Murder Takes the High Road Page 4

  Four minutes later John burst out of the hotel, dragging his suitcase so fast I’m surprised its wheels didn’t catch fire.

  Hamish climbed down to intercept, taking charge of the suitcase. John’s brown hair stood up in wet spikes and he looked wild-eyed and desperate as he clambered onto the bus.

  The rest of us gave him a loud round of applause. His tanned complexion turned darker still.

  When the claps and hoots had died down Alison said over the bus intercom, “Everybody, this is John Knight from San Diego, California. John flew in late last night just to be here with us on our Tour to Die For. We’re so glad he could make it.”

  John raised a hand in greeting. “Hi there!” he said curtly. He directed a death stare my way as he passed, staggering down the aisle to the first empty seat way in the back.

  I felt a twinge of guilt. I probably should have made sure he was awake before I’d left, but he was as capable as I was of setting an alarm. He was not my responsibility.

  Hamish returned to his place at the helm—I hoped I was imagining that he seemed to be feeling his way up the stairs and behind the wheel—and the bus eventually rumbled into life.

  More cheers from the Tour to Die For crowd. They were certainly an enthusiastic lot.

  But even I felt a flicker of excitement as we pulled out of the parking area and onto the main road. I was here. The dream was now reality. I was in Scotland. The land of my forefathers. And foremothers. The land of brawny men in kilts, historic castles, Robert Burns, whisky, bagpipes, shaggy ponies, shaggy cattle, shaggy dogs and shaggy stories. Did I mention the brawny men in kilts?

  Alison fiddled with the PA system’s mic. “Can everyone hear me?”

  This met with applause. Was there anything this crowd didn’t love?

  “We’re sticking closely to the itinerary today. Our plan is to drive north by way of the A9 past Stirling and Perth...”

  From the seat behind me I could hear Edie saying, “Yes, it was a romantic way to end the series, but there was just so much more that could have been explored. Especially once Rachel and Michael got together.”

  “It wasn’t only about the characters,” agreed Bertie. “Vanessa wanted to do the standalones.”

  Across the aisle, Daya—the English lady from Devon—chimed in. “I prefer the standalones. I was bored with the Inspector MacKinnon books.”

  “Were you?” Bertie sounded scandalized.

  “MacKinnon was such a stuffy, self-important bore. I never believed in that relationship. Not for an instant. I don’t think Vanessa has much of a feel for romance.”

  “N-not much of a feel for romance?” gasped Edie.

  “No,” Daya said. “I think she prefers writing about sex and violence, don’t you? I don’t believe she’s ever had an actual relationship. Not from what I’ve read about her. She never married. In any case, you couldn’t write about the murder of children if you were in the least bit squeamish—if you want my honest opinion.”

  It appeared Edie and Bertie did not, and the conversation behind me died a quick and chilly death. Working in a library, I was familiar with the various complaints about the hugely popular Inspector MacKinnon series. I could have told the sisters you can’t please all the people all the time. I very much doubted that Dame Vanessa, safe in her very own Scotland yard, spent much time crying herself to sleep over people who didn’t love Chief Inspector Rachel MacKinnon.

  I arranged my neck pillow more comfortably and thought about putting my earbuds in. Alison was still explaining whatever there was left to explain about the day ahead. Reflected in the inside flat mirror I could see Rose whispering to the Kramers. They threw startled looks at Alison, who was still chirping away.

  If, by some chance, Rose was onto something—and that couldn’t be possible, so to even consider the thought was ludicrous, but if by some freaky twist of fate, she’d stumbled onto something—she really ought to be more discreet.

  Really. Truly. Because if this had been a Vanessa Rayburn novel, Rose was setting herself up to be the first victim.

  Chapter Four

  I love bagpipe music. But the Great Highland Bagpipes—those ancient instruments of war—were not intended to be played indoors. Let alone in the confined space of a tour bus. Unfortunately, Hamish turned out to be partial to a defunct pipe band known as the Hackle and we heard the complete recordings of The Pride o’ Scotland, The Spirit of Scotland, and, yes, Red Hackle in Concert while our bus wound its way through lush green scenery—any window frame of which would have been suitable for a month in Scottish Field calendar.

  A little bit of bagpiping in close quarters goes a long way—in our case, just about one hundred and fifty miles. We were taking the scenic route past Stirling and Perth. And it was scenic. Somberly, majestically scenic: ancient pines, lonely silver-and-green lochs, craggy blue mountains, old stone bridges over rushing rivers. Phones and cameras clicked away as we wound our way into the highlands. The skies grew dark and then darker. Flecks of rain hit the bus windows, the road grew slick and dark, mist shrouded the trees and stone cottages, but it was still awe-inspiringly beautiful.

  It was impossible to talk while the music was playing, but there probably wouldn’t have been a lot of conversation anyway. In fact, I began to feel like I’d boarded the bus to Brigadoon. Despite the still relatively early hour, one by one, my companions, possibly still recovering from their overseas flights, began to drop off.

  A few rows ahead of me, Trevor and Vance leaned into each other—I recognized Trevor’s snores over the bagpipe music. The overhead rearview mirror offered me a view of row upon row of open mouths and gently bobbing heads. Roddy Bittywiddy was grabbing forty winks, though Daya busily knitted what appeared to be a pale blue baby giant’s bootie. Even the Scherfs and Rices appeared to be napping, despite arriving in Scotland a day ahead of the rest of us.

  John was not asleep. He gazed out the window of the bus, his expression disapproving. Was he unhappy with the weather? Hamish’s driving? The decibel-defying levels of pipes and drums? There was probably an infinite supply of things on a trip like this that might give an insurance salesman the willies.

  I considered his profile thoughtfully. He was nice-looking in a straightforward, manly kind of way. Not Vance’s toothpaste-commercial brand of handsomeness or Trevor’s perennial boyish cuteness, but John’s were the kind of looks that hold up over time and distance.

  As though feeling my gaze, he looked up and met my eyes in the front mirror. He grimaced, and unclear what the message was, I grimaced back. He returned to staring sternly out his window and I returned to staring out mine.

  I was tired, but I didn’t want to miss one moment of the drive. I’d waited years for this trip and it would probably be years before I returned to Scotland. If I ever did.

  Someone else was not asleep. Rose was awake and busily writing in what looked like a leather journal. It was possible she was making notes on the scenery, but every so often she glanced up and skeptically eyed Alison and Hamish, who were chatting quietly, oblivious of her attention.

  One too many episodes of Murder, She Wrote for sure.

  Not long after we passed a road sign that indicated we were nearing the rest stop at Tyndrum, people began to stir and wake. Alison started up the aisle, stopping by my seat and handing me a sheet of blue paper. “These are the options for tonight’s dinner. Mark your starter, your entrée and your dessert. I’ll be by to pick them up shortly.”

  “Will do.”

  Scottish weather, Scottish scenery and now Scottish food. I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t enjoying it all, from the road signs in Gaelic to the crumbling crofts. I took my time choosing between such delicacies as carrot, turnip and lentil soup versus mystery pâté; leg of lamb versus fish pie; and sticky toffee pudding versus Dundee cake. After due consideration, I opted for the soup, roast leg of lamb and the sticky toffee pudd
ing.

  Now that everyone was upright and paying attention, Alison took the mic and began her spiel over the intercom.

  “Our next stop is the village of Tyndrum, situated on the world-famous West Highland Way. In Gaelic, the name of the village means ‘the house on the ridge,’ and you can see just by glancing out the window at those impressive mountains that it’s well named. The West Highland Railway Line was recently voted the most scenic train journey in the world, which is something to think about for your next trip to Scotland. The area is a favorite with hikers as well as photographers like James Carmichael in Death of a Green Man.”

  “How long until we stop for lunch?” Bertie called from behind me.

  “Ninety minutes.” Alison didn’t miss a beat. “Another point of interest—something that didn’t make it into Death of a Green Man, though Vanessa did originally consider using it for a subplot—Tyndrum is the site of Scotland’s only working gold mine.”

  Death of a Green Man was the fourth Rachel MacKinnon novel and it was where the series really took off, largely because of the introduction of QC Michael Patterson. Say what you will, a lot of people prefer their murders with a side of romance.

  “Ninety minutes!” Edie was muttering to Bertie. “Breakfast was hours ago!”

  “The village is built over the battlefield where Clan MacDougall defeated Robert the Bruce in AD 1306—”

  “Is there anywhere to shop?” someone called.

  “Yes. There’s the Green Welly Stop, which has everything from car blankets to snacks. Just keep in mind,” she warned, “you buy it, you have to lug it all over Scotland for the next nine days. There’ll be lots of places to shop along the way, so don’t feel like you have to pick up all your souvenirs here.”

  The floodgate burst open.

  “Do we have to pay for the restrooms?”

  “Do they take traveler’s checks?”

  “Is there a vegetarian offering for tonight’s meal?”

  “If we don’t use the toilets here, when’s the next stop?”

  Alison didn’t quite sigh, but it was close. She patiently answered each question as the bus trundled off the main highway and into the wet and shining parking lot in front of a shop and café called the Green Welly Stop. We piled out into the rain. The chilly air smelled of wet pine, fried food and diesel fuel. Most of our crew headed straight for the restrooms—along with all the passengers from the other two tour buses that had just arrived.

  I enjoyed wandering through the narrow aisles packed with samplers of whisky, tins of cookies, T-shirts, sweatshirts, sweaters and just about everything else you could think of, but I also couldn’t help feeling...alone. A feeling that wasn’t improved when I saw a giggling Vance grab Trevor’s hand and pull him outside and past the rain-dotted window looking out onto the parking lot.

  There was going to be a lot of that over the next nine days, and I really needed to be okay with it or this trip was going to turn into hell on wheels. Literally.

  I bought a few odds and ends, mostly because I didn’t need to use the toilets, didn’t want to spoil my lunch with a snack, and didn’t have anything else to do. I was trying to decide whether my dad would like a Harris Tweed golf cap or whether it made sense to wait to see what came up on some of our next stops when I became aware the person standing next to me was not just muttering to himself.

  “I’m sorry. What?” I stared into Roddy Bittywiddy’s watery blue eyes.

  “I said, I don’t know why it had to be this particular trip. Scottish weather is awful this time of year. I tried to tell her. But once Daya gets an idea in her head...” He shook his head.

  “They only offer the tour once a year,” I said. “I think it’s always in the fall.”

  “But why this tour at all?” he insisted plaintively. “Why couldn’t we go somewhere warm? Somewhere with a nice sandy beach and drinks with umbrellas? Somewhere we know people.”

  “You’re not a fan of Vanessa Rayburn?”

  He shuddered at the idea. “Daya buys all her books, of course. The moment they hit the shelves. Reading puts me right to sleep.” He brightened. “Ah. Here she is! Hello, my love.”

  His love joined us, nodding politely to me and removing the packet of chocolate digestive biscuits from Roddy’s clutches. I left him protesting, paid for my items, and started back for the bus.

  As I was circumnavigating my way through the crowded entry hall, I caught sight of John in the shop’s restaurant. He happened to glance my way, and our gazes locked. He probably thought—well, who knew what he thought? I still wasn’t sure what his orientation might be. Although that particular look did seem a little more intent and focused than the sliding glances straight guys exchange.

  I smiled politely and kept walking—straight into Ben.

  I was moving briskly, so I nearly bowled him over. Ben was sturdily built though, so he stayed upright and I was the one who nearly went down. He grabbed my arm to steady me.

  “We have to stop meeting like this,” I gasped.

  He smiled, the first natural, relaxed smile I’d seen from him. It changed his face. Made him look younger, happier.

  “What did you buy?” he asked.

  “Er...whisky. Mostly.”

  “Oh?” His thick brows shot up.

  “As souvenirs. Mostly.”

  “There you are, Ben!” Yvonne joined us. “I was going to have a cup of tea in the café.”

  “All right, Mother.”

  Yvonne looked at me. “Your roomie is ordering a full breakfast in there.”

  “Is he?”

  “That’s going to take some time to prepare.”

  “He slept late. He’s probably hungry.” I was betting John already had a mother and didn’t need Yvonne, let alone me, keeping track of him.

  Her brows, a miniature version of Ben’s shot up, but she turned to her son and said, “We’d better get in line before they call us to board the bus.”

  Ben gave me an apologetic look and followed Yvonne as she bustled away.

  I sighed inwardly and left the shop. Sally, the divorcée bookseller from New Mexico, stood a few feet from the bus hurriedly smoking a cigarette. Her thick brown hair was turning to ringlets in the rain. Cigarette smoke and exhaust drifted on the rainy breeze. I nodded to her in passing and she nodded glumly back.

  “I didn’t think it would rain every day,” she said.

  “That’s Scotland,” I replied, but in fairness it was only day one.

  I was nearly the first to board the bus. The engine was idling and the pipes and drums of Red Hackle were turned down low. From my vantage point I could see Trevor and Vance in front of the shop. They were artistically positioned beneath the smiling green Wellington boot logo painted on the side of the building, and appeared to be arguing. I’m sorry to say it cheered me to no end.

  I considered opening one of my whisky samplers, but it was probably too soon to celebrate.

  Edie and Bertie boarded the bus. “If she doesn’t like Vanessa, I don’t know why she came on this tour,” one of the sisters was saying.

  “Some people just like to ruin other people’s enjoyment.”

  “Who’s that?” I asked, mainly to distract myself from watching Trevor and Vance.

  Maybe they hadn’t noticed me lurking in my seat before, because this brought the girls up short. I couldn’t help noticing a certain accusatory light in their eyes as they gazed at me. “Is it true you used to date Trevor?” the one in the red coat said.

  “Date him? That’s an interesting way to put it. We lived together for about three years.”

  “Lived together?” That was the one in the blue coat. They exchanged surprised glances. “Vance said you went out a few times.”

  “A f-f-few times!” I stuttered. Not that I had any intention of discussing my relationship with Trevor—and I was dis
mayed that he and Vance seemed bent on turning the three of us into a shipboard—well, busboard—scandal, but that caught me off guard. It hurt too, having three years dismissed as though we’d casually dated.

  “Trevor said you’re following them everywhere like what’s-her-name in Death on the Nile.”

  “What?” My voice shot up a note or two above the bagpipes. What’s-her-name in Death on the Nile happens to be a murderess. I was not amused. Not amused Trevor and Vance were discussing our little problem with strangers, and even less amused that they—Trevor—had the gall to imply that I was a stalker. Or worse. “That is absolutely incorrect,” I snapped in my best This is a Library not a Gymnasium voice. Not that anyone calls the gym a “gymnasium” anymore—besides irate librarians.

  Edie and Bertie weren’t impressed. In fact, they weren’t paying attention to me anymore. The sister in red was peering out the window in front of me.

  “Are they arguing?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said shortly.

  “Wow. What did Alison do to Rose?” the one in blue murmured.

  “Wait. Who?” I turned to the window too, and sure enough, Rose and Alison seemed to be having a heated exchange in front of the small adjoining café. A stream of passengers returning to their various buses parted around them, throwing curious looks their way.

  “That’s interesting,” the Poe in red commented.

  The other nodded and they took their seats without further commentary. We watched in silence as Alison turned away sharply and disappeared inside the shop. Rose stared after her.

  By then the rest of our group was starting to clamber onto the bus. No one seemed to notice, or at least no one commented on whatever had happened between Alison and Rose. That could have been due to the fact that Rose had boarded too. Her face was flushed and she was scowling, but she said nothing to anyone as she retook her seat.

  After another minute or so Alison and John appeared. John did not board. Alison climbed inside and announced that our lunch stop would be Tyndrum after all, as a number of our group were too hungry to wait for the planned break at Pitlochry.