Mystery
Date Published: 04-01-2026
We paid for our groceries and headed down the street to Jaipur Garden, a small Indian restaurant wedged between a liquor store and a flower shop. It was quiet and pleasant, and decorated with motifs of elephant caravans and peacocks as sitar music played in the background. Rose-colored tablecloths draped the tables, and the smell of fragrant dishes wafted from the kitchen. Between the ambiance and Mike’s company, I was feeling more comfortable than I had in ages, as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
A
waiter showed us to a table and dropped two menus down. Mike held out my chair,
and I slid into my seat feeling lighter and younger than I had in years. And
for the first time, I realized how desperately lonely I had been in my
marriage. At home I felt invisible, almost like a ghost. There was always this
looming sensation that my thoughts and experiences didn’t matter. It was a
terrible burden to bear.
“Two
chai teas and an order of samosas,” Mike told the waiter.
“This
place is beautiful,” I said, looking around. “I can’t imagine why I’ve never
noticed it before. It’s like my eyes just opened up, though I must
have seen it a dozen times. Do you come here often?”
“Once
in a while. They make a mean masala dosa here. But I have to warn you, the food
is pretty spicy.”
“The
spicier the better,” I said with a wink.
The
waiter brought us our teas, and I added some sugar and stirred it thoughtfully,
then brought it to my lips. Delicious. Utterly delicious. It was a little taste
of heaven.
“Tell
me, Bella,” said Mike. “What do you do when you’re not making spices and doing
yoga?”
“I’m
the editor of The Park Slope Observer, the little neighborhood
paper with the big heart.” I made a heart sign with my fingers and didn’t feel
the least bit corny doing it.
“Oh,
I love that newspaper. They had a great story once about a woman who married
herself on top of a mountain.” He grinned.
I
laughed. “Yes, I wrote that little gem. She was a cute old lady. I enjoyed
interviewing her. She worked hard at self-love after a lifetime of self-hatred.
For her the ceremony was a chance to send her vows out to the universe.
Actually, it was her life story that got me thinking about the choices we all
make in life. In the end, she owned her destiny and died a few weeks after we
went to print.”
“Died
happy, I’m sure,” he said. “She reminds me of the old lady in my building who
sings Italian opera in the stairwell and leaves food out for the alley cats.
Sometimes I leave her bags of cat food outside her door. She’s a real
character.”
“That’s
so sweet of you,” I said, smiling. That story seriously impressed me. Mike
wasn’t just the kind of person who talked the talk; he lived by his values and
actively tried to make the world a better place. Despite his conservative
outward demeanor, he seemed to have a compassionate, caring heart. And he had
actually been to an Indian ashram. In my mind, he was right up there with Liz
Gilbert and George Harrison. A whole lot of awesomeness. “By the way, when you
said you were a ‘numbers cruncher,’ did you mean you were an accountant?”
“No,
I’m actually a data analyst,” he said.
“And
that entails number crunching?”
“Among
other things,” he said. “I have a pretty good memory. At least for the things
that interest me.” He smiled his playful smile that filled me with warmth and
sent a jolt of electricity through me. His serious side and spiritual side
seriously impressed me. That was a rare combination.
Mike
checked his phone, and I glimpsed a picture of an adorable set of blond twins
of four or five flashing across the screen. I tensed when I thought he might be
married.
“They’re
adorable,” I said, motioning toward the screen. “Are they yours?”
“No,
they’re my niece and nephew, Jake and Hillary. They live in New Hampshire.”
“How
cute. They look like a handful.”
“Yeah,
they keep my sister on her toes. I try to visit them every summer.”
The
waiter set down a platter of samosas between us.
“These
are my favorite,” said Mike, beaming. He lifted one up with a spoon and set it
down on my plate. “Try it. Vegetable samosas are seriously habit-forming. Try them
with some of that mango curry sauce.”
I
sliced into the samosa and let it melt in my mouth. The flavor was
extraordinary, especially after dipping it in the mango sauce.
“Eating
this food makes me want to forget about my karma and chakras and just
concentrate on living,” I said. “Now that I think about it, the guru has
done an amazing job of helping me change my outlook on life. I will always be
grateful for that, no matter how this spice business works out.”
“Tell
me more about it.”
“The
spice business? There’s not much to tell, really.”
“Seriously,
I want to know. How does it work?”
“I
wish I knew. I buy all the raw ingredients then take them home and process them
into a spice blend. Then I bring it to the Ashram for bottling.”
“Who
bottles them?”
“The
Guru’s helpers. They weigh it, measure it, and then put it into glass jars with
my label on it: Brooklyn Masala. Then I take the jars to wholesale grocery
stores, and they pay me for it and give the Guru his commission in chocolates.”
Mike
did a double-take. “Chocolates?”
“Yes,
crazy, I know. Actually, Cadburys to be exact. Originally, I went to the guru
for help in fixing my marriage, but instead of telling me to go to marriage counseling,
he told me to learn everything I could about garam masala. One thing led to
another, and now I’m making and distributing vast quantities of my homemade spice
brand to wholesale Indian grocery stores all over Brooklyn.”
“That
sounds bizarre. Why would the guru want his commission in chocolate?”
“That’s
the arrangement. You can’t make this stuff up. I know it’s crazy, but that’s
the deal. I get the money and he gets the chocolates.” I didn’t tell him the
part about the thousands of dollars I had seen stuffed inside one of the
chocolate bars. To me, that felt like wading into dangerous territory.
Mike
started coughing. I patted his back. “Bella, did that ever strike you as odd?”
I
swallowed hard. “Yes, and no. I just learned not to ask too many questions. But
some of his business associates are real shady characters. I’m actually
thinking of quitting this business. Too much strange stuff is going on.”
He
put his fork down. “What kind of strange stuff?”
“They
say things that worry me sometimes. Veiled threats.”
“Bella,
are you sure all you’re dealing in is spices?”
“Of
course, I am. What else would I be selling?”
He
hesitated before he spoke. “And they pay you for it?”
“Yes,
quite a lot. They pay me a thousand dollars in cash for every shipment. But
I’ll admit there’s some weird stuff going on. Just tonight, for example, one of
the Guru’s business associates accused him of stealing and doing bad things. It
was unnerving.”
“What
kind of bad things?”
I
lowered my voice. “They accused him of causing all kinds of strange deaths,
unsolved murders, and disappearances. The man called him a thief and a con
artist. To tell you the truth, I was scared out of my wits. That’s why I want
to quit this crazy business. Believe me, I couldn’t wait to get out of there.” I
rubbed my shoulders, trying to soothe the stress.
Just
then, two large Indian men in dark suits entered the restaurant and sat down in
the far corner. I glanced at them and recognized them as the Maharishi’s two
assistants, Gajodhar Singh Cool and Gunda Ganesh. But the chances they would
walk into a random Indian restaurant in Brooklyn were miniscule. At least I
hoped they were. But when our eyes met, my stomach did a flip-flop. I knew they
were not here by coincidence.
Sophie Schiller is a writer of thrillers and historical adventure tales. Kirkus Reviews called her "an accomplished thriller and historical adventure writer." Her latest novel is BROOKLYN MASALA. She graduated from American University, Washington, DC and lives in New York.
