The Glass Thief (A Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery Book 6) Read online

  Praise for the Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mysteries

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

  – Publishers Weekly

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

  – Mystery Scene Magazine

  “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

  “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)

  “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

  “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

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

  — Suspense Magazine

  “Has everything a mystery lover could ask for: ghostly presences, Italian aristocrats, jewel thieves, failed actors, sitar players, and magic tricks, not to mention dabs of authentic history and academic skullduggery.”

  – Publishers Weekly

  “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

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

  — RT Book Reviews

  “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

  The Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery Series

  by Gigi Pandian

  Novels

  ARTIFACT (#1)

  PIRATE VISHNU (#2)

  QUICKSAND (#3)

  MICHELANGELO’S GHOST (#4)

  THE NINJA’S ILLUSION (#5)

  THE GLASS THIEF (#6)

  Short Stories

  THE LIBRARY GHOST OF TANGLEWOOD INN

  THE CAMBODIAN CURSE & OTHER STORIES

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  Copyright

  THE GLASS THIEF

  A Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery Collection

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition | November 2019

  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 © 2019 by Gigi Pandian

  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.

  Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-555-0

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-556-7

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-557-4

  Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-558-1

  Printed in the United States of America

  To the memory of Elizabeth Peters (Barbara Mertz),

  whose intrepid heroines inspired Jaya Jones.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m grateful for so many people who made this book possible. My critique partners Nancy Adams, Emberly Nesbitt, Sue Parman, Brian Selfon, and Diane Vallere. Additional early readers Ellen Byron, Joe Crawford, Nancy Tingley, and Stina Va. At Henery Press, my editor Maria Edwards for keen insights, and Kendel Lynn for believing in Jaya from the start. My agent Jill Marsal, for ten years of support and guidance (ten years!).

  For research help, big thanks to Stina Va for pointing out what did and didn’t ring true about Cambodia, Nancy Tingley for Southeast Asian art history expertise, and John Stucky at San Francisco’s Asian Art Museum who searched for nagas with me. In Cambodia, my guides Mr. Ratha and Mr. Pel, tuk-tuk driver Mr. Visith, and countless others who generously answered my questions—and shared their recipes. Any mistakes in these pages are my own.

  For inspiration, thanks to Shelly Dickson Carr for inspiring me to write a locked-room mystery into a full-length novel for the first time, and Beth Mertz for giving her blessing for how I pay homage to her mom Elizabeth Peters’ character Vicky Bliss in The Glass Thief.

  And for making all of this possible, my wonderful family, who’ve always believed in me, and my readers, without whom this wouldn’t be nearly as fun. It’s because of you that this series will be continuing. Thank you.

  For additional goodies to express my thanks, you can sign up for my email newsletter: gigipandian.com/newsletter.

  Prologue

  Paris, France

  As the clock struck midnight two nights before Christmas, and dim rays of moonlight shone through the stained-glass windows of the old mansion, the Delacroix family’s prized Serpent King sculpture vanished and prodigal son Luc was murdered—for the second time that day.

  Luc’s strange death wasn’t the first to have taken place in this haunted mansion. Nor was it the first time the Serpent King had caused a death in the family.

  Perhaps we should start at the true beginning of the story.

  The first suspicious death at the Parisian mansion took place nearly seventy years ago. It was two nights before Christmas in 1950 when an invisible assailant pushed Beauregard Delacroix down the stairs. Exactly one year later, Beauregard’s widow Delphine suffered the same fate. On
ly this time, the unfortunate victim lived long enough to identify her killer—a ghost.

  Thus, each year since 1951, on the night before Christmas Eve, the Delacroix family made it a point to leave their home before dusk, not returning until daybreak the next morning. There was no discussion of alternatives. They knew no mortal security could protect them.

  Tragedy had followed the family across continents. The family fortunes had come from Beauregard’s grandfather Algernon, a high-ranking official in India with the French East India Company. Algernon had fallen victim to an early death from a tropical fever.

  Algernon was outwardly a gentle man who helped those less fortunate. But if you were unfortunate enough to get a closer look, in private grandfather Algernon was a brutal tyrant. And his grandson Beauregard was his most apt pupil. One who would prove to be Algernon’s worthy successor. By 1950, Beauregard Delacroix had turned around the fortunes of his once-great family’s tea business, no small accomplishment in post-war France.

  Yet one can’t maintain an empire without making enemies. You must never show weakness. You must work your employees to the bone. You should proudly display the riches your noble ancestors rescued from heathen countries. And if your family demanded too much of you, they should be put in their place. They were not the ones rebuilding the family’s stature. “Spend time with my children?” he was known to remark, aghast at the thought. “That’s what a wife and the governess are for.”

  That was how it came to be that on the snowy winter’s night in 1950, the women and children of the household were the ones who had decorated for Christmas. Yet all was not silent after they had gone to sleep. As the clock struck midnight, Beauregard Delacroix was pushed down the winding staircase of the palatial Parisian mansion so forcefully that he broke his neck. Nobody in the grand household admitted to seeing or hearing a thing.

  During the year that followed Beauregard’s death, his wife Delphine proved you could run a thriving tea company without exploiting your workers, and that you could be a good mother and run a business. But someone in the house was displeased with her methods. Strange occurrences began to take place. Always at night, when people were sleeping. Unexplained footsteps. Delphine found her possessions moved from room to room. The children were tired from sleepless nights, certain they felt the presence of someone watching them. Surely it couldn’t be Beauregard speaking to her from beyond the grave, could it? Delphine herself wouldn’t admit this fanciful weakness, yet makeup didn’t fool the governess or the housekeeper, who saw the dark circles under their employer’s eyes.

  Delphine was hopeful that Christmas would cheer the worried household. Desperate, it could be said. On the first anniversary of her husband’s death, she took her two children to visit Beauregard’s grave, then returned to their home to prepare for the guests who would be arriving the next day for Christmas Eve. With the Christmas tree adorned, the staircase bannisters woven with ivy, and the mistletoe hung, the household went to bed contented at eleven o’clock.

  They were all awakened an hour later, when a wail echoed through the walls. All the witnesses agreed it wasn’t a scream. It was an otherworldly wail.

  Tying dressing gowns around them, each crept out of their bedrooms. The daughter. The son. The governess. The cook. The housekeeper.

  They found Delphine Delacroix lying at the bottom of the staircase.

  “She’s breathing!” the housekeeper cried.

  “Beauregard.” Delphine’s voice was weak.

  “Your husband has passed,” the housekeeper murmured softly.

  “No.” Delphine’s voice was firmer now, though still shaky. “He pushed me. Because of the Serpent.”

  With her last ounce of strength, she lifted her thin arm and pointed at the portrait that had hung over the staircase for as long as she’d lived in that cursed house.

  “You see?” she hissed. “He’s watching us.”

  All eyes followed Delphine’s gaze to the painting of the family patriarch, Algernon Delacroix. Only now…it was no longer Algernon’s face in the painting. The change was unmistakable. The face now looked like his son, the late Beauregard Delacroix.

  “The master’s ghost!” the governess cried. “His ghost did this to Madame Delacroix!”

  Delphine Delacroix lost consciousness, never to wake again. Leaving her family and staff to wonder what exactly had happened that night. What had she meant about the Serpent? And could the ghost of her husband be real? Since that night, no member of the Delacroix family would sleep in the mansion on that fateful anniversary.

  Yet memories fade. People try to forget the horrors that put a stain on a family. And the new generation questions the folly of their elders.

  The family ghost was supernatural hogwash, Luc Delacroix had always said to himself. Thus it came to be that Beauregard’s cocky grandson decided to disregard his mother and his young wife’s pleas and thumb his nose at family superstition.

  He should have listened. Perhaps then he could have avoided his own premature death, which was an even stranger story than being killed by the ghost of his angry ancestor.

  Luc brushed off any sense of foreboding as he and his friend Tristan Rubens walked through the snowy path that led to the house where he’d grown up. Darkness was falling, and they’d brought two bottles of wine and a picnic basket with baguettes, cheese, and Christmas treats. There was no such thing as ghosts, the friends told themselves. Tonight, they would prove everyone wrong.

  As the clouds parted and a bright moon shone through the windows of the old mansion on the frigid evening two days before Christmas, the serpent statue originally looted from the tea plantations of Munnar disappeared from the house, and Luc Delacroix met his end two ways.

  First, strangled beyond locked glass doors as his friend looked on in horror until there was no life left in Luc Delacroix’s body. Then, the ghost brought Luc back to life, only to kill him a second time, this time mirroring his grandfather Beauregard’s death. The invisible hand that had raised Luc from the dead pushed him down the stairs.

  The ghost’s anger was growing. What would it do next?

  Chapter 1

  “I’m a patient man.” Raj waved the phone in front of my face and scowled. “But the restaurant isn’t your personal answering service. We need the line clear for reservations.”

  I dropped my messenger bag to the floor and took the phone. “This is Jaya.”

  “You weren’t answering your phone.”

  The voice was that of Miles, my underemployed poet neighbor who was working as my assistant. He was also dating my friend Tamarind, so I saw him quite a bit these days. Frequently enough to know he hated using the phone.

  “I was in my car,” I said.

  “Glad I found you. You’ll be there for a while?” There was a nervous cadence in his voice as he spoke.

  “Yeah, what’s up?”

  “I’ll be there soon.” The line went dead.

  I blinked at the phone for a few seconds before handing it back to Raj.

  “Everything okay?” His anger was gone, replaced by fatherly concern.

  “I hope so.”

  I’d arrived at the Tandoori Palace only moments before, hoping to eat an early dinner before my first set of the evening. I play tabla as live background music at the restaurant twice a week, accompanying my best friend Sanjay, who plays the sitar. It’s a hobby for both of us, nothing we take too seriously, but a good way to release the tension from our demanding careers, mine as a historian and his as a stage magician. Being a historian might sound like a low-key job, but my experience has been about as far from relaxing as is humanly possible. Besides playing the tabla to let off steam, I also go on long runs in Golden Gate Park with bhangra music on my headphones and read pulpy adventure novels like Rick Coronado thrillers, those deliciously cheesy adventure novels staring Gabriela Glass. Though between teaching, research, and
tracking down missing pieces of history around the world, I didn’t have much time for anything else these days.

  What was so important it couldn’t wait and that Miles wouldn’t tell me over the phone?

  Before I could go in search of food to distract me from wondering about Miles, the break room door burst open with such force that it smacked into the row of lockers. I expected it would be one of tonight’s servers or cooks dropping off their bag after arriving late. But none of the three people who walked in worked at the restaurant.

  “There she is,” Tamarind said, pointing at me. “Thank God we made it in time.”

  I have a doctorate in history, not medicine, so those aren’t generally words I hear directed at me.

  “You don’t have your first music set for half an hour, right?”

  I nodded, a sinking feeling filling my empty stomach. “What’s the emergency?”

  Tamarind strode across the room and picked up the messenger bag at my feet. “Not here. Too many ears. Is your car nearby?”

  “You know it’s only got two seats, right? And now you’ve got me really worried.”

  “We’re sorry to interrupt, Dr. Jones,” the young woman next to Tamarind said. “And we didn’t mean to worry you. It’s nothing like that.”

  Becca Courtland was one of the students in my advanced history seminar. The older I got, the younger students looked to me. But in Becca’s case, it was justified. She had a perpetually innocent expression, as if waiting to be astonished by the world. It made her look like she was attending her first day of college, though she was in fact in her junior year. I envied her optimism. I wished I could recapture that feeling.