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

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.

S
aturday 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.”

“D
arlings!”

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 her 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.

Brooke raised her glass and invited us all to join her in a welcome toast. As she finished speaking, another tall, dark-bearded, turbaned Sikh leaned forward to whisper something in her ear. At first I thought he was the driver who had collected us at the airport. Then I realized that this man was taller than the driver. There was an air of authority about him as he stood behind Brooke with his arms folded, and it was clear that the dark eyes scanning the room missed nothing. His white linen suit was immaculate, but its formality did little to disguise what was obviously a heavily muscled and trim physique. Brooke nodded and clapped her hands.

“My dears,” she said, “dinner is served. Please find your places. Then, starting in the far corner, table by table, we will follow Rahim into the dining room to be served from a buffet.”

While we engaged in the pleasant confusion of finding our places at the small round tables, Brooke circled the room. She was working her special magic, putting me and everyone else at ease. The tables were perfect, overlaid with crisp white linen and centered with exotic flowers and floating candles.

“Lovely, isn’t she?” the broad-shouldered man seated to my left said in a strong Scottish accent, as he watched Brooke moving from table to table. His sharp green eyes were rimmed with thick dark lashes and set under heavy eyebrows in a ruggedly handsome face.

His flight must have arrived just in time for the dinner, I thought, for his strong jaw was shadowed with a heavy beard. He had clearly not had time to shave or change clothes. His shirt was of good quality but rumpled, as was his jacket.

“She is indeed. Brooke is a wonderful person.”

“Have ye known her long, then?” The green eyes focused on me.

“Four, no, almost five years. We both live in New York. I met her there.”

“But you are not really from New York, are you, Miss Scarlett?” he said, in his deep burr. “You must be from the Deep South, judging from your accent.”

Who are you to be talking about accents?
I thought.

“I was born in Mississippi,” I said. “And you are from …?”

“Fort William. In the western Highlands of Scotland, born in the shadow of Ben Nevis. My name is Adam MacLeod.”

He picked up his leather folder and tucked it inside his coat as we rose for our turn at the buffet. Flashing me a grin, he said, “And I must call you something besides Miss Scarlett, my lady. What shall it be?”

“I am Sidney,” I said, meeting the bold, green gaze full on, “Sidney Marsh.”

The elderly turbaned man to my right spoke for the first time. His gray eyes peered at us through thick round glasses, as he said, “It is written, ‘Among a man’s many good possessions, a good command of speech has no equal.’ ” Then he nodded as if to himself and followed Rahim toward the dining room. I stared after the odd little man, wondering what on earth he could have meant. Such a strange and out-of-context statement!

With a bemused smile, I looked back to my left, but the Scotsman had disappeared, gone without another word. I saw him near the doorway, speaking with Brooke. Then I saw the door close behind him. Clearly, he wasn’t staying for dinner. I was disappointed.

As I moved toward the entrance of the dining room, Brooke pulled me aside and murmured, “Sidney, I want a moment with you and Jay alone when this is over.”

“Of course, Brooke, of course,” I replied. “Brooke, we’re both so happy to be here. Thank you for inviting us to lead this tour. We really appreciate it. And what a wonderful evening you’ve given us all tonight! Just let us know when you want to talk. Whenever.”

Then she was gone, on to the next group, graciously greeting everyone with her merry laugh.

The meal, as expected, was delicious, as was the wine and the dessert that followed. Rahim kept a watchful eye on a parade of tall-hatted chefs as they offered us a fragrant variety of Mughlai dishes, served from silver bowls and platters. I chose a grilled and skewered lamb kebab and
Dum Pukht
, meat and chicken smothered in almonds and raisins and then braised in butter and yoghurt. A small helping of sweet saffron rice accompanied the entrees, along with aubergines (aka eggplant) cooked with ginger and lime.

A Hindu philosopher sat to my right and an Indian movie star who had arrived late was seated directly across from me. In such company, the conversation was vastly different from anything in my experience.

“Hello,” the actress said, in a soft, musical voice as the waiter helped her into her chair. “I am Jasmine, and you must be Sidney. Brooke has told me all about you.”

She sat very still, like a beautiful statue, watching me. Her amber eyes, emphasized by heavy black liner, seemed to glow, and her skillfully applied foundation gave the impression that her skin was flawless. Pulled into a tight chignon, her gleaming black hair was accented by long golden earrings. Like Brooke, she wore an exquisite silk sari, though hers was in shades of crimson edged with gold. The chunky ruby and gold necklace around her neck surely cost more than my mother’s Buick.

“Yes,” I said, “I’m Sidney Marsh, Brooke’s friend and travel agent from New York. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you are also from Mississippi, I hear,” she laughed, “You see, I really do know all about you. But you must tell me more ….”

It would have been a totally fantastic evening except for the chair on my left, which throughout the splendid meal remained vacant. While we were being served in the dining room, one of the waiters had discreetly removed the place service of the Scotsman.

I had a fascinating conversation with the Hindu philosopher, who also turned out to be an amateur fortuneteller hired by the Indian travel agency to go along with us on the tour. He was a slight man with thin hands and long fingers, which he kept folded quietly in his lap. He ate very little, only the vegetables, and drank only water. He wore a white turban; otherwise he was dressed in the simple white cotton clothing made famous by India’s “Great Soul” or
Mahatma
, Mohandas Gandhi.

“My name is Mohit,” he said. “It is my privilege to travel along with you and attempt to explain our traditions. I also have the ability to interpret any signs and portents that may occur.”

Good to know. With my track record, I needed someone who could see trouble coming.

Music, coffee, and digestifs followed dinner in the adjoining apartment. We were seated in the central room of the finest suite in the finest hotel in Delhi. The central room was huge and the apartments connected to it seemed endless. Flowers and candles were everywhere. The sitar, the tabla—an intricate, long-necked stringed instrument—and its accompanying hand drums provided traditional background music at dinner. Afterward, the native musicians were replaced with a jazz trio.

I don’t know if it was the food, the wine or the intoxicating experience of hobnobbing with the rich and famous in such an exotic setting, but it seemed as if the evening had just begun when Jay tugged at my elbow, dragging me away from the party.

“Time to go, Cinderella. It’s beddy-bye for us. I’m sure you haven’t noticed, but people are leaving. This party’s over. Here’s your key. I’ll walk you to your room. Tell everyone goodnight and come along before you crash. I don’t see Brooke. I think she may have already gone to bed.”

“She told me she wanted to see us at the end of the evening, Jay.”

“Well, I don’t see her in the room and it’s time to go. Everyone’s leaving. Even that smarmy Indian tour guy and his peeps have gone. Brooke must have forgotten about us, or been called away. It’s okay. We’ll see her in the morning.”

“I had a good time at dinner, Jay, didn’t you? Really interesting people at my table.”

“Yeah, I noticed. Well, I didn’t. I wasn’t so lucky. At my table, I couldn’t get a word in edgewise for hearing this big blowhard from England go on about what a shame it is that India is not still under the rule of the Raj.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I am
not
kidding. I thought the meal would never end. I was stuck there with him and this quiet little blonde named Lucy, who is also English, but she lives most of the time in a villa next to Brooke’s in St. Tropez. She spent the entire meal whispering and giggling in French with Justin, a filmmaker from Paris. He was seated next to her.”

“What was his name?”

“The blowhard’s? Felix. Felix something or other. Didn’t get the last name. He was trying to imply that he is an earl, but I seriously doubt it.”

I had caught a glimpse of Jay seated next to the burly red-faced Englishman earlier in the evening and knew from my friend’s pained expression that he was not pleased with his dinner partner.

“That man seems a strange type to be one of Brooke’s friends, don’t you think, Jay? Not like her in the least.”

“He’s not a friend. He said he’s her investment manager. He tried to give the impression that he’s in total control of her finances, but I don’t believe that either. I can’t see Brooke letting that guy have full power over anything. I wish she hadn’t asked him to come.”

We picked up our folders—the cheap ones—and headed into the hallway.

Jay slowed his walk as we neared the elevator. He did not push the button to summon it, but instead turned to face me.

“Sid,” he said. “Have you figured out why we are in India? Doesn’t it seem strange to you that Brooke hired our agency and asked
us
to lead this trip when we’re not really
leading
it? I was thinking about it during dinner while that guy was rattling on. I don’t really see what we are doing here. We’re apparently not leading much of anything. That Sharma guy and his people have done all the work. Why does Brooke need us?”

I saw in his eyes the same uneasiness that I’d felt during the introductions at dinner.

“It does seem strange to me, Jay. Really strange. I thought the same thing. Sharma is clearly in charge. He barely acknowledged us to the group, and he is personally accompanying the tour. I can’t see why we need to be here at all. But Brooke hired us, and knowing her, she has a good reason. Brooke may have all the money in the world but unless she’s gone crackers she wouldn’t just throw it away.”

A slight movement in a narrow hallway on the left behind Jay caught my eye. Rahim was standing silently in the shadows, clearly within earshot, watching us. I wondered how long he had been there … and how much of our conversation he had overheard.

Seeing that he had my attention, he stepped forward, into the light of the foyer.

“Excuse me, sir, madam. Forgive me for interrupting. Could you come with me now, please? Mrs. Shyler would like a quick word with you both before you retire to your rooms.”

Jay and I exchanged glances, and Jay shrugged and nodded. We followed the man down the dim passageway.