by Josh Lanyon
I knew city libraries that weren’t as big as that wonderful room, and I’d have been delighted to simply prowl the shelves to my heart’s delight. As it was, we had only a few minutes to mill while waiting for Vanessa to reappear.
There was fiction, old and new. Vanessa’s books, of course. Every edition in every translation. There were leather-bound copies of classics as well as the latest bestsellers. And nonfiction. In fact, it looked to me like Vanessa owned every conceivable reference book a writer might need. Books on procedure and poisons and places and people. History books, map books, books on weapons and wardrobe, opera and organizations.
There was also a sizable section on true crime. Including books that explored in detail the murder of Donald Kresley. I knew, because they sat on the shelves of the library where I worked. I had read most of them—and struggled with the content. How strange must it be to read books about your own life? Especially given that the accounts were not flattering, not kind, in some cases not even accurate.
And wasn’t it even stranger to own those books? To keep them on her own shelves? Wouldn’t she want to forget?
Maybe in choosing to shelve them she was making a conscious, symbolic gesture to accept and move on? To take a clinical view?
I had no idea. With most writers I’ve met, you have a sense of their character, their inner self from their work. The work revealed more about the person than the person sometimes knew. But I had read every word Vanessa had published, and the woman remained an enigma.
At last I took a seat next to John on one of the velvet sofas. He gave me a wry smile as though he knew what I was thinking. Well, it was what everyone except John was thinking: that it was incredible, unbelievable to sit in this lovely room in a real Scottish castle and know that we were about to hear one of the most famous writers in the world talk about her work. This was what we had traveled halfway across the world for.
The evening’s planned event was a reading by Vanessa from her newest manuscript, to be followed by a Q&A session. The library had been set up as though for filming or giving lectures, and once we were all seated, Vanessa took her place on the low platform, seating herself in the red-and-gold brocade chair that ever so vaguely resembled a throne.
At dinner she had been distant and removed, but when she rejoined us in the library, she seemed more as she had when she had greeted us that afternoon. She spoke at length about her plans to put together a writing retreat on the island. The old summer cottages would provide lodging for twenty hand-picked aspiring authors from economically challenged backgrounds.
We all applauded this admirable scheme, then she read for a few minutes from her latest book Buried Secrets.
“I run to the gate, fumbling with the lock. Heavy, rusted chunk of metal like a dented steel heart beneath my slippery, shaking fingers. Nearly there, nearly gone, just another moment... I hear the footstep behind me, the soft whispery slide of sole on wet grass. I push against the gate, crying.”
In the prologue a teenage runaway discovers a dismembered body in a midnight graveyard—and is herself then discovered by the man who dumped the body. It was haunting and quietly horrific, but then so much of Vanessa’s work was, in its lowkey way, horrific. Murder was never fun in her stories.
And yet this murder weekend was a fun, even playful idea. Clearly there were two sides to Vanessa. Which was the dominant?
As Vanessa brought the scene to its inevitable close, Bertie gasped, “Is it done yet? Is it nearly done?”
Vanessa gave a short laugh. “Yes. The completed manuscript is now with my publisher.” She sat up straighter and placed her hands on the printed pages. “That seems to be our cue to open the floor to questions.”
Bertie blushed and Edie nudged her in the ribs.
“Where do you get your ideas?” Nedda asked at once.
“Everywhere. From the news, from dreams, from the classics and the comics.”
“Do you agree with the advice to write what you know?” Yvonne asked.
“I agree entirely. I also believe that is one of the most misunderstood and misinterpreted bits of writing advice ever given.”
Before she had a chance to expand on the thought, Sally asked, “Have you ever thought of co-writing?”
Vanessa drawled, “You may have heard. I don’t play well with others.”
Nervous laughter followed.
Jim asked, “Do you think more crimes are committed for money or love?”
“I think most crimes, including murders, are committed for gain, be it financial gain or emotional gain. Jealousy is a powerful motivator. In my opinion, all emotion is destructive, but jealousy is perhaps the most destructive emotion.”
All emotion was destructive? That was interesting. I’d have liked to hear her expand on that.
Nedda asked, “I read that you love to play practical jokes.”
“You’ve seen the proof for yourself.”
More nervous laughter—and a few sheepish glances. John grunted.
I said, “You seem to write about two types of crimes. Serial killers who stalk multiple victims or people who kill on impulse. What you don’t ever seem to explore are crimes where someone deliberately plots to kill one particular person, be it for gain or lust or whatever. Is that conscious?”
She tilted her head as though to get a better view of me. “Carter, is it?”
I nodded.
“Carter, I can’t say that I consciously set out to write about one type of crime over the other. I suppose there are degrees of wickedness. The serial killer is insane, regardless of legal definition. The person who kills on impulse is also insane, but only for a brief moment in time—unless there is a successful outcome to their act of violence. In that case, there’s a great likelihood the madness will take permanent hold.”
I thought of Vance that day on the road in Tyndrum. “Do you think everyone is capable of that kind of violent impulse?”
She gave a strange smile. “Are you asking whether I believe I’m a moral anomaly?”
Into the stark silence that followed, the fire popped in the grate at the far end of the room.
“I wasn’t thinking of you,” I said honestly, “but I guess that’s the perfect example.”
Vanessa’s laugh was friendlier that time. “We need to chat, you and I. In answer to your question, yes. I believe every one of us is capable of violent impulse, and whether we give in to it on any chosen day can depend on something as trivial as a bad night’s sleep or what we had for breakfast.”
“What did you have for breakfast that day you killed the Kresley kid?” John’s voice was as hard and flat as a smack.
There were several gasps. I stared at John’s profile. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t look at anyone but Vanessa. Despite the half smile, he looked hard and dangerous and unfamiliar.
Vanessa continued to sit before us, also smiling, very cool. But then it wouldn’t have been the first time she had been confronted with such a question. “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.”
No one moved. I’m not sure anyone so much as drew a breath. She rose unhurriedly. “Well, it’s been a long day and we don’t want to use up all our questions on the first night, do we?”
At once, every one snapped back into life, talking, getting to their feet and moving toward the door, throwing curious glances at Vanessa, who walked to the far end of the room. A few tentative thank-yous were thrown in her direction.
Alison and Elizabeth Ogilvie ushered us out with bright good night and sleep tights.
When I looked back one final time, Vanessa was standing motionless, staring into the fire.
Chapter Twenty
“Way to break up a party,” I said to John when we got back to the privacy of our room. I was trying to keep it light, but I was angry.
He gave me a dark, impatient look and pulled his white sweate
r over his head.
“You know, if you can’t get some professional distance, maybe you shouldn’t be here.”
His voice was muffled through the folds of sweater. “I don’t have a choice.”
It didn’t do anything to defuse my anger. “Well, you have a choice in how you behave once you’re here. You don’t have the right to come to her home, sit at her table, sleep beneath her roof, and insult her like that.”
He yanked the sweater off, tossed it in the general direction of his suitcase, and unbuttoned his shirt. “I’m sorry I ruined your evening, but listening to that woman joke about murdering someone was more than I could take.”
“She wasn’t—” I stopped. “Look, people cope in different ways. I think she’s learned to cope by—”
“How she copes is of no interest to me,” John interrupted. “None. I know you admire her work, Carter, and you can find excuses for what she did. But I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with that woman. Never mind that sick story she read tonight where she killed the main character. Only a sociopath would think it was funny to terrify a busload of people into believing someone was knocking them off one by one.”
“Yeah, but we weren’t terrified. That’s the thing.”
He bunched his shirt up and threw it at the marble bust. It draped over the bust’s face. “You sure as hell were worried this morning.”
I had to give him that. “Okay, yes. A little. But everyone else enjoyed it, even if most of them didn’t catch on until after the fact.” I hated to admit outright that in some secret chamber of my heart, even I had sort of been enjoying myself. It had been exciting, even thrilling. I had been made newly conscious of how much I enjoyed being alive.
I said, “Would you be this hostile, if you didn’t know her history?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not. All I can tell you is watching everyone fawn over her this evening was more than I could take.”
John wasn’t being a jerk just to be a jerk. He was genuinely disturbed. I said, “I’ll grant you she’s got a macabre sense of humor.”
He unbuckled his trousers, stepped out of them.
“She was a kid, John. I think it does make a difference. It did in the eyes of the law. And I do agree with her that there are degrees of wickedness. I think premeditated murder is the worse crime.”
“Don’t quote the law to me,” he said.
I met his gaze and the glare faded out of his eyes. He sighed. “I don’t see it the way you do, but I am sorry if I wrecked this evening for you. I know how much you’ve been looking forward to this part of the trip.”
He seemed disarmingly sincere, and somehow the next thing I knew, I was hugging him. “It’s okay. I’m sorry this is hard on you.”
He gave a funny half laugh. “Carter?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you...on your best behavior or are you honestly this nice of a guy?”
“I don’t know. Am I that nice?” As compliments went, nice guy seemed a little like a consolation prize.
His grin was wry. “Yes. You are. You’re the kind of guy I was always hoping I’d meet. And never did.”
Okay, that was a little better, and the kiss that followed it up was better still.
“Except you did,” I said, when I could. “Meet me.”
“I did,” he agreed, and kissed me again.
I’m not sure which one of us reached for the light...
* * *
I woke to darkness and the familiar sound of John—by now I took that for granted—moving quietly around our room. Less quietly than usual though. In fact, there was something a bit frantic in the not-quite-silent dragging and stuffing noises.
I felt for my phone, checking the time. Three nineteen on a cold and cheerless October morning. I moaned. “Seriously, John?”
A section of shadow detached itself from the rest of the gloom, coming to the foot of my bed and looming over me. I sat up and turned on the lamp, shading my eyes to stare up at him.
“What the hell are you doing every night?”
“You’re awake. Good.” John was dressed in jeans, corduroy shirt and boots. He needed a shave and his hair was sticking out in tufts. He looked both severe and harassed. Or maybe just severely harassed.
“No, not good. Why are the two of us awake at this time of the morning?” Better question: why were the two of us awake and not putting the time to better use?
“Because, unfortunately, we’re not the only two awake.”
I looked past him and saw that he was in the process of packing his suitcase. My heart sank. Hell.
“Who else is awake? And how would you know—and why would you care? What the hell is going on?” This was the moment of truth. If he couldn’t answer honestly...
“Carter.” He hesitated. Sighed. “I haven’t been completely honest with you.”
“Uh, yeah. I know. You haven’t exactly been subtle either.”
I think that flicked his professional pride. He said with a trace of indignation, “It’s not easy to be subtle on a tour bus!”
“Fair enough. Are you...what? An undercover cop?”
“An insurance investigator.”
“And you’re investigating what? The Scherfs and Rices obviously. Are they supposed to be hired assassins? International jewel thieves?” I shivered and hauled the bedclothes up around my shoulders.
“Art thieves.”
“Art thieves? Seriously? They’re not high school teachers?”
“Well, yes. They are high school teachers. Also art thieves. And yes, seriously.” He certainly looked serious.
“You’re kidding. They’ve stolen something on this trip? What?”
“No. They haven’t managed to pull a job off on this trip—I don’t think—or they’d be under arrest right now.”
I hadn’t missed that I don’t think. “Wait. So, they’re suspected art thieves? Or they’re really—”
He snapped, “The fact that they haven’t been arrested yet doesn’t change the fact that they’re really criminals.” By the testiness of his tone, I deduced this was a touchy subject.
“I see. It’s just...they’re so nice. So polite. I mean, they’re practically vegetarians.”
His brows shot up. “Yeah, you actually can’t go by what people eat when investigating crime.”
“No, of course not. But they seem like such good citizens. It’s kind of shocking. Although maybe not, when you consider what a high school teacher earns these days.”
John ignored all that. “I work for Birch Specialty Insurance Company. We primarily insure art collections and museums.”
“I see,” I said. And I did. My heart sank. “The good news is you’re not an insomniac. The bad news is you’re leaving the tour.”
He nodded. “Sorry. Yes.”
“Damn.” I didn’t know what else to say. Not that I didn’t have questions, but John leaving the tour seemed to trump everything else. He’d warned it might be a possibility, but somehow I had assumed he meant a day or two before the tour ended. Not in the next twenty-four hours. Not in the middle of our getting to know each other.
“A couple of days ago I was assigned to coordinate with our UK branch. Our goal—my goal—was to finally catch the Scherf-Rice gang red-handed. Meaning with the stolen goods in their possession.”
“Right.”
“This is their third trip to the UK in the past six years. Each time they’ve joined small specialty tours like this one with itineraries off the beaten track. And each time a local, not well-secured gallery or museum in their vicinity gets hit.”
There was obviously more to it than that. I nodded at his suitcase. Part of a blue shirt sleeve peeped out from under the closed lid. “Then you’ve finally got your proof?”
John shook his head. “Er... No. Not yet. We believe they tried to rob the
Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum the night before I arrived, but were foiled in the attempt. I’m pretty sure they were planning to try their luck with the Inverness Museum and Art Gallery, but unfortunately we have a legal obligation to warn the targets ahead of time, and each time the prospective victim has implemented security measures to foil the robbery.”
That seemed like a reasonable move to me, but John sounded disgruntled. I thought I understood why.
“Wait. So, you don’t actually have proof they managed to pull off a heist?”
“No. But they’re on the move again. I can’t let them slip away.”
I said cautiously, “Maybe they’re on to you. Maybe they’re heading home.”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Actually...”
“They suspect, obviously, but I’ve made sure not to leave anything that would give me away in our room.”
I opened my mouth then closed it. But I couldn’t leave it like that. “I see. You don’t think maybe they’ve noticed you listening in on their conversations and waiting outside their rooms at night and following them everywhere? Like when you drove after them in Strathpeffer?”
He looked momentarily chagrined. “No. I admit I lost them in Inverness, but that was pilot error, not maneuvering on their part.”
“Right.” I said delicately, “The thing is, I couldn’t help noticing at dinner that they were watching you pretty closely.”
He looked stern. “Yeah. Which is why I can’t lose them now.”
I nodded, although I wasn’t sure I followed his reasoning. “Do you think it was Nelson Scherf or Joel Rice searching our room that night?”
“Not sure yet. One of them.”
“But even after they broke into our room, you still don’t think they’re on to you?”
He brushed over that. “We think we’ve successfully verified that no museum or gallery was robbed, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t hit a private collection. They may have taken something from Vanessa, for all I know.”