Tulip Season (15 page)

It bothered Mitra that she and Robert didn't seem to breathe the same air. He seemed so detached and depressed at times. He viewed her as a migraine-inducing freelancer, a thistle in his rose patch, when in fact Mitra was ready to be a friend. So it pleased her, on her way to having a face-to-face with Robert, that he'd offered her some of his gardening books. What if she asked him to lunch and they spent a little time talking shop over a plate of something delicious? Then he might view her in a gentler light and devising a column wouldn't be such a mutual ordeal.

Robert did have a caring side and he'd begun showing it. When she needed to interview an expert on fertilizers, he got her in touch with a woman from Urban Horticulture.

The review date for Mitra's columnist status was fast approaching. Wouldn't it be grand if Robert kept her column beyond the test period? If he went back to his garden? If they became friends? Mitra still hadn't managed to make Robert laugh, though she vowed to get a chuckle out of the old curmudgeon before she was through.

TWENTY-FOUR

STILL ON HER WAY
to the
Seattle Chronicle's
offices, taking a detour due to an accident and waiting for the light to change at the intersection of 50
^th
and Roosevelt Way, Mitra noticed a pedestrian who looked familiar. Absent-mindedly, as he crossed the street, with quick intense steps, she examined him closer. It was Adi.

A flash-chill coursed through her arms. She was still processing the dread of a partially paid ransom and its potential consequences. Clothed in an old blue sweatshirt and jeans, Adi entered Cinema Books, located at the southwest corner of the intersection.

Wait a minute. Why wasn't he at work? Why wasn't he dressed in his usual business attire? She'd never known him to be a movie buff.

She made a quick decision, took a right turn, parked in an alley only a block away, and jumped out of her car. After walking up to Roosevelt Way, she hid herself behind a chestnut tree located two doors down from Cinema Books, feeling foolish. Even though she wasn't sure what she'd find, she had to do this silly bit of sleuthing.

In a few minutes, Adi exited the store, holding a plastic bag loaded with books, and took several quick steps in her direction. She edged her way around the thick trunk of the chestnut tree, trying to avoid his line of sight.

He looked straight at her. Her breath quickened. She stood immobilized, weighing her options of either running or confronting him. She chose the latter.

He planted himself boldly in front of her, holding a contemptuous expression on his face. “Hey, Mitra. Isn't it a little early in the year for chestnuts?”

She caught the irony in his voice. Veen had warned her about Adi. And he might be wondering if she was following him. If he did, that might not go well for her. Regardless, she decided to stay and act casual. In broad daylight, on this major thoroughfare, with pedestrians buzzing about, what could he do to her?

She smiled. “But apparently not too early for film books.”

“Why don't you ever give up looking for Kareena?”

“I simply want to find out what films I should watch,” she said lightly.

“You have time to watch films? Don't you write that gardening column in the newspaper? Doesn't that occupy you? I read your essay on weeding.”

She tensed. “Why are you asking me about my column when there are so many more important things? Let me ask you this—did you pay the rest of the ransom?”

“Mitra, can't you just leave the fuck alone? I mean—”

He stopped speaking, turning his attention toward a bespectacled clerk who had rushed out of Cinema Books and was rapidly approaching him. “A mistake in your credit card transaction, sir,” the clerk said. “If you'd be kind enough to step in—I'd like to run your card through one more time, if you don't mind.”

Adi looked bewildered, but followed the clerk, turning back once to glare at Mitra.

She hurried to her car and drove away.

* * *

Robert—portly and middle-aged, with a bland façade—stooped over an open cardboard box on the floor and slid a stack of ten or so books across the large metal desk toward her.

Her mind still agitated from that encounter with Adi, Mitra sorted through the books, sitting cross-legged on the floor. The subjects were varied: Northwest mushrooms, now-fashionable ornamental grass, and boutique dahlias. Perusing these, sifting through fresh ideas and putting them to use, would give her overworked mental faculties a rest.

She collected a set of four under her arm and stood up. “Thanks, Robert. I'll enjoy reading them and also build muscles carrying them.”

Robert didn't smile. “Have a chair, Mitra. I just got an e-mail from a subscriber who said your grandmother column was ‘pure crap.’”

Hmm. Might it be Adi? She dropped on a chair facing Robert's desk, not sure what to expect.

“His grandmother sleeps seventeen hours a day, complains that he neglects her, and when he brings her presents, grouses about how cheap and tasteless they are,” Robert said in a light tone, as he read from the screen. “What a silly idea to celebrate the cranky old hags of the universe. He asked us to terminate you.”

She asked, with hope in her, “Did you like my column, Robert?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. You're still a bit formal, but you obviously have interesting ideas. Readers like me, who've never thought of helping their grandmothers, or other deserving persons in their lives, are inspired by you.”

Mitra offered him an appreciative glance, felt a smile flicker inside her.

Robert leaned back in his chair, asked Mitra how she got started in this business, and she was only too happy to tell him. In turn, she asked Robert how he got into editing from crime reporting.

“I lived in Phoenix when I was a crime reporter,” he replied. “Phoenix is the capital of KFR—Kidnapping for Ransom. The first time I followed a KFR incident, I started out with only bits of information and kept adding to it until I could see my way around. Ultimately, I traced the criminals behind it. I loved the work. Then I moved to Seattle and could only get a position as an editor.” His eyes filled with sadness. “Tell me about what's going on with your missing friend.”

Mitra took him through everything that had happened since they had last spoken, emphasizing her arguments with Adi about the ransom letter. Robert took notes in a notepad. Going through the details made Mitra so sad that at one point she stopped speaking.

“You all right?” Robert asked.

He walked over to the office break room across the hallway and returned with two glasses of water.

“Your friend's case is an interesting one,” Robert said. “Eventually, I'd want to write about it for the paper.”

“I appreciate all your help.”

They schmoozed for awhile, unusual for Robert. He was trying to brighten her mood, she supposed. She asked him about his garden, if he had gone back to it.

His eyes sunk deeper under a jungle of eyebrows, even as the customary rain cloud returned to his face. He seemed to be asking: Why go so moony over plants? Why go so moony over anything? We all know life is one lick of punishment after another. He looked depressed, stayed silent.

She noticed a fancy gold-toned business card engraved with a dancing figure on the desk. Another glance revealed the card was from Caribe, the new Caribbean dance hall and bistro just up the street from the newspaper office. The man did have a weakness. Might this be the place to take him out to dinner, to show her appreciation and become closer friends? Imagining him slightly inebriated, twisting, undulating, and perspiring on a smoky dance floor, she couldn't help but smile to herself affectionately.

Belatedly, remembering her client appointment, she scrambled to her feet. She was already fifteen minutes late. She thanked Robert for the books. “And, with you helping me, I no longer feel like I've reached a dead end.”

“Take care, Mitra.”

She strode out, listening to a whistling tune from an adjoining cubicle and observing a butterfly kite hanging precariously from the ceiling. In another ten minutes, she reached her client's house only to have the doorbell unanswered. How much the recent events had changed her work habits. She'd never missed an appointment before.
Oh, Mitra, how could you do that? Don't you understand how much reputation counts in this business?

On the way home, she stopped at Cinema Books on Roosevelt. The clerk she'd seen speaking with Adi earlier in the day stood at the cash register.

“Hi,” she said brightly to him. “I saw you talking with my cousin earlier. Do you remember him? Do you know what he likes to read? I'd like to get him a birthday present.”

“Oh, yes, I remember your cousin. I helped him. He bought a bunch of books. I'll show you the big book he wanted to buy, but couldn't. His credit card didn't go through. He paid cash for the other books.”

They walked to the shelf together. The clerk pulled out an oversized book titled,
Bollywood: Now and Then
by P.R. Rashid.
According to the synopsis on the book jacket, the book concerned itself on the history and current state of the Bombay film industry: “Everything you ever wanted to know about Bollywood.”

Back to her house, Mitra phoned Detective Yoshihama and recounted the details of her encounter with Adi outside Cinema Books.

“So you suspect a film connection?” he asked, his voice going deeper, indicating he was taking her suggestion seriously. “That's most interesting.”

“I was never much for Bollywood movies,” she replied, “but I'm going to read every word of this book.”

TWENTY-FIVE

AROUND TWILIGHT,
Mitra got into her Honda and headed to Grandmother's, turning on classic rock for company. She glanced at the rear-view mirror and saw a white Datsun pickup truck behind her.

Only seconds before, she'd seen the truck parked in front of her neighbor's Tudor. But now, drawing into the 45
^th
Street, she noticed the truck again behind her car. She wondered with a chill if the pickup could be following her. She took several lefts and rights and lost it, only to meet it coming back toward her in the opposite lane. Trembling, she took a look at the driver. Aged about fifty and possibly of Eastern European descent, he had a Baltic gloom hanging over his face. She checked his license plate and memorized the number: 666-ZVZ.

Upon reaching Grandmother's house, she parked in front and again checked her rearview mirror, relieved not to see the potential stalker. She called Detective Yoshihama and reported the incident. He greeted her eagerly and said he would make a note of it, adding, “I'm driving to a gun party. A shootout has gone on earlier. Talk later.”

For a moment Mitra forgot about her travail and wondered if he'd be safe. She hopped out of the car, walked along a cemented path, mounted the front stoop, and pressed the doorbell hard. Opening the door, Grandmother wrapped her in a hug, but made no comments about the rigidity of her body.

“Do you know I bought fifteen copies of the newspaper yesterday, the entire supply, at the corner grocery store?” Grandmother said. “The Vietnamese owner asked me to autograph a copy for her. ‘Grandmother's Day—what a fabulous idea,’ she said.”

Mitra glanced at her, then at the window, the pickup still on her mind.

“Anything wrong?” Grandmother asked, her face shadowed by concern.

“Someone's been trailing me today. He looks kind of creepy.”

“You know that doesn't surprise me. You're being shadowed for a reason. If it continues to be that way, report it to the police, will you?

“I've already called Detective Yoshihama.”

“Does it ever happen when you're out with Ulrich?”

“No.” Mitra's stomach clenched, as she heard Yoshihama's advice in her mind:
You might want to consider staying away from him
. “Actually, I haven't seen Ulrich much lately. I feel secure when he's around or when I go some place with him.”

“When a woman really wants to feel secure, she chooses a man who's more open about his background.” Grandmother paused. “I don't want to interfere and I've seen him only once. I only know what you've told me, but if you'd care to hear what I think—there are those who are the marrying kind and those who aren't. He looks like a drifter to me.”

Grandmother—why did she have to be so stern-eyed and so judgmental? “We're enjoying each other for now,” Mitra said. “I'm almost thirty, but not in a hurry, not thinking long term.”

“So they all say.”

“What are you really worried about?”

“That you'll make the wrong decision. Like me. That you'll latch on to someone and not be able to let go. Find out more about that guy, will you? He's trouble. And, I might as well share this with you. Yesterday, early in the morning, I saw him parked in front of my house. He was talking to himself. He saw me come out to get the paper. I'm sure he recognized me. And I believe he knew it was my house. I got back inside and locked the door. When I checked through the window a few minutes later, he was gone.”

Mitra found herself crumbling inside. How would Ulrich ever find out where Grandmother lived? Had he been going through Mitra's stuff? Might there be something wrong in his psyche?

“I'm sorry,” she said, “if he's scared you. He's never acted that strangely with me.”

Tampopo, their feline friend, stalked in, brushed against Grandmother's leg, and purred. Her forehead creased, Grandmother said, “Much as I don't want to pile on you, I found this little devil rolling around the flowerbed you worked on so hard.”

Mitra took a shaky breath. “What? Why did you let her loose? Let me go see.”

She rushed out the back door, Grandmother following, and headed straight to the flowerbed. Street light illuminated parts of the bed. It appeared as though it had been ravaged by a storm. The cat had dug up the soil and made a salad bar out of the tender seedlings. More than half the bed would need to be replanted. She shook her head and said to Grandmother that next time she'd spread bark mulch, scatter prickly pine cones, or throw crushed red cayenne flakes to discourage her frisky friend.

Tampopo strolled toward the lanky nicotiana plant in the far corner of the yard. About two feet high, it was already blooming red. Mitra and Grandmother followed Tampopo who leapt toward an unseen insect.