Jackpot Jetty
Page 3
Christabel removed her hand from him arm. ‘Don’t you perhaps me, Arthur Chupplejeep. You promised me a break. You’re supposed to be apologising. Making up for what you did, not creating further trouble for yourself.’
‘I promise I’ll make up for what has happened.’
‘Good, that’s settled then. You can go and get the bedding and other bits from the car.’ She smiled, and Chupplejeep knew then that she had calmed down, if only slightly. He was going to make it up to her. He didn’t have time to think about Jackpot’s death and what Detective Kumar was doing about it; he had his personal life to sort out. Over the last few weeks, when Christabel avoided his calls or turned the other way when she saw him in the market, he had realised just how much she meant to him. He could not afford to lose her.
Christabel didn’t speak. Instead she looked deep in thought, like she was working something out. It always worried him when she had that expression. It meant that she was planning, or worse, plotting something. ‘It’s better you take the chair tonight,’ she said. ‘I’ve an early start in the morning, so I need a good night’s rest. At least you have a case to solve. It’ll keep you busy.’
‘What? Where are you going?’ Chupplejeep asked. One minute she wanted him to spend all his time with her, and the next she was implying that she had her own plans.
Christabel smiled. Her face softened. ‘You’ll see,’ she said, and she walked into the house.
CHAPTER SIX
As Chupplejeep arrived back at the lake house, sheets and pillows under each arm along with a bag of food, half of which had spoiled in the heat, he heard voices coming from the direction of Jackpot’s villa. He stopped and strained his ears to listen. By the hard d’s and the Kannada drawl, he assumed one of the voices was the sub-officer’s, the same officer who had followed Detective Kumar around this morning like a tail. Now, as he listened, he could tell that the officer was talking to Jackpot’s widow. He wanted to ignore it all, organise the lake house and make it homely for Christabel. He opened the door to his own villa, dropped the bedding and the bag of groceries on the grandfather chair and heard the shower running. He looked back at the door that he had just walked through and then over towards Jackpot’s house. Before Christabel could hear him, he slipped out.
Carefully, he walked around the house and past the Mendocas’. He crouched to the side of Jackpot’s villa. It was difficult for him to squat like this because of his protruding belly. The stress of the last couple of months had meant that he had eaten one too many potato chops, but who could resist those potato cakes filled with spiced mutton. Now he wondered if he would be able to get up from the position he was in without falling over. Once you gave yourself the leeway to eat just because you were tired, stressed or whatnot, from that point, it was a slippery slope. One biscuit turned into a packet. One paratha turned into a tiffin-full. His failed wedding and the shock revelation that his parents were alive had taken a toll on his waistline, and he knew he had to do something about it.
He was, after all, a detective, and detectives had to be fit – to run after criminals and listen in on conversations whilst crouched in tight spaces. Plus, he needed to be fit to get that promotion he was after. Apart from his fitness levels, everything else was in his favour. He was in Gosht’s good books after he had solved the case of the murdered actress, Subrina Basi.
‘So you won’t give us permission for an autopsy?’ the sub-officer asked. Chupplejeep’s ears pricked up.
‘I know what you cops want to do. You want to cut him open and tell everyone he’s a drunk. I’ve seen this happen before. You’ll tell everyone. I won’t let you do it. Cutting open his body? No way, no way.’
‘Okay,’ the sub-officer said.
‘Okay?’ Chupplejeep repeated under his breath.
‘So you’re happy to accept the conclusion that your husband, Ranjit Bhobe, died of a heart attack brought on by drinking?’ The sub-officer spoke as if he was reading from a script.
There was no reply.
‘Say no,’ Chupplejeep willed.
‘A heart attack, yes. Do not mention the drink,’ Talika said.
Another long silence.
Chupplejeep couldn’t take any more of this. With some difficulty, he stood up. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, peering around the side of the house.
Both Talika, who was still standing in the doorway to her house, and the sub-officer, who was standing on the porch, turned to look at him.
‘I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. In a sudden death such as this, an autopsy is essential. Asking you is just a formality. The police can order this to be done whether or not you agree. It’s necessary, don’t you think, to find out the real cause of your husband’s sudden death? Aren’t you wondering if it could be more than a natural cause?’
The sub-officer stuttered, ‘W-with all due respect, sir, this is not for you to decide. It is for Detective Kumar to make that decision, and he has already done so. No autopsy is necessary. You are causing unnecessary distress to the widow here.’
‘With all due respect, Officer, where is your Detective Kumar?’
The sub-officer looked sheepish. Chupplejeep pulled him to one side. ‘Excuse us, Mrs Bhobe,’ he said. Chupplejeep observed just how nervous Talika looked. Her hands were shaking, and when she caught him looking at her, at the scratch on her neck, she lifted her handkerchief to her face. Being sad with grief was understandable, but being nervous wasn’t. She had no reason to fear an autopsy. Chupplejeep looked behind her into her bungalow. In the sitting room, alongside the television and a wicker two-seater, he saw a chair and a desk covered with papers. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Chupplejeep whispered to the sub-officer, ‘If you don’t know the correct police procedure, I suggest you take my lead.’
‘But, sir.’
‘Detective,’ Chupplejeep reminded him.
‘But Detective, Detective Kumar has given me instructions.’
‘Are you willing to let a potential criminal, a murderer, go free?’
The sub-officer shook his head.
‘Let’s speak to Talika Bhobe then.’ Chupplejeep took a step towards Talika. ‘Mrs Bhobe, I understand this is a difficult time for you.’ He could see that her eyes were puffy and red. She fiddled nervously with the end of her dishevelled plait. Strands of black hair clung to her damp face, reminding Chupplejeep just how hot and humid it was, even though the sun had set. The nocturnal insects had started their commotion too. Crickets and frogs were making a constant buzz. The grasses by the lake were alive, and the realisation made Chupplejeep shudder. That was the one thing he hated about the lake house – insects were everywhere.
‘An autopsy is necessary,’ he said. Talika touched her fingers to her lips. ‘In my opinion,’ Chupplejeep said, ‘you have to ascertain the cause of his death. It may not be the drinking. You’ll have some peace in knowing exactly why your husband died. You want that, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, tears falling from her eyes once again. ‘It’s all too much. I never expected this, and I don’t want people to talk about it, to make his death a source of local gossip.’ She wiped her eyes with her dupatta. ‘People will say things about Ranjit.’
‘Like what?’
‘That he was a drunk. That he died because of his drinking.’
‘And you’re certain that an autopsy would prove this?’
Talika nodded, a little too quickly for Chupplejeep’s liking.
‘But what if the autopsy finds that something else is to blame for his death?’
Talika looked at the sub-officer, then she leaned in towards Chupplejeep. ‘What are you trying to say? That someone could have harmed Ranjit?’
‘It’s a possibility, but we won’t know for sure until we do an autopsy.’
Talika folded her arms across her chest and leaned back. ‘Impossible,’ she said. ‘Impossible.’
‘Your husband had no enemies, no one who would want to harm him?’
‘A rogue branch from a rose bush,’ she said, and Chupplejeep nodded.
‘Mrs Bhobe, if the police decide an autopsy is necessary then you’ll have no choice as to whether this goes ahead or not,’ he said.
Talika straightened her back. She looked Chupplejeep in the eye. ‘And have you decided an autopsy is necessary?’ She turned to look at the sub-officer. Her nerves seemed to have settled, and now she looked almost defiant.
The sub-officer looked away.
‘I think they have, Mrs Bhobe,’ Chupplejeep said.
‘Go ahead then,’ she murmured before she closed the door.
Chupplejeep walked away, weighing up whether he had overstepped the mark by getting involved with this case. He couldn’t have just turned a blind eye. That was not his style. Not his style at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Chupplejeep could tell that dawn had broken from the morning birdsong and the sliver of light through the curtains in the lounge, which had no doubt been the very thing that had woken him up. He shifted slightly and his body groaned. It had been a tough night, sleeping on the grandfather chair. The chair was positioned under a fan, which was doing little more than churning the warm air around the room. He opened one eye and wondered what the best way was to get his stiff body out of the chair. He opened his other eye and saw Christabel closing the door to the bedroom, the bedroom he was certainly going to be sleeping in tonight.
Christabel was dressed, and on closer inspection he saw that she was ready for some kind of activity in a lilac t-shirt and matching sweatpants. Her thick, wavy hair was held away from her face in something he had heard her previously refer to as a scrunchie; that too was lilac. It looked like she was going for a run, but she was wearing lipstick, and from what he could see, her cheeks looked a bit coloured as well.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘Out,’ she said, taking a cold bottle of water from the fridge that he had stocked last night.
‘Jogging?’
Christabel laughed. ‘Are you mad? Jogging in this heat? I told you yesterday. I have plans.’ She opened the front door.
‘Christu, with what has happened, you should at least tell me where you are going.’
‘What has happened? Oh, I remember – your case.’
‘It’s not my case,’ Chupplejeep said. He placed his feet on the ground and stretched his back.
‘Fine,’ Christabel said. ‘If you must know, I’m off to the yoga retreat. I have a class to attend.’
‘A class? I thought we were going to spend time together, talk about what happened,’ he said, forcing those last words out of his mouth. Talking about the whole wretched thing was the last thing on his mind, but even he knew they had to talk it through, to get past it.
‘It’s one class. My friend Lisa recommended the place. She said it would help clear my mind a little, calm me down. Yoga isn’t just for the body, but for the mind as well.’
Chupplejeep nodded. He could see the sense in that. ‘So just one class?’
Christabel nodded. ‘A morning class.’
‘And then this afternoon we can have a picnic.’
‘Sure,’ she said with a smile.
‘So I have a morning to myself. What shall I do?’
Christabel looked around the bungalow. ‘You could clean this place, buy some supplies. We need some soap and food too, after you let the groceries spoil in the heat. I don’t know, do what you want. I’m not your mother.’ She bit her lower lip, her shoulders dropping.
Chupplejeep could tell that she regretted that slip of the tongue. He looked away. After thinking, for years, that his real mother was dead, he was suddenly weighed down by the news that she was alive. Did he want to meet her? The address Christabel had left for him was etched in his mind. He had driven past the house several times now. They had apparently relocated back to Goa. Why, after all these years? He quickly shoved the thought to the back of his mind like he did each time it surfaced.
Christabel mumbled a ‘sorry’, then she turned on her heel to leave, but before she did, Chupplejeep rose from the grandfather chair, walked over to her and gently kissed her on the cheek. She touched her cheek where he had kissed her as she pulled away. Then she left the house.
~
Chupplejeep did as Christabel had instructed. After a few stretches to straighten out his back, he cleaned the house. He contemplated a run around the lake. If Christabel was trying to get fit then so should he. But the thought of a run in the summer heat wasn’t appealing. He also thought it best not to exert himself too much so soon into his holiday. Instead, he decided to go to the local shop to fetch some provisions. He would walk the couple of hundred meters or so to get there; that was exercise enough.
When he got to the shop, he was surprised. Manny’s Meet Mart had certainly expanded since he had last visited. Twenty years ago it sold a handful of items like Vim washing soap, Head & Shoulders shampoo and tasty Cheeselings, amongst a few other basics. Now, it was more like a supermarket than a corner shop. It was not quite as big as Delfino’s in Porvorim, but it was certainly similar in size to Magsons in Panaji. Manny’s even had foods from abroad, he noted, holding a can of lemon-stuffed olives in his hand. The lake had changed – from a rural retreat, it was turning into something quite modern. No wonder some big shot was planning a swanky hotel on the lakeshore.
Chupplejeep was deciding between guava cheese and sonachadose, two of his favourite sweet treats, when he overheard two villagers talking.
‘I knew Jackpot would die,’ a villager wearing maroon kurta pyjamas said. Chupplejeep put both the sonachadose and guava cheese in his basket and picked up a can of tinned peaches, pretending to examine the label. Who would buy tinned peaches, he wondered, when you had such a variety of fruit in Goa. Just last week he had eaten a bowl of the most delicious red and yellow cashew fruits. He could feel the tangy and sweet flavours dancing on his tongue, and his mouth began to water just thinking about it, but it was not the time to think of his stomach.
‘Yeally,’ the other villager said, mispronouncing the word. His hair was well oiled. Chupplejeep could smell the coconut oil even from a distance. He noticed the man had oil stains on the back of his blue t-shirt.
‘There’s always one drunk in the village. Who’ll take Jackpot’s place now?’
‘At least he was a friendly drunk.’
‘But recently…’
‘Yes, I too noticed that.’
Chupplejeep’s ears pricked up. The two villagers walked along the aisle. Chupplejeep followed at a safe distance, putting the can of peaches down and picking up a bar of Lifebuoy soap. He lifted the soap in its red-and-white packaging to his nose and was instantly transported back to his days at the orphanage. He shuddered, put the soap down and picked up a bar of Palmolive instead. He turned the soap over and eyed the two villagers.
‘He started a fight with that developer in broad daylight. Discussing what only, I don’t know.’
‘Why would he fight with the developer? A new hotel would have been great for his boat trip business,’ the villager said, adjusting his trousers and scratching under his arm.
‘He was a simple fellow though. They don’t understand things, these simple ones.’
‘But developers deserve to be fought with. Look at them tearing up our Goa. It was because of them that our beloved coconut tree was reclassified as a grass, so that these ruthless fellows could rip them out without permission.’
Both villagers nodded at the sad state of affairs. One looked up at Chupplejeep and stared at him.
‘Hello there,’ Chupplejeep said.
‘No, no,’ Chupplejeep said, putting the Palmolive in his basket. ‘I have a place here.’
‘I’ve not seen you before,’ the man in the kurta said confidently.
‘I used to come to the lake, but I haven’t been back for years.’
Both villagers tilted their heads left and right, taking a better look at him, as if looking at him from a different angle would jog their memories.
‘Maybe,’ said the man with the oiled hair. Chupplejeep nodded and moved on. As he was walking away, the villagers started talking again, this time with lowered voices. Chupplejeep positioned himself in the aisle behind them, taking out a tin of cheese. He could just about see the two men through the gap it created on the shelf.
‘I don’t like to gossip,’ one of them said, so quietly Chupplejeep almost missed it, ‘but it was the fight Jackpot had with his wife that got people talking. That fellow wasn’t someone to raise his voice. Even when those kids were making masti, mischief, with his boat, he laughed and very gently he was telling them to behave. You saw that?’ the villager in the maroon kurta asked, his voice slowly returning to its natural volume. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, ‘So something must have been wrong, no?’
The villager with the well-oiled hair made a face. ‘That Talika,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘Even I, tho, would be fighting with her.’ The villagers laughed and walked towards the checkout.
Chupplejeep put the tinned cheese in his basket too. He hadn’t eaten tinned cheese since those first weeks after Nana had adopted him all those years ago. Nana’s house was new for him, but he had instantly felt at home. It was hard not to feel at home with Nana, after the previous ten years of misery. At Nana’s, he had his own room, hot meals and kind words.
At the checkout, he paid, still listening to the villagers’ conversation as they stood in the doorway of the store, talking and laughing. But their conversation had moved on. They were now talking about the well-known children’s tale of swans on the lake that turned into pigs. It was a story Chupplejeep had heard before. He wasn’t sure where or when – perhaps his mother had told him the story. He felt a tug at his heart, and the image of his mother that day at Sombrero, before he had stormed out, came to mind. Before he had left the restaurant, he had seen a look in her eyes – full of pain and regret. He shook away the memory. She had left him; it wasn’t the other way around. Now was not the time for nostalgia. He was at the lake to get away from it all, to forget. Because he certainly did not want to remember.