Dearly Departed (11 page)

CHAPTER 16

A
my called Fanny that night, which was mid-afternoon in New York, nine and a half hours earlier due to some strange Indian finagling with the international time zones. For once, Marcus wasn't at the house. Fanny mentioned that he was at work, starting a new job, but Amy was more in the mood for talking than listening. She reviewed the facts in great detail—from Billy's appearance in Istanbul to his death in Agra—then finally listened as her mother claimed that Billy Strunk's death must have been a coincidence. It was something that neither of them believed.

For the rest of the night, Amy lay awake, eyes staring unfocused on the ceiling. This was her usual reaction after a murder. And the fact that she realized she had a usual reaction only made it worse.

True, no one on the tour had died. In fact, no one in her group seemed to know the man. And while Amy doubted the police version of events, at least she wouldn't have to deal with the aftermath of another murder on her watch—the worry and suspicions among her guests, the headlines back home. Not for now.

When she noticed the room growing brighter, Amy dragged herself out of the comfortable but useless bed, slipped on a hotel robe, and groggily drew back the curtains. It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust, but the view was unobstructed and astonishing. She gasped. Many of the rooms at the Oberoi Amarvilas had this view. It was the whole reason behind the hotel. But still . . . to open your curtains and suddenly bask in the pinks and purples of a new day over the creamy white dome and minarets? The Taj Mahal looked almost translucent.

She stepped out on her balcony and stood there for maybe half a minute, bathing in the reflected glow. Then she went back inside, shut the French doors, and closed the curtains tight. The last thing she needed now was a glowing reminder of yesterday.

They had stayed at the overlook with the body for what had seemed like forever. Three groups of tourists had come to the spot and gone before the police arrived. An English family of four, full of smiles and wonder, had turned and seen the body and heard Peter's makeshift explanation about a mugging. The two boys were fascinated. But the English couple dragged them away with the promise of even more fun somewhere else. A small Chinese tour group were less upset with the bloody corpse. They stayed for several minutes and arranged their photos of each other so that the body was safely out of frame. Two Indian couples then arrived together with a blanket and the makings of a picnic. They were the hardest to get rid of. But through it all, Amy and Peter managed to keep an untrammeled perimeter around the crime scene. It turned out not to be that important.

Minutes later several khaki-clad officers strode up the path, then proceeded to touch the body, move the body, try to wake the body. The officer in charge removed the knife from the wound with an ungloved hand, then reconsidered his action and placed it back in the hole.

If the crime scene was chaotic, the local police station, the tourist
thana
on Fatehabad Road, was chaotic to the power of ten. When Amy and Peter arrived, the big event, apparently, was the aftermath of a collision between a goat and a motorbike, with about a dozen witnesses there to give their stories. A Norwegian tourist had come to report a stolen watch. And a trio of shopkeepers was trying to establish who had cheated whom, the prize obviously going to the one who could shout the loudest and wave his hands the most.

Assistant Superintendent Badlani seemed unfazed. He exchanged a few words with his subordinates, then ushered Peter and Amy outside to a scruffy dirt courtyard. The short, neat man with a pencil-thin mustache offered them a cigarette and, when they refused, lit one for himself and leaned against a concrete post.

“Very unfortunate,” he said, taking his first puff. “We are trying very hard to make life good for our visitors. That's why we made this special
thana
, to deal with tourists.” He must have deduced their skepticism. “Believe me,” he laughed, “you do not want to be in a typical
thana
.”

Amy smiled obligingly. Out of the corner of her eye, she couldn't help seeing a police car with a roof rack. It had just pulled in through the gates. What drew her attention most was the large object, almost the length of the car, wrapped in a blue tarp and tied securely on the rack. It wasn't until the police car disappeared around to the back that she realized what was inside the tarp.

Badlani saw that she saw. “Did you know this man? The deceased?” For the first time in the investigation, he took out a notepad and pen.

She and Peter had argued about how to answer this question. “His name is Billy Strunk,” she said. “William, I suppose.” It was better to stick to the truth, or some close version of it. “We met him in Istanbul a few days ago.”

“An American tourist?”

“He was an American living in Istanbul. I'm not sure what his citizenship was.”

“Was he staying also at the Oberoi?”

“We don't know,” Peter said. “We only met him for a few minutes at a bar in Istanbul. We were very surprised to find him here. Especially dead.”

The inspector found nothing strange with this coincidence. “Everyone comes to Agra,” he noted proudly. “The man had no wallet or identification, which is normal for a robbery killing.”

“You think it was a robbery?” asked Amy. She could almost feel Peter's eyes boring into the side of her head.

“We have had nasty robberies in the forest, yes. But very few robberies go nasty like this.”

“I'm sure you're right,” Peter agreed. “Robbery.”

“How do you know?” Amy demanded.

“Because it was in the forest, where robberies happen. And everything was gone,” Badlani added patiently. “No wallet or ring or jewelry.”

“Or the murderer took his possessions in order to make it look like a robbery.”

The assistant superintendent nodded. “Perhaps. Do you have many such experiences with robberies and murders, miss?”

“No,” blurted Peter. “She watches too much American TV.”

Amy had never considered the possibility that they themselves might be suspects. But they had known the victim. They had discovered the body. And it didn't help that they—she, actually—were trying to eliminate the option of a mugger.

“You are not leaving today?” the inspector said; a statement in the form of a question. “And you will be staying at the Oberoi? They have your passports at the desk?” Yes and yes and yes.

“We are not leaving today,” Amy assured him.

“Good. We will inquire at the hotels and find out more about your”—he checked his notes—“Billy Strunk. Is that a sentence?”

“A sentence?”

“A statement about a man who drinks.”

“What . . . Oh! Billy's drunk?” Amy hadn't thought of that. “No, it's Billy Strunk. Or Bill. Or William Strunk.”

“Was the man drinking when you first met him?”

“No,” Amy said, then remembered Peter's white lie about having met him in a bar. “Yes, I suppose he was drinking. But that was his name.”

“Are you sure he didn't just shake your hand and say, ‘Hey, Billy's drunk,' a kind of apology, and you misunderstood his words?”

“No, that's his name.”

The conversation with Badlani played once again in Amy's mind as she took her long morning shower. It had played all night, along with all the other scenes from yesterday. She took her time pulling herself together. Today would be her brown, slim ankle pants, topped by a caramel cowl-necked tank. It was easy and stylish, one of her best travel outfits, especially in the evenings, when she added a matching cardigan. She topped it off with her red Lafonts, the same glasses as yesterday; that was how distracted she was. When she left her room, ready to face the day, she was still too early for breakfast and not hungry at all.

Instead, she roamed the corridors of the Oberoi, wandering aimlessly out to the gardens and the ornamental pools and back again, keeping her eye off the glistening Taj and focusing on little things. It was like a form of meditation, and it helped to calm her as she tried not to think. The modern oil paintings of somber, ancient shahs; the gold ornamental Sanskrit done in relief on the ceilings; the colorful daggers, identical in their curved sheaths, mounted in the long hallways; the silver shields, the size of hubcaps, festooned with tassels . . . the colorful daggers.
Wait a minute!
And she took a closer look.

She must have glanced at them a dozen times before making the connection. These daggers were exactly the same size and design. A pair of them hung high by the entrance to a lounge.
Yes. Exactly like the murder weapon.
Just saying those words mentally—
murder weapon
—gave her the shivers. And they had once been such fun words, as in Sherlock Holmes or a game of
Clue
. There were dozens of identical daggers, maybe hundreds, fastened to the walls throughout the hotel, the blades clipped tightly into their sheaths, the sheaths clipped tightly into the stone.

Before she knew what she was doing, Amy was pacing the hallways, examining the walls for a missing knife. Every blank space of wall drew her eye. Had it once been hanging here? Was that a chip in the stone? Only gradually did it dawn on her that she was trying to prove a negative, trying to find a knife that wasn't there.

Anyone could have done it on the spur of the moment, needed a weapon and pried it off the wall. She was looking high on the walls, knowing the search was pretty much futile, but she eventually found it under the sole of her right flip-flop. Not the murder weapon, of course, but something just as good.

Amy had just rounded a corner, facing the third-floor corridor right above her own corridor, when something under her arch made her yelp in surprise. She picked up the pointed silver clasp, like a large, thick staple. It took her a few seconds to recognize it, as it lay among a few scattered bits of stone chips. Her eyes went from the clasp to the wall above her head. And there it was. Or rather, wasn't.

A lonely dagger pointed inward, trying to form a pattern with a mate that was no longer there. Two thoughts came quickly to mind as Amy stared at the empty space and the almost invisible chip in the stonework. One: this was all very recent, probably since this corridor was last vacuumed by the attentive staff. Two: this was the same corridor, one floor above hers, where all her guests were spread out in their suites, enjoying the best views.

Make that three thoughts. Three: Amy knew she was suspecting one of her own.

CHAPTER 17

T
his leg of the wake was supposed to have been held yesterday, at sunset, at the most dramatic of the many overlooks in the Protected Forest. But an hour before sunset, Assistant Superintendent Badlani had ordered the entire forest cordoned off.
Just out of spite
, Amy thought.

All evening long they had scrambled to find an alternative and had settled on the Mehtab Bagh gardens, on the banks of the Yamuna, directly across the river from the Taj. Dawn would have been a perfect time, with the sun hitting the eastern side and throwing its long, misty shadows across the winding water. But dawn wasn't a viable option for this bunch. Mid-morning would be much more acceptable.

The Mehtab Bagh was technically part of the Taj Mahal complex, literally a stone's throw across the river. But it was miles from the nearest bridge, and these formal gardens were spared the hordes of mid-morning visitors who daily jockeyed for position in front of the white marble and who employed a platoon of local entrepreneurs who made their living by taking your picture.

An unfortunate bend in the Yamuna had formed a permanent, marsh-like effect, at just the most picture-worthy spot on the bank. But Peter had been here before, and he knew enough to hire someone who knew where nine people might stand, prop up a photo of their maid, and throw even more dust into the silty marsh.

Everyone had heard about the murder, of course. It was the talk of the hotel, and the legend grew in the retelling. Strunk had been a wealthy businessman, they said. He had been assaulted by a gang of underage thieves and had fought for his life. “If only he hadn't fought,” a concierge had bemoaned to a desk clerk, wagging his head, “he would easily be alive.”

None of Amy's guests seemed overly troubled by the news, although Evan Corns did take her aside and point out the coincidence. “Weren't you just involved in a murder? A few months ago? You and your mother?”

“Seven months ago,” answered Amy. “And this one doesn't count, does it? It just happened nearby.”

“All the same. Being around for two murders?” He raised an eyebrow. “What are the odds?”

Amy studied the group of eight in their solemn semicircle facing the marshy expanse and tried to conjure up an alternate explanation. None was coming to mind. Strunk had followed one or more of them for thousands of miles, had asked questions about one or more, had followed one or more into the Protected Forest and, lacking an alternate explanation, had been murdered by one or more.

“The little beggar girl had to be ten years old at the most. Popping up out of nowhere in the middle of that big, crazy square in Marrakech. You know the one, the famous one. Anyway, before Herb knew what was happening, she tied this little string bracelet on his wrist. Tight, with a double knot. He tried to take it off, of course, but he couldn't. ‘It's a present. It's a present,' she kept saying, with this big smile on her face, holding on to his arm. ‘No money. Free for you. No money.'”

David Pepper was center stage beside the now slightly tattered photo of MacGregor on the easel. A few feet away stood his husband, the subject of this travelogue, which, given the uncomfortable look on his face, had been told before and was going to be embarrassing. David paused for just the right amount of time. Then, still in the little girl's voice, he added, “Now you give me a present, too. Money.”

The laughter was polite. It was a common enough anecdote, but perhaps a bit mean-spirited in the telling, Amy thought. Could they really begrudge a ten-year-old Moroccan girl working the Jemaa el Fna square, trying to make a little money off the rich tourists? But David wasn't through.

“I told Herb just to walk away. But now the girl had ahold of his wrist, and she was starting to shout, ‘I am your friend. I give you something. You give me something.' That's when my Herb made the mistake, dumb mistake, of taking out his wallet. And worse than that, taking out a wad of bills and waving them around. There must have been at least a dozen kids right close by, working the same scam, and as soon as they saw the green bills out in the open . . .” David paused, relishing the memory. “Like a flock of pigeons diving on a crust of bread.”

“My big mistake was running,” Herb said, reluctantly joining in.

David's laugh didn't even try to be affectionate. “He must have done three laps, lumbering around. And you know how big that square is. It's like a racetrack.”

Amy smiled dimly and tuned out the rest. By stop number three, the wake stories had grown less relevant, devolving into the normal anecdotes that people on trips told strangers about their previous trips, just to show off how worldly they were. This one didn't even mention Paisley MacGregor, except David's claim that the framed photo of a sweaty Herb showing his now empty wallet to a horde of disappointed Moroccan children had always been one of her favorites.

They were scheduled for the first-class train back to Delhi late that afternoon, but it was all dependent on getting their passports back. When the hotel manager said the police had come by and confiscated them, Amy screwed up her courage and paid another visit to the tourist
thana
on Fatehabad Road.

She located Assistant Superintendent Badlani at his desk in a small, windowless back office. The bedlam was not nearly what it had been the day before—a simple dispute over a taxi fare, plus what looked like a drunk and disorderly backpacker. Amy looked forward to being able to think and talk at the same time.

“Ah, Miss Abel. Come in, come in. Take a seat. Make yourself uncomfortable.” He laughed at his joke and motioned to a metal chair positioned across from his desk. He had remembered her name, she noticed, without checking his notes, which she did not really consider a good thing. “You are here, no doubt, about the passports.”

“Yes,” Amy said. “I'm sure it was just a mix-up.”

“No, no,” he said, still smiling. “No mix-up. I wanted you to visit me.” She didn't reply but simply lowered herself into the metal. He'd been right about the uncomfortable part. “We have been continuing our investigation.”

“Good. Were you able to trace the murder weapon?” She wasn't yet prepared to tell him about her dagger discovery.

“Murder weapon?” He seemed almost puzzled. “Oh, you mean the dagger. It is very, very common. Your hotel has many such daggers decorating the walls.”

“I didn't notice,” Amy lied.

“Yes, yes, dirt common.” Then, still smiling, he added, “Are you sure you knew this unfortunate man from Istanbul? No confusion with someone else?”

“Yes,” Amy said. “I mean no. Yes, I knew him, and no, no confusion. We spent maybe an hour together. And then I saw his face clearly when we found the body. It was him.”

“Yes. Good for you.” At this point, he finally consulted a page of notes. “Unfortunately, there is no hotel renting to a Mr. William Strunk.”

“That's the name he said. And he wasn't just saying he was drunk.”

“I am not doubting.” Badlani's smile vanished, like a switch had been thrown. “The lack of a hotel made us curious. No Mr. Strunk from anywhere has entered India. Not in six months. We are speaking to your country's Department of State to see if we can get a name match. Also Turkey.”

“You mean, you don't know who he is?”

“We are hoping you can help us.”

“Me?” Amy's mouth went dry.

“You are the person who found him, dear woman. You and your friend were alone with the body. You knew him from before he came here. So you say.”

“No. I told you everything. You don't . . . You can't suspect me.”

“I can suspect anyone I want.”

He let the harsh, impatient words hang. It was only ten seconds, but it felt like ten minutes. The room, Amy noticed for the first time, was made of cracked sandy concrete, like a cell, and a small air conditioner inserted crookedly in the concrete wall chugged away.

“No, that is a joke,” Badlani finally said with a comical shrug. “Yes, I can suspect anyone. I am assistant superintendent. But I do not suspect you. Or your friend.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” His laugh was almost a giggle. “Are you wanting to be a suspect? Missy, you had no blood. The killer would have blood. It spurted from him like a pig. You see, investigation is not all fingerprints. It's common sense. My officers were bloody just from touching him.”

“I was going to mention that, about them touching the body.”

Badlani nodded. “I believe you knew him, yes. But he had another name. Or he lied to you. Is there maybe a reason why he would lie?”

She gave the matter some thought. Yes, there was a reason Strunk would lie—if he didn't want them casually mentioning his name in front of a tour member. Amy wondered if there was any way she could offer this information, more of a theory than information, without subtly implicating one of her own guests. No, there wasn't, and she couldn't.

Besides, she had no proof that one of them was involved. And if she were to reveal her unfounded suspicions, Badlani would undoubtedly keep hold of their passports and interview everyone tomorrow and let it slip that she had named them all as suspects. That would make for a very awkward last few days. No, Amy would try to avoid any real police investigation, at least for now.

“You are thinking long and hard.”

The words startled her, and her shoulders twitched. “Sorry. No, I don't know why Mr. Strunk would lie. We were just acquaintances, fellow Americans at a bar.”

“You met by accident? With no friends in common? Did he tell you about his life?”

“Peter talked to him more than me.” She was only three words into the sentence when she regretted it. “But they didn't talk much. Can you arrange for our passports to be returned? That would be great.”

Badlani responded by steepling his fingers on top of his belt buckle. He breathed in slowly through his nostrils and out through his mouth, reminding her of Danny, her middle-aged yoga instructor back home on Barrow Street. “Not yet, I am afraid. I will be needing to talk to Mr. Peter Borg again.”