The Perils of Peaches (Scents of Murder Book 3) (17 page)

“Yes, when we talked that one morning on your porch.”

“Well, I found something in our pharmaceutical records that has me worried. You know, I’ll tell you tonight. I know you’re working.”

“All right. It’ll keep. We’ll see you tonight.”

“Good,” said Barkha. “Oh, I also have a confession to make.”

“About what? Please tell me it’s not about the case?”

“No, something else. And it has to do with your soap.”

“Aren’t you just the one with secrets?” My brain floundered for what she could possibly be hinting at.

“Yes. But I can’t tell you anything more until I get a certain phone call from Atlanta. Hopefully soon.”

I decided not to attempt to drag any information from her just yet. “Well, we’ll see you at supper tonight.”

Chapter Fourteen

We showed up at Barkha’s farmhouse at five minutes before six. For some reason we dressed up a little for the occasion, me in a starched pair of capris and a comfy cotton tunic, and Ben in cloth cargo shorts and a button-down shirt. Even Hannah wore her newest little sundress that Momma had found on sale at a thrift shop. I had topped some peaches with a Bisquick dropped biscuit crust, for makeshift peach cobbler dessert in a snap.

When Barkha opened her front door, all we did was stare. She smiled shyly at us, as if we’d just met. I’d never seen her wear a sari before, and tonight, she looked every bit the princess. She could have been straight off the set of Aladdin. Light sparkled off the fine gold embroidery in her red and gold silken garments. Her long hair, wrapped in a thick gold cord, hung in a thick braid past her shoulder.

“Please, come in. I . . . I felt like dressing up tonight.” A crunch of tires on gravel sounded behind us, and we glanced back. Jerry.

He parked next to us, and left his vehicle. Two more things made me stare. Jerry carried a bouquet of lilies, and he wore a tie. I couldn’t recall the last time he’d worn a tie. When he stood up for Ben at our wedding, maybe?

Then I finally noticed the smells drifting our direction. Spices and heat, and something sweet, too. My mouth watered. “Barkha, whatever you’ve cooked smells wonderful.”

“I can’t wait to see what you’ve made,” Ben said. “I even took some heartburn medicine ahead of time. I’ve never had Indian food, but I’ve heard it’s pretty spicy.”

Barkha nodded. “It can be, but not all of it is. It just depends on how much spice you add . . . Jerry, hi.”

His figure blocked the doorway, and he tugged at his tie with his free hand while extending the bouquet in Barkha’s direction. “Er, hi. I brought these for you?”

“Thank you, thank you so much. These are lovely.” She accepted the flowers and held them to her nose. “So sweet, and fresh . . . well, this way to the kitchen.”

I think if Ben or I had poked Jerry just then, he’d probably keel over. But we followed Barkha to her large country kitchen. Jerry somehow maneuvered in front of us. Bowls and platters covered the large butcher-block table in the center of the black-and-white tile floor. I didn’t recognize any of the dishes

Barkha went to one of the white cabinets and pulled out a vase for her flowers. “Sit anywhere you like. Andi, does your dessert need refrigerating?”

“No. I brought peach cobbler, which just needs to stay warm. But the vanilla ice cream needs to be in the freezer.” I put the foil pan of cobbler on the stove and turned to face the refrigerator.

“Speaking of peaches, remember that phone call I was expecting from Atlanta?” Barkha asked.

“Yes . . .”

“It didn’t come. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I smiled at her, and glanced at Ben, who wore a puzzled expression.

“Ladies, I’ll be right back,” he said. “I need to get Hannah’s high chair from the truck.” He attempted to pass Hannah off to me, but Auntie Barkha intercepted. Hannah, of course, was fascinated by Barkha’s sparkling chandelier earrings. I’d never seen her wear anything so vivid before. The size reminded me of the silvery ones from the doctor’s office, but these earrings had stones that matched the color of her sari and had a much more elegant shape.

Jerry had taken a seat at the island and was staring at the food. “Do you always cook this much food?” He glanced at Barkha’s petite figure in disbelief.

“No, I certainly don’t.” She rescued one of her earrings yet again from Hannah’s exploring fingers. “I happen to love a good cheeseburger, and I’m partial to manicotti. But I was missing my family, and a good moong dal.”

“What’s that?” Jerry asked.

“It’s a split bean, sort of like a soybean, seasoned and spiced with peppers.”

Barkha shifted Hannah to one hip, moved closer and pointed to a dish. “Sample some. Take a spoon of the rice, and scoop up some of the beans. It has a little bite. You can use the naan to mop up the rest of it.” She gestured to a stack of round, slightly puffy flatbread.

Jerry was strictly a traditional American meat ’n’ potatoes guy, and known to eat an occasional salad especially after he started cutting back on some of his portions a couple of years ago. To see him sitting in front of an exotic ethnic smorgasbord amazed me.

“Got the highchair.” Ben came into the kitchen. “Hey, were you expecting someone else tonight? Because I hear a car coming up the drive.”

“No . . .” Barkha passed Hannah back to me, and headed around Ben. “Please, sit down and help yourselves, and I’ll see who this is. It had better not be Tushar. I’m not up to talking to him tonight.”

Ben set up the high chair, and I tucked Hannah in it and pulled her closer to the table. When I sat down and surveyed the dishes, I did recognize a dish consisting of zucchini and shrimp. I didn’t know what to try. Instead, I picked up the pitcher of tea near my plate.

“Iced tea, anyone?”

Jerry extended his glass in my direction, and I poured. Voices filtered from the front room. Barkha’s tones, high-pitched. A man’s voice echoed, with a similar pitch. Jerry jerked his hand to the side and tea poured onto the table instead of his glass.

“Sorry about that.” Jerry set down his glass as I lowered the pitcher. “I’m going to see what’s goin’ on out there.”

As he stood, Barkha reentered the kitchen. An Indian couple followed her, the man in nice slacks and a button-down linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up. The woman had graying dark hair and kind eyes. They sparkled as she assessed the kitchen and her gaze darted to each of us.

“Everyone, these are my parents, Balendra and Mallika Mukherjee.” Barkha stood to the side. “Mom, Dad, these are my friends, Ben and Andromeda Hartley, their daughter Hannah, and Ben’s brother, Jerry.”

We all murmured our greetings, and Jerry shook hands with Barkha’s father. So, he got to meet the parents already. This could be good. Or very bad. Barkha looked like she wanted to disappear into a corner instead of host a dinner party. I had a flashback to the movie Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner.

“We’re tired of our daughter not calling us, so we decided to drive out for a long weekend,” said Mrs. Mukherjee. “Call it an early birthday present.”

Barkha looked at the floor, then seemed to remember herself. “I’ve just set supper out. You’re in time to join us. Um, Jerry. I have some spare chairs in that closet around the corner of the fridge. And I’ll get some more glasses and silverware.”

Once everyone had a chair and we shifted, I was stuffed between Ben, with Hannah in her high chair by our shoulders. Barkha was elbow to elbow next to Jerry, and her parents were across from them.

“Jerry, would you please give thanks for our meal?” Barkha asked. She didn’t look at her parents. They merely stared at her.

Ben caught my hand in his, and we bowed our heads. I tried to concentrate on Jerry’s words, but my guesses at what Barkha’s parents must be thinking kept running through my mind. One of the reasons she’d ended up here was her newfound faith, and her conflict with her family and culture. Barkha had run away in a manner of speaking, and I couldn’t blame her. Lord, I’m thankful. Help Barkha while her family is here, and take away her fears.

“Amen,” I heard, so I echoed my own “Amen” and smiled at Ben.

“I’m glad to see you’ve kept your cooking traditions.” Barkha’s mother beamed at her. “I hope you put enough spice in the moong dal.”

“I used your recipes, as best I could. I didn’t actually plan to cook today.” Barkha picked up a platter of fish. “Andi, this is a dish called maccher jhol.”

“Looks sort of like . . . fried catfish?” I used a fork to spear one of the fillets and placed it on my plate.

“You’re right. It is.” Barkha laughed, a nervous sound as she looked at her mother. “Yes, mom, I did use the right spices. But they didn’t have the fish you usually buy.”

Remarkably, Jerry served himself some of the catfish. And the man deplored fish. He’d sooner go hungry. I made the mistake of grilling salmon one night to try something different, and Jerry dropped by for supper unexpectedly. The guys ended up ordering pizza not two hours after supper. So much for my being adventurous.

Her father took a bite of the beans he’d served himself. “Good. The moong dal could have used more spice, though.”

“Dear, it’s just fine.” Barkha’s mother helped herself to another dish, some kind of chicken, and started swooping up the meat with her torn up naan. I could smell the heat of the dish from where we sat.

I filled part of my plate with some fried eggplant and fried okra. The first bite burst in my mouth. “I didn’t know eggplant was used in Indian cooking.”

“Yes, aubergine is one of our native plants.” Her mother nodded. “Barkha, I do like how you substituted zucchini for gourd.”

“Thanks, Mom.” For the first time since her parents had arrived, Barkha smiled a real smile, and I glimpsed what she may have looked like as a little girl.

“I understand there’s been some trouble at your office,” said Mr. Mukherjee. “Tushar’s father called me.”

Barkha nodded. “Dr. Bradley passed away unexpectedly. And it looks like someone murdered him.”

“Murdered?” Mrs. Mukherjee clutched her husband’s arm.

“I certainly hope the police are finding out who did this.” Her father’s voice rumbled low, then raised at the end of his statement.

“Well, Mr. Mukherjee, we’re doing all we can. We’re still waiting for the final toxicology reports to come back from the medical examiner. We’ve questioned a number of people of interest.”

“Is that so? And your job in all this is . . . ?” Her father seemed to notice Jerry’s presence again. I couldn’t tell if he was simply ignoring the fact that a man—not of their choosing—was sitting next to their daughter. Clearly Mr. Mukherjee didn’t do subtle.

“I’m Greenburg’s chief of police.”

“You should ask Barkha about medicine,” her mother spoke up. “I know she’s a general practitioner, but she studied toxicology as well.”

“It’s been a while, Mom. That was back in medical school. I’d once had an interest in toxicology and pharmaceuticals, before choosing general practice,” Barkha explained to us. “And besides, I can’t officially participate in the investigation.”

“Preposterous.” Her father helped himself to some more sauce for his bread. “It’s not as if you’re a suspect or anything like that. Are you?”

The room fell silent, and I couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say. Barkha, studying pharmaceuticals at one time. That didn’t sound good.

“Dad . . .”

“You’re not, are you? How could you be?”

I didn’t want to see Barkha’s relationship with her parents crumble further, so I opened my mouth. “It’s not that—”

“Your daughter worked closely with Dr. Bradley. It’s normal to question a victim’s coworkers and hold them up to scrutiny,” said Jerry. “We need to find a trail of clues that point to how this man died. Once we have someone in custody, his or her defense attorney will do everything in their power to discredit any evidence or witnesses we bring. Not only is Barkha an employee, she’s also a good friend of mine, and she’d be an easy target for the DA to discredit. Although, I’ve got to say she’s not our main focus of interest at this time.”

I wanted to cheer. But the yogurt dish I’d just tasted sang on my taste buds and offset the heat of what I’d sampled earlier. “Barkha, this is delicious. I think Hannah would enjoy this.” I put a spoonful on her highchair tray.

“Thanks. It’s called mishti doi. Very simple to make. Try some with the fruit.” She darted a look at her father, who busied himself with the food on his plate. “Dad, Mom, I have a spare bedroom.”

“I’d love to see your house,” her mother said. “It looks comfortable and roomy. Certainly larger than that box of an apartment you had in Atlanta. Your father wanted to buy you that townhouse, but . . .” She shook her head.

“I know he did, and I’m appreciative of that. But I didn’t want to buy right away.”

“Real estate is always a good investment, Barkha-Chandra.” Her father wiped his mouth with his napkin and placed it on the table.

Jerry left the last bite of his fish on his plate. “I can help bring your bags in, if you like.”

“Certainly.” Her father’s voice held a lordly air. “Here are the keys. Oh, it would be better if I showed you.”