The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Smita Bhattacharya

  ‘Yet, you kept the painting,’ Darya murmured.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Why do you have the painting?’

  She looked surprised at the question. ‘It belonged to my father. And my grandfather before him.’

  ‘Mihai’s father?’

  ‘Zaltan.’

  Darya pursed her lips and said thoughtfully, as if it had only just occurred to her. ‘It was convenient Mihai died when he did.’

  Ana-Maria’s body jerked visibly. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, her words careful.

  It hadn’t seemed possible before, but with what Darya now knew …

  Ana-Maria had returned home a monk, a recluse, a far cry from the woman who’d left Sibiu many years ago. Everyone assumed it was because her mother and brother had died, and her father was dying, and because Ana-Maria herself had suffered through cancer, all alone. In Sibiu, it seemed as if she were merely existing, going from one day to another, doing what was expected of her, to keep the businesses running, ensuring employees were being paid. She paid no attention to her own self or to her social and emotional well-being.

  But perhaps, everyone had wrongly guessed the cause and the effect.

  Darya had thought long and hard about it: why had Ana-Maria picked Darya to look for Brian when she could’ve employed anyone else? And more importantly, if she’d suspected Mihai in the least—even had as much as an inkling—why bother looking for Brian at all?

  And she was certain the reason was this: finding Brian was important to her for a basic, primal reason. And Darya had been chosen to dig into Brian’s disappearance less for her investigative abilities, more for the reason she was a foreigner, was not a part of the Sibiu inner circle, and was going to leave soon, or could be made to. She would not cause any trouble, nor drag the family name into the mud. If she tried, she was going to find it very difficult.

  As if reading into Darya’s mind, ‘Go on,’ Ana-Maria said quietly. ‘You seem to know a lot already. You did better than I expected. Tell me. What else do you know?’

  ‘A Friday,’ Darya announced. ‘That’s where it all began.’

  Ana-Maria’s sharp, steady eyes were fixed on Darya.

  ‘Fridays were odd days … special days. A phenomenon was taking place around us of which we were scarcely aware.’

  ‘A phenomenon?’ repeated Ana-Maria, in a tone intending to mock but falling flat.

  Darya smiled. Her voice turned dreamy.

  ‘It was going on at the café, right in front of us. If we had known what that was all about then, we could’ve stopped it. Saved lives,’ Darya murmured. ‘At first glance, Mihai and Irina’s presence at Handsome Monk seemed benign and innocent. Pitiful even. He was the old infirm, flush with money, but with little use for it, given his failing health. She was his devoted, charming, and occasionally bumbling, help. The sight of the two should have filled me with a warm pleasure; instead I found their presence ominous. Malignant. The way they hung in the back, watching, waiting. There was something wrong.’

  Ana-Maria did not move. Darya noted the shadows that had piled up on her face in the last hour, the fresh creases around her mouth, the many white streaks in her hair.

  ‘My feelings have served me well over the past. So, I started paying attention to them,’ Darya said. ‘This was even before Brian disappeared.’

  Ana-Maria’s eyes shut for a second. Tonelessly, she uttered, ‘And what were your feelings telling you?’

  ‘I noticed when the two arrived, they were sweaty and scruffy, as if they’d been out on an expedition. They were sunburned. Once or twice, I noticed bits of grass and mud on Irina’s shoes. On the axles and wheels of Mihai’s wheelchair.’ The images came back to her like a flash. She continued, ‘Afterwards, Irina would wash Mihai up. The washroom was occupied for at least thirty minutes before they took their seats at the back. Alina got them their lattes. Irina sorted Mihai’s medicines. They settled down. To do whatever they were there to do next.’ Darya paused and stared at Ana-Maria. ‘I had two questions in my mind. Where had they gone? And what were they looking for?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware they were looking for something.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know where they went on those Fridays before they came to the café?’

  Something moved across her face. Guarded. Slimy. Her voice shook when she said the words, ‘Where do you think they went?’

  Darya suppressed a shudder. She remembered the moment she’d come upon the realisation. While watching a movie on an old and stuttering VCR, sitting alone in a stifling, cold, and dark room.

  It’d been happening right under her nose and it’d taken her so long to figure things out. If she’d known before, perhaps she could’ve alerted the police. Brian would’ve still been alive.

  ‘They went to the farmhouse,’ Darya said quietly.

  ‘It has been abandoned for years,’ Ana-Maria said, as if talking to a child. ‘None of us went there anymore.’

  ‘They did,’ Darya said. ‘To see the bodies of the people they killed.’

  Ana-Maria clasped her hands in front of her. ‘Do you even hear what you’re saying? How can my father and Irina … ?’ She narrowed her eyes, ‘Oh, you are joking?’

  Darya gave a sorrowful shake of her head. ‘The roof is flatter now. A sloping ramp leads to the rooftop. These additions had been made only in the past couple of years, to make Mihai’s journey to the top easier, without having to go inside the house. Why the chimney? He was probably reliving the memory of his first kill, or avoiding discovery, if someone were to ever wander into the house. The soot from the chimney also allows the bodies to be preserved better, and for longer ...’ Another shudder passed through Darya. ‘… long enough for them to admire their handiwork. The chimney was their altar, the bodies their trophies,’ she finished.

  A strangled laugh escaped Ana-Maria. ‘I can’t even begin to imagine where you got this idea and why you’re telling me this.’

  Darya was unperturbed. ‘It wasn’t unusual for the group they belonged to.’

  ‘What group?’ Ana-Maria asked. She pulled herself upright and looked ready to strike. ‘You’re talking out of your hat. This is crazy talk!’

  ‘Am I?’ Darya said. ‘Is it?’

  ‘And you haven’t answered the most important question of all,’ Ana-Maria snapped. ‘Why would my father do all this?’ adding with blazing eyes, ‘also, how could he have done it?’

  ‘He didn’t.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I mean, he didn’t do it himself,’ Darya explained. ‘He directed Irina and Oleg to do it for him.’

  Ana-Maria emitted a chortle. ‘That’s an amazing lot of fantastic speculation,’ she murmured. The corner of her mouth twitched into a bitter smile. ‘We are not savages, no matter what you’ve heard the locals say. They’re jealous of our success and wealth,’ she said. ‘And given all that we have and own, why would we do it? If we were caught, it would be the end to everything.’

  Darya continued, ‘I wondered so myself. How come Mihai? Why choose those people? Why do it at all?’ But then the pieces fell into place, slowly, unexpectedly, and painfully, and it all made sense. ‘At the café, I saw them at their special …’ Darya made air quotes ‘… “corner”. They were figuring out people. They talked to me, but I didn’t seem to cut it. They selected Brian. Two years ago, Maddox had frequented the café too, and they selected her. Do you know why? Brian and Maddox were loners. They didn’t have a family to talk about. They would’ve had no one looking for them if they went missing. Which is exactly what happened.’

  Both Brian and Maddox had picked up a postcard from the stack Alina kept on the counter for guests. Each postcard had the imprint of the café’s logo at the bottom and was meant to help with marketing. Coincidentally, the same impulse had struck the both of them.

  ‘Their deaths were years apart,’ Ana-Maria stated coldly. ‘And there was a third victim.’

  ‘Peter,’ Darya stated. ‘Irina’s cou
sin. I’m guessing this, since it was reported the body had blonde hair and braces on the teeth, and I know Peter had both. The age matches, too. His death was necessary. He had come looking for his cousin. He had wanted money to leave Romania. He knew about her past, possibly also suspected what Irina was up to in Sibiu. She couldn’t afford to have him ruin her perfect life.’

  ‘More speculation,’ Ana-Maria murmured.

  ‘There were other clues, too. A mud-speckled floral scarf—printed with green and yellow begonias—hidden in the shrubbery of the farmhouse. The police found it and I saw it there, too. I’d seen Irina wear the scarf once, presumably when she was on her way to meet Brian. Of course, you know, Oleg and Irina were closer than they let on. They were working together. Irina went to look through Brian’s belongings in Sibiana. Oleg worked for Mihai. It wasn’t difficult to connect the dots. Mihai was directing this. Irina and Oleg were doing his bidding.’

  Ana-Maria flinched as if her words had landed an actual blow. ‘Why?’ she uttered after a moment. ‘Why do it at all?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Darya said, leaning back in her chair. ‘That was a question that needed answering. What was the motive? What was in it for the three of them? Which is why I wish you’d told me about Draco’s death. Helenka and Smaranda helped, of course, but that wasn’t enough. It didn’t give me the full picture. So, how was I going to find out?’ she smiled.

  It had been like a gathering storm until then. They were being thrown into the swarming vortex now.

  ‘Well, I looked at the only place I could,’ Darya said.

  Week 11: 2 weeks after Brian is found

  Having discovered the Arlechins and suspecting the Rosettis are connected, Darya investigates further into their history.

  Through that morning, Darya built up the resolve to visit Sibiu’s newly furbished Public County Library, after having read glowing online reviews on the treasure trove of information it held. But once inside, she stood confused, surveying the marble pillars, the busts of famous dead men, a marble staircase, closed doors. She was in the right place, though; massive framed newspaper cut-outs adorned the walls. The place smelt of new furniture and dyed fabric.

  And just as Darya was going to pick a random door to knock on, a smartly dressed middle-aged woman swung open the front door and walked in, bagel in one hand, coffee in the other. She introduced herself as Danielle and was more than happy to let Darya have a run of the archives. ‘It’s open to the public,’ she said, unlocking a door and letting her in. ‘Several people come in to consult the archives. Tourists, too.’ She requested for a minute to run up to her office to leave her breakfast and her handbag.

  When she returned, Darya told her she wanted to look at newspaper archives between 1946 and 1947 to begin with. Did they have them that old?

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, appearing mildly miffed at the question. ‘Try the Adevărul first. They are the best.’

  Inside, scores of open aluminum shelves greeted Darya, stacked end-to-end with hardbound tomes. As Darya was taking in the imposing view, Danielle walked over to a far shelf, loaded a dozen books in her arms, walked back to Darya, and deposited them on a reading table. The books were the size of a newspaper spread, with gold letterings on the top that said ‘Adevărul’.

  ‘Well,’ she announced happily, ‘I’ll leave you to it then. I’m on the first door to the right as you enter. Come see me when you finish,’ and she disappeared from the room.

  Darya sat on the chair and opened the first volume. She marvelled at the smell, the coarse, grainy feel of the paper in her hand. Dust mites rose like glowworms in front of her face. Little did she know at that moment that she was going to be spending two hours at the archives room that day, with an overworked Google Translate on her phone, and a tiny notebook filled to the brim with her findings.

  The article on Draco’s death she found easily enough. Helenka had given her the exact date and Darya looked up clippings from and around that day. Adevărul was a national newspaper, based in Bucharest, but this news, albeit local, had received considerable coverage for at least a couple of weeks.

  Darya picked up one paragraph at a time, painstakingly interpreting through Google. But after a while, she grew tired, and began browsing through the pictures and the captions related to the news.

  There were many, albeit of a similar vein.

  The picture used most commonly was a single one: of Zaltan holding Andrea by one hand and Mihai clinging to his other. Zaltan was a majestic, angular man, with a bearing befitting a head of state rather than a businessman. The children looked orphaned and lost next to him. Andrea was tall for her age, taller than Mihai. Scrawny, with long arms and legs, she wore a dark pinafore with frilly socks and brogues. Two scanty braids hung around her sunk cheeks and her face was puckered, as if readying to cry. Half-hidden behind Zaltan, Darya could barely make out Mihai’s dark shorts and threadbare shirt. His face looked even more distressed than Andrea’s.

  Across articles, there were several pictures of Zaltan on his own: file pictures of him on his desk, next to one of his stores, Zaltan walking, Zaltan emerging from a Chevrolet, Zaltan herding the children into the house and scowling back at the camera …

  There were more than a few pictures of the farmhouse, too. It had looked as eerie then as it did now, only the garden appeared better maintained, the paint on the walls of the house hadn’t peeled off yet, and the roof had gambrel-style slopes; it was not flat, as she’d seen. However, the chimney loomed up above as before, and the koi pond in the garden seemed as overrun as it did now. The poison in it had already started festering, Darya guessed.

  She was tired. These were of little help. And even if there was a clue or two among these articles, she was going to miss them. If she’d known the Romanian language or had brought Alina or Helenka to help her, she might’ve found something. But she hadn’t wanted them to be privy to the idea that was forming in her head. She hadn’t wanted to talk to anyone before she’d found conclusive proof and the idea had shaped itself completely.

  She sat slumped on her chair, jiggling her legs, tapping the tabletop, fearing Danielle was going to be back soon and ask her to leave. Darya eyed the rows of bound Adevărul on the aluminum racks. Which should she pick up next? This was way too hard.

  Resignedly, she opened the book in front of her again and turned the pages. Reams of print had been dedicated to the Soviet occupation following World War II and plans for reconstruction of the country. News of Romania regaining Transylvania under the peace treaty and King Michael’s abdication filled the rest. Towards the end, there were articles on the country’s slow descent into a Soviet-style People’s Republic, a precursor to the communist state it was eventually to become. Censorship likely hit Adevărul not long afterwards, as the communist state came into full being.

  As she mused at the state of things in 1947, fascinated by the meticulously stored archives that were being made freely available to her, she came to a page at the very end and stopped.

  Her skin crawled.

  This made sense, didn’t it?

  It was Zaltan again, staring back at her.

  But this wasn’t an article about the dead body discovered in the abandoned farmhouse; it was that of a store opening—perhaps one of his last, before he took off with his family and fled the country.

  A picture was tucked at the bottom: Zaltan was waving cheerily at the camera, his until-a-few-months-ago-uneasy-relationship with the press forgotten. He seemed jubilant; his face was flushed. His shirt had risen, most likely because he’d lifted his hand, and she could see the bottom half of his belly.

  And on it—even in the gravelly photograph—Darya saw clearly the arch drawn underneath the navel.

  Darya’s breathing came faster now.

  So, her theory made sense.

  There must be more proof out there. She should continue looking.

  Darya took out her phone and snapped a picture. Springing up, she placed the book back on the shelf. A flur
ry of fresh dust flew into her face, but she didn’t care.

  She scanned the racks and wondered which edition of Adevărul she should pick up next, then zeroed in on the ones from 1989 and 1990. Those were the two years after the death of the country’s formidable head of state, Nicolae Ceaușescu, and when the Communist Party collapsed. The bodies in Biertan’s water well had been discovered around then. Perhaps the newspapers had reported something.

  She flipped the pages.

  Her eyes skimmed the turning sheets.

  No … no … not here. Not in this one. She had reached the end.

  She picked up another.

  No … no … nothing here either. Damn.

  Then, as she was browsing through the third bound edition on her stack, she was rewarded. She unlocked her phone, put in the words, and waited impatiently for the translation.

  March 1990

  Dead bodies discovered in the well of a church in Biertan … The cause of deaths unknown … Hypothermia or suffocation suspected … Identification difficult because of the state of the bodies … Description or clothes left on the dead bodies do not match any missing person reports … The bodies appear decades old …

  September 1990

  The police are investigating the possible involvement of the church’s former bishop in the dead bodies found in Biertan. Now eighty-three years old, the bishop had led the Orthodox Church at Biertan until the year 1974. The bishop is no stranger to controversy. At Biertan, he was rumoured to have abused novitiates over the years, many of whom lived with him, including his own grandniece who accused him of asking for unusual favours … no formal charges were brought against him ... the owners of the church came to his rescue and absolved him of having anything to do with the deaths …