The Lies That Bind

by Kate Carlisle

  His eyes flickered open and he gave me a tired smile. “Hey, babe. You look hot.”

  My eyes swam with tears. “Yeah, so do you.”

  He tried to laugh but it took too much effort. “I look like shit. But I’ll be okay. I heard you took care of everything.”

  “I just did what I could to keep you from bleeding all over the clean streets of Dharma.”

  “Good little citizen,” he whispered.

  “That’s me.” I fiddled with his sheets, pulled them a bit tighter. “You’re going to be okay.”

  “Yeah.” He closed his eyes, exhausted by the brief exchange. A few seconds later, his eyes still closed, he whispered, “Babe, do me a favor.”

  “Of course,” I said, leaning closer.

  “Get me the hell out of here.”

  “I’ll do my best.” I hesitated, then said, “Gabriel, did you see anything? Do you have any idea what happened out there?”

  He shook his head back and forth slowly, his forehead wrinkled in pain. “Don’t remember much. They told me I was shot, but I don’t remember being hit. Don’t remember falling.”

  “Do you remember me waving at you?”

  “No,” he whispered. “Did you wave to me?”

  “Yes.”

  He closed his eyes. “I should’ve remembered that.”

  “That’s okay, don’t worry,” I said, squeezing his hand lightly. “We’ll find out what happened.”

  “Babe,” he whispered, opening his eyes as much as he could manage. “Be careful out there.”

  “I will. You sleep for a while and we’ll have you out soon.”

  I got to the door and turned around to wave good-bye, but he was already asleep. I walked out and saw Derek talking to a Sonoma County deputy sheriff. Another uniformed officer was speaking with Guru Bob.

  Mom pulled me aside. “The police are interviewing all of us. They’ve confirmed that Gabriel was hit by a bullet.”

  My stomach sank. I mean, I’d already concluded it was a bullet, not some stray flying pebble. But having it confirmed didn’t make me feel any better.

  Mom continued, “Derek says they’ll leave a guard here tonight.”

  “Good,” I said, even though it was awful to think Gabriel might still be a target. On the other hand, I was relieved to know that the police were taking his safety seriously.

  When it was my turn to talk to them, they jotted down my information and promised to do everything they could to find out what had happened. As we spoke, it occurred to me that some of the stores on Shakespeare Lane had security cameras, so I mentioned it. I was happy to hear them say they’d already begun collecting the tapes and might be able to piece together a likely scenario from the evidence.

  I wanted Gabriel’s assailant found.

  I stared at my hands, where no trace of Gabriel’s blood remained. It was disturbing, to say the least, that within the span of one week, three people I knew had been attacked. One was dead. Did anything connect them? Layla and Minka, definitely. Both of those attacks had taken place at BABA. But now, some fifty miles away in Dharma, Gabriel had been hurt. He could’ve died. Was there anything linking the three? Besides me?

  I brushed the thought aside. There was no way they were connected, especially because if they were, it meant that I might be the only common denominator.

  One way or another, I was determined to find out why the people I knew were being targeted for murder.

  Chapter 12

  Outside the hospital, I said good-bye to Derek. He had heard from Gunther, who was insisting on exploring more wineries. Derek muttered something about conducting a more thorough vetting of clients next time; then he took off to join the demanding Gunther and head to points north.

  Alice and I followed Mom back to Dharma for dinner. Because of Gabriel’s situation, the meal was a somber affair. I wanted to ask my dad about his trip to the Hindu Kush and find out how well he knew Gabriel, but again, it wasn’t the time or place. The rest of the family didn’t know Gabriel well, but the very thought of such a violent attack occurring in our peaceful little town was upsetting to all of us.

  Sunday morning back in the city, I threw on jeans, a turtleneck, tennies, and a peacoat and walked three blocks to South Park, one of San Francisco’s hidden neighborhood treasures and my favorite place for a leisurely breakfast.

  The park was a block-long patch of green grass with picnic tables and a small playground at one end. The green was an island surrounded by small storefront businesses, shops, restaurants, and Victorian-style apartments. Like many San Francisco neighborhoods, South Park was a mix of chic and charm with a hint of scruffiness around the edges. During the day, people strolled the sidewalks and parents pushed their kids on the swings. At night, the homeless skulked in with their bags and blankets and took over the park for their sleeping quarters.

  My personal choice for best Sunday brunch was a little French bistro at the far end of the green, where I always ordered French toast with a slice of succulent Niman Ranch ham, lots of syrup and butter, and café au lait.

  I sat outside, where the air was cold but the sun was shining. The Chronicle was spread across my table so I could read the latest news as I ate my breakfast and zoned out on the background hum of political discussions, French jazz, and children screaming for joy on the nearby swings.

  Back home, the rest of the day passed in a quiet blur except for one highlight: a long Sunday-afternoon phone conversation with Derek. At times I felt like a teenager, smiling and sighing at what he said. Despite having seen him the day before, we had a lot to catch up on.

  When I was young and received a phone call from a boy, there would always be those long lapses while we both searched desperately for something to say. There was none of that with Derek. It seemed as though we’d never run out of things to talk about. When we finally ended the call, I felt as though I’d spent an hour on a quiet tropical island of calm. Well, calm except for that little spark of sexual tension that ran through the conversation and caused my nerves to quiver nonstop.

  Monday morning, I was pouring my first cup of coffee when I remembered I had a funeral to attend. Dismayed, I raced to get ready, dressed in my best black suit, grabbed my coat and headed out for Colma.

  I didn’t berate myself too badly for forgetting Layla’s funeral. I’d had plenty of distractions over the weekend. I pumped up KFOG and drove onto the freeway. The drive was relatively painless since I was going against all the traffic streaming into the city.

  Colma is a suburb south of San Francisco, located just beyond Daly City, and is where most San Franciscans go to be buried. It’s a pretty little town, but is known far and wide as the necropolis of San Francisco.

  Essentially, a necropolis was exactly what Colma was established as. It all started back in 1900, when the geographically minuscule city of San Francisco began running out of space to bury its dead. Cemeteries were banned because the city needed room to house the living.

  Nowadays, there are so many cemeteries in Colma that even the Chamber of Commerce admits that the dead outnumber the living. The citizens seem to take their reputation in stride since their official town motto is “It’s good to be alive in Colma.”

  I followed directions to Holy Cross Mortuary and found the chapel where they were holding Layla’s memorial service. It was a good turnout, with close to three hundred people gathered in the modern glass-walled hall. Layla would be pleased at the turnout, I thought.

  The sun poured in, lending the proceedings a natural lightness that Layla might not have earned were she still alive. I didn’t mean that to be harsh. It’s just that there were a lot more grins and handshakes and business being attended to than any tearful mourning of the dead.

  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 n
o 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?”

  “Screw you,” she said with a sneer. “I’ve had it with the third degree. I might owe you my life, but that doesn’t mean I have to put up with your crap.”

  “Look, I just-”

  She flipped me the finger and stomped off.

  So, maybe it was a little bizarre, asking her about sounds and odors. After all, she probably couldn’t get past her own overwhelming sulfur scent. Or was that brimstone? Whatever it was, she reeked like the spawn of Beelzebub that she was.

  “Hey, I remember smelling something that night,” Karalee said, her forehead creased in thought. “It was like, I don’t know, incen
se or something. Huh. I didn’t think about it until you asked that question. Huh.”

  She was starting to sound like Ned with the huh and the huh. She shrugged and walked away.

  “That seemed to go well,” Derek said, approaching me on my blind side. He handed me another glass of red wine.

  “Thanks,” I said and took a big sip. The perfect remedy for a Minka-induced headache. “I didn’t realize you were watching. I’m so glad I had a witness.”

  “I thought I was hallucinating when I saw you walk over and talk to her.”

  “Were you hoping to break up a catfight?”

  “I only dreamed,” he said sardonically.

  I shook my head and took another sip of wine. “She’s so stupid. What was I thinking?”

  His eyes narrowed in on me. “Yes, what were you thinking?”

  “I don’t like that look you’re giving me,” I said, and tried to stare him down. But his gaze was unyielding. He was, after all, a professional. “Okay, fine. I thought she might have some clue about the night she was attacked.”

  “Have we not had this conversation before?”

  My shoulders slumped, but I snapped back to attention. “Look, I just want to make sure that BABA is safe. You can’t blame me. First Minka, then Layla. And then Gabriel over the weekend, not that he had anything to do with the attacks here. But it just makes me worry that I’m-oh, I don’t know-something like a murder magnet.”

  There, I’d said it.

  He shook his head. “Darling Brooklyn, you can’t tell a lie to save your life. But I must hand it to you. You never give up trying.”

  My jaw dropped. “You think I’m lying?”

  “Yes, I think you’re lying,” he said easily, and sipped his wine. “Because you are.”

  “I’m not-”

  “My love, I’ll say it again: You’re the world’s worst liar.” He took hold of my arm and led me away to a quieter spot. “The fact is, you simply can’t help sticking your pretty little nose into places it doesn’t belong. I understand the appeal of investigating a murder, but you could get yourself hurt. So I’m inclined to advise you against it.”