by Josh Lanyon
Laurel gasped. Jim muttered, “What the hell?” The Kramers exchanged glances. Yvonne, looking genuinely shocked, was the only one who put it into words. “No. Of course I don’t! She was elderly. She was frail.”
“She wasn’t that frail,” I felt obliged to point out. “She left me in the dust last night.”
“I hope I’m in half as good a shape at her age,” Sally agreed.
“What are the two of you suggesting?” Yvonne asked.
What were we suggesting? And was it going to get us sued for slander?
I said, “I’m not suggesting anything. But I’m also not denying there’ve been some weird coincidences.”
“This,” Sally said.
“On the other hand, it’s really hard to believe that Rose managed to discover something incriminating about this supposed mysterious death on the last tour—I can’t even find corroboration such a death occurred—or that her curiosity would have threatened someone so much they felt the need to knock her off.”
“This discussion is not only ridiculous, it’s in very poor taste,” Yvonne said.
Ben said regretfully, “I think I have to agree.”
I was more offended by the idea that I was behaving in poor taste than that my theorizing was ridiculous. To add insult to injury, I knew they were probably right.
Sally turned around in her seat with a kind of flounce. I shrugged and followed suit, minus the flounce.
“And they call themselves mystery fans!” she muttered.
“I know.” After a moment of bleak reflection, I sighed. “The thing is, they’re probably right. John said the same thing this morning. Life is full of coincidence. He ought to know. He works in insurance.”
Her brows arched in polite disbelief. “Coincidence? I see. Like you winding up on a bus tour with your ex?”
“That’s not a coincidence.”
“No. Of course it isn’t. And I’m guessing neither is this.” She gave me a sideways look. “What if Rose hid her journal?”
I can’t deny that my heart skipped a beat. “Hid it where? In the hotel?”
“Yes. In her room. What if it’s still there?”
Reality asserted itself. “That seems pretty unlikely. Her belongings will have been packed up and the room cleaned.”
“But if she hid it...”
“Hid it where? It’s a hotel room. It’s not like there are a lot of places she could hide something the size of a journal that it wouldn’t be discovered.”
Sally argued with surprising energy. “No. Think about it. It’s an old building. There are a lot of places something like that could be hidden. All these rooms have armoires, and if Rose’s is anything like mine, it hasn’t had a proper dusting in years. She could have put the journal on top of the armoire and pushed it way to the back. No one would be able to see it from below.”
I had to give her that one. “But why would she hide her journal? At most it would be full of speculation and guessing, which would be rude but not proof.”
“You don’t know that.”
“And what would finding it prove anyway?”
She gave me a look of exasperation. “Carter! How will we know until we find it?”
Until we find it? I gave a disbelieving laugh and shook my head. Sally opened her mouth to argue, but we had reached our destination.
The Pump Room at Strathpeffer turned out to be a quaint brown stone Victorian building surrounded by ancient trees. Nearby was a green and white bandstand and the much larger pavilion. Our driver hopped out to slide open the side panel of the van, telling us he’d return at one o’clock for anyone who wanted a lift back to the hotel.
Sally nimbly leapt out, waiting for me to unfold and climb out after her.
“You could look for Rose’s journal, Carter.” Sally spoke under her breath as we watched the others clamber out of the van.
I gave her a look of horror. “I could what?”
“Your room is right next to Rose’s. They’re not going to rent it out right away, I guarantee you. They’ll wait till all the current guests are gone, so that nobody accidentally spills the beans to the room’s next tenants. It’s a quiet part of the hotel. The rest of us are in the other wing. You could slip in there this evening and have a look around. If you don’t find anything...” She shrugged.
“Even if I was crazy enough to consider the idea, not finding the journal means nothing. You can’t prove a negative.”
She shrugged. “Maybe yes. Maybe no. But finding the journal could change everything. Rose believed she knew something. Believed she had figured out part of the puzzle. Maybe she paid the price for that knowledge.”
I stared at her in disbelief. I mean, I love mysteries too, but come on. “Listen, if you really believe that, you search Rose’s room.”
“It’s not practical for me to try. My room isn’t anywhere near hers. Plus, we spent a lot of time together. Someone might be watching me.”
Someone might be watching me?
“It’s not practical for me to try either.”
Sally’s face fell. “I was sure you’d have more spirit of adventure.”
“That hurts. I was sure you’d have more commonsense.” I turned to follow my fellow tourists into the Pump Room.
I don’t want to take anything away from the Pump Room because it was actually a nice little museum, complete with Madame Tussaud–style dummies in Victorian costume (or out of Victorian costume, depending on which stage of “taking the waters” they were enacting). There were all kinds of vintage photos depicting Strathpeffer’s glory days—and they were glory days, no question—as well as a short, informative video. While we were unable to sample the therapeutic waters, there was a cute little sweet shop with a wide variety of old-fashioned sweeties.
It was interesting and amusing. The problem was, I couldn’t stop thinking about everything Sally had said. I wanted to dismiss it as nonsense. I was pretty sure it was nonsense. That’s the thing about murder—all violence, really—it feels unbelievable, unimaginable. Until it happens.
And it did happen. Even if the FBI’s latest figures were correct and homicides in the US were at their lowest rate in over fifty years—a forty-nine percent decline—it didn’t change the fact that thousands of people managed to get themselves bumped off every year. Murdered by family, friends, coworkers...and maybe occasionally fellow tourists.
So, while I wanted to believe Sally was being over-imaginative, there was always the possibility her suspicions were correct.
The other problem was—and this is embarrassing to admit even to myself—her suggestion that I search for Rose’s journal triggered a lot of my not-so-latent amateur sleuthing instincts. Long before I’d started reading Vanessa, I’d read the Hardy Boys and the Three Investigators.
But I’d already come up empty when I surfed the web for any information regarding earlier deaths connected with Tours to Die For. Not a single death, suspicious or otherwise, had popped up on my search. If there had been no original homicide, what could Rose have uncovered that got her killed?
Chapter Twelve
After the Pump Room, there was some debate in our group about whether to visit the next-door pavilion where Vanessa had staged the first murder in Natural Remedy, or to move on to the Highland Museum of Childhood where she had knocked off imaginary curator Sybil Wallace in The Cure for Wellness.
I decided on the museum and walked the third of a mile on my own, enjoying the brisk weather and very pretty village. What would it be like to live somewhere so picturesque? Would you get so used to all the tubs of flowers and old-fashioned lamps you started to take it all for granted? Strathpeffer reminded me of Midsomer Murders and countless other fondly remembered British mystery series, though clearly they didn’t have the homicide rate.
It felt good to stretch my legs after yesterday’s long bus ride
. I considered renting a bike for the afternoon. I was in no hurry to get back to the hotel, that was for sure.
I love museums. Dime museums and national galleries, I enjoy them all, and the Highland Museum of Childhood was no exception. In addition to a fascinating exhibition about growing up in the Hebrides in the 1950s, there was a collection of some three hundred fairly creepy dolls, and a collection of vintage toys, board games and doll houses.
But as had happened in the Pump Room, my pleasure was interrupted by thoughts about Rose and her sudden demise. I started thinking about all those different sets of footsteps I’d heard that morning, and what they possibly meant.
First had been the sound of Rose’s door opening and footsteps leaving. That had been right after my alarm went at six. A few minutes later there had been more footsteps—I’d assumed it was Rose returning to her room, but not only could none of those footsteps have been Rose’s, they might not even have been the same person.
Whoever that second pair of footsteps belonged to, that person had unlocked Rose’s door. I had heard her—or him—moving around inside the room, and I had heard what sounded like a dropped suitcase. That had been followed by that odd silence. Even in the midst of arguing with Trevor, I had noticed that sudden hush. As though someone was listening, waiting for something—to be discovered?
But by then wouldn’t the person in Rose’s room have been Alison? Or Ms. Eccles?
Hmm. Unknown.
How had Alison known so early in the morning that Rose was deceased?
Now I was being overly suspicious. Rose must have been taken ill during the night and summoned help. Or maybe gone for help on her own.
It was strange that I hadn’t heard anything—I wasn’t exaggerating when I told John I was a light sleeper. I really was. If there had been a lot of activity centered around Rose’s room, I would certainly have heard it. But maybe if Rose had quietly stolen out and gone for help...
That didn’t exactly jibe with Alison’s story of Rose dying in her sleep. But maybe I was nitpicking an abbreviated version of events.
This morning a suitcase—or something heavy—had fallen. Then what? That peculiar listening silence—which I was probably exaggerating in my memory—and then that surreptitious easing open of the door.
Surreptitious. Once again, I was shading my recollections with suspicion that had not existed at the time.
Except I had been suspicious. The circumstances were, well, suspicious.
I had jumped out of bed and gone out onto the landing to find that Rose’s door had been left open. A few seconds later Alison and Ms. Eccles had walked through the interior French doors.
Which would seem to indicate Alison had not been the one searching Rose’s room. She couldn’t have been. Not Alison, not Ms. Eccles. So, no one in an official capacity.
I stopped in front of a large Victorian dollhouse and considered the open-faced rooms, decorated like tiny stage sets.
What the hell did it all mean?
I felt like I was missing something. What? There was probably a very simple, non-sinister explanation, and yet one did not occur to me.
Eventually I left the museum and walked up the hill toward Blackmuir Woods and the Touchstone Maze. It was a good walk. The woods were just about a mile away, and it was beautiful weather, despite the mushy ground, wet grass and dripping leaves. I strolled past an old barn and crossed through a field. I’d have enjoyed the walk more with company, and I couldn’t help wondering how John was liking his solitary exploration of Inverness.
Assuming that was what he was doing. Since it seemed to be my day for rampant speculation, I wondered if it was just my imagination or was John unnaturally interested in the schoolteacher quartet of the Rices and Scherfs? It had sort of looked like he was in pursuit this morning. Now that I thought about it, he seemed to gravitate toward the four of them. Maybe he thought they were the most likely candidates for new life insurance policies. Given public schools these days, maybe he was right.
Or maybe he just really, really liked them.
I hadn’t paid much attention to the Scherfs or Rices. In fact, of all the members of our group, I felt like I knew them the least. For one thing, unsurprising in longtime friends and coworkers, they were already a tight little unit. Cordial to the rest of us but not chummy. They participated in group activities, but they were always on the outskirts, easily slipping in and out without drawing much attention to themselves. I couldn’t remember having a conversation with a single one of them since the first night we’d dined at Chaophraya.
Granted, that had been only two nights earlier. It felt like we’d been on tour for weeks, but it was actually only the second day. Eight days still to go. If things were already getting odd, what would happen once we started touring all the distilleries scheduled for the second half of the trip?
By that point in my speculations I had reached the woods. Amidst the somber blue-black pines, beech and birch trees were turning fanciful shades of red and gold. Tall spires of purple flowers rose from the deep yellowing grasses. Bees hummed lazily. Though it was only October, the surrounding mountains were already white-capped. You could taste the distant snow on the breeze.
Vanessa had used this setting for a particularly disturbing series of child murders in The Cure for Wellness. I wondered how the town fathers felt about that. Granted, she had changed the name of the village in that particular book, but anyone familiar with the area would recognize the locale.
I wandered around the well-marked trails before making my way toward the stone maze. I passed the occasional parent and child or someone walking a dog, but mostly I was on my own. I didn’t mind.
There were too many stumps where trees had been cut down, and there were fallen trees as well, but the woods grew thicker as I neared the maze, which was ringed by copper beech trees. Thanks to the recent downpour, the path was muddy and the trees glistened and dripped watery diamonds.
The maze itself was really just a collection of eighty-one large and quite beautiful rocks arranged in concentric circles based on designs from Pictish times. And as with ancient Celtic labyrinths, the position of the rocks incorporated seasonal positions of the sun and moon.
I followed the trail as it wound around, noting how unique each stone was. There was marble, sandstone, quartzite, flagstone, granite and many others from all different quarries in Scotland.
I drew in a long breath and let it quietly out. It was very silent. I felt like I had the entire forest to myself. Yet it was not exactly tranquil. There was an energy in the air, a certain buzzy-ness as though invisible electrical wires hummed overhead. The maze felt ancient and mystical, despite the fact that it was actually a modern construction, but then, according to the signage, some of the rocks were three thousand million years old.
Walking through the trees and flickering sunlight was soothing. I stopped to rest my hand against a tall, sun-warmed stone. It felt almost alive. I would not have been surprised to feel the quiet beat of a heart beneath my fingertips.
Three thousand million years ago sort of put everything in perspective. Even after a morning of suspicion and speculation, it was hard not to feel like my own concerns were pretty trivial in the greater scheme of things, and I felt at peace standing there. Whatever problems I had would sort themselves out in time. They were not such serious problems anyway. I was alive. I had a job I loved and eventually I would find someone to share my life with. Probably when I least expected it. That was how it had worked with Trevor.
Then again, given the way that had turned out, maybe I needed to be more proactive, less lackadaisical about my social life.
I was considering this exhausting possibility when Ben suddenly strode out of the trees and into view. He seemed to be walking with purpose. His solemn face brightened at the sight of me, and he raised a hand in greeting.
I raised mine in return, relieved to see he wa
s on his own.
“Here you are,” he said, reaching me. “I was wondering if you’d walked back to the hotel.”
It was almost a mile from the pavilion, which was the last time I’d seen him. He couldn’t have just stumbled on me here. He had to have come looking. That was flattering—and a little balm to my ego, given that John hadn’t been able to get away from me fast enough that morning.
“What time is it?” I glanced at my phone. Noon. “No. I was thinking about grabbing some lunch at one of the cafés.”
“Do you mind if I join you?”
“Not at all. Is your—is Yvonne planning to join us?”
“No. Mother’s with the Bittywiddys.” Something chilly flickered in his eyes. I surmised he didn’t like the Bittywiddys and didn’t like the friendship that had sprung up between his mother and Daya, but I couldn’t see any reason for it. To be honest, Yvonne and Daya seemed very much cut from the same discontented cloth. Not only were they the most openly critical of Vanessa’s work, they seemed to find fault—though rarely the same faults—with all the tour’s plans and preparations.
Some people are not cut out for travel. Until this tour, I would have considered myself one of them, but I was finding that I actually liked the challenges—the adventure—of travel. I liked it so much that I was thinking on my next trip to Scotland, I’d rent a car and travel on my own. The most surprising part of that was my certainty that I’d return to Scotland. Twenty-four hours earlier, I’d been thinking the opposite.
“Oh, right,” I said. And then, for some reason, I added, “I think it’s great you and your mom are so close.” Which I did, but I also thought what on earth possessed you to take a trip to Scotland with your mother?
Ben made a noncommittal sound. “My father died last year. She’s had a rough time.”
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded absently.
“So, is she the fan or are you?”
“The fan?”