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

  She thought of the snake-like man she was told had orchestrated the plot that had brought her here. Tristan Rubens. Tristan was the man who’d seen Luc murdered in the library as the twelve chimes echoed through the rooms adorned with portraits of Luc’s ancestors, before Luc was raised from the dead only to be killed a second time. If Tristan was to be believed, it was either a case of a clever, cold-blooded murderer able to walk through walls and hover above pristine, freshly-fallen snow, or the work of a malicious ghost haunting the house. Or there was the simple answer: the man was lying.

  Inside the grand entryway of the Art Nouveau home, a doorman took her coat and gloves. Gabriela had walked through thick fog to get to the house, but felt barely warmer inside. This was not an inviting house. It was nearly Christmas, and a ten-foot Christmas tree stretched upward past the iron curves of the staircase railing toward the high ceiling. Pinpricks of white lights nestled in the fragrant pine needles and sparkles of red bulbs dangled from the branches, yet the overall impression was one of cold formality. No personal ornaments adorned the tree. This might as well have been a tree down the road in the window of Le Bon Marché department store.

  Laura Delacroix stood in front of the tree. In the woman’s rigid pose, black Chanel dress worn with a peacock blue Hermes scarf, and perfectly made up face, Gabriela caught only the faintest hint of the raw sadness of a mother losing a son. Red-rimmed eyes peered at Gabriela.

  “I won’t waste your time with pleasantries,” Laura said in French.

  “As you wish,” Gabriela responded in kind.

  Gabriela was fluent in the language, as she was in a dozen others, and she wished to put the grieving mother at ease. Gabriela’s first languages were Spanish and English, but she’d been living and breathing other languages from soon after she could walk. French was one of her favorites.

  “I already explained the private details of our family history.” Laura’s lip quivered, almost imperceptibly, but she pressed on. “In spite of the precautions we insisted on taking, leaving our home on the anniversary of our ancestors’ strange deaths, two men were foolish enough to spend the night at the mansion on the most haunted night of the year. My son Luc and his friend Tristan Rubens. Tristan left the house alive. My son did not.”

  “And you don’t believe it was the ghost that killed him.”

  “I’ve lived in this house for so many years that I almost believe in the ghost. Almost.” Her voice broke.

  Gabriela turned away and traced her slender fingers over the wooden curves of an ornate grandfather clock, giving the woman time to compose herself. The French had a long history of building impressive clocks, and this one didn’t disappoint. Gabriela was the most modern of women in many ways, but she cherished the pocket watch her grandfather had given her.

  “I don’t know what I think,” Laura continued, “but I know what I feel. Tristan Rubens killed my son. I want you to prove it.”

  “Surely the police—”

  “I have been wronged by this family I married into too many times,” Laura interrupted. “The police aren’t convinced of Tristan’s guilt. Tristan was clever to use our ghost story to make witnesses believe they saw something they did not. I won’t be so naïve as to suggest the police are imbeciles. Yet how can they conduct a proper investigation without all the facts? My husband will not reveal details of the valuable sculpture stolen at the time Luc was killed.”

  “He doesn’t believe the sculpture is relevant?”

  “No.” Laura Delacroix’s violet eyes blazed with anger. “Because his ancestor looted it from Munnar, India. This shocks you?”

  “No. It angers me that a man would care more about his family’s reputation than justice for them. For you.”

  “Gabriela Glass. I know your reputation well. You’re equipped to trace the movements of a stolen antiquity. I have a proposition for you. If you can solve the supposedly impossible murder of my son, by following the movements of the stolen statue and proving how Tristan Rubens—not a ghost—is responsible, you will receive the Serpent King as your reward. You may do with it whatever you choose.”

  Gabriela considered the proposition. She usually helped women who were more downtrodden, but the crime intrigued her—as did the reward. “Tell me more about the Serpent King and how it disappeared from the house.”

  “I’ve shown you the photograph. The seven cobras, their teeth bared and hoods flared, looking almost human, carved out of a solid slab of sandstone rock.” Laura shivered.

  Gabriela didn’t blame her. The fierce snakes were poised as if to strike. One cobra in particular inspired fear. And with its regal pose, devotion. “The Serpent King. He’s the larger figure in the center? Why does the lower part of the carving lack detail? Was the sculpture unfinished?”

  Laura shrugged. “There’s no provenance to tell us. Algernon Delacroix brought it back from a trip to the tea plantations of Munnar. The story is he won the Serpent King from a Maharaja in a game of Chaturanga. But Algernon was a man of many secrets.”

  Laura’s gaze left Gabriela’s and turned to the tragic central staircase and up toward the portrait that loomed high above on the facing wall, watching them as they spoke. She pointed at the portrait.

  Gabriela moved to the base of the grand staircase to get a better look at the huge, looming painting. The name carved into the frame was Algernon Delacroix, but the face! It so resembled the photograph she’d been shown of Luc, the man who had died here on these stairs only days before.

  She felt a chill down to her bones. She was wearing a dress in emerald green, her signature color, and her silver silk scarf did little to warm her in the cold atmosphere.

  “Each time a new patriarch in the family is killed in this house on the anniversary of the first suspicious death,” Laura whispered, “the face in the portrait changes to his.”

  “Trickery, surely.”

  “Yes. Trickery enacted by the thief Tristan Rubens on the night he killed my son, in an attempt to blame the ghost. But—” Laura shuddered.

  “But?”

  “Is it trickery that no footsteps could be seen leaving the scene of the murder and theft, even though the snow stopped earlier in the evening? Yet somehow, the Serpent King disappeared from this house.”

  Chapter 6

  I set the pages aside. Tamarind and Miles watched for my reaction.

  I felt like I’d entered the Twilight Zone as soon as I stepped into the restaurant that evening. I was already feeling out of sorts because Raj had recently told us he was thinking of retiring soon, and the restaurant had become like a second home to me. I wished Lane hadn’t canceled on me that night. It would be another day before I could tell him about all this. And I didn’t have a day to make a decision.

  “You need sustenance,” Tamarind said, pushing the curry in front of me.

  Raj caught my eye and tapped his watch.

  Five minutes until our next set. There was time for me to make a phone call.

  “Shut. Up.” Tamarind said as I ignored the curry and tapped a number into my phone. “So you’re in?”

  “Was there ever a question?” I stood up.

  “Touché.”

  I maneuvered my way through a group of people waiting to be seated and stepped outside. The light fog that so often fills the Inner Sunset neighborhood had descended, and though it wasn’t raining, I felt light droplets of mist on my face. I called the number Rick Coronado had left. The phone rang three times. I pulled the phone away from my ear. The screen’s clock assured me it was three minutes before eight. Over an hour before the deadline.

  I pressed my ear back to the phone. Another ring sounded. Where was he?

  After the fifth ring, a click sounded. My breath caught. A voicemail message kicked in. This is Rick. Followed by a beep.

  “Hi, this is Jaya. I received the package you sent me. I’m honored you thought of me.�
� And I had no idea what else to say. “It’s an intriguing premise. I don’t know how I can help you, but I hope you keep writing the book. I’ll be up for several more hours if you want to call me back.”

  As I hung up, I became aware of laughter filling the sidewalk and the hum of cars in the street. Two giggling young couples stepped out of the Japanese restaurant two doors down. An antsy driver honked her horn at the electric car in front of hers as soon as the light at the corner changed to green. Half a dozen pedestrians filled the crosswalk at the busy intersection, including two who barely looked up from their cell phones. Life carried on as usual.

  I glanced down at my phone. One minute before eight.

  Back inside, Tamarind raised her eyebrows at me. I shook my head and proceeded to the stage. I took one last look at my phone before putting it away for an hour—and froze. Rick had texted me back.

  I’m relieved you’ve accepted. More to follow soon.

  I texted back, Can you tell me more? And added my home address and personal email, so he wouldn’t have to go through Miles to reach me.

  Tamarind was at my side five seconds later. “What? What is it? Are you having a stroke? Are you good about wearing compression socks on all those long flights you take? I know they’re not sexy, but I read how they totally help with blood clots—”

  “Why didn’t he answer the phone?” As I showed the text to Tamarind, a terrible suspicion came to mind. I swore. “How do I know it’s really him?”

  In spite of the different set-up for Gabriela, the style was Rick Coronado’s. My gut instinct told me it was him, but the rational part of my brain still wondered if this was a joke. I wished I hadn’t just given out my home address. Maybe I could call his publisher to confirm. Though at eight o’clock in the evening in California, I doubted anyone in New York would answer the phone. That would have to wait until the next day.

  “You think some Misery action is going on?” Tamarind asked.

  That was something I hadn’t considered. Now I really wished I hadn’t just given out my address. “You think someone is holding him captive, so they can’t risk him talking on the phone?”

  “You’re the one who suggested it.”

  I scowled at Tamarind. “I was thinking it might not be him at all. Maybe an unpublished writer who wants to get attention, or someone who doesn’t like me and wants to get back at me.”

  “You’re right.” Tamarind pursed her purple lips. “That’s more likely. What? You know it’s true. There are a lot of people who aren’t happy you’ve foiled their plans. But you know what they say. If you’re not making some people love you and some people hate you, you’re doing something wrong with your life.”

  The rumbles of my empty stomach were rivaling the volume of my drums by the time Sanjay and I finished our second set an hour later. Miles and Tamarind had left after slipping a note onto the stage to make sure I’d call her if I heard more from Rick. I hadn’t.

  As I packed my drums into their cushioned black case, the whiff of extra spicy curry hit my nostrils. Sanjay began coughing, which told me it wasn’t my imagination. A second later, Juan appeared with a steaming bowl.

  “You want to try my latest,” he said, “or do you want something off the menu with less spice?”

  “Never.” I hopped down from the stage and took a bite. The curry was off-the-charts spicy. Just the way I liked it.

  Sanjay coughed harder as he snapped his sitar case shut. “You two are crazy. See you tomorrow. I’m off to get a burger like a proper human.”

  Juan chuckled and shook his head as we watched Sanjay make a hasty exit. “I’d be offended if I didn’t know he’s the one who’s missing out.”

  “You’ve outdone yourself this time.” I kissed the head chef’s cheek.

  “Careful,” he said, “or the spice on your lips will burn a hole through my cheek.”

  “You’re the one who made it.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t actually eat it. This batch is just for you. And my grandma. I’m saving some of it to bring her. We’ll see which of you is tougher.” He grinned before stepping back into the kitchen to help his team clean up. He didn’t have to at this stage of his career, but he always pitched in.

  The kitchen had closed at nine, and most of the diners cleared out as soon as we finished our set. A few tables remained with people finishing their dinners or enjoying tea or dessert. But nobody was paying any attention to me.

  I’d slipped the letter and manuscript pages from Rick Coronado into my messenger bag, and I pulled them out in the empty break room. I looked again at the sketch of a cobra on the first typed page—which I now thought of as a serpent. Was this the Serpent King statue the murdered Luc’s mother had hired Gabriela Glass to find?

  I did a quick internet search, which yielded unsurprising results. The Serpent King statue was a product of his imagination, as were the Delacroix family and Tristan Rubens. But the Serpent King idea was based on real historical carvings. Serpents, or naga in Sanskrit, are revered in India, acting as a protector in many circumstances, including watching over Buddha and being guardians of treasure.

  A treasure and a woman in need of help were common themes in the Gabriela Glass novels, but the set-up with Gabriela asked to solve a murder supposedly committed by a ghost was different from his earlier thrillers. This was more like a Gothic ghost story than anything he’d written before. His experience on the secret research trip he’d taken seven years ago was traumatic enough to have caused him to stop writing, so it wasn’t surprising it would impact the themes explored in his new book. But a ghost?

  Strange facts surrounded Rick Coronado’s six-week disappearance. He packed a bag and said he’d be traveling to research his next novel, the subject of which he kept close to his chest. This in itself wasn’t unusual. An immersive writer, he was known for his thorough attention to detail.

  Seven years ago, he left his oversize mastiff, Clifford, with his business manager brother Vincent, walked down the road with his rucksack—and wasn’t seen again for six weeks.

  Six weeks and a day later, he was found by two Swiss hikers in a remote region of Thailand, on an obscure trail that hardly any Westerners knew about. A full beard covered his face, and he was fifteen pounds thinner than when he’d left. When the hikers discovered him, he was unconscious and barely breathing. When he woke up in a hospital in Bangkok, he said he couldn’t remember anything. Even his doctors questioned this account, but nobody had ever gotten the story out of him.

  What had happened during those missing weeks? Did it involve family ghosts, murder, and a thief who stole the Serpent King?

  Chapter 7

  When I woke up the next morning, my eyes popped wide open. I rolled over to check my phone so quickly that I got tangled in the twisted quilt. There were no new messages from Rick Coronado.

  Wide awake, I knew what was bothering me most about the two chapters I’d read. The research was too shoddy for Rick Coronado. French colonialists had been in India, but not in Munnar. And Chaturanga had already become chess by that time. Rick Coronado wouldn’t have gotten those facts wrong. Was this an elaborate hoax by someone who didn’t know as much about history as Rick Coronado and me? Or could someone be forcing his hand?

  I shivered at the thought—but mostly I was shivering because I was freezing. The roof of my attic apartment was leaking. The rain was helping with the wildfires happening across California, but unfortunately it also meant contractors had more important jobs to take on than a leaking roof over a not-quite-legal apartment. My landlady Nadia’s boyfriend Jack had rigged a tarp to cover it, but a recent big storm had done more damage and a draft was still getting in.

  I pulled a fuzzy black sweater over my Batman pajamas and headed to my wall of bookshelves. I didn’t have enough space for all of my books, so most shelves were two rows deep. I pushed aside a half dozen books on the British East India Co
mpany and a dozen more miscellaneous history books (well read) and cookbooks (never opened) before I found what I was after. Empire of Glass by Rick Coronado.

  I’d read the thriller so many times that the hardcover novel fell flat easily in my hands. I found the Acknowledgments page and scanned the text. There. He thanked his editor, Abby Wu. She’d be able to tell me if it was really Rick. But not if I froze to death first. I’d call her from campus.

  Before walking five blocks through frigid wind to my roadster (parking got worse and worse in the city each passing month) I grabbed my favorite sandwich and double espresso with plenty of sugar at Coffee to the People. I finished the peanut butter and egg croissant sandwich before I reached my car and drank the steaming coffee on the drive to campus, finally feeling warmth seep into my fingertips.

  From my office, I called Fox & Sons publishing house in New York and asked to speak with Rick Coronado’s editor.

  “Yes, I understand the editors don’t take unscheduled phone calls and I’m not a client,” I said. “Yes, but I think she’d want to—if you’d only—my name is Jaya Jones and—oh? She mentioned me? Yes, I’ll hold.”

  She’d mentioned me? I took photos of the pages of the manuscript while waiting on hold. I should have done it the previous night. I didn’t have an electronic copy, and I should learn from past mistakes.

  As the minutes stretched on, I scowled at the Ganesha statue that filled a quarter of my office and wondered what I was doing. There were less than two weeks left in the semester. I needed to be helping my students and working on my own article. My colleague Naveen Veeran and I had started in tenure-track teaching jobs at the same time, and I’d heard through the grapevine that he was close to submitting his paperwork to apply for tenure. Though our teaching methods were quite different, the two of us taught similar history courses, so we both knew that, funding being what it was, it was likely only one of us would get tenure. Naveen had beaten me to an important first step.