Страница 59 из 60
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 a
That was no big surprise. She and her mother, Shiva Qui
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 Qui
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.”
“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 followed her to the front room of my loft where I did my bookbinding work. I pulled two tall chairs close together, and we sat at my worktable. Robin turned the bag on its side and slid the contents out onto the surface. It was a worn leather satchel.
“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 a wadded old swath of Indian-print material.
“Um, is it a scarf?” I said, touching the faded, scratchy woven fabric. Once, it might’ve been dark green with burgundy and orange swirls of paisley, but it was so old and thin now, I could almost see through it. Colorful beads, tiny brass animal shapes, and bits of mirrored glass were woven into the fabric. “Is this really for me?”
“Hell, no.” Robin wrinkled her nose at the matted material. “That’s just to protect what’s inside. It’s my mother’s idea of wrapping paper, I guess.”
“Ah.”
“But do you know, she actually thought I would love to 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 wearing it. I fingered the cloth again, then said carefully, “Maybe your mom’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 maybe an inch and a half thick. I suppressed the urge to whip out my metal ruler.
The solid red leather binding was decorated with heavy gilding and precious gems. Chunky red teardrop-shaped 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 into the feathers. The borders of the book were thickly gilded, but 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 fore-edge. With the book closed, the pages were deckled, or uneven. I could tell without opening the book that the paper itself was thick vellum.
I checked the spine. It read Vatsyayana. I looked up at Robin. “What is this?”
“Open it and find out.”
“I’m almost afraid.” But I opened the front cover and turned to the title page. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“The Kama Sutra?”
“Yes.” Robin gri
My eyes widened. “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 sipped her wine.
“It is for me.” I stroked the spine, counting the ribs. “But I wonder why she wants me to do the work.”
“Apparently, Abraham visited her a few years ago and talked you up.”
“Really?” I smiled. Abraham had been my bookbinding teacher for years. I turned another page slowly, unwilling to disturb the binding too much. The book was at least three hundred years old, and I was shocked to see that it was written in English. But then, the English had ruled India for centuries, so I supposed that made sense.
I turned to a page near the middle of the book and saw an 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 all hand painted,” I said after clearing my throat. “Isn’t that interesting?”
“Yeah, it’s all about the strokes. 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. “Well, 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, on the way home from the airport. I was starving, so I stopped at Kasa to get some food to go. He was waiting for his order, and we 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.”