Mother gazed at her through watery eyes, touched her hair, and murmured a blessing.
“Come again next year,” she said. “And bring another mystery to crack, will you?”
FIFTY-ONE
THE EARLY MORNING ATMOSPHERE was charcoal gray when Mitra landed at SeaTac International Airport. She caught a taxi home. It gladdened her that the ride took only twenty minutes. She unlocked the front door to her house and was happy to be back, anxious to get settled.
The message light on her answering machine winked. She pushed the play button, eager to infuse the air with friendly chatter. Adi had left two brief messages, each checking to see if she was back. She shook her head and replayed them, a voice she'd never again hear. She felt eerie.
The next four were from Veen and other friends, vibrant and newsy. The last one was from Grandmother, saying she was thinking of Mitra. One person simply hung up.
No message from Ulrich. He hadn't tried to contact her at all.
She strolled to the greenhouse, her first order of commitment. Although she trusted that Grandmother had taken care of her plants, she needed to verify that for herself. She hovered over the seed flats, breathing in the smell of rich moist earth and listening to the chirping of the birds outside. Petunias had sprouted, although as yet, the tender seedlings gave no indication they'd one day explode into a battlefield of burgundy. The stock starts had gained three inches in height. The verbenas appeared healthy, too, though a trifle less green than normal. She'd have hours of thinning, feeding, misting, and transplanting ahead of her.
As she stepped out of the greenhouse and entered the kitchen, it all rushed back to her, her dinners with Ulrich, the time they spent in her garden, and the flow of lust and friendship between them. Although it was over between them, she found questions popping up in her mind. Why did he have to lie to her about his brief fling with Kareena? Had he been in trouble with the police again? His mood swings—she must have a clear idea about that, too. She sought closure, but wanted to hear his answers. What if she dropped by to see him?
The very idea of resolving these issues charged her with new energy. She showered and changed into fresh clothes.
She knew he woke early. With traffic so light, it took her no time to drive to Ballard. She located his three-story apartment building, pushed the buzzer to his apartment, and waited eagerly.
He opened the door, his eyes red and dull. Dressed in a fleece jacket and heavy jeans, he appeared to be getting ready to go to work.
“Mitra, when did you get back?” The voice was different—less intimate.
“Just this morning,” she said, noticing his stiffness.
“Come in.” He didn't smile or kiss her.
She searched for words to justify her visit, but found none. The tiny studio apartment had a futon at one end and a couch at the other. A half-empty beer bottle sat on the floor by the couch; several empty ones cluttered a waste basket. A pile of hundred dollar bills rested on the coffee table. An empty pill bottle rested next to it. There was cobweb on one wall. A musty smell pervaded the chill air. The windows clearly hadn't been opened in awhile. An open suitcase, partially packed with clothes and a toilet kit, rested on the floor.
“Going somewhere?” she asked.
He looked away. They sat on opposite ends of the couch. It pained her to see how formal he'd become, how uncomfortable in her presence. He turned his gaze toward the suitcase. Their whole history seemed to have faded for him, a burnt-out fire.
“Was your trip worth it?” he asked. She could smell beer on his breath.
Her chin touched her turtleneck sweater. “Long story, a tragic one.”
“You couldn't get your friend to come back, could you?”
For a moment, recalling Kareena, she couldn't speak.
“I told you not to go,” he said. “Why didn't you listen to me?”
Her voice shook as she said, “Kareena is dead.”
“I'm sorry.” After a pause, “Why did you come to see me?”
A gleam in his eyes made her more uncomfortable.
“You came here to screw, didn't you? You're trying to forget the memory of your friend?” With a sudden force, he wrapped his arms around her and began fondling her breasts.
A pang of dread and disgust ran through her. She yanked his hand away and scrambled to her feet. “Stop it. I came here to talk.”
He stood up, looked down at her from his full height, and roared with laughter contemptuously, as though he didn't believe her words. His laughter hit her so hard that she trembled. In this dizzying moment, under the unmerciful ceiling light, she regarded the strange new man before her, furious, looming, uncaring, and spiraling out of control.
How would she protect herself?
Get out of here, Mitra, fast.
She scrambled toward the door and opened it, jitters all over her body, cool air rushing in. She felt his presence on her back, as he pulled her toward him.
“You got away from me once—not this time.”
“Let go!”
She shoved him on the chest. He barely bounced. She raised a knee. He slapped it down with a sharp blow. She shrieked. Then she remembered how much he hated the police.
“Polizist.” She shouted louder this time to jolt his ears even more. “Polizist.”
The police word bounced off the walls and floated out of the apartment, perhaps into the street. Anyone out there?
For a moment he seemed weak, unsure, and disoriented, as though he'd been slapped. His shoulders slumped, eyes showed confusion, and he looked toward the suitcase.
She wiggled out of his clutches. Her arm stiff as a rod knocked out a table lamp. It fell on the floor with a big crashing sound. He raised his eyes, mean and mad, but didn't have any fight left in him.
“Don't you dare move.” She backed away toward the door. “Or I'll have you arrested.”
He stayed riveted in that standing position, as though considering his next move.
Her heart lodged in her throat, she jerked the door open, and fled down the steps.
No sound of running feet behind her. Thank God. She staggered toward her car, trampling a few fallen wisteria blossoms on the sidewalk.
A cold wind lacerated the trees, but there wasn't enough oxygen to breathe. She started her car. Her eyes were dry. She didn't have any tears left.
Back to her house, Mitra paced from room to room, jumping at the slightest sound. Despite a perfect 68 degree temperature, the walls failed to enclose her in comfort. Her body ached; her mind churned.
She called Nobuo. Just to talk. Dispatch answered, this being a weekend. She decided not to leave a message.
Her mind went back to Ulrich, the intimate moments they'd once shared and her shattered dreams about a future with him. Soon enough the truth sunk in. He really wasn't Ulrich. That charmer didn't exist. He was a shadow-self. A shadow faded sooner or later. For all she knew he might even be leaving town for good. Perhaps it was for the best, she thought, pain pinching her throat. She wouldn't make the same mistake Kareena had made. Whether in the name of love or fantasy, wisteria or kisses, this one lesson forced its way into her consciousness. The lesson was written in blood, a gift from Kareena, who had paid for her mistakes with her life.
Mitra walked to the window, tugged at the curtains, and viewed the morning scene. Dewdrops glistened on the leaves of the plum tree. A bee sang around the sweet alyssum patch. The tulip bed was bare, as it had been since early spring.
She and Ulrich had never done any planting together.
It took Mitra several moments to feel the floor beneath her feet.
The fast-growing bamboo had spread. Its yellow-stemmed foliage leaned out, like an extended family welcoming her back. And, indeed, there was that call from Grandmother. She reached for the phone.
FIFTY-TWO
THE NEXT DAY, at about six P.M., Mitra pressed the buzzer at Grandmother's house and heard the chimes inside. The door was ajar. She slipped through. The room overflowed
with aromas of ginger, lemongrass, and cardamom.
Smiling voices chorused: “Surprise!”
Veen swooped toward her, followed by the rest of the crowd: Jean, Sue, Sabnam, Carrie, the rest of the task force members, and other friends. So much comfort, such jubilance, such high feelings of returning to what was her home now. Mitra broke into a smile. She returned the hugs and pleasantries, but didn't catch sight of the instigator. How coolly Grandmother had said, “I'm having a few friends for dinner on Sunday around six. Why don't you join us?”
As Mitra worked her way through the room, well-wishers called out to her from all sides. From their sympathetic gestures, she got the impression that Veen had spread a synopsis of the tragic deaths—Adi's and Kareena's. Mitra could tell her friends sensed her grief, but had reached a silent agreement not to prod, at least not tonight.
The buzz in the room grew louder. A familiar voice floated above the hubbub of the crowd. “Hello, dear.”
Grandmother made a majestic entry, clad in a kimono-style dress accented by a stone bracelet and earrings dripping with garnets. With her height and substantial weight, she resembled an elegant aging queen. She enveloped Mitra in a soft hug, released her, and wiped her eyes. She must have broken a pact with herself to keep this gathering a joyous affair. Mitra couldn't help but reflect on how you can be sad and happy at the same time, how so many moments strike a delicate balance between the two.
“My precious dear,” Grandmother said, “I'm glad you've returned safely and in one piece. You hear of so many diseases one can get over in India. Did you suffer from the heat? Is your mother well? My, don't you look even thinner now?”
As she answered the questions, out of the corner of her eye, Mitra became aware of a guest being ushered inside. Nobuo Yoshihama. What brought him here? He seemed to be bearing a package. They exchanged a glance from a distance. He smiled warmly at her.
Why did her heart quicken?
“I invited him. He's a nice fella . .” Grandmother winked at Mitra. “Now I have something to show you in the garden.”
They snuck out the kitchen door and stepped into the backyard. Moss had infiltrated the gaps between the flagstones of the walkway. In the dappled shade of late afternoon, the flowerbed pulsated with red, green, yellow, and blue. Grandmother shepherded her to the delphiniums, whose tall spikes were top heavy with lavender blossoms for the second time this season.
“See how gorgeous they are! And they're having a second fling!” Grandmother looked toward the patio. “Now that I have the loveliest garden in the neighborhood, I've ordered a set of French chairs. They'll be delivered before my birthday. And there's more good news. My granddaughter Isabel, bless her, is coming to spend two weeks of her summer vacation with me. I can't wait to get my two granddaughters together. The three of us will have to go out on the town.”
Mitra smiled. It dawned on her that she'd finally put roots down, like that big leaf maple, deep and permanent.
“And Alice?” she asked.
Grandmother gazed off into space, the lines of her face reclaiming familiar territory through her beige makeup. Mitra regretted the insensitive question.
“My daughter—she was supposed to stop by Friday evening. I made a pot of her favorite bean soup. She didn't show. She didn't even call. Still, she's my little girl.” A breeze flattened Grandmother's bangs. She sighed wearily. “You have to keep trying a little each day to let go.”
“Each day,” Mitra echoed. In her mind, she shut the gate to the past behind her with a click. It took her a few moments to return to the present, to become aware of the damp moss under her feet.
“Shall we go back inside?” Grandmother said. “I need to make the fruit punch.”
“You go ahead. I'll be along in a minute.”
Grandmother walked back into the house, tottering in her high heels.
Mitra stooped over the flowerbed, listening to the snatches of convivial chatter filtering through the window. She plucked a few tall grasses and stray buttercups that had established themselves at the base of a velvety coleus. She tossed them onto an impromptu compost heap that Grandmother had started in her absence. Blank spots stared up at her. She mused on what to tuck into next.
When she straightened, she saw Nobuo standing by her. Dressed in a black cashmere sweater and displaying a new haircut, he appeared as attractive as she'd ever seen him. Perhaps she was noticing him with a fresh pair of eyes.
With an approachable air, he asked, “How did things turn out over there?”
He listened as she briefed him on the headlines and the tragedy of Kareena's death. She suspected he'd gotten a summarized version from his contacts with the Kolkata police. Yet he listened with full attention, regarding her sadly, tenderly.
“You have to be careful,” he said. “Those thugs are still on the loose, especially Jay Bahadur. You were the last to have a conversation with Kareena. They might be keeping an eye on you. I'll need all the details. Suppose we talk tomorrow morning at eight at your place?”
Mitra nodded and stiffened. The authorities were seeking truth and justice; the perpetrator was still at large. She would have to be courageous enough to share it all with Nobuo—about her sister, her lover, her accidental death, and the bits and pieces she'd gathered about Jay's entanglement with a murder case similar to that of Adi and Robert. She'd turn over the recordings to Nobuo. Her heart would split in pain, going over the incidents again, even as she sought a sense of closure.
They walked a few leisurely steps together. The magnolia tree, with its ivory pink flowers, arched over them. New branches had bloomed, hiding the old growth from earlier years.
“And oh, by the way,” Nobuo said, “I have an update on Ulrich Schultheiss, if you care to hear.”
She halted. She felt cold, the chill of news she'd have to bear. “What has he done?”
“He was arrested yesterday for the second time in connection with an assault on a colleague who's in intensive care in the Swedish Hospital. The police caught him just as he was about to leave town. He had an air ticket to Berlin in his pocket. His real name is Klaus Ackart.”
Everything around Mitra vanished. The ground swayed. Old feelings stabbed her on their way out.
Nobuo clasped her hand, his fingers soft and warm against hers. For a moment they stood in silence.
“It's over with now.” Mitra's eyes roamed around. “I must get back to what I love to do.”
Nobuo pointed to an empty patch, said in a light voice, “That coleus looks like it could use some company. Do you have anything in mind?”
“Yes, coreopsis, yellow flower with a red center. It'll set off the coleus nicely and they grow well together.”
Nobuo smiled. “I'd like to have a sanctuary like this.”
“You have a beautiful location. All it needs is sweat, care, and patience.” And what she left unsaid: a little help from her.
“Wait, just a minute.” He disappeared inside, walking briskly, but with his usual sense of restraint.
For a spell, she looked out over the garden, a tapestry of shrubs and flowers, interspersed with mossy rocks, bounty all around. Plants had always occupied a special place in her heart; it was even more so now. After years of landscaping and the trauma of recent events, she had finally acquired some insight into what her efforts were about: to seek new connections and broader perspective. Some might even call it a quest for love. You worked through cycles of growth, bloom, decline, death, and challenge. Eventually, balance was achieved, beauty awakened, a miracle birthed.
Nobuo handed her a cellophane-wrapped bouquet and said in a soft knowing voice, “Welcome back.”
Mitra looked down at the bouquet. What a pretty surprise: at least fifteen long-stemmed creamy yellow tulips, mixed with thick green leaves. Streaked on the outside with red, the bright beauties opened wide to reveal their delicate interiors.
She held them close to her chest, breathed deeply. Smiling through her tears, she looked up at him. He bowed toward h
er.
Early the next morning, Mitra awoke, nestled with Nobuo on her bed, their limbs tangled. His eyelids heavy with sleep, Nobuo stirred. Disengaging slowly from his embrace, she sat up and smiled at him. His clothes were on the floor, comfortably mixed in with hers. She remembered the long night, full and glowing as the moon. Yawning leisurely, forgetting for now the tough road ahead, Mitra looked out the window to the rosy dawning of a new day. Splashes of flamboyant color had popped up in the pansy patch. A fat lady bug crawled on the underside of a dahlia leaf. The satiny petal of a nicotiana flower quivered, brushed by a wayward puff of the wind.
It was still spring.
THE END
READING GROUP QUESTIONS
By the end of Tulip Season: A Mitra Basu Mystery, how has Mitra changed? What have you learned along with Mitra?
Family, friendship, betrayal, and grief are among the many themes presented here. Choose one or more themes and discuss how they're revealed in the course of the novel.
Did Kareena pay too heavy a price for the course of action she'd chosen? Have you known any one in a similar situation? If you were to meet Kareena face-to-face, what words of wisdom would you pass her along?
How does the setting of a garden contribute to the fuller expression of the story? Comment on Mitra's observations about the cycle of birth, death, and rejuvenation at the end of the book.
Comment on Mitra's various relationships: with her mother, grandmother, Robert, Detective Yoshihama, and Ulrich. Do you have (or have you ever had) a relationship similar to one of these?
How has India become a character for the novel? What aspects of Indian culture, as depicted in the book, interested you the most?
Do you enjoy a mystery series? Does Mitra's attempts at sleuthing open up possibilities for a sequel to this novel?
Have you read other novels by Bharti Kirchner? How does this one compare?
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