Copyright 2012 Bharti Kirchner
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Cover Design by Greg Simanson
Edited by Toddie Downs
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
ISBN 978-1-935961-47-5
DISCOUNTS OR CUSTOMIZED EDITIONS MAY BE AVAILABLE FOR EDUCATIONAL AND OTHER GROUPS BASED ON BULK PURCHASE.
For further information please contact [email protected]
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012905630
For Didi, Rinku, Tinni, and Tom
For holding the light, as I take another step
And in loving memory of Kachi, Niveditamami, and Satyada
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I've been fortunate to have the help and encouragement of a number of friends in completing this project. Their names (in no particular order) are: Margaret Donsbach, Sarah Martinez, Holly Warah, and Christine Mason.
I would like to thank Mike Hawley, Mike McNeff, and Greg Mills for answering my questions about police procedures.
For their effort on the publishing side, I thank Toddie Downs, Katherine Sears, Heather Ludviksson, and Ken Shear.
I am indebted to my readers who have urged me to write another book.
And I am grateful to my husband Tom for his loving support. Without you, I couldn 't have done it.
Nothing in the world is really precious until we know that it'll soon be gone. The lily, the starry daffodil, the regal irises are the lovelier for their imminent vanishing.
Donald Culross Peattie
Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
READING GROUP QUESTIONS
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ONE
“GUTEN MORGEN.” Mitra rolled over on her side to face Ulrich, the sensual feel of his German name in her mouth. A sliver of sun winked through a crack in the window draperies.
Ulrich turned his golden blond head, nuzzled the pillow, and regarded her with his soft green eyes. “You look so ravishing,” he whispered, “with your hair falling down over your face.” Playfully, he reached out for her.
Mitra smiled at him, at the sculpted hardness visible beneath the sheets. Usually, she rose at dawn and slipped into her greenhouse, her heart swelling with new hope as she appraised the overnight progress of the seedlings. This morning was different. Swallowing a feeling of awkwardness, for he was still a stranger, she snuggled into the warmth of his chest and lay there curled up in the sheets, savoring the musky sweetness of his skin.
If her mother were to peek in at this instant, she would draw a corner of her sari over her mouth to stifle a scream. “Sin!” she'd say. “My unmarried daughter is sleeping with a man!”
Fortunately, Mother lived in Kolkata, whereas Mitra was half a world away in the bedroom of her bungalow in Wallingford, Seattle's garden district. And although she was unmarried, she was in fact twenty-nine, old enough to take a lover.
Ulrich glanced at the clock on the lamp stand, tossed the blanket aside, and bolted from the bed. “8:30? Ach, I was supposed to be at work by 8.”
He scrambled toward the bathroom, mumbling to himself in his native tongue. Mitra could hear the sounds of water splashing in the sink and snatches of a German song. Although an engineer by training, Ulrich chose to do physical labor, to escape the tedium of days spent at a desk poring over equations and blueprints. It was a quirk that she had found intriguing last night. He happily hammered nails all day, fixing roofs, patios, kitchens, and basements. Siegfried, his German shepherd, always went along.
The silky, iris-patterned linen sheets were bunched up on his side. He slept more messily than she did but for some reason she liked the rumpled look.
The ringing of the telephone startled her. Not fair, this intrusion. If it was Kareena on the line, Mitra could whisper the truth to her: I met a cool Deutscher last night. He's in the shower. Okay, so, it's not like the usual shy me, but … Look, I'll call you back later, okay?
She had to answer; it could be a client. Tangles of long hair drowned her vision, as she reached for the receiver. “Mitra Basu speaking.”
“Veen here.” Her friend's voice lacked its usual bounce. “In the name of Ma Kali, have you heard? Kareena is missing.”
“Missing?” Mitra felt shaken, the way a plant must feel when uprooted, the solid support of the firm earth stripped away. “What are you talking about?”
“I called Adi after I got stood up for tea this morning. He told me he hasn't heard from her in two days. I haven't seen her since girls' night out—over a week ago, was it? When's the last time you spoke with her?”
Mitra's heart thumped away. “She didn't show up at Toute La Soirée last night to meet with me.”
She skipped the rest of the story. Last evening had not started out well. After waiting for about an hour and not getting even a beep on her cellphone, she'd driven to Kareena's house. Neither she nor her husband Adi answered the door. Mitra told herself that her friend had probably gotten caught up in another appointment. A little miffed, she'd opted for a distraction—something cold, sweet, and decadent—and made a beeline for an organic ice cream parlor, where an acquaintance introduced her to Ulrich. A long conversation, a second helping of parfait, and the evening had turned out delightfully.
“When did Adi find her missing?” Mitra asked.
“The night before last Adi apparently got home late. Her car was in the garage, but she wasn't home. There was no sign of a forced entry. Yesterday, he called 911. The police came over, asked a lot of questions about her—height, weight, eye color, tattoos, her habits, who's last seen her—things like that. They filled out a form and requested a photo. There aren't any leads.” Veen paused. “I wonder if she had an argument with Adi and just left.”
“She'd have told one of us, don't you think?” Mitra said. “You know I've been asking her to be extra cautious.” Silently, Mitra repeated her warnings to Kareena: Don't use your last name with your clients, take a different route home every day, always let someone know where you are. She wondered which one Kareena had forgotten.
“Adi didn't have much more to say,” Veen said. “He was leaving for the office. Speaking of the office, I'm late. Let's talk in about an hour.”
Something wasn't right here. How could Adi go to work when his wife was missing?
Mitra searched for her clothes. Last night's coupling, with its wild tumbling, had put her into deep communion with her body, but she was also a bit out of her zone. The long-sleeved print dress she wore last evening, a tantrum of wildflowers, lay tangled on the floor, intermingled with her bra and panties and Ulrich's charcoal jeans. Hands trembling, she rummaged around in the closet, grabbed a pewter-gray bathrobe, and wrapped it around her body.
Adi says she's missing.
Adi? Who could trust what Adi said? At her cocktail party a few weeks ago, a paisley Kashmiri shawl had slid off Kareena's shoulders. Through the sheer sleeves of a tan silk top, Mitra glimpsed dark blue finger marks and a fresh swelling on her upper arm. She nearly shrieked. Had Kareena been mugged by a stranger, grabbed by a client's angry husband, or had Adi attacked her? Upon realizing that Mitra had noticed, Kareena glanced down and repositioned the shawl. Before Mitra could speak, a male friend approached, asked Kareena to dance, and they'd floated away. It'd be ironic and tragic, if Kareena, a domestic violence counselor, suffered abuse at home. Was it possible?
Ulrich stepped into the room. His well-scrubbed face shone, but the rest of his body looked unwashed. An awkward pause fell, which Mitra attributed to seeing each other for the first time in broad daylight.
“Everything okay?” Ulrich asked.
She registered the warm intimacy of his voice. “A friend has been reported missing.”
“Missing? I'm sorry—I hope your friend turns up soon.”
Standing close to her, so close that she could still smell the sweat of the night on his skin, he wiggled into his jeans. His large fingers fumbled with the buttons of his chambray shirt and a thin lower lip pouted as he struggled to insert a recalcitrant button in its hole. He threw on his herringbone jacket, wrapped her in an embrace, and with a candy-shop expression cupped her face in his hands.
“You look even prettier in the daytime,” he said, “such luscious skin to go with those big dark eyes.”
His eyes held a mirror in which she saw herself: a petite figure, not a beauty by either Indian or American standards; a careless dresser to boot, although Kareena had once praised the serenity on her face. At least that was something. Kareena—where was she?
Ulrich gave her a deep look, then a short warm kiss, which didn't soften her tense midsection. She managed a half-smile. Under a different circumstance, she'd have reveled in a morning romp, but her friend's absence was becoming more real to her with each passing second.
“You look so worried,” he said. “Your friend is probably fine.”
“Well, she has a dangerous job. She works as a counselor for abused women. Many husbands have it in for her.”
“I would get her office involved.” He gave her a soft kiss. “If I could, I'd stay here with you and I really want to, but …”
At another time, the word want or vant, as modulated by his accent, would have hinted at delicious possibilities, but not now.
“Shall we see each other again?” he asked.
She looked up at his pale-skinned face, and she really did have to look up, for he was a good nine inches taller, and nodded. “Call me this evening.”
They walked to the doorway, his arm around her shoulder. As he skipped down the front steps, his face turned toward her budding tulip patch—soon to be an exuberant yellow salutation to the spring—and he held it in sight till the last second before turning away. Yellow was Kareena's color (and Mitra's, too). Tulips were a favorite of both of them. And Mitra had planted this double early variety in her yard just for Kareena. If only she were only here, she would surely shout in pleasure upon seeing how gorgeous even the buds were.
Mitra sighed, picturing Kareena's heart-shaped face, tailored pantsuits, dark sunglasses even in rain, and a stylish wristwatch. She just had to be okay. She must have snuck off somewhere for a breather. How like her to forget to tell anyone, even her husband. Mitra would find her dearest pal.
Ulrich gave her one last look and a wave, then loped toward a steel gray Saab parked across the street. Feeling a nip in the air, Mitra cinched the belt of her bathrobe. She walked back to the living room, opened the draperies, and hoped the fear signals inside her were wrong. A blue Volvo SUV cruised by, reminding her of Adi. He zipped around the city in a Volvo, too.
She dialed his number. The receiver to her ear, she paced frantically back and forth in front of the window, too keyed up to sit still. The plum tree in her north yard was a billowy cloud of delicate white blossoms. An upper branch had thrust itself dangerously close to a power line and she made a mental note to prune it back later.
Adi's recorded voice said, “Leave a message.”
Mitra didn't. She studied the clock: still the commute hour.
Unable to wait another second, Mitra punched Veen's office number, only to be greeted by a voice-mail message. She kept trying every few minutes, then decided to go visit Veen in her office.
TWO
TEN MINUTES LATER, Mitra and Veen walked the extensive grounds of Good Shepherd Center, an Italianate-style building of late 1800's, now used for multiple business purposes. It was located only a few steps from Veen's office. They found an empty bench on the grassy yard, surrounded by tall oaks, and sat down. No one was about this early in the morning.
Mitra turned to Veen. A substantial woman, she had her hair pulled back in a ponytail, a gray wool jacket casting a shadow on her face. She wasn't a shoi, a friend of the heart like Kareena was, but still belonged to Mitra's inner circle of friends. Mitra thanked her for taking a break to meet with her.
“I damn near got in an accident coming to work.” Veen's voice shook; she wasn't her usual assured businesswoman self. “Now I have a bitch of a headache.”
Mitra felt for Veen, a go-getter, always dependable, always rushed, often blunt. She could use a break, this overworked architect who specialized in green design. Even when they hung out together, bumping out to a Sunday breakfast at Julia's, visiting the Flower and Garden show, or popping up at Seattle Arts and Lectures, Veen never seemed to be able to let go and enjoy the moment. Right now, she sipped a sickly brown tea from a carry-out cup, with the sorry teabag still inside.
“Why do you think Adi hasn't called either of us, if Kareena has been gone for two days?” Mitra asked.
“The bastard said he hadn't had time.”
“You believe that?”
“No.” Veen's voice rose. “And what do you make of this? I was passing by Umberto's restaurant last night and spotted him with a blonde, his assistant, I think. They were talking over wine. Do you think he's having an affair?”
“Affair? That doesn't sound right. He seems so much in love with Kareena.” Mitra paused. “Actually, I don't know what to think. Other than calling the police, he seems to be taking this awfully casually.”
“Shit.” Veen winced. She'd just splashed hot tea on her lap. Mitra rummaged her purse, grabbed a tissue, and handed it to Veen, who got busy wiping the wet spots on her pants. Veen mumbled thanks and added, “Someone in my office said when a woman goes missing, nine times out of ten, it's the husband.”
It's the husband. Mitra held back the rage inside her. For a moment she let her eyes roam the Pea-Patch just ahead, the serenity that rested over the plot, to get over the feelings she had against Adi. “Do we know who saw Kareena last?”
“I didn't ask Adi—I was so overwhelmed by the news. But you know I glimpsed her about two weeks a
go at Toute La Soirée, with an Indian guy. He's straight out of GQ, if there were an Indian GQ. They were smiling, leaving the place. I happened to drive by. I don't think she saw me. I didn't wave. That'd not have been proper. At the time I'd assumed it was a friend or relative visiting her. Now I'm not so sure.”
“Kareena and I met at the same place last week.”
“So, did you two talk about anything that might throw some light on that guy?”
“Not really, but it was an interesting get-together.” Mitra replayed the afternoon. She'd been waiting for Kareena at a corner table for about fifteen minutes, perusing the Seattle Chronicle, a cool breeze blowing though a half-open window. She looked out through the window and took in the sky-colored ship canal where a fishing vessel was working its way to the dry docks that lined the north shore of Lake Union. Sensing a rustle in the atmosphere, she raised her eyes and saw Kareena standing just inside the door. Kareena peered out over the crowd, spotted her, and flashed a smile. She looked chic, a get-up-and-go kind of a person in the maroon pantsuit (Mitra called it “maple,” whereas Kareena referred to its shade as “Bordeaux”). Arms swaying loose and long, Kareena wove her way among the tables. A shining leather purse dangled from her shoulder.
As Kareena drew closer, a woman seated at a corner table called out to her. Kareena halted and, charming as always, exchanged pleasantries. The woman glanced in Mitra's direction. “Is that your sister?” she overheard the woman saying.
Kareena glanced over at Mitra and winked. They'd been subjected to the same question countless times. Did they really look alike or had they picked up each other's mannerisms from hanging out together? Aside from similar faces—sharp cheekbones and narrow foreheads—Mitra was three inches shorter and eight pounds lighter. She glanced down at her powder-blue workaday sweater, a practical watch, and sturdy walking flats. Her attire didn't follow current fashion dictates, but it was low-key and comfy, just right for an outdoors person. Fortunately, a place like Seattle accommodated both their styles.
Tulip Season Page 1
