For a few Dumplings More

by Leena Clover

  Jeet and I paled at the thought of calling her Ba or Mom. She made it easy for us by insisting we call her Sally. Pappa doesn’t like it, nor does my Dad. But they are reserving their comments for now.

  There are hundreds of questions I want to ask her. I still don’t know if I am happy she turned up. When I renewed the search for my Mom last December, I braced myself to find out she was gone. But I hadn’t imagined a woman called Sally would turn up at our doorstep and say she was my Mom. This I am not prepared for.

  Staying with us seems to have been good for Sally. She does some things automatically, then wonders how she did them. Like when she helps Motee Ba in the kitchen. She cuts the vegetables a certain way, just like Motee Ba has taught me to, she adds spices to the oil with a practiced hand, and manages to cook a lot of ethnic dishes.

  She seems to be bonding with Motee Ba, although they still speak in English. We don’t know if she remembers her own family. Dad says it’s too early to bring out the old pictures. Who knows how they will affect her?

  “Just make some khichdi,” Motee Ba told Sally.

  Khichdi is a rice and lentil stew that is a staple among us Gujaratis. It’s comfort food but it has its limitations.

  “Come on, it’s the weekend!” Jeet protested.

  “Can’t you cook anything else?” he looked at Sally, then sobered.

  “I can make enchiladas,” she said. “How about chicken enchiladas?”

  A car drove up outside and footsteps sounded outside the kitchen door. There are very few people who enter our house from the back.

  “Must be Tony,” I beamed, leaping up.

  Tony Sinclair, like Becky, is my best friend. We have known each other since we were kids. I had a big crush on him in high school but he got a football scholarship and went to college in Texas. I stayed home and went to Pioneer Poly. We seem to be into each other, off and on, but never at the same time. Nothing has ever been said out loud. But I know he’ll always be there for me.

  “Hello Patels,” a voice drawled, snapping me out of my reverie.

  My mouth fell as Stan Miller came into the kitchen. He’s got to stop coming in this way. It was fine when he was a kid and wanted to beg some food off Motee Ba.

  “Hello Stan,” my Dad said cautiously.

  He looked like he was bracing himself for something bad.

  “Are you here in an official capacity?”

  “I am afraid so,” Stan said.

  He pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. He nodded at Sally. Stan was instrumental in running Sally down. He knows the whole story.

  “How about some tea, or soda?” Motee Ba offered. “We don’t have anything to eat today.”

  “I’ll take a soda, if you don’t mind,” Stan said sheepishly.

  I pulled a can out of the fridge and slammed it in front of him. Sensing Motee Ba’s frown, I slid a coaster toward him and added a clean glass.

  We waited impatiently as Stan poured the soda and took a sip. He finally sat back with a sigh.

  “Dot Brown was murdered,” he began.

  I had suspected as much.

  “We haven’t released an official statement yet. But she was strangled.”

  “That poor woman!” Motee Ba cried. “Who would do that to her?”

  Stan looked uncomfortable.

  “That’s what we have to find out.”

  “Why are you here, exactly?” my Dad asked.

  “Mrs. Patel was standing next to the body, based on a few eye witness accounts.”

  “I wasn’t the only one,” Motee Ba said quickly.

  “You’re right,” Stan nodded. “Two other women were close by. I am talking to the three of you first.”

  “Do you think I did it?” Motee Ba burst out.

  “I’m just doing my job, Mrs. Patel,” Stan said. “I have to question everyone who was there. That means you too, Meera. I am just starting with the three women who were standing next to the victim.”

  Pappa tapped his cane, looking furious.

  “Call that lawyer, boy,” he ordered Dad. “Call him right now. No one’s taking Hansa away from here.”

  “We’re just talking, Mr. Patel,” Stan reasoned.

  “Quiet!” Pappa roared. “I know how you work, boy. You took Jon in even when he was innocent. That will not be happening to my wife.”

  “Can we go somewhere else and talk?” Stan asked desperately. “I need to question you and file a report. We can do it here or you can come to the station.”

  Motee Ba stood up.

  “We can go into Anand’s study. Let’s go, Meera.”

  We walked to my Dad’s home office. The rest of the family stared at our backs, reeling from the shock.

  “I say, this is becoming a habit,” Pappa fumed. “That girl is getting out of hand.”

  I tuned Pappa out as I pushed the study door open.

  We settled down and Stan began. He asked Motee Ba for a list of women who were present.

  “This was the biggest meeting of the year, you know,” Motee Ba said. “There were almost twenty women there. I may not remember everyone.”

  “Never mind that, Mrs. Patel. Just tell me what you remember.”

  Stan asked her about where everyone was in the room.

  “Before the lights went out, or after?” she asked.

  “Did people move around in the dark?” Stan asked.

  “Apparently!” Motee Ba nodded. “Dot Brown was at the other end of the room just before the lights went off. She was picking up a samosa from the food table. I know because it was the last one on the plate. I wondered when Meera would come by with a fresh batch.”

  “What about the rest?” Stan leaned forward.

  “I think a few people seem to have moved, although I don’t know why. I stayed right where I was. No point bumping into someone in the dark. People could get hurt, you know.”

  She seemed to realize what she had said and sobered.

  “How long were the lights out anyway?” Stan asked.

  “A couple of minutes?” Motee Ba shrugged.

  “Less than that, I think,” I supplied.

  “Where were you at this time?” Stan asked.

  “I was outside the door, about to knock,” I told him. “At least, that’s my best guess.”

  “Could you see the lights go off?” Stan asked.

  I shook my head.

  “I’m just guessing. A general groan went up. Someone swore. Everyone started talking at once and paused. Then there was a scream. I am guessing the lights were off between the groans and the scream.”

  “Who else was standing close to you, Mrs. Patel?”

  “Mary Beth Arlington,” Motee Ba said immediately. “And one of the new girls, Cindy or Fiona, one of them.”

  “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “That green eyed, good looking one,” Motee Ba said.

  “That’s Fiona Thomas, I think,” Stan said.

  “Henry almost slammed into me,” I put in. “She seemed in a hurry to go out.”

  Stan wrote it down.

  “Anything else?” Stan pressed.

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” Motee Ba said. “This is all such a shock. Poor Dot. WOSCO will feel her loss. She was one of our most loyal foot soldiers.”

  Stan seemed satisfied for the moment.

  “I’ll be back with more questions.”

  We showed Stan out of the front door. Pappa was settled in his recliner, watching his favorite cop show on TV. Jeet was sprawled on the couch, looking disgruntled. Dad had already fled to reclaim his study.

  Motee Ba flopped on the couch next to Jeet and I squeezed in next to her. She put her arms around us and pulled us close. A tear rolled down her eye.

  Pappa’s sharp eyes noticed it.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you, Hansa!” he said, tapping his cane.

  My grandparents don’t throw around the L word. But their marriage has lasted 55 years. In our culture, marriage is supposed
to be for a lifetime. Actually, for seven lifetimes, based on the stories Motee Ba told me as a child.

  I felt my stomach rumble as a delicious smell of garlic and tomatoes wafted in from the kitchen. I remembered Sally was cooking.

  “Go help your mother, Meera,” Motee Ba ordered.

  I don’t like calling her that.

  Sally was pulling out a big pan of enchiladas out of the oven. A platter of rice sat on the table, next to a bowl of beans.

  “Can I help?” I asked, feeling awkward.

  “All done,” she smiled. “Just need to chop some cilantro and get the sour cream out of the fridge.”

  “I’ll do that,” I offered.

  Sally picked up the small mallet and hit the dinner gong. My Dad was the last to come in, as usual.

  “These are good,” Jeet said, smacking his lips. “Can I have more?”

  Sally ladled out a second helping.

  I went on eating, reluctant to admit they were really good. Maybe I got my cooking gene from Sally.

  Chapter 3

  Monday morning dawned a bit too early for my liking. I dragged my feet through a quick shower and peeped into the dining room. Motee Ba was scrambling a skillet full of eggs. Sally sat at the table buttering a stack of toast.

  “I’m running late, Motee Ba.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to make small talk with Sally. I grabbed a couple of granola bars from the pantry and stepped out. I munched on the cereal bar, and my car drove itself to Tony’s gas station. He had heard all about the Saturday incident when he came over for lunch yesterday.

  “Hey Meera,” he smiled. “You’re looking chipper this morning.”

  I held out my hand and he placed a large coffee in it.

  “Not in the mood,” I grumbled and shuffled out.

  That’s the thing about Tony. He lets me be! I don’t have to walk on eggshells around him. Or be polite when I’m not feeling it. He senses my mood and acts accordingly.

  Mondays are always busy at the library. I got started on my weekly tasks. The caffeine finally hit me and my mood improved a bit. I was starving by 10:30. I ate the giant cookie from the vending machine, and counted the minutes until lunch. Tony was waiting outside.

  “Hurry up. I got that 15 minute parking spot next to the Union.”

  I climbed up into Tony’s truck and we headed out. Tony pulled into our favorite Thai restaurant.

  “This will get you out of your funk, Meera.”

  Half way into a plate of fiery Red Curry and Pad Thai noodles, I began to feel better.

  “Just Monday blues, or something else?”

  I looked at Tony. He’s a bit too perceptive sometimes.

  “It’s Sally. She’s there all the time.”

  “Should I remind you she’s your mother? One you have been secretly pining for all your life?”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  Tony squeezed my hand.

  “It’s not going to be easy, Meera. Be patient.”

  “She’s making dinner now. And Jeet asked for a second helping. Traitor!”

  Tony laughed out loud.

  “Is that it?”

  “Forget it! Are you done?”

  I scrambled up and started walking out.

  “Any news from Stan?”

  I shook my head.

  “He’ll be back soon enough.”

  My words turned out to be ominous. Motee Ba called me just before I was getting ready to leave.

  “Can you come straight home, Meera?”

  I spend a few hours at Sylvie’s on most days, helping Becky with the new Indian inspired menu.

  “Sure, Motee Ba, be right there.”

  I rushed home with a feeling of dread, wondering what was going down. Motee Ba was standing on the porch when I pulled into our lot.

  “Stan Miller is coming by. He wanted you to be here too.”

  There was a big bowl of tortilla chips on the dining table, next to bowls of salsa and guacamole.

  “I thought we went through that salsa I made last week?”

  “This is a fresh batch,” Motee Ba said.

  I picked up a chip, surprised to find it was warm.

  “Did you heat these?” I asked, surprised.

  “Your mother made them.”

  I scooped some guacamole with the chip and began eating. No point in taking my angst out on the food, right?

  By the time Stan came in, I had worked halfway through the bowl.

  “I have some news,” Stan said heavily.

  The look on his face wasn’t encouraging.

  “Do I need to call my lawyer?” Motee Ba joked.

  We’d had a serious discussion about this. Motee Ba had agreed to be cautious about what she said to the cops. We didn’t want her words taken out of context.

  “Maybe you should,” Stan said.

  “What?” I cried out. “You can’t be serious!”

  Stan chomped on some tortilla chips, making himself at home.

  “These are good!”

  He scooped up a big dollop of guacamole with a couple of chips and chose his words carefully.

  “New things have come to light. It is confirmed that Dot Brown was strangled to death. But that wasn’t the only attempt made on her life.”

  “Hunh?” I blurted out.

  “The dumpling in her hand, your samosa, Meera, was laced with bleach.”

  “What does that even mean?” I cried. “I didn’t put it there.”

  Stan stared into my eyes.

  “Whoever put it there wasn’t being kind to Dot Brown. It would have done some damage alright.”

  “Dozens of people ate the samosa dumplings,” Motee Ba said.

  “I’m not saying Meera tampered with it. But someone sure did.”

  “Not this again?” I slapped the table in frustration.

  Earlier this year, pie from Sylvie’s café had killed a stranger. The café had almost shut down. We couldn’t take any more suspicion around the food we dished out.

  “There’s more,” Stan said.

  “Go on!” Motee Ba was as impatient as I was.

  “We found a note in her pocket. It was a warning.”

  “For what?”

  “I’m not supposed to tell you this. But I want to know what you think.”

  “You’re asking for my help?” I asked with relish.

  Stan blushed. He took a deep breath and nodded.

  “Unofficially.”

  “What do you want me to do, exactly?”

  “Do your thing. You got results when we tried to find that missing girl. Fact is, you are smarter than me, Meera. Maybe smarter than the entire Swan Creek police force.”

  The Swan Creek police force consists of less than ten people. That’s including support staff. It wasn’t exactly a vote of confidence.

  I looked at Motee Ba. I couldn’t get a read on her.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  I guess what I was asking was what was the alternative. Knowing Stan, he would probably try to browbeat me with something.

  “You are both implicated, in a manner of speaking. The sooner you solve this, the sooner you’re home free.”

  “And if I say no?”

  Stan shrugged.

  “I might have to take one of you in for questioning.”

  “Are you threatening us?” I narrowed my eyes and gave Stan the evil eye.

  His shoulders slumped, and the air puffed out of him like a deflated balloon.

  “I’m asking for your help, Meera, plain and simple. And no, I can’t promise you anything. I will have to act on the evidence, any way it is presented.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I hedged.

  “That’s good enough for now.”

  “Did you talk to the other ladies who were standing close to Dot?” Motee Ba asked.

  Stan nodded.

  “They don’t know anything. And they are innocent. That’s all they will say.”

  “People are afraid to talk to the police, S
tan.”

  “That’s where Meera comes in, Mrs. Patel. Maybe she can find out more.”

  “What does her husband say?” Motee Ba asked. “Does he suspect anyone?”

  “He’s in shock,” Stan told us. “Dot Brown was a do gooder. No reason why anyone would want her gone.”

  “Maybe she wasn’t the intended victim?”

  “We thought of that, Meera. But the evidence doesn’t support it. Looks like more than one person tried to harm her.”

  “I can’t fathom one person disliking Dot,” Motee Ba said. “And you’re saying she was targeted by multiple people?”

  “Doesn’t sound like the Dotty we know, does it?” I raised an eyebrow at Stan.

  “That’s the puzzle here,” Stan said. “Dot Brown was a pillar of Swan Creek society. Maybe she had a darker side no one knew about.”

  “She would’ve made a great WOSCO President.”

  Motee Ba’s eyes filled up and she excused herself.

  “Why don’t you see me out, Meera?”

  I walked Stan out to the front door and he beckoned me out. The freezing winds tore into me, and I turned to go in.

  “Just a minute, Meera.”

  “What’s on your mind, Stan?”

  “Word is your grandma was going to put her name in for WOSCO President. She would have stood against Dot Brown.”

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “Mary Beth Arlington was standing right next to Dot. So was your grandma. All three of them wanted to be President.”

  “So Motee Ba killed Dot just to get her out of the way? Maybe Mary Beth’s next on her list.”

  I tried to mask my anger with a laugh. It sounded like a squeak.

  “It’s one of our theories,” Stan said heavily. “Think about it when you make your decision.”

  “The family’s not going to be happy.”

  “You know how to convince them, Meera.”

  Stan drove off in a cloud of dust. I felt a burn in my throat and I gulped. Sally was chopping vegetables at the kitchen table.

  “That salsa’s too spicy.”

  She smiled.

  “I have a heavy hand with the chilies.”

  Dad walked in just then, followed by Pappa and Jeet.

  “That’s right,” Pappa bobbed his head. “Could hardly eat anything you cooked when you were a bride.”