Murder Takes the High Road Read online

  There was a long silence punctuated by the rain washing down two-hundred-year-old walls.

  “Why did she do it?” John asked.

  I shook my head, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “No one knows. It was probably a combination of things. Kresley had recently won an award in a creative writing competition that Vanessa felt should have been hers.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I know. Creative temperament? But also, Kresley had supposedly broken off their relationship. Again. The idea was that Claire was trying to talk him into getting back together. I mean, Claire was fifteen. Kresley was sixteen, so they really were just kids. Kids take this stuff so much to heart.”

  “She was old enough to know better. Old enough to know murder is wrong.”

  “Sure. Which is why Vanessa or Claire, whatever you want to call her, went to prison.”

  “Why the hell would they ever let her out?”

  “She served her time. In fact, she was a model prisoner.”

  I could feel him thinking it over, feel his resistance.

  “Obviously there’s no defense for what she did. Even if she did kill Kresley in self-defense—”

  “Self-defense?”

  I rolled onto my back, staring up at the pale blur of the ceiling. “That was one argument put forth during the trial. That Kresley assaulted her. There really wasn’t any evidence to support it, and it didn’t go anywhere. No one but Vanessa really knows what happened in the woods that day. The only thing for sure is that Kresley died—and they were both very young.”

  “She’s evil. Pure and simple.”

  Evil. I was a little startled to hear the word. My initial impression of John was that he was an easygoing, pragmatic kind of guy. A don’t-sweat-the-small-stuff guy. The word evil sounded so...straitlaced. Biblical.

  I said, “The act was evil. No question. It was an evil act. But was Claire herself—remember, this was a fifteen-year-old kid—evil?”

  “Yes,” John said with absolute certainty. “She sure as hell was.”

  “It probably wasn’t premeditated. She didn’t bring a weapon. She...improvised.”

  “Is that supposed to make it better?”

  It made a difference to me. The fact that she had not set out to commit murder. But a lot of people didn’t see it as lack of premeditation so much as lousy planning. “There’s a lot of neuroscience on the adolescent brain—”

  “I work for an insurance company,” John interrupted. “I know all about the adolescent brain and suboptimal choice behavior. There’s a hell of a difference between poor impulse control and deliberate, calculated cruelty.”

  “Again, not arguing with you.”

  “But you want to meet this woman?” He sounded incredulous.

  “Well, yeah. I do,” I admitted. “Her books have given me hours and hours of pleasure. And also—you don’t read her, so you won’t know this—the stories are morally unequivocal. For every action there is a reaction. Nobody gets off easy. And also, she doesn’t glorify murder. She doesn’t fetishize it. She writes a lot about acting on impulse—and living with the consequences.”

  “I bet. Seeing that she murdered her boyfriend.”

  “And went to prison for it,” I repeated patiently. “She served her court-appointed sentence. In the eyes of the law, she paid for her crime.”

  “I bet the parents of the boy she murdered don’t feel like she paid for her crime.”

  “No. Probably not.”

  “Not only did she get out of prison, she went on to fame and fortune too.”

  Yes, she did. And I really didn’t want to fight with him over it. Even Vanessa’s fans were divided on the topic of Donald Kresley. I had mixed feelings myself. How could I not?

  I offered by way of compromise, “Hate the sin and not the sinner?”

  “Easier said than done,” said John.

  We left it there, and not long afterward, I could tell by John’s breathing that he was asleep.

  I was tired, but sleep didn’t come so easily to me. It had been a long and eventful day. I’d nearly ended up as a traffic fatality before lunch. That evening someone had broken into my room and shoved me down a staircase. My temporary roomie was clearly a man of many secrets. And then there was Trevor.

  John was wrong. I knew I no longer loved Trevor. I did wish—or had, before this trip—I could have back the comfortable predictability of our life together. And after the number of close calls I’d had that day, I should have been scrambling toward the safety of my old life faster than ever. And yet, strangely, as I lay there listening to the two-hundred-year-old creaks of antique floorboards, the clang of nearly as old plumbing, and John’s soft, steady breathing in my ear, I didn’t miss the comfortable humdrumness of my life back home, and I sure as hell didn’t miss Trevor. No, as I thought of the day ahead, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a very long time.

  Happy.

  Chapter Nine

  I must have fallen asleep somewhere in the middle of my thoughts because the next time I opened my eyes, I could hear someone moving furtively around our room.

  Not this again.

  Surreptitiously, I reached over to John, and feeling the empty expanse of cooling sheets, confirmed who the someone tiptoeing so painstakingly around the room was.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  His shadow jumped, though not as noticeably as the night before. His tone was almost normal as he said, “I’m going out for a quick walk. I can’t sleep. I think it’s the jet lag.”

  Even half asleep I knew that was a crock. I listened to the rain thundering down outside, and said, “Me neither. Give me a minute. I’ll get dressed and go with you.”

  A sudden and startled silence followed my words.

  I snorted. “Relax. I’m not going anywhere.”

  John’s shadow visibly relaxed. He said way too casually, “I mean, you’re welcome to come, if you’d like.”

  I laughed. “You’re so full of shit, John. Just don’t wake me up when you slosh back in here in a couple of hours.”

  * * *

  He was back in less than half an hour. I was finally relaxing into warm drowsiness when I heard his key in the lock. Raising my head, I watched his silhouette slip inside and with great care ease the door silently closed. Painstakingly, he slid the bolt and it barely made a whisper as it slid home. His smugness was almost visible through the gloom.

  I said in normal tones, “That was quick,” and watched with satisfaction as he gave another of those convulsive starts.

  John said shakily, “You really are a light sleeper.”

  “Yes, I am. Are you done for the night?”

  “Yes.”

  I waited silently as he hastily undressed. He crawled onto his side of bed, trying unsuccessfully to defy gravity, and rolled to a stop at the bottom of the dip. I could practically feel the cold radiating off him. He expelled a long, shivery breath.

  “Enjoy yourself?” I asked.

  He huffed out a shivery chuckle. “The last time I was this cold I was camping in the Sierras.”

  I’d intended to ask what the hell he’d been doing prowling around in the middle of the night, but that distracted me. “I haven’t been camping in years,” I said.

  He half-raised his head as though to peer at me more closely. “You like camping?”

  “I used to. I used to love it.” Trevor hated camping. So—it hadn’t been a deliberate decision, but there were only so many hours in a day and, originally, I’d wanted to spend most of them with Trevor—I’d eventually quit going camping with my friends.

  A lot of things I had enjoyed before I met Trevor had faded out the same way. Not consciously renounced, just...no longer making time for them.

  “RV camping?” he asked suspiciously.

  “That’s not camping.�
��

  “Exactly,” he said in the tone of one who has just won a bitter argument. “Exactly.”

  I grinned. I liked John. Man of Secrets or not.

  John gave a sudden full body shudder. “Remember my earlier suggestion of stripping naked and sharing the sleeping bag to conserve body warmth?”

  “If only we had a sleeping bag.”

  “We could improvise.” His tone was light. Joking, but not entirely joking.

  My pulse jumped. Other things jumped as well. Here again was possibility. Was I interested? Silly question. Of course I was.

  Interested and tempted. I hadn’t had sex in months and, not only did I like John, I found him increasingly attractive. Maybe because I hadn’t had sex in months.

  The problem was, he was also my roommate, and if things got awkward, they would be very awkward. Thanks to Trevor and Vance, this trip had enough strained moments. I didn’t need further complications. Especially with a guy who was clearly up to something.

  I said, matching the lightness of his tone, “If it starts to snow, ask me again.”

  “Ah.” His tone held a flattering note of disappointment. “Will do.”

  I rolled onto my side and closed my eyes, but it was a while before I fell back asleep.

  * * *

  I woke to watery sunshine and the insistent chime of my cell phone.

  I reached over, peered at the time, and glanced at John.

  He was still deeply asleep. His lashes threw dark curves against his cheekbones, his mouth was firm, but turned up a little at the corners as though he was having a good dream.

  I felt my own mouth curve in response.

  What the hell was he doing every night? For a guy with insomnia he sure seemed to sleep deeply the rest of the time.

  Through the wall, I heard the door of the room next to ours squeak open. I waited for the noisy clunk of luggage being placed in the hall, but the door squeaked closed. Footsteps on the landing passed swiftly by our door. I listened to them fade out.

  Someone was in a hurry to get down to breakfast.

  I sighed. It was time to get moving. Unless I wanted to forgo the morning dose of cholesterol and carbs, which...maybe. I could probably grab something to eat in Strathpeffer while we were exploring the town. What were the odds of finding a decent fruit smoothie?

  I glanced at John’s sleeping form again. I couldn’t help second-guessing my discretion the night before. What was the big deal about sex, after all?

  He was an adult. I was an adult. How awkward could things get in eight nights? Maybe it would be fun to find out.

  Speaking of cold showers... I listened to the groans and creaks of the old plumbing overhead. Of course, according to John, our shower didn’t work. I might be taking a cold bath that morning.

  I shuddered and pulled the blankets around my shoulders. As much as I loved the idea of elegant old manor houses, there was something to be said for modern plumbing and modern heating and memory foam mattresses.

  My phone dinged.

  John muttered in his sleep. I raised my head, squinted at the screen. Trevor.

  We need to talk.

  I considered this, frowning, and braved the elements to tap back, About what?

  Deliberately unhelpful, I admit.

  It seemed a long time before his reply materialized with another ding. Us, came the succinct answer.

  My heart gave a sudden, perplexing start. It was aggravating that he had even this much power. Especially given the last couple of days.

  There is no us, I shot back.

  While I waited for his reply, footsteps crossed the landing a second time. The door next to us was noisily unlocked. Not having breakfast after all. Hinges squeaked open and close. I listened absently to our neighbor moving around next door. Who had the room next to ours? I couldn’t remember.

  Trevor’s text arrived with a loud whoosh.

  There is on this trip.

  I made a face, started to respond, but was distracted by the sound of a heavy thump in the next room.

  The thump was followed by silence. Total silence.

  There seemed something odd about that, though at first I couldn’t think why. The thump itself was normal enough. Someone had dropped their suitcase. Or knocked over an armoire. It happened. What should have followed were the normal sounds of exasperation or luggage being wheeled to the door. Or luggage not being rolled to the door, but some kind of movement. Footsteps. The sound of sink taps. The squeak of a mattress. Something.

  Was there a furtive quality to that sudden hush?

  I considered that thought for an uneasy moment or two, then started to sit up. I froze at the distinct creak of the adjoining door easing open.

  What the hell? I was getting to be as bad as the rest of them. What did I imagine was happening?

  I relaxed back into the pillows. I didn’t even know for sure that our neighbors were part of the Tour to Die For group.

  Then again, what if our neighbors were being searched as we had been the night before? Maybe last night’s intruder had nothing to do with John. Maybe we’d been dealing with a potential thief. Maybe that thief was in the next room right this minute.

  My phone dinged. It seemed to me there was an impatient quality to that ping. I snatched it up impatiently.

  Are you still there?

  I typed back, No.

  You’re not funny.

  I typed, I’m also not leaving the tour.

  I had been half-listening for the sound of the door closing next door, but belatedly realized my mistake.

  I tossed my phone into the bedclothes as I jumped out of bed. I was across the room in two strides. I opened our door and peered out. No one stood on the landing or stairs. I stepped onto the walkway. The door next to ours stood open.

  From inside my room, I heard the irritable sound of another text message arriving. I ignored it.

  “What?” John mumbled sleepily. “Did you say something?”

  Watching the hall below, I saw the interior French doors swing open. Ms. Eccles and Alison entered. They were speaking quietly, but I could tell it wasn’t a casual conversation.

  Alison glanced up, caught sight of me, and checked mid-step. She put a hand on Ms. Eccles’s arm. Ms. Eccles gazed up in dismay.

  “Carter,” Alison said. Her voice was not much above a whisper, but it carried.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” I called softly.

  Alison hesitated. She looked at Ms. Eccles, who looked back at her. They seemed to silently commune.

  At last Alison said, “I’m afraid I have some distressing news. Rose Lane died in her sleep last night.”

  Chapter Ten

  “What?” I forgot all about keeping my own voice down.

  Alison winced and made shushing motions. Like we were going to disturb Rose?

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid there’s no doubt.”

  “How is that possible?” I demanded.

  “Well... Well, these things happen.” Alison seemed to have trouble meeting my eyes. She said something quietly, and I said, “What?”

  Alison repeated more clearly, “She was very old and she had a number of health issues.”

  “What health issues? She was prancing around like a reindeer at the ceilidh last night.”

  “That’s probably what did it. Overexertion on top of a rich meal.”

  “It wasn’t so very rich a meal,” Ms. Eccles protested.

  Alison threw her an apologetic look. “A heavy meal then. The point is, I have her medical information and Rose suffered from ill health. In addition to being quite elderly. Obviously, the final determination as to cause of death will be made by the doctor.”

  “Coroner?” I suggested.

  “Yes. Or medical examiner. I’m
afraid I’m a little rattled.”

  I should hope so. I should hope deaths on the road weren’t so frequent she could take them in stride. The whole thing seemed like a bad joke, except it was clear from their expressions that they weren’t kidding around.

  Ms. Eccles chimed in with an inaudible comment of her own. Alison looked still more uncomfortable.

  I said—I guess it was shock because it was a silly question—“It’s just...unbelievable. Didn’t you have a death on the last tour?”

  She and Ms. Eccles exchanged looks so guilty, they could have been acting in a pantomime.

  Alison began, “How did you—?” But stopped herself. “Yes,” she said reluctantly. “We did. It happens occasionally. So many of Vanessa’s fans are, well, more mature in age. I guess it’s inevitable. Certainly, this is a completely natural death.”

  I had turned to stare uneasily at Rose’s door, but as her words sunk in, did a double take. “You mean last time wasn’t a natural death?”

  Ms. Eccles gulped. Alison looked horrified. “I—I didn’t say—I don’t know what you mean, Carter!” She looked around as though seeking rescue. But despite the quiet commotion of the past few minutes, no one else was making an appearance. Not so much as another guest room door had opened.

  It dawned on me that was because only me, John and Rose were staying in this section of the hotel.

  I’d thought it was awfully quiet in this section. Certainly, last night it had seemed strangely deserted.

  If my guess was right, why would only John, Rose, and I be shuffled off into the annex? And how coincidental was it that last night someone had broken into the room I shared with John—and this morning Rose was dead? Either this hallway was the crime capitol of Strathpeffer or...well, what?

  Alison interrupted my uneasy thoughts with a sudden display of firmness. “Anyway, I’m sorry that I can’t answer any more questions just now. There are so many things to deal with. I’m sure you can understand that.”

  She was drawing Ms. Eccles up the stairs with her, heading for Rose’s room.

  “Er, sure.” I retreated into my own boudoir, closing the door behind me.

  “What’s going on?” John asked from the bed. His hair was boyishly ruffled, his jaw dark and bristly.