Murder. It's terrible for your karma. Even worse for your holiday.
The White Lotus + Knives Out + Crazy Rich Asians = Death in the Air - a devilishly entertaining debut novel from Ram Murali.
Bursting with wit, glamour and smarts, Death in the Air is a murder mystery like no other: at once a love letter to Agatha Christie and a razor-sharp exploration of colonialism and class.
'A mystery with wit so sharp you'll get papercuts.' - Jack Heath, author of Kill Your Husbands
'Glamourous, gripping, absolutely heaps of fun. I loved this.' - Lucy Foley, author of The Guest List
Read an extract here
Ro lazily stretched in bed as he woke up, loose- limbed and relaxed.
His eyes were still closed. He had no idea where he was, but he remained
unruffled. This had happened to him before.
Half- opening his eyes, he registered he was in a bed made up with cool,
soft sky- blue linens. Thick white piping edged the pillowcases and duvet.
Then he turned onto his back and was amazed. The room’s paneled ceiling
was painted the exact same sky- blue as the sheets upon which he was lying,
and the ceiling’s moldings and detailing were also picked out in white.
The thought came to him unprompted.
Am I dead?
He turned his head. Mullioned windows, behind which the tops of trees
waved at him. Ever so gently.
He had not died and he was not in Heaven.
At least, probably not.
He turned his head the other way. White walls, also paneled.
Yet . . .
Where was he?
He had to sit up, he decided. As he did so, his eyes fell upon a painting on
the wall facing the bed.
Was that a Matisse?
At that moment, there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Ro said automatically.
The door opened, and Sundar appeared, in uniform, carrying a silver tray.
“Good morning, Sir.” He walked across the room and placed the tray on an ormolu
table that Ro hadn’t yet noticed. Sundar turned to the windows to open
the curtains and paused. They were already open. He clearly hadn’t expected that. He contented himself by moving toward them and tying them neatly with the sash that Ro had left hanging the previous night.
Standing back up, Sundar turned toward Ro.
“If it’s convenient, Mrs. Banerjee would like to see you in twenty minutes. She apologizes for having asked you to sleep here.”
And then Ro remembered. Amrita was dead.
“You will find any toiletries you need in the bathroom. There are fresh kurta pajamas in the closet.” Sundar cleared his throat, a little embarrassed.
“Other things you might need are in the drawer here,” he added, indicating a small white wooden dresser painted with flowers. “But please let us know if you require anything else, at all.”
“I’m sure it’s all fine,” Ro said, slowly getting out of bed. “And twenty minutes should be ample.”
“I’ll let her know.” Sundar smiled and left the room.
What were the other things Sundar thought he might need? Ro ambled over to the dresser and opened the top drawer. It was filled with Calvin Klein boxer briefs in every color imaginable.
He unfolded a few. They were all size medium.
**************************
Mrs. B. sat on the sofa, one finger on her lips, her brow furrowed, visibly trying to decide where to start. Ro sat watching her. He liked her tremendously, he realized. So many people started speaking before knowing what they wanted to say.
“Thank you for sleeping here last night,” she began, somewhat abruptly. “I wanted to be able to speak to you first thing this morning.”
Ro nodded.
“ I don’t want you to think I’m coldhearted, but I want to leave the tragedy of Rita’s death to one side for the moment.” She looked down, shaking her head. “I am devastated that this happened at Samsara. Of all places.”
She looked at Ro. “Ro, I like what I’ve seen of you very much so far. You seem
sensible. And sensitive. Which is a rarer combination than it ought to be.”
“Thank you,” Ro said politely.
“And more concretely, you’re a lawyer, and we know your family,” she continued,
taking a sip of tea. She put the cup back in its saucer and shrugged.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be a snob. But that’s just how the world works, I
suppose.”
“I’m very happy to help you however I can,” Ro said, realizing as he said it
that he meant it. “But I’m afraid I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
Mrs. B. leaned forward.
“Ro, this is going to be tricky for us to navigate. For Samsara, I mean.” She
hesitated. “I’m not quite sure what I’m asking of you, because I’m not quite
sure what is happening. But I’d like you to be involved in the investigation on
our behalf.”
Ro paused. He hadn’t expected that.
Misunderstanding his silence, Mrs. B. rushed back in. “Of course, we will
cover the cost of your stay. And invite you back for another two weeks whenever
you choose at our expense.”
Ro shook his head. “That’s not why I hesitated, but thank you, that’s very
gracious. Let me think for a moment.” He ran his hands through his hair,
distracted. “All right,” he said finally. “First of all, I need to know what the
hotel’s objective is.”
Mrs. B. sighed, relieved. Ro had understood. “The most important thing is
not to have a fuss. To make it go away.”
“Will you tell the guests what happened?” Ro asked, curious.
Mrs. B. thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. At
least not yet. Preferably never.” She saw Ro’s look of surprise. “People die in
hotels all the time. All the time. And nobody knows. And on planes. Planes
have corpse cupboards. Did you know that?”
“You know, I think I’d heard that somewhere once,” Ro said, nodding.
“Corpse Cupboard would be a good band name. A heavy metal band, maybe.”
He registered Mrs. B.’s puzzled look. “Sorry. I’m just not sure what is and what isn’t appropriate right now.”
“Don’t worry.” Mrs. B. went silent for a moment. “I don’t want you to think that I’m only concerned about the hotel. About money. That isn’t it at all.” She shook her head. “I’ve known— I knew— Rita since she was born.” She paused. “And I am fairly if not completely sure that this was not a random killing.”
Ro considered for a moment, then nodded. Mrs. B. was almost certainly right, he thought, although he didn’t yet know why.
“I know this phrase is overused with regards to those who have passed on,” Mrs. B. continued, “but I do think she would have wanted the utmost discretion.”
Suddenly, Mrs. B. looked very sad. “And that’s what Meena would have wanted. Her mother. I can assure you of that.”
“I agree with you. I didn’t know Amrita well, but she was so private. So self- assured. She would have never wanted a spectacle.” He thought for a second. “Particularly a spectacle she couldn’t control.”
There was a long pause.“
So will you do it?” Mrs. B. asked finally. Ro was charmed by how vulnerable she sounded. Everyone likes to feel needed, he reflected.
He had questions, but they seemed unimportant in the end. Also, he had liked Amrita tremendously, and was very sad that she was gone. He wanted to do his part.
He stared up at the ceiling fan, gathering his thoughts. And then he remembered something else.“
Yes,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
This is an edited extract from Death in the Air, out now in all good bookstores.
Death in the Air
by Ram Murali
A murder mystery like no other: at once a love letter to Agatha Christie and a razor-sharp exploration of colonialism and class.
Comments