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

  As I placed the glasses, silverware, and napkins on the handwoven linen table mats, I pictured my Greek cruise ship captain. Then I firmly forced my mind away from any thought of that handsome gentleman and any speculation as to where that relationship might be headed as I helped Jay bring the steaming, fragrant dishes to the table.

  #

  “That was excellent,” Jay said, when his plate was empty. “Thank you. I’m glad you thought of it. I haven’t had Indian in ages.”

  “Well, I’m glad you like it, because you’ll be eating quite a lot of it soon. Guess what? The two of us are out on a deluxe trip to Delhi next Friday. That’s the surprise.”

  “Are you kidding me? Really? Why? What group?” He thought a minute, “No. Not the High Steppers! Their trips are value savers.”

  The High Steppers are a group of senior citizens that Jay and I often escort on trips. Our last journey with them was a disastrous Scandinavian cruise.

  “No, Jay, I don’t think the High Steppers are quite ready for India.”

  He laughed, and draining the last of his tea, took his plate to the sink. “Maybe India is not ready for the High Steppers.”

  I smiled, picturing some of the quirky individuals in the group, as I followed him with my plate. Most of them would not enjoy India. High Steppers generally prefer more predictable excursions, with less spicy food and fewer surprises. India with the High Steppers would be one long complaint after another.

  “Actually, from looking at the booking list, I think this new group is pretty much a mixed bag, Jay. I brought the info with me so you can take a look at it. It’s small, only eight in all counting us, plus some assistants and the inbound Indian tour company reps.” I rummaged in my bag, pulled the list out of his folder, and handed it all to him.

  “See?” I said, as he began to scan the names, “Some are old, some young, some in-between. The only thing they really seem to have in common is that they are all extremely rich. This is a high-end trip.”

  “Even worse than High Steppers,” he said, as he replaced the list in the folder and flipped it onto the glass top of his massive coffee table. “They’ll be so spoiled. Nothing will suit them and we’ll spend all our time trying to make things right. That’s not good news, Sidney.”

  He poured himself a new glass of wine. “Another sip?”

  I shook my head. “No thanks, I’m good. I think the trip will be fairly easy, Jay, because most, if not all, of these people are friends, or maybe friends of friends, of Brooke Shyler. She planned the tour. And she is why we get to go. Brooke demanded that Silverstein assign us to this trip. She said she would not book it without us, so he caved. Couldn’t resist the cash, no matter how unhappy he might be with us. I’m unclear as to exactly what our responsibilities will be, though. Like I said, we’re to be working in cooperation with an inbound Indian tour company.”

  “That’s not unusual. We often associate a local company.”

  “True, but this time it seems as if the company may play a larger role than normal. It seems to be driving this bus, and at least one of their agents will be coming on tour with us.”

  Jay smiled. “Fine by me, babe. That can only mean less work for us! Let me take a closer look at this.”

  He set his glass down on the table and stretched his long legs out on the sofa, piling silk pillows behind his stylishly-cut red head. Then he opened the tour packet again and began thumbing through it. I curled up in a chair between the table and the window, enjoying the view of the trees along the row of brownstones. It was late August, and the leaves would soon be changing color.

  Jay was smiling as he looked over the itinerary and the hotel list.

  “Love the accommodations. Palaces. And Tiger Tops on the extension! Real queens, the crowned kind, stay there. Did we book all this? This is a lot more deluxe than even the most high-end Silverstein tour.”

  “No. The Indian agency handled all the bookings. After Brooke called him, Silverstein worked out some sort of deal with them.”

  “Silverstein personally told you all this?” Jay asked, returning the packet to the table, “about the bookings and Brooke and everything? You had a conference with him today?”

  I nodded. “And with Diana. Diana made me furious as usual. But Jay, they both said it was my last chance with the agency, and that if anything bad happens this time, I’m toast.”

  He shrugged. “If you’re toast, I am too. We’re in this together, Sidney. You go, I go. We’re a package deal.”

  He reached for the bottle.

  “Here, have some more wine. Pull that chair over closer, babe, and tell me all about it. Neither of us is working tomorrow so we’ve got all night. I want to hear it all. Everything that was said. Every word.”

  #

  It was after midnight by the time I’d discussed the whole thing in detail with Jay as we finished off the last of the bottle of wine. I was really tired when I climbed out of the cab and pushed the button for the elevator in my apartment building.

  I had barely been able to scrape together the cab fare after my Indian cuisine splurge and had to shake change out of the bottom of my purse to come up with a tip. The driver clearly thought it was insufficient, pointing out that I could have used a credit card for the cab fare and the tip. He roared away in a huff.

  The doorman, Jerome, is my buddy, and he yelled some Italian insult at the driver as he sped away. Cabs are not my usual mode of transportation—too expensive. I almost always take the train or the bus, but it was late and I was all in. Jerome wished me goodnight and told me to fuggedaboutit!

  While waiting for the elevator, I grimaced at my reflection in the mirrors lining the walls of the deserted lobby. Not good. My long black hair needed more than a trim, and even the touch of mascara I wore had left smoky smudges under my big gray eyes. Jay says that with lashes as long as mine, I don’t need mascara, and he may be right. Makeup habits are hard to break, though, especially Southern makeup habits. Like my mother and my grandmother before me, I’ll never give up lipstick, no matter what. I feel naked without it.

  The elevator shook and clanked its way up to the fourth floor before releasing me into the dim and dingy hallway. I practically tiptoed to my door, not wanting to disturb my neighbors.

  As I unlocked the door and entered my dear little apartment, the fear of losing my job and having to leave the City that I love returned in full force. The heavy sense of dread I’d been carrying since the interview with Silverstein had become lighter in Jay’s presence. In the late-night solitude and silence, it returned to overwhelm me. I dropped my purse on the table and switched on a lamp, looking around at my cozy little home.

  My place is tiny, prewar, and nowhere near as stunning and grand as Jay’s, but it is mine. I’ve worked hard to fix it up. I earned the money on my own to buy every stick of furniture I’ve lugged in from the resale shop, every picture on the walls, every lamp, plant and tchotchke, and I love it. Every last bit of it. I’ve scrubbed and polished, sanded and painted the entire apartment myself, with occasional assistance from Jay. The thought of leaving it and of leaving the energy that is New York City is too much for me.

  In the cramped bedroom I switched off the lamp and curled up on my bed, still in my clothes. Then I totally lost it. I choked back the weeping only to answer the insistent ringing of my cellphone.

  “Stop it.” Jay’s voice said.

  “Stop what?”

  “Sobbing. I know you are. I know you. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry, Sidney. I can’t stand it when you cry. It will be all right, I promise.”

  “How do you know it will be all right?”

  “I just know. That’s all. Go to sleep. It’ll be okay. Goodnight.”

  As the call ended, I got up off the bed, put on my pajamas, washed my face and brushed my teeth. I sat for a long time in the window seat, thinking, watching the lights of the city. Then I climbed in between the sheets and went to sleep, sound asleep, and slept until morning.

  Like I’
ve said before, Jay is my best friend, and he is always—well, usually—there when I need him.

  Chapter 3

  Saturday is laundry day for many people in my building, so most of the machines were already chugging away by the time I made it down to the basement with my basket, a little after 8:00 a.m.

  I stuffed my clothes into the last empty machine, fed it some quarters, and pressed the start button. Nothing happened.

  Piotr, our tall, wiry janitor, was busy mopping the gray concrete floor on the far end of the room, muttering under his breath in Polish. Someone had put too much detergent in a machine, causing it to stop up and overflow.

  Being unfamiliar with Polish, I’ve always had a problem with Piotr’s name. I used to think it was Pieter, but Janusz told me that’s Dutch.

  Seeing my dilemma, Piotr stood his mop in the bucket, smoothed down his gray-brown hair, and walked over to my machine. He gave it a solid kick with his sturdy black boot, and it immediately started filling with water. I thanked him and he smiled and bowed before returning to his mop.

  It would only be a matter of time, I knew, before Janusz, our building super, appeared to call Piotr from that task to another, one likely far more unpleasant than mopping the basement floor. Piotr lives a dog’s life, working dawn to dark under the lash of Janusz’ tongue.

  I waved at him as I left, and was rewarded with a brilliant smile.

  Back in 4-C, I called Brooke to thank her for the India assignment, but only reached her assistant.

  “Oh, hi, Sidney,” Anna said. “Sorry, Brooke’s not in town. She’s at her villa in the south of France until the India trip. She said if you called to tell you she’ll meet you in New Delhi.”

  “What about the rest of the group?”

  “Everyone is meeting in New Delhi. At the hotel. They are coming in from all over and some are arriving by private jet. At least one of the group will already be there because she lives in India, in Mumbai. She’s an actress. You know, Bollywood.”

  Oh. That explained why there was no air manifest in the packet, just e-tickets for me and Jay. I thought Diana had left the air list out by mistake.

  “Well, when you speak with her again, Anna, will you please tell her that I called, and say how much I appreciate all this?”

  “Sure will, Sidney. Have fun!”

  “Thanks, Anna. I will. ’Bye now.”

  “Ciao.”

  After ending the call, I rechecked the packet and looked more closely at the printout of our e-tickets. The flight from New York to New Delhi was booked for Jay and me on Air India. Middle seats in coach. I didn’t mind so much, but I knew long-legged Jay would be livid.

  And he was.

  The next day at the travel agency, he ranted and raged at our AirDesk, but nothing changed. No upgrade, they said. On specific orders from Diana.

  “I feel your pain, Jay,” Michael said, “but you know I can’t change this reservation without her approval. It would be my job.”

  Jay stormed down to Diana’s office, but she was not there. She and Mr. Silverstein had decided to remain in California all week “on business.” They would not return until after our departure.

  His call to her cell went to voicemail. He sent her a text. No reply. He shot her an email, and an automated out-of-office reply bounced back to him.

  “Sorry, Jay,” said Roz, our receptionist, late that afternoon. She looked up at him from her computer screen. “I can’t reach her either. Not on the phone, not on the computah. She and the boss must be … let’s just say, occupied?” Roz grinned and fluttered her eyelashes so hard that I thought one of the big black lash strips might fly off. She liked Jay a lot and had stopped filing her nails long enough to try to help him track down Diana.

  “Roz, do you know how long my legs will be folded up on that flight? Hours and hours. I’ll be crippled. I’ll be maimed. And I won’t be able to sleep a wink.”

  He had really worked up a pity party.

  “Yeah,” Roz said, sticking another pen in her pouffed-up yellow hair and peeling the wrapper off of a fresh stick of gum, “I know, doll, the schedule says you leave Kennedy at three-ten p.m. and you get there the next day about the same time, three p.m. “ ’Course, it’s really not as long as it seems, because of the time zone thing. I’m not sure how to figure all that out. But it’s a long time to be sittin’ on your keister. That’s for sure.”

  “Try her again, will you?” he begged. “Just try her again, Roz. That hateful hag won’t take my call because she knows why I’m calling, but she might answer for you.”

  “Sure thing, sweetie, I’ll keep trying until it’s time for my train,” Roz said, punching buttons again. “But I betcha she ain’t answering no phones, Jay, and he ain’t either. They’re busy. You know what I mean?”

  Without Diana’s unlikely approval, odds were good that Big Jay and I were stuck for the long flight in the middle seats, nonstop, all the way to India. I didn’t mind the cramped flight so much, but I did dread the long hours ahead of listening to him snivel about it.

  “Give it up, Jay,” I said. “We’re in the back. That’s settled, and you might as well make the best of it. After all, the land portion of the trip is deluxe. Try to focus on the great time we’ll have once we get there. Remember, we could be headed to the Taj in Atlantic City instead of the Taj Mahal in Agra.”

  “Yeah,” said Roz, “or going to the Jersey Shore next weekend with me. Who goes to the beach in September? We’ll freeze our asses off, but Merv says that’s when we gotta go ’cause it’s cheaper. Go figure!”

  She closed down her computer and picked up her purse. “Sorry, kiddos, I’m outta here. It’s quittin’ time and Diana ain’t interested in anything we got to say. Have fun with them A-listers.”

  #

  We actually got quite a lot of sleep on Air India after all, because the flight wasn’t full. Whole rows were vacant in the rear section of the big plane.

  Jay and I each claimed a row, pushed the armrests up, stretched out, and slept. Other fellow travelers were doing the same. It looked strange, but it was certainly comfortable. By the time we landed in New Delhi and emerged into the controlled chaos of Indira Gandhi International Airport, we were rested and ready to roll.

  The first thing I noticed on emerging into the main terminal was the sound. Hundreds of voices, all clamoring in dozens of languages. Hindi is the official language, but India has fifteen officially recognized languages in addition to English, plus literally hundreds more, and even more dialects. It sounded as if all of them were being shouted at once.

  The diversity was also evident in the faces, reflecting the tremendous range of ethnicities that make up the population. India represents one of the oldest civilizations in the world, settled over time by Mongols, Greeks, Arabs, Turks, Persians, Chinese, Afghans and more recently by the Portuguese, French, Dutch, and British.

  Outside customs a uniformed driver was waiting, holding a card high above the melee with our names printed on it.

  I followed Jay as we pushed our way toward the driver through a milling crowd of peddlers, each eagerly hawking their wares or offering tours or taxi rides. The noise level was unreal, with everyone talking, shouting at once above a chorus of car horns. The blaze of heat from the late-afternoon sun and the rainbow of colors in the women’s garments made it clear that we were half a world away from New York.

  Jay kept a firm grip on both my hand and his bag as he muscled us through the bedlam toward the tall bearded and turbaned driver who had been sent to meet us.

  “Come on, Sidney, just push your way through. We’re almost there. You know what? Now that we’re here, I think this trip is going to be the best yet. It’s going to be great. I can feel it.”

  Chapter 4

  “Darlings!”

  Red hair and emeralds gleaming in the lights of dozens of candles, Brooke Shyler rushed to greet us with air kisses as we wandered, jet-lagged and starstruck, into her gathering of rich friends in the entrance hall of h
er hotel suite high above New Delhi. We hadn’t wasted any time resting after arriving at the hotel. Neither of us wanted to miss a minute of the posh kickoff party for Brooke’s tour.

  Brooke wore an exquisite silver silk sari. As always, she looked perfect as she guided us into the suite’s living room.

  “Have some champagne—it’s really quite good—and come meet my friends!”

  As we followed in Brooke’s wake, we snagged flutes of the fine vintage from a silver tray held by a smiling waiter. Jay’s eyes were sparkling more than the wine. He was in his element, happy as he could be. I was happy too, despite being painfully conscious of how sad my little black number from the closeout rack must look in contrast to all the fabulous designer clothes worn by Brooke and her pals. We had checked into our rooms with just enough time to shower and freshen up before the dinner party, so at least my makeup was good and my long black hair was brushed and shining. Jay was splendid in his new dinner jacket. Heaven only knows what it had cost him. Jay would eat hot dogs for months if that’s what it took to scrape up the money to buy a new outfit.

  Brooke’s select group of traveling friends was smaller than our usual tour groups. The eight of us included me, Brooke, and Jay, though also present in the long room were various personal assistants and hotel staff. Representatives from the inbound tour company who had made all the local travel arrangements were there as well, all humming around a short sweaty man who seemed to be their boss. At a nod from him, his minions began circling the small linen-draped tables set up for dinner, peering at place cards and leaving handsome embossed leather folders at a few places and imprinted tour folders at the rest.

  “Cheap SOB is giving the good stuff to the big dogs and the budget version to everyone else,” Jay whispered.

  It was clearly an international gathering, with several languages being spoken. Jay speaks French and Italian and he plunged right in, but I could only stand beside him, watching and listening, sipping my wine, feeling really small-town Southern. The view from the huge silk-draped windows was of the magnificent sixteenth-century tomb of the Mughal Emperor Humayun, its massive marble dome illuminated and glowing in the gathering darkness.