Date with a Sheesha (17 page)

With Hema soundly ignoring me in favour of her laptop and BlackBerry, I still had no problem keeping awake. There was so much to take in. I was in the Middle East, for crying out loud. Just being in the presence of the massive Burg Al Arab building, standing there like an icon to big money and modern-day Arabia was entertainment enough. The day was already very warm, a nice 115

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departure from the Saskatchewan winter we’d just left behind.

Here I was, wearing shorts, sandals, and a short-sleeved shirt. At home they were bundled up in parkas and mukluks. The air was alive with birdsong and flavoured with a tropical flowery scent, maybe jasmine? As I sat there, my face in the sun, in stunning surroundings, I thought about what a perfect experience this would be, if only Ethan were here with me. I fingered the wedding ring on my left hand. It had been too tight when he first gave it to me.

Now it felt just right.

When our coffee and breakfasts arrived (granola and yoghurt for her, a small stack of whole-grain pancakes for me), I’d had enough companionable silence and I asked Hema how her night was.

“I was working,” she said, barely glancing up from her multi-screens. “Searching provenance for the carpets I’m after, familiar-izing myself with the documentation Neil left behind—such as it was—detailing the status of his negotiations, memorizing the dossiers of the merchants I’ll be dealing with, studying customs regulations and the restrictions on transportation of carpets across international borders, studying the particulars of our itinerary so I know where we’re going. That sort of thing. I suppose you ordered in and went to bed early?”

I couldn’t help but smile at the little dig. This gal should be on a nighttime soap opera. While I doctored my coffee with a splash of skim milk, I told Hema what I’d discovered at Neil’s apartment.

Halting her incessant typing, texting, and testiness, she looked up at me. Finally I’d gotten her attention. “Did you call the police?” she wanted to know, sounding alarmed.

Not a bad idea. I was so used to skirting around the police at home, like any good private dick does, I hadn’t even considered it. As far as I was concerned, if they’d been happy to write off Neil Gupta’s death as a random act of violence—in a city that prides itself on its lack thereof—it was their problem if they didn’t keep a closer eye on the victim’s apartment. “No, I didn’t. I suppose…”

“No, that’s a good thing,” she surprised me by quickly agree-ing with my inaction. “What’s the point? Maybe they know about 116

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it already and left it the way you found it for the family to clean up.”

I highly doubted that but didn’t say so.

“You said you found something missing? How could you possibly do that?”

Her lack of faith in my abilities was one of Hema’s less compelling traits (of which there were many, I was coming to realize).

I told her about the missing “Z” file.

She screwed up her face. Maybe her yoghurt was off?

“That’s ridiculous. I think you’re grasping for straws where there are none. Next?”

“Next?” Next? Next! Did she think I was her minion, dutiful-ly reporting to her? I’d have to nip that expectation in the bud. I gave her a mighty frown as I very slowly sipped my coffee.

“What else did you find?” she asked, her manner a tad less imperious.

I shrugged. “That’s about it,” I said in a tone that belied the little voice in my head, which was suggesting I sprinkle the girl’s granola all over her sharp, mint-green and pink, Ann Taylor business suit, with shoes to match. “Except for the black flower petals.”

It was fascinating to watch Hema’s face, often steeped in bore-dom or contempt, morph into something quite different.

Was it concern?

Fear?

Her half-filled spoon stopped in mid voyage to mouth.

Carefully, as if handling a surgical instrument, Hema lowered the utensil onto the side plate next to the container of plain, unsweet-ened yoghurt.

“Repeat that,” she said.

“There were black petals in my bed…in Neil’s bed.”

“Who put them there?” she demanded to know.

Suddenly I’d gone from being an idiot to either a genius or psychic. “Uh, I don’t know.”

She opened her mouth to protest my stupidity but then caught herself. Instead, she stared at me, her eyes like bowls of hot chocolate about to burble out of their boiling pot. Again the look of fear.

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“What is it? Do you know something about these petals? Do they mean something?”

She shook her head. Just as quickly as alarm had covered her fine features, it disappeared. “It’s silly really.”

“What is?”

“The whole black petal thing. It’s a silly superstition my parents believe in.”

“Tell me.”

Hema hesitated while a beautiful girl with glowing dark skin offered to refresh our coffees. I breathed in the intoxicating rich scent as the hot liquid was poured from a carafe into our waiting cups. Suddenly, I felt a stab of sadness for Neil Gupta. He would never again enjoy a simple pleasure such as this.

“It’s a curse,” Hema said once the server had moved on to a table of chattering Russians. “Or a blessing.”

“That’s handy,” I responded. “What do you say we decide these particular black petals were a blessing, and leave it at that?”

“This isn’t funny,” she bristled.

“You said it was silly.” Got ya.

She bit her lower lip as she regarded me with narrowed eyes.

She began slowly. “It all depends on what you’re doing when you receive the petals. If you find black flower petals somewhere in your possessions, it means you’re being watched.”

“By whom?”

“By the gods. If what you are doing is righteous and for good, the petals are a blessing. You will be rewarded with a long and wonderful life. If what you were doing is sinful and dishon-ourable, you…you...” she stumbled and looked away.

“You don’t get the reward,” I finished it for her.

Both of us knew which side of the coin Neil Gupta had ended up with.

“You see,” she said. “It’s all a bunch of nonsense. Superstition perpetuated by silly, stupid, superstitious old people who have nothing better to think about.”

I doubted whether she’d say this in front of her silly, stupid, superstitious old parents who’d told her about the curse in the first place. And something about how she told the story made me 118

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doubt her words. Somewhere deep inside, Hema Gupta totally believed.

The campus of the University of Dubai, much like Madinat Jumeirah and most of the other buildings in Dubai, was architec-turally splendiferous, glitzy and grand, Arabian-styled, UAE-designed, Sheikh-inspired and -financed, but, ultimately, completely artificial. There was nothing authentic or real about any of it. It was beautiful beyond belief, but more like a cyber-world in 3-D than real Arabia. Everything was too perfect. Too clean. Too well organized.

Except the traffic.

Somewhere along the line, in his bid for a flawless metropolis, the Sheikh and his city planners forgot to think about how all these millions of people were going to get around his majestic creation. Actually the road network, often eight or ten lanes’ worth, wasn’t so bad, but the drivers were. With so many expats living here, bringing with them all the bad driving habits of the world into one city, it was a recipe for disaster. The death toll on Dubai’s highways is one of the worst in the world. Fortunately, Umar was a terrific driver. Fast, yet courteous and safety conscious.

According to him, there was nothing to worry about, because all the
bad
drivers were already dead.

Once on campus, we were shown to Neil’s former office by a young man who introduced himself as Rob.

“So, you worked with Neil?”

The guy was a nervous type, constantly shifting from one foot to the other and swiping aside a swathe of brown hair that immediately fell back into his eyes. “Uh, well sure. Sometimes I mean.

Not like always. I attended all his lectures. And he helped me with my research sometimes. He really knew a lot of stuff.”

“Thank you, Rob-o, but I can take it from here,” another man said as he entered the room. He was slight, with patrician features, natural white-blond hair worn longish and going a bit thin at the crown. He spoke with a strong British accent.

“Oh, uh, sure,” Rob said with a befuddled look in his eyes.

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“I’ve got a lot of work to do on my paper.”

And he skedaddled outta there.

The blonde Brit shook his head with a bemused smile. “Grad students.”

I held out my hand. “I’m Russell Quant.” Hema did not offer hers. “And this is Hema Gupta.”

“We’ve been expecting you. I’m Alastair Hallwood. And this charming and spacious work area is where you’ll be situated, Russell,” he announced with a grand gesture.

I looked around the simple, square room. Typical office equipment. Single window looking out onto a nice green space.

“Has everything been left as it was since Neil’s death?” I asked.

“Absolutely, nothing w…oh wait, well, of course the police were here. They needed to have their little chinwag with us, you understand. They did come in here. But I don’t think they took anything. They basically stuck their noses in, looked about, I may have heard a fart, then they left. Is that helpful?” he asked with a twinkle in his pale blue eyes.

I smiled. “Quite.”

“Oh, and there was a file on Neil’s desk. It contained notes for a lecture he was supposed to deliver, end of last week. Those were handed off to the substitute. A rather boring old sod, name of Hexley or Huxtable or something like that. Imported from America, San Diego or Poughkeepsie or somewhere. Bit of an arsehole. His lecture was total pants. Compared to how Neil would have done it, anyway. Neil was spot-on as a presenter, no matter what his topic was. The students here simply adored him.

He will be sorely missed, as I’m sure you know.

“But look at me, getting all soppy. Sorry ‘bout that, old chap.

Now, tell me, how else can I help you?”

“Nothing at the moment,” I answered. There was something strange and irreverent about Alastair Hallwood. I liked him.

“Maybe once I have a look around, I’ll have a few more questions.” As much as I wanted to launch into a series of Who? What?

Where? When? and How? queries, I had to be cognizant of my undercover persona. As far as Hallwood was concerned, I was 120

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simply a replacement for Neil, here to get my carpets and leave.

“And what about me? Where am I supposed to work? I have a great deal to do today,” Hema told the man.

“Ah yes, the lovely assistant, Miss Gupta.”

Hema gave him her best sneer.

“Of course. I will be especially delighted to accommodate you.”

She huffed.

“Now…Gupta? Are you by any chance a relation of Neil’s?”

“I don’t see how that is any of your business. But yes, I’m his cousin. I would have been here instead of Neil, if it wasn’t that I’m a woman,” she announced.

“Well,” Hallwood mewed. “Lucky for you then.”

Hema’s eyes widened as she recognized the hard, cold truth behind the comment.

“Your office is just down the hall, second door on the right. I hope it meets with your approval,” Hallwood said.

Hema turned to go.

“And if you require anything, a-ny-thing-at-all, you just call on me. Alastair Hallwood. Faithful hound at your service.” He leered at her.

Hema stopped and turned, giving the scholar a damaging once-over. “Thank you…” she began icily.

“Mmmhmm,” he enthused with a mooning smile.

“…but I much prefer cats.” And with that, she turned on her heel and stomped out.

For a moment there was silence in the room as it refilled with the air Hema had sucked out of it.

Suddenly breaking the quiet, Hallwood trumpeted, “Bloody fantastic!” He turned on me, grasped my shoulders, and demanded to know: “Who is that wondrous creature?”

This was the final scrap of proof I needed. I now knew that I did not, and might never, understand the rules of attraction.

True to Alastair Hallwood’s assertion, as I poked around Neil’s office, it looked as if nothing had been disturbed. I spent the morning going through drawers and files and boxes. Most of it dealt with carpets, carpets, carpets, and more carpets. I was beginning to 121

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wonder if I’d ever see another book written about anything else.

As I finished with them, I carted each item over to Hema’s office, a replica of Neil’s. Every time I brought her another stack, she barely nodded in acknowledgment of the addition, and continued to beaver away at whatever it was she was doing. I had to give the gal credit. She sure knew how to put nose to grindstone.

At the end, I was left with only a few personal items. I was keeping what I hoped would be the best, for last. After studying some correspondence and rifling through the top drawers of his desk—where people are most likely to keep items important to them—I was drawing a big nil on the column labelled: Clues. The only thing left was a ratty, army-fatigue-patterned knapsack I’d found stuffed behind the door. The first things that fell out were two more reference books. Oh goody. More carpet reading material. I pushed these aside and searched the pockets and compart-ments of the knapsack. Finally I hit pay dirt. A PDA.