One Book in the Grave: A Bibliophile Mystery

bottle of wine the night before. I was happy Derek was driving, because I figured I could work in a quick nap on the way, but we started talking and I realized I’d much rather be wide-awake to enjoy his company than sleep for a few extra minutes.
     
    As we drove over the Golden Gate Bridge and into Marin County, Derek reached across and patted my leg. “Darling, why don’t you give your mother a call and ask her to arrange a meeting for you and Robson? Then you won’t have to worry about trying to track him down all day.”
     
    “Good idea,” I said, and searched in my bag for my phone. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
     
    “Because your mind’s been occupied by bigger and darker problems.”
     
    “True.” I gazed at him, unsure whether to be relieved or worried that he could read me so well. I decided to go with feeling ridiculously pleased. “Thank you.”
     
    He reached across the console and squeezed my hand, holding on to it while I spoke with my mother. Mom insisted that she was thrilled to play my appointments secretary for the day and assured me that everything would be taken care of. She signed off by saying, “Peace out, Punkin’,” and I hung up feeling lighter already.
     
    An hour later, we left the highway and drove into Dharma. Derek slowed down as we cruised Shakespeare Lane, so I could get a good look at Savannah’s restaurant space.
     
    A wide picture window revealed a light, wood-paneled room with a good number of tables covered in white linen. The tables were already set with sparkling crystal and flatware, and I imagined every table was spoken for. A small bar in the back corner was fully stocked and six barstools stood in front of it.
     
    There was no actual signage out front, just a pretty painted picture of a thick bunch of green arugula tied with a pink ribbon. It was whimsical and colorful, just like my sister. I knew she was already at work in the kitchen, knew she would be nervous all day, knew that a number of well-known restaurant critics were driving up from San Francisco to experience the opening-night menu. But I also knew without a doubt that Arugula would be wildly successful and that Savannah Wainwright, my bald-headed, slightly wacky sister, was on her way to becoming the next celebrity chef of the Bay Area.
     
    At the end of the Lane, Derek turned right and drove up Vivaldi Way toward my parents’ home. Over the years, a number of commune members had built homes in the hills overlooking Dharma, and as we climbed, we passed Abraham’s Spanish colonial on the right where his daughter, Annie, now lived. The Westcott family lived in the Tudor-style home tucked into the hillside on the left side of the road. Around the next turn, Carl Brundidge,the lawyer for most of the commune members, owned the sleek contemporary on the right.
     
    Despite being in a commune, we all had our own individual styles and our houses demonstrated that.
     
    A minute later, we pulled up in front of my parents’ spacious ranch-style home. Before the car had rolled to a stop, Mom and Dad came running out to greet us. They were holding hands, and seeing them together eased more of the tension around my heart.
     
    The weather was warm enough that Mom had pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and she wore a tie-dyed tank top, cargo shorts, and utility boots. Mom had great legs and her arms were toned from the exercise she got picking apples and grapes all year long.
     
    “Looks like Mom’s been out in the orchards this morning,” I said to Derek. “You know what that means?”
     
    He shut off the engine and glanced at me. “What?”
     
    “She might be making her crazy-delicious apple crisp while we’re here.”
     
    “Apple crisp?” His eyes were instantly alert. “Don’t toy with me, Brooklyn.”
     
    I laughed as I climbed out of the car. Mom’s crazy-delicious apple crisp with its awesome, spiked caramel sauce was worth the hour-long drive from the city to Sonoma.
     
    I hugged my dad, surprised to see him all dressed up in Dockers and a clean, pressed, denim work shirt. His loafers were shiny, too, and he was wearing one of the Jerry Garcia ties I’d given him for Christmas. For Dad, this was formal wear. The man rarely wore anything but faded jeans and a T-shirt, since he spent most of his days out in the vineyards or in the barrel room, tasting and experimenting with the wines.
     
    I knew I was probably prejudiced, but I thought my parents were adorable.