Gone with the Wings Read online

  Copyright © Leena Clover, Author 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Gone With the Wings

  A MEERA PATEL MYSTERY

  By Leena Clover

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  Join my Newsletter

  Glossary

  RECIPE – Thepla

  RECIPE – Masala Fried Chicken

  RECIPE – Meera’s Special Queso

  RECIPE – Aloo Gobhi – Potatoes and Cauliflower

  RECIPE – Shish Kabob Blue Plate Special

  RECIPE – Shrikhand (sweet)

  Author’s Note

  Books by Leena Clover

  Sneak Peek – A Pocket Full of Pie – Book 2

  Books by Leena Clover

  Have you read all the Meera Patel books?

  Gone with the Wings – Meera Patel Cozy Mystery Book 1

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B071WHNM6K

  A Pocket Full of Pie - Meera Patel Cozy Mystery Book 2

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B072Q7B47P/

  For a Few Dumplings More - Meera Patel Cozy Mystery Book 3

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B072V3T2BV

  Back to the Fajitas - Meera Patel Cozy Mystery Book 4

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0748KPTLM

  Check out Meera’s yummy recipes and a sneak peek into Book 2 at the back of this book. I have also included a glossary of Gujarati/ Indian terms and their meanings.

  Prologue

  I tore off a piece of warm thepla, a flatbread made with bitter fenugreek greens, dipped it into mango chutney, and leaned forward eagerly to devour it.

  The Fall morning was crisp and cool, and the sight of Motee Ba, my grandma, making hot breakfast for the family lulled me into a warm and fuzzy cocoon. Suddenly, the waxing and waning sounds of a siren snapped me out of my reverie. It wasn’t something we heard usually in our country lane, situated as we were on the outskirts of town. Is anyone sick, I wondered. The sirens came closer and I looked up to see Motee Ba’s worried frown.

  A door slammed and heavy footsteps came closer. There was a rap on the door and a voice boomed.

  “Open up. Open up in the name of the law!”

  Motee Ba frantically pulled open the door and then sighed in relief.

  “Oh, it's you! Come on in and get some breakfast.”

  A short, wide girthed young man waddled in. His face was ruddy, and lit up in indignation. His eyes were red and shiny.

  He pealed out pompously. “No time for frivolities, Mrs. Patel. I am here on official business.”

  “Hunh? Official what?” Motee Ba was confused.

  Stan Miller was a poor relation of the Millers next door. He had grown up on their farm, doing odd jobs as a youngster, earning his keep. He had been in and out of our kitchen while we were growing up. After a couple of years on the local campus police force, he had recently joined the county police. His uniform was new, creased in all the right places. His fleshy face had taken on an air of importance.

  “I swear Meera, if you had anything to do with this…” Stan began in earnest.

  Then his face crumpled and a sob escaped him. He collapsed on a chair and started sobbing, clutching his head, pulling tufts of his hair in anguish.

  My mouth dropped open like a fish. Stan was a jerk at the best of times, but I wondered what had made him bring on the waterworks.

  “She’s gone,” he cried. “What am I gonna do?”

  Motee Ba cleared her throat. “What are you talking about, dear?”

  Stan Miller suddenly straightened and flung a finger at me. “I bet it was you. Everyone knows you hated her.”

  “What the heck do you mean, Stan?” I thundered.

  “Prudence is dead,” Stan declared, “and I bet you did it. Everyone knows you just hated her.”

  I gulped, trying to wrap my head around what I had just heard.

  “What do you mean, dead?” I croaked.

  She was after all, human. Or so some people said. I had been known to have a different opinion.

  “They pulled her out of Kappa Pond this morning. Cafeteria worker on the way to an early shift spotted something floating and called us. It was Prue!”

  Stan broke down into a fresh bout of crying.

  Prudence Walker was my Enemy Number 1. She had made my life hell pretty much since 3rd grade. I had cursed her and wished her dead many times. Sometimes, I had voiced those wishes openly. And now they had come back to haunt me.

  When Fall term started two months ago, I had no idea I was going to be accused of murder.

  Two months ago

  Chapter 1

  July in Oklahoma can get pretty hot. After a grueling few days of 100F+ temperatures, the mercury had finally come down a bit. I had spent the long days trying out new recipes in my kitchen with the air conditioning cranked up, and the evenings lazing around by the lake, slurping gigantic snow cones, shooting the breeze with my pals Becky and Tony.

  Motee Ba, literally ‘Big Ma’, my grandma, was finally coming home, and I was glad. More girl power to handle the three generations of Patel men in our home.

  My name is Meera Patel, and I’m a 20 something South Asian chick from Swan Creek, Oklahoma. At size 12 going on 14, I’m larger than the average American woman. And at 5 feet 10 inches, much taller than the average Desi girl. My black curls are generally flying around rebelliously, and sometimes they are caught together in a scrunchie, when I can find one. My blue-green eyes could be called aqua marine and they change hue based on what color I am wearing.

  I’m an ace computer hacker who everyone around here thought was going to be the next big Silicon Valley success story. Until I packed my bags, dropped out of grad school and came back home with my tail between my legs. Now I shelve books for a living. The Millennium has been a bit of a letdown for me.

  Anand Patel, my Dad, fondly called Professor Andy heads the electrical engineering department at our local university. He’s a brainy whiz controlling millions of research dollars. We have embraced many aspects of the American lifestyle, but held on to some things from our culture. The ‘joint family’ with many generations living under the same roof is one of them. As unworldly as my Dad is, he would never have his octogenarian father l
ive in a separate household.

  “Isn't Ba coming home today?” Dad scooped up some cheesy scrambled eggs doused in Tabasco as he asked after his mother.

  “Un hunh,” I nodded, stuffing some toast in my mouth.

  “Take the Lexus, and I’ll take your car to work today,” he offered generously.

  My eyes lit up and I grabbed the keys from him before he changed his mind. The late model Lexus sedan Dad drove had better, or should I say, working air conditioning, which I sorely needed today.

  “Wonder what Anita's sending this time?” Pappa, my 83 year old grandpa said dreamily while gulping down his oatmeal.

  “Doesn't matter! No sweets for you, Pappa. Your blood sugar's up again.”

  Someone had to be the stern adult, and that role often fell to me.

  “Bah! I will eat what I want. Let me spend my final years in peace, girl. Don't you start all that nonsense again.”

  Leaving Pappa growling and speaking to himself, I headed to my room to get ready.

  Motee Ba was flying in to the Will Rogers Airport in Oklahoma City, which is like an hour’s drive from our place. Swan Creek isn’t big enough to have a commercial airport. We have to drive up to Tulsa or Oklahoma City to fly out.

  I gathered some tunes for the car, and merged onto the highway. I stopped soon at Tony's gas station. An hour long drive needed fuel and munchies.

  “I want the super jumbo Coke, Tony, the largest one you have!” I ordered as I pushed the heavy glass door open and reveled in the shaft of cool air.

  “Yeah, like that's a surprise!” Tony snorted. “Going to pick up Granny?”

  I nodded as I grabbed a big bag of Doritos and a couple of candy bars from the racks. Tony rang the purchase and took out the change from the cash register.

  “Want some company for the ride?” he winked, slamming the register shut.

  “No way!” I made a face and shot him down.

  Anthony Sinclair or Tony is biracial, and the mixed bloodline has done wonders for his looks. His mother is from Bombay in India, or Mumbai as it is called now. He inherited her light brown eyes. His patrician nose and strong jaw come from his father, who hails from a prominent Boston family. His blond hair and honey complexion give him a friendly air, which is only enhanced by his ready smile and helpful nature. I had a huge crush on him at 15. He hardly noticed me.

  There seems to be an on again – off again attraction between us. The only problem is, it never happens at the same time. We are joined at the hip though, and close enough that I wouldn't object to some light flirting.

  “See ya later, cowboy!”

  I contrived to sound breezy and walked out of the store. I adjusted the car seat and the mirrors, and made sure all the cold vents were pointing toward me. Even with the thermostat at 70, thin linen shorts and a tank top, I was feeling hot. I guzzled Coke and sped towards Interstate 35 which would take me to the airport.

  I ran into traffic in the city and reached the Arrivals zone in the nick of time. I parked the car and ran toward Baggage Claim, grabbing a luggage cart along the way. Motee Ba didn't like to be kept waiting.

  “Meera, over here!”

  I turned at that welcome sound, only to cry out in pain as the trolley slammed into my stomach with vicious force. I felt winded as my mouth dropped open and my lungs emptied with a whoosh.

  “What the…” I looked around, bewildered, and my confusion soon turned into a sneer.

  “Look before you leap, Meera!” an odious voice drawled and I stared daggers at the body it came from.

  Prudence Walker is my nemesis, my Enemy No. 1. She made me cry in kindergarten, teased me mercilessly in elementary school, and bad mouthed me through high school. We managed to ignore each other in college. She had sailed through grad school and snagged a cushy job, the kind that my family had deemed was too simple for me. She has worn a constant smirk since I started working at the library at our local university, and lords it over me at every possible opportunity.

  “You turn up every time, don’t you?” I snarled. “Just like a bad penny.”

  Sweat beaded her forehead as Prudence Walker curled her fists.

  “You better watch your words, Meera,” she seethed.

  “Or what? You’ll tell my Daddy?” I guffawed, glad to see her turn red.

  A throat cleared awkwardly, and I finally noticed the guy standing beside Prudence. Dressed in khakis and a Kansas tee, he couldn’t stop fidgeting.

  “I say, Prue, let’s get going,” he murmured, grabbing her elbow, trying to lead her away.

  “Shut up, V!” Prudence hissed. “You stay out of this.”

  I rubbed my stomach with one hand, trying to dull the pain from the impact. Belatedly, I remembered my grandma. Before I could look for her, I felt a familiar arm envelop my shoulders as I was folded into a hug. Prudence Walker receded into the background and I breathed in the special combination of Chanel and my Motee Ba.

  Reluctantly, I pulled out of the hug and took my fill of her. Impeccably dressed for summer, my grandma presented a pretty picture. White slacks set off her filmy coral top, and a silk scarf in blue and coral paisley print was loosely tied round her neck. A large white tote was slung over one shoulder and white strappy sandals hugged her feet. A pale gloss finished the look. My grandma is pretty and delicate, and she takes care of herself.

  “Finally!” I couldn't help tearing up, and smiled when I saw a tear roll down Motee Ba’s cheek.

  “Look at us. Patel women have got to stop being so emotional.” Motee Ba wiped her eyes and smiled.

  Our eyes met and we silently decided to ignore Prudence Walker. I put the luggage onto the trolley and started wheeling it toward the exit.

  “So tell me what goodies you got, quick”.

  “Patience, child, patience,” she twinkled.

  “Do I have to wait until we get home?”

  I knew the answer to that.

  “How's everyone at home? Is Mr. Patel keeping up with his diet?”

  Motee Ba calls Pappa ‘Mr’ in the old fashioned way, mostly in his absence. She rarely addresses him directly by any name.

  “You know him better than me,” I rolled my eyes as I slammed the boot shut.

  A motley crew of young kids was standing near the arrivals gate.

  “Looks like the foreign students have started arriving,” Motee Ba observed.

  “It’s almost August, Motee Ba! Orientation’s in two days. You stayed away too long this time.” I grumbled good naturedly as she settled in.

  Our little town is home to Pioneer Polytechnic, a thriving university offering studies in almost every subject under the sun.

  Fall term was fast approaching, and Swan Creek would soon be inundated with new students from near and far. The international students are the ones that travel the farthest, like those coming from China or India. They rarely know anyone in the country when they arrive, and the expressions on their faces tell their story, if not their features or the abundant baggage they carry.

  There was a shuttle service between the airport and the university, and the foreign students generally reserved a seat on it via email before they arrived. Just the thought of flying thousands of miles to an unknown country, and then stepping into a van full of strangers gave me the shudders.

  “Never forget how lucky and privileged you are,” Motee Ba read my thoughts as usual.

  I shook off my pensive stance and smiled at her. I was just too happy she was home. Motee Ba was the lady of the house, and she held us together with her upbeat personality and warm nature.

  I have grown up motherless, and Motee Ba is more mother than grandma to me.

  My mother is a subject we don’t talk about much in our family. But it is always there beneath the surface, like a dormant volcano, ready to get riled up and explode any time. It’s like, the more silent we are about it, the more we cringe in its cacophony.

  “Your Aunt Anita sends her love.” Motee Ba stretched her feet and stifled a yawn.

&
nbsp; Even though she’s an active 71, her age is beginning to show and I could see the flight had tired her out.

  “So did you shop to your heart's content?”

  The summer trip always includes a trip to Macy's on 5th Avenue in New York City.

  “I'm set for the Fall. And I got you a nice sweater set.”

  I mentally groaned and expressed some enthusiasm, and then let her doze off. My style is Walmart Rollback rather than Macy's. And I splurge at Old Navy. Sweater sets, pearl drop ear rings and other lady like apparel do not appeal to me. Give me some nice blue jeans and a Tee, and that's all. I use hoodies and sweatshirts to layer my outfits in Fall, and sweaters and jackets to battle the winter.

  The miles sped by quickly in the Lexus as the sky turned orange. I pulled into our drive an hour later.

  “We are home, Motee Ba!” I declared as my brother Jeet came out to help with the bags.

  “Hansa, is that you?” Pappa broke out in smiles.

  “This calls for a celebration,” boomed Pappa. “Make me my usual, Andy!” he winked.

  Dad looked at his mother. “Ba...”