me full authority to do whatever it took to increase the book’s value. He also included his e-mail address in case I had any questions.

I smiled as I tucked the letter and documentation back into the envelope. The only question I had at this point was, How soon could I get my hands on that incredible book?

The following night, Derek returned from his Kuala Lumpur trip. Ever since he moved in, I’d been experimenting with cooking, so I made pasta with a creamy tomato vodka sauce, and we drank an Etude pinot noir I’d been saving for a special occasion. Our relationship was new enough that Derek’s coming home after a short trip definitely qualified as a special occasion.

I guess he felt the same way, because he’d thought to bring me a gift from his travels. It was a stack of beautiful Asian fabric samples for me to use as book cloth in my bookbinding work. It was the loveliest and most thoughtful gift a bookbinder could dream of receiving.

After dinner, we snuggled on the couch. In my wildest imagination, I never would’ve used the word snuggle in regard to the ruggedly masculine Derek Stone. But there we were, snuggled. And I felt completely satisfied with life.

Naturally, I couldn’t allow that blissful feeling to just exist. My mind rushed to scrutinize and worry over it. Call it human nature, but if I was this happy with a man, I had to wonder why. After all, I’d made mistakes with men before. I wasn’t always the best judge of character. So now I forced myself to ponder some key questions: Was he the right man for me? Why were we together? How did it happen so fast? And there were follow-up questions: Where would we go wrong? How would I screw things up?

The fact was, I’d never dated an ex-spy from another country. Were there issues I should be aware of? Was he a bad risk? Had he done things in his past that would come back to haunt him and, therefore, me? He seemed remarkably well-adjusted, and his level of self-esteem was the healthiest I’d ever encountered. But had he done things in the past that would someday cause him to hate himself? Would he have flashbacks? Would they develop into full-blown post-traumatic stress disorder?

And speaking of his former lifestyle, what exactly had he done? I imagined he must’ve played many roles during his time in British intelligence, but he rarely spoke of them. He still worked in that world peripherally. Did his current job of providing security to his wealthy clients ever entail role-playing? Suppose a rich young widow required someone to play her lover in order to uncover a blackmailing scam. Would Derek play that role or would he send an associate? Did I have the right to ask? Should I trust him to be faithful? Was I being ridiculously naive?

Or was I just imagining monsters in the closets?

To be fair, he had every right to ask himself similar questions about me. I was raised in a commune. How weird was that? And let’s not forget that we’d met under the most bizarre circumstances: over a dead body. Since then, I’d been involved in several murder investigations in which I’d played the role of number one suspect. My strange connection to murder had caused some of my colleagues to wonder if they should risk being in the same room with me.

Nevertheless, I had been relentless in my quest to find the true killer in each case. Derek had been right there beside me, and I was elated to know that we shared a passion for justice.

Still, I wouldn’t blame him for harboring doubts about my own ability to sustain a healthy relationship. I figured there was no time like the present to discuss it.

“Derek, I was wondering if you’ve-”

He emitted a soft snore and I realized he was sound asleep. Jet lag had hit him hard.

“Okay, we’ll talk later,” I murmured, then roused him enough to drag him off to bed, where he continued to sleep like a dead man.

It was five o’clock in the morning when the pounding began.

“What the hell is that?” Derek muttered.

“I don’t know,” I said, sounding whiny as I punched my pillow. Were they cleaning the streets? Or digging holes through concrete? The pounding continued, so I finally tossed the covers back and sat up. Throwing on my flimsy robe, I stood on wobbly legs as the pounding grew louder. By standing, I had a better grasp of the direction the noise was coming from. It wasn’t outside the building, I realized. Someone was pounding on my front door.

“I hope it’s not the little kids who just moved in,” I mumbled. “That won’t make anyone happy.”

That was when the screaming began.

Derek jumped out of bed and yanked on a pair of jeans. “Stay here.”

Ignoring his command, I raced after him down the hall, through the living room, and out to the workshop. I skidded to a halt behind him as he threw the door open.

It was Robin, wrapped in a trench coat and screaming as tears rolled down her cheeks.

She was covered in blood.