Mystery
Date Published: 04-01-2026
fix her marriage, she turns into a cooking sensation and…murder suspect in
this action-packed, hilarious, new cozy mystery series for fans of
Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum and Elle Cosimano’s Finlay Donovan.
EXCERPT
We paid for our groceries and headed down the street to Jaipur Garden, a small Indian restaurant wedged between a liquor store and a flower shop. It was quiet and pleasant, and decorated with motifs of elephant caravans and peacocks as sitar music played in the background. Rose-colored tablecloths draped the tables, and the smell of fragrant dishes wafted from the kitchen. Between the ambiance and Mike’s company, I was feeling more comfortable than I had in ages, as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
A waiter showed us to a table and dropped two menus down. Mike held out my chair, and I slid into my seat feeling lighter and younger than I had in years. And for the first time, I realized how desperately lonely I had been in my marriage. At home I felt invisible, almost like a ghost. There was always this looming sensation that my thoughts and experiences didn’t matter. It was a terrible burden to bear.
“Two chai teas and an order of samosas,” Mike told the waiter.
“This place is beautiful,” I said, looking around. “I can’t imagine why I’ve never noticed it before. It’s like my eyes just opened up, though I must have seen it a dozen times. Do you come here often?”
“Once in a while. They make a mean masala dosa here. But I have to warn you, the food is pretty spicy.”
“The spicier the better,” I said with a wink.
The waiter brought us our teas, and I added some sugar and stirred it thoughtfully, then brought it to my lips. Delicious. Utterly delicious. It was a little taste of heaven.
“Tell me, Bella,” said Mike. “What do you do when you’re not making spices and doing yoga?”
“I’m the editor of The Park Slope Observer, the little neighborhood paper with the big heart.” I made a heart sign with my fingers and didn’t feel the least bit corny doing it.
“Oh, I love that newspaper. They had a great story once about a woman who married herself on top of a mountain.” He grinned.
I laughed. “Yes, I wrote that little gem. She was a cute old lady. I enjoyed interviewing her. She worked hard at self-love after a lifetime of self-hatred. For her the ceremony was a chance to send her vows out to the universe. Actually, it was her life story that got me thinking about the choices we all make in life. In the end, she owned her destiny and died a few weeks after we went to print.”
“Died happy, I’m sure,” he said. “She reminds me of the old lady in my building who sings Italian opera in the stairwell and leaves food out for the alley cats. Sometimes I leave her bags of cat food outside her door. She’s a real character.”
“That’s so sweet of you,” I said, smiling. That story seriously impressed me. Mike wasn’t just the kind of person who talked the talk; he lived by his values and actively tried to make the world a better place. Despite his conservative outward demeanor, he seemed to have a compassionate, caring heart. And he had actually been to an Indian ashram. In my mind, he was right up there with Liz Gilbert and George Harrison. A whole lot of awesomeness. “By the way, when you said you were a ‘numbers cruncher,’ did you mean you were an accountant?”
“No, I’m actually a data analyst,” he said.
“And that entails number crunching?”
“Among other things,” he said. “I have a pretty good memory. At least for the things that interest me.” He smiled his playful smile that filled me with warmth and sent a jolt of electricity through me. His serious side and spiritual side seriously impressed me. That was a rare combination.
Mike checked his phone, and I glimpsed a picture of an adorable set of blond twins of four or five flashing across the screen. I tensed when I thought he might be married.
“They’re adorable,” I said, motioning toward the screen. “Are they yours?”
“No, they’re my niece and nephew, Jake and Hillary. They live in New Hampshire.”
“How cute. They look like a handful.”
“Yeah, they keep my sister on her toes. I try to visit them every summer.”
The waiter set down a platter of samosas between us.
“These are my favorite,” said Mike, beaming. He lifted one up with a spoon and set it down on my plate. “Try it. Vegetable samosas are seriously habit-forming. Try them with some of that mango curry sauce.”
I sliced into the samosa and let it melt in my mouth. The flavor was extraordinary, especially after dipping it in the mango sauce.
“Eating this food makes me want to forget about my karma and chakras and just concentrate on living,” I said. “Now that I think about it, the guru has done an amazing job of helping me change my outlook on life. I will always be grateful for that, no matter how this spice business works out.”
“Tell me more about it.”
“The spice business? There’s not much to tell, really.”
“Seriously, I want to know. How does it work?”
“I wish I knew. I buy all the raw ingredients then take them home and process them into a spice blend. Then I bring it to the Ashram for bottling.”
“Who bottles them?”
“The Guru’s helpers. They weigh it, measure it, and then put it into glass jars with my label on it: Brooklyn Masala. Then I take the jars to wholesale grocery stores, and they pay me for it and give the Guru his commission in chocolates.”
Mike did a double-take. “Chocolates?”
“Yes, crazy, I know. Actually, Cadburys to be exact. Originally, I went to the guru for help in fixing my marriage, but instead of telling me to go to marriage counseling, he told me to learn everything I could about garam masala. One thing led to another, and now I’m making and distributing vast quantities of my homemade spice brand to wholesale Indian grocery stores all over Brooklyn.”
“That sounds bizarre. Why would the guru want his commission in chocolate?”
“That’s the arrangement. You can’t make this stuff up. I know it’s crazy, but that’s the deal. I get the money and he gets the chocolates.” I didn’t tell him the part about the thousands of dollars I had seen stuffed inside one of the chocolate bars. To me, that felt like wading into dangerous territory.
Mike started coughing. I patted his back. “Bella, did that ever strike you as odd?”
I swallowed hard. “Yes, and no. I just learned not to ask too many questions. But some of his business associates are real shady characters. I’m actually thinking of quitting this business. Too much strange stuff is going on.”
He put his fork down. “What kind of strange stuff?”
“They say things that worry me sometimes. Veiled threats.”
“Bella, are you sure all you’re dealing in is spices?”
“Of course, I am. What else would I be selling?”
He hesitated before he spoke. “And they pay you for it?”
“Yes, quite a lot. They pay me a thousand dollars in cash for every shipment. But I’ll admit there’s some weird stuff going on. Just tonight, for example, one of the Guru’s business associates accused him of stealing and doing bad things. It was unnerving.”
“What kind of bad things?”
I lowered my voice. “They accused him of causing all kinds of strange deaths, unsolved murders, and disappearances. The man called him a thief and a con artist. To tell you the truth, I was scared out of my wits. That’s why I want to quit this crazy business. Believe me, I couldn’t wait to get out of there.” I rubbed my shoulders, trying to soothe the stress.
Just then, two large Indian men in dark suits entered the restaurant and sat down in the far corner. I glanced at them and recognized them as the Maharishi’s two assistants, Gajodhar Singh Cool and Gunda Ganesh. But the chances they would walk into a random Indian restaurant in Brooklyn were miniscule. At least I hoped they were. But when our eyes met, my stomach did a flip-flop. I knew they were not here by coincidence.
Sophie Schiller is a writer of thrillers and historical adventure tales.
Kirkus Reviews called her “an accomplished thriller and historical adventure
writer.” Her latest novel is BROOKLYN MASALA. She graduated from American
University, Washington, DC and lives in New York.
