Murder Takes the High Road

by Josh Lanyon

  I crossed the chilly floorboards and sat on the foot of our makeshift double. “Rose is dead,” I told him.

  He sat up. “Dead?”

  I nodded.

  He stared at me. “How? What happened?”

  “Alison seems to think she had health issues.”

  He thought it over and then shrugged. “She probably did. She’s pretty old. Was.” He peered more closely at me. “I didn’t realize you were so fond of the old lady.”

  “It’s not... I’m not...” I rubbed my jaw. I too needed a shower, a shave...coffee. I definitely needed coffee. I couldn’t seem to make sense of this. I gazed back at John, troubled. “What’s weird about this is she—Rose—was going around yesterday talking about how there had been a mysterious death on the tour previous to this one. And now she’s dead too.”

  John didn’t seem to have an answer for that.

  “Obviously it could be—probably is—a coincidence, but you have to admit that’s kind of weird.”

  “Yes. That’s weird.”

  We were silent, listening to the sounds of voices through the wall. Ms. Eccles and Alison seemed to be having a small argument. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone carried through the worm-eaten paneling.

  John said, “Coincidences do happen.”

  “Yes.”

  At my lack of enthusiasm, he prompted, “Truth is stranger than fiction?”

  “I guess.”

  He continued to study me. “You think someone decided to shut her up permanently?”

  Our eyes met.

  “That’s crazy.” I could hear the lack of conviction in my voice.

  John said cheerfully, “Crazy people commit murders too.”

  That was certainly true. Trevor was a fan of true crime shows and I had seen a slew of them during our time together. What I didn’t know about murderous neighbors, obsessed coworkers, treacherous best friends, psycho siblings and even more psycho spouses—past and present—would not fill the secret compartment in a poisoner’s ring.

  “There would still have to be a motive,” I pointed out.

  “Always.”

  “Consider the people on this tour. Does anyone seem crazy to you?”

  “You all seem crazy to me.”

  “Says the night stalker. I mean homicidal-crazy?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Who?”

  John ignored that. “But it might not be anyone on the tour. It might be someone at the hotel. You should find out where the death on the last tour took place. If it was this hotel, that’s a pretty big coincidence.”

  “I should?” I laughed. He didn’t laugh back. “Wait. Me?” I began to splutter. “You think I should investigate?”

  “You’re the one asking questions.”

  “They’re mostly rhetorical.”

  “Ah, but are they?” He raised one eyebrow.

  I thought it was kind of remarkable how easily he seemed to accept the idea of foul play. Maybe he was more of a mystery fan than he realized.

  The voices next door had fallen silent. Alison and Ms. Eccles moved out onto the landing. I heard the sound of the door being locked. Two pairs of footsteps vanished down the walkway.

  “We should probably ask for another room,” I muttered. “It feels macabre sitting here listening for sounds from Rose’s room.”

  John raised his shoulders indifferently. He continued to watch me as though waiting for something. What?

  I considered what he’d said. “Hell, we can answer this right now.” I grabbed my phone, ignoring a string of texts—featuring increasing numbers of exclamation points—from Trevor, and clicked on the internet. I typed Death at Ben Wyvis Manor House Hotel, Strathpeffer.

  No results.

  I typed Death in Strathpeffer, and got four innocuous reports of Ross and Cromarty passings, all of them perfectly natural and none of them appearing in any way connected to the hotel or Tours to Die For. In fact, not only had nobody died at the Ben Wyvis Manor House Hotel, not many people died in Strathpeffer at all during the past couple of years.

  “This really is a health resort,” I muttered. I typed mysterious death Tours to Die For.

  No results.

  “I’m surprised more people haven’t died in this death trap,” John commented. He sounded quite cheerful about it.

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “It actually is. Between the antique wiring and the vintage plumbing—and don’t get me started on the stairs.”

  I ignored him. No variation on my searches got any useful results, although a couple of stories did link Tours to Die For with Vanessa’s role in Donald Kresley’s murder.

  I tried Rumors re Tours to Die For.

  That search got ugly fast. A lot of people had opinions about Vanessa’s past, and were not shy about anonymously sharing them—obscenities and death threats included.

  “There’s nothing here,” I said. “Which, come to think of it, is interesting in itself because Alison already admitted there was a death on the last trip.”

  John didn’t answer. I realized he was listening to the muffled sounds of official activity next door.

  My stomach did an unhappy flop. This wasn’t academic. Poor Rose was dead. Natural causes or not, it was sad.

  “We should get dressed and get downstairs,” he said. “We may as well hear the official version.”

  I nodded and rose.

  We took turns in the tiny bathroom. John finished getting ready before I did and headed downstairs ahead of me. When I reached the dining room a few minutes later, I discovered that our group had been moved to the breakfast room, possibly out of respect for our grief.

  I walked in as Alison was announcing, “By now most of you have heard the sad news that Rose Lane passed away during the night.”

  It seemed she was wrong about that because a shocked ripple passed through the group. There were murmurs of dismay and distress.

  I slipped into an empty seat behind Ben and Yvonne.

  “Good God,” Yvonne muttered. “How bizarre.”

  “She had a number of health issues, but her passing appears to have been quite peaceful, quite painless,” Alison reassured us.

  “If you have to go, that’s the way,” Wally said. “She was sure having a great time last night.”

  “Yes! Exactly,” Alison said. “Rose was doing what she loved to do right up until the end. And I know that’s what she would wish for the rest of us. Fortunately, we were spending the day in Strathpeffer anyway, so none of you should be unduly impacted by this sad occurrence. However, as I’m going to be tied up making arrangements this morning, instead of having a free afternoon, all of today will be free for you to do whatever you choose.”

  “There should be some sort of refund, if that’s the case,” said Guess Who.

  “Mother,” Ben said quietly. It was the closest he’d yet come to criticizing her.

  “It’s true,” Yvonne insisted.

  A few people threw her disapproving looks, but she met them defiantly.

  Alison rattled on, unaware of Yvonne’s comments. “You’ll find there are lots of things to do and see in Strathpeffer. We mentioned the Pump Room yesterday, and that’s probably the best-known tourist attraction in the area, but most of you will be familiar with the Touchstone Maze from Vanessa’s work. And of course, Blackmuir Woods.”

  A little collective shiver went through the gathering as we recalled the grisly events of Blackmuir Woods.

  “There’s also the Highland Museum of Childhood which is housed in the former train station. Oh, and if you’re in a less criminal frame of mind, Celtic Spirits Limited offers both whiskey and gin tasting.”

  “What about the ghost walk?” Bertie piped up. “Are we still doing the ghost walk tonight?”

  “That would be creepy
.” Edie shuddered. “What if R—”

  She cut herself off, and the silence that followed had an awkward reverberation.

  Alison said briskly, “Again, I believe Rose would have wanted us to carry on with our regularly scheduled program. But naturally all activities are optional, so if anyone feels uncomfortable or would prefer not to take part in any given event, please feel free to opt out.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Wilma Scherf said, “we were thinking of renting a car this morning and doing some sightseeing on our own.”

  “That’s perfectly fine,” Alison said. “We realize this is a shock and a disappointment to everyone. Vanessa and all of us at Tours to Die For want you to do whatever will make you most comfortable today. If you prefer to stay in and rest, that’s fine too. The dinner meal will be at the regular time, and to that end, here’s tonight’s menu. If you could all make your selections and hand them in...”

  * * *

  “A ghost walk seems rather tasteless to me,” Yvonne said after Alison departed on the morning’s solemn business, leaving the rest of us to our eggs, back bacon, grilled tomatoes and haddock. “But I suppose if that’s how people want to spend their evening.” She shrugged.

  Ben said to me, “Have you figured out what you’re doing today?”

  “I’m open to suggestion.”

  “I’m sticking with Carter,” Sally put in, leaning her chair back to join in our conversation. “He’s the one with the guidebook.”

  “Popular guy.” That observation came from John, seated across the table from me.

  “You’re more than welcome to share in my secret knowledge of clean restrooms and affordable meals.”

  His grin was noncommittal.

  I was surprised to realize how much I hoped he would decide to spend the day together. He was a pretty entertaining roommate, no question, but what was he like the rest of the time? He seemed easygoing but a little distant when we were with the rest of the tour group.

  But then, regardless of what he’d said the previous evening, he was not here to enjoy himself. That much was—

  A sudden very unpleasant thought occurred to me.

  If Rose’s death during the night had not been an accident, I knew someone who had been up and about the hotel during the wee hours. I looked across at John. He was eating oatmeal and listening politely to Edie Poe (by now I had figured out that Edie usually wore glasses and Bertie liked to pin her hair back with barrettes) describing the unfortunate consequences of traveling and unfamiliar foods on her digestive system.

  No.

  No, I did not for one moment believe John had anything to do with Rose’s death—assuming there was anything unnatural about Rose’s passing. For one thing, his surprise that morning had been too genuine. For another... Well, I just didn’t buy it, that’s all.

  I watched him grin mischievously and murmur something to Bertie that made her giggle.

  He was up to something though. Of that, I had zero doubt.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Did you and John argue over who got the last clean towel?” Edie asked, as a bunch of us wandered back upstairs following the slightly grim breakfast.

  At my look of puzzlement, she pointed at my face. “There’s a big bruise on your chin.”

  “Oh?” I wiggled my jaw and pressed cautiously. Now that she mentioned it, my face was pretty tender. The light was so lousy in our bathroom, I hadn’t realized I had a visible bruise.

  I said, “I resent the fact you think I’d have lost the fight for the last clean towel.”

  She seemed to find that funny, calling back to her sister and reporting my witticism. Bertie chortled and said, “Here, I thought Vance must have punched you.”

  That was less funny.

  I glanced around, but there was no sign of Trevor or Vance. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen them at breakfast or during Alison’s announcement. I remembered that I’d cut Trevor off in the midst of our text exchange, but it was impossible to imagine him being so crushed that he couldn’t face breakfast.

  “What are you doing today?” Edie asked. “Hamish is driving a bunch of us into town after lunch.”

  “I think I’m grabbing the hotel shuttle and going in early.”

  “Are you going on the ghost walk tonight?”

  “I haven’t decided.” I love ghost walks, but I wanted to see what else might be on offer that evening.

  I left the Poe sisters chatting with the Bittywiddys and continued up to my room. John was already there, busily putting the furniture back into place. He seemed nonplussed when I walked in.

  “Oh, hey.”

  “Hey,” I said. “I was just coming up to do the same thing.”

  “No worries. It’s handled.”

  I studied him. Was it my imagination or did he all at once seem uncharacteristically ill at ease? I glanced around automatically. Not that I suspected John of going through my things, but something had changed in his manner.

  My gaze fell on a manila folder lying half-concealed beneath his jacket on the bed. I glanced at him. He was watching me alertly.

  “What have you got planned for today?” I asked.

  “I’m renting a car and driving into Inverness.”

  That sounded promising, but he was no longer looking my way—in fact, I had the distinct feeling he was avoiding meeting my eyes. In case I invited myself along? Ouch. Had he really rushed up to our room to grab his things and be on his way before I came back? If so, he could relax. I was the one who had turned him down the night before.

  Still, it hurt.

  “That should be fun.” I found my wallet, grabbed my jacket. “See you later,” I said, and stepped onto the landing.

  I couldn’t help noticing that Rose’s door was firmly shut, and no one seemed to be around. Which maybe was to be expected. How much official activity could surround one old lady dying a natural death in a hotel? Pretty much just a matter of scooping her up and changing the sheets, right?

  I mean, as heartless as that might sound, it wasn’t as though there was going to be a big inquiry into Rose’s demise. As for the details of how she would be returned to the States and her kith and kin, well, none of my business. To be honest, I didn’t want to think a lot about it.

  Case closed. Not that there had ever been a case to begin with.

  * * *

  I couldn’t help scoping the outerwear of every man I passed on my way out of the hotel.

  There were plenty of waxed green jackets in sight—despite the pallid sunshine, the slate skies had a heavy, sodden look—but none belonged to members of our tour group.

  That didn’t necessarily prove anything. I’d noticed in the hotel bar/lounge area a long wooden railing with hooks where the locals hung their jackets and coats before settling down to a serious night’s drinking. It wouldn’t be hard to “borrow” a jacket for a few minutes’ work.

  The hotel provided shuttle service into the village proper, although it was easily within walking distance. Ben had mentioned he and Yvonne and a few others were taking the shuttle, so I decided to join them. I found the red shuttle parked in front of the hotel entrance, exhaust puffing into the cold air.

  Ben and Yvonne were already installed in the rearmost seat. The Matsukados and Kramers were in the process of boarding. As I waited my turn, I glanced back at the hotel entrance and saw the Rices and Scherfs pile into an idling rental car. The women wore headscarves and, despite the overcast day, dark glasses. The men wore raincoats and rain hats. They all carried shopping bags.

  The silver sedan was just pulling away as John appeared and climbed into a second vehicle. While I wouldn’t say it was a Follow that car! moment, it did seem to me that he was a man on a mission.

  “He’s an odd duck,” Yvonne commented, as I slid into the empty seat at the front. “I wonder what he’s up to?”


  I glanced back and realized she was watching John’s blue mini disappear down the tree-lined drive. She turned her gaze on me.

  “No idea,” I said. “What makes you think he’s up to anything?”

  “Instinct.”

  I glanced at Ben. He seemed to consider her comment.

  “What does he do again?” Nedda Kramer asked.

  “He sells life insurance,” Wally said grimly. “You don’t want to get that guy talking about his work.”

  Sally came out of the hotel with the shuttle driver and climbed in beside me. As soon as we were underway, she said quietly, “I asked Alison about Rose’s journal. She said there was no journal among Rose’s effects.”

  Rose’s effects sounded pretty somber, and for a moment I said nothing. I’d seen Rose writing in that journal—we all had—but its absence didn’t automatically mean something sinister was at work.

  I said, “Maybe Rose left the journal on the bus or at one of our stops yesterday.”

  “No. She had it when we arrived. I remember distinctly. She was writing in it as we were coming up the hotel drive yesterday evening. I recall because I was thinking it was getting dark and her eyesight must be pretty good for her age.”

  “Okay. Even so. The journal could still have been mislaid. Or maybe Alison just didn’t notice it among Rose’s other, um, effects.”

  Sally threw me a look of impatience. “You don’t buy that story about Rose passing away in her sleep, do you?”

  No surprise to learn I wasn’t the only one who had considered the possibility of foul play, but hearing it put so bluntly took me aback. “Well...it is possible.” In fact, it was the most likely scenario.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She kept her voice down, but sometimes a hiss is as good as a shout. At least it was in Sally’s case. I could feel everyone in the seats behind us tuning in for this special broadcast.

  “What’s going on?” Yvonne called.

  “Nothing,” I said quickly. Which is what the guilty always say.

  “Let me ask you something.” Sally turned in the seat to face the three rows of astonished faces. “Don’t you think there’s something suspicious about Rose suddenly dying during the night?”