Pirate Vishnu (A Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery)

by Pandian, Gigi

  He left Morocco for the north after a team of pirates wrecked a frigate he was repairing and the company employing him went bankrupt.

  He left Frankfurt after an incident with the wife of a duke. She had not told Anand who she was; he never would have betrayed the hospitality of the man for whom he was working.

  English came most easily to him but England was far from his favorite country. The men he worked with in Portsmouth did not know the meaning of being civilized. Unlike their ship-building brethren in India, these men on the docks of England had no education, often speaking English with less facility than Anand himself. Most of them thought nothing of going days without washing, and subsisted on potatoes and ale. Yet in spite of all this, they considered themselves superior to Anand.

  Anand had heard of America. The further west he traveled, and the more coastal cities he visited, the more he heard about the wonders of this young country of America.

  Though he missed his home of Travancore, he knew it was safest for him to stay away for a short time longer. Besides, there was still much more of the world to see. Ever since that day years ago when he had died of typhoid and been given another chance at life, he knew he was meant to see the world. Maybe even change it. There would be time for him to return to Travancore. When he did, it would be interesting to see how the land and people had changed.

  When Anand stayed in a city for a long enough time to receive mail, his brother was able to write to him to tell him what was happening at home. Vishwan read the Tamil newspaper Swadesamitran and the English newspaper Madras Standard, and wrote to Anand of the growing movement toward independence. Such movements to break away from British rule and elect their own leaders had existed for years, but this time was different. The British were wary and the local kings were afraid.

  Anand thought of the Heart of India, the giant elephant statue crafted in a Kochi workshop years before by a Muslim friend. It was brought to the water’s edge of the coastal town of Thoothukudi, in southeastern India, where it was safe from interference from maharajas who opposed its message. There in the symbolic city of Thoothukudi, which had replaced Korkai as the Pearl Emporium from ancient times, the Heart of India was free to be seen by all. Men from many religions and castes had contributed their labor in creating the statue. Anand’s Paravar caste had given the Paravar pearl held in the elephant’s trunk. Yes, there would be time to return home and to see the statue again.

  Anand booked passage on a large passenger ship which would take many days to sail from England to New York. The passengers from over a dozen countries told stories of boundless opportunities about which they could not possibly know, yet their faces were filled with such hope that it was impossible not to believe them.

  Anand could tell America would be different.

  Chapter 9

  I walked to my large kitchen window and looked out at the tree branches swaying in the wind in Nadia’s yard. The rain of the previous night had cleared, replaced by a thick belt of fog.

  San Francisco was unlike anywhere I had lived before. I had lived in the city a year now, and though I grew up right across the bay in Berkeley, the energy of San Francisco was different. The people, the environment, even the weather. The people were both younger and older in the city—young people finding themselves who didn’t yet want to settle down, and older free spirits like Nadia who had been there for decades. The numerous hills of the city helped shape the personalities of dozens of individual neighborhoods, and also controlled where the clouds settle.

  “If you’re okay,” Sanjay said, “I should get going.” He was absentmindedly spreading out the deck of cards between his hands. The cards seemed to float in midair, as if by magic.

  “Why wouldn’t I be okay?” I asked. But Sanjay knew me too well. He’d know I was lying if he got a good look at me. I quickly turned away and looked back out the window, thoughts of a dead Steven Healy flitting through my mind.

  “If you’re sure,” Sanjay said. “I’ll be setting up at the theater today, but you don’t need to come by until tomorrow.” He squeezed my shoulder on his way out.

  Now that I was fully awake from Sanjay’s visit, I finished my coffee while I checked my phone for email and voicemail messages. In addition to several missed voicemail messages from Sanjay and a missed call from my dad, Naveen had emailed me about meeting to translate the map. The map that had possibly gotten a man killed…

  I pulled on yoga pants. I had never done yoga in my life—Sanjay would remind me that I was a terrible Indian—but I liked the stretchy gray cotton pants for running. I usually ran three miles, but that morning I ran at least five. Between the beats of the bhangra music on my headphones and the cacophony of raucous thoughts in my head, I must have needed the release. Confusing thoughts about murdered men and murderous thoughts about ex-boyfriends were drowned out by the loud beats on my headphones and by the furious beating of my heart as I kept up an intense pace through Golden Gate Park.

  Bhangra was the perfect music to listen to while running. The traditional Punjabi folk music melded with British fusion in the 1980s, thanks to all the Indians emigrating to the UK, and created an even more danceable beat that was also fantastic for fast running.

  The music lulled me into both an energized and meditative state. It allowed me to think clearly. To see clearly. Steven Healy had been lying about the treasure he was after. I still didn’t know what it was, why he lied to me, or even if that was what had gotten him killed. I needed to give the map to the police. If they thought it was evidence, they could keep it. If it wasn’t, they could return it to the family. It was the right thing to do. But Steven had brought me a problem to solve that had a more personal connection than one of the many puzzles of history.

  After my run, my mind was clearer than it had been since Steven Healy had walked into my office. Life had taken some things out of my control, but that didn’t mean I was helpless. I was going to get closure about Uncle Anand, and I was going to get closure with something in my own life. I showered and grabbed a bagel and coffee at the Coffee to the People café on the way to my car. Tamarind would be expecting me at the library soon, but I had unfinished business with Lane.

  I blasted bhangra beats in my roadster as I drove across the Bay Bridge, letting the loud music mask my nerves. The traffic cooperated better than I expected, but it was only so it could set me up for a bigger disappointment.

  The curtains of Lane’s in-law unit on the sleepy Berkeley side street were drawn back. Standing on the outside looking in, I could see much more than I had before.

  The apartment was empty.

  Not merely empty of people, but empty of everything. No furniture in the living room. No pots, pans, or dishes in the adjoining kitchen. Nothing hung on the walls. The only proof that someone had lived there recently were indentations on the carpet where the chair and coffee-table trunk had stood, and numerous tiny holes on the wall where artwork had been mounted.

  I didn’t trust myself to believe my own eyes. After standing stupidly on the grass in front of the windows for a few long minutes, I got back in my car and sat there for a few minutes more. I started the engine, then turned it back off. I got out and walked back to the apartment.

  It was still empty.

  What was going on? I slammed the door of my roadster and drove to the Berkeley campus.

  The parking space I found ten minutes later wasn’t remotely legal, but I didn’t care. My messenger bag bounced against my hip as I ran to reach Lane’s office. The door was ajar when I reached it.

  Standing in the doorway of his tiny office, I didn’t believe what I saw. I looked at the number on the door, just to be sure. It was his office, all right. And it had been cleared out. There was no evidence left that Lane Peters had ever been there.

  That’s what he’d been doing when I came by the night before. He hadn’t been organizing his office. He�
��d been packing.

  I felt numb as I walked to the main office of the Art History Department to ask about Lane.

  Lane, the guy I’d fallen for—hard—earlier that summer.

  Lane, the bastard who’d made it clear he wanted nothing more to do with me but wouldn’t tell me why.

  Lane, the ex-jewel thief who I’d shown a treasure map to the night before…

  He couldn’t be involved… Could he?

  I found the department secretary at her desk and asked her about Lane’s empty office.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “He’s on leave.”

  “It’s Lane Peters I’m asking about,” I repeated.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “I’m quite sure of it,” she said. “Lane Peters has taken a leave of absence. He’s gone.”

  Chapter 10

  It was almost noon before I met Tamarind at the main desk in the university library. Her short hair was dyed electric blue this week. She looked rather patriotic with her dark red lipstick set against her fair complexion with only a hint of olive. The thick silver loop through the center of her nose added flare to the presentation. She was more than a head taller than me, and about twice as wide. I know they say big-boned is a euphemism, but in Tamarind’s case it was true.

  “I expected you earlier,” she said. “You sounded like this stuff was urgent.”

  “It is,” I grumbled.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, instead of what I was really thinking. I had thought my life was finally coming together, but I’d lied to myself. I had no idea what was going on in any aspect of my life. “I was following up on another lead.”

  “You went to another librarian?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. Sometimes there’s work that can’t be done at a library.”

  “I’m told this is true, but I’ve yet to see it with my own eyes. You look like hell, by the way. Did you get any sleep last night?”

  “Yeah, just not in my bed.”

  Tamarind’s bright red lips parted and her eyebrows shot up. “Spill.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I added quickly, laughing in spite of my sour mood. “I fell asleep on my couch while doing research.”

  “Whatever you say. Anyway, I got through to someone at the University of Kerala who works with the university’s archives. The guy emailed me that the archivist we need to talk to is named Joseph Abraham. What’s up with that? They hired an Anglo guy rather than a local?”

  “I’m sure he’s an Indian guy,” I said. “There’s a big Christian population in south India, and Joseph Abraham is a common name.”

  “Huh,” Tamarind said. “Well, whoever he is, he’s not big on email. He wrote back a brief note to ask me to call him. Buzz kill.”

  “So you didn’t find out anything about the content of the letters?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Tamarind smiled, which she does more than you’d think for someone who believes herself to be a tough punk.

  “Thanks for helping with this,” I said. It was impossible to stay in a bad mood around Tamarind.

  “Anything for my favorite professor.”

  “So you did find something about a missing treasure?”

  “And do your job for you? Ha! Actually, I totally would have if Joseph had any information up front. But,” Tamarind added, “he said there was something interesting to discuss. I figure that’s why he asked me to call him. Tres interessant.”

  “Did you call him?”

  “I didn’t think the library would appreciate the phone bill. Besides, I thought you’d want to do the honors.”

  Tamarind gave me the number, and I dialed the international number from my cell phone. Because of the time difference, it was now the middle of the night in India. As I expected, the call went to an answering machine. I left a brief message.

  “How are you going to read the letters once Joseph finds them for you,” Tamarind asked. “Won’t they be in Tamil?”

  “Thanks to those lovely British,” I said, “Anand wrote home in English.”

  “Sucks to be colonized. Did they have to use English?”

  “They weren’t forced to give up their language at home,” I said. “It’s just that a lot of education in India at the time was in English. So even though Anand and Vishwan would have spoken Tamil to each other at home, they would have been better at writing in English than in Tamil.”

  “Creepy,” Tamarind said.

  “Convenient for research, though,” I added.

  “You sure you’re okay?” she asked. “You look really pale. Come on, let’s go to the courtyard out back. It’s time for my break. I made us sandwiches this morning so we could have a working lunch.”

  We stepped out into the small, shady courtyard enclosed by the library. Two students were smoking in one corner, but otherwise the concrete courtyard was empty.

  “I don’t think so,” Tamarind said calmly, yet forcefully, in their direction.

  The students immediately stubbed out their cigarettes. They hurried past the “No Smoking” sign and back into the library.

  “You’d think they’d learn they can’t get away with anything on my watch,” she said to me with an overdramatic sigh. “Kids these days.”

  Tamarind had only finished her library science degree a few years before and wasn’t much older than the “kids” she’d chastised, but in addition to being one of the most brilliant people I’d ever met, her physical presence was an asset at an urban university. Rumor had it that during her interview, she got up to help the security guard deal with a drunken and belligerent man who’d wandered into the library. She possessed the helpful combination of looking big and frightening while at the same time having a genuine desire to help people. She was able to get people to trust her and open up to her. For the few who didn’t, her physical presence was threatening enough to remove the problem.

  “You want a cigarette?” she asked me, pulling a pack from one of the many pockets of her zipper-covered black pants.

  “Seriously?”

  “What? I’m an authority figure. I can make my own rules.”

  “I’d rather eat.” I sat down on the closest bench. “I’m starving.”

  “Suit yourself.” She put the box of cigarettes back into her bag.

  “You remembered to give me extra pickles,” I said, opening the whole wheat sandwich.

  “Who else eats pickles on their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?” Tamarind said. “Like I’m ever going to forget that. I swear I’d think you were pregnant if you weighed more than a toothpick. Or if I’d ever seen you with a guy besides that hot puppy dog who follows you around while you ignore him.”

  “You mean Sanjay? I really don’t think—”

  “You saying he’s not hot?”

  “Maybe in the traditional sense.”

  “As in the traditional, oh-my-God-my-thighs-are-on-fire sense.”

  “Um, no. He’s like my brother.”

  Tamarind rolled her eyes. “Suit yourself. But I don’t see how you can resist fantasizing about running your fingers through that thick black hair of his. He has it perfectly styled without looking like it’s been styled, you know?” She sighed wistfully. “Now tell me about this treasure or I’ll take away your pickle-flavored PB & J. You seriously have a real-life treasure map?”

  When I’d texted Tamarind the previous night, before Steven was murdered, this whole thing seemed more like a fun, if strange, adventure about a long-dead ancestor. The same sentiment was now evident on Tamarind’s face. I hated to bring someone else into this mess, knowing what it had now become. But since I had told her about the map, she was already involved. I lif
ted the map from my messenger bag and placed it on the bench between us.

  “Shut. Up.” Tamarind stared at the plastic-covered map without touching it. “This is old. Like, you have the real thing. How did you make this discovery without me knowing about it?”

  “I didn’t find this through my research. There was a man who gave this to me—”

  Tamarind’s dark eyebrows shot up in interest.

  “Not a guy like that. He’s my dad’s age—and he’s dead.”

  Tamarind sat in stunned silence, her face turning a shade paler. “A ghost guy came to see you?” she whispered.

  “Worse than that.”

  “You mean he looked all gross and rotted, like how his body would really look buried in the ground, not like our idealized images of ghosts? God, I always wondered—”

  “Tamarind—”

  “I mean, I always thought movies idealized death. Ghosts are always so ethereal and dressed in white and—”

  Sometimes I had to remind myself of Tamarind’s brilliance. She’d come through many times this year, finding obscure references for me that I’d never have found without her. But she was also a twenty-five-year-old punk who refused to walk under ladders—which can be rather inconvenient at a library that stacks the books twice as tall as me and has ladders in most sections.

  “I’m not,” I said firmly, “talking about a ghost.”

  “You’re not?”

  “I’m talking about murder.”

  Tamarind’s pale face turned a shade paler. She inched to the far edge of the bench. “I’m going to sit quietly over here with my hands in my lap while you tell me what the hell you’re talking about.”