Free One Book in the Grave: A Bibliophile Mystery by Kate Carlisle Page A

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 London and China and their husbands showed up for the occasion, too, along with half of Dharma. There were a few unfamiliar faces that might’ve belonged to those reviewers from San Francisco I’d heard about. I prayed their meals were excellent. For me, the service was impeccable and the food was phenomenal, and not just because my sister owned the joint.
    I had moments of uneasiness during the meal whenever I remembered that Max was still alive. None of my sisters knew it and I couldn’t tell them. Not yet, anyway. Since there was nothing I could do about it for a while, I tried to relax and enjoy the fun company and the incredible meal.
     
    Savannah came out later to say hello, and the entire room burst into applause. She wore the traditional white chef’s jacket over checked pants, but instead of the tall white toque on her head, she wore a red beret. It was adorably jaunty, but, yes, she still had a bald head. Somehow it worked for her.
     
    I couldn’t believe everything I’d eaten was vegetarian. I’d been scared to death that we’d be chewing alfalfa sprouts and raw lentils, but no. I’d ordered an endive, goat cheese, and pear salad with all kinds of yummy little goodies sprinkled on top, followed by an amazing entréeof handmade raviolis stuffed with butternut squash and wild mushrooms, all floating in a creamy herb butter sauce. The pinot noir our waiter recommended went perfectly with everything. And, hallelujah, there was chocolate mint soufflé served with a pot full of whipped cream for dessert.
     
    By the time the check came, I was