A Spot of Tea: A Professor Deshpande Mystery

“A great idea should always be left to steep like loose tea leaves in a teapot for a while to make sure that the tea will be strong enough and the idea truly is a great one.” — Phoebe Stone

“As long as my role begins and terminates in the kitchen, I am both honored and delighted,” Anand replied as he checked on the welfare of the gulab jamun. The macroeconomist nodded curtly to the saturated dumplings as he might a freshman who had successfully dissected Keynesian Theory. “Oh, and please confine your literary circle to the common areas.”

“It’s not my literary circle,” Saanvi sighed. “Had a soft maple not had the deplorable timing of falling on Dr. Shahi’s roof during Thursday’s storm, I would be enjoying a blissfully illiterate Saturday and you wouldn’t be mounting a Mumbai high tea.”

Professor Deshpande scanned the island for errant cardamon. “As your young Assistant Professor Cooper might say, if we are to do this, we might as well do it up big. And baking and tea craft provide an excellent prelude to an evening’s immersion in globalization and income inequality. I hope your salon appreciates the orchid-like aroma and honeyed fruit notes of the Da-Hong Pao. Especially at $1,000 U.S. per pound. Fortunate Nigel Ramsford paid me for my foreword in rare oolong. I hope you aren’t disappointed about the Bun Maska.”

“I’m not certain Mitra’s ‘salon’ would appreciate its simple charms, especially alongside the indulgences of samosa, paneer tikka, dhokha, and gulab. In the ‘90s, struggling to find my creative voice, tea was my creative fuel. Mother and Father had taken me to Tea Centre in Churchgate many times, but the place was all wood and white linen and colonial tradition. My crowd – artists, writers, professors, would-be/wannabe iconoclasts -- preferred Kyani & Co., the old Irani café in Mumbai Central. Irani Chai and Bun Maska! Pillowy and warm and filled with butter and just a sprinkling of sugar. I can still taste Bun Maska whenever I recall those wonderful marathon sessions with my yaar-log or eavesdrop on a group at the Campus Coffee Commune, solving the world’s woes. My. Excuse me.”

“I shall,” the macroeconomist murmured pleasantly but with playfully firm nuance.

**

The buffer always knocks thrice. In this case, by prearrangement. Saanvi dropped the hand-vac and gratefully ushered Thea in. Professor Mason was effortlessly resplendent in a short embroidered kurti and designer jeans. She deposited her book on the coffee table, and Saanvi glanced up with a slight frown.

“The Fire Next Time? Thea, tonight’s selection was Love, Chai, and Other Four-Letter Words.”

“Yeah, nope,” Thea acknowledged. “I truly tried, but my bosom started throbbing where I thought I was having angina, so I wound up with Brother Baldwin. I’ll wing it – isn’t that what these suburban book club types do anyway? One Cliff Notes chapter and a gallon of Barefoot zinfandel?”

“Perhaps on Netflix,” Professor Deshpande suggested. “This is a fairly eclectic group – Mitra’s Philosophy Department Thea, Mitra’s dermatologist, Mitra’s United Way co-chair, Mitra’s neighbor, and I believe Mitra’s sister.”

“And the zinfandel? Better yet, some Tito’s or Crown Royal?”

“I told you, it’s a tea party,” Saanvi admonished. “I understand Mitra’s dermatologist’s an alcoholic. But Anand is preparing a sumptuous spread before he disappears into his study. Most of these women also are in Mitra’s yoga class, so I suspect you’ll leave satisfied.”

“Or if I try hard enough, comatose,” Thea muttered.

**

“First, I’d like to thank Saanvi, here, for saving the day,” Nora Randizzi of the Millington Mole Removal Randizzis began. “Saanvi was kind enough to prepare this royal tea for us, though I will say I might have skipped lunch if I’d known you were going to put out such a lavish spread.”

“I thought a Mumbai-style tea might be more in keeping with our discussion than a customary British high tea,” Saanvi explained. “High tea actually was a carryover from the British colonization of India, adapted for European tastes, rather than the reverse.”

Nora nodded asynchronously while Mitra’s sister Amira and the petite elder of the group, Janice – the United Way BFF – leaned in with seemingly genuine interest. Saanvi knew Professor Shahi’s department colleague, Olivia Bhatia, who though more than 30 years Thea’s junior, rivalled her in sartorial splendor in a long, perfectly draped royal blue kurti and palazzo pants and elaborate, dangling Jhumka Jhumki bell earrings better-suited for a wedding than a book club. Mitra’s neighbor Kerry – a thin redhead in gratuitously slimming jeans and a lavender Polo seated next to Olivia – looked as though she was awaiting the last pumpkin out of the Ball. Professor Shahi’s stylist Sami hugged her novel to her pink hoodie as a shield – she was the youngest, the ostensibly lowest in this intimate caste system. Thea beamed at Saanvi in dual support and amusement as James Baldwin stared somberly and expectantly from the end table beside her.     

“Traditionally, Indian tea preparation involves boiling leaves, water, milk, and spices together. Using an infuser is more common in Western tea culture and among those who enjoy a variety of loose-leaf teas or herbal infusions. My mother preferred the traditional boiling method, and I wonder if perhaps it was her way of maintaining connections with the culture of her own mother.”

“Tonight, we will sample an array of savory and sweet treats from West Asian culture, as well as a surprise for any of our tea connoisseurs. You will be sampling a very rare oolong, Da-Hong Pao, otherwise known as Big Red Robe and grown exclusively in China’s Wuyi Mountains. It possesses a rich and complex flavor profile, but we also have Darjeeling, Earl Grey, and a Tetley green with mint, as well as coffee or Diet Pepsi as you might prefer.”

Saanvi had decided belatedly to protect the sanctity of her own Ashwagandha “stash.” She could hear Anand removing presumably the samosa from the oven, and shifted into freshman intake mode.

“Younger generations of Indians accustomed to modern multicultural trends and conveniences might lean towards infusers. You’ve likely seen the snap-ball strainer – the mesh ball you fill with loose leaves, equipped with a squeezable handle or a chain and hook or a stick handle for stirring. Basket-style strainers with double handles or wings to suspend across the rim of the cup. Even some devilishly clever silicon infusers in the shape of cats or mushrooms or dinosaurs or Pokemon – Pokemons?

“My well-intentioned husband recently presented me with an electric kettle with built-in stainless steel filter, but I prefer preparing a single cup to perfection over a pot, and favor a glass infuser over metal or silicon. Metal retains heat far more effectively than silicon, but the mesh can restrict water flow around the leaves, and a cheaper ball infuser can impart an unpleasant metallic taste. Plus, I must say I simply enjoy watching the steeping process.”

Thea casually drew a slim index finger across her throat.

“Well, enough of the lecture,” Saanvi smiled. “Shall we? Allow me to alert the chef, so that he might safely evacuate the kitchen.”

**

The dietarily diligent and warily xenophobic grazed lightly if effusively, with only Sami, Thea, and Amiri tearing diplomatically through Anand’s spread. Despite her earlier discourse, Saanvi had ordered reusable, BPA-free, color-coded silicon filter bags as the simpler, cleanest alternative, and she helped scoop an ideal portion of leaves into each bag. Most of the group availed themselves of Anand’s prized Red Robe, though Sami meekly opted Darjeeling and Kerry elected green tea.

As outlier/host, Professor Deshpande was privy to all micro- and macrocosmic conversations, whisperings, and metaphorically spilled tea around the kitchen island. Yoga culture and child-rearing and gardening and the general price of eggs. Wicked, The Bachelorette, the latest on Netflix and the freshest new local eateries. Academic anxieties about the recent immigrant roundups not only targeting the Latino community but also ensnaring visaed Indian and Pakistani students and techs across Millington.

“Two of the guys in IT just disappeared last Thursday. I’ve been staying late every night trying to pick up the slack, and I’d love to know which, pardon me, fucker called Immigration…”

“…keep stressing about what’s going to happen to formula prices, if we’re going to have to drive to Peoria or Champaign or pay a fortune on Amazon…”

“Yes, it’s usually better suited to cooler regions, but it seems to be doing fine for her, and it reminds me of my childhood in London…”

“Hey, no spoilers – I’m only up to Season 4…”

“They can’t seem to get anything right. I ordered the ruby, and they sent these instead…”

“My boyfriend’s like freaking out. His boss threatened to call the tip line last time he called in sick.”

“Where’s Anand keep that bottle of Old Monk I saw on New Year’s Eve?” Thea inquired.

“You are not properly buffering,” Saanvi said.

**

“I dunno, it just really gave me the feels,” Sami murmured, tugging at her hoodie tab. Dr. Randizzi smiled tightly at the young woman for about the 12th time that evening, and Saanvi for about the 12^th time felt like anointing the imperious dermatologist with Ashwaghandha.

“So it struck a strongly emotional chord with you?” Professor Deshpande hastened encouragingly.

“I mean, yeah,” the stylist rallied. “I could feel for Kiran and Nash. My guy Luis and I don’t like always understand each other or, you know, our, uh, cultural stuff, and my folks still can’t used to me dating, you know, a Mexican dude.”

“Latino,” Professor Bhatia interjected, fingering her left earring irritably.

“I know that,” Sami growled. “But Luis is from Mexico, so it’s OK to call him Mexican, isn’t it?”

“I think what Olivia meant…” Randizzi offered soothingly.

“I think I know what she meant,” Sami snapped defensively. “What I’m saying is that because Luis is Mexican, we gotta not only deal with my families and the language and all that shit but also being scared to death they’re going to swoop in and put him on a plane for Mexico or Colombia or Guantanamo Bay or wherever these assholes decide.”

“I think one of the rules here is we don’t get into politics, honey,” Janice said, gently.

“Politics? POLITICS??”

Amira placed a hand cautiously on Sami’s knee. “I think for Samantha here, this isn’t about politics – this is something intensely personal.”

“Perhaps we should get back on point,” Dr. Randizzi sighed. “There are some strong points about self-empowerment in the story. Sharma notes ‘women were supposed to be smart, strong, independent, forward, brave, fearless, and unique. But they weren’t supposed to shine too bright, be too bold, too shar—'”

“I’m done,” Sami choked, rising abruptly and jarring the corner of Saanvi’s coffee table. Janet and Kerry and an exasperated Professor Bhatia leapt for their cups, Nora grasped the arms of her chair, and Thea looked like her ringside seat had more than paid for itself.

“Sami, come on,” Randizzi called as the young woman stalked from the room. Jurassic ripples erupted in the Red Robe, the Darjeeling, and the Tetley as the front door crashed behind her.

**

As it turned out, Sami was still on the porch 15 minutes later – about the time they noticed the other absence in their midst.

“Kerry, right? -- she ran to the restroom a while ago,” Thea reported. “She looked a little green after the big scene. Want me to check on her?”

“Stay put,” Saanvi responded to the half-hearted offer.

The lavatory door was unexpectedly ajar, more unexpectedly revealing a redheaded bookworm hugging the toilet. The water in the bowl was recycling and approaching Defcon depth, and Saanvi approached cautiously as she realized Kerry’s chin was hooked over the rim. The professor simultaneously jiggled the handled and placed two fingers first to the woman’s clammy throat, then to her equally damp wrist.

“Call 9-1-1 immediately! We need an ambulance!” Saanvi shouted over her shoulder. “Dr. Randizzi, please come here ASAP!”

Then, she spotted the torn yellow scrap slowing to a stop near the eye of the whirlpool just before it was sucked into the abyss. Saanvi managed to make out the lettering as the note fragment vanished into the municipal water system and Nora Randizzi appeared over her shoulder.

“What was that?” the dermatologist queried. Professor Deshpande looked up quizzically.

“‘ICE T’?” she pondered.

**

The half-book club stared mutely at Saanvi as she stumbled from the corridor and Thea adopted an authoritarian tone with the 9-1-1 dispatcher. The professor scanned the women’s faces as she gathered herself for the tragic news. And then she caught it – the size of a dime, slightly discolored...

“Thea,” Saanvi called. “Please add some police to that order.”     

**

 “How did you discover what Kerry had done?” Saanvi asked gently.

“Who, Kerry? You shitting me? I wasn’t anywhere near her fucking tea.”

“By design. You were the distraction. Your ‘self-conscious’ rambling about Nash and Kiran sparked the mingled sympathy and disdain of the group, triggering your outburst and dramatic exit and enabling your partner to poison Kerry’s cup in two stealthy moves. You had a common threat, a common enemy. Kerry had even flaunted what she had done, railing about the deportation of the two colleagues she had betrayed probably out of professional insecurity. So how did you know? Where might one confidently leave their unlocked phone in the presence of strangers, even engage in candid conversations in a public setting? Perhaps in the salon?”

Sami was a statue now. Saanvi nodded. “Did Kerry actually make the call while she was waiting for a chair? Leave a telltale call log onscreen while you were working on her? Perhaps with the ICE Tipline number Kerry tried to dispose of when she realized she was having a cardiac episode?

It abruptly spilled out of her. “The bitch actually LEFT it behind — she was almost out the door when they called her back, I guess to verify the call, but my boyfriend Luis is obsessed with that fucking bounty hunter tip number. He’s been a wreck thinking he could be next.”

“And then when your partner in crime came in for her appointment, you told her, knowing the University had lost some students during the local raids. You provided the poison, and your accomplice the delivery system. I happened to overhear Amira and Janice discussing your interest in gardening, and Amira noted one of your prize plantings recalled her youth in London with Mitra.

“Now, I must admit, Annika Sharman is not my preferred cup of Darjeeling – I’m partial to Agatha Christie, the classic British mystery authors and self-taught toxicologists. And so I considered potentially deadly British botanicals – foxglove, which produces digitalis, and monkshood, known for its lovely blue flowers and roots rich in the potent neurotoxin aconite. Given Kerry was covered in sweat, my money is on monkshood.”

Sami hugged herself as the first cop car pulled up.

“But we should know soon enough.”    

**

Anand brought out the Old Monk.

“The Jhumka Jhumki tassel drop dangle earring,” Saanvi explained, displaying her own seldom-used pair. “Note the beaded metal bells, fine Jali work -- delicate, lattice-like patterns created by piercing or carving. Earrings like these were used during the Chola Dynasty with temple statues -- echoing temple bells --  but they eventually evolved into a popular style even for every-day situations. Bells, or ‘ghunghroo,’ are perceived to ward off negative energy. I noted Professor Bhatia’s immediately at the book club, not only for their exquisite Jali craftsmanship, but because they seemed distinctly out of place.”

“Thought you said they were OK for every-day use,” Thea challenged, accepting a generous tipple of dark Indian rum.

“Well, it isn’t that the Jhumka Jhumki were out of place so much as her general ensemble. You see, neutral colors and simple prints are generally the style for a casual kurti, while deep, rich colors, like the royal blue of Dr. Bhatia’s kurti, are usually reserved for more formal events. Why did she wear such an elaborate, over-the-top outfit to a neighborhood book club?

“Olivia mentioned over tea that Amazon had sent her the wrong setting – sapphire blue cubic zirconium – rather than the ruby she had requested. Perhaps only her blue festive kurti coordinated properly with these new earrings. But why wouldn’t she merely have worn a different set of earrings? Does not the outfit dictate the accessory, not the reverse? Unless the Jhumka Jhumki were crucial -- or functional. Let us strip away the baubles, the adornments. What do you see? A metal bell with latticework, a sort of coarse mesh.”

Thea looked up. “No…”

 “After Olivia reluctantly surrendered her left earring, we found she had soldered a base of sorts to the ghunghroo. A hinged base not present on the right earring. To create a receptacle just large enough to hold a fatal dose of ground monkshood root.”

Thea she grinned and nodded. “A tea ball?”

“An infuser, yes. Detective Mead’s people found aconite residue on the left ghunghroo. When Sami staged her little drama, counting on Olivia’s provocation, Dr. Randizzi’s condescension, and the group’s discomfort, Olivia pulled the ghunghroo from her ear, dropped it into Kerry’s tea, and when the aconite-laced ‘tea’ had steeped long enough, fished it out and reattached it.”

“An acute piece of ratiocination worthy of Miss Marple,” Anand murmured. He caught Saanvi’s gently reproving expression. “Pardon. Poirot.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Professor Mason protested. “I was watching you, and you seemed as baffled as everybody else. Until you looked over at Bhatia, and the lights seemed to click on. What was it?”

“Well,” Professor Deshpande began, “There was one fatal flaw in Olivia’s stunning fashion statement. One stain, wet and spreading on the shoulder of her festive blue kurti. Directly under her left ear.”

Thea leaned back, savoring the rum and the night. “Ain’t no party like a Saanvi party cause a Saanvi party don’t stop.”

“‘Til someone dies,” Anand toasted.