Free One Book in the Grave by Kate Carlisle

“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
delicious
.”
    “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, “butI’ve got to go upstairs and get ready. Thank you for taking care of my peace and safety.”
    “Wait,” she cried. “There are forty more verses!”
    “I’ll be humming along,” I said.
    She sucked in another breath and kept singing, “Shri Rama Llama Jala Walla Ram Ram.”
    “Namaste. Love you, Mom,” I shouted over the pulsating rhythm, then clapped my hands together and bowed to her before escaping up the stairs.
    That night, despite my reluctance to enjoy life while Max might be in trouble, Derek and I joined Mom and Dad for an incredible dinner at Savannah’s restaurant. My brother Austin and my pal Robin sat nearby at a cozy table for two. My sisters