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

by Marie Moore

  The bargaining extended to the shop as well, and by this time, I had learned how to do it effectively.

  “You want a camel for the price of a donkey,” the shopkeeper complained to me. But we ended up agreeing on a price, one far below what the beautiful fabric would have cost at home.

  I was really, really tempted by a lovely length of ivory silk, but I did not buy it. Jay knows me so well. He immediately understood why I rejected the purchase.

  “You can’t buy that because it will get your mom’s hopes up, right, Sid?”

  “True,” I said, reluctantly placing the exquisite fabric back on the shelf. “She would know I’d bought it to make a wedding dress and I’d never hear the end of it.”

  Instead I bought black, and planned to have one of the tailors on the Lower East Side make it up into a dinner dress when I got back to New York.

  #

  After brunch I found Mohit sitting cross-legged on a stone bench in the garden, arms extended, with his hands, palms upward, resting on his thin brown knees. His eyes were closed in apparent meditation, but with this puzzling little man it was hard to know.

  “Yes?” he said, without opening his eyes. “You seek the wisdom of Mohit for the answers that trouble your soul?”

  “I do, Mohit. I absolutely do.”

  He opened his eyes, staring at me through the thick round glasses.

  “Then speak, madam. Tell me how I may be of assistance.”

  Deciding that I was at a point where I had to trust someone, I unloaded on Mohit. I told him the whole thing, from start to finish, and in the end I appealed to him for his help and advice.

  “The blood of this man cries up from the ground,” he said. “I will help you, for I see that you are sincere in your belief of what is right. I will make inquiries in certain places. But you must not speak of this to anyone, for he who has killed may kill again. Do you understand?”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  He gave me a brief smile, then closed his eyes, raising his face to the sun, and said, “Go now. When I have something to say I will seek you out. Go now and say not a word.”

  Feeling immensely better, I left him in the garden and went inside to find Jay and coffee. I was happy that I had sought Mohit’s help and confided in the wise little man. Somehow, I felt that in the telling a great burden had been shared.

  #

  “Suttee,” Jay said. “That’s what would happen to you, Sidney, if you lived here and your husband died. You’d just have to climb up on that funeral pyre with him whether you wanted to or not.”

  We were seated in the Nepal Airlines gate, waiting for our flight from Varanasi to Kathmandu to be called.

  “Jay, they don’t do that anymore. It’s illegal.”

  “Well, I bet they still do it sometimes. Maybe in some remote village. What if they did that to you? What if the flames were licking your little toes?”

  “They couldn’t. They’d have to catch me first. I’d run away.”

  Neither of us seemed to be able to shake the knowledge of death rituals that we’d gained at Varanasi, even though we were by then far away from the river and leaving India with the group as scheduled for neighboring Nepal.

  They were right when they said India affects you. I can’t explain it. It just does. I knew I would never forget India. It assaults the senses, and somehow forever changes your life. I had only seen a small part of the vast country and longed to see more. I vowed to return someday.

  But at present, I was tapping the airport ATM, preparing to practice the time-honored art of baksheesh, hoping that to the greedy, money can buy anything.

  Before leaving the hotel for the airport, Mohit had pulled me aside and informed me that Sharma was willing to part with a true copy of the Felix’s original autopsy report if I were willing to pay him a certain sum for it. He said Sharma would give it to me once we were out of India if I had the cash to pay. He would also guarantee its authenticity. It was Mohit’s opinion that this time, Sharma could be trusted, particularly for a certain amount of cash.

  Wanting to get my hands on that documentary proof of the true cause of Felix’s death, I agreed. I told Mohit to tell Sharma I would raise the money and give it to him in Kathmandu, even though I knew it would blow a major hole in my funds. I knew that if I went to Brooke, she would likely agree to provide the money. But after all she had done for me, including giving me this luxurious trip, I thought paying Sharma for concrete proof of what had happened to Felix was the least I could do for her.

  Over breakfast at the hotel, I had told Jay of my decision to stay with the tour on the side trip to Kathmandu and he had reluctantly agreed to come along as well.

  Jay looked up as I returned from maxing out a withdrawal from the ATM, trying to gather enough cash to pay Sharma when he delivered the document.

  I was just about to tell Jay that I had made the deal with Sharma when he began preaching a text I didn’t want to hear. “I’ve been thinking, Sidney, and I know it’s eating on you that we’re leaving India and you haven’t yet figured out who took out Felix. I know you. I know it’s hard for you to leave the tour without us accomplishing what Brooke asked us to do. But what she’s asked of us is crazy, an impossible task. It can’t be done by amateurs, and only possibly by the police. You and I’ve been lucky so far. You’ve managed to stay out of trouble and we just have a few days left on this side trip before we head back to New York. So now you just need to give it up, forget about snooping, and stay safe for the rest of the trip. If you can resist asking too many nosy questions, we might escape disaster this time. Can you do that?”

  “Maybe. But I’m not making any promises, Jay. I am convinced that Felix was murdered, and if Brooke is or was really being targeted as well, I’m still going to try and find out who is responsible, as she asked me to do. I owe a lot to Brooke. I’m not letting her down, no matter what you or Silverstein or anyone else says. I can promise to be careful, but I won’t promise to give up in the time we have left. I know how to be discreet in my questioning. I won’t take any chances. No one will know what I’m up to. There’ll be no danger.”

  “Yeah, right,” he said, gathering his things before boarding the aircraft. “In that case, you better start looking for another job for us. I think we might need one if Silverstein finds out that Nancy Drew is on the case again.”

  After that little sermon, did I tell him about my deal with Sharma?

  I did not.

  Chapter 17

  Sharma’s choice of accommodation in Kathmandu went a long way toward redeeming him in everyone’s book. The luxurious five-star hotel we checked into was totally splendid. Each of us had huge rooms, almost like suites, with picture windows that framed a wide view of the snow-capped Himalayas.

  Kathmandu is a magical place, no doubt about it. It is nestled in a bowl formed by the surrounding mountains and was closed for many years to the outside world, giving it a feeling of Shangri-La. This country girl had to keep pinching herself to know that she was really there, in this fabulous place, that it was not just a wonderful dream.

  We spent the first day on an orientation tour of the old city, with its huge medieval buildings, palaces and temples, teeming with crowds of people. All of them seemed to be in constant motion, riding bicycles and motorized rickshaws, hawking wares, and bringing offerings to hundreds of shrines to hundreds of gods. I had never seen anything quite like it. The exotic beauty of the colors, sights, smells, and sounds surpassed even India’s. I was especially fascinated by the people, small, beautiful people, all hard at work under the huge watchful eyes of the Buddha, painted high on some of the buildings.

  There has been a settlement of people at Kathmandu since the seventh century, and the very age of the stones seemed to seep into our bones. I’m quite sure Mohit would say that this sense of the ancient is from the aura left by thousands of departed souls. A more progressive ring of relatively modern buildings surrounds the ancient core city, known as the old
city, but it is nowhere near as interesting.

  Because the old city is a twisting, time-worn tangle of streets, difficult to navigate, we were deposited in Durbar Square, the main square, to get our introduction to Kathmandu on foot. Walking to sightsee is much easier in Nepal than in India, as the cows are not allowed to roam freely; thus we no longer had to watch where we stepped.

  “Gather round, please, gather round,” called S.L. Sharma, trying to corral the group. Everyone was too distracted, taking photos and examining wares offered by sidewalk salesmen.

  Adding to the general confusion was the fact that there was an annual festival taking place in the city, the Indra Jatra, the festival of Kumari, the Living Goddess. We stood in the crowd just outside her palace on the edge of Durbar Square watching as a tiny girl, adorned with heavy makeup and wearing robes and a headdress of red and gold silk, rode by us on a massive wooden cart.

  Her ancient cart, with giant wooden wheels, was pulled not by horses, but by teams of small, strong men. Once chosen, the Kumari is trained never to show any expression. She stared with heavily lined, strangely vacant eyes at the crowd from her perch in a golden palanquin as the cart rolled slowly across the cobbled streets, making a sound like low thunder.

  “Why, she’s just a child,” Lucy exclaimed, “a tiny child.”

  “Yes, yes,” Mohit answered. “In Nepali, Kumari means simply ‘virgin.’ This is the Royal Kumari, who rules over the capital city of Kathmandu. Before the dissolution of the monarchy in 2008, even the king came to pay homage to her once a year. Her festival continues for a week, with events day and night.”

  “Is she a Hindu goddess or Buddhist?” Brooke asked.

  “She is considered to be the incarnation of the Hindu Lord Shiva’s wife, Parvati, but she is always selected from a Buddhist family. She is chosen when she is four or five after passing a series of tests, but is no longer divine after she comes of age. Then another child is chosen to be the Kumari.”

  “What kind of tests?” Adam asked.

  “She must be very brave, without fear, and never show emotion. This includes being unafraid when locked alone in a dark room with the heads of sacrificed animals, dripping with blood, and surrounded by the howls of dancing demons.”

  “Poor little bairn,” Adam said, with feeling.

  “No, no,” Mohit replied. “It is a great honor for a family if their child is chosen.”

  Following a guided tour of the most significant spots, the group split up to wander freely and shop, with directions from Sharma on how and where to secure a taxi to return to the hotel on our own at a time of our own choosing. The group scattered rapidly. Everyone seemed to have something special that they wanted to see or bargain for.

  Brooke declared that she had seen quite enough for one day. Lucy agreed, and Rahim escorted Brooke and Lucy back to the hotel. Jasmine and Justin were sidetracked by the jewelry vendors, who were loudly hawking both Nepali and Tibetan bracelets. Adam, Jay, and I left them to their bargaining and moved on down the street. The two men were not interested in the cart of unusual earrings that sidetracked me, so I told them to go on ahead and I would catch up after making my selections. Before I could follow then, however, Sharma suddenly appeared from the shadowed entrance of a café, pulled me aside and whispered, “I have made the inquiries of which we spoke, madam, and the paper you wished for is in my possession. Do you have the price we discussed?”

  I stared at him, wide-eyed, then dug in my bag for the envelope of cash I’d set aside for this purpose.

  He closed his fat paw over the money, counted the bills, and stuffed them in his pocket.

  “It is as you suspected, madam, I confess it, and when the time is right this official document will give you the victory you seek. Guard it well.”

  From his briefcase, he drew an official-looking document, and after looking both ways to ensure we were unobserved, thrust it into my bag. I did not pull it out to look at it then, although I was dying to take a peek. Despite Sharma’s precautions, I couldn’t take the chance that eyes might be watching. Inspection would have to wait until I was safely back in my hotel room with the doors locked.

  Jay and I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering through the labyrinthine streets, buying the most amazing souvenirs for very little money and trying hard not to offend anyone with our photography. But in such a place, the temptation was too much. Adam had stayed with us for a while but before long he left us, saying he needed to return to the hotel to check in with his office.

  We walked until I simply couldn’t walk anymore. Then Jay hailed a motorized rickshaw and away we went, back to our palace of a hotel for long, hot baths, drinks, and my first good look at the mysterious document I had purchased at so dear a price from Sharma.

  Chapter 18

  Back in the privacy of my room, I closed and locked the door, kicked off my shoes, and stretched out on the bed. Then I dug the paper out of the bottom of my bag, where I had secured it under the various small souvenirs I had purchased during the long, pleasant afternoon.

  Knowing that Sharma was not above cheating me, I was pleased and relieved to find that the document in my hand appeared to be the real deal. As far as I could tell, it was an official, authentic, notarized copy of Felix’s autopsy report stating the cause of death as poisoning caused by ingestion of the seeds of cerbera odollam, the suicide tree. Ingestion of the deadly plant had caused his heart to stop. Since I was fairly certain that Felix did not purposely ingest the toxic seeds himself, I could only conclude that he’d been murdered. The paper bore an official seal, was signed by the proper official, and the date/time stamp indicated that it was signed and sealed four hours earlier than the phony autopsy report that Sharma had earlier tried to pass off as the official document. But that one had always looked like a fake. Jay said you could get a better one run up anywhere in New York’s Chinatown. This one looked real. Where, when or how Sharma had gotten possession of it was a mystery. But I didn’t care in the least about that. This report clearly proved the true cause of Felix’s death. Had Sharma possessed it all along and only produced it after taking my baksheesh? There was no way of knowing. Sharma was a secretive and complex schemer, to say the least.

  I thought about going immediately to Jay’s room to show him the report, but knew that there would be little time to discuss our next move on this, our first night in Nepal. I resolved to wait until later to show it to him, after I’d had time to think it all through.

  We were scheduled the next day to leave Kathmandu for a short visit to the famed jungle resort of Tiger Tops and return at the end of the week. We had been told that our same rooms at the hotel in Kathmandu would be held for us in our absence. Therefore we were only packing a small bag for the jungle adventure and leaving our big suitcases in our rooms. I decided that it would be best to keep the precious paper I had bought from Sharma at the hotel rather than risk losing or damaging it on the excursion. Talking it over with Jay could wait too, I thought, until our return. Nothing could be accomplished anyway from deep in the jungle.

  After locking the document securely in the safe in the closet of my room, I dressed quickly and ran down to meet the others for a small welcoming cocktail party. Drinks would be followed by a festive evening meal.

  After a fine dinner accompanied by a not-so-fine folkloric dance show, Jay and I spent the rest of the evening getting pleasantly hammered at the hotel bar, accompanied by Adam and some talented people from National Geographic. You may think, as I did, that such top-notch writers and photographers spend all their time slaving away from some hot, miserable, bug-infested tent deep in the wilds, but you would be wrong. For here these professional adventurers were, sharing drinks and swapping stories with us at the glitzy bar.

  I felt a bit like Miss Scarlett at the picnic at Twelve Oaks that evening. None of these men had ever met a Southern girl and all seemed brainwashed by the fictional stereotypes of magnolias and moonlight. It was a fun evening, to say the least. Adam was extrem
ely attentive too. Leaving the bar, he asked me to walk with him in the garden.

  On the secluded terrace, he pulled a tiny silken bag from his pocket, withdrew a lovely amethyst pendant, and fastened it around my neck.

  “Oh, Adam, thank you,” I said. “This is beautiful!”

  “I bought it for you in Agra,” he said, “I thought you might like it, lass.”

  After a long walk and quite a lot of kissing in the moonlit garden, only the stern Victorian morals my grandmother had pounded into me made me turn down Adam’s invitation to spend the remainder of the night in his room.

  It turned out to be a good thing, for had I been in the sack with the Scotsman when I woke the following day I might have missed the surreal stillness of the early morning’s glorious pink light on the snow-capped mountains surrounding Kathmandu. I sat transfixed in my nightgown, with my window open to the crisp clear air, the silence broken only by the pure sound of brass bells that rang out all over the valley with the dawn, sending prayers to heaven.

  I also would also have missed the spectacular row between Justin and Jasmine that took place in the hallway outside my room just before breakfast.

  Hearing the shrieking and screaming, I opened my door a crack and peeped out, just in time to see Justin running down the hall in his tighty-whities with Jasmine pelting shoes at him and calling him everything but a child of God. In the South, we call that dog-cussin’, and Justin was the recipient of the Indian version.

  “I spit on you,” she screamed. “You think I will not tell them all what you are, you son of a donkey? They will all know, yes, they will, because I, Jasmine, will tell them!”

  Not wanting to be involved in any way in the lovers’ quarrel, I eased my door shut, my shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. My only regret was that Jay had missed it, for I knew how much he would have enjoyed such a spectacle.