Side Trip to Kathmandu (A Sidney Marsh Murder Mystery Book 3) Read online

  Side Trip to Kathmandu

  A Sidney Marsh Murder Mystery

  Marie Moore

  Seattle, WA

  Camel Press

  PO Box 70515

  Seattle, WA 98127

  For more information go to: www.camelpress.com

  www.mariemooremysteries.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Sabrina Sun

  Side Trip to Kathmandu

  Copyright © 2015 by Marie Moore

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-297-9 (Trade Paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-298-6 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014955980

  Produced in the United States of America

  Acknowledgments

  Patience is certainly a virtue. Mohit would, I am sure, have some wise words to impart on its value. I can only say that I am most grateful to my hardworking agent Victoria Marini, to Catherine Treadgold and Jennifer McCord of Camel Press, and to Sidney’s loyal fans for their understanding and patience in waiting so kindly for Sidney’s next adventure to be written. Here it is, finally, and I hope all of you will think it worth the wait.

  For Marie and Susanna, my precious girls, and little Kate, who I predict will grow up to be a great adventurer. Always, always for Rook, and especially for Doris, a brave lady who is a real team player.

  “This is indeed India; the land of dreams and romance, of fabulous wealth and fabulous poverty, of splendor and rags, of palaces and hovels, of famine and pestilence … the country of a thousand nations and a hundred tongues, of a thousand religions and two million gods … the one land that all men desire to see, and having seen once, by even a glimpse, would not give that glimpse for the shows of all the rest of the globe combined.”

  —Mark Twain, Following the Equator, 1897

  Chapter 1

  “This is your final chance, Sidney,” Silverstein said, slouching in his Italian leather chair and staring at me over his Cheaters. “And I really mean it this time. Your last two trips were disasters.”

  “Final chance, Sidney,” echoed Andre, Silverstein’s wormy little assistant.

  I wanted to smack him. My chances were none of Andre’s business.

  “Mr. Silverstein,” I pleaded, leaning forward in my chair toward the shiny expanse of his desk at the travel agency, hoping for some real understanding, “You must know that what happened on that safari was not my fault.”

  He tented his hands behind his curly gray head and leaned farther back in the chair, resting his head against his big, bronzed wrists. He studied me in silence, his stare unrelenting. He wore an expensive open collared shirt with sleeves precisely rolled to his elbows.

  “Maybe not in the strictest sense, Sidney. Maybe not. But what about the trip before the safari … that nightmare of a cruise?”

  “That wasn’t my fault, either. I didn’t invite a killer to come on the cruise. Surely you can’t blame those murders on me?”

  Sitting up, he extended his long arms, palms uplifted, into an elaborate shrug.

  “All I know, Sidney, is that on the trips you’ve been leading lately, stuff happens. Bad stuff. People die. It may be just bad luck, it may not be your fault, but somehow it happens. And if your luck doesn’t change—and I mean right now—you are out of a job. My lawyers are screaming. Itchy Feet Travel can’t take any more unfortunate accidents. It’s bad for business.”

  “Bad for business,” Andre repeated, nodding.

  “People are attracted to you, Sidney,” Silverstein said, leaning back in his chair once again. “I’ll give you that. They like you, they really do. You get high marks in all the customer satisfaction surveys. You are smart, good-looking and friendly, and in every other respect, you are a good agent. A class act. But your luck’s gotta change, and that’s the bottom line.”

  He stared silently at me for a beat, then he leaned forward toward the desk and his expression softened.

  “You can do well on this, Sidney,” he said, “if you stick to your business and don’t go looking for trouble. Diana has the details of the assignment. Stop by her office when you leave here and pick up the rest of the paperwork.”

  Andre, hovering at his elbow, handed him a slim folder. Silverstein glanced through it briefly then passed it over to me.

  “This should be a breeze, Sidney. I wish I was going. It’s a great trip. You and Jay will be escorting a select group of high-end clients on a deluxe tour of India, followed by a side trip to Nepal. These people are the silver tunas, Sidney, a real catch for my agency. I can see a lot of fat commissions coming from this in the future, and we all know I could sure use some cash.”

  He wasn’t finished. I started to reply, but he waved me into silence.

  “Why, you may ask, am I giving you this plum? Well, I wouldn’t risk sending you out with this group,” he said, with a grim smile, “given your recent track record, but you have been specifically requested as tour escort by Mrs. Shyler. And as you know, we do all we can to keep her happy. She spends a ton with us. If Shyler hadn’t demanded that you go with her group, you’d be on your way to Atlantic City with the gambling bus.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Brooke to the rescue once again, bless her!

  He rose from his chair, indicating that the interview was over. Clutching my new assignment, I grabbed my bag, followed Andre to the door, and was almost out of there when Silverstein’s voice, calling my name, stopped me. I looked back from the doorway.

  “Sidney,” he said, “We’re making big bucks on this. Don’t screw it up. This is your last chance. And I really mean that. Understand?”

  I nodded, pushed past Andre into the hall, and marched toward Diana’s office to pick up the details of what might be my final job for Itchy Feet Travel.

  #

  Diana was her usual snarky self, handing over the tour packet reluctantly. Her ice-blue eyes lasered into me. I stood in front of her desk, not willing to kiss the hem of her gown, but knowing that hearing her two cents was unavoidable.

  “I really can’t imagine why Mr. Silverstein is risking sending you out again, Sidney, especially with these special clients. I told him that he is making a big mistake.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Diana,” I said, “I really appreciate it.”

  She patted a stray platinum blonde hair into place. It had somehow escaped her always perfect French twist. She smiled her wide, fake smile.

  “I have nothing against you, Sidney. No matter what you think, I am very fond of you. But if it had been my decision, you would have been immediately terminated after the Africa trip. It’s nothing personal. I am only thinking of the welfare of our clients. That is my first concern. Their welfare always comes before ours. Their happiness. Their feelings. Not mine. And certainly not yours. I am sympathetic toward the challenges you have faced on the last two trips. I have a very tender heart. But when it comes to choosing between your comfort level and that of our clients, your feelings just really don’t matter.”

  What do you say to something like that? I looked at her in silence, struggling to control my emotions. Clearly, a reply was impossible, so I just stood there, waiting for the lecture to be over.

  “As you know,” sh
e continued, finally relinquishing the envelope, “today is Jay’s off day, so he has not yet been told about this trip. Normally, Mr. Silverstein would chat with Jay personally, as he did with you, but he is leaving tonight for LA on business. Mrs. Silverstein has a conflict and cannot make the flight, so I am accompanying him.”

  The sly triumph in her eyes was unmistakable.

  “So we are allowing you to advise Jay of the assignment,” she continued after she was sure that I’d gotten the message. “Please share all the information with Jay and tell him that I will speak with him about it when we return on Monday.”

  I perked up at that news. Telling Jay would be fun.

  Diana smiled her phony smile again, showing all of her expensive, matching, gleaming white, perfectly capped fangs.

  “I have every confidence that you will do a good job this time, Sidney. As you’ve been told, it’s your last chance. I would actually be quite sad to lose you.”

  She waved her manicured fingers regally and dismissively toward me, swiveling around toward her computer and saying over her shoulder, “That’s all for now. You may go.”

  As I closed the agency door behind me, heading down the crowded sidewalks toward the subway, I fully realized how sad I would be if I really lost my job. Given the recent state of the economy and the ongoing struggles of the travel industry, jobs like mine are scarce. Finding another one like it would be tough.

  My name is Sidney Marsh, and I’m a travel agent, one of the last left standing in a job that everyone seems to think is becoming obsolete. Not me. I hope and believe that there will always be a place for a really good travel advisor, no matter what the Internet offers. I love planning trips for people and I pray they will always need my services. It’s great making people happy. Plus, I get to go on amazing trips that I could never afford on my own. Bonus.

  My career started about nine years ago when I came to New York for a summer internship with a travel agency, fell in love with the travel business and the City, and worked overtime until I managed to turn that little temp job into a career.

  My mother, back home in Mississippi, nearly passed out over the idea of blowing off college and sorority rush for Manhattan, but she’s finally gotten used to it. Sort of.

  I’m happy about that, because I love my mom but I totally don’t want to have to leave the energy of Manhattan and head back home for good if I can avoid it. Not right now, anyway.

  My little hometown is warm and friendly, filled with nice people, good people, but it’s tiny. I can count all the stoplights in my head if I try. It’s a charming place, it’s home, but it’s not The Big Apple.

  The agency I work for in New York is called Itchy Feet Travel. Our name sounds kind of goofy, but it appeals to people and we’re pretty successful, even in these tough times. Like I said, some people think travel agents may be a dying breed, but in our shop we work really hard to send folks around the world happily and safely. We have good agents at Itchy, skilled, experienced agents. I’m pretty good myself, and Jay Wilson, my best friend and usual travel partner, is one of the best.

  But the boss is right. Our last two big trips, a Scandinavian cruise and an African safari, unfortunately did not turn out well. Through no fault of my own, people really did end up dead.

  Chapter 2

  I rang Jay’s doorbell after work with my elbow. My hands were loaded with takeout sacks filled with cartons of basmati rice, tandoori shrimp, chicken tikki masala, and veggies, plus a big jug of my home-brewed lemon and mint iced tea. Had to include the tea. I may live in Manhattan, but I was born in the South. In Mississippi, iced tea runs in our veins.

  On my way to the subway, I sent Jay a text saying that I was coming over with dinner and a surprise. Our office is in SoHo, in Lower Manhattan, not too far by train from his place in Upper Chelsea on the border of Hell’s Kitchen.

  “They can’t call it that anymore,” he sniffs, referring to the label the neighborhood was given in the early nineteenth century. “There are so, so many talented, tasteful guys like me and my friends here now. We’ve raised the tone of this place, so now we’re calling it Nell’s Kitchen.”

  Jay’s full name is Jeremiah Parker Wilson II. He was named for his stern and long-dead grandfather. Jay says Grandpa Wilson was an extremely quiet, dignified, and devout man, so it’s probably a good thing he’s no longer around to observe the fun-loving antics of his namesake. Grandpa wanted Jay to stay home in Pennsylvania, marry a sweet little wife, raise a bunch of kids, and run the family dry cleaning business. That wasn’t happening. The minute they sang the last hymn over Grandpa, Jay was out of there, headed for New York.

  Jay has been in this crazy travel business far longer than I have. His wardrobe is much nicer, and his apartment makes mine look like a hostel. He’s clever, too; not much escapes either him or his wit. Tall and fit, at 6’2” and over 200 pounds, Jay’s sheer bulk has gotten us out of some dicey situations. He claims to be my guardian angel. Guardian? On occasion, yes. Angel? Not so much.

  Jay has warm brown eyes, wild red hair, and a Vandyke beard. The old ladies on our escorted tours adore him and I do too, although I’d climb the Chrysler Building before admitting it.

  His spacious, high-ceilinged, rent-controlled apartment definitely raises the bar, even for his artistic street. It could easily be featured in Architectural Digest. Jay doesn’t advertise it, but he did most of the work on it himself, including making draperies for the tall windows with close-out designer fabric and his grandmother’s old Singer.

  “Yum,” he said, flinging the door open. “Indian? I could smell the curry through the door. Come in, come in, let me take that for you. You’ve bought way too much.”

  “I know. I always do. It was just so tempting.”

  “And iced tea, too,” he said, unloading the cartons onto the counter and placing the tea jug on a shelf in his pristine refrigerator. “Good. Refreshing. You didn’t get that at Taj Temptations.”

  “No, I left work early and went by my apartment first to brew the tea and change clothes.”

  He looked me over with his usual critical eye.

  “That deep red color is good on you, Sidney, with your dark hair and eyes. You should wear it more often. Nice change from the black.”

  Like most of Manhattan, I usually dress all in black 24/7. The crimson shirt I wore was a birthday gift from one of my seven aunts.

  “Thanks. Aunt Lucille sent it. Said it ‘might help me catch a fella.’ Hope never dies for my aunts and my mother.”

  “Well, you are getting on up there, old lady,” he laughed. “What birthday was this last one, twenty-seven?” Jay is older than I am by at least ten years, but his age is strictly classified information. I can only guess how many birthdays he’s had, because he’ll never tell me.

  “Yep. And still no ring on my finger. That worries them all a lot, especially my mother. I’m sure that her garden club has officially branded me an old maid.”

  He looked up from his task of gathering silverware and placemats for the table.

  “How old was your mother when she married? You told me nineteen, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the aunts, not much older, right?”

  “All of them were married for better or worse by the time they were twenty-one, except Minnie. I think I told you; she’s the one who never married. Mom’s biggest fear is that I’ll end up like her. No husband, and more importantly, no grandchildren. I get a lot of dire warnings.”

  Jay nodded and said with a grimace, “The Marsh Curse.”

  “Uh-huh.” I sighed.

  All seven of my aunts on my dad’s side of the family have had bad, bad, bad experiences with men. They have been married, jilted, engaged, separated, divorced, in and out of relationships as long as I can remember. Men are attracted to these women like moths to the flame, but somehow it never quite works out. My mother fears that The Marsh Curse hovers over me as well. She may be right. My love life thus far has been anything but smoot
h.

  Jay laughed as he lit candles.

  “Might be true, babe, with your track record.”

  He poured me a glass of wine from an already-opened bottle and clinked my glass with his.

  “Cheers,” he said. “To Diana and Itchy Feet Travel.”

  “I’ll drink to Itchy, Jay, just not to Diana.”

  “Agreed. Okay, take that evil witch out of the toast. To Itchy, then, and to me.”

  Now it was my turn to laugh.

  He broke into his broad smile, then turned and began pulling down dishes from the top shelf for our meal. Reaching up into the tall cabinets for the bowls he wanted to use was easy for Jay. Even at 5’8”, I would still have needed a stepstool.

  After the lectures I’d been given at work, it felt comfortable and calming to be in Jay’s beautiful apartment surrounded by candles and flowers and the aromas of the warming food. I felt the tension of the day draining away and finally began to relax. Jay’s very presence was reassuring. I love Jay and he loves me. He is not just a coworker. He is my best friend.

  “What about this surprise you promised, Sidney?” he asked, as he carefully placed the dinnerware on the counter. “Does it have anything to do with Athens? Have you finally accepted a proposal from Popeye the Sailor Man?”

  “I’m saving my surprise until after our meal. You have to wait to find out. And it has nothing to do with Stephanos Vargos, thank you. Hurry up with all that, Jay. The president’s not joining us. The table doesn’t have to be perfect. I’m starving.”

  I busied myself filling glasses with ice and pouring tea as he finished warming the food and ladling it into bright, intricately painted and glazed serving bowls. Jay refuses to eat food out of cartons. The attractive dinnerware was from a set he had lugged home in the overhead from a trip to Morocco. I could never have managed that feat, but Jay is really strong because he works out religiously at the gym.