by Josh Lanyon
She turned off her mic and turned to speak quietly to Hamish.
The bus began its slow, bumpy descent. The trip down seemed a lot steeper than the trip up, so perhaps that accounted for the unnatural silence as Castle Dìomhair loomed up before us like the sinister painted backdrop in a play.
Dìomhair was not one of those pretty fairytale castles with blue spire towers and diamond pane windows. It looked like a small fortress from an earlier age. A squat gray crenelated stone rectangle with four large and forbidding towers at each corner. In the tour brochures, it had looked more welcoming—or at least more photogenic.
Roddy said, “Looks like a witch’s castle, what?”
Daya gave a strangled laugh.
The spell was broken, and everyone began to talk at once.
“I can’t believe we’re actually going to meet her,” Edie murmured.
“Just don’t say anything stupid,” her sister warned.
“Excited?” John asked me. He was smiling.
That was another thing I liked about him. That he smiled easily, sincerely. He seemed like a generally happy guy. A guy who cared whether other people were also happy. It shouldn’t have been unusual, but it did seem so.
I smiled back. “Yes. Vanessa doesn’t do conferences or book tours anymore, so this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Plus, no one gets to come on the tour more than one time. So, this is it.”
I happened to look at Ben. He stared straight ahead, his face expressionless. Yvonne was gazing out the side window at the faraway mountains.
Hamish parked us right in front of the large square wooden door, and we began to file slowly out of the bus.
Alison clapped her hands. “This way, everyone! Don’t worry about your bags and suitcases. It’s all under control.”
The entryway door swung silently open. A tall, gaunt woman in a dark pantsuit waved to us.
There was a kind of group inhalation, and then—
“That’s not her,” Nedda muttered.
We all expelled disappointed breaths.
“That’s Elizabeth Ogilvie, Vanessa’s personal assistant,” Alison told us briskly, making little shooing motions toward the front door.
“Welcome to Castle Dìomhair,” Elizabeth greeted us. Despite the jet-black hair, she was probably in her seventies, and though her expression was severe, her voice was pleasant and welcoming. “Come in, come in. There’s room for all.”
“This way. Don’t be shy.” Alison ushered the stragglers on.
We went through the tall doorway and crowded into a large entry hall dominated by an enormous life-size portrait of a Scottish gentleman in kilt and shooting jacket, holding a brace of pheasants. A pair of smug-looking hunting dogs sat at his feet.
At the far end of the room was a rough stone wall covered with leather and brass targes placed around a circle of ten basket hilt swords that seemed to form the petals of a bloodthirsty blossom.
A black wrought iron chandelier as big as a small dining table hung overhead.
I think there were other things, a couple of carved black wood benches and a table or two with vases of heather and roses, but at that moment a woman appeared at the head of the steep curving staircase to the right of the hall.
She was small, very thin and wore a boy’s Black Watch kilt and a baggy blue tweed sweater. Her hair was silver and cut in a geometrically precise bob.
“Good! You’ve arrived. I was beginning to think you’d got lost.” Her voice was unexpectedly deep, and very English.
She started down the murderous staircase with the speed and surety of a feral goat. We stared up at her, gawking—I was gawking anyway—I know there were a few gasps.
She paused midway down and smiled. It was a cool, enigmatic smile, and yet, it was a beautiful smile. It changed her face. Lit her eyes. Made her look younger.
“As we say in the Gaelic, Ceud mìle fàilte. One hundred thousand welcomes. I am Vanessa Rayburn.”
Chapter Seventeen
She did not look like a murderess.
Not that murderers look different from the rest of us. If there’s one thing crime fiction teaches us, it’s that murderers come in all shapes and sizes. But she didn’t seem like a murderer—which I suppose is an equally silly observation given, again, my familiarity with crime fiction.
Vanessa seemed too self-possessed to ever have to resort to violence, but of course she had lived a lifetime since her teenage self coshed Donald Kresley over the head and left him to drown. She wouldn’t just seem like a different person, she was a different person. And yet...
I watched her moving through our group, greeting us one by one. She took her time. She seemed genuinely interested. She had even memorized what each of us did for a living.
“Wally. What a pleasure. Pediatrics is such an admirable profession. And this must be Nedda...” She was charming and methodical as she ticked us off what was clearly a mental list.
The only time Vanessa seemed to hesitate was meeting Daya and Roddy, and that was because Daya unexpectedly threw her arms around her and hugged her tightly. Vanessa was flustered—and the rest of us surprised. Vanessa recovered, but she was slightly off her stride as she moved quickly on to the next person, which happened to be John.
John said tersely, “John Knight.”
“John, how lovely that you were able to join us at the last moment!”
John remained stoic as he shook hands.
Vanessa waited an expectant beat, then turned to me.
“Carter Matheson,” I supplied.
She brightened. “The librarian. Oh, we love librarians!”
“I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to actually meet you,” I said. That was the first and least embarrassing thing I said. I was in full fanboy mode, and only when I happened to glance over and see John’s quizzical expression did I break off, flushing. “I’m sorry. I’m gushing.”
Vanessa squeezed my arm. “Don’t apologize! It’s endearing. It isn’t the critics and naysayers we creatives need, you know.” She turned to the next person, Edie Poe, who turned out to be no slouch in the gushing department herself.
Alison appeared between John and me. “Carter, John, your room is ready, if you two want to go up with Elizabeth.”
I glanced around and realized that as Vanessa finished greeting each of us, we were drawn from the group and directed to our rooms. It was very smoothly done. Besides John and me, only Edie, Bertie, Yvonne and Ben were left in the large hall.
Alison handed us off to Vanessa’s personal assistant, and we made the trek upstairs past a museum’s worth of antique weaponry, several glum galleries of people who looked more troublingly alike with each generation, numerous candelabras, and one whole hell of a lot of taxidermy. It was great. I was reminded of the art from a graphic novel or maybe a video game, Mystery Case Files: Dire Grove or Escape from Ravenhurst, and I didn’t think that was by accident.
“What do you think?” John asked, once we were installed in our room and had started to unpack.
“I love it.” I studied the two queen-size beds beneath blue brocade coverlets, the azure-and-purple Persian carpet, the charmingly mismatched antique furniture and kooky bibelots. The real beauty of the room lay in the stunning view of the Pentland Firth. “It’s perfect. Better than I could have imagined.”
John eyed a large marble bust suspiciously. “I don’t mean the room. I mean her.” He approached the bust and gave its head a tentative twist, like a halfhearted assassin.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking to see if our rooms are bugged.”
My paranoia seemed to be catching.
I laughed. “Seriously?”
“Hell, yes. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a camera somewhere.”
“A...camera?” I stopped laughing as I recalled in technicolor som
e of our livelier moments at the Ben Wyvis Hotel and Manor House.
John was feeling beneath a silk lampshade on the lamp near the window. “You don’t think this is a weird setup? Look around you. It’s like we’re in a mystery novel.”
“I know! Or a video game. It’s brilliant.”
He gave a short laugh and shook his head. “And what about her? Lady Macbeth. The writer you traveled the world to meet.”
We were sharing the en suite with the Matsukados, and the sound of running water next door reminded me that the walls had ears, even if the statuary didn’t.
“Well...it’s kind of weird when you finally meet someone who, up until that moment, you’ve only seen on book jackets.”
“That’s true. I was surprised to realize the book jackets were life-size.”
I snorted. “She is a lot smaller than I expected. What did you think of her?”
He grunted. “I don’t know. She seems...forceful.”
“Daya’s the one who surprised me. I know she’s a fan or she wouldn’t have paid to go on this tour, let alone drag Roddy along, but she’s been so critical every time the books are discussed.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think she had that much emotion in her.”
“Sometimes the most stoic-seeming people are the most emotional,” I said.
“Like your friend Ben.”
I glanced at John in surprise. His smile was crooked. “Sure, I noticed Ben’s interest in you. Every available guy on this tour is interested in you.”
I laughed. “Yeah, right.”
He changed the subject. “Vanessa looks so somber on all those book jacket photos. I didn’t imagine her being so...so genial.”
“She was nice. Gracious. Cordial. But then there’s a lot of humor in the MacKinnon books.” Black humor maybe. I didn’t want to say what I was thinking, which was I’d somehow—although I knew it was illogical—expected someone more...quiet, penitent. Someone who seemed to show awareness and regret for having committed the ultimate offense of murdering another human.
Of course, that was ridiculous. Vanessa had had decades to come to terms with her past. She’d have had to, to stay sane. Or was I being sentimental? It was unlikely she woke every morning thinking about Donald Kresley. She had paid her debt to society. There was no reason she shouldn’t enjoy the remainder of her life.
John said, “She’s probably older than most of the women in our group, but she looks a lot more...”
“Chic.”
“I guess so. Well-preserved, for sure. That’s the nice thing about money, I guess.”
“Yeah. But then again, when you consider what she went through, she’d have to have a certain amount of resilience to survive.”
He studied me for a moment. “Speaking of survival, how are you feeling now?”
I didn’t know what he meant for a moment, then I recognized the concern in his eyes from our boat crossing.
My face warmed. Once again, I felt both self-conscious and, well, silly. But also cherished. And that really was different. I couldn’t ever remember feeling cherished before. “Oh. Me? Back to normal.”
“Good. What do you say we let the unpacking wait and have a walk before dinner?”
I smiled. “I say yes. That sounds great.”
* * *
“Have you heard from Sally’s family yet?” I asked John as the heavy castle door closed behind us. I’d have expected a footman or two guarding the entrances, but it seemed that people came and went as they pleased at Castle Dìomhair.
I drew in a long breath. It was good to be outside. Good to feel the sunlight and crisp sea air. Good to not be on a bus. Or a boat.
“No.”
I thought this over. “If there was something wrong, they’d probably answer right away.”
“They’re eight hours behind us. They may not have heard my message yet.”
“True.” I didn’t like it though.
We weren’t the only ones with the idea of going for a walk. I spotted the Scherf-Rice quartet in the distance, making their way through a small forest of spindly, wind-twisted trees.
“Where are they headed?” I wondered aloud.
John said thoughtfully, “If I had to guess? They’re checking out the helicopter pad.”
I stared at his profile. “You know you can’t just throw comments like that out there and not expect questions.”
He gave me a sideways look. “I know, but do me a favor and don’t ask.”
I spluttered in protest.
John added, “I’ll tell you everything when I can. Okay?”
“I’m guessing I don’t have a choice.” Not like there was a sacred bond between bunkies that I could hold him to. This wasn’t Camp Chippewa, despite the Addams Family vibe. “But you’re being pretty mysterious.”
He didn’t answer. We cut across the broad expanse of lawn and when I glanced down and saw a round grate, I pointed. “Supposedly a tunnel runs from the basement of the castle down to a cave on the shoreline. They used it for smuggling. The tunnel collapsed in the 1920s, but you can view the passageway through the air vents in the front lawn.”
“How would you know that?”
“I read it in an old guidebook from the 1940s. When I originally booked the tour, I wanted to find out everything I could about the island, and since there isn’t much information available now, I went back to earlier sources.”
“Pretty smart.”
“Not really. Basic research.” I nodded to a distant fenced-in area that looked like an arboretum run wild. “That overgrown area surrounded by a metal fence? That’s the Henderson family cemetery. Up until the 1930s, family members and pets were still being buried there.”
“Is that more from your old guidebook?”
“Yep. Apparently when the guidebook was written you could still see a lot of the headstones and statues, but it looks like a jungle now.”
“Weird she just left it like that.” John was frowning.
We both knew who “she” was.
“Maybe it seemed more respectful to leave everything to time?”
“Maybe she couldn’t be bothered.”
I considered that as we headed downhill toward the cliffs overlooking the sea. The reality for someone like Vanessa was that you could pay your debt to society but some people—maybe most people—were always going to attribute the worst motives to everything you did.
A couple of gulls winged overhead, crying out their creaky song. The wind off the firth tasted clean and salty. I couldn’t help notice black clouds were rolling in from the north, but this was Scotland. Dark clouds were always rolling in from somewhere.
“She’s done all right for herself, that’s for sure,” John observed. “You notice Alison didn’t answer the question about what happened to the people living on the island when Vanessa bought it.”
Now that he pointed it out, yes. Alison had dodged that question. And yes, Vanessa had done all right for herself, which, if you felt like Vanessa had got away with murder, could be adding salt to the wound. I said, “Did you hear that comment on the bus. About the ghost of a teenage boy?”
John said, “Yes. Who said it? Could you tell?”
“No. Could you?”
“No. I thought it came from somewhere in the back, but the acoustics on the bus are tricky. I didn’t recognize the voice.”
“That was the weird thing. I couldn’t even tell if it was male or female. The voice was so...thick.” Choked with emotion, I thought, looking back. It had worried me then. It worried me now.
We continued walking for a time. John said suddenly, “San Diego is a great area for biking.”
“Is it?” I studied him curiously. “Are you a cyclist?”
“I can ride a bike. I wouldn’t call myself a cyclist.”
I thought that over. “You�
��ve been reading the tour bios.”
“I read yours.”
“Ah.” That was nice.
“You didn’t tell me you were a librarian,” he said.
I grinned. “You know how it is. The minute guys find out, they start treating you differently. Asking if you can fix their late fines, trying to get you to put the new releases on hold for them.”
John’s cheek creased. “That must be tough. Plus, regularly and responsibly employed is always a turn-on. To guys like me.”
And to guys like me, if we were being candid. “And you’re an insurance salesman,” I said lightly.
He didn’t answer at first. Then he gave me a sideways look. “I do work for an insurance company. I’m not actually in sales.”
“No? Let me guess. You’re the night watchman?”
“Ha. Well, maybe. In a way.” He gave me another of those side looks. “I don’t want to make a mystery out of it. I’m really not trying to be mysterious. God knows there’s enough of that going on already. But this isn’t something I can really talk about at the moment.”
“Is there going to be a moment when you can talk about it?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Before the end of the tour?”
He grimaced. “Yeah, well. The thing is, I might have to leave the tour before the end.”
Now that was disappointing. Hugely disappointing. I nodded without comment.
Into my silence, he said, “If that happens, and if it’s okay with you, I’d like to stay in touch.”
My spirits rose. I smiled. “Sure, it’s okay with me. I’d like that.”
“Well, I know you’re on the rebound.” He looked serious. “I’m not going push.”
“Feel free to push.” I tried to sound like I was joking, but I meant it. I was a little surprised at how much I meant it.
He laughed, sounding more awkward than usual. “Anyway, I’ve got your address and phone number—which, by the way, from a security standpoint, including that kind of information on tour group handouts seems pretty reckless.”