Pirate Vishnu (A Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery)
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Praise for Gigi Pandian’s Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mysteries
PIRATE VISHNU
“Forget about Indiana Jones. Jaya Jones is swinging into action, using both her mind and wits to solve a mystery...Readers will be ensnared by this entertaining tale. Four stars.”
– RT Book Reviews
“Move over Vicky Bliss and Joan Wilder, historian Jaya Jones is here to stay! Mysterious maps, legendary pirates, and hidden treasure—Jaya’s latest quest is a whirlwind of adventure.”
— Chantelle Aimée Osman of The Sirens of Suspense
“I applaud author Gigi Pandian for unearthing the forgotten history of India’s first immigrants to the United States and serving it up with plenty of suspense, humor and bhangra beats. If you are searching for a spicy new amateur sleuth series, this is the one.”
—Sujata Massey,
Author of The Sleeping Dictionary and the Rei Shimura Mysteries
“Globe-trotting historian Jaya Jones is off on another treasure hunt…Pirate Vishnu is fast-paced and fascinating as Jaya’s investigation leads her this time to India and back to her own family’s secrets.”
—Susan C. Shea, Author of the Dani O’Rourke mysteries
ARTIFACT
“Pandian’s new series may well captivate a generation of readers, combining the suspenseful, mysterious and romantic. Four stars.”
— RT Book Reviews
“If Indiana Jones had a sister, it would definitely be historian Jaya Jones.”
— Suspense Magazine
“How wonderful to see a young, new writer who harks back to the Golden Age of mystery fiction. Artifact is witty, clever, and twisty… Do you like Agatha Christie? Elizabeth Peters? Then you’re going to love Gigi Pandian.”
— Aaron Elkins,
Edgar Award-Winning Author of the Gideon Oliver Mysteries
“Fans of Elizabeth Peters will adore following along with Jaya Jones and a cast of quirky characters as they pursue a fabled treasure.”
— New York Times Bestselling Author Juliet Blackwell,
Author of the Art Lover’s Mystery Series (written as Hailey Lind)
“In her fast-paced and entertaining debut novel, Gigi Pandian brings readers into a world full of mystery and history…As with classics in the genre, this first book in the Jaya Jones series will appeal to readers who enjoy delving into a complex puzzle.”
— ForeWord Reviews
“Artifact is a jewel of an adventure, and Jaya Jones is a plucky heroine to treasure.”
—Avery Aames,
Nationally Bestselling Author of A Cheese Shop Mystery Series
“Artifact has it all—castles in the mist and caves at midnight; archeologists and fairies; hidden treasures and a bit of magic as well. Taking us on a journey from San Francisco to London to Scotland, Pandian weaves a mystery with all the elements of a good puzzle.”
— Camille Minichino,
Author of the Periodic Table Mysteries
“Artifact is a treasure…a page-turning, suspenseful story.”
— Penny Warner, Author of How to Host a Killer Party
Books in the Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery Series
by Gigi Pandian
Novels
ARTIFACT (#1)
PIRATE VISHNU (#2)
Novellas
FOOL’S GOLD (prequel to ARTIFACT)
(in OTHER PEOPLE’S BAGGAGE)
Praise for Gigi Pandian’s Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mysteries
Books in the Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery Series
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PART 1: THE ILLUSION
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
PART II: THE MONSOON
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
PART III: THE BARBARY COAST
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
AUTHOR’S NOTE
READER’S DISCUSSION GUIDE
About Gigi Pandian
ARTIFACT
OTHER PEOPLE’S BAGGAGE
Henery Press Mystery Books
PIRATE VISHNU
A Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition
Kindle edition | February 2014
Henery Press
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2013 by Gigi Pandian
Cover art by Fayette Terlouw
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1-938383-99-1
Printed in the United States of America
For my father
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing a book is a solitary pursuit, but also one that couldn’t be done without the help of many people. I sat down with the idea for this book years ago and spent countless hours writing it, but it was a team of amazing people who made this book what it is. To all the wonderful people in my life: thank you!
My early readers, who I can always count on to tell me the truth about what’s working and what’s not: Brian Selfon, Diane Vallere, Rachael Herron, Lisa Hughey, Lynn Coddingdon, Nancy Adams, Ramona deFelice Long. This book wouldn’t have come together without each of you.
My writing pals, who follow the golden rule of chatting for 20 minutes and then getting down to work: Emberly Nesbitt, Sophie Littlefield, Juliet Blackwell, Mysti Berry, Martha White, Adrienne Miller, Michelle Gon
zales. I would never have gotten to “The End” without you.
My publishing team: My incredible editor, Kendel Flaum, and the whole Henery Press team, for building something great with new authors. My agent, Jill Marsal, for believing in me for years without ever giving up.
My father, for inspiring this story and helping me get the history right. My mother, for always telling me I could do anything. And James, for not only putting up with the trials of living with a writer, but being the most supportive guy imaginable.
PART 1: THE ILLUSION
Chapter 1
The first time Anand Paravar died, he was fifteen years old.
The year was 1895. Typhoid fever swept through the south of India. The sickness wended its way through the Kingdom of Travancore. It swept across its beaches of multicolored sand, through the banyan trees, and along the winding streets of the villages. The monsoon season brought uncharacteristically strong rain to the southern tip of India that year—and along with it the disease.
Anand didn’t notice the rhythmic crashing of rain against the roof as his consciousness slipped away. A warm light enveloped the boy, pulling him toward its central glow. The aches of his thin body began to fade. A rough hand tugged his shoulder. Pulling him back.
Vishwan watched from the doorway as his older brother gasped. Their mother let out a strangled sob and held her boy close as he heaved violently back to life.
The next time Anand Paravar died, he was not so fortunate.
It was a decade later. 1906. Anand had left home in search of adventure. He often attributed his daring nature to that near-death experience during a formative time in his life. He wasn’t content to follow his destiny and remain within a few miles of his birth as a boat builder with the rest of the Tamil Paravar caste. At the age of sixteen, he became involved with the fledgling movement for Indian independence. At eighteen, he left home for the trading port of Kochi. At twenty, fleeing prosecution for his revolutionary activities, he left India and used his skills constructing and fixing boats to make his way to the Middle East, Europe—and then America.
He was in San Francisco the day the Great Earthquake of 1906 struck. He tried to save the life of his friend Li. Neither of them made it out alive.
At least…that’s the way the family legend of Uncle Anand goes. The story has been recounted by my family many times over three generations. And it’s what I’d always believed—until the knock on my office door that windy August afternoon.
“Jaya Jones?” the stranger in my doorway asked, his eyes darting between me and the placard on my door in the history department.
“Can I help you?” I asked, closing my laptop and looking up at him. There had been a bit of press around the treasure I’d recently uncovered in the Highlands of Scotland, so I assumed he was a reporter. Most of the media attention had died down after a few days, so I thought it was safe to come to the office to get some work done on a research paper I’d meant to finish months before. I’d been at my office for most of the day, adding the finishing touches.
“Jaya Anand Jones?” he repeated.
A full head of salt and pepper hair flanked a distinguished face, and his features reminded me of someone from the northeast of India—European but with hints of China or South Asia. His tailored gray suit and the firm set of his jaw told me this was a man used to getting what he wanted.
“Are you a reporter?” I asked.
“No,” he said, stepping into the office. “Steven Healy.” The cadence of his voice made me wonder if he expected me to know the name.
I stood up to take his extended hand. His handshake was strong and curt, like the rest of his appearance. He was close to a foot taller than me, which isn’t uncommon since without shoes I’m a hair under five feet tall.
“Your great-grandfather’s name was Vishwan,” he continued. “Is that right?”
Of all the questions I thought someone standing in the door of my university office might ask, that wasn’t one of them.
“I can see that it was,” he said. “Thirty years of reading the expressions of jurors and one can see the subtle changes in faces.”
“You’re a judge?”
“Attorney.”
“Who wants to know about my Indian great-grandfather?”
“It’s a bit sensitive,” he said. “May I?” He indicated the open door, moving to close it before I could respond.
I don’t like situations being taken out of my control, but I admit I was curious. My great-grandfather Vishwan and his brother Anand were the only two members of my family my mother had ever talked about.
I tossed an empty paper coffee cup into the trashcan and offered him the seat in front of my desk. He sat down, but perched on the edge of the seat and leaned forward. “What do you know about Anand Selvam Paravar?”
“Does your law firm deal with estates?” I asked, an idea dawning on me for the reason of his visit. “You have his belongings?” I knew almost nothing about most of my family, but the story of my great-granduncle Anand’s heroic life was told to me as a bedtime story when I was a child, so I knew it well—including the pieces of his story that were missing. The diary my great-grandfather knew his brother kept had never been recovered.
Steven’s eyebrows drew together. Was he surprised I’d guessed the reason for his visit? Or was he confused because he had no idea what I was talking about?
“My family never received any of Anand’s possessions after he was killed in the Great San Francisco Earthquake,” I continued. “They assumed everything was destroyed in the fire, or at least the aftermath was so hectic here that there was no way to identify peoples’ belongings. But from the look on your face, I’m guessing that’s not why you’re here.”
“I’m here on a personal matter,” he said. He paused and watched me for another moment before continuing. “My grandmother left me a trunk of personal items when she died years ago. I didn’t think much of it when I was a young man, and I forgot about it for many years. It was only when I retired recently that I took time to look carefully at what was inside.” He shook his head. “I didn’t believe it when I first saw it—”
“Saw what?” I asked.
“The information she left me,” he said, not able to keep the excitement out of his voice. “It leads to a treasure from the days following the California Gold Rush.”
“Ah.” I leaned back in my chair, letting the squeak of its metal coils fill the room. Ever since news of the treasure I discovered hit the papers, I’d been expecting something like this.
There are two common stereotypes about historians. There are the people whose eyes glaze over as soon as you mention history, feeling sorry for the historian’s boring existence holed up in the library. Then there are people like Steven Healy. They imagine the life of a historian is constant adventure, full of secret passageways and hidden fortunes. Both impressions are wrong. I love my job, but aside from my recent Scottish adventure, my research doesn’t generally involve anything more heart-pounding than too many cups of coffee.
“I’m not that kind of historian,” I said. “You have the wrong person. The treasure in Scotland wasn’t something I sought out—”
“I don’t have the wrong person,” Steven cut in, his eyes locked on mine. “I’m not here because of that, although reading about you in the paper is how I found you. A relation of Anand Paravar who knows how to do historical research. It’s perfect.”
“What does this have to do with Anand? And hang on—how did you find out I’m related to him in the first place?”
My last name is Jones, courtesy of my American father. Paravar is a caste name, different from a surname as Western societies use them. Depending on the local custom, the initials of someone’s father could be added before their given name, or the name of a village. Or if a family converted to Christianity, they might take a surname
from the newcomers, as was the case when many Paravars were converted to Catholicism by the Portuguese. It makes it complicated to follow lineage. Traditional naming systems still exist to some extent, but by the time of my mother’s generation it had begun to fade. It doesn’t make it easy for us historians.
“Research,” Steven said. “It’s amazing how much time one has once one has retired.” His lips formed a sad smile. “That’s why I need to search for this treasure. It’s a family treasure. Hunting for it would give me great satisfaction.”
“The hunt isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” I said, remembering the freezing nights along the windy cliffs of the Highlands of Scotland earlier that summer.
“That’s easy for you to say,” he said, bitterness creeping into his voice. “You have your whole life ahead of you. I, on the other hand, need something meaningful to do with my time.” He broke off, visibly upset.
I wondered why he had retired. He looked like he was in good health, and it seemed like he missed his job.
“I found you,” he continued, “when one of the reporters covering your exploits did some research into your family history, since your connection to India helped solve the mystery in Scotland. It wasn’t difficult from there. Now, may I ask what you know of Anand?”