Forty minutes and two more aspirins later, after downing a cup of weak Earl Grey and a piece of dry toast, I managed to get myself down to my car and headed out of the parking garage.

I reached the Valley of the Moon in one hour and six minutes flat. Turning onto the road to Dharma, I said a silent prayer of thanks to the traffic gods, then another one to the wine gods who kept most tourists from starting their wine country tours until at least noon.

I wasn’t speaking to the Irish coffee gods.

I parked the car a block from the large town hall at the top of the hill. As I walked across the blacktop parking lot, I heard a tenor from the Dharma choir sing the first tremulous notes of “In My Life.”

I snuck in through one of the back doors. The arena-style auditorium had a capacity of six hundred and today it was standing room only. I stood at the back and gazed down at the backs of the colorful crowd. It only took a moment to pick out my mother and father seated three rows from center stage. My brother Jackson sat next to Mom, and my sister China sat next to Dad. Their spouses were with them, but I didn’t see any of the kids. Probably a wise decision to leave them home.

On the stage, Guru Bob stood at the podium, his head lolling serenely to the music of the choir behind him. He sported a purple dashiki and matching rufi, the fez-style hat he wore on special occasions. For a tall, fair-haired man, it might’ve seemed an odd choice, but Guru Bob was nothing if not eclectic in his wardrobe choices. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him in anything from a formal tuxedo to a cashmere bathrobe. I think he liked to keep his flock guessing.

As I stared at the backs of the people, a disturbing question invaded the tranquility I’d begun to feel with the harmony of the music and the familiar faces and surroundings.

Was Abraham’s murderer here in this room?

The thought gave me the heebie jeebies. Most of those gathered here were commune people who had known Abraham for twenty or thirty years. What would any of them have to gain from his death? The others in attendance were probably friends or business acquaintances of Abraham’s. Again, where was the motive?

I glanced to the left and abruptly met Inspector Jaglow’s pointed stare. He stood against the wall thirty feet away, but even from that distance I could feel the severity of his disapproval. I tried to smile at him, but his frown didn’t change, so I looked away, clutching my coat more tightly around me.

What was that about? Was I in trouble? Was I going to get a ticket for being late? Maybe Derek had told him I was meddling in their investigation, which wasn’t true at all. Nevertheless, I felt guilty and vaguely sick to my stomach.

I tried some deep breathing, matching my breaths to the rhythm of the music. That might’ve helped if I wasn’t recuperating from a slight hangover, but I was, so it just made me dizzy. I leaned back against the door and waited for the room to stop spinning.

“You’re not going to pass out again, are you?”

I jumped, then saw it was Derek.

“Stop sneaking up on me,” I whispered irately. He merely smirked, so I ignored him as Guru Bob began to speak in measured phrases, starting off with a short but stirring cosmological lesson in how planetary body types align in order to produce conscious harmony in all things-always a favorite topic at our house.

“Today,” he said, “with the loss of our dear friend, we all suffer. I remind you that with great suffering comes true purification-if we can only remember to suffer willingly and consciously. Only then can our suffering create a cosmic connection that will allow us to cross over to higher ground, higher consciousness, bridging the interval to begin a new octave.”

I snuck a peek at Derek to see whether he was gagging or falling asleep, but he was attentive, his strong arms folded across his chest, his feet planted firmly on the foor. He wore black as usual, but he seemed taller. Or maybe my headache made me imagine I was shrinking.

“Brother Abraham is on the astral plane now,” Guru Bob assured us, spreading his arms toward the ceiling. “He has shed his mortal coil to travel at light speed, free of all fears, free of lamentation and regret. There is only joy now. He is the sun.”

The commune people nodded their heads and murmured words of encouragement and praise, but I figured most of the visitors were wondering what in the world he was talking about.

“Brother Abraham has embraced the fire and the light of true humility that may have eluded him on this earthly plane. We urge our brother, in his glorious journey along this astral plane, to embrace the wonder, the splendor, the reality of higher consciousness. And in so doing, he raises all of us to a higher plane.”

There were shouts of “That’s right” and “Teach, Avatar,” around the room.

Derek leaned in and whispered, “Who is that guy?”

I bristled. It was fine for me to carp on Guru Bob, but nobody from the outside world got that privilege.

“Avatar Robson Benedict is a highly evolved being.”

“Clearly.” Derek nodded. “Very powerful.”

I looked at him in surprise. Was he kidding? Most people either laughed nervously or ran off into the woods after experiencing a stirring oration from Guru Bob.

Then the service was over and Derek and I were abruptly separated by the thick stream of people exiting the hall. After a brief moment of panic, I allowed myself to be carried along in their wake. Knowing my people, I had high expectations that we would wind up at some massive buffet of food and liquid refreshment.

Sure enough, the crowd headed straight for the dining hall, where tables had been laid with every sort of finger food imaginable, from tiny cheeseburgers to miniature pigs in blankets to more gourmet fare such as toasted squares topped with caviar and salmon. Everything had an accompanying sauce or dip or spread, naturally. Guru Bob did enjoy a good spread.

A wide table at one end of the room held every kind of dessert imaginable. Chocolate éclairs, pies, cakes, puddings and flan and mousse, lemon bars and cookies everywhere.

At the other end of the hall were several long tables where five or six men poured glasses of wine. There was a huge keg at one end, and barrels stuffed with soft drinks and water bottles.

I figured it would be better to eat a little before I headed for the wine, given my slight overindulgence the night before. But as I bit into my petite chicken salad sandwich, I felt my stomach twist.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Holy spoilage, Batman. What in the world was Minka LaBoeuf doing in Dharma?

I turned and saw her. She stood barely two feet away from me, clutching a glass of red wine with one hand and Enrico Baldacchio’s arm with the other. She wore another one of her dominatrix ensembles, a black leather skirt and matching vest over a white lace blouse with poufy sleeves, accessorized by leopard-patterned gloves and matching pillbox hat with a black tuft of mesh that covered most of her face.

She’d already spilled wine on her white shirt. Such a waste of good wine.

“Minka,” I said, trying not to choke on the word.

“Brooklyn,” she said, stretching the mesh veil back so she could actually see me. “You remember Enrico, don’t you?”

Of course I remembered Enrico. He was an unpleasant little man with a tendency to sweat. And he’d been present at the Covington Library the night of Abraham’s murder.

Abraham had told me they’d tried to work together again but it had ended badly. Before that, they’d barely spoken in years, beginning back when they wound up on opposite sides of a lawsuit involving a counterfeit Marlowe folio sold to the Palace of the Legion of Honor years ago.

“Hello, Enrico,” I said. “It’s been a long time.” Not long enough, I thought, but didn’t say aloud because I’m basically a nice person.