Pirate Vishnu (A Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery) (2 page)

“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?”

“What does he have to do with your family treasure?”

“In my career in the courtroom,” Steven said, “I learned to piece together seemingly irrelevant facts that together paint a full picture. I need some additional facts from you before I can explain more.”

“I don’t know what I could possibly tell you about Anand that could help,” I said.

“I’ve identified a lost family treasure,” Steven said, “but I don’t have quite enough information to find it.”

“What is
it
?” The longer I talked to Steven Healy, the less I felt I knew.

“Tell me what you know of Anand,” he said instead of answering my question.

There was something commanding about Steven Healy’s presence. I couldn’t quite believe I was having this conversation, yet I found myself wanting to answer the question. He must have been a good courtroom lawyer. His body language created a feeling of familiarity, even though I’d never before laid eyes on him.

“He’s my namesake,” I said, “as I’m sure you figured out from my middle name. But I never knew him. He died long before I was born—long before even my mother was born—as a hero in the Great San Francisco Earthquake of 1906. He was killed trying to save one of his friends, but they both died.”

“Is that all you know of him?”

“He was  a grand figure who lived life to the fullest. That’s how my great-grandfather always spoke of him to my mom. He was supposedly a wanted man for his support of Indian independence, which was revolutionary at the time because it advocated for freedom from both the British and the local kings. Since the ideas about Indian nationalism and independence weren’t widespread until the First World War, when Mahatma Gandhi became a leader of the independence movement, I always wondered if the story was embellished because of the fact that Anand died tragically and heroically at the age of twenty-five in that famous earthquake. My great-grandfather was still a boy at the time Anand died. He was greatly affected by his brother’s death.”

“He saved the letters from his brother?” Steven leaned forward.

“Letters?”

“I know Anand wrote to his brother back in India.”

“How can his letters be relevant to your family treasure?” I asked.

“You haven’t read the letters?”

“Not personally. My mother’s father shared them with her. They’d have noticed if he mentioned a treasure. Anand barely had enough money to send some of it home, but that’s it. He fixed boats and ships in San Francisco before the earthquake.”

“So you really don’t know.”

“Know what?” I asked. My patience was growing thin.

“Anand Paravar,” he said slowly, his eyes locked on mine, “didn’t die a hero in the Great Quake of 1906.”

I took a moment before responding, thinking through the stories my mother had told me while we walked along the beaches of Goa, past the colorful fishing boats like the ones the Paravars had built for generations. “Everything my family heard—”

“Was wrong,” Steven cut in.

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Because this,” he said, pausing as he pushed a yellowed piece of paper across the desk, “is the treasure map that led to his death.”

Chapter 2

The map Steven Healy pushed toward me was a hand-drawn sketch of San Francisco. A sheet of plastic protected the faded paper. The edges were uneven and the ink was faded, but the central area with the drawing was intact and legible.

The city of San Francisco is only seven miles in each direction, so it’s a compact enough area that the artist had been able to illustrate landmarks in the small drawing. The landscape and buildings depicted in the sketch were simple but clear, telling me the map had been drawn by someone familiar with the city but not an artist. The area surrounding the city oriented the city in its bay, with the Marin land mass to the north and several islands and Alameda County to the east.

The discoloration and uneven edges suggested the map was as old as Steven had claimed. I felt a small thrill as I studied it, a common reaction when I see a true piece of history in front of me. History often feels more real to me than the present. You can understand things about the past that the present hides from you.

The map included a few sites that were easy to recognize: the Ferry Building on the east side of the city, a shipyard on the southeast coastline near Potrero Hill, and the Cliff House on the northwest coast near Lands End. The land masses to the north and east were drawn close to scale, making them easy to recognize. In the center of the map were a few buildings that didn’t look familiar.

The landmarks placed the creation of the map after the Gold Rush, once San Francisco had grown into a real city. But this wasn’t a map drawn by your average prospector. Using the same fountain pen that had drawn the map, someone had written notes next to several of the locations. Not in English. The map’s text was written in the Indian language of Tamil. Uncle Anand, like all the Indian side of my family, was Tamilian.

I didn’t speak much Tamil or have the ability to read the script. Since my father is American, I didn’t practice speaking any Indian languages at home once we moved to the United States after my mother’s death. Though I don’t read the language, it has a distinctive rounded script that made it easy to recognize.

Someone else had already translated the Tamil into English. Across the top,
My Cities
was written. Close to the eastern coast, another path had been drawn, with the words
Path of the Old Coast
. On that path were sketches of two buildings with names that weren’t familiar:
MP Craft Emporium
and
The Anchored Enchantress
. A store and a brothel, perhaps? Not an image of one’s uncle one wants to imagine. I moved on. Under the building labeled
MP Craft Emporium,
in the downtown area of the city, the word
Lost
had been written. Along the water near the Cliff House at Lands End in the west was the word
Found
.

Most interesting of all, and what must have been the reason for Steven Healy’s visit, was what was drawn next to the word
Found
: a large X stood out on the map.

X marks the spot.

Fantasy or not, my heart beat a little bit faster as I saw that
X
on the faded map.

“This is what your grandmother left you to find the family treasure?” I asked, my mind racing as I spoke. “A map in
Tamil
? And who made these English translations?”

“They were there when I found the map,” he answered quickly.  Too quickly...

“You aren’t telling me everything,” I said.

“There’s a lot to tell,” he replied. “With Anand’s letters, it will make more sense.”

“Why don’t you try me?”

“Well,” Steven said with a gentle shake of his head, “since you insist… I was merely trying to spare your feelings.”

“Spare my feelings about
what
?” This conversation was getting stranger by the minute.

“Your great-granduncle,” he said, “was a thief who stole a treasure from my family.”

“Hold on—”

“I’m sorry,” Steven said. “But Anand wasn’t what you thought he was. He was a thief.”

“Even if Anand drew this map—”

“He did. And it got him killed.”

I opened my mouth but Steven cut me off again.

“I promise I’ll explain everything,” he said, picking up the aged paper and handing it to me. “I can tell you want to have a closer look.” He was right. I wanted to know more. With the map in my hands, I spotted something I hadn’t noticed before. Certain parts of the map had been drawn with a steadier hand than others. Since Anand was a ship builder and often traveled by boat, could this have been drawn while he was at sea?

“This
X
mark on the map hasn’t led you to your treasure?” I asked.

“Unfortunately not.”

“The map isn’t signed,” I pointed out.

“No, but—”

“I agree it’s suggestive,” I said. “This writing is Tamil, and there weren’t many Tamils in San Francisco a hundred years ago. But it’s not smart to leap to the conclusion—”

“My grandmother Maybelle knew him,” Steven said. “The map was among her possessions that she left me.”

There was so much missing from what I knew about the heroic uncle who had made such an impression on my mother through her grandfather’s stories. I knew so little about the Indian side of my family, period. And here was a possible connection sitting across from me in my office. But could I believe what he told me?

“How did she know Anand?” I asked.

“He was friends with my grandfather.”

“Your grandfather was Indian as well?” I again noticed the hint of Asian features in his appearance.

“No. But he was an immigrant, too. They looked out for each other.”

I nodded, understanding the connection between fellow travelers in a foreign land. “Your grandmother is the one who told you Anand had stolen this treasure—from her and your grandfather? And that he’d been killed over it?”

Steven hesitated. “There’s much to tell, but also much to learn. If you’ll help me, I’ll tell you everything.”

I considered my options before speaking. I couldn’t figure out what he was up to. Did he think I’d steal this secret treasure for myself, as he believed Anand had done?

“My great-grandfather Vishwan received a letter shortly after the earthquake,” I said. “The letter told him Anand had been killed along with a friend he’d been trying to save. That’s a more solid fact than an unsigned map. I know it’s tempting to believe this old drawing is a treasure map, but—”

“That’s what your family was told so they wouldn’t go after the treasure,” Steven said. “It was a lie.”

I stared across my desk at Steven. Could any of this be true?

“Supposing there’s some truth in what you’re telling me,” I said. “I still don’t understand exactly what you’re asking of me.”

“The letters,” Steven Healy said. “I need the letters Anand wrote to your great-grandfather.”

“He didn’t mention a treasure to his brother.”

“You said you hadn’t read the letters.”

“It’s the kind of thing my family would have mentioned.”

“Not,” he said, “if they didn’t know what they were looking for.”

“What should they have been looking for?”

Steven folded his hands in his lap with forced calmness. “I need those letters.”

“I don’t have them.”

“But you can get them.”

Surely my family would have known about this mysterious treasure if there had been anything in Anand’s letters to Vishwan.

“There are a lot of letters over a lot of years,” I said.

“1906,” he said without hesitation. “It would be a letter from 1905 or 1906. Help me find those letters, and I can explain more.” 

I opened my mouth to object, but Steven cut me off. “Think over my offer.”

I glanced at the map. Did I really want to get involved? I was in no mood for entering another search for a treasure, even if Uncle Anand was involved. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to focus on anything else if I didn’t at least look into it. Briefly. An hour or so of my time couldn’t hurt.

“I’ll need this,” I said, picking up the map.

Steven hesitated, but he recovered quickly. He wanted me to cooperate. And I was sure he’d made copies already.

“Of course,” he said, a false smile on his lips. “And you’ll look into those letters.”

“I will,” I said, glancing at the clock on my computer monitor. Damn. Had that much time really gone by? I was going to be late.

Steven nodded and picked up his briefcase. But instead of standing up, he opened the case on his lap and removed a receipt book. He scribbled some words, then ripped out the top copy and handed it to me.

“Confirmation that you’re borrowing the map,” he said, snapping the briefcase shut and standing up. “I’ll come back at the same time tomorrow. I trust that will be enough time to make initial inquiries.”

I slipped the receipt into my messenger bag along with my laptop and research notes, then walked Steven Healy to the door. I watched him disappear down the hallway before locking my office door behind me. My hands fumbled with the key as I processed all the information I’d learned in the last half hour.

Murder. Treasure maps. Missing letters.

Was any of this real? The only thing I knew for sure was that Steven Healy wasn’t the only one who could withhold information. I already knew exactly where the letters were.