Karma (7 page)

As I sat down he tapped his finger on the desk. “What have you got, Smith?”

I started to review the case, but he stopped me. “I’ve read the reports.”

“Well, then,” I said, “this afternoon I saw Leah deVeau, the housemother, and Chupa-da, the guru’s assistant. Padmasvana may have lived simply, but Chupa-da isn’t doing anything to curb his taste for luxury.” I went on to describe the attic room. “I asked him about the symbol on the knife.”

Lt. Davis flipped through the reports until he came up with the one from the lab. Looking at the picture of the symbol, he asked, “What is it, some Buddhist sign?”

“Not according to Chupa-da. He says he’s never seen it before.”

“Check it out, Smith. It may be something he just doesn’t know. Go to the library. There are plenty of Buddhist places here in Berkeley; check with them. Get in touch with the consulate.” He leaned forward, fingering his mustache. “The consulate. Smith, the Indian Consulate in San Francisco has already called here, you understand?”

“The
Indian
Consulate?”

“Bhutan doesn’t have a consulate. India handles its foreign affairs.” He waved off any further comment. “Naturally the consulate keeps a close eye on news about nationals under its jurisdiction. They are very concerned. This is no family knifing. They’ll be getting in touch with the monastery in Bhutan right away. You see what I’m saying, Smith? This has got to be cleared up quickly. You see the paper this morning?”

Without comment, Lt. Davis extracted the paper from his desk drawer and smacked it down in front of me. The headlines were: “Guru knifed in Berkeley.” Beneath was a picture of Padmasvana. The smaller print said, “Police Say No Leads.”

The lieutenant eyed the smaller print, his lips turning down. “Not good. For today, Smith, I will deal with the press. I expect you to get me something to tell them.”

“Yessir.”

“Smith. You’ve got Pereira. Howard can assist. What else do you need?”

“Nothing right now, sir. It’s under control,” I said with more certainty than I felt.

“One final word,” the lieutenant said as I stood up. “This has got to be cleared up before Sunday. Now we’ve just got the newspapers and the consulate to deal with. By Sunday we’ll have every church in Berkeley wondering if the police are giving them proper service. You see what I’m saying?”

“Yessir,” I said as I moved out the door.

When I got to my desk, Howard was there.

“Where’s Pereira?” I demanded.

“You’re in a grim mood.”

“Pressure from above.”

“Like I told you, Jill, this is no ordinary murder. The pressure’ll only get worse.”

“Thanks.” I sat down. “Have you seen Pereira?”

“Connie went for coffee.”

“Shit.”

“It’s not that bad.” Howard grinned sheepishly. It was his pun look.

His mood was contagious. “I didn’t mean to growl,” I said. “Much as I would love a cup of coffee—even the Donut Shop’s coffee—the last thing I need now is to have Davis spot me sitting here having a leisurely break.”

“Okay, I’ll drink yours. And what do you want me to do on the case? I’ve got time.”

“Would you see what you can find on Garrett Kleinfeld, the Self-Over founder? And the temple?”

“You know I love research!” Patting my shoulder, he moved down the aisle.

I turned my attention to my in box, glancing through the papers, finding nothing new on the case. There were two frantic messages from Nat, but the stainless could wait. The whole set had cost only twenty dollars. I left a note for Pereira, asking her to see what she could find out on Braga from the LAPD, and to check the libraries for any clue to the marking on the knife, and headed downstairs to the motor pool.

For myself I had saved the questionable task of another visit with Braga himself. But when I arrived, the temple was still empty. As I headed across the yard to the ashram, I noticed the flap of the tepee was up.

“Hi,” I said, poking my head inside. The tepee looked the same as last night, with the sleeping bag and pillow next to the vanity table that held the marble oil lamp. Only Heather was different. Instead of the sequined cowboy outfit, today she sported a Gypsy ensemble, with a neck-straining collection of gold chains.

“Hi,” she said, making no effort to hide her irritation.

Again, I had the feeling that she might have been attractive had it not been for her seemingly permanent scowl.

“I see your baby’s not here.”

“Yeah. Leah’s got the kid. I’ve gotta have time off. I can’t be looking after that kid seven days a week. She takes him a few days.”

“Nice of her.”

“Well, I’ve gotta have some time to myself. It hasn’t been easy, the last twenty-four hours.”

Sitting on her vanity stool, I said, “This is a very serious crime, Heather. I need to know about everyone here. Why don’t you start by telling me how you came to know Rexford Braga?”

“This is my afternoon off. Come around later when I have to be here, anyway.”

“Heather.”

“Okay, okay. I came to a ceremony.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. I was in college back East. I came here for spring vacation.”

“And Braga held the ceremony?”

“No, of course not. What could that old buzzard do? Padma held the ceremony, just like he always did.”

“And so what happened to you?”

She pulled a lock of sandy hair in front of her shoulder and divided it into thirds to braid. “I got fascinated. That’s how I met Braga.”

“And then?”

Pulling her fingers through the braid, she loosened the hairs, redivided them and began the intertwining again. “Well, nothing, really. I just went to the meetings. Like I said, I was really into it. When the girl I drove out here with went back East, I stayed.”

“And had the baby?”

“Well, not right away. Not till a year later.”

“Heather, who is the baby’s father?”

“What? Listen, what business is that of yours?”

“Heather.” I sounded like my mother.

“Okay, okay. He was a guy passing through. His name was Lee.” But there had been a pause before she gave the name.

“You were married, then?”

“Nah. I just took his name. It was better than my own.”

“Which was?”

“Moore.”

Obviously, a subtle difference. “And where can we find him now?”

Her scowl lines deepened. She opened her mouth and shut it again. “I don’t know. I don’t keep in touch. He was on his way to Mexico.”

“You don’t get child support?”

“Are you kidding? Would I be living in a tepee if some sucker were sending me cash?” She slipped the braid onto her shoulder, staring down at the escaping sprigs of hair.

“What about Chupa-da?” I asked.

“What do you mean? What about him?”

“Well, you say you were drawn by the religion. You must know something about the rules. Does Chupa-da automatically succeed Padmasvana? I mean—”

“What!”

“Well, Chupa-da’s taken over Padmasvana’s study, and he’s acting head of the ashram, and—”

“He’s in Padma’s study? The one on the third floor?”

“Right.”

“You said he was
acting
head?”

“As far as I know.”

“Well, that damn well is all he is. He’s got no more right to pretend to be the guru than you do, you hear me? And if he’s saying anything else, he’s got another thing coming!”

“Heather, are you saying Chupa-da’s breaking the tradition?”

She stood up, ignoring my question.

“Heather, what is the tradition? Do you know?”

“What I know is that Chupa-da just better not think he can step into Padmasvana’s shoes!”

“Heather—” But she had rushed out of the tepee and was heading across the lawn to the temple.

I followed Heather, waited while she stormed into the temple and trailed after her as she burst out of the empty building and careered across the lawn to the ashram. Without a look she passed Leah, who was sitting on the porch holding the baby, and made for the stairs, nearly knocking over a dazed Penlop. Following her to the second-floor landing, I braced for the explosion when Heather would come upon Chupa-da.

But there was silence—broken only by a clumping of feet as Heather barged past me down to the porch.

“Where is he?” she demanded of Leah. As I descended, she added, “I can
see
he’s not here!”

Heather loomed over Leah, hands on Gypsy-clad hips. Leah, still holding the baby, had the forbearing look of eternal motherhood.

“Calm down, Heather. Chupa-da’s gone out. He doesn’t tell me where he goes. He’s the guru, not me.”

“Guru! He’s got no right. My son, Preston, has more right than him. Who does he think he is?”

Leah shrugged.

“Lot of good it does talking to you. You’re one of them. You don’t give a damn what happens here, as long as no one rocks the boat. You can just go on being mommy. Give me that kid. You can take your neuroses out on one less little boy!” She grabbed the baby, stomped down the steps and strode past the tepee to the street. In a moment, I heard the revving of an automobile engine and then the squealing of wheels.

Looking down at Leah, I asked, “What was all that about?”

Her head was bowed, her shoulders hunched over the empty space in her lap.

“You really care a lot about the baby, don’t you?” I asked.

She nodded. “He’s so little; he needs someone stable. Heather’s just not ready to be a mother. She’s only a child herself. It’s an awful thing to say, but I’m surprised nothing’s happened to him. It’s not that Heather would ever hurt him, not intentionally; it’s just that she doesn’t have the maturity to think beyond herself. When she feels pressed, she puts up her defenses, and she’s only got room for ‘me.’ ”

Sitting down opposite Leah, I asked, “Why was she so outraged when she heard Chupa-da was acting head of the temple?”

“Because she doesn’t understand.”

I waited.

“Heather is very Western. She thinks that being a guru is like being president of General Motors—you have piles of money and endless power and prestige.”

“And?”

“Bhutanese Buddhists believe that each person comes into this incarnation for a purpose and, if your purpose is to learn what’s involved in being head of a temple, fine. But if you have to learn about being a janitor, that’s just as important.”

“But surely you must have to be holier than most people to be the guru?”

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” She brushed off her skirt as if dusting off the remnants of her scene with Heather. The skin on her face was loose, and pouches sagged at either side of her mouth. She could never have been pretty, even as a young woman—her features were too big for her face. But her maternal expression softened their angles and created an impression of pleasant warmth.

She leaned back. “Padma said you must experience it all. It just happens to have been his job in this incarnation to be the leader.”

“And Heather doesn’t think that Chupa-da needs that experience?”

“No, no. Heather couldn’t care less about Chupa-da or his karmic growth. She thinks there’s gain to be had, and she wants it.”

“Heather wants to be guru!”

“Oh, dear, I guess I’m not making myself plain. Heather wants to be regent, for her son.”

I pulled out my pad and made a note. “So you’re saying Heather wants her son—the baby—to be the guru. And she wants to run the place till he’s of age?”

“Right. I guess I
am
making sense.”

“Well, only to a point, I’m afraid. Why would Heather think her baby should be guru?”

“Succession.”

“Succession?” I recalled something about deceased gurus being reincarnated, but I assumed that they had to be dead before their spirit moved to another body. For Heather’s baby to be an embodiment of Padmasvana, one of them would have had to be without a spirit for nearly a year. “Heather doesn’t strike me as that involved in religion to see her son as a reincarnation of Padmasvana.”

“Oh, dear, now I’m not being clear again. That’s what my ex-husband always said. I don’t mean anything about incarnations or cosmic-ness or anything like that. I don’t really understand it all, though I have made some effort. Despite what Heather says, she has made none. She does nothing but sit in her tepee and listen to country music on the radio. What Heather thinks is that Preston is the logical one to succeed Padmasvana.”

At last I was beginning to catch her drift. Still, I asked, “Why?”

“Maybe you’d better have a look at Preston.”

P
RESTON, OF COURSE, WAS
off with his mother. Everyone in this case seemed to be absent when I wanted them. I tramped back to the temple for another try at Braga.

He, too, was still missing, but I did find Chupa-da. The robed Bhutanese was seated at Braga’s desk, hunched over a pile of papers.

“Heather is very angry with you,” I said, for openers.

Chupa-da looked up, only very mild signs of annoyance breaking through the blankness of his expression.

“She says you have no right to succeed Padmasvana.”

“She is ignorant.” He turned his attention back to the papers.

“Is Preston Padmasvana’s child?”

His face flushed, but he controlled it before speaking. “Padmasvana was celibate. His mind was on things higher than … Heather.”

“Then what is she doing here?”

“I do not know. Padmasvana in his wisdom let her remain.”

I could see that I was getting nowhere. Moving closer to the desk, I glanced at the top paper, a list of names and amounts.

“Is that the contributors’ list?”

He turned the sheet over. “This is the business of the temple.”

“I want to see the books.”

“You cannot.”

“Of course I can.”

Chupa-da hesitated. “The books are locked in the safe.”

I nodded.

“Only Mr. Braga can open the safe. He has the combination.”

“I’ll wait.”

From the strained look on Chupa-da’s face, he was employing all his monastic training in order to preserve his equanimity. “There is nothing to see. The temple takes in money from contributors and from ceremonies. It is not much. We are many people. We have expenses.”

“Such as?”