Such a Perfect Family, page 4
They needed to know what had happened.
The first thing I did was click through to Diya’s profile on her favorite social media app. Her smiling face hit me in the gut, the photo one I’d taken right before the “engagement” party the Prasads had thrown us.
Diya’s parents might have thawed toward me, but they weren’t over missing Diya’s wedding. Rajesh and Sarita had convinced us to pretend that we were only engaged, so that they could throw us a full Hindu wedding in six months’ time—spread over multiple days, it was to involve a guest list of hundreds and simply couldn’t be organized any faster.
You have no idea who she is or what she needs to be happy. Do you even know that she’s kept a wedding-ideas scrapbook since she was sixteen?
Bobby’s voice, his sharp words.
Diya’s older brother hadn’t been my biggest fan, either, not when we’d first arrived. But I’d appreciated him for his cold bluntness in telling me about Diya’s girlish dreams; it’d have devastated me to realize it down the road, when there was no chance of giving Diya the kind of wedding that she’d imagined.
Bobby had been right, too. My wife’s face had lit up when I’d agreed wholeheartedly with her parents’ desire for a full ceremony, complete with all the traditional rituals.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I’d murmured to her late that night as we lay face-to-face in bed, a thin sheet pulled over our naked bodies. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
“You already moved countries for me.” A sweet kiss pressed to my fingertips. “I wasn’t about to ask you to sign on for what’s sure to be an insane and over-the-top production that’ll hijack our lives for months.”
I’d laughed at her ominous description. “Tell me now. About all the things you dreamed.”
She’d turned and picked up her phone, then tucked herself up against me, the little spoon to my big spoon, and started with showing me images of intricate wedding mehndi. “Mehndi is henna,” she’d said when I hadn’t understood that word. “And, oh, by the way, I always dreamed that my groom would learn a romantic Bollywood dance number with me for our sangeet night. Full choreography.”
I’d groaned and buried my face in her curls. “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this, but I’ll do it—but only for you.”
Laughing, she’d snuggled in deeper and showed me more pieces of her dreams, translating terms and explaining the rituals as she went along. Ethnically half-Indian, half-white, I’d grown up “as American as apple pie,” as my mother used to say on the short-lived sitcom that had kicked off her career.
Cliché words, terrible script. No wonder the show had barely limped through its first season. But while the sitcom had died a quick death, it had made a superstar out of its leading lady before it closed up shop, the “vivacious, charismatic, and startlingly lovely” Audrey Advani.
My father, Anand, had framed the review for her; it still hung in the hallway of their Malibu home, a piece of a distant past when they’d been two young people in love—both on the cusp of the next stage of their careers.
“Audrey and Anand,” my father had been known to say when he was feeling maudlin. “We were meant to be.”
He spoke fluent Hindi, but only when we were alone—or when he was speaking to my paternal grandparents. The rest of the time, the Advani household ran on English. I’d learned to understand Hindi because of how much time I’d spent in my father’s study as a child, but my ability to speak it was middling at best. And when it came to tradition and ritual, of those I knew less than nothing.
“Mehndi,” I whispered, having forgotten all about the fact that Diya had decided to get her hands done for the engagement party. She’d spent hours with an artist who’d driven out to the house, her mum and Shumi her willing partners in the day of pampering and preparation.
The final mehndi was an intricate filigree across the backs and on the palms of both of Diya’s hands.
I could see part of the design in the photo she’d uploaded last night when she updated her profile image. She was seated at her vanity in a robe of emerald green that she’d closed up modestly so as to not “horrify the oldies,” her makeup done and her hand lifted as she showed off her engagement ring while beaming at me.
“Just so you know,” she’d told me the moment after I’d snapped the picture, “I’m planning to be one of those obnoxious brides who has her wedding photo as her profile picture for the next ten years. It’ll be a pic from tonight until then.”
Only…she’d never had the chance to upload any of the photos from the party itself.
A broken rock in my throat, I clicked through to Shumi’s profile from an older photo where Diya had tagged her. And soon frowned, my shoulders hunching as I concentrated on the small screen. I scrolled and scrolled without finding a single photo of the other woman’s family.
Two years down and still nothing.
I kept going despite my stiff neck, until at last I landed on an image of Shumi with a youth of maybe nineteen. The two had the same eyes, the same shape to their lips. The caption read: My baby brother all grown up!
She’d tagged him: Ajay Kumar.
His profile listed the names of their parents. And at the very top of his feed were three photos from yesterday. One featured a slightly older Ajay from the one in the photo with Shumi, the second his parents, while the third one had all three of them in front of a sign for a huge gold mine in Perth, Australia.
Vacation!!
That was the only word in the caption, but the comments seemed to indicate the three had only recently arrived on the far side of the huge red continent. A quick search told me the Perth-to-Auckland flight time was roughly six and a half hours. Add in the available flights, the time it might take them to get to the airport on their end, then travel from Auckland to Rotorua, and it would likely be well over a day before they made it here.
Now that I had the names of Shumi’s parents, however, it didn’t take me long to find some contact information for them. The first hit was her father’s job—he was a partner at an accounting firm, his details listed on the firm’s website. I figured that at his level of seniority, there was a good chance they could contact him even on vacation.
The receptionist answered on the first ring, and when I explained who I was and why I needed to get in touch with him, she said a shaken, “Oh my God. I just heard a short update on the radio about the fire, had no idea it was Mr. Kumar’s family.” A pause. “I should call him, rather than giving you his mobile number.”
“Okay,” I said dully.
“I don’t want to tell…”
“It’s okay. I will. Just let him know it’s a family emergency and identify me as Diya’s fiancé from the US”—it was how the Prasads had introduced me—“and ask him to call me.”
“I’ll do it right now,” she said on a wash of relief.
My phone rang with an incoming call only two minutes later, despite the fact that—per my phone’s world clock—it was very early morning in Perth.
The sick feeling in my stomach bloomed to burn the back of my throat. This was it. I had to destroy someone else’s world now. That was when it struck me that I had no idea of Shumi’s status; for all I knew, my sister-in-law was already dead.
A cold wind whispered across the back of my neck as, in the far distance, someone’s phone played a ringtone that sounded like wind chimes.
Chapter 6
Private notes: Detective Callum Baxter (LAPD)
Date: Dec 3
Time: 08:10
Spoke again to Jason Musgrave. Man doesn’t appear to have slept all night, but he was calm and reasonable until I indicated the possibility that the accident might not have been straightforward. I focused on a possible medical event rather than interference with the vehicle, but Jason zeroed in on the latter.
He immediately began to shout that his mother was healthier than he was, and that if the accident was suspicious, we needed to look at “that fucking Romeo who conned her out of at least a quarter of a million! He probably thinks he’s in her will!”
Per Jason, Virna Musgrave’s estate was in the realm of fifteen million dollars while she was alive. Have made a note to confirm this with her attorney, but an initial search of available databases shows her as the owner of multiple high-value properties.
Case remains on hold until the pathologist gets to her—if she had a heart attack, that ends it. Morgue says she’s at the top of the queue since the gangs are having a few days off from shooting each other, and the mayor’s made a special request.
Also per Jason, the name of the “Romeo” is Tavish Advani.
Chapter 7
“Is this Tavish Advani?” a male voice demanded.
“Yes, sir.” One hand clenched tight on my knee, I somehow managed to keep my voice steady as I told this stranger that his daughter was in the hospital with severe stab wounds and that her husband and parents-in-law were most likely dead as a result of a catastrophic house fire.
“Is this some type of prank?” Shumi’s father’s voice rose. “What kind of sick bastard are you?”
“I wish it was a prank.” I stared at the hard-wearing carpet on the floor of the waiting area. “The fire’s made the news, so you can look it up online, or just call the police here. They’ll confirm. I’m really sorry, sir.”
It was easy to default to formal politeness, keep this small distance between us so that his anger and grief didn’t mingle with my own to leave me locked in a state of panic. “Diya and Shumi are both here, at Rotorua Hospital. They won’t tell me anything about Shumi because I’m just her brother-in-law.”
I wasn’t surprised when he hung up on me. He’d be checking the news, calling the cops, trying to prove to himself that I was just some dickhead getting my rocks off by making up this horrible story.
I was still staring unseeing at the floor when he called back a bare ten minutes later, and this time, his voice was rough and unsteady. “I spoke to the police. We’ll be on the first flight back that we can get on. Ajay—my son—is trying to find seats now. What ward of the hospital should I call? The officer I spoke to didn’t have the information at hand.”
After I told him, he said, “Thank you, Tavish. I apologize for—”
“There’s no need,” I interrupted. “This is a nightmare. Just take care of your family and get here soon. Shumi will need you.”
“Yes, I’ll message you our flight details as soon as we confirm them.” A pause. “You’re alone there, aren’t you, beta?” Concern, care in the term used for younger members of the family. “Your family’s in the States?”
“Yes.” I had one casual friend, a guy I’d met at the local rock-climbing club, but I’d only managed to get to four meetings so far, so even he was more acquaintance than friend, if I was being honest.
“I’m sorry I don’t have any contacts in Rotorua these days that I can ask to help you,” Shumi’s father said. “We’re based in Christchurch, but we’ll be there as soon as we can. Until then, I’m sure Rajesh and Sarita must have colleagues who’d be more than willing to help—you know how to get in touch with them?”
“Yes, I have the contact details of their clinic.”
The waiting area rang with silence after we ended the call. I was the only person taking up space then and for at least an hour following. A couple arrived at that point, and we all ignored one another with the dull compassion of people lost in our own worry.
Two nurses walked past, their heads bent over some paperwork.
A woman around my own age came through the doors from the stairs two hundred and three breaths later. Taking a seat, she opened up a paperback with the tired ease of a person who’d been here before, sat this vigil. Only…she didn’t turn the page, not the entire time she sat there, the open book a mere prop.
I stopped a passing member of staff an endless time later to ask if they could find out if Diya was still in surgery. He returned only two minutes later with confirmation and “No other news yet, I’m sorry.” In his eyes was the knowledge of tragedy.
“Thank you for checking.”
“One of us will come find you as soon as she’s with us,” he said, before returning to the ICU.
Unable to sit in the waiting area any longer but not wanting to be far from my wife, I drank from the water fountain, then began to pace the hallway that led to the Medical Unit. It murmured with the soft hush of the nurses’ footwear, broken up with the intermittent beeps emitted by various machines inside patient rooms. Laughter sounded at one point, coming from some distant corner.
The wind chime ringtone sounded again, melancholy and quiet and disturbing in a way that had nothing to do with the sound itself.
Shaking off the chill that rippled up my spine, I walked away from the direction of the noise. When my phone buzzed with an incoming message a minute later, I didn’t know who I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t Aleki, my rock-climbing buddy.
Hey Tav, just heard the news. You okay, man? They aren’t releasing much info, but I figured there can’t be two other Dr. Prasads in one family out on Lake Tarawera. I know you’re living out there. Just message me back so I know you and your wife are okay.
I stared numbly at the message, my brain not working quite right. Then a nurse walked by, and the movement snapped me out of my frozen state.
Thanks, Aleki. I’m at the hospital with Diya and our sister-in-law. I’m fine but they’re hurt. It took everything I had to even write the latter—to explain that they’d both been stabbed was beyond me.
The other man replied at once: I’m so sorry, mate. Is there anything I can do? Just say the word. I know you don’t have any of your family in the country, but I’ve got a big aiga that’ll step up. Just tell us what you need, bro.
The kindness of his offer closed up my throat. I don’t have any clothes. Do you think you can pick me up a couple of T-shirts? I can pay you back. Thanks to that kid, Joseph, and his forward thinking.
Don’t worry about paying me back, Aleki wrote. I’ll go do it now. And—I’ve only got a bedroom in a flat, but you’re welcome to crash on our couch if you need it. If you want more privacy, I can ask around—someone will have a room for you.
This was the first time I’d truly felt that I was in a much smaller town than the glittering metropolis I’d left behind. I couldn’t imagine a casual gym buddy in LA reaching out with this much help. Thanks Aleki.
I was on my hundredth—two hundredth?—circuit of the hallway when I turned to see police officers near the waiting area. One in uniform, one out of it. Uniform was an Asian man in his mid-twenties, the one in plain clothes an older woman with her salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a bun, her skin the kind of pale that has a pink undertone.
Navy blue suit, sensible black shoes, tall for a woman.
The two spotted me at the same time, began to head my way. Ignoring the dull curiosity of the three other people who waited for news about their own loved ones, I quickly picked up my pace to meet the cops halfway.
“The rest of the family?” I asked before they could say anything. “Did anyone else—”
“Let’s move a little farther down for privacy,” the woman said, and this close, I could see both the fine wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, and the way the suit fit her. Mid-fifties, but fit and toned. Probably a runner, given the type of sports watch she wore on her left wrist.
Once we were far enough from the waiting area that no one could overhear us, she said, “I’m sorry, but the only survivors we’ve located are Diya and Shumi Prasad. Do I have it correct that Diya is your fiancée and Shumi her sister-in-law?”
I shook my head, the movement jerky. My bones didn’t seem connected, all fluid and out of sync. “Diya’s my wife. We eloped. Vegas wedding. Elvis presiding.” It came out in staccato pieces, snapshots of the night that had changed my life forever.
Garish plastic flowers, diamante-studded white leather, a grinning middle-aged man who swiveled his hips to the tinny music piped through the sound system…and Diya laughing as she clutched a bouquet of real flowers. We’d run out under a rain of rose petals for which I’d paid a premium, pieces of floral-scented heaven that Diya had picked out of my hair later.
“I apologize.” A tiny frown between her eyebrows, the detective made a note in the small spiral-bound notebook she’d pulled from her jacket pocket.
“Who…” I coughed, cleared my throat. “Who else was in the house?” It was possible that one of Diya’s parents had been called to the hospital or their clinic, or that Bobby had dropped Shumi off and…what?
His SUV had been there.
If he’d gone for a walk around the lake, he’d have seen the fire, come running.
I was reaching, grasping for any hint of hope.
The fine lines at the corners of the detective’s eyes deepened to tiny valleys. “It’s hard to tell due to the explosion. Do you know if there were accelerants in the house? Gas bottles for the barbecue?”
“What?” I blinked. “No, I—” A sudden memory flash, of something Diya’s father had said that morning. “Maybe fuel for the boat? I think Diya’s dad said he’d asked Bobby to pick some up when he next came over—it’d usually be stored in the boathouse, I think, but could be Bobby just left it in the house or on the patio when they arrived?”
“Who’s Bobby?”
Another snag in the turntable of my brain, another long pause as I dug up the information. “Diya’s brother. Everyone calls him Bobby.” I hadn’t even known it wasn’t his real name until the second time I’d met him. “His legal name is Vihaan. I don’t know where ‘Bobby’ comes from.” Probably some childhood thing no one had thought to explain to me.
