Tulip Season (16 page)

“Believe it or not, she doesn't bother the nicotiana,” Grandmother said. “Could it be because it's related to the tobacco family? I, too, hate cigarettes, but love these flowers. They start smelling heavenly at sunset, almost like jasmine. They come into their own after dark.”

Even though Mitra's concerns about Ulrich hadn't been resolved and they hadn't agreed on how to cat-proof her yard, they were back to their common ground: flowers. This could be Grandmother's way of extending an apology about her earlier observations on Ulrich. The sweet fragrance of nicotiana had certainly revived Mitra.

“They're a hummingbird magnet,” she said. “Wait till they return from the south and you'll see.”

Then she remembered that hummers were among Ulrich's favorite birds. Aware that Grandmother mistrusted him, Mitra swallowed.

TWENTY-SIX

TWO DAYS LATER,
Mitra's search for an art-deco planter for a client took her to a local mom-and-pop gardening shop in Fremont. Even here, she looked for Kareena, as she did everywhere. Then she came back to herself and told the store clerk what she needed. The clerk rummaged around in her inventory of containers, setting aside an iron kettle, a terra cotta elephant, and a faux Grecian cement pedestal. It appeared she was out of stock in the style Mitra needed.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a familiar figure at the cash register. It was Detective Yoshihama, casually dressed in a faded red sweat shirt and jeans. She studied him more closely, which she hadn't done when he'd come to her house. He was probably in his mid-thirties, on the cusp of the settling-down age. Minus his bulky jacket and cop badges, he appeared smaller, just another shopper engaged in mundane chores, attractive nonetheless.

She didn't need another man in her life now. Oh, no. She had Ulrich. Still, she admitted to herself, Yoshihama had an appeal. She kept watching him. He spoke with the store clerk in a quiet confident manner, both smiling.

After paying for his purchase, Yoshihama walked out of the store. She, too, hurried outside and tried to draw his attention. But by then, he'd gotten into his SUV and pulled out of the curb. She ran to her Honda parked half a block away and started following him, taking a right, then two lefts. She didn't quite want to do this: she'd been followed recently and that had threatened her. Yet, given that she wanted to speak with him in person urgently, there was no other choice. He parked in front of a house, hopped out, and climbed up the front steps.

She parked her car across the street and surveyed the house, a nondescript pastel-yellow 1920's craftsman, set back away from the sidewalk and elevated. She closed the car door and crossed the street, dodging a white Datsun truck whose driver refused to slow
down. She wondered for a moment if it was the same pickup that had followed her the other night.

She bounded up Yoshihama's front steps and halted on the concrete pathway leading to the front door of the house, alert to the fact that she was invading his private space.

Her eyes swept over the large square lawn to her right. A conscientious gardener could nurture this lawn into a thing of beauty, but Yoshihama hadn't done much. A volunteer lobelia waged a losing battle against an army of purslane. The grass resembled an aging flower child's unapologetically long, unkempt hair. Cheerful, yellow, “Aren't I pretty?” dandelion blossoms punctuated the grass.

Pruning shears in his hand, Yoshihama studied a cherry tree at the far end of the lawn. He reached for a branch, then stepped back. From the looks of it, the tree had received only limited attention in recent years. It hadn't been properly pruned. The branches crisscrossed, robbing air and sunlight from each other.

“Good morning,” Mitra called out.

Yoshihama turned and their eyes caught. It took him a split second to place her. Then he answered, “Ms. Basu,” in a cheerful manner. “Taking a break from reading books about Bollywood?”

Mitra smiled, as she walked toward him. “Actually I was running an errand down the street. I always check out people's yards—professional curiosity, I guess—and saw you working. You have a potentially nice space.”

“Thanks. I think.” A strand of unruly hair curled at the side of his neck. He looked toward a starling perched atop the tree.

“Is that a cherry?” A question she didn't really need to ask but, hopefully, it'd keep the conversation going to the point where she could enquire about Kareena.

He nodded. “In the last two years, I have gotten maybe four or five cherries each spring. I can't figure out what's wrong.”

She stole a glance at his hands. They were soft and smooth unlike hers with their calloused palms. His shears had rust on the cutting edge.

“If you prune it right, the tree will give you more fruit and it'll live longer. One of my clients has an Asian pear in her backyard. It's quite prolific because of the care it gets.”

“You're a professional gardener, as I remember,” he said. “This is my first attempt. So, how would you prune this one?”

She went over the basics: aim for an open center to admit sunlight and improve air circulation. Prune the crown low for easy harvesting. And be sure to use quality shears.

“That sounds like it'll take me hours,” Yoshihama said.

So far he hadn't uttered the word “we.” She assumed him to be someone who lived alone, liked his privacy, but was overwhelmed by the demands of property maintenance. “You have a backyard, too?”

He smiled into her eyes. “Would you like to see?”

He turned and started on the path toward the back of the house, brushing past a lobed-leaf hydrangea bush hanging far beyond its optimal space. She followed, watching his long strides.

Yoshihama turned. “Forgive the mess. I've been busy at work lately with a couple of complicated drug cases. It's been a month since I've mowed.”

He had, indeed, let the yard go. A gigantic pine blocked what Pacific Northwest gardeners cherish most: natural light. English ivy had smothered a wooden fence and destroyed its planks. Some rotten boards had fallen over onto a flowerbed that ran along the fence. The bed was an eyesore of crown vetch, originally intended as a ground cover. An invasive variety of mint was sprawled on the ground everywhere she stepped. She had, however, seen worse. Her adopted grandmother's yard, when she first got the assignment, lurched to mind.

He was studying her, as though to check how horrified she might be. “At least you haven't fainted.”

She would be thrilled to beautify this plot of land, if she ever had the chance. Drawing in a pleasant expression on her face, she said, “You know, you could have a great yard here if you clean out the ivy jungle and take out the pine. I can see deciduous shrubs on the right, minimum-care perennials like daylily and bleeding hearts on the raised bed, a honeysuckle bush in that corner for lushness and color.”

He managed a small smile. “A spade, a roto-tiller, muscle power, and hundreds of hours, huh.”

He steered her toward a tidy cement patio, the yard's only redeeming feature. “Would you like to have a seat?” he said eagerly, as though wishing to prolong this visit. “Do you have time?”

She risked a glance at her watch and pulled up a chair from the patio's wrought-iron dining set. He took the other chair.

“So do you take on projects like this?” he asked.

“Yes, but you might want to see some of my work first. Recently, I planted a garden for Glow Martinelli, my adopted grandmother. Her plot isn't much bigger than yours. I'm sure she wouldn't mind showing it to you, if you call her ahead of time.”

He asked for the particulars. “I'd like to see it.”

She noticed a gaudy mass-market paperback lying on the patio table. The cover showed an elaborate office desk, a reclining woman in a corporate suit with buttons popped off—no undergarment from the looks of it—and a fully dressed male executive leaning over her. She glanced at the title:
Between Five and Seven
. Bold letters at the top proclaimed it as the third title in the “Boardroom Romance” series.

This detective read romance novels? She wouldn't have guessed it. It could also be that he kept his emotional side well hidden when on police duties.

She raised an eyebrow. “This looks interesting.”

His face flushed. She'd embarrassed him. “Oh, the cover is misleading,” he said. “This author puts more energy on the characters, less on the plot. You see, as a detective, I like to study the idiosyncrasies of human behavior, to deduce what a person's real motives are from what he says or does. I also read partly to escape.”

She recognized his flimsy defense and glanced at the lurid cover once more. Flipping to a pink bookmark, she noticed flamboyant character names such as Orianna and Lance, put the book down, and nodded seriously.

“I'll pick up a copy,” she said. “For my mother who lives in Kolkata. She zips through at least three books a week. She calls them her bon bons. She's a careful reader, likes to get involved in the nitty-gritty. It's the smallest acts, she says, like how a man ties his shoe laces, how he counts money, or how he dumps the newspaper into the waste bin that reveal his character. She also says women are in the habit of noticing minor flaws in a person's actions that add up to major issues.”

“Quite so. I know a woman detective back east, a romance reader who uses tactics like that. She's one of the best.” He paused. “I also read a ton of foreign newspapers on the Internet.
Hindustan Standard
is my favorite paper. It's idle curiosity, but I like to keep up with international crime stories. Robert and I have that in common.”

“My mother also reads
Hindustan Standard
.”

He went silent for an instant. “Would you like some tea, Ms. Basu?”

“I'd love a cup. You can call me Mitra.”

“And you can call me Nobuo.”

She detected a subtle cheer in his voice, as though he'd wanted to be on a first-name basis all along, and nodded. With a spring in his stride, he disappeared inside.

Might he be trying to hit on her? Certainly, he was handsome. But she needed to swing her focus back to the business at hand: Kareena and her well being.

Nobuo came back and set down two tall slender glasses filled with ice chunks and clear red liquid. “It's rooibos, intense like black tea, but totally herbal.”

She took a sip, found the vanilla fragrance quite agreeable, then drank deeply, only now realizing how thirsty she was.

He held his glass eagerly, as though wishing to hold on to this moment. “I've come to the conclusion that women are miniaturists. They notice small brush strokes. We men can get fixated on our career, economy, stock market, and baseball, and miss all except the obvious and the tangible, the big blob of color on the canvas, if you will. We miss the subtle shades of a sunset, step on wildflowers, forget family birthdays. I am trying to learn the small brushstrokes, but that takes time. I figure it'll take us men a few more centuries to catch up with women—if we ever do.”

“Listen, I know you must be growing tired of me asking the same question. But have you come across any new information about Kareena?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. But Mr. Guha requested that I don't speak about it. Hasn't he told you?”

“Nope.” When did Adi tell her anything? She was only his wife's best friend and sister, though he was unaware of the sister part. “Do you mind telling me?”

“Ms. Sinha is okay. Airline records indicated she took a direct flight from Vancouver, B.C. to Kolkata about two weeks ago. We don't know her exact destination in Kolkata.”

“She's alive? She's free? You're sure of that?”

Nobuo shrugged. Mitra gripped the edge of the table. So her sister had betrayed her. “Kolkata? She's not from there. She's from Mumbai. She's never mentioned having any relatives in Kolkata. Did she travel alone?”

“She reserved only one seat. The charges showed up on her credit card statement.”

“Have you closed the case?”

“No, it's still open. I can't be completely certain until I talk with her. Yesterday, I got a call from a woman in Maui. She's been missing for a month. ‘I'm fine,’ she said. ‘Don't tell my husband I'm here.’ I assured her I wouldn't, and closed that case.” He looked down at her empty glass. “Would you like a refill?”

In her bewildered state, thoughts racing in her head and colliding, Mitra could only nod.

“Just give me a minute.” Nobuo grabbed the two glasses and headed for the kitchen. She heard the sound of the refrigerator door opening and then a pouring sound.

So Kareena had voluntarily left. But why did she fly to Kolkata, of all places?

Nobuo placed the filled glasses on the table. She caught his eye. “What if someone stole Kareena's identity and bought a ticket with her credit card? Have you called the Kolkata police, by any chance?”

“As a matter of fact, I'm in touch with Kolkata's Lal Bazar Control Room. They've gotten two photographs of her in different locations in Kolkata. Mr. Guha has positively identified the woman in the photos to be his wife.”

Mitra sat rigid, unable to process the information. “She had to have a reason for walking out. And there had to be a reason for the money demand, whoever might have sent it.”

“The note could have been forged.”

Her voice rose slightly as she thought out loud. “I thought I knew Kareena.”

“People aren't always who we think they are. I often hear things like what you just said, Mitra.” Nobuo's expression hardened; his voice carried a tone of certitude. “‘My son couldn't have molested that child.’ Or ‘My daughter has never touched a drink.’ Or ‘My husband couldn't possibly have cleaned out his company's bank account.’ Multiply that by a few thousand and you'll understand why I have a job.”

“But we're not talking about a potential criminal here. My friend is a highly respected domestic violence counselor. She goes out of her way to help women in distress.”

He gave a fraction of a nod. “Yes. I know of at least one battered woman who wouldn't have survived without Ms. Sinha's intervention, which makes me even more curious about her.”

She stared at him. “Curious?”

“Let me tell you something about myself, if I may. My father wanted me to join his export-import firm. I declined his offer politely and respectfully and joined the police force instead. I didn't do it for the adrenaline, due to my interest in psychology, or because I have a criminal mind. The police have the highest rate of getting injury while on the job. I'm simply interested in figuring out why normal people, sometimes knowingly, make serious mistakes. What were they thinking? I wonder.”