The Masala Murder: Reema Ray Mysteries Read online

  ‘How about you, Reema? I have been reading your articles. My daughter enjoys your magazine very much.’

  I cringed. In the face of Santosh da’s selfless exertions, I felt like a first-rate money grubber. Despite the fact that I was always just one missed pay cheque away from financial crisis.

  ‘I’ve also been busy, Santosh da, but mainly with writing. Not many cases anymore. I finally had to give up my office.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame. When?’

  ‘About two months ago.’ My menacing landlord, who in all fairness had done nothing worse than ask for the monthly rent, ensured that I had to give up my effort at professionalism and lick my wounded ego in the comfort of a home ‘office’, otherwise known as the dining table. There sat my laptop. My camera and old case files were stowed in the steel almirah in the bedroom. It was a good thing my clothes didn’t take up much space.

  ‘I am sorry to hear that.’

  ‘It’s not so bad. At least now I don’t have to commute.’

  ‘But is it safe receiving clients at home? You must meet many unsavoury characters.’

  ‘I haven’t had a new client for a while,’ I admitted. I had one job a while ago for an old customer investigating a potential groom, but that was about it.

  ‘I wish I could help,’ he said, staring dejectedly at his battered black shoes that showed their bruises despite the layers of polish.

  I could have hugged him, but I had a feeling that Santosh da would not know what to do with that. So instead, I gave him a sad smile and said goodbye. Santosh da walked to the nearby bus stop, and I watched him with a sort of envy.

  And then I turned on my heel and, just like a princess in a fairy tale, I entered a world where the grit and crime of the everyday were forgotten, replaced by the world of glamour, as glitzy as cheap rhinestones on a knock-off handbag.

  The other half of my schizophrenic world was waiting for me at the HQ of Face magazine. I didn’t have to go in much since I was a freelancer, but I preferred to do my own proofreading. I walked into the production room and looked for Shweta, but my friend found me before I found her and lost no time in handing me a slender stack of prints.

  ‘Here,’ she said, already halfway back to the graphics designer she was bearing down on. ‘You’ve got half an hour. We’re very late!’

  I went through my pieces, handed in my changes and hung about for her to finish so we could discuss the next issue. As I sat in her cubicle, I flipped through the loose prints strewn about her desk.

  ‘Lust lives for happily marrieds!’

  ‘20 tips for a beautiful bathroom!’

  ‘When the time is right for Botox!’

  Somehow, I had become a part of this universe, too. Beauty magazine writer by day, crime fighter by night. Or was it the other way around?

  After my meeting, I decided to walk off the funk I found myself in. I was beginning to think that there was only so long I could pretend that the extremes of my life were working for me. Did I want to be a detective or a journalist? If the answer was detective, then I couldn’t afford to reject cases, as I had been doing, just because they were distasteful. If I wanted to be a journalist, why wasn’t I more committed to it?

  With time to kill before I made my next and final stop for the day, I meandered my way through the crowded Chowringhee pavement, dodging hawkers, gropers, walkers and gawkers. Just when I began to regret my choice of route, I broke free of the chaos to a clear stretch. I was in front of a new designer store, right outside the Grand. A mannequin stared out at me from her home in a glittering shop window, boots up to her knees, stockings sheer and shimmering, navy blue dress grazing her thighs, bag upon her shoulder, not a nylon hair out of place. This was a girl with places to go, people to meet. In fact, she seemed to have as much of a sense of direction as I, if not more: at least she had decided that for her, only designer would do.

  I looked around at the men and women of the city I called home—Calcutta. Here I stood, with no real career, no money, not even the glimmer of what might be called a scheme. Here I stood, Reema Ray, and it was time at last to find my dream.

  Or perhaps I should have called it my new dream, otherwise known as Plan C (A and B having already run their short-lived course).

  Dreaming, however, had never been my problem.

  three

  Being a frequent house-sitter, I had a key to my friend Devika’s place. I let myself in and heard a clatter of dishes coming from what was unmistakably the direction of the kitchen. This was unusual.

  I headed towards the racket to confirm that it was indeed my friend—the roving fashion editor at the magazine and the woman who had hired me—who was frantically at work in unfamiliar terrain. She hit the button on the blender, remarkably without causing bloodshed. I saw lemons everywhere; ice being crushed and a head-spinning amount of golden spirit going into a cocktail mixer.

  Devika finally spotted me. ‘Margarita night!’ she announced above the clamour. ‘You’re cooking!’

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Refreshments of a liquid nature constituted the one aspect of the culinary arts Devika did display more than considerable skill in. ‘What’s the occasion?’ I asked.

  Devika beamed at the universe in general and me in particular, eyes aglow, lips parting to reveal two perfect rows of pearly whites. Devika’s good looks were a victory of nurture over nature, backed by endless reserves of unflappable energy. ‘Vivek is going to be home for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Ah! Does that mean what I think it means?’

  ‘Yup! I need to start my detox as soon as possible if I have any hope of getting my senior-citizen eggs to get their groove on. But I can’t do it without one last night of sin!’ she yelled above the fresh batch of shattering ice.

  The pre-forty baby bug had bitten Devika in earnest. It was now or never, she had concluded with some urgency, though her pilot husband’s crazy schedules did nothing to help their chances of speedy and natural conception. I knew Devika didn’t want to go through the whole fertility treatment rigmarole—if it didn’t happen eventually she had always said she would adopt. And there was only one rather inconvenient problem in the interim: in the absence of an infant, Devika Joshi seemed entirely content exercising her maternal instincts on me. Her latest obsession: matchmaking. She could hardly be kept off the subject.

  ‘So, what have you been up to today?’ she asked.

  ‘Not much. I dropped into office to proof my latest pieces and before that I had a CCC meeting.’

  ‘Ooh, your superhero squad!’ Devika giggled.

  I rolled my eyes.

  ‘Any cute men there?’ she asked.

  ‘Not one, as I have told you before.’

  ‘Come on! Who’d believe that? No Bruce Wayne types? My Spidey sense tells me otherwise.’

  ‘Then your Spidey sense is malfunctioning thanks to the alcohol fumes in here. And if you call me Batgirl again, you’ll get it with the lemon juicer.’

  Devika was unfazed by my threats. ‘Reema, you need a man in your life!’

  I took a deep breath and thought of the collective mojo of the CCC. It’s not like I didn’t have men in my life. In fact, you might say I had a few too many. They simply weren’t the kind a woman of my age would in any way call suitable.

  ‘What did you think of Kevin?’ she asked as she carefully lined glasses with salt.

  Kevin was an American writer who had come to town to research Bengal handloom. An ever-hopeful Devika had introduced us, and I had given him a gastronomic tour of the city. We had got along famously, but that’s not what Devika was fishing for. ‘He’s gay, Devika.’

  ‘What nonsense! Just because he is a fashion writer doesn’t mean he’s gay! He’s so good-looking!’

  ‘As is his boyfriend, whom I met one evening.’

  Devika scowled.

  ‘Anyway, I’m not going to start a real relationship looking like I am.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can see every bite from eve
ry single food review sticking to my derriere. I need to get back to kickboxing with a vengeance.’

  ‘Rubbish!’

  ‘You wouldn’t get it. You are so thin,’ I replied, dangerously close to sulking.

  ‘And look how that’s working out for me and my fertility. You are so tall! And perfectly proportioned.’

  ‘By which you mean I have child-bearing hips.’

  Devika shook her head. ‘By which I mean you are attractive to pretty much all men.’

  I knew what that was code for, and I tugged self-consciously at my neckline.

  ‘You look great, Reema, you always have,’ Devika said in soothing tones. ‘When you first came into my office for your interview, I was about to suggest that you forget about writing and become a model.’

  ‘What rot! And anyway, that was a while ago, and before I started to eat for a living. Now I’d have to lose at least—’

  Devika waved me into silence with a blinding flash of diamonds. ‘I have never been able to understand your lack of confidence in your looks, when you seem so self-assured about everything else. Devika’s Style Rule #1: Curves are good. Always.’

  I stood in stony silence. At 5’7” I could hide a little bit of weight, I knew. But the hot-chocolate skin and the head of uncontrollable curls made me stand out, much to my discomfort, when all I ever wanted was to blend in. The petite, fair prettiness of my mother was the standard against which I had always been measured, and I had never come out on top. Stand on a ramp so a bunch of strangers could stare? Never.

  Devika tasted and then adjusted—by adding even more booze.

  ‘Devika, is that a good idea?’

  ‘Oh, shush. So, what really happened with that guy you were seeing for years?’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘Was there more than one serious love-of-your-life-type person?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Then you know who I am talking about.’

  ‘Amit,’ I said. The name was a kick to the stomach every time. We had broken up well before I met Devika, and I hadn’t ever really discussed him with her.

  Devika handed me a glass and we found our way to the living room, sinking into plush sofas, legs propped up on an ottoman.

  I raised my margarita to my lips, licking a bit of the salt off the rim before tilting the glass. Suddenly my mouth was on fire.

  ‘Devika,’ I said, taking a horrified gulp, ‘these should be illegal!’

  ‘Potent, aren’t they? Haven’t I made one for you before?’ she asked sweetly.

  I thought quickly as I took another sip—this one carefully measured. There was only one subject of conversation that could divert Devika from my non-starter love life. My real troubles.

  ‘I don’t know how much longer I can keep my flat.’

  ‘Oh no! Not your flat too! Why?’

  ‘When I had taken it, straight out of college, I thought I would be earning much more. For a while, with all those infidelity cases, it was okay. But ever since I cut back on those, with only the occasional case supplementing my magazine income, it is just too expensive.’

  ‘Can’t your CCC gang give you some sort of salary?’

  ‘We have no clients, remember? It’s just a bunch of meddlesome people doing their meddling. Nowadays it is all talk. Whatever money does come in is kept in a fund—by which I mean an envelope in DDG’s desk—for expenses in cases we choose to take up.’

  Devika gave a motherly cluck. ‘I don’t know why you are wasting your time on all those things when you know the offer at the magazine for a full-time position is always open.’

  A solution I was holding out on as the last resort. If I joined, it would be me writing about Botox and boob jobs instead of Shweta’s other minions.

  ‘I don’t want to do that just yet,’ I said, hoping I didn’t sound too ungracious.

  ‘Well then, why don’t you come and live with me?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, genuinely touched. It was an option I would probably exercise before moving in with either of my parents, but the thought of having to mooch off a friend on a long-term basis was not a happy one.

  ‘I mean it, Reema. We have more than enough space; there are a couple of spare rooms. Vivek travels all the time, and in case I do get pregnant, imagine me being here alone. In fact, you’d be doing me a favour by moving in.’

  ‘Why are you so good to me, Devika? I promise to take you up on that if I need to.’

  Devika seemed set to continue her sales pitch, so I jumped in with an effort to change the subject. ‘What’s going on with the next fashion week?’ I asked.

  Fashion was to Devika what food was to me—a passion she would happily let herself be consumed by. Lucky for her, heels didn’t send your caloric intake into the stratosphere. They could empty out a bank balance with remarkable speed, but that was not a concern for Devika. Perhaps we picked our poisons with more deliberation than we gave ourselves credit for.

  By the time we were ready for a refill, my head was a blur. I quickly went into the kitchen to throw together some nachos and quesadillas before I was too drunk to legally hold a knife. We went through most of our generous platter of comfort food and a second round of killer cocktails rather too quickly. Before I knew it, Devika emerged from the kitchen with a fresh batch.

  ‘No more,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Just one!’ Devika said. ‘This could be my last drink in nine months!’

  How could you argue with that?

  Devika curled up on the sofa again. ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Amit.’

  No luck, then. She hadn’t really forgotten. ‘There is nothing to say,’ I shrugged.

  ‘You were seeing him forever! Something must have happened?’

  I gave it a moment. ‘He cheated.’

  Devika’s perfectly groomed left brow shot up. ‘On you?’

  ‘Yes, Devika. Thus my conclusion that you are the only one who thinks I’m irresistible. And it wasn’t some little fling, either. He married the girl. All in two months.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Devika said, reaching out for my hand. ‘And you knew him for years?’

  ‘Since the day we started at the same elementary school. We were best friends and then we started dating in high school. We stayed together when I was away for college in the US, and he broke up with me six months after I got back.’

  ‘Bastard. It’s been, what, three years?’

  ‘And a half.’

  ‘Has there been anyone since?’

  ‘There were a few guys who didn’t amount to much, and then there was Neil.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He was kind of a booty call on loop.’

  ‘When did it end?’

  ‘A few months ago.’

  She crinkled her nose in displeasure. ‘Why don’t you ever tell me these things?’

  ‘What’s to tell?’

  ‘I have never known anyone as secretive as you. But I guess that is an occupational hazard.’

  ‘Yes, would you hire a blabber-mouthed detective? But seriously, Devika, I would have mentioned it if it was important.’

  ‘Why wasn’t it anything more than a booty call?’

  I knew how she would react to what I was about to say next, and I would have known better than to say it at all had I been sober. ‘There was nothing going on up here,’ I said, tapping a little too enthusiastically at my head, which felt far from clear at the moment.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There was no men-mental chemistry,’ I slurred.

  How she remained focused with all that tequila floating around her forty-five kg frame I’d never know. ‘Silly girl!’ she scoffed.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Silly girl,’ Devika repeated. ‘You can’t go expecting everything from one package!’

  I didn’t reply and she felt free to continue delivering judgement.

  ‘No one will ever be able to satisfy all your needs!’

/>   Devika’s words made it through somehow, though I had done my best to ignore my own head trying to relay the very same message to me so many times before.

  ‘Do you think Vivek and I have it all?’ she continued. ‘Our interests are nothing alike. Sure, he’s bright as a cracker, but about engineering-type things that bore me to tears. And if I talk to him about fashion, he threatens to take off again on his world travels. And there is the tiny fact that he is never actually here!’

  ‘But it works,’ I pointed out.

  Devika shook her head. ‘Correction: we make it work.’

  I let this sink in. It was nothing new, but coming from one of the few happily-marrieds in my acquaintance, it sounded more like wisdom than it did a quote from a beauty-magazine self-help story. (I worked for a beauty magazine—I would have reminded myself had I been sober. It is always prudent to remember which side your baguette is buttered on.)

  ‘But shouldn’t the desire to make it work come naturally if it feels right?’ I asked.

  ‘Only if you live in a goddamn rom-com, Reema. For women like you and me, the desire to be pinned down to one man doesn’t come naturally. We aren’t marriage seekers. But at some point, you have to decide. You say there is nothing wrong with Neil?’

  I skipped ahead. ‘Ergo there must be something wrong with me?’

  ‘No, not you. But maybe your—or his—attitude. And that is where being ready comes in. If you are ready for commitment, it falls into place. And I think you are ready.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Not that you’ll ever admit it. But you aren’t exactly sowing your wild oats here, are you? Don’t be a Jane!’

  ‘Huh? Who’s Jane?’

  ‘Who’s Jane? Only the sister sidekick of your darling Elizabeth Bennett.’

  ‘Since when do you quote from books? That too Pride and Prejudice?’

  ‘Ever since you forced me to read it. Might as well put it to some use. You know how she was all stand-offish and composed all the time? That’s you! You always seem so self-sufficient that no man will ever make the mistake of thinking that you need him!’