Murder Takes the High Road Page 2

  “His name is John Knight and he’s another American,” Alison said. “Unfortunately, we didn’t get his bio in time, but I understand he’s an insurance salesman from San Diego. Which is right around the corner from you. So that’s nice, right?” Her smile was hopeful.

  Well, it was a one-hundred-and-twenty-mile corner, so...sort of. I summoned up another of those halfhearted smiles for her. “Sure. Great. When’s he joining us?”

  “He’s flying in tonight.”

  God. Not even a single night on my own.

  I said with fake heartiness, “Great! I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

  She looked relieved and moved on through the obstacle course of chairs, purses and people.

  At the table behind me the conversation had turned, inevitably, to Vanessa’s notorious past. I glanced over tantalizing descriptions of fried sea bass with chili sauce, turmeric king prawns and massaman lamb curry while listening to the debate on whether someone convicted of murder should have been appointed to the Order of the British Empire.

  This was a common point of contention even with Vanessa’s most devoted fans. Most agreed that her youth at the time of Donald Kresley’s murder—and the fact that Vanessa had completed her full sentence as a model prisoner—made for sufficient atonement. But awarding her a DBE, making her a Dame Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire, was a step too far even for most Americans.

  And yet the honor was rightfully bestowed on one who had made significant artistic contribution to the British Empire, and if that wasn’t Vanessa Rayburn with her 154-book-long, still-bestselling backlist, who was it?

  “I think maybe she was awarded the DBE before the news of her real identity came out,” a woman said.

  “No, that’s not correct.” The voice was female and definitely English. “I remember the fuss when it was announced. People picketed.”

  “That was such a long time ago. Almost thirty years.”

  “It doesn’t seem so very long ago to me.”

  I missed the rest of the conversation as our server arrived and the important business of ordering cocktails began.

  Once drinks and meals had been ordered, Alison rose and gave a brief welcome speech and then sped through the evening’s business.

  “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, therefore timeliness is essential. All luggage must be out of the rooms and in the hallways by seven every morning so that Hamish can get them stowed on the bus. Otherwise you’ll have to carry your bag down yourself. Change seats on the bus every day to ensure everyone is getting a turn at the windows and do try to sit with different people each night at dinner. You never know. You might meet your new best friend on this trip.”

  I glanced at Ben, who happened to be looking my way. We shared another of those self-conscious smiles and hastily averted gazes.

  By the time Alison sped through the subject of paid toilets, tipping and daily menus, fragrant platters of Bangkok street-style pork skewers marinated with honey and coriander root, chicken satay, spring rolls, and savory mini-tartlets stuffed with cod and flavored with lemongrass and lime leaf, were circulating from table to table.

  Rather than allowing us to relax and eat, Alison—proving that all tour guides have a sadistic streak—suggested we take turns rising to introduce ourselves to the group.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t want to pay attention, but I hadn’t eaten since somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, and the names and faces were beginning to fade into a hypoglycemic haze.

  With the exception of Yvonne, who took notes, my tablemates nibbled on appetizers and listened politely as the Poe sisters, Rose, Trevor and Vance introduced themselves.

  Trevor kept his opening remarks uncharacteristically terse. Vance burbled. There really wasn’t any other word for it. Or if there was, I didn’t want to work that hard to find it.

  “I’m Vance Stafford. I’m a former model and actor, in case I look familiar to you. Nowadays I work as a dental hygienist.” He flashed a big white smile, giving the American Dental Association some free advertising. “I’m traveling with Trev. This trip is a not-quite-but-almost honeymoon for us.” He beamed at Trevor. Trevor smiled uncomfortably, met my eyes, glared, and looked away.

  Vance sat down amid a chorus of “awws” and a smattering of applause. There we had it: the token cute gay couple. And my role? Wicked Queen?

  I had made some bad decisions in my time, but coming on this trip? It topped the list.

  Our table raced through the introductions, earning Alison’s approval.

  At the table behind us were Jim and Laurel Matsukado from San Francisco, Wally and Nedda Kramer from New York, Daya and Roddy Bittywiddy, an English couple who resided in Devon—in fact, the only non-Americans in the tour group—and Sally Daly, a self-described “divorcée” and bookseller from New Mexico.

  Alison introduced our bus driver as Hamish MacLaren. Hamish looked to be in his late eighties and wore glasses that might have been borrowed from Mr. Magoo. He offered animated and absolutely unintelligible words of greeting, which received a hearty round of applause.

  That concluded the formalities and we were finally left in peace to enjoy our really delicious dinner. Everyone seemed excited and enthusiastic on this eve of adventure, and the air crackled with happy anticipation.

  The meal finished with fresh fruit fondue. Ordinarily, sharing fondue with strangers would not be one of my favorite things, but I was so tired by then, I was past caring. We could have been scooping microbes from test tubes, and I wouldn’t have flinched.

  At last, replete and exhausted, we headed outside into the wet night.

  The Scherfs and Rices, having arrived in Scotland a day earlier, opted to explore Glasgow’s nightlife, but the jet-lagged rest of us made straight for the waiting taxis. I ended up with the Poe sisters again, and we were joined by Ben and his mother. It was a much, much quieter drive back to the Caledonian Inn. In fact, Yvonne was snoring softly, her head on Ben’s shoulder, by the time we arrived at the hotel.

  I went straight up to my room, undressed, unpacked what I needed for the night, and used the hotel Wi-Fi to verify that no one urgently needed to hear from me. I wasn’t sure if I was reassured or disappointed when it turned out that I had so far not been missed.

  I was brushing my teeth when the door jumped beneath a brisk and decisive knock.

  John Knight, I presumed. I rinsed, spat, plastered what I hoped was a pleasant smile on my face and opened the door.

  Not John Knight. My midnight caller was a wee five feet six in his stockinged feet, fair and not all that handsome when he was scowling—which was most of the time he was around me. In short—ha!—it was Trevor.

  “I can’t believe you’d do this, Carter,” he said.

  Chapter Two

  I said, “I don’t know why not, since I told you I planned on coming on this trip.”

  “That you’d be this petty, this vindictive—”

  Not like we hadn’t had this out already, but I felt an instant surge of self-righteous anger just as though this was a fresh outrage. “I paid for the trip. The trip was my idea in the first place. Vance doesn’t know Vanessa Rayburn from Vanessa Redgrave. If anyone is being petty and vindictive, it’s you, bringing him on this trip that we planned together.”

  “This was supposed to be my birthday treat.”

  That was true and I felt a twinge of guilt. I shook it off.

  “Your birthday was the justification for the expense, but you know as well as I do that it was for both of us. It was something we’d both talked about doing together for years.”

  That was also true. But the reminder didn’t cut any ice with Trevor.

  “The fact that you would force your way into our lives—”

  “It was my life first! And anyway, I’m not forcing my way into anything. I paid for my ticket and I’m using it. W
hy the hell wouldn’t I? Why the hell would I pay that kind of money for a gift to Vance?”

  It was Trevor’s turn to talk right over me. “Bad enough you wouldn’t give your ticket to him. But that you had the gall to use it. You don’t even like traveling. You hate traveling.”

  At the far end of the hall, the elevator doors dinged and opened. A man in a tan trench coat stepped out, wheeling a suitcase behind him. He looked our way and hastily headed in the opposite direction.

  I lowered my voice. “I don’t hate traveling. I never had the chance to travel before.”

  Trevor’s face twisted in scorn. “That’s bullshit. How many times did I want to go away for the weekend or for a vacation? You would never go. All you’ve ever cared about is your garden and your books.”

  “I’d have loved to travel. We didn’t have the money!”

  “That was always your excuse.”

  It wasn’t like vacations abroad had ever been a big point of contention between us, and the unfairness of it stung. “It wasn’t an excuse. You weren’t working. We didn’t have the money.”

  His fair skin flushed even redder. “That’s right. Throw that in my face!”

  “I’m not—it’s the truth. We didn’t have the money.”

  “We all know you’re just doing this to ruin my trip.”

  We all? Meaning him and Vance? Or had he aired our dirty linen at dinner? My heart sank at the idea. I said, “Believe it or not, my life doesn’t revolve around you anymore.”

  He laughed in disbelief. Granted it was a stagy laugh—Trevor was active in our local amateur theater and had received a lot of compliments for his Inspector Bullock 2 in Murder Afoot. “Since. When? We all know you’re planning to spend the entire trip spying on me and Vance, trying to make me feel guilty.”

  “Spying on you?” I had to lower my voice once more as the man in the trench coat—having disappeared down the hall and around the corner—reappeared, headed back our way, still dragging his suitcase. “You’re crazy!”

  Trevor did not follow my cue, but then he was perfectly comfortable in front of an audience. “Are you going to pretend you weren’t watching us all through dinner?”

  “You’re crazy,” I said again. “I wasn’t watching you. I don’t care what you do. I loved Vanessa way before you ever did.”

  “I always loved Vanessa—” Trevor stopped and glared as the guy with the suitcase halted at my door, making himself part of our little tableau.

  My heart dropped another couple of floors as I realized who he must be.

  “Can I help you?” Trevor asked in his most forbidding tone.

  Jesus, he could be such a prick. Why had it taken me so long to notice that about him? Or, rather, why had I convinced myself that his being such a prick didn’t matter?

  The newcomer—medium height, brown hair, brown eyes—looked from Trevor to me. “Er, I think this is my room.”

  “John Knight?” I said.

  “That’s right.”

  I offered my hand. “Carter Matheson.”

  John had a firm grip. His hands were cold, and rain dotted the shoulders of his trench coat. “Nice to meet you, Carter.” His voice was a pleasant baritone. I don’t think I imagined the curiosity lurking in his gaze.

  I nodded toward Trevor, who continued to glower. “And this is Trevor Temple. He’s also on the tour.”

  “So I hear.” John said it so blandly I wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or not.

  Trevor’s eyes narrowed; he thought John was being sarcastic, but before he could respond, John offered his hand again.

  “Nice to meet you, Trevor.”

  Trevor shook hands automatically, and I moved aside so John could wheel his suitcase into the room.

  “Not so bad,” John said with determined cheerfulness, glancing around the beige economy-sized cell.

  “It’s a little cramped,” I said. “But we’re only here for the night. I took the bed nearest the window, but if you—”

  “No, that’s fine. I prefer to be by the john.”

  Hmm. Bathroom issues perhaps?

  “Hello? Remember me, Carter?” My uneasy speculation was interrupted by Trevor, who could never stand to be ignored for long.

  “How could I forget?” I retorted.

  He looked from me to John, who eyed us both with polite interest.

  Maybe Trevor found the presence of a grownup in the room as inhibiting as I did. He turned back to me and said darkly, “Just understand. This isn’t over.”

  I amped my glare but otherwise restrained myself to closing the door in his face.

  John, his back to me, was busily unzipping his suitcase. He said, “I was afraid you’d have already gone to bed.”

  I appreciated his tact in ignoring the spat between me and Trevor. Or maybe he was too jet-lagged to notice. Either way, I was grateful.

  “No. Trevor and I were just...” I watched him pull out a brown leather kit bag and a brown plaid bathrobe, and instead asked, “How was your flight?”

  He threw me a quick look and smiled. “Long.”

  John wasn’t exactly handsome, though he had a nice smile and attractive, regular features. He looked to be in his late thirties, around my own age, which was a surprise since everyone else on the trip, except for Trevor and Vance, was at least a decade older than me. I’d discovered Vanessa’s books in my twenties, so it never occurred to me that her bus tours might lean toward an older demographic.

  “Yeah. I’m from LA. I arrived this afternoon. It was a long trip.”

  John made no response. I searched for something else to say. “I managed to read all of Wolverine on my flight,” I offered.

  John nodded politely. “Okay if I use the john?”

  “Sure. I’m all through in there.”

  John vanished into the tiny bathroom and closed the door.

  I climbed gingerly into my twin bed. I hadn’t slept in a bed this small since my college dormitory years—which, come to think of it, was the last time I’d shared a room with someone I wasn’t planning to have sex with.

  I set the alarm on my phone, wondering if any of our neighbors had heard me and Trevor squabbling. We hadn’t gotten too loud until we reached the point of debating who loved Vanessa more, and there would probably be a lot of that on this trip.

  I sighed and scrunched the flattened, spongy excuse for a pillow under my head, staring out the long rain-starred window at the lights of the airport across the road.

  The bathroom door opened and John stepped out, modestly tying his bathrobe around his waist. “What time do we leave in the morning?”

  “Nine. Right after breakfast. We stop in Pitlochry for lunch and shopping. We’re on our own for the noon meal, but there’s a rest stop before that in Tyndrum, and I think everyone will head for the roadside café where Vanessa murdered the little ginger-haired waitress in Pressure Cooker.”

  John’s expression was blank. I thought I understood the reason.

  “It’s one of the standalones,” I said. “Maybe you only read the MacKinnons?”

  “Maybe.” He sounded cautious.

  “It seems like a lot of people on the tour never read past the last MacKinnon book, so don’t feel alone.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “No, I won’t. You said you’re from Los Angeles?”

  “Right.”

  “Do you go on these tours all the time?”

  “No. This is my first. My first bus tour. My first any kind of tour.”

  “Mine too.” He smiled. “What’s the group like?”

  “Well, too soon to tell, really. Tonight was our first official get-together. Everyone seems nice.”

  “Good. I guess a few people arrived early. Like yesterday?”

  “I think so. To do a little sightseeing and shopping.”

  “Bu
t not you? You only arrived today?”

  “Right. I’ve been here since three o’clock Glasgow time.” Which had been...seven in the morning back in LA and probably accounted for this weird mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. Or maybe that had to do with the argument with Trevor. Were we going to spend the next ten days fighting? Well, why not? We’d spent the past ten months fighting.

  “I see.” Was John disappointed I hadn’t arrived early for shopping and sightseeing? It kind of sounded that way. Why should he be?

  “Is it your first time in Scotland?”

  “Yes.” He said, “I guess the tour has a block of rooms on this floor?”

  “I think Alison said we were on the third and fourth floors.”

  He nodded. Meeting my look of inquiry, he said, “Well.”

  “Well?”

  He smiled awkwardly. “Just...well.”

  “Oh.” I nodded. “Right. Well!”

  Oh God. This was going to be ten days of hell.

  On the bright side, we probably wouldn’t be spending that much time in our room, so...

  But then again, why should it be ten days of hell? I was perfectly good at conversing with people at work. My neighbors thought I was a nice, friendly guy. My friends thought I was a nice, friendly guy. My family thought I was a nice, friendly guy. I was a nice, friendly guy.

  Maybe a little reserved in social situations, but not so reserved I couldn’t make this work.

  “So,” I said. “What’s your favorite Vanessa book?”

  “Blink,” John said immediately.

  “Her first standalone. That was a great one. I agree.”

  “I thought it was a great balance between police procedural and psychological thriller.”

  “Yeah. Definitely.”

  “A brilliant novel about murder and memory and relationships and cops and modern Scotland.”

  Yes, it was. And why was he reciting the book blurb to me? I remembered the quote because only two days ago I’d been sorting through my Vanessa novels trying to decide what to bring to have her sign for me.

  “And what an ending,” I said, watching him closely.

  John didn’t bat an eye. “It blew me away.”