Murder Takes the High Road Read online

  “I’ve heard vague rumors. Actually, one rumor. I think Rose started it.” I glanced around for Rose, and sure enough, there she was at a table near the enormous windows, whispering earnestly to Daya and Roddy Bittywiddy. The Bittywiddys looked both shocked and titillated at whatever information was being conveyed.

  “It might be true.”

  “What?” I stared at Sally.

  “I guess Wally Kramer tackled Alison about it, and apparently she was very...”

  “She admitted it?”

  “Not exactly. She didn’t deny it though. In fact, he said she was very cagey.”

  “Very cagey? What does that mean?”

  Sally shook her head. “I was thinking maybe we should...” Once again, she let it trail.

  “We should what?”

  “I don’t know. Investigate?”

  I gawked at her. “What? Us? How? Why?”

  She seemed startled at my response. “Why? Well, because.”

  “Because why?”

  “We’re all mystery buffs, after all. Who better?”

  “Police. The local constabulary. The not local constabulary. Scotland Yard. The gamekeeper. The gatekeeper. The keymaster. I don’t know. Pretty much anyone other than us.”

  “You can’t be serious,” she protested.

  “I was going to say the same thing to you.”

  “But...”

  Was I being punked? She seemed perfectly sincere. Alarmingly sincere. I said, “But what? I mean...what does it have to do with us? If there was a death on the last tour, that’s awful, but how does it affect this tour?”

  “A mysterious death,” she tried to clarify.

  I frowned. “What does that mean though? An unsolved murder? Is that what everyone is thinking? That would be for law enforcement, not us. It would be an ongoing investigation.” I could see I was proving a great disappointment to Sally, but murder—real murder—wasn’t a game. It was...alarming.

  I said firmly, “If there was something wrong, the authorities would have shut the tour company down.”

  “Would they?”

  “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “Maybe the authorities didn’t realize what they were dealing with.”

  I was starting to feel like I’d stepped into a Christopher Guest film. I asked carefully, “What were they dealing with?”

  “Murder,” she whispered—and I’m not sure why she was whispering, since I had already used the M-word twenty seconds earlier.

  I shook my head. “Why don’t we just ask Alison? I bet this could all be cleared up in two minutes.”

  “Wally did ask her. Remember?”

  A waitress appeared to take my drink order. I ordered a Famous Grouse single malt—and then asked her to make it a double. As much as I loved reading about murder and mayhem, I had never kidded myself I’d make a good detective. The extent of my sleuthing ability was finding misfiled books and lost editions.

  The starters arrived before Sally could resume her pitch. Pâté of unknown origin for her. Carrot, turnip and lentil soup for me. We were amicably divvying up the flower-shaped pats of butter for the still-warm bread when Ben and his mother arrived.

  “There’s no hot water,” Yvonne informed the table, squeezing in three seats down. “None.” She had transferred the name tag from her coat to the black sequined blouse she wore. Ben pulled out the chair next to me. We smiled briefly at each other.

  “Who had time to shower?” Nedda’s voice drifted from the other side of the immense, many-armed sterling silver candelabra. “Not us.”

  “How’s your room?” Ben asked. “We’ve got a view of the woods.” He looked nice in a gray wool pullover and jeans.

  “I think the word is quaint,” I replied. “We’re facing the front garden but our only window is recessed and offers a lovely view of the fire escape.”

  “The good news is you’ll manage to escape when the place burns down tonight. The power went out on our floor.”

  “Ours too. Only for a few seconds though.”

  Yvonne said, “I suspect some of these rooms might have been the old servant quarters. There should be some compensation for that.”

  “Well, it’s all part of the adventure, right?”

  Wrong, said Yvonne’s expression.

  “I guess in a place this old there are bound to be problems with the wiring. I’m willing to make the tradeoff.” Laurel Matsukado was seated on my other side. “I can see why Vanessa used it as the setting for the first time Rachel and Michael spent a night together.”

  “I seriously doubt Vanessa ever slept here,” Yvonne said. “I doubt if she so much as had a meal here. I was looking through my guidebook and there are much nicer hotels in the vicinity.”

  “But the idea is to stick to the locales Vanessa used for the books,” I said. “That’s the point of the tour.”

  “Isn’t there something called literary license? Rachel and Michael deserved better. As do we.”

  Laurel and I glanced at each other. I had a feeling my expression matched her determinedly pleasant not-going-to-get-into-it one. There was probably an Yvonne on every tour.

  Our meals came. For me, roast leg of lamb with a rosemary and red wine gravy, and blackcurrant and apple-mint jelly on the side. It looked great and smelled even better. Between the double whisky and the prospect of a nice—and traditionally Scottish—meal, my spirits rose.

  Yvonne leaned across to say, “I can never understand people who order lamb.”

  “It’s pretty tasty when it’s prepared properly.”

  “I can’t help thinking about how sweet they look, stumbling around the meadows, their little tails going a mile a minute.”

  If someone was going to be murdered on our tour, I hoped it would be Yvonne. And I hoped it would be soon.

  Ben gave me one of his apologetic smiles. I summoned a return smile. It occurred to me I hadn’t seen John. I glanced around and finally spotted him three tables over, deep in conversation with Gerda Rice, one of the teacher quartet. Gerda was smiling, but she kept glancing at her companions like how did I get stuck with this guy? Maybe he was trying to sell her an insurance policy.

  Happily, murder was not the topic of conversation during the meal.

  In fact, the dinner table mood was congenial and lively, despite the frantic rush to get ready and get downstairs in time. The naps and whisky on the bus seemed to have left everyone refreshed and ready to party. A few more drinks at dinner didn’t hurt.

  Sally and I talked about books and the challenges of keeping print relevant in the digital age. She complained too many of her customers treated her bookstore like a library. I complained that too many of my patrons treated my library like a daycare center.

  Before dessert was served, the lively scrape and slide of fiddles drifted from down the hall. The musicians were warming up in the former ballroom, which was now used as the hotel meeting room.

  “Are you going to the ceilidh?” Ben asked.

  “Sure. We all are, aren’t we?” I couldn’t help noticing Yvonne was listening to our exchange. I smiled at her. Her mouth curved tightly in automatic response.

  “Is there dancing? I’m not much for dancing.”

  “I’m not sure, but Scottish country dancing isn’t like ballroom dancing. It’s more like controlled running and skipping. They’ll have someone to walk us through the sets.”

  “I’m not much for skipping either.”

  I smiled, but I found his attitude disappointing. I mean, I wasn’t exactly the adventurous type—as Trevor never hesitated to point out—but even I knew when in Rome—or Scotland. Wasn’t that the point of travel? Broaden your horizons? Push your boundaries? I didn’t want to think I had more boundaries than horizons.

  * * *

  The meal ended and the various tour directors began s
hepherding their groups out of the dining room. Alison informed us that yes, there would be country dancing for anyone brave enough to give it a whirl, and I decided to put those old lessons to good use and went upstairs to change my boots for running shoes.

  For a hotel full of guests, the halls seemed eerily quiet as I jogged up the flights of stairs leading to the second level and then down the shadowy corridor to my room. An old hotel definitely smelled different from a new hotel. It wasn’t musty exactly, but the scent of decades’ worth of pets and pipes and flowers and furniture polish had permeated the paneling and floorboards. In some strange way the odor reminded me of old books. Maybe because it was the fragrance of hundreds of lives, hundreds of stories.

  As I reached the door I realized it stood slightly ajar. Someone was moving around inside my room. The hair rose on the back of my neck. I halted.

  Not the maid. The hotel did not offer turndown service. Probably no one who wasn’t a paying guest wanted to stay past sundown.

  Not John. I’d just seen him downstairs, on his way toward the ballroom with most of our group.

  Commonsense reasserted itself. I relaxed. Of course! The handyman had finally arrived to fix the radiator. And not a minute too soon. The drafty hallway was cold enough to hang meat.

  I reached for the doorknob. The next instant the door flew open and someone charged out, knocking me down the short flight of stairs.

  Chapter Seven

  Ow. Ouch. Owww...

  Step by step, I went bumping down the staircase. I received the confused impression of peacock-blue carpet, dark wood bannisters, and silver-and-white tin ceiling tiles as I tumbled backwards down the stairs. Even as a pair of black boots leaped over me—narrowly missing my nose—I was still thinking in terms of accidental collision.

  I smacked down flat on my back, more startled than hurt, and tried to get my breath.

  What the hell had just happened?

  “Hey!” I cried, belatedly. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The only answer was the sound of retreating footsteps, followed by the squeaking hinges of the interior glass doors that separated this wing of the house from the central section.

  “What the...” I sat up cautiously, wincing. As staircases went in this house, that had been a short one, and I was not greatly injured. I was astonished and more than a little pissed off. I scrambled up and set off in tardy pursuit, but by the time I reached the French doors, now standing ajar, there was no sign of anyone.

  I continued down the hall, but there was no sight or sound of the intruder. No lights shone from beneath doors.

  I turned and went back to my room.

  Our door stood wide-open and I could see at a glance that our suitcases had been searched.

  Correction. John’s bags had been searched. I’d already dumped mine out in the desperate effort to get down to dinner on time.

  After a quick, cursory examination I decided my things hadn’t been touched since I’d ransacked them myself, but John’s belongings were scattered across both the beds. I studied the display of perfectly ordinary boxers, T-shirts, jeans and sweaters.

  It didn’t look like he owned anything particularly valuable, and I had no way of knowing if anything was missing. Something did catch my attention though.

  Or rather it was the lack of something.

  John had not brought a single copy of Vanessa’s books.

  Not one.

  Now that really was odd because the tour handouts specifically stated that guests were to bring whatever books and memorabilia they wanted signed. It had been made clear that Vanessa’s island home did not offer a gift shop or a bookstore and we would not be able to purchase such items once we left the mainland.

  What kind of super-fan wouldn’t want a personalized autograph from their favorite author? It wasn’t like Vanessa attended conferences or did book tours these days.

  Once again, I couldn’t help wondering if John was taking part in this tour for private reasons—and if those private reasons were why someone had broken into our room.

  * * *

  When I got back downstairs to the ballroom, the ceilidh was in full swing. Chairs had been pushed to the side and everyone was being organized into groups for the Gay Gordons.

  I scanned the room for John.

  “Room” was an understatement because the ballroom was about the length of two basketball courts.

  Yvonne was seated spectator style on a settee next to Daya Bittywiddy. There was no sign of Roddy. Ben had been selected as guinea pig—er, partner—by a very wide elderly woman in a bright yellow Buchanan tartan who was clearly the dance instructor. He stood in line, smiling self-consciously, and I gave him full marks for being a good sport.

  Where the hell was John?

  There were several musicians on a low platform serving as a stage. Hamish had joined them and was tuning a set of bagpipes, which was never a fast or painless process.

  I couldn’t see Alison anywhere. The Kramers, Matsukados, Scherfs and Rices all stood in dance formation. I spotted Vance, red-faced and perspiring, being dragged onto the dance floor by Edie and Bertie. Why was he so overheated when the dancing hadn’t even started? Skeptically, I watched his progress from the doorway.

  Why the hell would Vance break into our room? No, that didn’t make sense, because if the intruder had been Vance, he’d have been going through my things, surely? Our intruder had focused on John.

  Trevor didn’t appear to be anywhere, but Trevor hated to dance, so that wasn’t surprising.

  Once I’d made sure John was also not in the ballroom, I headed for the bar and, sure enough, found him hiding out with Roddy Bittywiddy and Jim Matsukado.

  “You look like a man in need of a drink,” John smiled in greeting.

  “Pretty strenuous, eh?” Jim commented. Since I’d been sure I’d seen him lined up with the dancers, I had to wonder who else I’d missed.

  “How long have you two been here?” I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the windows. I looked flushed and disheveled, hair standing on end, which, given my tumble, was probably to be expected.

  John and Jim glanced at each other. Jim shrugged. “About ten minutes.”

  “Was Trevor in here?”

  “Nope,” John drawled. “Maybe you got your signals crossed.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “Huh? Uh, no, I—Actually, someone was in our room. They knocked me down while making their escape.”

  Jim said all the usual things. John did not. In fact, John merely stared at me while I answered Jim’s questions. Not, in my opinion, a normal response. In fact, I couldn’t help thinking John’s very lack of reaction seemed downright...suspect.

  “You’re sure it wasn’t the handyman?” he asked finally, after Jim departed to alert the front desk—which, come to think of it, probably should have been my first action too, so maybe John wasn’t the only one behaving suspiciously.

  I snorted. “Not unless he’s a handyman with a very guilty conscience. Like I said, I started to open the door and whoever was in there burst out and knocked me down the stairs. Not that I would blame anyone responsible for maintaining this place for trying to flee, but he ran through the French doors. Into the hotel. Not out.”

  “And you’re sure you couldn’t tell who it was?”

  I hesitated. My suspicions leaned toward Vance, although I knew that wasn’t logical. “It happened pretty fast. He charged me with his head down. Plus, he wore some kind of hood. Everybody kind of looks the same when you’re upside down. Tall, I think. He had on boots and jeans.”

  “Was the door lock damaged? Could you tell?”

  “It didn’t appear to be. It might have been picked. I wouldn’t know. But this place isn’t exactly high security. I think you could get into any room by wiggling the door handle hard.”

  “Ha. True. You
’re sure the intruder was male?”

  I squinted, trying to remember what I’d seen. “Yes. I did get an impression of...male. Size? Force? I’d have to say male. And he had on some kind of waxed jacket. Maybe green or gray? Like I said, it happened so fast.”

  “Temple?”

  I shook my head. Of that I was sure. I’d know Trevor upside down—or inside out, for that matter. “No.”

  “Stafford?” John was watching me closely.

  I thought again of Vance’s flushed, sweaty appearance in the ballroom. But really, nearly every guy in there had a flushed, sweaty appearance.

  “I don’t know. The jacket isn’t right. Vance wears a navy blue parka. I can’t deny it went through my mind.”

  “Vance thinks he’s got cause for grievance.”

  “Yeah, but it would be crazy to take a chance like that. For what purpose?”

  John shrugged. “You can’t go by that. People do crazy stuff for crazy reasons.”

  “Even so.”

  “He’s clearly jealous. Clearly suspicious.” John continued to study me.

  Reluctantly, I shook my head. “It seems to me that someone was looking for something. Something specific. It’s not like Vance doesn’t know everything there is to know about me. Besides.”

  “Besides?”

  “You might have been the target.”

  He raised his brows. “How do you figure that?”

  “Your stuff was spread out over both beds. Mine wasn’t touched.”

  “He could have started with my stuff and hadn’t got around to yours yet.”

  “Well, that’s true. Anyway, you should probably take a look. See if any of your belongings are missing.”

  “Yeah, that seems like a good idea.”

  It seemed like the obvious idea, anyway, and didn’t the fact that it wasn’t the first thing that occurred to him sort of confirm my suspicions? John too believed whoever had searched our room had been looking for something in particular. Something in his luggage, not mine. Further, I felt his lack of concern indicated confidence that whatever it was someone had been after, he knew they hadn’t found it.