Murder Takes the High Road Read online

  The whole situation was just...odd.

  And it only got odder once we returned upstairs and the hotel manager came to speak with us. John reassured her that none of his possessions were missing—and that he believed the incident had been a misunderstanding.

  “A misunderstanding?” I—and Ms. Eccles—echoed. She was tiny, trim and platinum-haired. She wore a nicely tailored beige suit and limped ever so slightly, as though her feet permanently hurt. An impression strengthened by her surreptitiously slipping her pumps off as she leaned against the dresser.

  John nodded. “If I had to guess, yes.”

  “Who or what is being misunderstood?” I asked.

  John shot me a look that said as clear as words, you can shut up now.

  Which went against the grain—my grain, anyway—but at the same time, there was clearly something going on here I didn’t understand, and I didn’t want to put my foot in it. Whether it was logical or not, I felt a kind of loyalty to John, if only because he was my bunkmate.

  At the same time, I was the one who had been knocked down a flight of stairs—though granted, a short flight—and I didn’t want that to become a regular thing.

  John said to Ms. Eccles, “If I had to guess, I’d say this was a prank or a practical joke. We’ve got some real comedians in our group.”

  “A joke?” Ms. Eccles said doubtfully. “Aye. I see.” Of course, she couldn’t help being thrilled at this alternate version of events, and I didn’t blame her.

  She said tentatively, hopefully, “You’re absolutely certain nothing is missing?”

  “Absolutely,” John said.

  She turned to me. “And you’re sure you’re uninjured, Mr. Matheson?”

  I looked at John. He was doing his best impression of a hypnotic gaze. I sighed, stopped rubbing my elbow, which I’d banged on the banisters. “I’m sure.”

  John looked relieved. So did Ms. Eccles.

  “Well, then!” She didn’t actually dust her hands, but the impression of moving on to more important matters was distinct. “If you gentlemen are sure we don’t need to contact the authorities...?”

  “Not necessary,” John assured her. “It’s under control.”

  Ms. Eccles threw me a look of sympathy, slipped her shoes back on, and departed.

  I closed the door behind her, saying, “She thinks I’ve got either a nut or an ex-con for a roommate, and I’m kind of wondering the same thing.”

  John was busily folding his clothes and stuffing them back in his suitcase. He looked up in surprise. “Did you really want to spend the evening chatting with some bored and lonely police constable? Seeing that neither of us had anything stolen?”

  “But that’s probably only because I walked in on the thief.”

  “Maybe. Probably.” It was the right answer but I could see from his expression that he didn’t agree.

  “Well, isn’t it?”

  John looked wary. “Isn’t what?”

  “Look, John, do you know what our intruder was after?” He opened his mouth, but I read the expression in his eyes and cut in before the prevaricating could begin. “No. Stop. Let me put it this way. Is there something going on I should know about?”

  No grown man could believably wear that expression of soulful innocence. “I don’t think so.”

  “Because I’m going to be very unhappy if I get caught in the middle of...hostilities.”

  At least he seemed genuine as he replied, “I can’t picture any scenario that would involve, um, an act of hostility. Or at least anything more hostile than knocking into you while trying to escape.”

  “Right. I see.” I didn’t.

  He said carefully, “If I thought there was such a possibility, I’d act accordingly.”

  “Okay.” Whatever that meant. I wanted to be reassured, and John seemed sincere, if obscure. To be honest, the break-in already seemed unreal, faraway—though I was pretty sure I had the bruises—additional bruises—to prove it had happened.

  John was continuing in that painstaking way, “You were—I’m guessing, of course—just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t happen again.”

  “Okay. I hope you’re right.”

  “I’m sure I am.”

  I couldn’t help wishing, as I returned to the ceilidh downstairs, that John had sounded a little more confident when he made that last assertion.

  Chapter Eight

  Although it doesn’t take long to recount the events of that night, it had taken a couple of hours to live them, and by the time I got back to the ceilidh the second time, the party was winding down.

  Ordinarily I’d have been disappointed, but with all that had happened that evening, I was feeling preoccupied. So preoccupied, I barely registered Vance’s usual glower when he caught sight of me. I did notice that Trevor was still missing in action, but most of our group was present and accounted for. Alison was nowhere to be seen and John had remained upstairs, but everyone else seemed happily occupied listening to the music or joining in the dances.

  I was roped into the final Dashing White Sargent of the evening, sat out the last waltz, and joined in on “Auld Lang Syne.” Gazing at the ring of smiling, singing faces of my fellow Tours to Die For members, it struck me again how quickly we were all bonding. It was probably like being in war. Okay, maybe not, but the challenges of traveling forced intimacy to develop at a faster than usual pace. I already felt like I’d known some of these people for years.

  As the musicians packed up their instruments, several couples adjourned to the bar for a nightcap. I was tempted to join them when Ben asked if I was going to have a drink, but Yvonne—who ten minutes earlier had announced she was retiring for the evening—popped back in, saying she’d changed her mind about going up to bed so soon.

  I hardened my heart against the disappointment in Ben’s eyes and said, “It’s been a long day. I think maybe I’ll turn in too.”

  “Maybe tomorrow night,” he said.

  “Sure. Maybe.” I smiled, but increasingly I had the feeling that Yvonne would make sure to be anywhere Ben and I were. I didn’t know if she didn’t care for me in particular or was just generally possessive of Ben’s attention, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t imagining things.

  When I arrived upstairs, I found John in bed reading my copy of Prey for Mercy.

  “We’ll make a fan of you yet,” I said.

  He grunted noncommittally and set the book on the nightstand. “How was the party?”

  “Fine. It was fun.” I glanced around the room. John had neatly packed his scattered belongings away again. He wore what appeared to be a rather natty pair of blue-and-brown plaid pajamas—was that supposed to be his clan tartan?—and looked reasonably comfortable given the narrowness of the beds and the winter breeze gusting around the cracks in the window frame.

  He folded his arms comfortably behind his head. “How was Vance?”

  “No outward sign of guilt. He ignored me and I ignored him.”

  John’s mouth suddenly quirked into a grin. “You know that blackout that happened while Temple was in here lecturing you about accusing his boyfriend of attempted murder?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “That was your nemesis Vance blowing the fuses by using the wrong adapter for his hair dryer.”

  I laughed. “No way. Is that true?”

  “I overheard him telling someone at dinner.”

  I was amused, but had to say, “For the record, I don’t think it was Vance in our room.”

  John shrugged.

  I gave him a challenging look. “I think you know who was in our room.” I’d been thinking about this downstairs, though I hadn’t intended to bring it up so soon. Not without more proof.

  He met my gaze, but I thought he looked uneasy. “Even if I had my suspicions, that�
�s all I have. I don’t want to bias you. If something happens that makes you suspect something, then you should tell me and we could compare notes.”

  Yeah, right.

  I grunted, grabbed my sleep pants and stepped into the bathroom to wash up. The water that gushed out of the old-fashioned taps took forever to heat to even mildly tepid, and I forgot all about break-ins and faceless intruders.

  When I left the bathroom, the room seemed even colder. In addition to the draft whispering beneath the window over my bed, the sound of rain hitting the glass was more chilling than cozy.

  “We should have asked Ms. Eccles to fix the radiator,” I said. “I bet she’s had plenty of experience.”

  “I don’t think there’s any fixing it,” John said. “I took a crack while you were cutting a rug downstairs. If that thing has worked since the last century, I’ll eat my Vanessa Rayburn Fan Club membership card. The air valve has cobwebs on it.”

  “Great.” I pulled the blankets back, dipped a tentative toe between the sheets, and sucked in a breath. “Holy crap, it’s cold in there!”

  “I know,” he said heartlessly. “I got the last hot water bottle in the entire hotel.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  He shook his head, and the suspiciously guileless expression was back. “Maybe we should huddle together to conserve body warmth.”

  “Ha.” I eyed him thoughtfully. “So are you...?”

  “Cold? Very.”

  I would not be sidetracked. “Gay?”

  “What makes you think so? All heterosexual men give dating advice to their gay roommates.”

  My heart lightened, and I had to bite back a smile. “Technically, it wasn’t dating advice. It was an unsolicited opinion. Besides which, I believe you’re wrong about Trevor.”

  His smile was smug. “You think I’m wrong because you’d prefer that to having to face the idea of maybe still having feelings for Temple.”

  My pleasure faded. “You don’t know anything about me, John.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. I’ve been observing you for the last twenty-four hours.”

  “You probably don’t intend that to sound creepy.”

  His smile widened. “From a purely professional standpoint. I find people interesting. What makes them tick. That kind of thing.”

  “Purely professional. Right. Is that so you can sell them life insurance policies?”

  “Of course.” He continued to grin at me.

  “Well, I’m not in the market for another life insurance policy.”

  “As, again, a matter of professional interest, did you change your will after you and Temple split up?”

  “Yes. And what made you think I have a will?”

  “You seem like a careful, well-organized man.”

  “Sexy as hell, isn’t it?”

  He laughed. “You’d be surprised.”

  “Sure.” I gave him my best No Talking in the Library glare. “However, this subject—the subject of me and Trevor—is now off-limits.”

  “Ah.”

  “And don’t give me that tone because...”

  “Because?”

  Why had I steered us back to the topic of Trevor and Vance? It was really the last thing I’d wanted. That said, John was right. Or at least, not wrong. I had secretly—and not so secretly—believed from the first that Vance and Trevor would never last. Of course, I wanted to believe that. It’s one thing to get dumped. It’s a much harder thing to get dumped by someone who then goes on to find his Happily Ever After with the very jerk you were dumped for.

  Either way, why was I wasting new opportunities raking over the past?

  I realized John was gazing at me expectantly. “What? Oh. Just don’t.”

  I thought that would be the end of that, but to my surprise, he turned his attention back to our own sleeping arrangements.

  “What we could do,” he said thoughtfully, “is move the nightstand out of the way and push the two beds together.”

  I stared at him. “Are you serious?”

  “I can see the goosebumps through your pajamas.”

  “Ahem,” I said pointedly.

  He withdrew his gaze from my pajama bottoms. His smile was unrepentant. “Well, I’m not suggesting we rip our clothes off and share one sleeping bag. I’m—”

  “A romance reader.” I sighed. “I might have known.”

  He said evenly, “Occasionally.”

  “I know you don’t read Vanessa. I figured it out the first night.” That was a slight exaggeration, though I had suspected from the first John was not a true believer. And nothing had happened to shake that suspicion. “Why did you come on this tour?”

  If I’d been hoping for a big drawing room reveal, I was doomed to disappointment. He said, “I always wanted to go to Scotland and this sounded like fun.”

  “I see. Your great-grandmother on your mother’s side was Scottish.”

  “Well, no. French.”

  “Your great-grandfather on your father’s side was Scottish.”

  “No. English. I’m not Scottish. I think maybe we’ve got some Welsh on my dad’s mother’s side, but everyone loves Scotland. Men in kilts. Bagpipes. Whisky. Those little bad-tempered Scottie dogs.”

  I opened my mouth, but he rushed on. “And I like mysteries. Not in the way you people like mysteries, but I enjoy them. Agatha Christie. She’s great.”

  I said severely, “Oh please. Agatha Christie is the automatic default for people who don’t know a lot about mysteries. You’re no mystery reader!”

  His brows shot up. He said mildly, “That was a little Hercule Poirot-ish, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Okay, maybe you’ve read some Christie.”

  “I’ve watched a few episodes on PBS. The truth is, I thought it would be fun to stay in a Scottish castle.” He shrugged. “What’s the suspicious look for?”

  I tried to rearrange my features into something less openly incredulous, but I still had trouble with John’s explanation. For one thing, this was an expensive trip for someone just wanting to visit the land of his forefathers—and John didn’t even have Scottish forefathers. For another, the tour was designed for fans of Vanessa’s books, which meant we were bypassing a lot of the places most tourists would rightly want to see. And for a third, John didn’t seem particularly enamored of Scottish culture, Scottie dogs or no Scottie dogs.

  “This tour was fully booked over a year ago. How did you get on at the last minute?”

  “They had a couple of cancellations.”

  Hmm. Possible, of course. Some people really were that lucky with reservations.

  Another gust of rain rattled against the window. I shuddered at the idea of crawling between those damp, chilly sheets.

  Observing me, John said. “Come on, Carter. I promise to be the perfect gentlemen while we’re bunking together.”

  I liked the way he said my name.

  “The gentleman and the scholar. Sounds like a romance title.”

  “Now if you’re going to make fun of my taste in fiction...” But he was already climbing out of his bed with what I thought was suspicious alacrity.

  It did not take us long to unplug the reading lamp, lift the nightstand out of the way, and shove the two beds together. We left the facing sides tucked in, which I thought was a good idea, though maybe, in the very back of my brain, I was a little disappointed. I guess I like the occasional romance novel myself.

  I turned out the overhead light as John climbed back into bed. I felt my way across the floor, crawled into my own bunk and discovered the mattresses sloped down toward each other.

  “Er...this is cozy,” I said, as I rolled into the dip beside John. My feet brushed his through the sheets and blankets. It should have been about as sexy as wool socks, but somehow the warm outline of his body inch
es from mine—even through the bedclothes—was unexpectedly exciting.

  John’s laugh sounded a little funny. He sniffed in my direction. “I like your soap.”

  “That’s actually the Ben Wyvis’s soap. It seems to be your soap too.”

  We were both silent. The rain continued to pick, pick, pick against the window. The clock on the nightstand clicked over. It sounded loud in the darkness.

  We could do this. We could shove off the blankets and see how we liked sharing warm, bare skin. Warm, bare everything. I could tell John was, er, up for it, and it had been such a long time since I’d had this. Well, not this, because I’d never had anything quite like this. But sex. Friendly, uncomplicated sex.

  “Speaking of Vanessa,” John said suddenly.

  I smothered a laugh at the change of subject—and at myself.

  “What?” he asked.

  Clearly the subject of sex was just on my own mind.

  “Nothing. Go on,” I said.

  “Is it true that she went to prison for killing her boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m a little shocked. I have to admit.”

  I said, “I’m used to the idea now, but yes. I remember being shocked when I found out.”

  “Is there any question of her guilt?” His breath was warm and smelled of wintergreen toothpaste.

  “No. She broke down and confessed under questioning.”

  “What happened?” he asked.

  I sighed. It wasn’t that I found the subject boring, more that I’d grown resigned to the reaction of non-fans. An understandable reaction, really. “Teenage angst? Adolescent jealousy? Vanessa—her name was Claire Sims back then—had been dating a boy by the name of Donald Kresley. He was a bit older than her, but not by much. He was a schoolmate. Anyway, one afternoon, the two of them walked into the woods and Vanessa hit him over the head with a rock.”

  I was silent, thinking. That part of the story wasn’t the difficult bit because they’d both been kids and kids lash out when angry.

  “And the blow killed him?” John asked, when I didn’t continue.

  “No. The blow didn’t kill him, but he was unconscious. She...left him facedown in a shallow stream. He drowned.”