Shruti Salgaonkar
Chapter 1: The Quiet Vineyard
The sun had just begun to retreat behind the Sahyadris, casting a burnt-orange glow across the rolling vineyards of Nashik. The air smelled of ripening grapes and spring dust. Inspector Arvind Deshmukh parked his white Bolero at the edge of the Kadam estate and stepped out. The place was too quiet for a house that had just reported a death.
A constable approached. “Sir, victim is Rohit Kadam. Forty-two. Winemaker. Found dead in bed by his wife, Meera Kadam. No signs of forced entry. Door was locked from the inside.”
Arvind nodded without a word and slipped on a pair of gloves. The bungalow stood like a jewel among the vineyards—whitewashed walls, terracotta roof, and a porch adorned with ceramic wind chimes that now tinkled against the breeze, eerily melodic.
Inside, the air was cool. A tall woman in a beige saree stood near the living room, eyes red but dry. Meera Kadam. She didn’t appear broken. Composed, if anything.
“I found him like that around 5 PM,” she said, her voice low but firm. “He said he was feeling dizzy after lunch and went to rest. I didn’t think…” Her voice trailed off into practiced sorrow.
“You called a doctor?” Arvind asked, looking around the room. A decanter of wine sat half-finished on the table beside two glasses. Only one had lipstick.
“No, I called the staff first. The cook came running. Then the security guard called the station.”
Arvind didn’t respond. He headed toward the bedroom. Rohit Kadam lay on the king-sized bed, dressed in linen pajamas, arms by his side. His mouth was slightly open, and his eyes… half-closed. Like he’d just dozed off mid-thought.
But there was something unnatural about the stillness. Arvind had seen peaceful deaths. This wasn’t one.
He scanned the room. No signs of struggle. A nightstand held a phone, charger, and a bottle of sleeping pills. “He used these regularly?” Arvind asked.
Meera stood in the doorway. “Yes. Rohit had trouble sleeping, especially after the last harvest season. Lots of pressure.”
Arvind crouched to check the bottle—intact, full. No pills missing.
“Who had lunch with him?”
“I did.”
Arvind’s eyes flicked up. “What did you eat?”
“Paneer bhurji, roti. I made it myself. He drank wine afterward, like he always does.”
He noted it: she said she made it. Unusual for someone of her status, with household help.
Arvind motioned for the body to be taken for postmortem. He had a feeling this wasn’t a natural death. On his way out, he glanced again at the wine glasses—one clean, the other faintly stained with a red mark.
Outside, dusk had fallen. The constable joined him again.
“She looks calm, sir,” the man said. “Not the way people react after finding their husband dead.”
Arvind zipped up his file. “Sometimes grief wears a mask. Or sometimes… it doesn’t come at all.”
“Anything odd about the staff?” Arvind asked.
“Three people on regular duty: cook, housemaid, and the driver. All say they were outside or in servant quarters. No noise, no alarm. Guard says no visitor came today.”
“Check the CCTV from the last three days. And collect the wine bottle from the kitchen. Don’t let anyone touch it.”
He paused by his vehicle, looking once more at the calm bungalow bathed in twilight. There was something too neat about all of this. Death rarely behaved so politely.
As he drove off toward the city, Arvind knew one thing: Meera Kadam was hiding something.
And the vineyards—like they had for generations—were about to give up their secrets.
Chapter 2: Grapes of Deception
The Nashik morgue had never smelled pleasant, but Inspector Arvind Deshmukh had stopped noticing. What caught his attention today was the crispness of the report in Dr. Veena Kulkarni’s hand.
“Cause of death: cyanide poisoning,” she said flatly.
Arvind arched an eyebrow. “Cyanide. That’s not an impulsive choice.”
Veena nodded, tapping her pen against the clipboard. “Quick-acting. Odorless in wine. He would’ve been dead within minutes.”
“Any signs of struggle?”
“None. Which means he didn’t know what hit him.”
Arvind stared at the glass window separating him from Rohit Kadam’s body. “So someone gave it to him in something he trusted. Food… or drink.”
Later that day, he returned to the Kadam bungalow with a clearer head. The vineyards outside were alive with laborers in straw hats, snipping away at bunches of grapes, unaware that the master of the house had been murdered.
In the kitchen, the wine bottle from yesterday’s lunch still sat uncorked. Arvind took a deep whiff—fruity, aged, slightly bitter. He handed it over to the constable.
“Send this to the lab. Full chemical analysis. Trace elements. Everything.”
He turned to the cook, a man in his fifties named Ramesh who fidgeted with his towel like it held all his secrets.
“You were here when sir had lunch?”
“I was, saab. Madam told me to stay in the servant quarters after I served roti.”
“What did you see?”
“Nothing strange, sir. Just… sir didn’t say much lately. He was… quiet these days. Seemed angry about something.”
“Angry at whom?”
Ramesh hesitated. “Madam, I think. They used to fight sometimes. Not loud, but… tense. Like swords rubbing in their heads.”
Arvind noted it down. He asked for Rohit’s phone, but it was locked. He sent it to cyber forensics.
When he walked back to the living room, Meera was standing by the bookshelf, holding a framed photo—her, Rohit, and a much younger man in a dark blue kurta.
Arvind spoke casually. “Who’s that?”
She blinked, as if surprised he was still around. “Rishi. Rohit’s cousin. He used to visit us during college vacations. We haven’t seen him in years.”
Arvind’s instinct prickled. The kind of name that comes up too quickly.
“Is he in Nashik?”
“No, he works in Pune, I think.”
“You think?”
She gave a thin smile. “We aren’t in touch.”
Arvind didn’t push. He’d ask again later, when her guard dropped.
As he left, he stopped by the front porch. The ceramic wind chimes clinked again, this time not as a lullaby, but a warning.
He lit a cigarette and made a mental list.
- A poisoned man.
- A composed wife.
- A cousin from nowhere.
Murder was like a vineyard. Carefully cultivated, deceptively calm, and full of roots you couldn’t see unless you dug deep.
And Arvind was ready to start digging.
Chapter 3: A Man Named Rishi
It was raining in Pune when Inspector Arvind Deshmukh arrived. Not the kind of rain that makes the world romantic, but the kind that makes crime harder to solve—muddy, blurring footprints, hiding evidence, washing away guilt.
He hadn’t told Meera Kadam, but within twenty-four hours of her husband’s death, he’d already pulled Rohit’s phone records. There, among the usual contacts, was a number saved under a curious name: “R.K. Archives.”
A simple trace led him here—to a bookstore café tucked behind Fergusson College. The man behind the counter wore a black hoodie, spectacles, and a slow smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Rishi Kamat?” Arvind asked.
“Yes?”
He showed his badge.
Rishi’s smile vanished like the steam from the espresso machine.
They sat in a quiet corner of the café, away from the bustle of college students. Arvind watched as Rishi’s fingers fidgeted with the coffee spoon.
“You knew Rohit Kadam.”
“Yes. My cousin. Well, more like an older brother.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
Rishi looked up, lips tight. “A week ago. I visited Nashik briefly.”
Arvind leaned forward. “Briefly?”
“I was there for a seminar. I messaged Meera. She said Rohit was busy, but I stopped by their estate. We had dinner.”
“Just dinner?”
Rishi’s silence was answer enough.
Arvind continued, “You didn’t mention this visit when I called.”
Rishi offered a shrug that tried to look innocent. “I didn’t think it was relevant.”
“It becomes relevant when your cousin ends up poisoned.”
Rishi’s eyes flared. “Poisoned?”
“Yes. Cyanide. Delivered through wine, we suspect. Do you know anything about Rohit’s drinking habits?”
“Only that he drank every afternoon. And blamed it on the grapes.” A bitter smile. “Said it helped him ‘taste the mood of the harvest.’”
Arvind flipped open his notepad. “Tell me about Meera.”
Rishi’s jaw clenched. “What about her?”
“Did you two have an affair?”
The question shattered the polite café air. For a full five seconds, Rishi didn’t blink. Then he said, “That’s none of your business.”
Arvind smiled calmly. “It becomes my business when a man is dead and the widow shows no signs of mourning.”
Rishi stood up. “I have nothing to do with this.”
“Where were you two days ago between 1 and 6 PM?”
“At work. Ask my colleagues.”
“I will.”
As Arvind stood to leave, he glanced once more at the man in front of him—handsome in a forgettable way, the kind who slipped easily in and out of lives.
One thing was now clear: Meera hadn’t just lost a husband.
She had found a lover.
And possibly, an accomplice.
Chapter 4: The Love That Kills
Back in Nashik, the vineyards were preparing for the pre-monsoon pruning. But at the Kadam estate, something else was being trimmed—truth, little by little.
Inspector Arvind Deshmukh sat at his desk, reviewing surveillance footage collected from the bungalow’s outer gates and driveway. For two whole days before Rohit’s death, no visitor had been logged. No one came. No one left.
Except on the evening of May 2nd—the day before Rohit died.
The timestamp showed a motorcycle pausing near the north gate at 7:36 PM. The rider wore a helmet, black jacket, and gloves. He didn’t go in through the main gate. But a side camera caught him slipping through the vineyard trail.
Arvind froze the frame. The rider’s build matched Rishi’s.
He called Constable Joshi. “Get me the phone location records of Rishi Kamat for May 2nd and 3rd. I want every ping tower. And check the winery event guest lists—Meera mentioned a harvest party last week. See if his name shows up.”
Within an hour, Joshi returned, face pale.
“Sir. Rishi’s number pinged off a tower less than 800 meters from the Kadam estate on the 2nd. Around 7:30 to 9 PM. Then again near the Nashik-Pune highway the next morning.”
Arvind leaned back, exhaling. “He lied.”
That same evening, lab reports from the wine sample came in. The opened bottle—a Merlot vintage, Kadam’s own label—contained traces of potassium cyanide. The dose was enough to kill instantly.
But more than that, the lab had found lipid residue on the inner rim of the bottle—traces of ghee.
Poison, masked in fat, likely slipped into the bottle before lunch. It wasn’t impulsive. It was measured, timed, prepared.
Arvind returned to the bungalow one last time before his next move.
Meera greeted him in her garden, plucking hibiscus flowers into a brass bowl. She was barefoot, graceful, calm.
“Another round of questions, Inspector?” she said, smiling slightly.
“I have the autopsy report. It confirms cyanide.”
“I see.”
“No shock?”
“I’ve lived with Rohit long enough to expect many kinds of endings. Just not this one.”
“You made lunch that day. Paneer bhurji. Do you remember where the wine came from?”
“Yes. Rohit picked it himself. From our cellar.”
“No one else went in there?”
“No one.”
She was good—too good. But Arvind noticed her hand faltered while placing the next flower. Only for a moment.
“Did Rishi come by that night?”
Her eyes flicked toward the front gate. “No. Why do you keep bringing him up?”
“Because he lied. About his whereabouts. About his last meeting with Rohit.”
Something shifted in Meera’s expression. Not guilt. Something colder.
“You know what Rohit used to say?” she murmured. “That wine only reveals truth after it’s aged. Maybe the same is true for people.”
Arvind stood. “We’re not done yet, Mrs. Kadam.”
As he walked away, he knew the time had come.
They wouldn’t confess.
So he would make them believe they’d already been caught.
Chapter 5: The Wineglass Trap
Inspector Arvind Deshmukh believed in traps. Not the kind with cages or alarms—but psychological snares, where the guilty untangled themselves out of fear. This time, he baited his trap with silence.
He made a public statement:
“Rohit Kadam’s death appears natural. Final report awaited. Family has been cooperative.”
Within hours, news of the investigation being closed spread through Nashik like the smell of crushed grapes. Arvind didn’t chase it. He waited.
Three nights later, under cover of dusk, a plainclothes team followed Meera Kadam as she drove to an old vineyard shed. There, Rishi Kamat stood waiting, arms folded. She approached him quickly, nervously.
Arvind and his team watched from the shadows.
The shed was wired. Every word, every sigh, captured.
“You told me it was safe,” Meera whispered sharply. “You said cyanide would vanish in the wine!”
“It would’ve,” Rishi hissed, “if you hadn’t insisted on pouring it the day before! It sat for hours. Of course the lab found something!”
Meera looked around in panic. “We should leave. Goa, or even abroad. Before they question us again—”
“They won’t question us. Didn’t you hear? Case is closed.”
Meera stepped back. “You believe that? Arvind Deshmukh doesn’t close cases. He circles them.”
That was enough.
Arvind stepped out of the shadows and clapped slowly. “Good instincts, Mrs. Kadam. Bad choices, though.”
They turned, stunned.
Rishi made a run for the exit—but two constables blocked his path.
Meera froze.
“It was the wine,” Arvind said softly. “The one thing Rohit trusted every day. You knew that. You planned it. Poisoned it. You two thought love justified murder.”
Meera said nothing. But her eyes glistened. Not with guilt. With betrayal.
“Did you love him?” Arvind asked her, just before cuffing her wrists.
Her reply was a whisper. “I loved being free.”
Rishi said nothing. He only looked away.
As they were taken to the police jeep, Arvind turned one last time to the silent vineyards.
The soil had swallowed a man.
But truth, like roots, had grown quietly—until it broke through.
Chapter 6: Crushed Like Grapes
The courtroom was colder than usual. Maybe it was the air-conditioning. Maybe it was the silence that followed betrayal.
Inspector Arvind Deshmukh sat quietly on the back bench as the prosecution laid out its evidence—CCTV footage, forensic reports, and the damning audio from the vineyard shed.
Meera Kadam sat in the dock in a pale blue saree, the same grace as always—but none of the calm. Her hands trembled slightly as the prosecution read the line she had whispered to Rishi: “I loved being free.”
Rishi sat beside her, jaw clenched. His lawyer tried to argue coercion—that he had been manipulated by Meera, seduced into murder. But the court was unsympathetic. Love, they said, was no excuse for murder. Especially not love that calculated cyanide doses.
The judge didn’t take long.
“Meera Kadam, Rishi Kamat—you are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment for the murder of Rohit Kadam.”
As the gavel fell, Arvind closed his notepad.
Justice didn’t always come quickly. But this time, it had arrived like monsoon thunder—unexpected, loud, and final.
Outside the courthouse, the vineyards of Nashik carried on. Workers trimmed, harvested, bottled. Life, like wine, moved forward.
A week later, Arvind visited the Kadam estate one last time. It was up for sale now—Meera’s name struck from every paper. The wind chimes on the porch still tinkled. The wine cellar was locked.
But something had changed.
He picked a grape from the nearest vine, popped it in his mouth, and smiled.
Bitter.
Like truth.
THE END
