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

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,