by Josh Lanyon
“True.” I wanted to report my findings—or lack of findings—to Sally, but there was no rush. I ordered my breakfast and sipped my coffee.
There was a lot of coming and going in the dining room, as we were leaving Strathpeffer that morning. The day’s planned itinerary was to drive east by Dingwall toward the northbound A9 and on through the counties of Sutherland and Caithness to the ferry terminal at Gills Bay, where we would catch the afternoon boat to the island of Samhradh Beag.
I was looking forward to the long drive as this was the part of the trip that would take us through Sutherland, the ancestral lands of Clan Matheson.
I lingered over breakfast, keeping an eye out for Sally while I had another cup of coffee and ate my kedgeree. Kedgeree, an Anglo-Indian dish from Victorian times, seemed to consist of salmon mixed with rice, hard-boiled eggs, butter and curry spices. Not your typical American breakfast, but surprisingly tasty. I even had a second helping, but still Sally did not appear.
Trevor and Vance came and went without so much as a glance in my direction. Ben and Yvonne wandered in. Returning Ben’s smile, I felt an unexpected flash of guilt. When he’d asked whether there was something between me and John, I’d been able to answer no honestly. And there wasn’t necessarily anything between me and John now, but I knew that Ben would classify sleeping with John as something between us.
I sure did.
“Where did you disappear to so suddenly last night?” Yvonne asked me. “Afraid of ghosts?” She cackled loudly, the first time I’d heard her laugh.
I said vaguely, “I had a headache. I thought I’d go to bed early.”
Ben looked sympathetic. Yvonne had already lost interest. The Bittywiddys arrived, parking themselves beside the mother and son.
“They’re out of kippers, if you can believe it,” Yvonne informed Daya.
Daya sniffed her disapproval. She had a small, very pointy nose and the permanent bloom of rosacea in her cheeks. Her hair was thin and a gold-red tone. So was Roddy’s, come to think of it, so maybe they shared the same hairdresser. Or bottle.
There was much settling of the Bittywiddys’ personal belongings: Fair Isle sweaters and hats and knitting—complete with deadly-looking needles—and purses and sundry bags. How much stuff did they need just to go to breakfast?
“I missed you last night. Are you feeling better?” Ben asked quietly.
“I am, yeah.” I smiled apologetically, remembering that at lunch he had mentioned not caring for ghost walks. Had he joined the tour on my account? I hoped not. “Thanks for asking.”
“You look healthy enough. You look great.” His smile was lopsided.
I smiled too, uneasily noting John standing in the entrance to the dining room. He scanned the room, spotted me, nodded, and then went to sit at a table a couple of rows over. I relaxed. But I was a little disappointed.
“What did you think of the ghost walk?” I asked Ben.
He shrugged. “It was all right. Not really my thing.”
What was his thing? I wondered. His bio had said his hobbies were reading, watching sporting events and traveling. He had been to Australia, Bermuda, Bahamas, Belize, Mexico, Alaska, France, England, Ireland and the Caribbean Islands. Quite the world traveler.
Otherwise, the bio hadn’t really offered a lot of information. I knew he was gay, a good son and hoping to make some changes in his life in the near future.
Which, come to think of it, was more than I knew about John. Was it illogical that I felt like I knew John better? And not just because we’d had sex—though that certainly added a layer of intimacy.
“What do you like to do when you’re not traveling?” I asked.
Ben shrugged. “Work in the yard. Follow sports. And I collect miniature single malt bottles.”
“Miniature single malt bottles. That’s a new one. Do you collect the plastic ones too or only glass bottles?”
He smiled faintly. “Glass bottles only. What do you like to do?”
“Read. Garden. Bike. I like to take classes on different things. I’ve taken cooking classes, archeology classes, pottery classes, piano lessons, guitar lessons, dance classes. When I get home, I’m taking a scuba diving course.”
“You like to dabble.” He said it tolerantly.
“I guess I do. Yes. I’m interested in a lot of different things, and the best way to learn about something is to try it out yourself. I think it’s one reason I love my job. Every day you learn something new. I’m not exaggerating.”
“No, I can see that. You do love your job.”
“Yes. Do you like what you do?”
“It pays well,” he replied neutrally. “What about writing classes? Take many of those?”
“No. I love to read too much to ever become a writer.”
“That’s a funny way to look at it.”
“Is it? Maybe it is. I think once you start writing, you can never go back to reading strictly for pleasure. The way we all start out.”
“What about amateur theater?”
I shook my head. “No. God no. I get stage fright. Acting was Trevor’s deal. As a matter of fact, he met Vance at our local theater guild. They were doing a production of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Trevor played Jekyll and Vance played Hyde.”
“Yes, we’ve heard.” Ben’s lip curled in scorn. “In Surround Sound. It’s like they’re acting out their relationship for the rest of us. Every time I look at them I feel like I’m watching a performance.”
That gave me less pleasure than I’d have expected.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Ben said, “but I think those two deserve each other.”
Once that would have hurt. Now... I didn’t feel much of anything. I was even starting to think maybe Vance and Trevor did deserve each other.
“Ben,” Yvonne said loudly. “Are you listening?”
Ben gave a little start and turned away. “Sorry, Mother. What did you say?”
It’s not fair, but any time I hear a guy address his mom as “Mother,” I always think of serial killers.
I glanced across at John, who was morosely sipping coffee, holding the cup in both hands like someone with a hangover. Or someone who hadn’t slept much. His lashes rose, he caught my eye and winked.
Ridiculously, I wasn’t sure how to respond. I’ve never been a winker. I offered a weak grin, but he was already back to communing over his morning brew.
* * *
I boarded the bus with Yvonne and Ben, but tactfully detached myself from their company and took a seat on my own midway up the aisle. Most of the rows were already filled. A couple of minutes later Wilma Scherf sprang on board, rolled-up newspaper in hand, and made her way to the back. Her three traveling companions all reached for the paper. I’d never seen people so desperate for their morning dose of death and drama.
Hamish followed shortly after, feeling his way across the dashboard and settling behind the wheel with a sigh you could hear in the last row.
John and Alison were the last. They climbed aboard together. John made his way to the seat across the aisle from mine. He nodded hello. I nodded back. He dropped his head back with every appearance of going straight to sleep.
There was still no sign of Sally. I began to feel uneasy.
Alison did a head count and took the mic, seeming slightly out of breath.
“Good morning everyone! How did you all sleep after the ghost walk? Anything to report?”
“Terrifying snores, as though from another dimension,” Nedda called, which got laughs.
“My room too,” Edie said, which got more laughs—and an elbow in the ribs from her red-faced sister.
“Ha-ha. That’s wonderful,” Alison said. “Before we get rolling, I have a bit of sad news. Well, not sad,” she corrected hastily. “Sort of sad, but not Rose Lane sad. We’ve lost another o
f our merry band.”
I automatically turned to John. He was sitting upright, wide-awake now. His startled gaze met mine.
There were questions and expressions of sympathy and dismay. Alison fielded them with her usual heartless good cheer.
“I know. I know. So unexpected. When we wound up the ghost walk last night, there was a message at the front desk for Sally from her family. I didn’t get the full story, but she told me they urgently needed her back home. She left for the airport early this morning.”
“She’s gone?” I said into a sudden ill-timed silence.
Alison smiled into my eyes. “Yes, Carter. Sally is gone.”
I’m sure there were other comments and questions, but I didn’t hear them. Or rather, they seemed to be taking place in another universe.
It was possible Alison’s story was true. People did have vacations cut short by family emergencies. Coincidences did happen—that had been my mantra for how many miles?—but this felt like one coincidence too many. And the look in Alison’s eyes when she had replied to me was...strange. As though she had been delivering a challenge.
But what was another possibility? That Alison had done away with Sally? Preposterous.
Round and round my thoughts went as the bus rumbled into life. The Hackle pipe band burst into excited wauls. My fellow passengers clapped in approval—except the Scherfs and Rices, who were still poring over the morning newspaper. Having glanced through the paper myself that morning, I wondered what in the usual stories of political sex scandals, sports defeats and foiled museum robberies so riveted them.
We lumbered down the stately tree-lined drive back to the main road.
As Strathpeffer fell behind us like the sleeping village in a fairytale, John scooted over to my seat.
“There’s got to be a simple explanation.” He kept his voice low while Alison continued to work the mic.
“I’d love to hear it.”
“The most obvious scenario is she really did get called home. We can verify it easily enough. We’ve got her home phone number.”
“We do?”
“It’s in the tour bios. Everyone’s is.”
“You’re right!” I added, God knows why, “Except yours.”
He gave me a sideways look. “Do you want my number? I’ll give you my number.”
I glanced away from John to find Alison watching us. It gave me a little jolt. I was not imagining it. But what was it?
Alison said, “Unfortunately, we won’t be able to make our planned stop at Castle Leod this morning, but let me tell you a little bit about it. Castle Leod is the oldest intact castle in all of Britain. It’s the seat of Clan Mackenzie and home to the Earl of Cromartie and his family, who’ve lived in the castle for over five hundred years. The castle was built on the ruins of a twelfth century Pictish fort.”
“Was that or was it not a sinister look?” I whispered to John.
“I can’t tell. She always looks that way to me. If she had fangs, she’d have bared them at you. That I can confirm.”
“The castle is a category A listed building,” Alison reported, continuing to eye us menacingly. “Fun fact: Castle Leod served as inspiration behind Castle Leoch, the seat and home of the laird of Clan Mackenzie, in the TV series Outlander.”
“TV series?” Bertie exclaimed. “Doesn’t she know the movies are based on the books?”
Edie murmured in indignant agreement.
“Alison, are we stopping at Castle Leod?” Yvonne interrupted.
“I’m afraid we’re not stopping this trip,” Alison reiterated regretfully.
“Then why are we talking about a place we’re not going to?” Daya spoke in the same irritable tone as Yvonne.
Alison hung onto her patience. “Because it’s listed in the day’s itinerary, so I thought you’d all like to know a little bit about it.”
Daya said to Yvonne, “I don’t really see the point. Do you?”
“No,” Yvonne said.
“Well, I find it interesting,” Nedda broke in. “Let the poor girl talk.”
“Why did she give me the sinister smile?” I protested to John under cover of the mini uprising started by Yvonne and Daya. “Why am I getting the evil eye?”
“You were Sally’s partner in amateur sleuthing.”
“No, I wasn’t. I was mostly just her sounding board.”
John started to object—I assume—but Trevor slunk down the aisle and dropped into the seat in front of us. “And then there were eighteen.” He said it with ghoulish satisfaction.
Ghoulish or not, I was relieved at further confirmation. I forgot about our heated exchange the evening before.
“Right?” I spared a glance for Alison and was relieved to see her beady-eyed attention was now completely focused on Yvonne and Daya.
Trevor nodded—sparing a brief glare for John, who sighed with pointed weariness, shook his head, and returned to his own seat.
I was sorry to see him go, but I had bigger problems. I said to Trevor, “I had my doubts, but I don’t see how this can be written off as coincidence. Something’s not right here.”
“First Rose. Then Sally,” Trevor agreed. “It defies the law of averages.”
“But on the other hand, it doesn’t make sense that someone is knocking off members of the tour. I mean...why? Because Rose learned something about the woman who died on the previous tour? How? How would sh—”
“Wait. What? Who died on the last tour?”
“A woman drowned. Daya knows all about it. Which just goes to show it makes no sense to get rid of Sally. Sally didn’t know anything. Why not get rid of Daya?”
Trevor shook his head. I looked at John. John shook his head. In his case it was discouragingly.
“But we can’t just ignore this, because if I’m right, you’re next,” Trevor whispered.
“I’m...huh?” I stared at him in alarm.
“Now wait a minute.” John returned from across the aisle, looking the most serious I’d seen. His knee poked familiarly into mine. His shoulder brushed my shoulder with reassuring solidity. I remembered that just a few hours earlier we’d been comfortably snuggled in bed, and was momentarily distracted from my worries.
Trevor scowled. “You wait a minute,” he said.
“You’re letting your imaginations—or maybe it’s your love of mysteries—run away with you.”
Trevor answered before I could. “Wrong. Again. Think about it. Rose went around blabbing about the murder on the last tour and then she was gone. Sally went around blabbing about what happened to Rose. Now she’s gone. Carter went around blabbing to Sally...”
“But I didn’t go around blabbing,” I said.
“Of course you did.”
“I went around listening with polite skepticism. We were all listening with polite skepticism.”
“What are you guys whispering about?” Edie asked, leaning over the back of the seat.
I began, “Do you find it strange that—”
Trevor loudly cut across, “We were trying to figure out where we’re stopping for lunch.”
Edie rolled her eyes. “Lunch is at John o’Groats. Didn’t you look at your itinerary?” She sank back in her seat.
John said firmly, “Stop. Both of you.” He met my eyes. “Nothing is going to happen to you, Carter.”
“I’m glad you’re so sure.” Trevor sounded peeved.
John ignored him. “We’re going to call Sally’s family and make sure they did summon her home. If they didn’t, we’re going straight to the police. Okay?”
I nodded, relieved. John was right. Before we—I—got any more worked up, we needed to know if there were even grounds for concern.
Meanwhile Alison was still sawing away. “The castle grounds are listed in the Inventory of Gardens and Designed Landscapes of Scotland, t
he national listing of significant gardens...”
I glanced to her right and read Vance’s expression as he gazed back at the trio of me, John and Trevor.
Uh-oh.
“Vance is paging you,” I told Trevor.
Trevor threw Vance a slightly harassed look.
“Later,” he told me, and returned down the aisle to Vance, who proceeded to whisper at him.
“So. All is forgiven,” John said sourly.
“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”
His lip curled.
My eyes widened. “That wasn’t—that was just—he recognizes the pattern. We’re crime buffs. We’re all crime buffs on this tour.”
“Sure, but Trevor’s the only one back here ready to play Scooby-Doo with you.”
I was startled, and yes, to be honest, a little flattered by John’s reaction. It also made me realize something.
“He doesn’t want me dead, that’s all. Any more than I want him dead.”
That was the truth. As angry and hurt as I was—or at least had been—by Trevor’s behavior, I didn’t even particularly wish him ill.
It was a relief to acknowledge it, a relief to know that I had finally moved past the bitterness and rancor. Not so far that I actually forgave him, but I had moved past it. Getting back at Trevor was no longer important to me.
John looked unimpressed. “Just like I said. If you want him back, you can have him.”
“No.”
His brown-gold eyes gazed into mine. “No, you don’t want him?”
“No, I don’t believe that. And of course I don’t want him back.”
He said mockingly, “Of course not.”
“How many ways do I have to say it?”
“I see. You came on this tour because you didn’t want him back.”
“That’s right.”
He grinned.
“You can think what you like, but no. That chapter is closed. In fact, the title was lost on an interlibrary loan.” I can’t deny I was pleased though. Not because John thought I could get Trevor back. Because the idea of me getting Trevor back definitely seemed to bother him, grin or no grin.
“Okay. If you say so,” he said in the breezy tone of one who does not for one second believe you.