by Gigi Pandian
Miles nodded, reaching for Tamarind’s hand but not taking his gaze from mine.
“I can’t read your expression,” I said. Which was odd. He didn’t need to scribble fragments of poetry on his arms, as he was known to do, for people to guess he was a poet and have a clear sense of his feelings on any particular day.
“Something to be worried about?” I asked when he didn’t respond. A couple of letter writers had given off a creepy vibe. Nothing that required a restraining order, but even Miles had felt it and been careful in his replies.
“I don’t know where to begin,” he finally said, “so I’ll start with the reason I had to see you tonight. He said he needs to know today if you’re willing to accept the challenge.”
I sighed and popped a piece of the flaky papadum in my mouth. “Just because someone gives me an ultimatum with a ticking clock, doesn’t mean we have to fall for it.”
“What if that someone was Rick Coronado?” Miles looked expectantly at me.
“Shut. Up.” Tamarind said.
“This request,” he said, his eyes still locked on mine, “is like nothing you’ve received before. Rick Coronado is a fan of yours.”
“He wrote her a fan letter?” Tamarind asked. “That’s rad.”
“Someone is playing a joke on me.” I felt myself blushing. The thriller writer was one of my favorite authors, and thanks to a sly interviewer who’d seen a beaten-up copy of one of Coronado’s novels sticking out of my messenger bag, the general public knew I liked reading his pulpy treasure hunt adventures.
I was trying to get taken seriously as a historian, not a treasure hunter, so I’d agreed to the interview with History magazine, assuming I would talk about the academic methods I’d used to solve historical mysteries. I hadn’t realized the interviewer would also take liberties in describing me: Historian Jaya Anand Jones, PhD, in her three-inch stilettos, head-to-toe black attire suitable for a heist film, and with a dog-eared Ricardo Coronado thriller sticking out of her red messenger bag, isn’t your typical history professor.
Didn’t people realize how difficult it was to be short, or that it was possible to grow tired of brightly colored clothing when you’d been raised by a father who adored tie-dye? The heels and subdued colors helped me get taken seriously. At least when they weren’t described like that.
And I was perfectly comfortable with my taste in pulpy adventure novels. I just would have been happier if the whole world wasn’t privy to my personal reading habits.
“Well at least he can still write something,” Tamarind said.
Rick Coronado hadn’t written a new novel in seven years. Not since the mysterious occurrence that had caused him to stop writing. The incident he wouldn’t speak of, that had caused him to become a recluse. He’d been eccentric to begin with, but whatever had happened all those years ago had pushed him over the edge.
“Rick Coronado,” Miles said, “is back in the game. He’s writing a novel in Jaya’s honor.”
“You’re serious,” Tamarind said. “Jaya, I know when Miles is dead serious.”
“I’m serious,” he said. “And so is Rick Coronado.” He pressed the pages into my hands. “He’ll only write the novel if you agree to read the pages and advise him on the story. He overnighted the package—and he wants your answer tonight.”
Chapter 3
I opened my mouth to speak, even though I didn’t know what I wanted to say.
I didn’t have time to figure it out. Three paper butterflies drifted down to the table as gently as if they were flying. I looked up and saw Sanjay.
“We’re on.” He lifted his signature bowler hat from his head. His thick black hair never looked like he’d been wearing a hat, which was perhaps one of Sanjay’s biggest feats of magic.
Miles plucked the pages out of my hands. “You can read them over your break.”
“But—”
“We can start a few minutes late if you’re in the middle of something,” Sanjay said.
“Jaya needs more than a few minutes for this,” Miles said.
I stood up and followed Sanjay to our makeshift stage in the corner, but glanced back at Miles. “I hate you.”
“We love you too,” Tamarind said, blowing me a kiss.
Was Rick Coronado really writing a novel in my honor? And he wanted my help? It had to be fake. The stack of papers looked more the length of a chapter or two than a whole novel. What was going on? And perhaps more importantly, what was up with my own reaction? If Rick Coronado was really writing a novel in my honor, I was more excited than I wanted to admit.
I kicked off my heels and settled into position, sitting cross-legged in front of my tabla, but my mind refused to focus on my drums.
Rick Coronado’s books were more than they appeared on the surface. Yes, they were breezy adventures starring Gabriela Glass, a treasure-hunting hero who was impossibly brilliant, beautiful, and rich, and with a troubled past that gave her a soft spot for women in peril. Gabriela’s journeys were quests in search of treasures, but she only accepted jobs from women who’d been wronged, as her own mother had been. Gabriela wasn’t only after treasures—she sought justice for women.
The books had titles like The Glass Fire, House of Glass, Shards of Glass, Broken Glass, and occasionally place-name titles such as Jaipur Glass, Mayan Glass. And my personal favorite, Empire of Glass, about the impressive Angkorian Empire that once stretched across Cambodia into Thailand. I’d been interested in Cambodia’s storied history since my first visit, when I backpacked through Asia in my twenties. I’d become even more intrigued after rescuing a Khmer bas relief that had been stolen from a small museum in San Francisco.
Rick Coronado used to publish a new Gabriela Glass novel every year. He hadn’t killed her off when he stopped writing. He simply hadn’t written a word of prose in seven years.
Until now.
Seven years ago, Coronado disappeared for six weeks. Afterwards, he’d sequestered himself in his home in upstate New York, leaving the house only to go walking a dog almost as big as himself. The mystery of what had caused him to hide away and reject the writing that had been his lifeblood was greater than anything he’d written into his adventure novels.
Nobody knew what had happened to Rick Coronado when he disappeared.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Sanjay said, shaking me out of my reverie as he made a penny appear out of thin air. Or more likely, out of his bowler hat. I’d been stuck in my own thoughts longer than I realized, and he was already set up with his sitar.
After some unexpected distractions earlier that fall, Sanjay and I were back to our usual mid-week schedule of playing tabla and sitar for dinner guests. We were sporadic mid-week dinner entertainment at our friend Raj’s Indian restaurant, but Raj paid professionals to play on the weekend.
“Two mysteries, and the evening is just getting started.” I glanced over at Miles and Tamarind, but they were deep in conversation. Becca and Wesley were a few tables over, and Wesley waved when he saw me looking their way.
“A Gold Rush prospector who’d already found riches,” I said, “and what might be an interesting proposal from Rick Coronado.”
“That author who disappeared for several weeks a few years ago?” Sanjay asked.
“Seven years ago.”
“Damn, where does the time go?” He shook his head.
“Yes, yes.” Raj’s bald head glistened as he stepped into our spotlight. “You’ve lost track of time. The tables are filled—I told you the mason jars were a good investment, Jaya.”
“I’m pretty sure that has more to do with Juan’s cooking,” I said, running my fingertips across the surfaces of the two drums that formed the tabla. “But we’re ready to go. You can turn on our mics.”
The tabla, singular, refers to the two drums played with the fingertips and palms. The daya wooden drum, on the right for
the main raga melody. The baya, on the left, is the more squat kettledrum that adds depth. Similar to how the left hand on a piano adds the deeper notes that anchor a song in place and can give steady underlying beats, the deeper sounding left drum balances the fast fingertip string of notes that can sound almost like a bell.
As we played our first set, I was sure I’d be too distracted to play well, but I’d been playing for so long that the music took over. Sanjay and I fell into our familiar rhythm.
I felt the vibrations under my fingertips as we ended a dramatic raga. The diners applauded. A whole hour had gone by.
I slipped my heels on and rushed back to the table where Miles and Tamarind were drinking mango lassis. Sanjay started to follow but spotted a couple of his fans waving him over to their table. The Hindi Houdini Heartbreakers were an online fan club, and several of the local members liked to see him even when he wasn’t performing magic.
I’d once imagined the Hindi Houdini Heartbreakers as creepy stalkers, until I’d met some of them in person. The two who were in the audience tonight were sweet women who always spent lavishly at the restaurant, including leaving an extra big tip when they stayed longer to see both of our sets. I didn’t know if they actually enjoyed our music. It didn’t hurt that Sanjay was incredibly good looking (I wished my hair was half as gorgeous), funny (he’d killed it when he got a guest appearance on The Late Show), generous (he frequently did charity shows), and single.
“Damn,” I said as soon as I sat down next to Tamarind. “Give me one second.”
I paid Becca and Wesley’s bill. They were having syrupy gulab jamun for dessert, and I stopped by their table to let them know the bill was taken care of.
“You guys are really good,” Wesley said. “Want to join us on your break?”
“Dr. Jones has her friends to get back to,” Becca said. “She said she had someone else meeting her too.”
“Just a letter from someone who isn’t here,” I said, “but that I should read. If you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course,” Becca said, but I caught the disappointment on her face.
Tamarind pushed a plate of food in front of me as I sat down, then rolled her eyes toward Miles. “He wanted to give you the chapters first, but I convinced him you need to know what you’re getting into.”
She handed me a handwritten letter. They say you shouldn’t meet your heroes. Was reading a letter they wrote to you the same thing?
“Lucky this arrived on one of the days Miles is on campus sorting your mail,” Tamarind said.
Lucky indeed. I shook off my sense of foreboding.
I pushed aside the food they’d ordered for me, took a deep breath, and tried to calm the butterflies rising in my stomach as I began to read the letter from Rick Coronado.
Chapter 4
Dear Dr. Jones,
I feel we’re kindred spirits, you and I. You may know I haven’t had occasion to leave my home much in several years. But I read avidly. I’ve read all about you and your travels. You’re living the adventures I once wrote about.
I used to think writer’s block wasn’t real. Until I began suffering the affliction myself. Only when I read an article about you that mentioned you were reading one of my books did I realize I had more to say.
I’ve been working on a new Gabriela Glass novel, and the words are flowing out of me. I’ve written several chapters already. I’ve enclosed the first two. I don’t know if I’m fooling myself or if they’re any good. I need you to tell me—Is there a story here? Should I keep going?
I paused for a moment, realizing my hands were shaking. I didn’t think it was lack of food, although I was vaguely aware my empty stomach was rumbling.
My overwhelming reaction was that this couldn’t be real. Surely someone was attempting to play a joke on me. It wouldn’t be the first time less than well-meaning people had attempted to reach me. At the same time, this felt like something the author would write. Although this was carrying an “eccentric” persona a bit far, even for him.
“Everything okay?” Tamarind asked. “Are you done reading the letter already?”
I shook my head and returned to the letter.
I’m nervous sending this to anyone. I haven’t even shown these pages to my brother. You’re the only person I’m sending this to. I already tore up the first letter I wrote…
I will wait until midnight on the day this arrives, and after that if I haven’t heard from you I’ll scrap the book. I can’t bear to have the decision hanging over my head any longer.
Please show the enclosed pages to your inner circle to make your decision, but no one else. Call me at this number by midnight if you see promise in this story and are willing to help.
Sincerely, your humble fan,
Rick Coronado
His phone number and email address were included below his name. At least I was fairly confident it was his name. He’d signed the letter with a scrawling signature that looked like it belonged on the title page of one of his hardback thrillers.
I flipped the paper over. It was blank on the reverse side. The thick white bond bore no markings other than the black ink used to write the letter.
“He totally wants to be your writing buddy!” Tamarind squealed. A few heads from nearby tables turned our way.
“The correct term is ‘critique partner,’” Miles said. He had a poetry critique group he met with at our local coffee shop.
“Oh, fine. You can call us whatever you want. The important thing is that he wants all our feedback.” Tamarind leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “We’re in your inner circle, right? I really hope so, ’cause we kinda already read the chapters.”
“The time,” I murmured. Was I already too late? “What time is it?”
“A little past seven thirty,” Miles said.
“Rick Coronado lives in upstate New York. Midnight for him is nine o’clock here. That gives me less than an hour-and-a-half to get back to him.” My heart thudded. That wasn’t much time. Especially when I had another set to play in the meantime. “You said you already read the pages?”
“Of course.” Miles sat up straighter as he sipped the last ounce of his lassi. “That’s my job. His language is melodramatic, but that’s his style, right?”
“Let me see it. Does it have to do with what he was working on when he disappeared?”
Tamarind’s lips—purple to match her hair—parted in awe. “Do you mean, is he’s telling you his own story, like you’re his confessor? Wouldn’t that be the best? But no, it doesn’t look like it.”
“It’s more of an impossible crime story than a treasure hunt, like those cool mysteries from the Golden Age of detective fiction.” Miles handed me the now-rumpled sheets of paper. It was a risk I assumed by hiring a poet with ink-stained fingers instead of someone who’d ever worked in an office. “That’s when poetry was taken more seriously than it is today too.” He shook his head sadly. “But there’s an India connection. I assume that’s why he thought you could help. Some bourgeois family from France who made their fortunes in India are now getting their comeuppance and being haunted by a ghost.”
Tamarind smiled wickedly. “Gabriela Glass doesn’t believe it’s a ghost. She’s helping a bereaved mom find out who killed her son and stole a family treasure. Check out the chapters to see for yourself—but don’t forget your curry. I put in a request for Juan to make it extra spicy, so you’ve gotta eat it or it’ll go to waste.”
Juan’s amazing curry was the last thing on my mind.
Courier, twelve-point font, double-spaced. This was Rick Coronado’s in-progress unpublished manuscript, The Glass Thief.
“Dr. Jones?”
I looked up from the first page and saw Becca and Wesley standing at the table.
“Thanks again for dinner,” Wesley said. His backpack with the skateboard sticking out was slu
ng over his shoulder and a baseball cap covered his wild black hair.
“You and your friend were really good,” Becca added. “There’s a line of people waiting for tables, so we won’t linger for a second dessert.”
“Come see me during my office hours tomorrow. I have some more ideas about that intriguing letter you found.”
“Sorry to interrupt.” Becca smiled shyly at Miles and Tamarind. “Thanks again.”
“We should go,” Wesley said. “See you tomorrow.”
“O.M.G.” Tamarind whispered as they walked away. “The clock is ticking.” She flexed her arm and kissed her bicep. “Don’t worry. I can keep Raj and Sanjay at bay for a while. I’ll make sure you finish reading before they drag you back to the stage.”
The Glass Thief
Chapter 1
Paris, France
As the clock struck midnight two nights before Christmas, and dim rays of moonlight shone through the stained-glass windows of the old mansion, the Delacroix family’s prized Serpent King sculpture vanished and prodigal son Luc was murdered—for the second time that day.
Luc’s strange death wasn’t the first to have taken place in this haunted mansion. Nor was it the first time the Serpent King had caused a death in the family.
Perhaps we should start at the true beginning of the story.
Chapter 5
The Glass Thief
Chapter 2
Paris, France
Gabriela Glass stepped through the front gate of the mansion where the murder had taken place. Her gloved hand lingered on the wrought iron for a moment longer than necessary to click it back in place. The metal was forged with what at first glance looked like metal rose stems wrapping themselves around the solid beams of the gate, but a closer inspection revealed the barbed stems as the bodies of snakes, with their enigmatic serpentine faces visible in the center of the roses.
