We opened another bottle of wine as she regaled me with the highlights of her India trip and I filled her in on all the news about me and Derek Stone, the hunky British security expert I’d met a few months back during a murder investigation. Yes, we’d done the deed, as she’d shouted to the world earlier. And yes, he was opening a San Francisco branch of Stone Security. And yes, our relationship was so new that I still tingled every time I thought of him, and yes, I’d boldly offered him a place to stay-with me-until he found a home in San Francisco. So yes, he was staying here, but no, he wasn’t home at the moment. Right now, he was flying back from Kuala Lumpur, where he’d provided security for an installation of priceless artwork from the Louvre.

And yes, I’d been threatened by another vicious killer. Robin had been packing to leave for India at the time and wasn’t around to hear the entire story, so I filled her in on all the gory details. The killer was safely tucked away in jail now. And that was my last three weeks in a nutshell.

As we cleared the dishes, I figured it was time to ask Robin the burning question I’d avoided long enough.

“So, did you see your mother?” I asked cautiously.

Robin scowled. “And we were having such a lovely evening.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault,” she said with a sigh. “Yes, I saw her. I left my group in New Delhi and flew down to Varanasi to spend some time with her. And yes, she’s just as annoying as ever.”

That was no big surprise. She and her mother, Shiva Quinn, had always had issues.

Shiva’s real name was Myra Tully and she was raised by missionaries. Suffice to say, Myra had a real savior complex from the get-go. In the 1970s, Myra had accompanied the Beatles to India to see Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. While there, she changed her name to Shiva Quinn. No one was sure where Quinn came from. As for Shiva, Robin always thought it was telling that her mother had named herself after the supreme god of Hinduism.