A Closetful of Skeletons

By Tanushree Podder

Five men are on their way to a hill station, where Ramola, a fading movie star, waits for them to make an announcement that will change their lives forever.Ramola withdrew from the public eye at the peak of her stardom. Now, surrounded by retired couples spending their twilight years gardening and gossiping, her life is idyllic.Or at least it was, till the night of her birthday party, when she announces that her tell-all memoir will soon be published. The book, documenting her rise to fame, puts each of her ex-lovers' careers in jeopardy. As each desperate man tries to save himself, Ramola is drawn back into the very web of lies and deception she'd left behind.By the time the party is over, Ramola's neighbour, retired army officer and amateur sleuth, Colonel Arjun H. Acharya, has found his first murder to solve.A Closetful of Skeletons reels you into a cosy world of fresh mountain air, long-drawn bridge games and bloody murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins India
• Release date: Dec 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9789352774425

Tanushree Podder

A well-known travel writer and novelist, Tanushree is passionate about travelling and writing. Climate change and the environment are of special interest to her. Tanushree enjoys writing in various genres. This has led to her writing in historical, military, crime, and paranormal genres for adults and children. She has written many non-fiction books before moving to fiction and has published 15 novels. Among her books are Nurjahan's Daughter, Boots Belts Berets, On the Double, Escape from Harem, Solo in Singapore, A Closetful of Skeletons, Before you Breathe, No Margin for Error, The Teenage Diary of Rani Laxmibai, The Girls in Green, Spooky Stories and An Invitation to Die. More Spooky Stories is her 16th book. Three of her books, Boots Belts Berets, A Closetful of Skeletons, and The Girls in Green, are being adapted into web series.

Book preview

1

The silhouette of a man loomed in the shadows. The masked figure dropped silently into the room through the window. In the darkness of the night, he crept towards the bed. For a minute, he stood at the foot of the bed looking down at the sleeping girl. The blade of a knife gleamed in the moonlight as the intruder raised it in the air, aiming for her heart. Just then, the girl’s eyes flew open and her terror-filled scream rang through the night.

‘Cut!’ The director’s voice was tinged with fatigue. It had been a long day. They had begun shooting at the crack of dawn to catch the rising sun and had continued ever since. ‘A short break of five minutes and then we will have a retake,’ said Sen, snapping his fingers. He was directing the eleventh movie of his glorious career.

‘The shot seemed perfect. Why another retake?’ grumbled Abhay Kumar, walking toward the make-up man for a retouch. ‘I have to be at the airport in a few hours.’ The actor was flying to Belgium that night to shoot another movie.

Subroto Sen ignored the actor’s protests and lit another cigarette. A seasoned director, he was accustomed to starry tantrums. The extravagant sets had cost an obscene amount of money so he had no option but to complete the shooting. A dull headache made him irritable. Rubbing his temple, he called for a cup of tea, his ninth cup that day.

‘Sir, there is a call for you,’ Lahiri, his second assistant director, called out. A meek and efficient man, Lahiri held out the phone to him.

‘Not now,’ Sen snapped. ‘Can’t you see I am busy?’

‘The woman has called about eight times since morning.’

‘Ask her what she wants.’

‘I did, but she said it was a private matter.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Someone called Lola, she said it was important.’

The name struck a chord but there was no time for further thought as Abhay Kumar stood waiting for the camera to roll.

‘Tell her I’ll call her back after the shooting,’ Sen instructed, taking position behind the camera. ‘Gentlemen, let us get a perfect shot and then we can pack up.’

It was past midnight when they wound up for the day. Exhausted, Sen hit the sack as soon as he returned home, with the soothing strains of Mozart’s ‘Dove Sono’ playing in his ears. His wife had left for work when he woke up at noon and there were a series of missed calls on his cell phone.

A ghost from the past, he inferred, had returned to haunt him. Two years ago, when she disappeared from Mumbai, he assumed that the Ramola chapter of his life had been wiped clean forever. Why was she calling him? Where had she been all this time? No, he shook his head, I won’t get drawn into a quagmire. Never again. Curiosity could take a running jump. Shuffling groggily towards the dining table, he called out to the cook for a cup of black coffee.

Lighting up the first cigarette of the day, he walked to the balcony and stood gazing at the traffic snarl down below. From his fifteenth-floor apartment the cars seemed to crawl like an army of undisciplined ants. Despite his resolution, Sen couldn’t get her out of his mind.

‘Drat that woman,’ he imprecated. ‘What does she want?’ The phone rang just as he settled down with his coffee. Without glancing at the caller’s identity, he knew it was her.

‘Hello,’ he barked. It was Ramola.

‘Hi Suby,’ the husky voice floated from the distance. It reminded him of Lauren Bacall and Scarlett Johansson. ‘I have been trying to reach you since yesterday.’

‘I was told so.’

‘And were you too busy to take the call?’ the honeyed tones chided gently.

The director was surprised to find his resolution falter. It had been a long time since he had spoken to the woman. ‘Hey, Lola,’ he was the only person who called her that, ‘You know how it is with the shootings and the deadlines. I had to wrap up the last shot before Abhay took off on his Europe tour. Tell me, how has the world been treating you?’

‘Not too bad! I am enjoying fresh air and leisure.’

‘Where did you disappear to?’ he could no longer contain his curiosity. He was fairly certain she wasn’t in Mumbai and hadn’t been here for the past two years. Someone would surely have spotted her in the city. She was a famous person. ‘Mumbai is missing you, Lola.’

‘It’s good to know that. I am not returning anytime soon though. Not unless you offer me a meaty role in your next movie,’ she teased, her laughter tinkling pleasantly in his ears.

It was difficult to remain detached. Two years ago, when Ramola had vanished mysteriously from Mumbai, the gossip vines had buzzed with conjecture. She is pregnant. She has had a heart break. She is in a rehabilitation centre. Theories and speculations were rife for a while and then the curiosity had petered out.

‘Sure, I would love to work with you again,’ he said, ‘but …’

‘There is always a but or an if, right?’ she laughed.

Several years ago, Sen had begun his career by directing the run-of-the-mill kind of movies. He was good at his job and most of the movies made the mark. The spate of masala movies brought him money and fame. It was Sen who gave Ramola her first big role in a movie by casting her opposite Vikram Ahuja, the top star of the time. It was a dream opportunity for the girl. Until then, she had been a bit star, acting in C-grade films.

The director’s gamble paid off when the film became one of the top grossers of the year and Ramola went on to rule Bollywood for the next decade and a half. Sen, however, switched to directing meaningful movies, soon after. He was now counted among the top five movie directors in the country. Critics spoke reverently of him. It was fashionable for the elite to discuss his movies at parties and film stars to chase him for roles.

She has still not stated the purpose of the call. He took a sip of the now tepid coffee and made a face before putting the cup away. What did she want? It was not like her to make a courtesy call.

‘Let me come to the point. Suby, I want you to come here for my birthday.’

‘But Lola …’ he spluttered. ‘I don’t even know where you are inviting me.’

‘Didn’t I tell you that I am at Ramsar?’

‘You never did. Where the hell is Ramsar?’

‘It is a beautiful town near Almora. I will send you all the details by email.’

The woman must be mad to think, that he, Subroto Sen, would go all the way to Ramsar to attend her birthday party. Their relationship had ended a long time ago. Besides, he had moved on.

‘No, don’t make excuses. I know you have finished shooting and you can easily take a couple of days off.’

‘A film doesn’t end with the shooting. You should know better …’

‘Darling Suby, you have to make time for fun and play, no matter who you are.’

‘You know I make time for fun and play after the release of a movie.’

‘Can’t you sacrifice one weekend for me? Besides, I have an important announcement to make and I won’t take a no from you.’ Her voice was insistent.

‘Sorry, Lola, I’ll have to take a rain check on your invitation.’

‘I am sure you can squeeze a weekend out of your busy schedule. You can bring Sups along.’

‘I can’t promise anything but I will try.’

He had no interest in attending the party. Not now. Not ever. As for his wife, she was too supercilious to party with film folks.

Five years ago he had married the svelte, smart and successful Suparna Basu, a television journalist and an arrogant woman, who had scant respect for Bollywood stars and wore the pants in the marriage. Sen knew that his wife would not agree to attend Ramola’s birthday bash. Although he had turned down Ramola’s invitation, the director was curious about her announcement.

What could it be?

2

Leaning against the soft cushions, Sameer Kelkar aka Sammy closed his tired eyes. It had been a long day packed with speeches, laying a foundation stone for a hospital and then a ribbon-cutting at an art gallery. The whirlwind tours of his constituency, rallies and speeches were proving to be a bigger headache this election season. The cut-throat competition demanded devious plans. Of course, he was a master of the game. Nevertheless, the constant monitoring of the scenario, with its blame game, insinuations and mud-slinging called for complex skullduggery.

His journey from a Mumbai chawl to the parliament had all the elements of an interesting book. However, somewhere along the way, the script of his life had gone awry as idealism was overtaken by a lust for power. His transformation from a fiery college leader to a cold-blooded politician did not happen overnight: it had taken him more than twenty years. He wanted to sit on the Chief Minister’s chair someday. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of his ambition.

Over the years, there had been numerous allegations of murder, rape and kidnapping against him but none of the charges had stuck. In a system mired in corruption, fall guys were not difficult to find. The sleek car, tailed by Sammy’s bodyguards, its siren screaming and the red beacon light flashing in the fading sunlight, tore through the countryside.

He was dying to get back to his comfortable room in the Circuit House for a shower and a drink. At fifty-two, although a tad overweight, he was indefatigable but his spirit had begun to flag. It was getting more and more difficult to keep up the pace.

Lulled by the soothing hum of the air-conditioner, Kelkar drowsed until the sharp trill of the cell phone demanded his attention. It was his private number and not many people, apart from the immediate family, had access to it. Glancing at the screen, he found it to be an unknown caller. Grunting with annoyance, he rejected the call. Five minutes later, there was another call from the same caller, and then another.

Should I block the number? He dithered. One never knew if it was an important call from an unsaved number. Besides, he rarely gave that number to anyone. No, it wasn’t right to block it. Sighing, he responded.

‘Hello …’ he growled unpleasantly into the phone.

‘Hi, Sammy,’ a voice from the past chimed into his ear.

‘Ramola?’ said the politician, unable to decide whether he was pleased or annoyed with the call. He had no wish to maintain any contact with the woman, yet he couldn’t curb his curiosity. Where was she? Why was she calling him after such a long time? After a moment’s hesitation, his fleshy lips curved in a smile. ‘After all this while … where are you?’

‘I am at a beautiful place called Ramsar. It’s not too far from the capital and your power centre,’ she chortled. ‘You will see it when you come here for a party I am throwing on 11 November. That’s my birthday, in case you have forgotten.’

The woman was stir crazy to expect him to attend a birthday party.

‘I am sorry,’ he began …

‘No, don’t refuse. It is an exclusive affair and you have to be here. For old time’s sake … just for a weekend,’ she insisted, switching on her little girl voice that he had once found irresistible.

‘Sweetheart, the elections are just around the corner and I am busy. Attending a party is completely out of the question.’

‘You are the most important invitee. I have a very important announcement to make. I can’t do it without your presence.’

‘What is it?’ he queried.

‘Uh-uh, you’ll have to come here and find out.’ Her voice turned brisk as she added, ‘I’ll email you the address.’

‘Don’t bother,’ Sammy’s voice hardened as he brushed off her request brusquely, ‘I definitely won’t be able to make it.’

‘It’s no bother. Anything for old times’ sake,’ she said and hung up.

Sighing, he picked up the hand sanitizer lying near him. Squeezing a couple of drops on his palms, he rubbed them together before sinking back on his seat once again.

She had spoken about an important announcement. The woman was full of surprises. There had been never a dull moment during their torrid relationship, he recalled. He had never understood women, least of all Ramola. His curiosity piqued, the politician let his mind wander.

What could the announcement be?

3

Unseasonal dark clouds hung over the city. It had been raining incessantly for the last two days, bringing Mumbai to its knees. Railway tracks were submerged, trains cancelled and commuters stranded; traffic jams on water-logged roads didn’t make life any easier for the hapless city workers. It was a rerun of the tribulations faced by Mumbaiites each monsoon. The joy and relief that came with the end of a blistering summer was soon replaced by miseries caused by the flooding of tracks and pot-holed roads.

At Sea View Apartments, Vikram Ahuja’s mood was as dark as the lowering clouds seen through his tenth-storey window. The yesteryears’ superstar stood in his bougainvillea-strewn balcony, wincing at the ugliness of the view. Twelve years ago, Sea View Apartments had lived up to its moniker, but now the name was a misnomer – a high rise stood between him and the ocean.

Vikram’s life had taken an unpleasant turn in the recent years. From a top star to a nobody, the fall had been swift and sudden. He had learnt about the fleeting nature of stardom the hard way. In an industry where stars are made and unmade every Friday, he had been demolished in a very short span of time.

A bitter smile twisted his handsome features as he looked around his living room. The beige leather sofa wore a worn look, the expensive silk carpet had lost its sheen, the walls needed a fresh coat of paint, the curtains appeared dull and faded; even the creepers on the balcony looked exhausted. He sighed. The coffee tasted bitter. There was nothing in the morning to cheer his flagging spirit.

And then the phone rang.

‘How have you been, Vicks?’ came a familiar voice from the past and a strong sense of déjà vu filled his mind.

‘Ramola? Oh, my God! What a pleasant surprise! I can’t believe you are calling me after all these years. Are you in Mumbai? Let’s meet up for lunch,’ he said enthusiastically. They had been the hottest item in Bollywood. With Ramola’s help, it should be possible to resurrect his career. Where was she?

‘No, Vicky. I am not in Mumbai but we’ll meet soon,’ she cooed.

‘When?’ asked Ahuja. The eagerness in his voice didn’t escape her. Bollywood, with its infamous short memory, had almost forgotten the starlet. A comeback would be sensational, and if he were to be her co-star, the movie was sure to be the top grosser. But he seemed to have conveniently forgotten that they had parted on an acrimonious note.

‘All in good time,’ Ramola’s husky voice titillated him. ‘I’m hosting a party for my birthday and you are invited to Ramsar.’

‘Ramsar?’ Ahuja had never heard of the place. ‘I knew you left Mumbai, but where the hell is Ramsar?’

And why had the woman decided to move to the back of beyond? Nevertheless, there was hope of her return, now that she had contacted him. He was sure she had something to offer. Ramola was not someone who acted without a motive.

‘Just a few thousand kilometres from Mumbai,’ she snuffed out the flame of hope that had flickered momentarily. ‘It’s a small, secluded, scenic hill town, exquisitely picturesque.’

‘Much as I love you, my dear, there is no way I am going to travel thousands of kilometres for your birthday.’

‘You are getting cantankerous, aren’t you? Has another woman walked out of your life?’ Ramola teased. ‘Well, it’s not just a birthday. I will be making a very important announcement that concerns both of us.’

Now she was just being stupid. Imagine asking him to travel all that distance just to hear some silly announcement.

‘Why don’t you come to Mumbai and make the announcement?’

‘That’s not possible.’

He paused for a moment. From her description of it, Ramsar sounded like a nice place. Besides, he hadn’t had a vacation in a long time.

‘You will not regret the trip, I can promise you that.’

‘Alright, if you insist …’ Ahuja left the sentence hanging.

‘I knew you would agree. I’ll email you the directions.’

He stared absently through the glass at the non-existent sea view. What was this announcement that she was talking about?

What on earth could it be?

4

It had been a bad morning for Arif Khan. He had spent it running back and forth between the police lock-up and the office of the Additional Commissioner of Police, trying to get Khukri released. His henchman, who had been arrested two days ago, was cooling his heels in the nick, while the police dawdled with their red tape to produce him before a magistrate. Things had not been going right for a while. My influence is waning. It’s a bad omen; a sign that I am getting old.

All the police officers he had painstakingly cultivated for the past decade or so had either been shunted out or retired. His reputation had no leverage with the new lot.

Khukri was his right-hand man. Over the years, the guy had executed dangerous tasks without questioning or failing. Not long ago, Arif had wielded significant clout. Right from politicians to police officers, film stars and socialites, everybody had fawned over him. The fact that power is ephemeral had been forcibly brought home to him. People’s allegiances are fickle. Situations reverse. One has to constantly work on those factors. Arif sighed. He had tasted the exhilaration of power. But it was slipping away fast. The string of bars, casinos and restaurants owned by him had been his source of supremacy. In his seedy joints, people lost or made fortunes. From a rag-picker to the top of a crime syndicate, he had come a long way. Fraught with danger, blood and gore, it hadn’t been an easy journey.

Drat! The lift is not working. Wheezing with the exertion of climbing the flight of stairs to the additional commissioner’s office, Arif puffed at the asthma inhaler. He was informed by a junior officer that the boss was tied up in an important meeting and wasn’t to be disturbed.

A look of frustration clouded Arif’s cadaverous face as he cracked his knuckles.

Just then his phone buzzed. Sighing, Arif glanced at the caller ID. He had no intention of speaking to anyone, but this call had taken him unawares. Ramola hadn’t been in touch for a long time. Why now?

Should I answer? he glanced doubtfully at his phone. He didn’t want to complicate his life any further at this juncture. It was difficult enough, as it was. The phone continued to ring, irritating him with her persistence. It was time to give her a piece of his mind.

‘Haan, bolo. Kaise yaad aayee?’ he rasped asthmatically.

‘Adaab arz hai,’ came the hushed reply. ‘Tabiyat theek nahin kya?’

‘Main busy hoon. I can’t talk now,’ he replied brusquely.

‘Arre, itna gussa? Anger is not good for your health. I’ll only take a minute of your precious time,’ she breathed. ‘I’m throwing a party for my birthday, it will be followed by an important announcement. Aap ko aana hai.’

He was amazed at the cheek of the woman.

But before Arif could begin to decline the invitation, a message popped up on his phone. Putting her on the hold, he read the text from his lawyer. Khukri had been released. His efforts had paid off. A divine intervention. The superstitious don interpreted Ramola’s call as an auspicious sign.

‘I don’t even know where you live now that you have disappeared from this city,’ he snarled.

‘It’s a lovely hill town called Ramsar.’

‘Never heard of the place.’

‘Not many people have heard of it. All you have to do is take a flight from Mumbai to Delhi and cover the rest of the distance by road.’

‘It sounds like the boondocks.’

‘That’s why it’s so beautiful.’

‘Nahin, main nahin aa sakta,’ he wheezed into the phone. ‘I have a lot of work lined up for the next few weeks and if I remember correctly, your birthday is around the corner. Some other time, maybe.’

‘I am disappointed,’ Ramola said in a small voice. ‘I will email my address to you anyway, in case you change your mind.’

‘That’s highly unlikely,’ Arif’s tone conveyed finality.

He wondered whether he could attend Ramola’s party. The cautious part of him was reluctant to venture into unknown territory. Curiosity, however, is a compelling factor. The mention of an important announcement intrigued him.

What could it be?

5

In a busy part of Mumbai, Rohan Sharma was trying to navigate the ramshackle Hyundai through a traffic snarl. The line of cars crawling at an agonizing speed stretched for over a kilometre. The heavy curtain of rain didn’t make things any easier.

‘Shit, we won’t make it on time,’ said his co-passenger, her hands shaking nervously as she lit the fifth cigarette that morning.

‘You’ve turned the car into a gas chamber. Stop smoking. It’s not good for either of us.’

‘Don’t preach!’ she snarled. ‘We would have reached on time if you had taken the other route.’

They were on their way to a director’s office for an audition. For the past few weeks Ekta had been making the rounds of television studios and directors’ offices in search of a role.

‘Taking the other route would mean extra kilometres. Petrol prices have gone up by another rupee and a half last night. You know I am low on funds right now.’

‘You are always low on funds.’ Her voice was bitter. ‘When was the last time you got paid for a job?’

‘There is no call for sarcasm,’ said Rohan, defensively. ‘It’s true, I haven’t been able to find an assignment, but I am likely to land a plum role very soon. That will force you to eat your words.’

‘I would love that,’ Ekta retorted.

Three years ago, when she fell prey to Rohan’s charms, she thought it was for keeps, but now she knew better. A future with him would be anything but rosy. The guy was a non-starter. Rohan, with his shock of wavy hair, light eyes and bulging muscles, was eye-candy, but he was also brash and selfish, with the hide of a rhinoceros. Years of doing the studio rounds failed to bring him stardom. All he managed to snare were a few fashion shows and some modelling assignments.

In a cut-throat arena, where being seen at the right places at the right time mattered significantly, he was vain enough to think that assignments would drop into his lap without any effort.

His fortune turned when Ramola invited him to move in with her. For a while, everything went smoothly. A few bit roles came his way as a result of her recommendations. They made a handsome couple, and people invited them to parties, premieres and events. Rohan basked in the limelight, mistaking the borrowed halo to be a sign of success. He grew arrogant and insufferable.

When Ramola proposed marriage, he agreed because he had grown addicted to good living. She earned and he blew the money. From cars, clothes and gadgets, he progressed to the race course, casinos and bars. And then, his eyes began straying. The nubile girls at parties were a tantalizing prospect.

Two years into the