Tulip Season (17 page)

“Kareena wants to be happy and loved. Who doesn't? Granted, she's made a mistake by walking out and not telling anyone, but there has to be another story here.”

“Have you ever known people who look for love and happiness in the wrong places?” Nobuo said delicately, shaping the words love and happiness in his mouth gently.

“Could you elaborate on that?”

He stared at the ivy cascading over the fence. He was probably ready to resume his afternoon chores and didn't want to discuss the case any further. “All I can tell you is that Ms. Sinha went away, but she's all right. That'll have to be enough. Mr. Guha doesn't want sensitive information about his wife or the ransom note released to the public.”

Mitra slid out of the chair and bumped the table, rattling the spoons and glasses. “Thanks for the tea. I'd better be going.”

She stepped off the patio. He walked her around to the front of the house, then to the sidewalk. She could feel his gaze on her back. Thanking him again, she plodded downhill to her Honda. The cold hard metal of the car keys shocked her skin. Once ensconced in her vehicle, she found even more dreariness settling over her. What was she to believe now? That Kareena just left without saying goodbye to anyone? That the ransom note should be forgotten?

Regardless of her actions, Kareena was her sister, her family.

The only solution was to fly to Kolkata.

But Mitra couldn't afford the steep airfare or to take time off her business.

A truck edged up alongside. Oh, no, that driver again. He might have been following her all morning. Why hadn't she spotted him before? Her mind ran fast, while her fingers on the steering wheel froze.

She'd better not show her fear. She made a face and looked defiantly into the driver's eyes. Oh, no, this was a much younger man driving a Toyota, with a child in the backseat. His face wore a scowling mask of impatience, a daddy looking for a parking space. She started her car and eased out.

She heard a car engine. This time it was the Datsun pickup going in the opposite direction, with the same driver.

They exchanged a look. His cold, mean eyes bore into her. “Count your breaths, Miss,” he seemed to be saying.

TWENTY-SEVEN

HOW NICE OF VEEN
to call to say she'd returned from India and that she wanted to meet Mitra for dinner. A few minutes before leaving the house, Mitra drifted to the living room and touched the wisteria blossoms flowing pure and white out of a vase on the accent table. It was as though she could feel Ulrich's lips, shoulders, and hands. A sigh came out of her. They had so much to talk about. She'd called him several times in the last few days and he'd finally left a message on her voice-mail yesterday. The message was in German, puzzling her even more.

She picked up the receiver, punched his number, and this time he answered in person. To hear his hello gave her a thrill and a shot of uncertainty. “Where have you been in the last few days?” she asked, her voice creaking with anxiety.

Sounding a little agitated himself, he replied, “Save your questions for another time, Mit. I'm just fine. I'm busy right now.”

Hurt and confused, managing a shallow breath, she said, “Sorry to have called at an inconvenient time.”

Abruptly, he hung up.

Mitra arrived at Nana's Soup House to find Veen and Jean already claiming a table. Both of them looked more cheerful than they'd been lately, as to be expected on day twenty-three. Their warm welcome help Mitra settle down. She ordered her favorite baked potato soup. As soon as she broke the news about her chance meeting with Yoshihama a day earlier and his latest report on Kareena, they perked up.

“Yoshihama is right.” The mirror-embroidery on Veen's sleeves glittered in the light. “Kareena has made a mistake. Of course none of us is infallible.”

Mitra inhaled the starchy fragrance of her soup. “Seen Adi lately?”

“Yes,” Veen said. “A neighbor complained that Adi wasn't maintaining his yard, like Kareena used to do. Our neighbors are really conscious about property value. Yesterday, I went to check out Adi's yard when I thought he wasn't at home. It was a mess. Garbage, broken branches, dandelions. The rosemary bush has grown unwieldy. Shit, Adi caught me snooping around. I doubt he'll ever share any information about Kareena with me. Oh, this might be news to you, Mitra. I found out from a mutual colleague that Adi's selling his business.”

Mitra put her spoon down. “Selling his business? But that business is his life.”

“He's apparently in a ‘cash-flow squeeze.’ Maybe he's trying to raise money to pay off the rest of the ransom.”

“I wonder why the ransom demand would still have any force if Kareena has left on her own.”

“The answer is obviously in Kolkata.” Veen said, drawing the bread basket closer. “Should one of us go there, locate Kareena, and talk some sense into her head?”

Jean shook her head. Her twisted hoop earrings caught the light and shone. “Without an address or phone number,” she said, “how will we find her in a city of twelve million? It's like losing an earring in a haystack. That actually happened to me once, believe it or not, with my favorite teardrop-shaped one. Never did find the darn thing.”

“I can't afford the airfare to Kolkata,” Mitra said. “I didn't win the bid I made for a huge commercial garden project.”

“And if I ask for any more time off from work,” Veen said, stirring her cardamom chai, “they'll fire me on the spot.”

Their dessert order came. Jean took a bite of her peach crumble and asked for details about Mitra's tea with Yoshihama. Mitra obliged.

“That dude is hitting on you,” Jean said. “I can tell from what you said that he's on the make. He's not a cop twenty-four hours a day. He asked your help in pruning his cherry tree? That's as good a line as I've ever heard. Ulrich has competition.”

Mitra sighed, recalling the earlier phone conversation with Ulrich, short and abrupt, too painful to dwell on. She switched the
topic by mentioning her planned little foray to Adi's house in his absence.

“Would this Sunday morning be a good time for that?” she asked Veen.

“Yes, that'd be perfect timing,” Veen said. “Now that the weather is getting nicer, Adi's golfing every Sunday morning. He leaves home early. I think he gets a cup somewhere first.”

Just the piece of information Mitra needed to make her next move. She thanked Veen and pushed away a slice of upside-down pineapple cake, her mind occupied with a plan for Sunday.

Upon returning home, she found a message from Ulrich on her voice-mail. Breathlessly, she listened, not knowing what to expect. He'd apologized for being rude on the phone earlier. “I wasn't quite myself. I hate myself for it.”

Continuing to listen, she could hear the pain and torture in his voice, which gradually gave way to a warm intimacy. Cheerfully, he reminded her of their Sunday morning plan. The masculinity, the sense of protection he often exhibited showed itself as he said, “I'll pick you up from your place at 6:30, my wisteria.” My wisteria—she liked the tender way he said it. He concluded by saying, “I'll wait for you somewhere and get you back home. Please forgive me. I love you.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

WITH A GLOVED HAND,
Mitra punched the keys to open Kareena and Adi's house and waited. The ivory-toned Victorian glowed bluish in the morning light. The garage door creaked open with a pained protest, as though stricken by the heart-splitting comings and goings it had to bear in recent weeks.

Mitra looked around and noticed a slight movement of the window drapes of a house across the street. Could it be a nosy neighbor or vigilant block watcher observing her surreptitious entry? No, she reassured herself, it was only 8 A.M. on a Sunday.

Besides, Mitra hadn't left a car parked out front to draw attention. Ulrich, who had dropped her more than a block away, was sitting in his cold vehicle, clutching a warm cup, and frowning at the newspaper headlines. Despite his serious doubts, he'd given up his Sunday slumber and accompanied her.

Mitra entered the two-car garage. Adi's Volvo was absent. He was playing golf, she assumed. Kareena's Jag, painted a British racing green, sat alone. The door was open. How like Kareena not to keep it locked, this expensive machine.

She opened the door on the passenger side and slid into the seat. Rifling through the glove compartment, she found a bottle of aspirin, three pairs of sunglasses, a map of Seattle, a pair of suede gloves, two candy bars, and a “Wish you were here” postcard from Molokai, initialed J.

Who was J? It was not Jean's handwriting.

Stop daydreaming, Mitra, gather whatever information you can quickly, leave no trace, and clear out.

The floor and the dashboard were bare. Mitra slipped out of Kareena's beautiful machine, shut the door, and entered the kitchen, taking a tentative step on the terra-cotta floor. A stained wine goblet sat on the French-blue limestone countertop.

She walked to the white memo board hanging on the kitchen wall. Thumb-tacked with miscellaneous notes, the memo board was the overscheduled couple's Command Central, possibly also their way of keeping out of each other's hair. She read the dentist's reminder card, the recycling truck's schedule, an “I luv you” proclamation in Adi's script and “Where the hell is my camera?” in Kareena's scribble.

Mitra entered the bedroom. In the darkness, a band of clothing on the floor snagged her foot. She flicked on a table lamp. The white light threw the surroundings into clear relief.

The master closet door was ajar. She opened it wider. Fifteen or so of Kareena's outfits hung on a rail. There was the peach sleeveless shift, the mandarin-collar jacket with gold buttons, and the two-piece knit in lemon yellow.

The room was hot. Adi had left the central heating on. Feeling suffocated, Mitra took off her cardigan and tied it around her waist.

She examined Kareena's ebony dresser drawers one at a time, sifting through scarves, lingerie, belts, and hair ornaments, taking care to return each item to its proper place as she went.

Next to the flower-appliquéd brassiere and panty sets there rested a handkerchief collection. As Mitra lifted a lacy hankie in a lily-of-the-valley pattern, a seductive scent of Indian
attar
floated over her. She fingered through each hankie's layers, folded it, and put it back in its place. At the bottom, there rested a letter, written in a natural colored sheet, and folded in half. As she picked it up, the letter slipped and fluttered to the floor. She stooped to pick it up.

She hesitated a moment, then curiosity overcame propriety, and she unfolded the letter.

Dated several months ago, it was scribbled in poorly written Bengali. Adi couldn't have been the sender. For all his shortcomings, he was well educated.

     My beloved Karu, my thousand-and-one light, the brightest diamond in the universe, the sole reason the sun rises, the moon becomes full, and the nightingale sings

Mitra's mind went numb and her heart silenced a beat. Karu: an endearing diminutive for Kareena. No one called her that, except this “poet,” as far as Mitra knew. It wounded her to stumble upon such a vivid piece of evidence of Kareena's other existence.

The “poet” was clearly unschooled. That was evident from the archaic expressions and spelling errors in Bengali.

Mitra read on:

     How much longer will you keep me waiting? I can't stand it that you're not around. I leave my mobile on twenty-four hours for your call. I can still feel your kiss on my skin, your touch on my thighs. I am counting the days, my love, until we can be together again.

Mitra wanted to scream at Kareena. How could you do this? You're sophisticated, educated, and brilliant, and you fall for this schoolboy trash?

Why was Mitra being so critical? Because Kareena hadn't confided in her? What right did she have to judge this letter-writer, someone she'd never met? Maybe he had offered Kareena what she'd needed. Besides, in romance, as in war, you were allowed to be unfair, the use of effusive language being the least of anyone's concerns. Maybe he had fulfilled some fantasy of hers. Or maybe she just wanted to escape an unhappy, abusive marriage.

Mitra let her eyes run over the page, then skipped down to the signature at the bottom: Jay.

Mitra stood still. Kareena really
was
having an affair. But Kareena was her sister, her family. She must continue to follow her.

Mitra folded the love letter, placed it back in its place, and shut the drawer with a jerk. Adi, most likely, had read it. How had he reacted? Had he broken out in anguished sobs, Adi who was always right, always in charge? Adi who had everything but that which he craved the most, his wife's love?

Mitra mounted the stairs to Kareena's study. Dazed, she sat at Kareena's workstation, pulled open the mobile file pedestal, and flipped through the hanging folders: statistics on abused women, transcripts of phone conversations with clients, health insurance statements, and utility bills.

She walked her fingers through the back of the central drawer. There lay a small yellow memo pad with violet grid lines. Graffitied all over on an inside page were the initials J.P.B. in Kareena's stylish hand, as though it were a mantra she meditated on.

Who was J.P.B.? The Jay who wrote the love note? The one who'd sent the postcard from Molokai?

Could this be the self-styled actor Kareena was last seen with at Soirée? Could he be a film actor? Mitra had seen Kareena's fascination with Bollywood films, her way of losing herself in the make-believe world.

A car door slammed near the front of the house and Mitra's heart leaped to her throat.
Stop dallying. Except for the ransom note, you got what you came for. And Ulrich is waiting for you.

Mitra descended the stairs, passed through the kitchen, and slipped out of the garage. Once out on the sidewalk, she took up the stride of a speed walker. A faint blue morning light filled the street. As she rounded the corner, she spotted a familiar steel gray Saab waiting at the pre-arranged spot. She clambered into the passenger's seat and gave a sigh of relief.

Ulrich raised his eyes from the paper. “You okay?”