Side Trip to Kathmandu (A Sidney Marsh Murder Mystery Book 3) (2 page)

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 a
n
d 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 smooth.

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.

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.