[JJ06] Quicksand Read online

  Praise for Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mysteries

  Books in the Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery Series

  Copyright

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  In Case You Missed the 1st Book in the Series

  Praise for Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mysteries

  QUICKSAND (#3)

  “Charming characters, a hint of romantic conflict, and just the right amount of danger will garner more fans for this cozy series.”

  – Publishers Weekly

  “Quicksand has all the ingredients I love—intrigue, witty banter, and a twisty mystery that hopscotches across France!”

  – Sara Rosett,

  Author of the Ellie Avery Mystery Series

  “With a world-class puzzle to solve and riveting plot twists to unravel, Quicksand had me on the edge of my seat for the entire book...Don’t miss one of the best new mystery series around!”

  – Kate Carlisle,

  New York Times Bestselling Author of the Bibliophile Mysteries

  “A joy-filled ride of suspenseful action, elaborate scams, and witty dialogue. The villains are as wily as the heroes, and every twist is intelligent and unexpected, ensuring that this is a novel that will delight lovers of history, romance, and elaborate capers.”

  – Kings River Life Magazine

  PIRATE VISHNU (#2)

  “Forget about Indiana Jones. Jaya Jones is swinging into action, using both her mind and wits to solve a mystery...Readers will be ensnared by this entertaining tale.”

  – RT Book Reviews (four stars)

  “Pandian’s second entry sets a playful tone yet provides enough twists to keep mystery buffs engaged, too. The author streamlines an intricate plot….[and] brings a dynamic freshness to her cozy.”

  – Library Journal

  “A delicious tall tale about a treasure map, magicians, musicians, mysterious ancestors, and a few bad men.”

  – Mystery Scene Magazine

  “Move over Vicky Bliss and Joan Wilder, historian Jaya Jones is here to stay! Mysterious maps, legendary pirates, and hidden treasure—Jaya’s latest quest is a whirlwind of adventure.”

  — Chantelle Aimée Osman,

  The Sirens of Suspense

  “Pirate Vishnu is fast-paced and fascinating as Jaya’s investigation leads her this time to India and back to her own family’s secrets.”

  —Susan C. Shea,

  Author of the Dani O’Rourke mysteries

  ARTIFACT (#1)

  “Pandian’s new series may well captivate a generation of readers, combining the suspenseful, mysterious and romantic. Four stars.”

  — RT Book Reviews

  “If Indiana Jones had a sister, it would definitely be historian Jaya Jones.”

  — Suspense Magazine

  “Witty, clever, and twisty… Do you like Agatha Christie? Elizabeth Peters? Then you’re going to love Gigi Pandian.”

  — Aaron Elkins,

  Edgar Award-Winning Author of the Gideon Oliver Mysteries

  “Fans of Elizabeth Peters will adore following along with Jaya Jones and a cast of quirky characters as they pursue a fabled treasure.”

  —Juliet Blackwell,

  New York Times Bestselling Author of the Art Lover’s Mysteries

  (written as Hailey Lind)

  Books in the Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery Series

  by Gigi Pandian

  Novels

  ARTIFACT (#1)

  PIRATE VISHNU (#2)

  QUICKSAND (#3)

  Novellas

  FOOL’S GOLD (prequel to ARTIFACT)

  (in OTHER PEOPLE’S BAGGAGE)

  Copyright

  QUICKSAND

  A Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition

  Kindle edition | March 2015

  Henery Press

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2014 by Gigi Pandian

  Cover art by Stephanie Chontos

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Related subjects include: cozy mysteries women sleuths series, whodunit mysteries whodunnit, murder mystery series, book club recommendations, female protagonist small town, amateur sleuth books, international mysteries.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-941962-29-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For my mother

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  What would I do without my incredible publishing team? Huge thanks to my editor Kendel Lynn for giving me one of the greatest insights into this book, back when it was a messy rough draft. Thanks to Stephanie Chontos for the gorgeous cover art, and the whole team at Henery Press for the creative ideas and enthusiasm. And as always, thanks to my agent Jill Marsal for always supporting me and my crazy ideas.

  I also don’t know what I’d do without my insightful early readers, who helped turn a cool idea into a fully realized story: Diane Vallere (art heists!), Emberly Nesbit (French!), Ramona DeFelice Long (a keen eye that saved the intro), Nancy Adams (overall awesomeness I can’t imagine being without), and my mom (all things big and little).

  Thanks to my writer pals who inspire me and keep me going. Local writers Em, Michelle, Mysti, Rachael, Julie, Sophie, Adrienne, Martha, Lisa, Lynn, Mariah, and the Sisters in Crime NorCal chapter; and all my remote writer pals, especially Brian, Nancy, and the Sisters in Crime Guppies. And my co-workers Catrina and Rebecca, who probably think I’m cr
azy but are amazingly supportive anyway.

  Because I use real history as a backdrop for my books, discovering the true history of a place is essential. I’m indebted to Mont Saint-Michel tour guide Helene Cneude, who made French history come alive and continued to help with my follow-up questions from across the world.

  And deepest gratitude to my parents, who are my biggest champions and the reason I believed I could be a writer in the first place. And James, who put up with the long hours I spent writing even before I dragged him along to France and other far-flung destinations for my research. I believe he’s starting to have as much fun with these books as I am.

  CHAPTER 1

  “Is that the hilt of a sword sticking out of your purse?” Miles asked.

  “No.” I shifted the weight of the hefty tabla case in my hands to glance over my shoulder. I’d forgotten to take the dagger out of my bag when I swung by my attic apartment to pick up my drums. I was more distracted than I’d thought.

  “But then—”

  “It’s not a sword. It’s Tipu Sultan’s jeweled dagger. And more importantly, this isn’t a purse.” My red messenger bag was the casual San Francisco equivalent of a briefcase.

  “A dagger, Jaya?” This time it was my Russian landlady, Nadia, who spoke. She and my neighbor stood on the shady front porch of the Victorian house. “Is this what the city has come to? Young women resorting to carrying daggers for self-defense?”

  “It’s a plastic replica. The real one is in a museum in London. It was a nice prop for the Intro to World History lecture I gave today.” I rested my tabla case on the steps and lifted the dagger from my bag. The jewel-encrusted hilt reminded me of the ruby artifact from the Mughal Empire that turned my life upside down the previous year.

  “Oh.” Nadia’s lips puckered in disappointment. To a woman standing in front of her bright red front door in a black velvet evening gown, a prop to inspire students wasn’t nearly as interesting as stories of maimed criminals.

  “Cool,” Miles said, taking the dagger in his ink-stained hands. He swooshed it through the air like a sword, a book of poetry falling from his jacket pocket in the process. “I came by to see how your first day of class went.”

  After knowing the twenty-something poet for over a year, I was convinced Miles selected leaky pens on purpose, thinking his temporarily tattooed hands made him look more artistic and earnest. His auburn beard fuzz also looked suspiciously uniform whenever I saw him.

  “Class went so well that a lot of the students stayed to ask questions,” I said, picking up the fallen poetry chapbook. “Now I’m late for the restaurant.”

  I should have been pleased my first lecture of the spring semester had gone so well. It was only my second year teaching at the university, and it already felt like home. My students were even more engaged than I’d hoped, and one struggling student I mentored the previous year did so well she decided to apply for history graduate programs.

  But as the months of the fall semester had gone by, I’d become increasingly aware that something was missing in my life. I had my dream job as a tenure-track professor of history at a prominent San Francisco university, a cozy apartment in a great location, family not too far away, and a few good friends. After my uprooted childhood, it’s what I’d always wanted. The response to my first lecture of the semester was gratifying, but it didn’t make me as happy as it should have. What was the matter with me?

  “Before you go,” Nadia began, but instead of finishing her sentence she disappeared into the house. I was left to watch Miles pretend to be a master swordsman.

  Nadia emerged a moment later with a stack of mail. My apartment didn’t have a separate mailing address from the main house, because the dwelling wasn’t strictly legal. My landlady had bypassed San Francisco bureaucracy when she turned her attic into the apartment where I lived.

  I was in a hurry, so instead of dropping off my mail and the plastic dagger upstairs, I shoved both into my messenger bag, then slung my tabla case over my shoulder and headed to my car. I eased out of my parking spot between a pristine hybrid car with stickers from three universities on its back window, and a weathered sedan with its tailpipe dangling precariously close to the ground—the two sides of modern San Francisco.

  I didn’t give a second thought to that stack of mail as I drove across town to the Tandoori Palace, or as I played sets of tabla background music for diners at the upscale Indian restaurant with my best friend Sanjay accompanying me on the sitar. On a break, I had only a few minutes to eat a mouth-watering fish curry that the chef made extra spicy for me. The pile of mail didn’t cross my mind until after we wrapped up our last set.

  My phone buzzed faintly from deep within my bag. I found it buried underneath my pile of mail. It was a text message from my friend Tamarind, asking for an urgent favor. Tamarind wasn’t one to ask for favors. This couldn’t be good.

  Instead of sticking around to chat with Sanjay and the restaurant staff as I usually did, I rushed to my car. But when I reached it, I found I was trapped. Double-parked inches away from my roadster was an empty car with its hazard lights blinking, blocking me in. I ran back to the restaurant and explained to Sanjay that I needed to stop by Tamarind’s apartment to bring a box from her medicine cabinet to her “first day of the semester” party.

  “Wait, why does Tamarind care that it’s the first day of the semester?” Sanjay asked as we left the restaurant. “I thought she was a librarian, not a professor.”

  “That’s the point.” I climbed into the sleek black pickup truck. “Without this party, she doesn’t get the same symbolic start to the semester as the rest of us.”

  Sanjay put the car in gear and we set out from the family-friendly Inner Sunset to the trendy Mission District.

  “I haven’t driven with you in a while,” I commented after he let three perfectly good openings in traffic pass us by. “I’d forgotten you’re a ninety-year-old man trapped in a thirty-year-old’s body when you get behind the wheel of a car.”

  “Hey, I don’t turn thirty until next year. And what have you got against ninety-year-olds? My friend Sébastien is ninety and he loves racing cars.”

  “Who’s Sébastien?”

  “A magician I know in France. Though I suppose he’s not technically a magician. He’s an engineer who helps magicians with their acts.”

  Sanjay was a successful stage magician who sold out seasons of shows in a Napa Valley theater each year. A Las Vegas venue approached him after he was named one of the up-and-coming magicians under thirty, but he loved his home in northern California. He’d been my best friend since the day I moved to San Francisco nearly two years before. Two nights a week, Sanjay and I played background music at the Indian restaurant. It was a relaxing hobby for both of us. I could play my tabla drums expertly even in my sleep, and Sanjay enjoyed playing the sitar—though he did it excruciatingly badly. Not that anyone could convince him of that fact. The Tandoori Palace’s owner, Raj, had long ago given up gently suggesting he take additional lessons. Instead, Raj turned down the volume on the microphone in front of Sanjay’s sitar, and left my mic on high to pick up my rhythmic drumming. That way, everyone had a good time.

  “Anyway,” Sanjay continued as he finally merged from the side street onto Lincoln, “it’s called responsible driving. Something this city is sorely lacking.”

  “Well, at this rate at least I have time to look through my mail before we get there.”

  While Sanjay drove the speed limit along the south side of Golden Gate Park, I turned to the most interesting-looking envelope, one made of thick vellum paper with a postmark from France. It was the kind of expensive paper used for wedding invitations. None of my friends were getting married, as far as I knew, so I was curious. I slipped my car key under the envelope flap to open it.

  My name jumped out at me. I did a double-take. This could
n’t be what my first glance told me it was. The cab of the truck was dark. I had an overactive imagination. That was it.

  “What is it?” Sanjay asked.

  Even while paying attention to the road—too much attention, it could be argued—Sanjay knew me well enough to detect the slightest change in my emotional state.

  “Nothing,” I answered, scattering the contents of the envelope across my lap.

  I wasn’t imagining things.

  It was a first class plane ticket from San Francisco to Paris, departing in three days. The name printed on the ticket: Jaya Anand Jones. The ticket was for me.

  I’d been busy preparing for the start of the semester, so I’d ignored certain aspects of my life. Still, I knew I hadn’t absentmindedly agreed to speak at any academic conferences in Paris. Or anywhere in Europe, for that matter.

  I unfolded the other two sheets of paper. The first was a print-out of a hotel reservation for an upscale hotel in Paris. The second was a hand-written note.

  My insides tensed as I began to read. As the streetlights cast multicolored streaks of light through the windshield like a slow-moving strobe light, I stared at the familiar handwriting, wondering if I could believe my eyes.

  Five months of silence. And now this.

  CHAPTER 2

  Sanjay glanced sharply at me. “What’s the matter?”

  A combination of relief, curiosity, and anger swept over me. I was fairly confident that relief was the dominant emotion, but I couldn’t be sure. The note meant so many things, I didn’t know where to begin to answer Sanjay’s question.