Inspired by a true sensational mystery. Solved in the vintage Agatha Christie style by who else, but the redoubtable Geeta Ratan.
DELHI: Sunaina Pushkar, 51-year-old wife of Sanjiv Nair, the ultra-suave Minister of External Affairs, is suddenly found dead in her suite in a luxurious five-star hotel.
Nobody knows who killed her or what killed her. Even her autopsy report is not able to find the cause of her “sudden, unnatural death.”
The whole world believes Sanjiv Nair murdered his wife, as he seemed to have the perfect motive to do so. But did he?
Geeta Ratan, an amateur sleuth, investigates the matter in the vintage Hercule Poirot/ Miss Marple style, and makes a shocking discovery!
All the characters in this book are fictional and bear no resemblance whatsoever to their real-life counterparts, whoever they may be!
Genre: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women SleuthsChapter 1: Sanjiv Nair
By the time I reached the Indira Palace Hotel in Delhi, it was almost eight in the evening. The Delhi winter sky was pitch dark.
I stepped out of the comfort of my chauffeur-driven car (some perks you get by being a minister in the United Front government). And was immediately assaulted by cold winds. I was wearing my British overcoat, but my hands were still cold.
I entered the lobby and was greeted by the comfortable temperature maintained inside the hotel. For the umpteenth time, I was struck at the sight of the massive Corinthian columns that adorned the central lobby, and the exquisite chandeliers that dangled from the ceiling. The reception area had extravagantly carved furniture. This hotel had been recently constructed, maybe a year back, but the ambience and the type of furniture it had imparted it a well-earned vintage look.
I was surprised how quiet the lobby was. There was some gentle piano music being played, but that was all. I began walking towards the reception. My footsteps barely made any sound.
A young woman at a reception smiled at me. “Welcome back, sir,” she said. She was wearing a navy-blue blazer, and her bun was neatly tied. Her name tag read, “Ankita Sharma.” Her flowery perfume smelled nice.
“Is Sunaina still in her room?” I asked her politely.
“Let me check, sir.”
“Room 347.”
“I know, sir.”
She began punching a few keys here and there and clicking the mouse furiously. Ankita frowned while she stared at the computer screen.
You know Sunaina Pushkar, my third wife of hardly four years, can have that kind of impact on many people. Before marriage, we used to be infatuated with each other. But that charm barely lasted the honeymoon period. And was poof—gone way before we realised it.
| Language | Status |
|---|---|
|
Spanish
|
Translation in progress.
Translated by Briant Guzmán and Eva Gloria Rodríguez
|
