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

by Marie Moore

  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 bl
onde 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.

  Chapter 5

  “There are three reasons why I wanted the two of you to come with me on this trip,” Brooke said in response to our questions. She was smiling, but her lovely blue eyes, reflected in the mirror, were serious. She brushed aside her flaming red hair so she could undo the clasp of her necklace.

  We were sipping coffee in the seating area of her suite’s master bedroom, watching as she sat before the mirror at the dressing table, removing her emeralds and placing them in a velvet case. Rahim took the case from her, bowed, and left the room. Then she joined us, kicking off her Manolos and stretching out on the silk chaise lounge.

  “In the first place,” she said, with her brilliant smile, “you two are so much fun. You make me laugh! And you really are excellent tour leaders. Your presence will add a lot to my little excursion party.

  “Secondly, it pleases me to thwart the intentions of those in your agency who would diminish or terminate you. For purely selfish reasons, I want you to remain in the employ of Itchy Feet Travel for a long, long time. I like you both and I enjoy traveling with you.”

  Then she sat up and reached over to pour herself a cup of coffee from the silver pot. Her charming face grew serious, and she looked intently and directly at each of us. For once, she looked her age. Brooke has to be in her late seventies or early eighties, though she certainly doesn’t look it.

  There was no laughing tone in her voice when she said, “But the real reason that I want you along, my dears, is that I know I can trust you.”

  Brooke breathed a deep sigh, took a long sip of the coffee, and placed her delicate cup back in its saucer. She stood, walked to the window, and gazed out at the moonlit night. With her back to us, she said, in a low and deliberate voice, “I think one of my friends, one of my guests on this trip, may be a thief and possibly a murderer. I want you to find out which one. It shouldn’t be too difficult, as there are only five to consider.”

  We “ ’bout fell out dead” as my cousin Earline would say, on hearing Brooke’s words. Jay looked as stunned as I’m sure I did, but then he recovered and laughed.

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you, right? Good job, Brooke! You really had me going there for a minute!”

  When she turned to face us, she was not laughing. Her face was sad, forlorn, and not a little angry.

  “I can assure you it is no joke, Jay. I am deadly serious. There have been incidents that I will tell you all about. And accidents as well. Deeply disturbing accidents. I will only give you the basics now and explain further when you are better rested and we have more time.”

  Jay and I exchanged glances.

  “Brooke,” I said, “you know that as far as we can, we will always help you with anything you ask. But for something like this, shouldn’t you be talking with the police?”

  She shook her head. “I can prove nothing and have no clear suspect, so I have not gone to the police. But I felt that I must do something or forever regret my inaction when the worst happens. And something terrible is going to happen. I know it. I can feel it, feel the malevolence. It’s here. I’m just not sure where it originates. Something is wrong. Someone is rotten. I know this. But with no proof, the police would only laugh at my fears and suspicions and think me just another crazy old rich lady.”

  “We know you’re not nuts, Brooke,” Jay said, with his easy smile, “and anyone who meets you would immediately see how sensible you are, even a stranger.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, “but this conviction of mine seems so far-fetched that it will require much more than mere speculation to be believed.”

  I took a sip of my coffee but set it aside, for it had grown cold during Brooke’s startling speech.

  I looked up at her.

  “Of course we believe you, Brooke. We trust your judgment,” I said. “Tell us how we can help.”

  She smiled her sunny smile for the first time since our conference had begun.

  “Sidney, I knew I could count on you. I have thought of this, night and day, for weeks, turning it over in my mind. And finally my thoughts began to gel into a plan. But to make my plan work, I knew I must have help. I needed someone I could trust implicitly, someone who would believe me, who would not think me paranoid or senile. I wanted someone with curiosity and a bit of experience in this kind of thing. An amateur detective. After several sleepless nights, I thought of you.”

  She sat in the chair beside me and gave my hand a pat.

  I didn’t comment. I was in shock.

  “So what’s the plan?” Jay asked.

  “This trip,” she said, “I decided to invite all the friends involved to come along as my guests on a luxurious excursion to an exotic destination—sort of a moving house party. It was my hope that the guilty one would not be able to resist the invitation.”

  “And make a slip, letting you know who they are,” I said.

  “Yes. And it worked. They have all come. They are all here, all five of them, in this hotel, on this trip, including the thief and murderer. And you two can help me catch them.”

  “Oh, boy,” Jay said, standing and beginning to pace, “Here we go again!”

  #

  “Why did you agree to help Brooke with this insane scheme, Nancy Drew? We need to be leaving on the first plane headed back to New York. You actual
ly like playing detective, don’t you, even though last time you tried something like this you almost got yourself killed!”

  Jay had waited to vent until we were out of hearing distance of Brooke’s suite and headed down the marble corridor toward our rooms.

  “What choice did I have, Jay? Brooke’s been good to me. She has never refused me when I needed her. Remember Africa? She saved my job. I can’t walk away when she asks for my help.”

  “But this is a harebrained scheme, possibly a dangerous one. It’s hard to believe a woman as sensible as Brooke could have cooked this idea up. She doesn’t need us. If this is real, she needs a real detective, or the police. A pro, not Lucy and Ethel!”

  He ranted all the way to my room. It was late and the hallways were fortunately deserted. We saw and heard no one else until we reached my door.

  I fished my keycard out of my pocket and opened the door. Then I turned to look up at him.

  “We’re in, Jay. We’re in unless you want to head back to New York and ask Diana for another assignment. Why don’t you do that? Tell Diana you refused to help our agency’s best client when she requested your assistance.”

  “I don’t think our job description includes detective work, Sidney,” he said. His brow was furrowed and his mouth set in a pout, a look that meant he wouldn’t budge easily. “I know you love this stuff. I know you think you can solve this mystery, just because you’ve solved two others, no matter what the cost to us and our careers. You are just aching to solve this one too. I can see it in your eyes. But I also know that you are extremely lucky to even be here after your last little attempt at sleuthing. That curiosity of yours almost took you out, didn’t it? And you were specifically warned, babe, by both Silverstein and Diana, to stay out of this kind of thing from now on, remember?”