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 of dirt. Since then, all that dirt had 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 a 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 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 delivery-man. After piling pizza and salad onto plates and pouring more wine, we sat in the living room to eat.
Besides Robin’s work as a sculptor, she owned a small travel company that specialized in tours of sacred destinations all over the world. Stone circles, pyramids, Gothic cathedrals, harmonic power centers. Her tours catered to the adventurous seeker of esoteric knowledge who had tons of cash to throw her way. She had just returned from 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. So yes, he was currently staying with me, but no, he wasn’t home just now. He was currently 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. “Yes, and she’s 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 had been 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 sophisticated and interesting, and everyone loved to be around her. Her missionary upbringing had given her a sense of 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 have said that to Robin.
“How long did you visit with her?” I asked as I started the dishwasher.
“Three excruciating days.” Robin laughed dryly. “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. Never mind. I promised myself I wouldn’t bitch about her, but it’s always so tempting. Anyway, 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 have pictures. I’ll send you the link.”
“Great. It sounds fascinating.”
“It was, and my mother sent you something.”