Author: Josh Lanyon
Date: 2018-04-23 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; M M Romance; Romance; Contemporary; Lgbt; Crime; Fiction; Gay; M M Mystery
Description: From award-winning male/male author Josh Lanyon: a librarian finds himself in a plot right out of one of his favorite mystery novels Librarian Carter Matheson is determined to enjoy himself on a Scottish bus tour for fans of mystery author Dame Vanessa Rayburn. Sure, his ex, Trevor, will also be on the trip with his new boyfriend, leaving Carter to share a room with a stranger, but he can’t pass up a chance to meet his favorite author. Carter’s roommate turns out to be John Knight, a figure as mysterious as any character from Vanessa’s books. His strange affect and nighttime wanderings make Ca
Publisher: Carina Press
Rights: Copyright © 2018 by Josh Lanyon

Murder Takes the High Road
By Josh Lanyon

From award-winning male/male author Josh Lanyon: a librarian finds himself in a plot right out of one of his favorite mystery novels

Librarian Carter Matheson is determined to enjoy himself on a Scottish bus tour for fans of mystery author Dame Vanessa Rayburn. Sure, his ex, Trevor, will also be on the trip with his new boyfriend, leaving Carter to share a room with a stranger, but he can’t pass up a chance to meet his favorite author.

Carter’s roommate turns out to be John Knight, a figure as mysterious as any character from Vanessa’s books. His strange affect and nighttime wanderings make Carter suspicious. When a fellow traveler’s death sparks rumors of foul play, Carter is left wondering if there’s anyone on the tour he can trust.

Drawn into the intrigue, Carter searches for answers, trying to fend off his growing attraction toward John. But as unexplained tragedies continue, the whole tour must face the fact that there may be a murderer in their midst—but who?

This book is approximately 60,000 words

One-click with confidence. This title is part of the Carina Press Romance Promise: all the romance you’re looking for with an HEA/HFN. It’s a promise!

Carina Press acknowledges the editorial services of Deborah Nemeth

To Joanna, Harper and L.B.

For auld lang syne, my dears. We’ll tak a right guid willie waught the next time I’m in town.

Also available from Josh Lanyon and Carina Press

Fair Play

Fair Game

Fair Chance

Stranger on the Shore

Icecapade

Lone Star

Snowball in Hell

Jefferson Blythe, Esquire

Also by Josh Lanyon

The Adrien English Mysteries

Suggested reading order

Fatal Shadows

A Dangerous Thing

The Hell You Say

Death of a Pirate King

The Dark Tide

So This is Christmas

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Author Note

Acknowledgments

Excerpt from Fair Chance by Josh Lanyon

About the Author

Chapter One

That saying about pride going before a fall? I was aching with the impact of my landing as I stood in the bar area of the Caledonian Inn, trying not to watch Trevor and his new boyfriend meeting and greeting our fellow tour members that first night in Scotland.

“We should be staying at the Argyll Hotel,” Rose Lane was saying. She was about seventy. Tall and slender, her silver hair grazing her shoulders in a long pageboy, she looked like an elderly fashion model. According to her tour group bio she was a retired accountant from Portland, Oregon. Or maybe the accountant was the tall woman with curly brown hair, lurking on the edge of the noisy room. The bios—and faces—had begun to blur after the first six introductions.

Rose was still talking. Everyone in the room seemed to be talking. Which was natural. They were thrilled to be here.

Me...not so much.

“That’s where Vanessa murdered the bishop in Prey for Mercy. Besides, it’s a much nicer hotel,” Rose said.

“The Argyll is probably more expensive,” I replied, watching Trevor smile into Vance’s blue eyes—which were close-set and a little beady, if you asked me.

Of course, no one, particularly Trevor, was asking me. And anyway, aside from being cross-eyed, Vance was an undeniably good-looking guy. Taller than me. Darker than me. Everything more than me, it seemed.

That probably sounded like I still had feelings for Trevor, and I did. Anger, hurt, bitterness. I did not want him back. I wouldn’t have had him back if he’d been offered to me on a silver quaich. That didn’t mean I wasn’t still torn up about everything that had happened. Which was why I should not have come on the tour—even though it had originally been my idea and I’d paid for the entire trip.

I should have let Trevor win this one. I should have taken the high road. Failing that, the nearest exit.

“It is,” Rose agreed. “But this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I’m sure we all want to make the most out of it.”

Vance leaned over to whisper in Trevor’s ear, and for a second I couldn’t remember what Rose was talking about. Oh, right. This ten-day tour of the Scottish Highlands and Islands specially tailored to fans of famed mystery author Dame Vanessa Rayburn. Every stop and every stay was planned around a particular setting in one of the Rayburn books. The high point of the tour was to be the four days spent at Vanessa’s own castle on the island of Samhradh Beag.

“Who needs another drink?” Alison inquired, joining us. Alison Barnes was the tour organizer. A small, perky, red-haired thirty-something. She was American, but then nearly everyone on the tour seemed to be American. Alison peered at my empty glass, glanced unobtrusively at my name tag. “Carter? How about you? Rose, what would you like?”

“Nothing for me,” Rose demurred. “I’ll have wine with dinner.”

“Whisky and soda,” I said. I do better in unfamiliar social situations when I’m sufficiently lubricated. Tonight might require an oil can or two. Possibly an oil drum.

Rose launched into her complaint that we were not spending the night at the Argyll Hotel, and Alison’s heart-shaped face took on a hunted expression, which I imagined was the usual expression she wore by day two of these international jaunts.

Recognizing a good time to ease myself out of the conversation, I stepped back—and onto someone’s foot.

“Ow!” the owner of the foot protested—with unnecessary force, I felt, given that his foot was twice the size of mine. A few people glanced our way, including Trevor. Our gazes locked and Trevor scowled.

I scowled back. Still...not a good feeling to know someone you used to love now hated you. I turned to Ben Iams, the only other unattached male on the tour. “Sorry! I didn’t see you there.”

“That’s okay,” Ben said grudgingly. Peering at my name tag, he added, “Carter.” Ben was about fifty and traveling with his mother, Yvonne. I’d met them when we were checking in earlier that afternoon. According to his bio, Ben was a business systems analyst. He was tall, raw-boned and gangly. Not bad looking, but one of those guys who never quite grows into his frame. His hands and feet looked like they were swiped from another model kit.

There were about thirty of us crowded into the small lounge. Twenty of us were passengers on the tour. Twenty strangers with nothing in common but our love for Vanessa Rayburn. And, with one hundred and fifty-four novels to her name, there was a lot to love. Even so, ten days was a long time to spend with people you shared only one thing in common with.

If Trevor and I were still together, it would have been different.

No one was a bigger fan of Vanessa than Trevor, which was why I’d booked this tour for us nearly two years ago. How was I to know that by the time the tour rolled around, Trevor and I would be split up—with Trevor insisting I give my seat to his new Significant Other, Vance.

Which, if I’d had any sense at all, I’d have done. It’s not like I still felt any great enthusiasm for the trip, although yes, I too was a huge fan of Vanessa. I had already made up my mind that I wouldn’t be going, when Trevor informed me Vance was taking my place.

Which was sort of... Again?

Like a stubborn ass, I’d dug my heels in and informed Trevor he could go to hell. And the more Trevor demanded that I give up my ticket, the more determined I was to go on the tour.

And here I was. The winner. Trevor had had to break down and buy Vance his own ticket. And I would now have the pleasure of spending ten days in close quarters with the two of them carrying on like they were on their honeymoon.

Which...maybe they were. Not like I would have received an invite to the wedding.

A woman with wiry, wavy gray hair and rugged features to match Ben’s pointed at my name tag. “Last name Matheson. You’re a librarian and you live in Los Angeles.”

“Guilty.”

“Yvonne Iams.” She paused, her expression expectant. Why did so many of these people treat the introductions like we were all playing Mafia or Werewolf.

“Ben’s mother,” I said. That was safe enough. I racked my brain. Nobody ever expects the Spanish Inquisition. “Retired...veterinarian.”

“Right! And where are we from?” she prompted.

Somewhere in the United States, obviously, though her accent was hard to place. Thankfully, Alison broke in before I had to confess I had no clue.

“Everybody! Everybody!” She clapped her hands together. “I just got word. Can the Tour to Die For people please begin moving to the lobby? The taxis have arrived to take us to the restaurant.”

“This is so exciting,” a small plump woman in a shiny yellow raincoat exclaimed as we began to file out of the bar. She beamed at me. I smiled back. I needed to make sure I did not end up in a taxi with Trevor and Vance.

I needn’t have worried. Trevor and Vance jumped into the first taxi, one of a train of old-fashioned black cabs, which departed in a cloud of exhaust into the rainy October night. Destination: Glasgow’s City Centre.

Two taxis later I squeezed in with Alison, the plump woman and her sister—twins Bertie and Edie Poe from Michigan—and the elderly, elegant Rose.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” one of the twins said, scrunching against her sibling to make more room for Rose. “Glasgow at last!”

She pronounced it like “Glass Cow.”

“Is this your first trip to Scotland?” Alison asked us as the cab rolled away from the curb.

Bertie, Edie and I all admitted it was our first time out of the States. Rose turned out to be an experienced world traveler.

“It’s a beautiful, old city,” Alison said. “The biggest city in Scotland. In fact, it’s one of the biggest cities in the UK.”

“Third largest,” I said automatically. I try not to do that. Fact drop. It’s hard because in my work life I’m paid to be a know-it-all. It’s surprising how many people would rather ask the librarian than do the research themselves. Me? I love research. I love how one tiny piece of information can lead down a dozen different rabbit holes of astonishing discovery.

“You’ve been doing your homework.” Alison smelled like cigarettes, which was unexpected given her rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, fresh-from-teaching-Sunday-school appearance.

“Are you here on holiday?” the cab driver asked. At least I thought that’s what he said. It sounded more like Awreet, r yeez heron holiday? For a split second I thought maybe he was speaking in Gaelic to amuse the tourists.

The ladies filled him in and he obligingly pointed out places presumed to be of interest. I stared out the window at the bright lights, dark water and disappointingly modern landscape.

“That’s St. Patrick’s,” the cabbie said. “A Polish girl was murdered there about ten years ago. Her killer buried her under the confessional.”

If he’d hoped to shock us, he was talking to the wrong bunch of tourists.

“Prey for Mercy,” Rose said knowledgably. “I get chills just thinking about it.”

Alison said, as though we all didn’t know this, “Vanessa used the real-life murders of serial killer Peter Tobin as inspiration for her plot.”

“Vanessa relies on true crime a lot,” agreed Bertie. Or was it Edie?

Whichever sister, her comment was greeted with a brief silence as we all considered Vanessa’s intimate acquaintance with true crime.

Edie—or possibly Bertie—changed the subject. “I’m not so sure about Indian food,” she said. “It always gives me indigestion. But I wouldn’t miss Chaophraya for anything!”

“Don’t worry. It’s actually Thai food,” Alison reassured her.

“Oh, that’s worse!” Edie’s—or Bertie’s—sister said. They giggled to each other at the thought of the horrors to come. At least they had a good attitude about it.

My own spirits lifted once we entered the twinkling heart of the city. The beautiful old Victorian and Edwardian buildings topped with gleaming domes and pointy spires, their ornate facades with pillars and columns and solemn-faced effigies and grand and glittering windows all reminded me of Peter Pan—or maybe just the Disneyland ride of the same name. I was happy to see the historic architecture holding its own against contemporary designs of steel and glass. It was a beautiful city, after all.

The caravan of taxis scooted in wherever an opening could be found and we scrambled out into the wet night. Despite the rain, the streets were packed with exuberant people, most of whom seemed to be looking for a party to crash.

“Tours to Die For, this way!” Alison shouted, racing from cab to cab in an effort to stop any of her flock from straying down the streets of the city Lonely Planet described as a “disarming blend of sophistication and earthiness.” I too felt the tug of adventure as I breathed in the perfume of exhaust and rain and damp stone and exotic aromas from the numerous restaurants along the way.

“There it is!” cried someone in the awestruck tones generally reserved for national monuments and famous film stars. We all turned to gaze in respectful silence.

Supposedly Europe’s largest Thai restaurant, Chaophraya occupied an impressive old building called the Townhouse on Buchanan Street. It was in this elegant and exotic setting that Queen’s Counsel Michael Patterson at long last proposed to Vanessa’s beloved series lead Chief Inspector Rachel MacKinnon. Choosing this particular spot for our first dinner together was a great way to begin the tour, as evidenced by the cries of delight and wonder as we hurried across the slick and shining road.

Alison shepherded us into the gorgeous lobby with its scarlet carpets, life-size golden statues and dark wood. We were led upstairs.

I found myself seated with two married couples, all four of whom were teachers who regularly vacationed together. Nelson and Wilma Scherf were tall, tanned and Germanic looking. Joel and Gerda Rice were shorter, slighter and darker.

We were introducing ourselves when we were joined by Ben and Yvonne. There were more introductions and then Yvonne picked up the menu, frowned, and whispered something to Ben, who nodded gravely while offering a general, pained smile to the rest of us.

“I think in these circumstances a set menu makes sense, Mother,” he said mildly.

I loved my parents but I couldn’t imagine trotting the globe with them. However, Ben and Yvonne seemed to enjoy each other’s company, so...good for them.

“When you consider how much we’re paying for this trip!” Yvonne shook her head.

In fairness, this meal was supposed to be one of the most lavish of the trip, and though the menu was set, the choices were noted as “our most opulent dishes.” And really, who doesn’t occasionally long for a little opulence?

Gerda said in the determinedly upbeat tone of the battle-scarred educator, “This is wonderful. There are some lovely vegetarian choices.” She read, “‘Thai green spinach curry made with spinach, enoki mushrooms, straw mushrooms and sweet basil.’ Yum.”

“You’re the librarian,” Wilma said to me.

“Guilty.”

“Isn’t it funny how Vanessa’s books appeal to so many teachers and librarians? Maybe we’ve secretly got a murderous streak.”

The others laughed.

Yvonne said, “I always thought I’d like to be a librarian.”

“Oh yes?” I said politely.

“I have a very good memory. A very good memory.” It sounded a little ominous, and had I been on Chaophraya’s management team, I’d be expecting an unfavorable Yelp review momentarily.

“A good memory is certainly useful.” More useful was a love of knowledge and learning—and the ability to enjoy (or at least cheerfully tolerate) working around people who didn’t necessarily share that love. I loved books and I liked people, and libraries are where those two things intersect.

Ben said, “It’s a shame the way funding has been cut. Our library is only open part-time now.”

I started to reply but broke off as Alison paused by my chair. Her expression was that of someone about to deliver bad news. “Carter, it looks like you’re going to have a roommate after all.”

“Oh.” I tried not to sound as unenthusiastic as I felt, but I must not have covered too well.

Alison said apologetically, “Because you originally booked a shared room, we did warn you that if someone turned up needing a roommate—”

“I know. It’s okay.”

And I did know, but I’d sort of figured since no one had turned up before the official start of the tour, I was home safe. It seemed not. Yet another reason I should have cancelled. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of sharing my sleeping space with a stranger.

“His name is John Knight and he’s another American,” Alison said. “Unfortunately, we didn’t get his bio in time, but I understand he’s an insurance salesman from San Diego. Which is right around the corner from you. So that’s nice, right?” Her smile was hopeful.

Well, it was a one-hundred-and-twenty-mile corner, so...sort of. I summoned up another of those halfhearted smiles for her. “Sure. Great. When’s he joining us?”

“He’s flying in tonight.”

God. Not even a single night on my own.

I said with fake heartiness, “Great! I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

She looked relieved and moved on through the obstacle course of chairs, purses and people.

At the table behind me the conversation had turned, inevitably, to Vanessa’s notorious past. I glanced over tantalizing descriptions of fried sea bass with chili sauce, turmeric king prawns and massaman lamb curry while listening to the debate on whether someone convicted of murder should have been appointed to the Order of the British Empire.

This was a common point of contention even with Vanessa’s most devoted fans. Most agreed that her youth at the time of Donald Kresley’s murder—and the fact that Vanessa had completed her full sentence as a model prisoner—made for sufficient atonement. But awarding her a DBE, making her a Dame Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire, was a step too far even for most Americans.

And yet the honor was rightfully bestowed on one who had made significant artistic contribution to the British Empire, and if that wasn’t Vanessa Rayburn with her 154-book-long, still-bestselling backlist, who was it?

“I think maybe she was awarded the DBE before the news of her real identity came out,” a woman said.

“No, that’s not correct.” The voice was female and definitely English. “I remember the fuss when it was announced. People picketed.”

“That was such a long time ago. Almost thirty years.”

“It doesn’t seem so very long ago to me.”

I missed the rest of the conversation as our server arrived and the important business of ordering cocktails began.

Once drinks and meals had been ordered, Alison rose and gave a brief welcome speech and then sped through the evening’s business.

“We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, therefore timeliness is essential. All luggage must be out of the rooms and in the hallways by seven every morning so that Hamish can get them stowed on the bus. Otherwise you’ll have to carry your bag down yourself. Change seats on the bus every day to ensure everyone is getting a turn at the windows and do try to sit with different people each night at dinner. You never know. You might meet your new best friend on this trip.”

I glanced at Ben, who happened to be looking my way. We shared another of those self-conscious smiles and hastily averted gazes.

By the time Alison sped through the subject of paid toilets, tipping and daily menus, fragrant platters of Bangkok street-style pork skewers marinated with honey and coriander root, chicken satay, spring rolls, and savory mini-tartlets stuffed with cod and flavored with lemongrass and lime leaf, were circulating from table to table.

Rather than allowing us to relax and eat, Alison—proving that all tour guides have a sadistic streak—suggested we take turns rising to introduce ourselves to the group.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to pay attention, but I hadn’t eaten since somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, and the names and faces were beginning to fade into a hypoglycemic haze.

With the exception of Yvonne, who took notes, my tablemates nibbled on appetizers and listened politely as the Poe sisters, Rose, Trevor and Vance introduced themselves.

Trevor kept his opening remarks uncharacteristically terse. Vance burbled. There really wasn’t any other word for it. Or if there was, I didn’t want to work that hard to find it.

“I’m Vance Stafford. I’m a former model and actor, in case I look familiar to you. Nowadays I work as a dental hygienist.” He flashed a big white smile, giving the American Dental Association some free advertising. “I’m traveling with Trev. This trip is a not-quite-but-almost honeymoon for us.” He beamed at Trevor. Trevor smiled uncomfortably, met my eyes, glared, and looked away.

Vance sat down amid a chorus of “awws” and a smattering of applause. There we had it: the token cute gay couple. And my role? Wicked Queen?

I had made some bad decisions in my time, but coming on this trip? It topped the list.

Our table raced through the introductions, earning Alison’s approval.

At the table behind us were Jim and Laurel Matsukado from San Francisco, Wally and Nedda Kramer from New York, Daya and Roddy Bittywiddy, an English couple who resided in Devon—in fact, the only non-Americans in the tour group—and Sally Daly, a self-described “divorcée” and bookseller from New Mexico.

Alison introduced our bus driver as Hamish MacLaren. Hamish looked to be in his late eighties and wore glasses that might have been borrowed from Mr. Magoo. He offered animated and absolutely unintelligible words of greeting, which received a hearty round of applause.

That concluded the formalities and we were finally left in peace to enjoy our really delicious dinner. Everyone seemed excited and enthusiastic on this eve of adventure, and the air crackled with happy anticipation.

The meal finished with fresh fruit fondue. Ordinarily, sharing fondue with strangers would not be one of my favorite things, but I was so tired by then, I was past caring. We could have been scooping microbes from test tubes, and I wouldn’t have flinched.

At last, replete and exhausted, we headed outside into the wet night.

The Scherfs and Rices, having arrived in Scotland a day earlier, opted to explore Glasgow’s nightlife, but the jet-lagged rest of us made straight for the waiting taxis. I ended up with the Poe sisters again, and we were joined by Ben and his mother. It was a much, much quieter drive back to the Caledonian Inn. In fact, Yvonne was snoring softly, her head on Ben’s shoulder, by the time we arrived at the hotel.

I went straight up to my room, undressed, unpacked what I needed for the night, and used the hotel Wi-Fi to verify that no one urgently needed to hear from me. I wasn’t sure if I was reassured or disappointed when it turned out that I had so far not been missed.

I was brushing my teeth when the door jumped beneath a brisk and decisive knock.

John Knight, I presumed. I rinsed, spat, plastered what I hoped was a pleasant smile on my face and opened the door.

Not John Knight. My midnight caller was a wee five feet six in his stockinged feet, fair and not all that handsome when he was scowling—which was most of the time he was around me. In short—ha!—it was Trevor.

“I can’t believe you’d do this, Carter,” he said.

Chapter Two

I said, “I don’t know why not, since I told you I planned on coming on this trip.”

“That you’d be this petty, this vindictive—”

Not like we hadn’t had this out already, but I felt an instant surge of self-righteous anger just as though this was a fresh outrage. “I paid for the trip. The trip was my idea in the first place. Vance doesn’t know Vanessa Rayburn from Vanessa Redgrave. If anyone is being petty and vindictive, it’s you, bringing him on this trip that we planned together.”

“This was supposed to be my birthday treat.”

That was true and I felt a twinge of guilt. I shook it off.

“Your birthday was the justification for the expense, but you know as well as I do that it was for both of us. It was something we’d both talked about doing together for years.”

That was also true. But the reminder didn’t cut any ice with Trevor.

“The fact that you would force your way into our lives—”

“It was my life first! And anyway, I’m not forcing my way into anything. I paid for my ticket and I’m using it. Why the hell wouldn’t I? Why the hell would I pay that kind of money for a gift to Vance?”

It was Trevor’s turn to talk right over me. “Bad enough you wouldn’t give your ticket to him. But that you had the gall to use it. You don’t even like traveling. You hate traveling.”

At the far end of the hall, the elevator doors dinged and opened. A man in a tan trench coat stepped out, wheeling a suitcase behind him. He looked our way and hastily headed in the opposite direction.

I lowered my voice. “I don’t hate traveling. I never had the chance to travel before.”

Trevor’s face twisted in scorn. “That’s bullshit. How many times did I want to go away for the weekend or for a vacation? You would never go. All you’ve ever cared about is your garden and your books.”

“I’d have loved to travel. We didn’t have the money!”

“That was always your excuse.”

It wasn’t like vacations abroad had ever been a big point of contention between us, and the unfairness of it stung. “It wasn’t an excuse. You weren’t working. We didn’t have the money.”

His fair skin flushed even redder. “That’s right. Throw that in my face!”

“I’m not—it’s the truth. We didn’t have the money.”

“We all know you’re just doing this to ruin my trip.”

We all? Meaning him and Vance? Or had he aired our dirty linen at dinner? My heart sank at the idea. I said, “Believe it or not, my life doesn’t revolve around you anymore.”

He laughed in disbelief. Granted it was a stagy laugh—Trevor was active in our local amateur theater and had received a lot of compliments for his Inspector Bullock 2 in Murder Afoot. “Since. When? We all know you’re planning to spend the entire trip spying on me and Vance, trying to make me feel guilty.”

“Spying on you?” I had to lower my voice once more as the man in the trench coat—having disappeared down the hall and around the corner—reappeared, headed back our way, still dragging his suitcase. “You’re crazy!”

Trevor did not follow my cue, but then he was perfectly comfortable in front of an audience. “Are you going to pretend you weren’t watching us all through dinner?”

“You’re crazy,” I said again. “I wasn’t watching you. I don’t care what you do. I loved Vanessa way before you ever did.”

“I always loved Vanessa—” Trevor stopped and glared as the guy with the suitcase halted at my door, making himself part of our little tableau.

My heart dropped another couple of floors as I realized who he must be.

“Can I help you?” Trevor asked in his most forbidding tone.

Jesus, he could be such a prick. Why had it taken me so long to notice that about him? Or, rather, why had I convinced myself that his being such a prick didn’t matter?

The newcomer—medium height, brown hair, brown eyes—looked from Trevor to me. “Er, I think this is my room.”

“John Knight?” I said.

“That’s right.”

I offered my hand. “Carter Matheson.”

John had a firm grip. His hands were cold, and rain dotted the shoulders of his trench coat. “Nice to meet you, Carter.” His voice was a pleasant baritone. I don’t think I imagined the curiosity lurking in his gaze.

I nodded toward Trevor, who continued to glower. “And this is Trevor Temple. He’s also on the tour.”

“So I hear.” John said it so blandly I wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or not.

Trevor’s eyes narrowed; he thought John was being sarcastic, but before he could respond, John offered his hand again.

“Nice to meet you, Trevor.”

Trevor shook hands automatically, and I moved aside so John could wheel his suitcase into the room.

“Not so bad,” John said with determined cheerfulness, glancing around the beige economy-sized cell.

“It’s a little cramped,” I said. “But we’re only here for the night. I took the bed nearest the window, but if you—”

“No, that’s fine. I prefer to be by the john.”

Hmm. Bathroom issues perhaps?

“Hello? Remember me, Carter?” My uneasy speculation was interrupted by Trevor, who could never stand to be ignored for long.

“How could I forget?” I retorted.

He looked from me to John, who eyed us both with polite interest.

Maybe Trevor found the presence of a grownup in the room as inhibiting as I did. He turned back to me and said darkly, “Just understand. This isn’t over.”

I amped my glare but otherwise restrained myself to closing the door in his face.

John, his back to me, was busily unzipping his suitcase. He said, “I was afraid you’d have already gone to bed.”

I appreciated his tact in ignoring the spat between me and Trevor. Or maybe he was too jet-lagged to notice. Either way, I was grateful.

“No. Trevor and I were just...” I watched him pull out a brown leather kit bag and a brown plaid bathrobe, and instead asked, “How was your flight?”

He threw me a quick look and smiled. “Long.”

John wasn’t exactly handsome, though he had a nice smile and attractive, regular features. He looked to be in his late thirties, around my own age, which was a surprise since everyone else on the trip, except for Trevor and Vance, was at least a decade older than me. I’d discovered Vanessa’s books in my twenties, so it never occurred to me that her bus tours might lean toward an older demographic.

“Yeah. I’m from LA. I arrived this afternoon. It was a long trip.”

John made no response. I searched for something else to say. “I managed to read all of Wolverine on my flight,” I offered.

John nodded politely. “Okay if I use the john?”

“Sure. I’m all through in there.”

John vanished into the tiny bathroom and closed the door.

I climbed gingerly into my twin bed. I hadn’t slept in a bed this small since my college dormitory years—which, come to think of it, was the last time I’d shared a room with someone I wasn’t planning to have sex with.

I set the alarm on my phone, wondering if any of our neighbors had heard me and Trevor squabbling. We hadn’t gotten too loud until we reached the point of debating who loved Vanessa more, and there would probably be a lot of that on this trip.

I sighed and scrunched the flattened, spongy excuse for a pillow under my head, staring out the long rain-starred window at the lights of the airport across the road.

The bathroom door opened and John stepped out, modestly tying his bathrobe around his waist. “What time do we leave in the morning?”

“Nine. Right after breakfast. We stop in Pitlochry for lunch and shopping. We’re on our own for the noon meal, but there’s a rest stop before that in Tyndrum, and I think everyone will head for the roadside café where Vanessa murdered the little ginger-haired waitress in Pressure Cooker.”

John’s expression was blank. I thought I understood the reason.

“It’s one of the standalones,” I said. “Maybe you only read the MacKinnons?”

“Maybe.” He sounded cautious.

“It seems like a lot of people on the tour never read past the last MacKinnon book, so don’t feel alone.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “No, I won’t. You said you’re from Los Angeles?”

“Right.”

“Do you go on these tours all the time?”

“No. This is my first. My first bus tour. My first any kind of tour.”

“Mine too.” He smiled. “What’s the group like?”

“Well, too soon to tell, really. Tonight was our first official get-together. Everyone seems nice.”

“Good. I guess a few people arrived early. Like yesterday?”

“I think so. To do a little sightseeing and shopping.”

“But not you? You only arrived today?”

“Right. I’ve been here since three o’clock Glasgow time.” Which had been...seven in the morning back in LA and probably accounted for this weird mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. Or maybe that had to do with the argument with Trevor. Were we going to spend the next ten days fighting? Well, why not? We’d spent the past ten months fighting.

“I see.” Was John disappointed I hadn’t arrived early for shopping and sightseeing? It kind of sounded that way. Why should he be?

“Is it your first time in Scotland?”

“Yes.” He said, “I guess the tour has a block of rooms on this floor?”

“I think Alison said we were on the third and fourth floors.”

He nodded. Meeting my look of inquiry, he said, “Well.”

“Well?”

He smiled awkwardly. “Just...well.”

“Oh.” I nodded. “Right. Well!”

Oh God. This was going to be ten days of hell.

On the bright side, we probably wouldn’t be spending that much time in our room, so...

But then again, why should it be ten days of hell? I was perfectly good at conversing with people at work. My neighbors thought I was a nice, friendly guy. My friends thought I was a nice, friendly guy. My family thought I was a nice, friendly guy. I was a nice, friendly guy.

Maybe a little reserved in social situations, but not so reserved I couldn’t make this work.

“So,” I said. “What’s your favorite Vanessa book?”

“Blink,” John said immediately.

“Her first standalone. That was a great one. I agree.”

“I thought it was a great balance between police procedural and psychological thriller.”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“A brilliant novel about murder and memory and relationships and cops and modern Scotland.”

Yes, it was. And why was he reciting the book blurb to me? I remembered the quote because only two days ago I’d been sorting through my Vanessa novels trying to decide what to bring to have her sign for me.

“And what an ending,” I said, watching him closely.

John didn’t bat an eye. “It blew me away.”

“The fact that she even went there.”

“It stayed with me for days.”

Hmm. Had he actually read the book? But why say it was his favorite, if he hadn’t? Why not pick one of the MacKinnons?

I ventured, “She wouldn’t have risked trying to pull off such an ambiguous ending in one of the MacKinnon novels.”

John looked regretful. “I’m not really up on the MacKinnons.”

“Oh?”

Okay. That was unusual. But possible. Not everyone loved series books. It was possible some readers only knew Vanessa through her standalones. I’d never met one yet, but they had to be out there.

And, after all, why would John admit to not reading the MacKinnons, but fudge about his favorite standalone? That wasn’t logical.

He gave a sudden huge yawn. “I’m beat,” he said, meeting my eyes with the guileless direct stare you get from patrons who are going to try to argue their way out of paying their overdue fines. “I’m going to turn in now. But if you want to read or watch TV, go ahead.”

“It’s going to be a long day tomorrow. I should probably sleep too.” I sat up and snapped off the lamp on the table between our beds.

John flicked off the wall switch. His pale outline crossed the floor and climbed into his own narrow bunk.

“Goodnight,” I said.

“’Night.” The bed frame squeaked as he rolled onto his side, offering a broad pajama-clad back.

I studied the outline of him in the gloom, thinking. Was it possible John hadn’t actually read any of Vanessa’s work?

No.

The whole tour was tailored to fans of Vanessa’s work. It was too expensive and too idiosyncratic for the ordinary celtophile. He had to be a fan. Well, not just a fan. A super fan. A fanatic. An ordinary fan did not pay gobs of money and travel the ocean to meet any old author. The shelling out of airfare was the gesture of the truly devoted.

After a few puzzled moments, I lost interest in John and his reading habits and returned to worrying over the problem of Trevor.

I realized that I’d been foolish not to anticipate how unpleasant this trip might be, given the current situation between us. The problem was, I’d never really thought much about the tour. My focus had been on thwarting Trevor by using my ticket. I had looked forward to how irritated he’d be by my presence. And he was. He was every bit as pissed off as I’d imagined. Mission accomplished.

And now I had ten days of Trevor being pissed off to look forward to. Which...

I sighed.

“Did you say something?” John asked politely.

“Me? No.”

Silence.

I considered the wide-awake and listening stillness of a guy I did not know from Adam, and decided it was the darkness and the fact that we were in bed that made it uncomfortable. Again, I was reminded of college dorm life.

Once you reached a certain age—no, it wasn’t an age thing. It was the fact that I had been for all intents and purposes married for three years. When I woke up in the night, I still expected to find Trevor there. Except that wasn’t correct either. Trevor was the default, but nowadays I didn’t expect to find anyone there.

And wouldn’t for the foreseeable future.

Even as I told myself this, I felt my heart deflate. The foreseeable future was a long time, and the fact of the matter was, I had liked being one half of a couple.

I liked sharing my life with someone. I liked the comfort and joy of a steady relationship. I liked having someone to celebrate the good times with—and someone to turn to when the times weren’t so good. I liked security. I liked having regular sex with someone I trusted. Ha. More fool me. But partnership was more than sex and security. It was companionship too. I liked having someone to share my favorite books and films with. I liked cooking meals together and spending Sunday mornings having breakfast in bed. As much as I liked my book clubs and my film club and my cooking classes, as much as I enjoyed Sunday brunch with friends...it just wasn’t the same.

Not that it had been perfect with Trevor. When I was feeling lonely—and there was nothing like trying to fall asleep next to a complete stranger to make you feel lonely—I tended to view those years in a warm nostalgic glow, as if lit by the candlelight of a romantic dinner. The truth was, Trevor had driven me crazy a lot of the time. I used to wish he had a little more sense of humor, that he’d occasionally bother to hide the fact that my friends and family bored him, that he’d take on some of the responsibility of cohabitation—or just pay a utility bill on time for once.

Anyway. It was dead and done—and I’d already conducted the postmortem and filed my report.

Which didn’t change the fact that the next few days were going to be awkward. Awkward at best. Painful, was more like it. Trevor was not what anyone would call a good sport. He was going to do his best to make sure I regretted thwarting his wishes. The fact that I already regretted it wouldn’t make any difference.

Either way, the trip was paid for. No refund was possible. The options were two: I could spend the next few days coping with life on the road waiting for whatever revenge Trevor might come up with, or I could cut my losses, fly home and spend my vacation enjoying my books and garden—which was how I usually spent my vacations.

The airport was just across the road, literally a few yards away from where I lay. If I was going to pull out of the tour, sooner would be better than later. Later was going to be a huge hassle for everyone. Later was going to look like—and feel like—Trevor drove me off. Whereas I could get up, pack my bag, quietly leave tonight and... Trevor would still have driven me off, but it wouldn’t feel so much like the failure it would five days from now.

Strangely enough though, I wasn’t so sure now that I wanted to bail.

Yes, I had been bored and out-of-sorts at dinner, and yes, being around Trevor made me miserable, but I was here in Bonnie Auld Scotland. At long last I’d stopped talking about traveling and actually started traveling.

And I was going to meet my favorite author in the world—spend four nights in a castle on an island in Scotland, which even if the castle wasn’t owned by Vanessa, would be a really cool thing.

Plus, there was my new roomie John, who had definitely aroused my interest. Not that interest—although he was vaguely attractive, I guess—the interest that was more like curiosity. The intense curiosity that was programmed into the genetic code of every real mystery reader.

I listened to the rain, which was coming down pretty hard, a restless tick-tick against the window.

It would be a cold, wet walk to the airport. Whereas this bed, though narrow and suffering a pillow shortage, was warm and reasonably comfortable.

I continued to weigh the options while my eyelids grew heavier and heavier...

* * *

I woke to the sound of someone moving furtively in my bedroom.

I opened my mouth to yell, then remembered that you weren’t supposed to yell if the burglars were already in your space. You were supposed to be very quiet until you could slip away to safety. While I was reasoning this through—and realizing that there was no quiet way to disappear right out from under someone’s nose—I remembered I was in a hotel room in Scotland and that my roommate seemed to be sneaking into his clothes in the middle of the night.

No. He probably wasn’t sneaking. He was probably trying to be considerate.

I said, “I’m awake, if you want to turn on the light.”

John’s silhouette jumped about a foot and swore. He said with a hint of accusation, “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was. I’m a light sleeper.”

I could tell from his silence that he didn’t like that. And I didn’t like that he didn’t like that, because why would he be worried about me sleeping through whatever he was getting up to?

Not for the first time it occurred to me that there was something a little odd about John.

“I can’t sleep,” he said brusquely. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Okay.” I peered at the clock on the low table between our beds. One o’clock in the morning. I’d have been a little uneasy about walking around a strange city in the middle of the night, but clearly John was a more adventurous soul. You probably had to be pretty resilient to sell insurance for a living.

I closed my eyes—only to jerk awake at the sounds of commotion in the hall outside.

The room was still dark. In fact, it felt like only a minute or two had passed, but a quick glance at the clock indicated it was now five-thirty in the morning.

I was trying to analyze the memory of the sound that had woken me—it sounded a lot like a cow kicking a glass milk can over—when I heard the door lock turn.

I raised my head as the door inched open. A pale form hovered for a moment and then cautiously stuck his head in as though to make sure the coast was clear.

I reached up and snapped on the light. Both John and I winced in its glare.

“What the hell?” I inquired. Politely, I thought, given the circumstances.

“Oh, you’re awake,” John said. Ever so casually.

“Again.” I continued to squint at him from beneath the hand shielding my eyes.

“Er...yeah. Sorry about that. The maids left their cleaning cart in the hallway.”

“And you thought you’d take it for a spin?”

“Ha! No. I didn’t see it in time.” He held his phone up as though in explanation.

“Are you in for the night? Or still doing laps?”

He pushed the door wide-open and stepped inside. “In for the night. What’s left of it.”

“Thank God.” I turned the light off, flopped over onto my pillow and went back to sleep.

Chapter Three

John slept peacefully through the alarm going off at six-thirty.

He continued his dreamy slumbers while I showered, shaved, packed, and shoved my suitcase into the hall so it could be carted down to the bus. And he was still dead to the world when I stepped out, letting the hotel room door shut loudly behind me, and headed down to breakfast.

“I hear we have a new recruit!” Laurel Matsukado greeted me in the line for the breakfast buffet.

“Yep. He flew in last night.”

“There’s no info on him in the bios.”

I was a little disconcerted at how diligently my fellow travelers had studied for our trip. I had glanced at the bios, sure, but that’s about all I’d done. Lucky for me, I had a good memory—a good memory being essential in my line of work, as Yvonne could testify.

I said, “No. Alison told me he’s an insurance salesman from San Diego.”

“Ah.”

The line shuffled forward and we picked up plates and cutlery. Behind glass, the breakfast selections looked pretty much like the breakfast selection at home barring bacon that looked like smoked ham, fat, juicy gray sausages that seemed vaguely indecent sprawled on a breakfast plate, and black hockey pucks that were labeled “puddings,” no doubt as a practical joke on tourists.

I filled my plate and wandered toward the dining area. Edie and Bertie, the twins from Michigan, and the elderly, elegant Rose waved me over to their table.

We got the pressing business of my new roommate out of the way—I had to confess I hadn’t noticed if he was wearing a wedding ring and had failed to ascertain his availability status—and then Rose whispered, “Did you hear there was a death on the last tour?”

I gave up trying to cut my crispy pudding in half and looked at her. “Huh?”

Edie and Bertie seemed equally startled at this turn of conversation.

Rose nodded gravely. She threw an uneasy look over her shoulder in the direction of Alison and Hamish in line for the buffet. Alison was blithely chatting away to Hamish, who was peering suspiciously through the counter glass. “I overheard them talking about it last night.”

“You mean like a heart attack or something?” I asked.

“I don’t think so.”

Edie and Bertie asked in unison, “What then?”

“I don’t know. At least... I’m not sure.”

“Hmm,” I said. “Well, it was probably natural causes, whatever it was.” There were a lot of older people on this tour. I was pushing forty and I was likely the youngest person on board. Or maybe John was younger than me. Not by much though. Anyway, it stood to reason that now and again a vacationing oldster might end up with a one-way ticket to that big resort in the sky.

The other three gave me a look of impatient disgust.

“No!” Rose said. “I think it was something more.”

She straightened up abruptly as Alison and Hamish walked past with their laden plates and sat down a couple of tables away. Rose’s exaggerated air of innocence wouldn’t have fooled a baby, but beyond wishing us good morning, Alison and Hamish paid us no attention.

The sisters gave each other meaningful looks. Rose met my gaze and shook her head. Which I guess was supposed to be a warning not to pursue the topic.

We were a bunch of mystery fans on a tour celebrating fictional murder in all its gory detail, so I guess it was natural enough that we—they—might be more prone to jump to criminal conclusions than your average tourist.

Rose was certainly enjoying herself. There was a sparkle in her eye and a flush in her cheeks that I hadn’t noticed last night. In fact, she kind of looked like someone in love.

In love with the idea of murder?

Well, that was all of us, right?

Edie, Bertie and Rose finished eating and left to get a good seat on the bus. I enjoyed another cup of coffee and finished my meal at a more leisurely pace, glancing through the newspaper an earlier diner had left at the neighboring table.

There were the usual sports and political updates—the teams and names largely unfamiliar—national lottery results, the foiled attempted snatching of a schoolgirl, a false alarm at the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, and the hit-and-run death of a travel agent the previous afternoon.

Given the number of times Alison’s breakfast had been interrupted by members of our party, I found myself wondering if that travel agent had voluntarily jumped into the road. I bet it was even odds.

I folded the paper, left it to alarm the next tourist, and headed out to the bus.

The rain of the night before had stopped. The sky was blue, the sun shone brightly, glittering in the giant oily puddles dotting the parking area. The scent of jet fuel and cooked food drifted on the breeze. The roar of planes taking off from the airport competed with traffic from the M8 motorway.

I meandered over to the long silver-and-black bus, which was open and more than half full, as I discovered when I climbed aboard.

“Sixteen,” Yvonne informed me from the first seat on the left.

“What was that?”

“You’re the sixteenth member to board. I hope we’re not going to be late departing. It’s a very long drive today.”

Ben, seated next to her, offered an apologetic smile.

I smiled back and kept moving down the aisle.

Trevor was prone to car sickness, so I knew he’d be sitting up front. I chose a seat midway down the row and made myself comfortable by the window.

Around me, everyone was settling in. Stowing water bottles, arranging neck pillows, checking cameras and cell phones. The Scherfs and Rices spoke quietly while they studied a map.

“Good morning,” I said.

Gerda glanced up, smiled distractedly, went back to perusing the map.

I opened my guidebook, but the warmth of the sun through the window was so soothing that I settled for watching the planes land and take off from the airport next door.

“Seventeen, eighteen,” Yvonne announced as Trevor and Vance boarded.

They were smirking and smiling at each other, making a big production of choosing their seat. Finally, they settled right behind Yvonne and Ben, and spent the next few minutes fussing with each other’s collars and scarves, and taking turns giggling at under-breath comments. I knew they weren’t behaving like adolescents just to annoy me, but annoy me it did. Which was all on me. If I couldn’t stand to watch them together, I shouldn’t have come.

It wasn’t that I was still in love with Trevor. In fact, I was close to disliking him. Not in a he-done-me-wrong way, but more how-did-I-never-notice-what-a-jerk-he-was way. And yet dislike was not indifference. I wanted indifference.

How long before I was comfortably indifferent to him? To both of them?

Was this trip going to be good for achieving that goal? Or was it going to be detrimental? If I was going forward with the tour, and it appeared I was, I didn’t want to spend it distracted by thoughts of Trevor. Not even negative thoughts.

I went back to watching the planes. From where I sat, Glasgow Airport looked like a small airport, but it was the second busiest in Scotland. I watched streams of people flooding in and out, the constant arrival and departure of shuttle buses and cars.

The Matsukados appeared, clutching plastic bags and neck pillows and water bottles.

“Nineteen, twenty,” Yvonne informed them—and the rest of us. “And there’s Alison and Hamish. Where is twenty-one?”

“Where is twenty-one what?” Jim asked, bewildered. Laurel ushered him on.

Yvonne turned in her seat to stare at me. “Where is twenty-one?” she repeated.

“He was still sleeping when I went down to breakfast.”

Her eyes widened in consternation.

Alison boarded, began her headcount and was informed by Yvonne that I had callously left my roommate languishing while I gorged myself on scrambled eggs and sausages. Well, she didn’t exactly put it that way, but there was definitely a witness-for-the-prosecution tone to her update.

Alison looked alarmed and retreated, vanishing inside the hotel. She returned a short time later and held a brief conference with Hamish.

Four minutes later John burst out of the hotel, dragging his suitcase so fast I’m surprised its wheels didn’t catch fire.

Hamish climbed down to intercept, taking charge of the suitcase. John’s brown hair stood up in wet spikes and he looked wild-eyed and desperate as he clambered onto the bus.

The rest of us gave him a loud round of applause. His tanned complexion turned darker still.

When the claps and hoots had died down Alison said over the bus intercom, “Everybody, this is John Knight from San Diego, California. John flew in late last night just to be here with us on our Tour to Die For. We’re so glad he could make it.”

John raised a hand in greeting. “Hi there!” he said curtly. He directed a death stare my way as he passed, staggering down the aisle to the first empty seat way in the back.

I felt a twinge of guilt. I probably should have made sure he was awake before I’d left, but he was as capable as I was of setting an alarm. He was not my responsibility.

Hamish returned to his place at the helm—I hoped I was imagining that he seemed to be feeling his way up the stairs and behind the wheel—and the bus eventually rumbled into life.

More cheers from the Tour to Die For crowd. They were certainly an enthusiastic lot.

But even I felt a flicker of excitement as we pulled out of the parking area and onto the main road. I was here. The dream was now reality. I was in Scotland. The land of my forefathers. And foremothers. The land of brawny men in kilts, historic castles, Robert Burns, whisky, bagpipes, shaggy ponies, shaggy cattle, shaggy dogs and shaggy stories. Did I mention the brawny men in kilts?

Alison fiddled with the PA system’s mic. “Can everyone hear me?”

This met with applause. Was there anything this crowd didn’t love?

“We’re sticking closely to the itinerary today. Our plan is to drive north by way of the A9 past Stirling and Perth...”

From the seat behind me I could hear Edie saying, “Yes, it was a romantic way to end the series, but there was just so much more that could have been explored. Especially once Rachel and Michael got together.”

“It wasn’t only about the characters,” agreed Bertie. “Vanessa wanted to do the standalones.”

Across the aisle, Daya—the English lady from Devon—chimed in. “I prefer the standalones. I was bored with the Inspector MacKinnon books.”

“Were you?” Bertie sounded scandalized.

“MacKinnon was such a stuffy, self-important bore. I never believed in that relationship. Not for an instant. I don’t think Vanessa has much of a feel for romance.”

“N-not much of a feel for romance?” gasped Edie.

“No,” Daya said. “I think she prefers writing about sex and violence, don’t you? I don’t believe she’s ever had an actual relationship. Not from what I’ve read about her. She never married. In any case, you couldn’t write about the murder of children if you were in the least bit squeamish—if you want my honest opinion.”

It appeared Edie and Bertie did not, and the conversation behind me died a quick and chilly death. Working in a library, I was familiar with the various complaints about the hugely popular Inspector MacKinnon series. I could have told the sisters you can’t please all the people all the time. I very much doubted that Dame Vanessa, safe in her very own Scotland yard, spent much time crying herself to sleep over people who didn’t love Chief Inspector Rachel MacKinnon.

I arranged my neck pillow more comfortably and thought about putting my earbuds in. Alison was still explaining whatever there was left to explain about the day ahead. Reflected in the inside flat mirror I could see Rose whispering to the Kramers. They threw startled looks at Alison, who was still chirping away.

If, by some chance, Rose was onto something—and that couldn’t be possible, so to even consider the thought was ludicrous, but if by some freaky twist of fate, she’d stumbled onto something—she really ought to be more discreet.

Really. Truly. Because if this had been a Vanessa Rayburn novel, Rose was setting herself up to be the first victim.

Chapter Four

I love bagpipe music. But the Great Highland Bagpipes—those ancient instruments of war—were not intended to be played indoors. Let alone in the confined space of a tour bus. Unfortunately, Hamish turned out to be partial to a defunct pipe band known as the Hackle and we heard the complete recordings of The Pride o’ Scotland, The Spirit of Scotland, and, yes, Red Hackle in Concert while our bus wound its way through lush green scenery—any window frame of which would have been suitable for a month in Scottish Field calendar.

A little bit of bagpiping in close quarters goes a long way—in our case, just about one hundred and fifty miles. We were taking the scenic route past Stirling and Perth. And it was scenic. Somberly, majestically scenic: ancient pines, lonely silver-and-green lochs, craggy blue mountains, old stone bridges over rushing rivers. Phones and cameras clicked away as we wound our way into the highlands. The skies grew dark and then darker. Flecks of rain hit the bus windows, the road grew slick and dark, mist shrouded the trees and stone cottages, but it was still awe-inspiringly beautiful.

It was impossible to talk while the music was playing, but there probably wouldn’t have been a lot of conversation anyway. In fact, I began to feel like I’d boarded the bus to Brigadoon. Despite the still relatively early hour, one by one, my companions, possibly still recovering from their overseas flights, began to drop off.

A few rows ahead of me, Trevor and Vance leaned into each other—I recognized Trevor’s snores over the bagpipe music. The overhead rearview mirror offered me a view of row upon row of open mouths and gently bobbing heads. Roddy Bittywiddy was grabbing forty winks, though Daya busily knitted what appeared to be a pale blue baby giant’s bootie. Even the Scherfs and Rices appeared to be napping, despite arriving in Scotland a day ahead of the rest of us.

John was not asleep. He gazed out the window of the bus, his expression disapproving. Was he unhappy with the weather? Hamish’s driving? The decibel-defying levels of pipes and drums? There was probably an infinite supply of things on a trip like this that might give an insurance salesman the willies.

I considered his profile thoughtfully. He was nice-looking in a straightforward, manly kind of way. Not Vance’s toothpaste-commercial brand of handsomeness or Trevor’s perennial boyish cuteness, but John’s were the kind of looks that hold up over time and distance.

As though feeling my gaze, he looked up and met my eyes in the front mirror. He grimaced, and unclear what the message was, I grimaced back. He returned to staring sternly out his window and I returned to staring out mine.

I was tired, but I didn’t want to miss one moment of the drive. I’d waited years for this trip and it would probably be years before I returned to Scotland. If I ever did.

Someone else was not asleep. Rose was awake and busily writing in what looked like a leather journal. It was possible she was making notes on the scenery, but every so often she glanced up and skeptically eyed Alison and Hamish, who were chatting quietly, oblivious of her attention.

One too many episodes of Murder, She Wrote for sure.

Not long after we passed a road sign that indicated we were nearing the rest stop at Tyndrum, people began to stir and wake. Alison started up the aisle, stopping by my seat and handing me a sheet of blue paper. “These are the options for tonight’s dinner. Mark your starter, your entrée and your dessert. I’ll be by to pick them up shortly.”

“Will do.”

Scottish weather, Scottish scenery and now Scottish food. I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t enjoying it all, from the road signs in Gaelic to the crumbling crofts. I took my time choosing between such delicacies as carrot, turnip and lentil soup versus mystery pâté; leg of lamb versus fish pie; and sticky toffee pudding versus Dundee cake. After due consideration, I opted for the soup, roast leg of lamb and the sticky toffee pudding.

Now that everyone was upright and paying attention, Alison took the mic and began her spiel over the intercom.

“Our next stop is the village of Tyndrum, situated on the world-famous West Highland Way. In Gaelic, the name of the village means ‘the house on the ridge,’ and you can see just by glancing out the window at those impressive mountains that it’s well named. The West Highland Railway Line was recently voted the most scenic train journey in the world, which is something to think about for your next trip to Scotland. The area is a favorite with hikers as well as photographers like James Carmichael in Death of a Green Man.”

“How long until we stop for lunch?” Bertie called from behind me.

“Ninety minutes.” Alison didn’t miss a beat. “Another point of interest—something that didn’t make it into Death of a Green Man, though Vanessa did originally consider using it for a subplot—Tyndrum is the site of Scotland’s only working gold mine.”

Death of a Green Man was the fourth Rachel MacKinnon novel and it was where the series really took off, largely because of the introduction of QC Michael Patterson. Say what you will, a lot of people prefer their murders with a side of romance.

“Ninety minutes!” Edie was muttering to Bertie. “Breakfast was hours ago!”

“The village is built over the battlefield where Clan MacDougall defeated Robert the Bruce in AD 1306—”

“Is there anywhere to shop?” someone called.

“Yes. There’s the Green Welly Stop, which has everything from car blankets to snacks. Just keep in mind,” she warned, “you buy it, you have to lug it all over Scotland for the next nine days. There’ll be lots of places to shop along the way, so don’t feel like you have to pick up all your souvenirs here.”

The floodgate burst open.

“Do we have to pay for the restrooms?”

“Do they take traveler’s checks?”

“Is there a vegetarian offering for tonight’s meal?”

“If we don’t use the toilets here, when’s the next stop?”

Alison didn’t quite sigh, but it was close. She patiently answered each question as the bus trundled off the main highway and into the wet and shining parking lot in front of a shop and café called the Green Welly Stop. We piled out into the rain. The chilly air smelled of wet pine, fried food and diesel fuel. Most of our crew headed straight for the restrooms—along with all the passengers from the other two tour buses that had just arrived.

I enjoyed wandering through the narrow aisles packed with samplers of whisky, tins of cookies, T-shirts, sweatshirts, sweaters and just about everything else you could think of, but I also couldn’t help feeling...alone. A feeling that wasn’t improved when I saw a giggling Vance grab Trevor’s hand and pull him outside and past the rain-dotted window looking out onto the parking lot.

There was going to be a lot of that over the next nine days, and I really needed to be okay with it or this trip was going to turn into hell on wheels. Literally.

I bought a few odds and ends, mostly because I didn’t need to use the toilets, didn’t want to spoil my lunch with a snack, and didn’t have anything else to do. I was trying to decide whether my dad would like a Harris Tweed golf cap or whether it made sense to wait to see what came up on some of our next stops when I became aware the person standing next to me was not just muttering to himself.

“I’m sorry. What?” I stared into Roddy Bittywiddy’s watery blue eyes.

“I said, I don’t know why it had to be this particular trip. Scottish weather is awful this time of year. I tried to tell her. But once Daya gets an idea in her head...” He shook his head.

“They only offer the tour once a year,” I said. “I think it’s always in the fall.”

“But why this tour at all?” he insisted plaintively. “Why couldn’t we go somewhere warm? Somewhere with a nice sandy beach and drinks with umbrellas? Somewhere we know people.”

“You’re not a fan of Vanessa Rayburn?”

He shuddered at the idea. “Daya buys all her books, of course. The moment they hit the shelves. Reading puts me right to sleep.” He brightened. “Ah. Here she is! Hello, my love.”

His love joined us, nodding politely to me and removing the packet of chocolate digestive biscuits from Roddy’s clutches. I left him protesting, paid for my items, and started back for the bus.

As I was circumnavigating my way through the crowded entry hall, I caught sight of John in the shop’s restaurant. He happened to glance my way, and our gazes locked. He probably thought—well, who knew what he thought? I still wasn’t sure what his orientation might be. Although that particular look did seem a little more intent and focused than the sliding glances straight guys exchange.

I smiled politely and kept walking—straight into Ben.

I was moving briskly, so I nearly bowled him over. Ben was sturdily built though, so he stayed upright and I was the one who nearly went down. He grabbed my arm to steady me.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” I gasped.

He smiled, the first natural, relaxed smile I’d seen from him. It changed his face. Made him look younger, happier.

“What did you buy?” he asked.

“Er...whisky. Mostly.”

“Oh?” His thick brows shot up.

“As souvenirs. Mostly.”

“There you are, Ben!” Yvonne joined us. “I was going to have a cup of tea in the café.”

“All right, Mother.”

Yvonne looked at me. “Your roomie is ordering a full breakfast in there.”

“Is he?”

“That’s going to take some time to prepare.”

“He slept late. He’s probably hungry.” I was betting John already had a mother and didn’t need Yvonne, let alone me, keeping track of him.

Her brows, a miniature version of Ben’s shot up, but she turned to her son and said, “We’d better get in line before they call us to board the bus.”

Ben gave me an apologetic look and followed Yvonne as she bustled away.

I sighed inwardly and left the shop. Sally, the divorcée bookseller from New Mexico, stood a few feet from the bus hurriedly smoking a cigarette. Her thick brown hair was turning to ringlets in the rain. Cigarette smoke and exhaust drifted on the rainy breeze. I nodded to her in passing and she nodded glumly back.

“I didn’t think it would rain every day,” she said.

“That’s Scotland,” I replied, but in fairness it was only day one.

I was nearly the first to board the bus. The engine was idling and the pipes and drums of Red Hackle were turned down low. From my vantage point I could see Trevor and Vance in front of the shop. They were artistically positioned beneath the smiling green Wellington boot logo painted on the side of the building, and appeared to be arguing. I’m sorry to say it cheered me to no end.

I considered opening one of my whisky samplers, but it was probably too soon to celebrate.

Edie and Bertie boarded the bus. “If she doesn’t like Vanessa, I don’t know why she came on this tour,” one of the sisters was saying.

“Some people just like to ruin other people’s enjoyment.”

“Who’s that?” I asked, mainly to distract myself from watching Trevor and Vance.

Maybe they hadn’t noticed me lurking in my seat before, because this brought the girls up short. I couldn’t help noticing a certain accusatory light in their eyes as they gazed at me. “Is it true you used to date Trevor?” the one in the red coat said.

“Date him? That’s an interesting way to put it. We lived together for about three years.”

“Lived together?” That was the one in the blue coat. They exchanged surprised glances. “Vance said you went out a few times.”

“A f-f-few times!” I stuttered. Not that I had any intention of discussing my relationship with Trevor—and I was dismayed that he and Vance seemed bent on turning the three of us into a shipboard—well, busboard—scandal, but that caught me off guard. It hurt too, having three years dismissed as though we’d casually dated.

“Trevor said you’re following them everywhere like what’s-her-name in Death on the Nile.”

“What?” My voice shot up a note or two above the bagpipes. What’s-her-name in Death on the Nile happens to be a murderess. I was not amused. Not amused Trevor and Vance were discussing our little problem with strangers, and even less amused that they—Trevor—had the gall to imply that I was a stalker. Or worse. “That is absolutely incorrect,” I snapped in my best This is a Library not a Gymnasium voice. Not that anyone calls the gym a “gymnasium” anymore—besides irate librarians.

Edie and Bertie weren’t impressed. In fact, they weren’t paying attention to me anymore. The sister in red was peering out the window in front of me.

“Are they arguing?” she said.

“Yes,” I said shortly.

“Wow. What did Alison do to Rose?” the one in blue murmured.

“Wait. Who?” I turned to the window too, and sure enough, Rose and Alison seemed to be having a heated exchange in front of the small adjoining café. A stream of passengers returning to their various buses parted around them, throwing curious looks their way.

“That’s interesting,” the Poe in red commented.

The other nodded and they took their seats without further commentary. We watched in silence as Alison turned away sharply and disappeared inside the shop. Rose stared after her.

By then the rest of our group was starting to clamber onto the bus. No one seemed to notice, or at least no one commented on whatever had happened between Alison and Rose. That could have been due to the fact that Rose had boarded too. Her face was flushed and she was scowling, but she said nothing to anyone as she retook her seat.

After another minute or so Alison and John appeared. John did not board. Alison climbed inside and announced that our lunch stop would be Tyndrum after all, as a number of our group were too hungry to wait for the planned break at Pitlochry.

The news was mostly greeted with clapping. Alison did not exactly glare at Rose, but she did cast her a couple of side looks. Was that what their disagreement had been about? The lunch break?

One of the Poe sisters reminded us the first body in Death of a Green Man had been discovered by the roadside in Tyndrum, so that seemed to settle it. Once more we piled out of the bus.

Several people opted to eat at the Green Welly restaurant. The rest of us decided to hike up the road to the small café that had featured in Vanessa’s book. One of the things I liked about Vanessa’s work was that her protagonists came from all walks of life. In Death of a Green Man, Anna is a waitress. She teams up with photographer James Carmichael to solve a series of gruesome slayings.

I walked along the road with the Matsukados, the Kramers, Ben and Yvonne. The rain had stopped again, but the tall grass remained wet and the ground was squishy. The highway beside us was surprisingly busy. Tires hissed as cars zoomed past, suddenly appearing and then disappearing into the mist.

John strode ahead, trailing Sally, the Scherfs and the Rices.

Trevor, Vance and the Poes were somewhere behind the rest of us. Or at least I thought so, but all at once, Trevor stalked past me.

I looked at him in surprise. He threw me a hostile look and sped up. I glanced around, and there, sure enough, was Vance. He met my eyes, also lengthening his stride, and brushed against me. Hard.

The next thing I knew, I was falling into the road in front of an oncoming car.

Chapter Five

It happened so fast—and was so unbelievable—that I really didn’t feel more than a momentary flash of What the—? OH SHIT!

The car—a navy-and-white Mini Cooper swerved sharply, honking—even as a dozen clutching hands fastened on my jacket, my hair, my arms—and my fellow travelers whisked me out of harm’s way.

The Mini buzzed away, expressing outrage in an extended beeeeeep!

Regaining my balance, I gazed at the circle of red and white faces surrounding me—reading those shocked and frightened gazes, I realized how close I had been to becoming road kill.

My knees felt kind of...crumbly. I’ve never fainted in my life, but for a second or two I felt definitely...odd. Light-headed. My friends—and they did seem like friends now—seemed equally shaken.

“Th-th-these country drivers are worse than the Germans!” stuttered Nedda.

Yvonne said, “It’s not the driver’s fault. It was Mr. Stafford. He walked right into Mr. Matheson.”

“I saw that!” Laurel Matsukado looked flushed and indignant. “He practically pushed Carter into the road.”

The Poe sisters had joined us by then. They said in unison, “We saw it too!”

“Now, now, ladies,” objected Wally Kramer. “I know we all love a good juicy murder, but even in jest those kinds of accusations—”

Murder.

My stomach lurched, and it was all I could do to maintain my already not-so-stoic façade.

It couldn’t be true. Vance couldn’t have really intended to push me into the road. And Trevor certainly couldn’t have been aware of what was happening. Regardless of the situation between us now, he wouldn’t want me dead.

Neither of them would want me dead.

I mean, I didn’t want them dead, so why would they want me dead?

“He’s going to faint!” Laurel and Nedda cried in unison.

I waved them off. “No, no. I’m okay. I’m fine.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did faint,” Nedda said. “If you’d only seen how close those tires came to crushing your head.”

I swallowed the very bad taste in my mouth.

“He needs a drink,” Laurel said. “We could all use a drink.”

We gazed wistfully at the Tudor-style inn a few yards beyond the café. I could make out cheery red awnings over the tops of the tall hedges.

“We don’t want to go there,” one of the Poes objected. “That’s where they went.”

In the end, we opted to continue to the café and have lunch as planned, although the way my stomach was roiling I couldn’t imagine eating anything other than Xanax.

The long tables and wooden chairs of the dining room appeared to be packed with locals and hikers. We appropriated the few remaining tables, shrugging out of our coats and hats and scarves.

John had arrived a minute or two before us, and Bertie and Edie Poe invited themselves to share the corner he inhabited with the Scherfs and Rices. He did not look thrilled. An organized tour was not the best choice for the non-socially inclined, and observing John’s pained smile as the Poes squeezed in with him, I suspected that John fell in that category.

The Poes proceeded to relate the story of my near brush with death. Or I assumed that was what the whispers and fingers pointing at the now empty stretch of road meant. John, the Scherfs and the Rices all looked politely shocked, no doubt thinking the sisters exaggerated.

I tended to think the sisters exaggerated too, now that the initial flood of adrenaline had drained away. The car couldn’t have been as close as it seemed. Vance couldn’t have knocked into me as forcefully as it had felt.

My hands tingled. I glanced down and studied the scrapes on my palms. My knees felt sore too.

“You would have been dead if Ben hadn’t been there,” Yvonne said suddenly, as though reading my thoughts. I glanced at her, noticing she still wore her name tag. It was firmly stuck to her green quilted sweater. “He single-handedly snatched you from beneath the tires of that madman.”

Across the table, Ben met my eyes and cleared his throat.

“Thank you,” I said. I meant it.

“Single-handedly?” objected Nedda Kramer. “We all saved Carter.”

I smiled, noting that I had become “Carter” after nearly becoming a travel statistic. Vance and Trevor and John were still mostly being referred to by their surnames.

“And I appreciate it,” I said. “A lot. That’s not the way I want to find out more about the NHS.”

There were a few uneasy chuckles.

“It might not be the first time one of these trips has ended in tragedy,” Rose piped up. Her expression was meaningful. The Kramers exchanged uncomfortable looks.

Fortunately, the waitress appeared and further speculation on my close call was postponed while we gave our orders. Having defied death once already that day, I decided to gamble my entire circulatory system and order the steak pie and chips—with a half pint of Watneys to wash it down. Most of the others ordered burgers, fries and cokes, which I thought was a little unadventurous, but maybe they were feeling their way toward total cultural immersion.

I excused myself to wash my hands and examine the damage to my knees in the lavatory. Scrapes and scratches. Nothing serious. When I got back to the table, the talk had circled back to Vanessa and her works, in particular Pressure Cooker. There was some debate as to whether it lived up to her first standalone, Blink, and then more debate as to whether any of the standalones were as good as the MacKinnon series. Nothing that I hadn’t discussed with fellow readers before, but there was something sort of, well, comforting about being able to talk books and stories with people every bit as obsessive as me.

When our meals came, that bee in Rose’s bonnet began to buzz again.

“You know,” she said, wagging a French fry for emphasis, “they made everyone on the last trip sign a nondisclosure.”

There were a few polite murmurs, but Laurel said, “I don’t think that means anything. We had to sign a nondisclosure when we booked the tour.”

“But doesn’t that seem suspicious?”

“No,” said Wally. “It probably has to do with protecting Vanessa. Her intellectual properties, that is. She’s going to talk about writing and maybe what she’s working on now. It makes sense she wouldn’t want all of us to go blabbing all her secrets on social media when we get home.”

“True,” his wife said.

Rose looked unconvinced.

I studied her. “Do you really think someone was murdered on the last tour?”

Her eyes widened. “I didn’t say that.”

Not in so many words, no. But she seemed to be hinting at it. Or maybe she was just a natural-born gossip girl, and when her love of speculating about other people intersected with her love of mysteries, she wound up seeing crime everywhere. She was probably the talk of her Neighborhood Watch—or the commander.

“If there had been a murder, we’d have certainly heard about it,” Wally said. “It would have been all over the news.”

“Maybe,” I said.

Ben eyed me curiously. “Don’t tell me you’re starting to believe there was a murder?”

“No. Well, who knows? But I do think it’s possible that if something had happened, it could have successfully been hushed up. That’s all. It would make sense to hush it up. Anything else would be terrible for business.”

Or you would think. Certainly, with the normal tourist, it would be bad for business.

“Murder will out,” he said.

I raised my mug in a half salute. “Probably.”

* * *

Our allocated ninety minutes for lunch passed very quickly—and pleasantly. A lot more pleasantly than being the victim of a hit-and-run would have been, for sure. Before long we were marching back to the bus.

When we boarded, I couldn’t help looking to see if Trevor and Vance were already back. There was no sign of either of them, but John dropped into the seat beside me.

“Hey.”

I nodded politely.

His eyes were an unusual shade of brown. Almost pecan in color. I hadn’t noticed before. His nose was straight and his jaw purposeful, his mouth firm and nicely shaped. Yep, he was definitely attractive, and although I’d been thinking I was past any interest in that kind of thing, I couldn’t help feeling an unexpected jolt of awareness.

“Did Stafford really push you into the path of a speeding car?” John sounded more interested than concerned.

I groaned softly. “Oh. God.” That explained all the curious looks I was getting from those who hadn’t been in the café with us earlier.

John was still watching me, waiting for an answer. Maybe, being my roommate, he was worried about the possibility of getting caught in crossfire.

I began, “They brush—”

He interrupted, “They? They who?”

“Trevor and Vance were walking behind the rest of us, and I guess we weren’t moving fast enough because they sort of pushed through, and Vance knocked me into the road.”

“In front of an oncoming car?”

I winced. “It wasn’t... I don’t think it was deliberate, if that’s what people are saying. I think I was in the way, and they’re—”

“They again,” John said.

I scowled, but he had a point. “Trevor and Vance are already annoyed with me. That’s all. I don’t think it was something they—he—planned. I was just...”

“In the way,” John finished for me. “Nice. I deduct you and Temple used to be together.”

“Deduce,” I said.

“What?”

“You deduce.” I massaged my forehead. “Sorry. That was rude.”

“I’d already deduced you and Temple used to be together.” He repeated it matter-of-factly, so at least it was reassuring to know I was not sharing a room with an undeclared homophobe. You never could tell. Prejudice lurked in some unexpected hearts.

“For about three years. We’ve been split up ten months.”

He looked taken aback. “You booked this trip after you split up?”

“God no. Are you kidding? I booked this trip nearly two years ago when there was still a waiting list. I didn’t, er, foresee the future.”

He thought this over. “I think in your place, I’d have cancelled. You must really love Vanessa Rayburn.”

“I do. But if I’d had any idea what this was going to be like... Anyway, I really hope people don’t try to turn this into some Big Thing, because it wasn’t like that. Vance bumped against me. It was a split second and it could have been any one of us.” I could hear the earnestness in my tone and I knew I was overexplaining.

John knew it too because he laughed.

“I don’t see the humor.”

“You’re embarrassed at the idea someone tried to kill you. I think that’s funny. Most people would be mad. Or scared. You find it socially awkward.”

I was exasperated—maybe because there was a little bit of truth to his words. “I’m embarrassed at all the attention this is getting because it was really nothing. He didn’t try to kill me.”

John looked more polite than convinced. He nodded farewell and shifted seats, settling a couple of rows back, which I found vaguely disappointing. But there were plenty of other people to chat with if I was feeling so sociable.

Trevor and Vance jogged up a minute or so later. Vance never glanced at me, but Trevor threw me the usual hostile look before flinging himself in the seat next to Vance. Right. I was the one at fault for getting in Vance’s way? Was that his interpretation of events?

The bus doors closed with a whoosh, and we were off. I stared out the window, but for once the breathtaking scenery left me unmoved. I didn’t see it. Instead, I saw the cavernous treads in those enormous seeming tires headed straight at me...

I closed my eyes. Willed the image away. No. However it had looked, Vance and Trevor had not tried to get rid of me. Had not tried to murder me. The idea was preposterous. The sole reason the idea had occurred to anyone was because we were mystery aficionados. We were conditioned to see criminality in sheer coincidence. In mystery fiction there are no coincidences.

Bags of crisps and boxes of biscuits began to travel up and down the aisles. Alison pulled a bottle of whisky from a cupboard in the back of the bus, and strolled up and down, dispensing tiny plastic cups and booze.

Hamish finally took pity on us and switched out the pipes and drums for traditional country dance music. My heart lightened. In my twenties, I’d taken a few classes in Scottish country dancing—in my twenties, I’d taken a few classes in just about every social enterprise known to man—and the sad truth is hot single guys do not congregate at SCD meetings, despite the allure of kilts and Prince Charlie jackets. Still, listening to the reels, polkas and strathspeys of accordion legend Jimmy Shand did give me some nostalgic moments.

By the time we made the convenience stop in Carrbridge, the rain was thundering down and the countryside had melted into a watercolor blur of greens. “Forty Shades of Green,” in fact, though that particular song is about Ireland, not Scotland. The bus windows fogged up, and Hamish leaned over the steering wheel as though trying to peer over the engine block to see the road.

Between the booze and jet lag, people began to nod off for the second time. It was tempting to shut my eyes and put my head back, but once again I fought off the desire to nap, not wanting to miss anything.

Not that there was much going on.

Ben and Yvonne had switched places. He stared out the window, his profile impassive. On the aisle seat, Yvonne’s head tipped down as she slept.

Did they ever split up or were they strictly a package deal? I found Ben sort of interesting, but Yvonne’s constant presence was a definite deterrent to getting to know him better.

I automatically glanced back at John. He met my eyes, nodded cordially and I nodded back. John was interesting too, but what was his story? I was sure he had one. Insomnia was one thing. I couldn’t help noticing that every time the conversation turned to Vanessa and her work—which was pretty much every time someone opened their mouth—he hadn’t a single word to say.

The rain continued to beat down as we lumbered across the Kessock Bridge onto the Black Isle.

* * *

Sooty, purple-smudged evening had fallen when we pulled into the quaint Victorian spa town of Strathpeffer with its pretty cottages and grand manor houses. Many of the cottages were now B&Bs and most of the manor houses were hotels. The village, a scant four miles west of Dingwall, was nestled in rolling green hills and surrounded by dense forest turning autumn gold.

Alison manned the mic once again, waking some of the heavier sleepers from their dreams.

“Because of its proximity to Ben Wyvis, Strathpeffer is a well-known and popular destination for mountain climbers. However the town’s real claim to fame is its history as a once-renowned European health resort. Sulfurous springs were discovered in the early-eighteenth century and ailing visitors from all over the continent would travel here to drink mineral from the famous Pump Room.”

“I’ll stick with my white wine,” Nedda called.

Everyone laughed. Even after a single day on a bus, we had developed a certain camaraderie. People were taking on character roles. Nedda was the wisecracking New Yorker, Laurel the peacemaker from San Francisco. Yvonne could be counted on to find fault with the arrangements, whatever they were. Rose was our conspiracy theorist.

Alison smiled too, but she was a woman on a mission. “We’ll be staying at the Ben Wyvis Manor House Hotel for two nights. Dinner is at seven sharp.” She added, in what was clearly a preemptive strike, “Please recall that you made your meal selections earlier this afternoon.

“Immediately following tonight’s meal, we’ll be treated to an old-fashioned ceilidh, a dance party with entertainment provided by local musicians and storytellers.”

This was met with a few claps of approval.

“Tomorrow morning we’ll be touring the village of Strathpeffer, which has a newly renovated grand pavilion and arts performance center. As I’m sure you all recall, the body of folk singer Joan Kent, the first victim in Natural Remedy, was discovered in the pavilion during a Celtic music festival. What you might not know is Vanessa previously used this locale in one of the very early MacKinnon books. The village of Hichwhich in The Cure for Wellness is based on the town of Strathpeffer.”

This was greeted with only a few polite murmurs, proof of how tired everyone was after a day of driving.

“Tomorrow is also the first of our free afternoons. That means after our official tour of the village, you’re welcome to do local sightseeing on your own. I recommend the Highland Museum of Childhood, located at the restored Victorian train station—and, of course, featured in the previously mentioned The Cure for Wellness.”

I happened to glance up at the mirror and caught John’s expression. I nearly laughed. Had he really not read any of the MacKinnons?

Alison continued her cheerful spiel. “This is a wonderful area for hiking. My favorite walk is through Ord Wood to picturesque Loch Kinellan, where you can see the ruins of a fort on the small island.”

The bus turned onto a long shady drive and there were a few gasps.

“Now that’s a hotel,” someone said.

It sure made a change from the Caledonian Inn. Three stories of classic Queen Anne architecture: gray-and-cream stone, cantilevered upper stories with rows of tall, double-hung windows, and—at a quick glance—at least thirteen chimneys. It was a manor house, all right, surrounded by at least five acres of grounds and woodland.

“When’s dinner?” someone else called. Inevitably.

“Seven.”

“Can we push dinner back?” Nedda asked. “It’s six now. We haven’t even checked in. Heck, we haven’t even stopped moving.”

Alison smiled, but there was a steely glint in her eyes. “Unfortunately, not. The arrangements for the ceilidh are pretty much set in stone. If everyone could just do their best to be ready on time, it will make life easier.”

“For whom?” Yvonne inquired tartly.

Alison let that pass, turning away to speak to Hamish, who appeared to be feeling around for the stick shift.

It was a surprisingly long drive from the iron gates to the old manor house, and underlined how far the house was from the rest of the village.

We menfolk helped Hamish unload the bus to speed up the process and give the ladies a fighting chance of doing their hair and makeup before the dinner gong rang. The check-in process was reassuringly swift and efficient, but even before I grabbed my suitcase I could hear wails from overhead.

“What on earth is that sound?” Sally from New Mexico gazed ceilingward in alarm.

“The hotel is supposed to be haunted,” Daya remarked.

I bit back a smile. Maybe the hotel was haunted, but it was hard to imagine ghosts being that upset about no Wi-Fi.

“It’s not just me, right?” John asked, when I found him in our small—very small—twin room a few minutes later. “This room is freezing.”

The elevator was out of service, so I’d had to carry my bag up the two flights of steep stairs. I was panting as I dragged my suitcase the last few feet and let it crash to the bare wood floor. “Well, I don’t think it’s actually thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, but yeah. It’s chilly.”

John said, “I can see my breath.”

“Probably the fried onions you had for lunch.”

He grinned. His teeth were very white and the bridge of his nose crinkled boyishly. It was kind of appealing. “I didn’t have fried onions.”

I grinned back. “My mistake.”

“Your fear is not misplaced. I do like fried onions.”

“I’ll remember to keep my distance.”

John made a noncommittal sound.

Had that sounded like I was flirting? Was I flirting? I’d been pretty sure the breakup with Trevor had knocked every last flicker of flirtatiousness out of me, and yet whether it was the feeling of being on an adventure or something about John himself, I felt almost...playful. Playful in a way I hadn’t felt in months. Would that be a problem for John? I glanced at his left hand.

No wedding ring.

Not all married people wore wedding rings. Anyway, you didn’t have to be married to be committed. Trevor and I had not been married, but I had certainly been committed.

Or should have been.

He said, “I don’t think the heat is on.”

“They probably don’t run it in unoccupied rooms.”

“You’re an optimist. It doesn’t feel like the radiator has ever been on.”

It was a little nippy. John was right about that. I stepped over to have a closer look at the radiator, which was one of those tall deathtrap things positioned right next to the door, so as to make entering and leaving more challenging—as if the precarious landing and narrow stairs weren’t enough to navigate. A wrench rested on top of the radiator.

I held up the wrench. “Great. DIY climate control.”

“Seriously?” John said. “For the money this tour costs?” He was moving swiftly, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it to the foot of his twin bed. To distract myself from the sight of his surprisingly buff—okay, maybe not washboards or six-packs, but close enough—torso, I called down to the front desk. The girl there assured me there should be a wrench on or near the heater. Even her adorable Scottish accent couldn’t quite defuse the impact of that bad news.

“Yeah, there is. But I’m not a—a plumber.”

“Och. There’s nothing to it.” She cheerfully spilled out increasingly unintelligible instructions—unintelligible, not because of her accent, but the fact that I don’t know a radiator from an accordion.

Just as my eyes were beginning to spin in my head, John poked his head out of the bathroom. “More bad news. The shower doesn’t work.”

I covered the phone. “Doesn’t work at all?”

“The shower head doesn’t work. You could take a bath, I guess. If you had time. Which we don’t.”

I relayed this to the front desk who, sounding sweetly patient in the face of extreme provocation, finally agreed to send the handyman up.

“A brush and a flush,” I decided, as I replaced the receiver. “And a change of shirt.”

“A shave and a splash,” John concurred and retreated again to the bathroom to turn the sink taps on full blast.

A gust of windy rain hit the small window in the corner. It sounded—and felt—like someone had thrown ice tacks at the glass. I opened my suitcase and dug around for the least wrinkled shirt I could find, and ended up selecting a black soft-wash long sleeve crew T-shirt. I remembered enough from my country dance days to know a ceilidh was not a formal event.

The door rattled noisily in its frame as someone banged on it.

“At this point he’s just going to be in the way,” I grumbled.

John leaned out of the bathroom and opened the door.

Trevor stood on the landing wearing a ferocious scowl and the blue cashmere sweater I’d bought him for his thirty-ninth birthday.

Chapter Six

“Hey, it’s for you,” John told me.

I gave him the look that speaks volumes, as we say in the librarian biz.

Trevor too was giving him a look. “Do you mind?” he said.

“Yep. I do,” John replied. “I’ve got thirteen minutes left to get ready for dinner and you’re about to take up way too many of them.” He withdrew into the bathroom once more, though the door remained open.

“Fine. Whatever.” Trevor swung back to me and realigned his glare. “Are you completely crazy?”

Not the question I was expecting—besides being rhetorical, right? I began, “I—”

“How dare you go around telling everybody that Vance tried to shove you in front of a car?”

“Me? I never said that.” There wasn’t time to stop and argue. I hastily kicked out of the blue jeans I’d been wearing all day and pulled on a clean pair of black jeans.

Trevor watched my hurried efforts, still glaring. Weirdly, his glare seemed to deepen when he noted my scraped knees. “Bullshit! Everyone on the bus was whispering about it.”

“I can’t help what people saw.” Okay, yes, I probably could have phrased that more tactfully. Trevor’s face got redder. I said quickly, “What they think they saw.”

“You sure didn’t try to correct them!”

I pawed through my suitcase for a clean pair of socks. It wasn’t that I didn’t have plenty of clean clothes, but from the state of my belongings, you’d think Hamish had thrown our bags down a cliffside before stowing them in the bus’s luggage compartment. I threw a harassed look over my shoulder. “How do you know what I did or didn’t do?”

“I know you, Carter. I know how you operate. You’re doing everything you can to ruin this trip for me.”

That got my attention. I stopped digging through my suitcase, and straightened up so fast I’m surprised I didn’t throw my back out. “Explain how I’m ruining this trip for you?”

“Every time I turn around, there you are again with that—that accusing stare.”

“Really?” John said from the bathroom. Trevor jumped. I may have started too. I think we’d both forgotten he was still in the room. I certainly hadn’t thought he could hear us over the sound of running water. We both stared at him, framed in the bathroom doorway, slowly, deliberately drawing the razor across his square jaw. He scraped away another snowy drift of shaving cream and said to Trevor, “Because you’re the one who keeps showing up at our door.”

“Our?” Trevor looked even more taken aback. “How does this involve you?”

“It’s my room. Half my room.”

I think it genuinely threw Trevor. He looked from John to me. “Do you really want to do this here?” he demanded.

“I don’t want to do it at all. Look, I’m not accusing Vance of anything. I don’t know that—don’t think he deliberately pushed me into the road. If you’d—”

“You think that’s helping?”

“It’s the best I can do under the circumstances. Jesus. If you’d shut up about it, people would lose interest in the subject.”

“He’s right,” John said.

“Nobody asked you,” Trevor snapped.

“If you’re going to have this conversation in my room, then I have a right to express my opinion.”

It probably wasn’t funny, but suddenly it seemed funny.

Trevor opened his mouth but I cut him off. “Okay, look, time out. In fact, game over. Trevor, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not leaving the tour. And if that’s going to ruin it for you, sorry. I have as much right to be here as you do.”

“This is just more of your passive-aggressive—”

“Uh, no,” John said, rinsing off his razor. “That’s aggressive-aggressive.”

“Will you keep out of it?” Trevor shouted. “This isn’t any of your business.”

“Sure, it i—”

The lamps flared and went out.

Granted, there hadn’t been much illumination radiating from those antique wall sconces before. But the sudden and absolute total darkness did shut us all up for a nanosecond. The startled silence was filled by the running tap water.

There was a squeak of taps and the water stopped.

I heard Trevor’s breathing get funny. He’d always had a problem with claustrophobia, and this tiny room—the chilly blackness that seemed to press in from all sides—probably flipped his switch.

“The place is supposed to be haunted.” John’s tone, drifting through the darkness, was conversational.

Trevor’s breath hitched. I opened my mouth to say something reassuring—old habits, I guess—but the lights blazed on. I blinked in the sudden brightness.

“Funny.” Trevor glared at John, as though he thought John had played a trick on him.

John raised his hands like don’t look at me.

“Okay,” I said briskly. “Enough.” I yanked open the door. “Go,” I told Trevor. “We’ve got less than ten minutes to get ready for dinner and if you don’t get your ass in gear we’re going to end up sitting together. Won’t that be nice?”

“What would be nice,” Trevor began. “Is if you and Mr. P—”

I shut the door on the rest of it.

“Hey,” John said mildly. “I wanted to hear my nickname.”

“Mr. Personality is your nickname, and to be honest, Mr. Personality, you weren’t helping.”

“No?” John surveyed the reflection of his cleanly shaven jaw with satisfaction. “You know what I think?”

I eyed him warily. “What?”

“I think Trevor’s afraid his boyfriend did try to shove you into the road.”

I stared at him. As much as I wanted to deny it, when I remembered Trevor’s face, that angry, scared glitter in his eyes, I suspected John might be onto something.

“You know what else I think?”

“No.”

“There’s a reason Trevor keeps turning up on your doorstep.”

“Uh, yeah. He’s trying to get me to leave the tour.”

“Try again.”

I must have looked genuinely confused, because John said, “You could probably get him back, if you want him. You’d have to be crazy, in my humble opinion, but you got involved with him in the first place so maybe you are crazy.”

I could see my reflection in the mirror behind him. I was openmouthed with astonishment. Also, I looked pretty good in that black long-sleeve T-shirt. “What are you talking about?”

“The guy’s a prick,” John said almost kindly, like he was breaking it to me.

“That, I know. I mean what’s the rest of that supposed to mean?”

“About getting him back?”

“Yes.”

John shrugged. “Think about it. There’s a reason his boyfriend thinks getting you out of the way wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“Oh, but that was just—”

“And it’s the same reason Trevor keeps popping up to remind you that you’re supposed to be eating your heart out over him.”

I was surprised at how uncomfortable this conversation was making me. How uncomfortable I was with the idea that Trevor had regrets. “It’s not that,” I said. “He’s mad at me for coming on this trip.”

John’s brows rose in polite skepticism. “I think it’s a little more complicated than that.”

“And you’re an expert on relationships?”

“Yep. You kind of have to be in my line of work.”

“Selling insurance?” I asked blandly.

“Uh...yes.”

“Hmm.” I was doubtful.

John finished buttoning his shirt. He was wearing a cream-colored dress shirt and brown wool-blend trousers, and he looked handsome in a business casual kind of way. “Business casual” had never been my type, but it turns out “unemployable” isn’t exactly the stuff of romance either.

“Anyway. Something to think about.” He headed for the door. “See you at dinner.”

The room was very quiet after he’d left, and his aftershave lingered pleasantly. I finished dressing, waited a minute or two for the handyman—though mostly I was just stalling while I considered John’s troubling theory—and then finally went downstairs to dinner.

There had been a time—not really so long ago—when the idea that there might still be a chance Trevor and I could patch things up would have made my evening. But over the months that had changed.

There are things there’s just no forgiving. In my case, the worst part wasn’t the affair with Vance—devastating though that had been—it was what an asshole Trevor had been during the uncoupling process. Despite having been the one who had the affair and was breaking off our relationship, he had continually treated me like the bad guy, the villain, the untrustworthy one. I didn’t know if that was his way of handling guilt—convincing himself that even his infidelity was somehow my fault?—or if he just really was a complete jerk. He’d fought me over everything, from idiotic, trivial things like who had purchased a particular green plastic spatula, to bigger things like wanting “his share” of my retirement fund. Thank God, we hadn’t actually married. Legally, he hadn’t had a leg to stand on—which, weirdly, had made him all the angrier and more hostile.

It was strange how you could love someone, but really not know them very well. Or maybe I had known him, but he had changed. Maybe Vance brought out the worst in him. Or maybe the worst in him was what brought out Vance.

I didn’t know. What I did know was that I could never trust Trevor again, and that meant there was no chance in hell we’d ever get back together.

At the same time, I can’t deny I felt a mix of emotions at the idea he might have some regrets. Uppermost was a weird sort of depression because if Trevor did have regrets, what the hell had all that grief and misery been for?

* * *

The dining hall was packed by the time I arrived, and the noise level was more reminiscent of a high school cafeteria than a baronial mansion. Not only was there an unexpected number of independent guests, another tour bus had arrived shortly after our own. Everyone crowded in at the long, linen-covered tables, jostling the tall candelabras and knocking chair backs against each other.

Happily, I was able to find a seat a safe distance from Trevor and Vance, slipping in across from Sally, who I’d yet to spend any time with. She had tried to tame her mop of curls by tying them in a ponytail, but most of her hair had escaped. She wore a bright red blouse printed with studious cats wearing spectacles.

I shook out my napkin and looked around for someone I could place a drink order with.

Trevor studiously avoided looking my way. Not so Vance, who glowered at me across the breadbaskets and water glasses. There was something peculiar about his hair. He was wearing it afro style. Some guys can carry that off, but on Vance the look was more Mad Scientist than Odell Beckham Jr.

Sally slid the breadbasket my way. “Did you hear something about a mysterious death on the last tour?”

I wasn’t sure if this was starting to be funny or not.

“I’ve heard vague rumors. Actually, one rumor. I think Rose started it.” I glanced around for Rose, and sure enough, there she was at a table near the enormous windows, whispering earnestly to Daya and Roddy Bittywiddy. The Bittywiddys looked both shocked and titillated at whatever information was being conveyed.

“It might be true.”

“What?” I stared at Sally.

“I guess Wally Kramer tackled Alison about it, and apparently she was very...”

“She admitted it?”

“Not exactly. She didn’t deny it though. In fact, he said she was very cagey.”

“Very cagey? What does that mean?”

Sally shook her head. “I was thinking maybe we should...” Once again, she let it trail.

“We should what?”

“I don’t know. Investigate?”

I gawked at her. “What? Us? How? Why?”

She seemed startled at my response. “Why? Well, because.”

“Because why?”

“We’re all mystery buffs, after all. Who better?”

“Police. The local constabulary. The not local constabulary. Scotland Yard. The gamekeeper. The gatekeeper. The keymaster. I don’t know. Pretty much anyone other than us.”

“You can’t be serious,” she protested.

“I was going to say the same thing to you.”

“But...”

Was I being punked? She seemed perfectly sincere. Alarmingly sincere. I said, “But what? I mean...what does it have to do with us? If there was a death on the last tour, that’s awful, but how does it affect this tour?”

“A mysterious death,” she tried to clarify.

I frowned. “What does that mean though? An unsolved murder? Is that what everyone is thinking? That would be for law enforcement, not us. It would be an ongoing investigation.” I could see I was proving a great disappointment to Sally, but murder—real murder—wasn’t a game. It was...alarming.

I said firmly, “If there was something wrong, the authorities would have shut the tour company down.”

“Would they?”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Maybe the authorities didn’t realize what they were dealing with.”

I was starting to feel like I’d stepped into a Christopher Guest film. I asked carefully, “What were they dealing with?”

“Murder,” she whispered—and I’m not sure why she was whispering, since I had already used the M-word twenty seconds earlier.

I shook my head. “Why don’t we just ask Alison? I bet this could all be cleared up in two minutes.”

“Wally did ask her. Remember?”

A waitress appeared to take my drink order. I ordered a Famous Grouse single malt—and then asked her to make it a double. As much as I loved reading about murder and mayhem, I had never kidded myself I’d make a good detective. The extent of my sleuthing ability was finding misfiled books and lost editions.

The starters arrived before Sally could resume her pitch. Pâté of unknown origin for her. Carrot, turnip and lentil soup for me. We were amicably divvying up the flower-shaped pats of butter for the still-warm bread when Ben and his mother arrived.

“There’s no hot water,” Yvonne informed the table, squeezing in three seats down. “None.” She had transferred the name tag from her coat to the black sequined blouse she wore. Ben pulled out the chair next to me. We smiled briefly at each other.

“Who had time to shower?” Nedda’s voice drifted from the other side of the immense, many-armed sterling silver candelabra. “Not us.”

“How’s your room?” Ben asked. “We’ve got a view of the woods.” He looked nice in a gray wool pullover and jeans.

“I think the word is quaint,” I replied. “We’re facing the front garden but our only window is recessed and offers a lovely view of the fire escape.”

“The good news is you’ll manage to escape when the place burns down tonight. The power went out on our floor.”

“Ours too. Only for a few seconds though.”

Yvonne said, “I suspect some of these rooms might have been the old servant quarters. There should be some compensation for that.”

“Well, it’s all part of the adventure, right?”

Wrong, said Yvonne’s expression.

“I guess in a place this old there are bound to be problems with the wiring. I’m willing to make the tradeoff.” Laurel Matsukado was seated on my other side. “I can see why Vanessa used it as the setting for the first time Rachel and Michael spent a night together.”

“I seriously doubt Vanessa ever slept here,” Yvonne said. “I doubt if she so much as had a meal here. I was looking through my guidebook and there are much nicer hotels in the vicinity.”

“But the idea is to stick to the locales Vanessa used for the books,” I said. “That’s the point of the tour.”

“Isn’t there something called literary license? Rachel and Michael deserved better. As do we.”

Laurel and I glanced at each other. I had a feeling my expression matched her determinedly pleasant not-going-to-get-into-it one. There was probably an Yvonne on every tour.

Our meals came. For me, roast leg of lamb with a rosemary and red wine gravy, and blackcurrant and apple-mint jelly on the side. It looked great and smelled even better. Between the double whisky and the prospect of a nice—and traditionally Scottish—meal, my spirits rose.

Yvonne leaned across to say, “I can never understand people who order lamb.”

“It’s pretty tasty when it’s prepared properly.”

“I can’t help thinking about how sweet they look, stumbling around the meadows, their little tails going a mile a minute.”

If someone was going to be murdered on our tour, I hoped it would be Yvonne. And I hoped it would be soon.

Ben gave me one of his apologetic smiles. I summoned a return smile. It occurred to me I hadn’t seen John. I glanced around and finally spotted him three tables over, deep in conversation with Gerda Rice, one of the teacher quartet. Gerda was smiling, but she kept glancing at her companions like how did I get stuck with this guy? Maybe he was trying to sell her an insurance policy.

Happily, murder was not the topic of conversation during the meal.

In fact, the dinner table mood was congenial and lively, despite the frantic rush to get ready and get downstairs in time. The naps and whisky on the bus seemed to have left everyone refreshed and ready to party. A few more drinks at dinner didn’t hurt.

Sally and I talked about books and the challenges of keeping print relevant in the digital age. She complained too many of her customers treated her bookstore like a library. I complained that too many of my patrons treated my library like a daycare center.

Before dessert was served, the lively scrape and slide of fiddles drifted from down the hall. The musicians were warming up in the former ballroom, which was now used as the hotel meeting room.

“Are you going to the ceilidh?” Ben asked.

“Sure. We all are, aren’t we?” I couldn’t help noticing Yvonne was listening to our exchange. I smiled at her. Her mouth curved tightly in automatic response.

“Is there dancing? I’m not much for dancing.”

“I’m not sure, but Scottish country dancing isn’t like ballroom dancing. It’s more like controlled running and skipping. They’ll have someone to walk us through the sets.”

“I’m not much for skipping either.”

I smiled, but I found his attitude disappointing. I mean, I wasn’t exactly the adventurous type—as Trevor never hesitated to point out—but even I knew when in Rome—or Scotland. Wasn’t that the point of travel? Broaden your horizons? Push your boundaries? I didn’t want to think I had more boundaries than horizons.

* * *

The meal ended and the various tour directors began shepherding their groups out of the dining room. Alison informed us that yes, there would be country dancing for anyone brave enough to give it a whirl, and I decided to put those old lessons to good use and went upstairs to change my boots for running shoes.

For a hotel full of guests, the halls seemed eerily quiet as I jogged up the flights of stairs leading to the second level and then down the shadowy corridor to my room. An old hotel definitely smelled different from a new hotel. It wasn’t musty exactly, but the scent of decades’ worth of pets and pipes and flowers and furniture polish had permeated the paneling and floorboards. In some strange way the odor reminded me of old books. Maybe because it was the fragrance of hundreds of lives, hundreds of stories.

As I reached the door I realized it stood slightly ajar. Someone was moving around inside my room. The hair rose on the back of my neck. I halted.

Not the maid. The hotel did not offer turndown service. Probably no one who wasn’t a paying guest wanted to stay past sundown.

Not John. I’d just seen him downstairs, on his way toward the ballroom with most of our group.

Commonsense reasserted itself. I relaxed. Of course! The handyman had finally arrived to fix the radiator. And not a minute too soon. The drafty hallway was cold enough to hang meat.

I reached for the doorknob. The next instant the door flew open and someone charged out, knocking me down the short flight of stairs.

Chapter Seven

Ow. Ouch. Owww...

Step by step, I went bumping down the staircase. I received the confused impression of peacock-blue carpet, dark wood bannisters, and silver-and-white tin ceiling tiles as I tumbled backwards down the stairs. Even as a pair of black boots leaped over me—narrowly missing my nose—I was still thinking in terms of accidental collision.

I smacked down flat on my back, more startled than hurt, and tried to get my breath.

What the hell had just happened?

“Hey!” I cried, belatedly. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The only answer was the sound of retreating footsteps, followed by the squeaking hinges of the interior glass doors that separated this wing of the house from the central section.

“What the...” I sat up cautiously, wincing. As staircases went in this house, that had been a short one, and I was not greatly injured. I was astonished and more than a little pissed off. I scrambled up and set off in tardy pursuit, but by the time I reached the French doors, now standing ajar, there was no sign of anyone.

I continued down the hall, but there was no sight or sound of the intruder. No lights shone from beneath doors.

I turned and went back to my room.

Our door stood wide-open and I could see at a glance that our suitcases had been searched.

Correction. John’s bags had been searched. I’d already dumped mine out in the desperate effort to get down to dinner on time.

After a quick, cursory examination I decided my things hadn’t been touched since I’d ransacked them myself, but John’s belongings were scattered across both the beds. I studied the display of perfectly ordinary boxers, T-shirts, jeans and sweaters.

It didn’t look like he owned anything particularly valuable, and I had no way of knowing if anything was missing. Something did catch my attention though.

Or rather it was the lack of something.

John had not brought a single copy of Vanessa’s books.

Not one.

Now that really was odd because the tour handouts specifically stated that guests were to bring whatever books and memorabilia they wanted signed. It had been made clear that Vanessa’s island home did not offer a gift shop or a bookstore and we would not be able to purchase such items once we left the mainland.

What kind of super-fan wouldn’t want a personalized autograph from their favorite author? It wasn’t like Vanessa attended conferences or did book tours these days.

Once again, I couldn’t help wondering if John was taking part in this tour for private reasons—and if those private reasons were why someone had broken into our room.

* * *

When I got back downstairs to the ballroom, the ceilidh was in full swing. Chairs had been pushed to the side and everyone was being organized into groups for the Gay Gordons.

I scanned the room for John.

“Room” was an understatement because the ballroom was about the length of two basketball courts.

Yvonne was seated spectator style on a settee next to Daya Bittywiddy. There was no sign of Roddy. Ben had been selected as guinea pig—er, partner—by a very wide elderly woman in a bright yellow Buchanan tartan who was clearly the dance instructor. He stood in line, smiling self-consciously, and I gave him full marks for being a good sport.

Where the hell was John?

There were several musicians on a low platform serving as a stage. Hamish had joined them and was tuning a set of bagpipes, which was never a fast or painless process.

I couldn’t see Alison anywhere. The Kramers, Matsukados, Scherfs and Rices all stood in dance formation. I spotted Vance, red-faced and perspiring, being dragged onto the dance floor by Edie and Bertie. Why was he so overheated when the dancing hadn’t even started? Skeptically, I watched his progress from the doorway.

Why the hell would Vance break into our room? No, that didn’t make sense, because if the intruder had been Vance, he’d have been going through my things, surely? Our intruder had focused on John.

Trevor didn’t appear to be anywhere, but Trevor hated to dance, so that wasn’t surprising.

Once I’d made sure John was also not in the ballroom, I headed for the bar and, sure enough, found him hiding out with Roddy Bittywiddy and Jim Matsukado.

“You look like a man in need of a drink,” John smiled in greeting.

“Pretty strenuous, eh?” Jim commented. Since I’d been sure I’d seen him lined up with the dancers, I had to wonder who else I’d missed.

“How long have you two been here?” I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the windows. I looked flushed and disheveled, hair standing on end, which, given my tumble, was probably to be expected.

John and Jim glanced at each other. Jim shrugged. “About ten minutes.”

“Was Trevor in here?”

“Nope,” John drawled. “Maybe you got your signals crossed.”

I looked at him in surprise. “Huh? Uh, no, I—Actually, someone was in our room. They knocked me down while making their escape.”

Jim said all the usual things. John did not. In fact, John merely stared at me while I answered Jim’s questions. Not, in my opinion, a normal response. In fact, I couldn’t help thinking John’s very lack of reaction seemed downright...suspect.

“You’re sure it wasn’t the handyman?” he asked finally, after Jim departed to alert the front desk—which, come to think of it, probably should have been my first action too, so maybe John wasn’t the only one behaving suspiciously.

I snorted. “Not unless he’s a handyman with a very guilty conscience. Like I said, I started to open the door and whoever was in there burst out and knocked me down the stairs. Not that I would blame anyone responsible for maintaining this place for trying to flee, but he ran through the French doors. Into the hotel. Not out.”

“And you’re sure you couldn’t tell who it was?”

I hesitated. My suspicions leaned toward Vance, although I knew that wasn’t logical. “It happened pretty fast. He charged me with his head down. Plus, he wore some kind of hood. Everybody kind of looks the same when you’re upside down. Tall, I think. He had on boots and jeans.”

“Was the door lock damaged? Could you tell?”

“It didn’t appear to be. It might have been picked. I wouldn’t know. But this place isn’t exactly high security. I think you could get into any room by wiggling the door handle hard.”

“Ha. True. You’re sure the intruder was male?”

I squinted, trying to remember what I’d seen. “Yes. I did get an impression of...male. Size? Force? I’d have to say male. And he had on some kind of waxed jacket. Maybe green or gray? Like I said, it happened so fast.”

“Temple?”

I shook my head. Of that I was sure. I’d know Trevor upside down—or inside out, for that matter. “No.”

“Stafford?” John was watching me closely.

I thought again of Vance’s flushed, sweaty appearance in the ballroom. But really, nearly every guy in there had a flushed, sweaty appearance.

“I don’t know. The jacket isn’t right. Vance wears a navy blue parka. I can’t deny it went through my mind.”

“Vance thinks he’s got cause for grievance.”

“Yeah, but it would be crazy to take a chance like that. For what purpose?”

John shrugged. “You can’t go by that. People do crazy stuff for crazy reasons.”

“Even so.”

“He’s clearly jealous. Clearly suspicious.” John continued to study me.

Reluctantly, I shook my head. “It seems to me that someone was looking for something. Something specific. It’s not like Vance doesn’t know everything there is to know about me. Besides.”

“Besides?”

“You might have been the target.”

He raised his brows. “How do you figure that?”

“Your stuff was spread out over both beds. Mine wasn’t touched.”

“He could have started with my stuff and hadn’t got around to yours yet.”

“Well, that’s true. Anyway, you should probably take a look. See if any of your belongings are missing.”

“Yeah, that seems like a good idea.”

It seemed like the obvious idea, anyway, and didn’t the fact that it wasn’t the first thing that occurred to him sort of confirm my suspicions? John too believed whoever had searched our room had been looking for something in particular. Something in his luggage, not mine. Further, I felt his lack of concern indicated confidence that whatever it was someone had been after, he knew they hadn’t found it.

The whole situation was just...odd.

And it only got odder once we returned upstairs and the hotel manager came to speak with us. John reassured her that none of his possessions were missing—and that he believed the incident had been a misunderstanding.

“A misunderstanding?” I—and Ms. Eccles—echoed. She was tiny, trim and platinum-haired. She wore a nicely tailored beige suit and limped ever so slightly, as though her feet permanently hurt. An impression strengthened by her surreptitiously slipping her pumps off as she leaned against the dresser.

John nodded. “If I had to guess, yes.”

“Who or what is being misunderstood?” I asked.

John shot me a look that said as clear as words, you can shut up now.

Which went against the grain—my grain, anyway—but at the same time, there was clearly something going on here I didn’t understand, and I didn’t want to put my foot in it. Whether it was logical or not, I felt a kind of loyalty to John, if only because he was my bunkmate.

At the same time, I was the one who had been knocked down a flight of stairs—though granted, a short flight—and I didn’t want that to become a regular thing.

John said to Ms. Eccles, “If I had to guess, I’d say this was a prank or a practical joke. We’ve got some real comedians in our group.”

“A joke?” Ms. Eccles said doubtfully. “Aye. I see.” Of course, she couldn’t help being thrilled at this alternate version of events, and I didn’t blame her.

She said tentatively, hopefully, “You’re absolutely certain nothing is missing?”

“Absolutely,” John said.

She turned to me. “And you’re sure you’re uninjured, Mr. Matheson?”

I looked at John. He was doing his best impression of a hypnotic gaze. I sighed, stopped rubbing my elbow, which I’d banged on the banisters. “I’m sure.”

John looked relieved. So did Ms. Eccles.

“Well, then!” She didn’t actually dust her hands, but the impression of moving on to more important matters was distinct. “If you gentlemen are sure we don’t need to contact the authorities...?”

“Not necessary,” John assured her. “It’s under control.”

Ms. Eccles threw me a look of sympathy, slipped her shoes back on, and departed.

I closed the door behind her, saying, “She thinks I’ve got either a nut or an ex-con for a roommate, and I’m kind of wondering the same thing.”

John was busily folding his clothes and stuffing them back in his suitcase. He looked up in surprise. “Did you really want to spend the evening chatting with some bored and lonely police constable? Seeing that neither of us had anything stolen?”

“But that’s probably only because I walked in on the thief.”

“Maybe. Probably.” It was the right answer but I could see from his expression that he didn’t agree.

“Well, isn’t it?”

John looked wary. “Isn’t what?”

“Look, John, do you know what our intruder was after?” He opened his mouth, but I read the expression in his eyes and cut in before the prevaricating could begin. “No. Stop. Let me put it this way. Is there something going on I should know about?”

No grown man could believably wear that expression of soulful innocence. “I don’t think so.”

“Because I’m going to be very unhappy if I get caught in the middle of...hostilities.”

At least he seemed genuine as he replied, “I can’t picture any scenario that would involve, um, an act of hostility. Or at least anything more hostile than knocking into you while trying to escape.”

“Right. I see.” I didn’t.

He said carefully, “If I thought there was such a possibility, I’d act accordingly.”

“Okay.” Whatever that meant. I wanted to be reassured, and John seemed sincere, if obscure. To be honest, the break-in already seemed unreal, faraway—though I was pretty sure I had the bruises—additional bruises—to prove it had happened.

John was continuing in that painstaking way, “You were—I’m guessing, of course—just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t happen again.”

“Okay. I hope you’re right.”

“I’m sure I am.”

I couldn’t help wishing, as I returned to the ceilidh downstairs, that John had sounded a little more confident when he made that last assertion.

Chapter Eight

Although it doesn’t take long to recount the events of that night, it had taken a couple of hours to live them, and by the time I got back to the ceilidh the second time, the party was winding down.

Ordinarily I’d have been disappointed, but with all that had happened that evening, I was feeling preoccupied. So preoccupied, I barely registered Vance’s usual glower when he caught sight of me. I did notice that Trevor was still missing in action, but most of our group was present and accounted for. Alison was nowhere to be seen and John had remained upstairs, but everyone else seemed happily occupied listening to the music or joining in the dances.

I was roped into the final Dashing White Sargent of the evening, sat out the last waltz, and joined in on “Auld Lang Syne.” Gazing at the ring of smiling, singing faces of my fellow Tours to Die For members, it struck me again how quickly we were all bonding. It was probably like being in war. Okay, maybe not, but the challenges of traveling forced intimacy to develop at a faster than usual pace. I already felt like I’d known some of these people for years.

As the musicians packed up their instruments, several couples adjourned to the bar for a nightcap. I was tempted to join them when Ben asked if I was going to have a drink, but Yvonne—who ten minutes earlier had announced she was retiring for the evening—popped back in, saying she’d changed her mind about going up to bed so soon.

I hardened my heart against the disappointment in Ben’s eyes and said, “It’s been a long day. I think maybe I’ll turn in too.”

“Maybe tomorrow night,” he said.

“Sure. Maybe.” I smiled, but increasingly I had the feeling that Yvonne would make sure to be anywhere Ben and I were. I didn’t know if she didn’t care for me in particular or was just generally possessive of Ben’s attention, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t imagining things.

When I arrived upstairs, I found John in bed reading my copy of Prey for Mercy.

“We’ll make a fan of you yet,” I said.

He grunted noncommittally and set the book on the nightstand. “How was the party?”

“Fine. It was fun.” I glanced around the room. John had neatly packed his scattered belongings away again. He wore what appeared to be a rather natty pair of blue-and-brown plaid pajamas—was that supposed to be his clan tartan?—and looked reasonably comfortable given the narrowness of the beds and the winter breeze gusting around the cracks in the window frame.

He folded his arms comfortably behind his head. “How was Vance?”

“No outward sign of guilt. He ignored me and I ignored him.”

John’s mouth suddenly quirked into a grin. “You know that blackout that happened while Temple was in here lecturing you about accusing his boyfriend of attempted murder?”

“How could I forget?”

“That was your nemesis Vance blowing the fuses by using the wrong adapter for his hair dryer.”

I laughed. “No way. Is that true?”

“I overheard him telling someone at dinner.”

I was amused, but had to say, “For the record, I don’t think it was Vance in our room.”

John shrugged.

I gave him a challenging look. “I think you know who was in our room.” I’d been thinking about this downstairs, though I hadn’t intended to bring it up so soon. Not without more proof.

He met my gaze, but I thought he looked uneasy. “Even if I had my suspicions, that’s all I have. I don’t want to bias you. If something happens that makes you suspect something, then you should tell me and we could compare notes.”

Yeah, right.

I grunted, grabbed my sleep pants and stepped into the bathroom to wash up. The water that gushed out of the old-fashioned taps took forever to heat to even mildly tepid, and I forgot all about break-ins and faceless intruders.

When I left the bathroom, the room seemed even colder. In addition to the draft whispering beneath the window over my bed, the sound of rain hitting the glass was more chilling than cozy.

“We should have asked Ms. Eccles to fix the radiator,” I said. “I bet she’s had plenty of experience.”

“I don’t think there’s any fixing it,” John said. “I took a crack while you were cutting a rug downstairs. If that thing has worked since the last century, I’ll eat my Vanessa Rayburn Fan Club membership card. The air valve has cobwebs on it.”

“Great.” I pulled the blankets back, dipped a tentative toe between the sheets, and sucked in a breath. “Holy crap, it’s cold in there!”

“I know,” he said heartlessly. “I got the last hot water bottle in the entire hotel.”

“Are you kidding?”

He shook his head, and the suspiciously guileless expression was back. “Maybe we should huddle together to conserve body warmth.”

“Ha.” I eyed him thoughtfully. “So are you...?”

“Cold? Very.”

I would not be sidetracked. “Gay?”

“What makes you think so? All heterosexual men give dating advice to their gay roommates.”

My heart lightened, and I had to bite back a smile. “Technically, it wasn’t dating advice. It was an unsolicited opinion. Besides which, I believe you’re wrong about Trevor.”

His smile was smug. “You think I’m wrong because you’d prefer that to having to face the idea of maybe still having feelings for Temple.”

My pleasure faded. “You don’t know anything about me, John.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I’ve been observing you for the last twenty-four hours.”

“You probably don’t intend that to sound creepy.”

His smile widened. “From a purely professional standpoint. I find people interesting. What makes them tick. That kind of thing.”

“Purely professional. Right. Is that so you can sell them life insurance policies?”

“Of course.” He continued to grin at me.

“Well, I’m not in the market for another life insurance policy.”

“As, again, a matter of professional interest, did you change your will after you and Temple split up?”

“Yes. And what made you think I have a will?”

“You seem like a careful, well-organized man.”

“Sexy as hell, isn’t it?”

He laughed. “You’d be surprised.”

“Sure.” I gave him my best No Talking in the Library glare. “However, this subject—the subject of me and Trevor—is now off-limits.”

“Ah.”

“And don’t give me that tone because...”

“Because?”

Why had I steered us back to the topic of Trevor and Vance? It was really the last thing I’d wanted. That said, John was right. Or at least, not wrong. I had secretly—and not so secretly—believed from the first that Vance and Trevor would never last. Of course, I wanted to believe that. It’s one thing to get dumped. It’s a much harder thing to get dumped by someone who then goes on to find his Happily Ever After with the very jerk you were dumped for.

Either way, why was I wasting new opportunities raking over the past?

I realized John was gazing at me expectantly. “What? Oh. Just don’t.”

I thought that would be the end of that, but to my surprise, he turned his attention back to our own sleeping arrangements.

“What we could do,” he said thoughtfully, “is move the nightstand out of the way and push the two beds together.”

I stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“I can see the goosebumps through your pajamas.”

“Ahem,” I said pointedly.

He withdrew his gaze from my pajama bottoms. His smile was unrepentant. “Well, I’m not suggesting we rip our clothes off and share one sleeping bag. I’m—”

“A romance reader.” I sighed. “I might have known.”

He said evenly, “Occasionally.”

“I know you don’t read Vanessa. I figured it out the first night.” That was a slight exaggeration, though I had suspected from the first John was not a true believer. And nothing had happened to shake that suspicion. “Why did you come on this tour?”

If I’d been hoping for a big drawing room reveal, I was doomed to disappointment. He said, “I always wanted to go to Scotland and this sounded like fun.”

“I see. Your great-grandmother on your mother’s side was Scottish.”

“Well, no. French.”

“Your great-grandfather on your father’s side was Scottish.”

“No. English. I’m not Scottish. I think maybe we’ve got some Welsh on my dad’s mother’s side, but everyone loves Scotland. Men in kilts. Bagpipes. Whisky. Those little bad-tempered Scottie dogs.”

I opened my mouth, but he rushed on. “And I like mysteries. Not in the way you people like mysteries, but I enjoy them. Agatha Christie. She’s great.”

I said severely, “Oh please. Agatha Christie is the automatic default for people who don’t know a lot about mysteries. You’re no mystery reader!”

His brows shot up. He said mildly, “That was a little Hercule Poirot-ish, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Okay, maybe you’ve read some Christie.”

“I’ve watched a few episodes on PBS. The truth is, I thought it would be fun to stay in a Scottish castle.” He shrugged. “What’s the suspicious look for?”

I tried to rearrange my features into something less openly incredulous, but I still had trouble with John’s explanation. For one thing, this was an expensive trip for someone just wanting to visit the land of his forefathers—and John didn’t even have Scottish forefathers. For another, the tour was designed for fans of Vanessa’s books, which meant we were bypassing a lot of the places most tourists would rightly want to see. And for a third, John didn’t seem particularly enamored of Scottish culture, Scottie dogs or no Scottie dogs.

“This tour was fully booked over a year ago. How did you get on at the last minute?”

“They had a couple of cancellations.”

Hmm. Possible, of course. Some people really were that lucky with reservations.

Another gust of rain rattled against the window. I shuddered at the idea of crawling between those damp, chilly sheets.

Observing me, John said. “Come on, Carter. I promise to be the perfect gentlemen while we’re bunking together.”

I liked the way he said my name.

“The gentleman and the scholar. Sounds like a romance title.”

“Now if you’re going to make fun of my taste in fiction...” But he was already climbing out of his bed with what I thought was suspicious alacrity.

It did not take us long to unplug the reading lamp, lift the nightstand out of the way, and shove the two beds together. We left the facing sides tucked in, which I thought was a good idea, though maybe, in the very back of my brain, I was a little disappointed. I guess I like the occasional romance novel myself.

I turned out the overhead light as John climbed back into bed. I felt my way across the floor, crawled into my own bunk and discovered the mattresses sloped down toward each other.

“Er...this is cozy,” I said, as I rolled into the dip beside John. My feet brushed his through the sheets and blankets. It should have been about as sexy as wool socks, but somehow the warm outline of his body inches from mine—even through the bedclothes—was unexpectedly exciting.

John’s laugh sounded a little funny. He sniffed in my direction. “I like your soap.”

“That’s actually the Ben Wyvis’s soap. It seems to be your soap too.”

We were both silent. The rain continued to pick, pick, pick against the window. The clock on the nightstand clicked over. It sounded loud in the darkness.

We could do this. We could shove off the blankets and see how we liked sharing warm, bare skin. Warm, bare everything. I could tell John was, er, up for it, and it had been such a long time since I’d had this. Well, not this, because I’d never had anything quite like this. But sex. Friendly, uncomplicated sex.

“Speaking of Vanessa,” John said suddenly.

I smothered a laugh at the change of subject—and at myself.

“What?” he asked.

Clearly the subject of sex was just on my own mind.

“Nothing. Go on,” I said.

“Is it true that she went to prison for killing her boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“I’m a little shocked. I have to admit.”

I said, “I’m used to the idea now, but yes. I remember being shocked when I found out.”

“Is there any question of her guilt?” His breath was warm and smelled of wintergreen toothpaste.

“No. She broke down and confessed under questioning.”

“What happened?” he asked.

I sighed. It wasn’t that I found the subject boring, more that I’d grown resigned to the reaction of non-fans. An understandable reaction, really. “Teenage angst? Adolescent jealousy? Vanessa—her name was Claire Sims back then—had been dating a boy by the name of Donald Kresley. He was a bit older than her, but not by much. He was a schoolmate. Anyway, one afternoon, the two of them walked into the woods and Vanessa hit him over the head with a rock.”

I was silent, thinking. That part of the story wasn’t the difficult bit because they’d both been kids and kids lash out when angry.

“And the blow killed him?” John asked, when I didn’t continue.

“No. The blow didn’t kill him, but he was unconscious. She...left him facedown in a shallow stream. He drowned.”

There was a long silence punctuated by the rain washing down two-hundred-year-old walls.

“Why did she do it?” John asked.

I shook my head, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “No one knows. It was probably a combination of things. Kresley had recently won an award in a creative writing competition that Vanessa felt should have been hers.”

“Jesus.”

“I know. Creative temperament? But also, Kresley had supposedly broken off their relationship. Again. The idea was that Claire was trying to talk him into getting back together. I mean, Claire was fifteen. Kresley was sixteen, so they really were just kids. Kids take this stuff so much to heart.”

“She was old enough to know better. Old enough to know murder is wrong.”

“Sure. Which is why Vanessa or Claire, whatever you want to call her, went to prison.”

“Why the hell would they ever let her out?”

“She served her time. In fact, she was a model prisoner.”

I could feel him thinking it over, feel his resistance.

“Obviously there’s no defense for what she did. Even if she did kill Kresley in self-defense—”

“Self-defense?”

I rolled onto my back, staring up at the pale blur of the ceiling. “That was one argument put forth during the trial. That Kresley assaulted her. There really wasn’t any evidence to support it, and it didn’t go anywhere. No one but Vanessa really knows what happened in the woods that day. The only thing for sure is that Kresley died—and they were both very young.”

“She’s evil. Pure and simple.”

Evil. I was a little startled to hear the word. My initial impression of John was that he was an easygoing, pragmatic kind of guy. A don’t-sweat-the-small-stuff guy. The word evil sounded so...straitlaced. Biblical.

I said, “The act was evil. No question. It was an evil act. But was Claire herself—remember, this was a fifteen-year-old kid—evil?”

“Yes,” John said with absolute certainty. “She sure as hell was.”

“It probably wasn’t premeditated. She didn’t bring a weapon. She...improvised.”

“Is that supposed to make it better?”

It made a difference to me. The fact that she had not set out to commit murder. But a lot of people didn’t see it as lack of premeditation so much as lousy planning. “There’s a lot of neuroscience on the adolescent brain—”

“I work for an insurance company,” John interrupted. “I know all about the adolescent brain and suboptimal choice behavior. There’s a hell of a difference between poor impulse control and deliberate, calculated cruelty.”

“Again, not arguing with you.”

“But you want to meet this woman?” He sounded incredulous.

“Well, yeah. I do,” I admitted. “Her books have given me hours and hours of pleasure. And also—you don’t read her, so you won’t know this—the stories are morally unequivocal. For every action there is a reaction. Nobody gets off easy. And also, she doesn’t glorify murder. She doesn’t fetishize it. She writes a lot about acting on impulse—and living with the consequences.”

“I bet. Seeing that she murdered her boyfriend.”

“And went to prison for it,” I repeated patiently. “She served her court-appointed sentence. In the eyes of the law, she paid for her crime.”

“I bet the parents of the boy she murdered don’t feel like she paid for her crime.”

“No. Probably not.”

“Not only did she get out of prison, she went on to fame and fortune too.”

Yes, she did. And I really didn’t want to fight with him over it. Even Vanessa’s fans were divided on the topic of Donald Kresley. I had mixed feelings myself. How could I not?

I offered by way of compromise, “Hate the sin and not the sinner?”

“Easier said than done,” said John.

We left it there, and not long afterward, I could tell by John’s breathing that he was asleep.

I was tired, but sleep didn’t come so easily to me. It had been a long and eventful day. I’d nearly ended up as a traffic fatality before lunch. That evening someone had broken into my room and shoved me down a staircase. My temporary roomie was clearly a man of many secrets. And then there was Trevor.

John was wrong. I knew I no longer loved Trevor. I did wish—or had, before this trip—I could have back the comfortable predictability of our life together. And after the number of close calls I’d had that day, I should have been scrambling toward the safety of my old life faster than ever. And yet, strangely, as I lay there listening to the two-hundred-year-old creaks of antique floorboards, the clang of nearly as old plumbing, and John’s soft, steady breathing in my ear, I didn’t miss the comfortable humdrumness of my life back home, and I sure as hell didn’t miss Trevor. No, as I thought of the day ahead, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Happy.

Chapter Nine

I must have fallen asleep somewhere in the middle of my thoughts because the next time I opened my eyes, I could hear someone moving furtively around our room.

Not this again.

Surreptitiously, I reached over to John, and feeling the empty expanse of cooling sheets, confirmed who the someone tiptoeing so painstakingly around the room was.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

His shadow jumped, though not as noticeably as the night before. His tone was almost normal as he said, “I’m going out for a quick walk. I can’t sleep. I think it’s the jet lag.”

Even half asleep I knew that was a crock. I listened to the rain thundering down outside, and said, “Me neither. Give me a minute. I’ll get dressed and go with you.”

A sudden and startled silence followed my words.

I snorted. “Relax. I’m not going anywhere.”

John’s shadow visibly relaxed. He said way too casually, “I mean, you’re welcome to come, if you’d like.”

I laughed. “You’re so full of shit, John. Just don’t wake me up when you slosh back in here in a couple of hours.”

* * *

He was back in less than half an hour. I was finally relaxing into warm drowsiness when I heard his key in the lock. Raising my head, I watched his silhouette slip inside and with great care ease the door silently closed. Painstakingly, he slid the bolt and it barely made a whisper as it slid home. His smugness was almost visible through the gloom.

I said in normal tones, “That was quick,” and watched with satisfaction as he gave another of those convulsive starts.

John said shakily, “You really are a light sleeper.”

“Yes, I am. Are you done for the night?”

“Yes.”

I waited silently as he hastily undressed. He crawled onto his side of bed, trying unsuccessfully to defy gravity, and rolled to a stop at the bottom of the dip. I could practically feel the cold radiating off him. He expelled a long, shivery breath.

“Enjoy yourself?” I asked.

He huffed out a shivery chuckle. “The last time I was this cold I was camping in the Sierras.”

I’d intended to ask what the hell he’d been doing prowling around in the middle of the night, but that distracted me. “I haven’t been camping in years,” I said.

He half-raised his head as though to peer at me more closely. “You like camping?”

“I used to. I used to love it.” Trevor hated camping. So—it hadn’t been a deliberate decision, but there were only so many hours in a day and, originally, I’d wanted to spend most of them with Trevor—I’d eventually quit going camping with my friends.

A lot of things I had enjoyed before I met Trevor had faded out the same way. Not consciously renounced, just...no longer making time for them.

“RV camping?” he asked suspiciously.

“That’s not camping.”

“Exactly,” he said in the tone of one who has just won a bitter argument. “Exactly.”

I grinned. I liked John. Man of Secrets or not.

John gave a sudden full body shudder. “Remember my earlier suggestion of stripping naked and sharing the sleeping bag to conserve body warmth?”

“If only we had a sleeping bag.”

“We could improvise.” His tone was light. Joking, but not entirely joking.

My pulse jumped. Other things jumped as well. Here again was possibility. Was I interested? Silly question. Of course I was.

Interested and tempted. I hadn’t had sex in months and, not only did I like John, I found him increasingly attractive. Maybe because I hadn’t had sex in months.

The problem was, he was also my roommate, and if things got awkward, they would be very awkward. Thanks to Trevor and Vance, this trip had enough strained moments. I didn’t need further complications. Especially with a guy who was clearly up to something.

I said, matching the lightness of his tone, “If it starts to snow, ask me again.”

“Ah.” His tone held a flattering note of disappointment. “Will do.”

I rolled onto my side and closed my eyes, but it was a while before I fell back asleep.

* * *

I woke to watery sunshine and the insistent chime of my cell phone.

I reached over, peered at the time, and glanced at John.

He was still deeply asleep. His lashes threw dark curves against his cheekbones, his mouth was firm, but turned up a little at the corners as though he was having a good dream.

I felt my own mouth curve in response.

What the hell was he doing every night? For a guy with insomnia he sure seemed to sleep deeply the rest of the time.

Through the wall, I heard the door of the room next to ours squeak open. I waited for the noisy clunk of luggage being placed in the hall, but the door squeaked closed. Footsteps on the landing passed swiftly by our door. I listened to them fade out.

Someone was in a hurry to get down to breakfast.

I sighed. It was time to get moving. Unless I wanted to forgo the morning dose of cholesterol and carbs, which...maybe. I could probably grab something to eat in Strathpeffer while we were exploring the town. What were the odds of finding a decent fruit smoothie?

I glanced at John’s sleeping form again. I couldn’t help second-guessing my discretion the night before. What was the big deal about sex, after all?

He was an adult. I was an adult. How awkward could things get in eight nights? Maybe it would be fun to find out.

Speaking of cold showers... I listened to the groans and creaks of the old plumbing overhead. Of course, according to John, our shower didn’t work. I might be taking a cold bath that morning.

I shuddered and pulled the blankets around my shoulders. As much as I loved the idea of elegant old manor houses, there was something to be said for modern plumbing and modern heating and memory foam mattresses.

My phone dinged.

John muttered in his sleep. I raised my head, squinted at the screen. Trevor.

We need to talk.

I considered this, frowning, and braved the elements to tap back, About what?

Deliberately unhelpful, I admit.

It seemed a long time before his reply materialized with another ding. Us, came the succinct answer.

My heart gave a sudden, perplexing start. It was aggravating that he had even this much power. Especially given the last couple of days.

There is no us, I shot back.

While I waited for his reply, footsteps crossed the landing a second time. The door next to us was noisily unlocked. Not having breakfast after all. Hinges squeaked open and close. I listened absently to our neighbor moving around next door. Who had the room next to ours? I couldn’t remember.

Trevor’s text arrived with a loud whoosh.

There is on this trip.

I made a face, started to respond, but was distracted by the sound of a heavy thump in the next room.

The thump was followed by silence. Total silence.

There seemed something odd about that, though at first I couldn’t think why. The thump itself was normal enough. Someone had dropped their suitcase. Or knocked over an armoire. It happened. What should have followed were the normal sounds of exasperation or luggage being wheeled to the door. Or luggage not being rolled to the door, but some kind of movement. Footsteps. The sound of sink taps. The squeak of a mattress. Something.

Was there a furtive quality to that sudden hush?

I considered that thought for an uneasy moment or two, then started to sit up. I froze at the distinct creak of the adjoining door easing open.

What the hell? I was getting to be as bad as the rest of them. What did I imagine was happening?

I relaxed back into the pillows. I didn’t even know for sure that our neighbors were part of the Tour to Die For group.

Then again, what if our neighbors were being searched as we had been the night before? Maybe last night’s intruder had nothing to do with John. Maybe we’d been dealing with a potential thief. Maybe that thief was in the next room right this minute.

My phone dinged. It seemed to me there was an impatient quality to that ping. I snatched it up impatiently.

Are you still there?

I typed back, No.

You’re not funny.

I typed, I’m also not leaving the tour.

I had been half-listening for the sound of the door closing next door, but belatedly realized my mistake.

I tossed my phone into the bedclothes as I jumped out of bed. I was across the room in two strides. I opened our door and peered out. No one stood on the landing or stairs. I stepped onto the walkway. The door next to ours stood open.

From inside my room, I heard the irritable sound of another text message arriving. I ignored it.

“What?” John mumbled sleepily. “Did you say something?”

Watching the hall below, I saw the interior French doors swing open. Ms. Eccles and Alison entered. They were speaking quietly, but I could tell it wasn’t a casual conversation.

Alison glanced up, caught sight of me, and checked mid-step. She put a hand on Ms. Eccles’s arm. Ms. Eccles gazed up in dismay.

“Carter,” Alison said. Her voice was not much above a whisper, but it carried.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” I called softly.

Alison hesitated. She looked at Ms. Eccles, who looked back at her. They seemed to silently commune.

At last Alison said, “I’m afraid I have some distressing news. Rose Lane died in her sleep last night.”

Chapter Ten

“What?” I forgot all about keeping my own voice down.

Alison winced and made shushing motions. Like we were going to disturb Rose?

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m afraid there’s no doubt.”

“How is that possible?” I demanded.

“Well... Well, these things happen.” Alison seemed to have trouble meeting my eyes. She said something quietly, and I said, “What?”

Alison repeated more clearly, “She was very old and she had a number of health issues.”

“What health issues? She was prancing around like a reindeer at the ceilidh last night.”

“That’s probably what did it. Overexertion on top of a rich meal.”

“It wasn’t so very rich a meal,” Ms. Eccles protested.

Alison threw her an apologetic look. “A heavy meal then. The point is, I have her medical information and Rose suffered from ill health. In addition to being quite elderly. Obviously, the final determination as to cause of death will be made by the doctor.”

“Coroner?” I suggested.

“Yes. Or medical examiner. I’m afraid I’m a little rattled.”

I should hope so. I should hope deaths on the road weren’t so frequent she could take them in stride. The whole thing seemed like a bad joke, except it was clear from their expressions that they weren’t kidding around.

Ms. Eccles chimed in with an inaudible comment of her own. Alison looked still more uncomfortable.

I said—I guess it was shock because it was a silly question—“It’s just...unbelievable. Didn’t you have a death on the last tour?”

She and Ms. Eccles exchanged looks so guilty, they could have been acting in a pantomime.

Alison began, “How did you—?” But stopped herself. “Yes,” she said reluctantly. “We did. It happens occasionally. So many of Vanessa’s fans are, well, more mature in age. I guess it’s inevitable. Certainly, this is a completely natural death.”

I had turned to stare uneasily at Rose’s door, but as her words sunk in, did a double take. “You mean last time wasn’t a natural death?”

Ms. Eccles gulped. Alison looked horrified. “I—I didn’t say—I don’t know what you mean, Carter!” She looked around as though seeking rescue. But despite the quiet commotion of the past few minutes, no one else was making an appearance. Not so much as another guest room door had opened.

It dawned on me that was because only me, John and Rose were staying in this section of the hotel.

I’d thought it was awfully quiet in this section. Certainly, last night it had seemed strangely deserted.

If my guess was right, why would only John, Rose, and I be shuffled off into the annex? And how coincidental was it that last night someone had broken into the room I shared with John—and this morning Rose was dead? Either this hallway was the crime capitol of Strathpeffer or...well, what?

Alison interrupted my uneasy thoughts with a sudden display of firmness. “Anyway, I’m sorry that I can’t answer any more questions just now. There are so many things to deal with. I’m sure you can understand that.”

She was drawing Ms. Eccles up the stairs with her, heading for Rose’s room.

“Er, sure.” I retreated into my own boudoir, closing the door behind me.

“What’s going on?” John asked from the bed. His hair was boyishly ruffled, his jaw dark and bristly.

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?”

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 was 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?”

“Of Vanessa’s books.”

“Oh.” His smile was dry. “That would be mother. I don’t much care for fiction.”

“Then it was especially nice of you to make this trip with her.”

“I wouldn’t leave her to do this alone,” he said grimly.

“Well, she seems to be enjoying herself.” I couldn’t have said whether Yvonne was enjoying herself or not. I kind of suspected she was the type of person who took pleasure in not enjoying herself. I also couldn’t have said why I felt obliged to make inane social comments.

Maybe Ben agreed because he didn’t bother to answer. After a moment he said, “Are you and John...?”

“Are me and John what?” I realized what he meant. “No. I met him the other night for the first time. I’m still trying to figure him out.”

“I see.” Ben was watching me steadily. “I got the feeling there might be something between you.”

“Between me and John? No.” The suggestion brought warmth to my face. To change the subject, I said, “Trevor and I knew each other from before.”

“I know,” Ben said. “They talk about you a lot.”

I winced. “I bet.”

Ben offered a faint smile. “Mostly Vance talks about you. Trevor spends a lot of time apologizing.”

“Apologizing for what?”

“Knowing you before he knew Vance.” He was sharing the joke, but I didn’t find it all that amusing.

“That’s about what I’d expect.” Although, in truth, I had no expectations for what went on between Vance and Trevor. I still couldn’t understand what Trevor saw in him. Okay, not true. Trevor had explained to me what he saw in Vance. Vance was sexier than me, more romantic than me, more interesting than me, more adventurous than me, more playful than me, more fun than me... It had been quite a list.

And the delivery had an element of blunt instrument about it. Like Professor Plum in the Library, I hadn’t seen it coming. Nor was it a list of things you could really argue with. Even if you were so inclined.

I wasn’t.

“I think you had a lot of guts coming on this trip,” Ben said.

“I’m not sure guts is the word for it, but thank you.”

He placed his hand on my shoulder and kissed me.

Yeah, pretty much as described. Not the most graceful of kisses. For one thing, I was still in motion, and for another, I was not expecting it at all, and my reaction was an instinctive duck at the large approaching object in my peripheral vision. Ben’s lips landed in what was mostly a glancing blow, and I had a brief impression of mouthwash and urgency.

“Uh...oh...hi,” I said. I kissed him back, equally clumsy, and mostly out of politeness. The topic of Trevor and Vance had not put me in an amorous mood. Anything but.

Ben didn’t seem to notice the awkwardness.

“When this is all over, I’d like to get to know you better,” he said. “If it’s all right with you.”

“Well, sure,” I said. “But don’t you live in Seattle?”

“Yes. I’m planning on making some changes though, after this trip.”

It sounded a bit stern, the way he said it, and I made a noncommittal noise. I’m all for change and growth in one’s life, but in my experience, it’s not easy to jettison the past. Besides, I had a feeling Yvonne would not be thrilled about Ben moving away. I wouldn’t have been completely surprised to learn they lived together, but no. I had verified that from the group bios after dinner the first night. They both lived in Seattle but on different sides of the city.

I wasn’t sure that different sides of the country would be far enough from Yvonne, though maybe that was unfair. Traveling can be stressful and not everyone was at their best in the role of tourist.

“Should we head back?” Ben asked.

“Sure,” I said.

He held my hand part of the way down the path back toward the car park, and I let him although I wasn’t really comfortable. It wasn’t that I minded holding hands, but kiss or no kiss, I barely knew Ben and I didn’t feel like the needle had really moved on our relationship. In fact, “relationship” was putting it too strongly, in my opinion. I guess there was nothing like an ugly breakup to make you gun-shy about new possibilities.

“Do you really go along with this crazy theory that there’s something suspicious about Rose’s death?” he asked as we were having lunch at the Wee Swally Victorian Tea Room after we’d hiked back to the village. His dark eyes were bright with amusement.

“No. Not really.” I popped the last bite of Scottish rarebit—cheddar and egg on rounds of toast—into my mouth and then had to stop to chew. “I mean, I will grant that it’s a coincidence Rose was going around babbling about mysterious death and then ends up suddenly dying.”

Ben wrinkled his nose in distaste. “It’s not so great a coincidence. The first time I saw her, I wondered what a woman that old was doing traveling on her own.”

A little bit sexist, a little bit ageist, but as things turned out, he had a point.

I said, “If this was a mystery novel, Rose’s death would definitely be tied in to something much larger and more sinister.”

“That’s why I don’t like fiction. Now, if either Sally or Daya drops dead, then I might consider the possibility that there’s something sinister going on.”

“Daya?”

“She’s another conspiracy theorist. She told mother a friend of hers was on that previous trip—the one Rose kept talking about—and that, according to this friend, someone did die suddenly. I don’t know if it was mysterious or not.”

“Are you serious?” I put down the bone china teacup and stared at him. “How did they die? Who was this person? I couldn’t find anything about it when I was searching the internet this morning.”

He looked startled. “You searched the internet?”

Was it that weird? John hadn’t seemed to find it strange. Then again, consider the source. I said, “I’m a librarian. Research is what I do.”

“I don’t know any details. Some woman drowned in her bath.” He threw it out dismissively, but a sense of foreboding crawled down my spine.

“Was this friend of Daya’s a credible witness?”

“Who knows? Mother told Daya the whole thing was ridiculous, and Daya shut up about it. At least to Mother. I saw her whispering away with Rose last night—and then this morning at breakfast she was talking to the Poe girls and anyone else who would listen. That’s probably what set your friend Sally off.”

“Maybe.” I almost told him Sally’s suggestion that I search Rose’s room, but the fewer people who knew about that, the better.

At least until I decided whether I was going to do it or not...

Chapter Thirteen

There was no sign of John when I returned to the hotel after lunch, pleasantly tired and, amazingly, slightly sunburned.

And, not counting Rose, John was the only one of our tour group who didn’t turn up for the really delicious dinner of three cheese tart followed by cold roast fillet of beef with crème fraiche, horseradish and mushroom sauce. Since the Scherfs and Rices were back, it seemed John’s absence had nothing to do with them.

At this rate I would have to turn in my junior detective decoder ring. To comfort myself—and fortify my nerve for the evening ahead—I had a third whisky with my dessert of spiced bramble fudge crumble.

By “evening ahead,” I don’t mean the planned ghost walk, although that was certainly what the rest of the group had in mind. From the moment Ben had inadvertently confirmed Rose’s story of a mysterious death on the previous trip, I’d been unable to get the idea of that missing journal out of my mind.

I still believed what I’d told Sally that morning: not finding the journal proved nothing one way or the other. Rose could have mislaid the journal or the journal could have been packed up, unnoticed, with the rest of her things. But if Rose had hidden it, and if it did contain something...well, maybe not damaging, but at least enlightening, that would certainly be of interest.

To put it mildly.

So, yes, I had not only caught the amateur sleuth bug, I was in full fever. I was as bad as all the rest of them. Maybe worse, given that I knew better. All the same, the whole time we were at dinner I was considering how and when I could most safely get inside Rose’s former room.

I figured my best bet would be during the ghost walk, which was set to take place at nine o’clock. If I lost my nerve or the tour turned out to be really fascinating, I could always scrub my plans for B&E and just stick with hunting ghosts. There ought to be enough of them. In addition to the usual White Lady and Crying Child specters that no decent British manor house would be without, the building had been commandeered as a hospital for wounded soldiers during the First World War. After the war, it had been largely abandoned—the original family had died out, by then—but by World War Two, the building had again seen action, this time as a prison for captured enemy officers.

In other words, lots of opportunity for tormented spirits in every generation. What all these spirits had to say to each other when they passed in the night was anyone’s guess.

John was still not back when I locked our room and started downstairs to join the tour in the bar. I ran into Trevor coming out of one of the guest toilets on the second floor. His face tightened at the sight of me.

“Why have you been ignoring me?” he demanded.

I stopped walking. “Huh? I’m not ignoring you.”

“What do you call this morning? I told you we needed to talk.”

Not exactly news that Trevor was self-absorbed, but this seemed a bit much even for him. “There was a lot happening this morning, plus I just don’t see what there’s left to talk about.” Uneasily, I glanced around for Vance. I didn’t want to tempt him into shoving me down the staircase.

“What ‘a lot was happening’ are you talking about?” Trevor’s stormy eyes grew even darker with suspicion and distrust. What the hell did he think I meant? What did he think was going on?

“You phoned right after we learned about Rose—”

“We?” he barked out, like Sherlock Holmes when poor old Doctor Watson was being particularly dense.

“Me and John. Er, John and I.”

Trevor jumped on my words, like this was the opening he’d been waiting for. “What the hell is going on between you and that guy? Supposedly you only just met. Isn’t that the story?”

The story?

Okay. Now I got it. And it was almost—almost—funny. Except not really. Not given our own history. I drew myself to my full height, which okay, is average, and straightened my shoulders—if I’d been any more strictly aligned, I could have swallowed a sword without damage.

“The story?” I repeated. “Yeah, that’s the story. And it’s also the truth. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“The hell it isn’t my business! You’ve been watching me with those big, sad eyes, pretending to be the wounded party this whole time, and the truth is, you had something going with Knight all along. All those trips to San Diego. My God, how could I be so stupid!”

“All those...” My face went hot. My pulse sped up. That was not guilt. It was outrage. I thought about the American Library Association conference I’d attended the weekend before Trevor informed me he had met the “love of his life.” Apparently, that single trip to San Diego was what he was referring to.

Also, the “big, sad eyes” comment really pissed me off. I’ve got normal-sized green eyes, and there’s nothing sad about them. The opposite, in fact. Trevor was the one who used to say I had “smiling eyes.”

Yeah, no. It wasn’t funny, it was infuriating. Even so, I knew it was idiotic to engage. Knew it, but couldn’t help myself. Couldn’t help myself loudly.

“I don’t have to explain or defend myself to you! For the record, I met John two nights ago—the very same minute you met him, as a matter of fact—and there is nothing between us!”

“But you wish there was,” Trevor said, and there was that expression again. His normally boyish features twisted with suspicion and distrust.

I made a sound that was supposed to be a laugh, but didn’t quite come off. Didn’t come off because, infuriatingly, Trevor had accidentally hit a nerve. I liked John. A lot. Yes, I’d only known him for two days—well, really, you couldn’t even count the current day—and whatever I was feeling was probably some strain of rebound, but I did uncomfortably, unwillingly wish...something. It wasn’t even defined enough to put into words.

I found other words though. Words to hit back where I knew Trevor was vulnerable. “You know what, Trevor. You sound jealous. You’re acting jealous.”

He recoiled. Even seemed shocked at the idea. “Of you? I’m not jealous. You’re the one who followed me on this trip.”

The key had changed, but the song remained the same.

Sanity returned. “Whatever. I’m not following you now—” I happened to glance over his shoulder and spotted Vance hovering a few feet away. When had he arrived? How had I not seen or heard him? Had he tiptoed down the damned stairs?

Disgust gave way to unease as I took in the expression on his face. Absolute, utter hatred.

I was pretty sure in that moment that Vance had not accidentally brushed against me when we’d been walking along the road in Tyndrum.

“He’s all yours,” I said. My voice sounded thick to my ears. Did Vance know that I knew? Did he care?

“That’s right,” Vance said in a hard, flat voice.

I turned away, continuing downstairs.

* * *

“Blar Nan Ceann, or Battlefield of the Heads, lies at the western end of what is now the village of Strathpeffer.” Our tour guide for the evening was a Mrs. Jamieson on loan from the local historical society. She was an elderly lady dressed in Edwardian garb. The high-throated black dress and laced boots did not look like a costume; they looked original, which gives an idea of how very elderly—and tiny—Mrs. Jamieson was.

“Very little is known of this battle—not even its actual date,” she added.

“That’s convenient,” someone said. I thought it might be Roddy Bittywiddy. The comment sounded jovial rather than snarky. I’d noticed he’d had quite a bit to drink at dinner.

Mrs. Jamieson was not deterred. “All we know is that the MacKenzies of Seaforth defeated the MacDonells of Glengarry and some grisly incident we can only guess at took place at a well near the battlefield. This well is called Tobar a’ Chinn. Well of the Head. You will not be surprised to hear that this part of the country has more than its share of legends surrounding headless ghosts.” She paused for dramatic effect. “But are they legends?”

There were a few pleased chuckles from the group as we moved away from the moonlit window and shuffled along the dark, drafty hall to our next stop on the ghost tour.

“Our bloody and dramatic history does not end there. In 1486, the MacKenzies, under their chief Kenneth MacKenzie, defeated a large invading force of MacDonalds at Blar Na Pairce or Battle of the Park. That site lies a short distance from here, on the banks of Loch Kinellan. It is said that on midsummer evenings, guests with rooms facing in the southwest direction can still hear the moans and cries of the dying MacDonalds.”

“Are there any more recent ghostly goings-on?” Yvonne inquired.

I heard a couple of sighs, but Mrs. Jamieson’s bloodthirsty enthusiasm was unchecked. “I’m glad you asked,” she said. “I would like to introduce you to Mr. Robert Strathallan, the house’s original owner.”

We had paused in front of a somber, life-size portrait of a disapproving-looking gentleman in brown Victorian garb. He had thinning sandy hair, fishy eyes and a mustache like an industrial push broom.

“Robert Strathallan was a bit of a scallywag, I’m afraid. A god-fearing church-going gentleman to all appearances, but three of his four wives died mysteriously and suddenly.”

“Do the wives haunt the hotel?” Nedda asked.

“It seems not. But...” Mrs. Jamieson paused for dramatic effect.

“But?” prompted Yvonne.

“What happened to the fourth wife?” That was Nedda again.

“Ah,” Mrs. Jamieson said approvingly. She held up her artificial candlestick. It cast flickering light over the ring of watchful faces. “The fourth Mrs. Strathallan outlived her husband, who took a fatal tumble down the main staircase one summer’s eve. It is Strathallan’s ghost who is said to walk these halls.”

“Good for her!” Daya said. Roddy cleared his throat uneasily.

Mrs. Jamieson was on the move again, chirping cheerfully about death and destruction. The group trailed along behind her. I began to drop farther and farther behind. In the near total darkness, and absorbed by Mrs. Jamieson’s storytelling, no one paid any attention to me.

Eventually the ghost hunters turned a corner and I turned and sprinted quietly back the way we had come.

I have to admit I got lost a couple of times. All those austere portraits and faded brocade-papered halls looked alike, and there were a disconcerting number of stairs that seemingly led nowhere, or at least nowhere I wanted to go, but eventually I traced my steps back to the main dining room. I got a few strange looks from the row of gentlemen seated at the bar, so I must have looked somewhat desperate by then, but from there it was easy enough to find my room.

I unlocked the door and let myself in.

The room was dark, so John was not back, but there was still a hint of his aftershave in the gloom.

I felt for the light switch and snapped it on. A thin radiance illumined the worn carpet and battered old furniture. John’s belongings were spread out exactly as he’d left them. He hadn’t come and gone.

Had he said anything about staying away overnight? I didn’t think so, and we were leaving early the next morning. I hoped he hadn’t decided to bail on the tour. That was kind of funny, given how unenthusiastic I’d been at the start at the idea of a roommate.

I stepped out on the landing and had a look around. There was no one to be seen. The hotel seemed almost eerily quiet, but then this wing always felt cut off from the main part of the hotel. Because it was.

Sally said Rose had questioned Alison about that, about why our rooms were separate from the rest of the group, and Alison said there had been a mix-up with the reservations. The hotel had squeezed us into the wing that was generally only used during the height of tourist season—which this was not.

It was a plausible explanation, but standing there in the faded light, watching the dust motes floating through the air, I wondered.

On the other hand, it was really hard to believe the staff at the Ben Wyvis Manor House Hotel were obligingly going along with some nefarious scheme of Alison’s.

The grandfather clock in the passage below loudly, slowly ticked out the minutes.

Nothing happened.

Well, of course nothing happened. If something was going to happen, I would have to do it. That was the whole point.

And if I was doing this, I would probably never have a better opportunity than right now. The hotel staff was busy with the after-dinner cleanup and the hotel guests were either settling down for the evening or trudging along on the ghost walk.

I moved down the landing to Rose’s former room, and gently tried the handle.

The door was locked. As expected.

I had joked to John that a good hard wiggle would unlock the door, but several wiggles—and a couple of yanks—later, I was still on the outside of Rose’s room.

I stared at the door for a few more minutes, but that didn’t do the trick either.

I could always try breaking in with a credit card. These old slanted latch mechanisms were perfect—er, vulnerable—to that. Or at least, it always worked in books. Books. It occurred to me that in The Cure for Wellness QC Michael Patterson had had to get into one of the rooms in this very hotel, and he’d done it by finding a safety key hidden in a pot of artificial flowers in one of the hallways.

That was fiction for you. In real life that would be way too convenient.

Right?

I went down the stairs to the little glassed-in passageway that connected the annex from the main part of the hotel, and sure enough there was a large white pitcher of silk flowers sitting on a spindly antique table propped against the bottom of the staircase.

I emptied the silk flowers out and heard the chime as something metallic hit wood. I bent down and picked up the tarnished, silver key that had landed on the Oriental carpet.

I almost laughed. That was too easy. Suspiciously easy, really. This couldn’t really be a working master key.

Only one way to find out. Heart thumping in guilty excitement, I stuffed the flowers back in the pitcher and returned upstairs. A couple of twists and turns of the key, and the door to Rose’s room swung open with a creaky yawn.

I stepped into the room, closed the door and turned on the light.

The scene before me was almost suspiciously ordinary. The beds were tidily made, the armoire stood empty. The room smelled comfortingly of wood polish and lemons. I looked in the closet-sized bathroom. Gleaming white tub, white tile, white toilet. The fixtures shone brightly, but the hot water tap didn’t work and the toilet did not flush. In other words, everything perfectly normal for the Ben Wyvis Manor House Hotel.

It took less than two minutes to verify there was nowhere in the bath or bedroom to hide anything. No conveniently loose floorboards or secret panels in the wainscoting. The nightstand and dresser drawers were empty—there was not so much as a Bible or out-of-date guidebook.

I remembered Sally’s theory about the armoire, and dragged the room’s only chair over to have a look. There was nothing but a colony of dust bunnies on top of the armoire—Sally was right about one thing: it had never been dusted.

I climbed down and had another look under the beds, and then under the mattresses.

Nothing.

Rising, I studied the room one final time. Was I missing something?

I didn’t think so. There was not so much as a cotton ball to show Rose had ever been in this room. In fact, the room was so pristine it was as if the cleanup crew in a spy novel had been through there.

Or...as if Rose had never spent the night.

I considered that uneasily. I didn’t actually remember seeing Rose check in, let alone go into her room. I didn’t remember seeing her leave the bus.

Okay. Stop. I had seen her at dinner. I had seen her at the ceilidh. She had certainly been present and accounted for up until the ceilidh had ended.

After that...? I hadn’t been paying attention to Rose. There were so many people on the tour. Twenty moving parts is a lot to keep track of. I couldn’t swear to seeing all of them at any given moment.

I turned to leave, then froze at the faint sound of the French doors downstairs closing.

Shit.

I cautiously inched open the door, sidled out through the opening, and started back to my own room.

The sight of John, already at the top of the stairs, halted me in my tracks.

“Should I ask?” he said.

Chapter Fourteen

“Hey, you’re back,” I said.

“Hey, you’re sneaking out of Rose’s room,” he returned.

I looked around, making frantic shushing motions. His eyebrows rose.

“Rhymes with gurgleyme?” he suggested.

“No! Of course not.” I was both charmed that he played charades and irritated that he thought I was the world’s worst burglar. “Can we discuss this elsewhere?”

He turned the doorknob to our room and made an after you gesture. I slipped inside our room and turned to face him. “Sally told me Rose’s journal wasn’t found among her personal effects. She suggested I have a look for it just in case Rose might have hidden it.”

“If Sally suggested you jump off a bridge, would y—”

“Funny. No. I wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t have done this either except...”

“You read too many mysteries?”

“That’s not possible. And no.” I admitted grudgingly, “I know it’s a crazy thing to have done. I’m not sure why I gave in to temptation.”

He looked taken aback. “This is your idea of temptation?”

“The opportunity arose, that’s a lot of it.”

“Other opportunities have arisen. I didn’t see you jump at those.”

At first, I didn’t understand what he meant, but as I gazed into his solemn—too solemn?—brown eyes, I remembered the night before and that very casual suggestion we strip naked and share a sleeping bag. Not even a suggestion. A joke.

Or maybe not.

Judging by the faint twinkle in the back of his eyes, it seemed not.

I felt a totally unexpected—and probably inappropriate—rush of elation. I’d figured after he’d blown me off that morning, I’d misread John’s invitation of the night before. I’d been, well, disappointed. And now I was...not.

I did my best to tamp down my revived, um, interest. “Ben confirmed at lunch that there was a mysterious death on the last tour. A woman drowned in the bath.”

The twinkle in John’s eyes pinched out. He scowled. “There’s hardly anything mysterious about it. It might interest you to know that deaths from drowning in bathtubs have gone up seventy percent in the last decade. Someone in the US drowns in a bathtub, hot tub or spa Every Single Day.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. I’m not kidding.”

“But surely most of those are little kids?”

He said severely, “The point is, drowning in a bathtub is not as mysterious or suspicious as you seem to think. Bathtub drownings are one of the most common causes of accidental death.”

It seemed he really did work for an insurance company. Not that I had actively doubted it, but I had started to wonder after the morning’s cloak-and-daggery.

“Did you find the journal?” he asked.

“No.”

He studied me for a moment. His disapproving expression relaxed. He seemed amused. “Do you really think Rose found some incriminating piece of evidence, and that piece of evidence got her killed?”

“No. Not exactly. I was curious though. The weird coincidences seem to be piling up. I feel like something is going on. I can’t put my finger on it, but... If I may say so, your own behavior is a little sketchy.”

“Mine?” There it was again. The wary look. “How so?”

“Let’s start with the midnight rambles. Insomnia or not, that’s not normal behavior. Most people read a book or have a glass of warm milk. I take half a sleeping pill when I can’t sleep.”

His face took on a bland look. “I do have a preferred method of dealing with it. However, you weren’t interested last night.”

I guess he’d given up on innuendo.

I’m too old to blush, but there’s something undeniably warming about flattery. I studied his face. Yeah, I did find him attractive. No question. I liked him. I wasn’t sure if I trusted him, but I didn’t have to trust him. This was the equivalent of a summer romance. Minus the romance.

I flipped the lock on our door, and said, “That was last night.”

* * *

“I can taste your smile,” John whispered, and I opened to his kiss.

Once upon a time, when I was a library science grad student, I had sex with a fellow student on a library table in the special collections room at UCLA. Until I was sitting half naked on the ice-cold radiator in a hotel room at the Ben Wyvis Manor House Hotel—with John Knight’s hot tongue pushing against my own—that after-hours library fuck was pretty much my sole claim to sexual adventure. Not that I wouldn’t have been open to a little more experimentation, but Trevor was surprisingly conservative when it came to sex. Or at least the sex act. He preferred a firm mattress, no lights and preassigned roles.

I just liked having sex—and as often as possible—so it wasn’t like I objected, but it made a nice change to be taken off-guard with a flattering show of energy and enthusiasm. John backed me into the wall like he was afraid I might change my mind, and when the radiator got in the way, he lifted me onto it with a casually impressive show of upper body strength.

Sex was never a laughing matter with Trevor, but I was laughing when John kissed me the first time, and still smiling when he touched his mouth a second lingering time to mine. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to kiss him. So natural that I wondered if it hadn’t been in the back of my mind from that first night. When the hard, slick press of his tongue met mine, I felt excited sensation zip up and down my spine.

“Zing,” I breathed, and John huffed a sound of amusement.

He was leaning into the V of my legs, and I could feel his erection—and knew he could feel mine.

“This is the craziest timing.” He sounded rueful.

“I know,” I said.

He pulled back, gazing into my eyes. He seemed about to say something, but then changed his mind—and I was glad of that because I didn’t want conversation, didn’t want to think at all.

Our mouths latched on again and John’s arms locked around me. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, instinctively hooking my knee over his hip. I arched into him—not a move I’d ever made before, and when he hoisted me up, I had a moment’s alarm we would crash into the wall or topple over. But no. We clutched each other, hips moving in awkward, desperate rhythm.

“My God. All these clothes,” I got out. “We should try this in the summer.”

John gasped out a laugh, and we somehow half fell, half sidestepped to the nearest twin bed. It was more crash landing than a skilled maneuver. John landed half on top. My breath whooshed out with a sound like someone stepping on a set of bagpipes.

“I like you, Carter,” he said. “A lot.”

“I like you too. Even if you did just puncture my lung.”

He laughed and kissed me. “I didn’t plan on this.”

“Well, no. Me neither,” I said.

“But I think it’s a great idea.”

That, of course, struck me as funny, and he kissed me again and said, almost wonderingly, “It feels so right with you.”

It felt right to me too. Maybe that meant something. Maybe it just meant we were both horny at the same time. I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to know. Was afraid to know, really.

His boots thumped as they hit the floorboards. I pulled my sweater over my head, and heard his belt buckle knock wood. He was out of his jeans and undoing the buttons of his shirt as I dragged my T-shirt off. I slipped off my tennis shoes, humped out of my Levi’s and shorts, dropping them over the side of the bed. John landed beside me once more, and the narrow bed creaked in warning.

“It just occurred to me. Did you...?” He paused delicately.

“Did I what? Remember to put the cat out?” It took me a moment to decipher the earnestness of his expression. “Oh. Bring protection? Yeah. I did.”

His smile was wry. “Of course. Hope on, hope ever.”

That gave me pause. “If you mean was I hoping that I’d be doing this with Trevor, no. I wasn’t.”

John shrugged. “Whatever you hoped, it’s me here now.”

No lie.

Maybe, just maybe, in a weak moment I had thought to be prepared for every eventuality. Just in case, right? But that would have been a very weak moment—and a very long time ago. We might only have been touring for a couple of days, but my emotions had traveled light-years since I’d arrived in Scotland. I could no longer picture any scenario where I ended up in bed with Trevor—let alone one which included laughter and playful kisses.

Even if I had been that feeble, John was second best to nobody. I realized that in the first five seconds.

He caressed me quietly, gaze serious, lips gentle as he brushed the final amused quiver from my own.

“Do you know what you want?” he asked softly. His eyes looked almost golden in the time-worn lamplight, his firm mouth had an almost tender curve. His touch was all knowing. I’d forgotten what a light and joyful thing sex could be when no one was keeping score.

“A little of this, a little of that.” I was out of the habit of asking, let alone receiving.

John chuckled, a naughty, sexy sound. “Oh yeah? That sounds promising.”

I ducked my head, kissed him, tasting my way down his jaw, Adam’s apple, collarbone...licking the salty point of each nipple. John shivered. Soft brown hair dusted his pecs and elegantly scrolled its way to his groin.

He sighed pleasurably, feeling for and pulling the coverlet over us. The room felt as cold as an icebox, but the bed was warm and smelled of sex and naked skin—with maybe a hint of vintage dust. I leaned against him, feeling the muscular resistance of thigh and shoulder, the sudden yield of belly.

He made a soft oof. His cock thrust up like a friendly animal looking for a caress.

“Hold on,” I said, sliding out of bed and sifting through my things for the necessary.

He shivered again as I smoothed the creamy white lube into his hole, trying to make this part an end in itself, a slow, sensual delight. “That’s good,” John whispered. “I like that.”

I liked it too, and I hoped we would do this again so I could have a turn.

John’s thighs spread, creating a welcoming cradle, and he pulled me close. I wriggled and shifted, trying to find the right approach, my cock grazing the entrance to his body. Our cocks fenced in heavy, clumsy strokes—last clash of the claymores—but even that friction felt so good.

He caught my chin, kissing me roughly, wetly as I pierced him. The sweetness of it throbbed through my body. I was filling him, but somehow, I was the one feeling like my heart was crowding my ribcage. Whole. Complete.

John’s eyelashes batted against my face, his breath was warm. He half rolled and I was beneath him, pushed into the lumpy softness of the bed, thrusting up into John. In theory the one in control, in practice also along for the ride.

It was crazy to me that this was John, who I’d known all of two days, and yet I wanted him, wanted this moment so much—it felt like I’d always wanted it. I dug my fingers into his shoulders and came in huge, beautiful straining pulses. John’s eyes shone, holding my own.

The opening of his body closed and eased and clamped tight again. We were sweating and spent as we held each other, panting beneath the dusty coverlet. I kissed the side of his face, but he turned so that our mouths touched one final time.

* * *

Maybe John rose during the night—I assumed he did—but if so, I slept through his nocturnal wanderings. Slept warmly, deeply, contentedly for the first time in a very long time.

Chapter Fifteen

“Have you seen Sally yet?” I asked Laurel when I sat down across from her in the dining room the next morning.

John had still been sleeping when I’d rolled my luggage onto the landing and headed down to breakfast. The night before had been great, and I had zero regrets, but I did feel sort of...cautious now that we had been there and done that. Sex can take a friendship to the next level. But it can also—even terrific sex—send everything spinning out of control.

I was usually more discreet in my extra-curricular activities. In fact, Trevor and I had gone out several times before we actually slept together. While I was okay with the recent turn of events, I didn’t know John well enough to know how he’d be this morning. I didn’t want sex to mess things up.

For one thing, I was going to be disappointed as hell if things were so messed up we didn’t have sex again.

“No, I haven’t.” Laurel looked at Jim. He shook his head.

“Maybe she already had breakfast and went up to finish packing.”

“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 of 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, the 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.

“Let me ask you something. Are you in a steady, committed relationship?”

He looked unexpectedly defensive. “Not at the moment. That doesn’t mean—”

I put my hand up. “Your Honor, I rest my case.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure what point you think you just proved.”

It was my turn to grin. “Maybe I just wanted to find out if you’re spoken for.”

John stared at me in surprise and then got a funny, sheepish look. “Oh. Okay.”

“Now I’ve made my point,” I said.

He considered and laughed. “Fair enough.”

That little exchange went a way toward distracting me from my initial alarm over Sally’s sudden departure.

A sudden departure was not sudden death. A second death would have been all but impossible to explain. But being called home to the States? It was possible. It was definitely more probable than a secret murder plot spanning the length of a year.

John had to be right. I was letting my love of mysteries run away with me.

Chapter Sixteen

Scotland looks small on the map.

It looks like you could drive its circumference in a couple of days—maybe less. But that’s forgetting the very long and uneven coastline—and the narrow roads that follow that sweeping coastline. It’s forgetting the lack of divided highways, let alone freeways. It’s forgetting the wild and winding mountain roads of the highlands—which occasionally turn into single tracks where most traffic comes from the occasional lost cow. It’s forgetting how much time is spent slowing down or pulling over to let oncoming traffic pass—or how many bathroom breaks a busload of middle-aged people require in the course of a day.

At one of our stops I wandered out of the restroom looking for somewhere to buy a bottle of juice or soda and rounded the corner of the building to find Alison and Daya Bittywiddy arguing.

“You already agreed,” Alison said.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Daya said. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.” Alison was speaking quietly. Daya not so much.

“But you can’t! It’s too late to change course. What are we supposed to do?”

“That’s not my problem—” Daya looked up and saw me.

Alison had started to reply but fell silent. It was cold enough for breath to hang in the air, but in her case, I wasn’t sure if it wasn’t steam coming out of her ears. “Carter!” she said with false cheeriness.

I gestured toward the door behind her. “Just stepping inside to grab an apple juice.”

They were silent as I passed them, and when I stepped out again, they had disappeared.

It was only about one hundred and twenty miles from Strathpeffer to John o’Groats, but it was nearly two o’clock when we arrived in time to grab a late lunch before traveling on to Gills Bay to catch our ferry.

John o’Groats was a lonely little spot, rocky and wind-scoured, famous for being the most northerly point on the island of Britain. Wild dogs skulked on the outer edges of the café parking lot, ever hopeful for scraps, while tourists from some of the other buses posed for photos beneath the famous Land’s End sign.

“I’ve got to phone my office anyway, and it’s got to be a landline,” John told me as we disembarked. “I’ll see if I can get through to Sally or reach someone at her home number.”

I was a little disappointed we weren’t going to investigate this lead together, but had to agree. I watched him walk briskly off down the road toward the village proper until his trench-coated figure disappeared over the rise, and then considered my limited lunch options.

In the end I had an unexpectedly gorgeous cheese plate for lunch at The Storehouse. Half an apple, a small bunch of grapes, flatbread and generous portions of sharp and pungent Stilton, wax-wrapped cheddar, an Orkney cheese and a firm but creamy cheese from Dryfesdale. I washed it all down with a pint. It was delicious. I drank my beer and watched the porpoises in the bay through the café’s picture windows.

When I walked outside, Ben called to me and asked if I’d take a photo of him beneath the iconic sign, which I did.

“I wouldn’t mind living someplace like this,” he said, taking back his camera. The cold had whipped color into his face, and his eyes sparkled. “It would be an adventure.”

“It would, yeah. You’d have to get used to the rain.”

“I live in Seattle. I like rain.”

According to my guidebook, the area was sometimes used for surfing, but on that cold, windy gray day it was hard to imagine the weather conditions ever being right.

“Well, you’re thinking of making a new start.”

His smile faded. “Yes.” He looked past me toward where our bus was parked. “We should be boarding, I suppose.”

The drive west to Gills Bay was short and hilly. Heather bloomed purple and the rocks were yellow and gray and green with lichen.

The bay had an unbroken stretch of low-lying rock coast featuring a small harbor where brightly colored little boats bobbed on the choppy water. The large concrete pier was used as the mainland terminal for Pentland Ferries.

It was a one-hour crossing, but unexpectedly rough. I leaned over the railing next to John, who had already delivered the bad news that he had tried twice but been unable to reach Sally or anyone at her home number, and had to settle for leaving a message on the answering machine.

I gazed out at the endless blue horizon, breathing in the sea air. Unfortunately, the sea air was heavily laced with the diesel exhalations of the ferry engines. I don’t typically have a problem with seasickness, and I was fine until we were passing the treacherous whirlpool known as the Swelchie—caused, according to legend, by a massive magical quern churning salt beneath the sea—when all at once I began to regret that cheese plate.

A lot.

“Jesus, it’s beautiful out here,” John said with quiet sincerity as a seabird swooped within inches of the railing and winged away, briefly silhouetted against the white sun.

“Mmm-hmm.”

He glanced at me, then took another look.

“Whoa,” he said. “So, here’s what you do in this situation.” He put his hands on my shoulders and faced me toward the prow of the ship. Which, coincidentally meant also facing him. “Keep your eyes on the horizon and breathe deep. Slowly.”

I kept my eyes on his and took a couple of deep breaths. We were standing close enough that I could see where he had missed shaving a small patch beneath his ear. I could see a tiny, almost invisible scar beneath his bottom lip. “I think I’d be better sitting down.”

He looked past me, averted his gaze, and said, “No, you really wouldn’t.”

Sounds of distress wafted on the breeze. I swallowed and nodded.

“It’s maybe another fifteen minutes,” John promised. “At most.”

“Great. I think I can do that.” Barring physical torture—real physical torture, like having your fingernails torn off—anything was doable for fifteen minutes. Hopefully.

John’s expression remained suitably sympathetic, but it felt as though he was smiling at me. I had noticed before how twinkly his eyes were. Now I noticed there was no meanness, no mockery. He was a good-humored man—and a kind one. The scent of his aftershave mingled with the chilly sea breeze. A refreshing change from the oily diesel stink of ship engines.

“I’ve never been seasick,” I protested. “I don’t get it.”

“Maybe it’s what you had for lunch?”

I shuddered, and John said, “Sorry. Don’t think about that. Think about...falling into deep, cool water.”

“If that’s a suggestion I throw myself off the boat, I’m considering it.”

“No, no.” He did smile then. “We’re almost there. Look starboard.”

I cautiously turned my head and to my relief I saw land. White rock, white sand, gray-green hills beneath smoke-colored skies. It was starkly, almost ominously beautiful.

A rainbow arched across the green hills as we harbored in the crystal blue water.

The voice over the loudspeaker made some unintelligible announcement. Unintelligible being the native language of announcement-makers the world over. Anyway, there was only one possible message being communicated, and our group gathered their belongings and began to totter their way down the opposite side stairways to the vehicle deck.

As we filed down the narrow metal steps to the bus in the hold, I happened to catch sight of Trevor. He looked very green, and Vance was guiding him along with his fingertips as though he didn’t want to get too close.

“In seasickness and in health,” John murmured, and I gave a shaky laugh.

The bus was about half full as we made our way back to our seats. As I passed Ben and Yvonne, I smiled hello.

Ben gave me a stony look.

I did a double take. He stared straight ahead as though I were invisible.

What was that about? He’d been fine at our lunch stop.

I hit rewind on the last hour. Recognition dawned. Hell. He’d probably seen John and me on deck. And while nothing remotely romantic had been going on, I could see how our interaction might have looked...intimate. To be honest, it had felt sort of intimate. As though John and I were used to looking after each other.

I had nothing to feel guilty about. I liked Ben and had been open to getting to know him a little better. Open. Not eager. There was a difference. Even so, I felt guilty. I knew Ben was more attracted to me than I was to him, and that the kiss the day before had probably been meaningful for him in a way it had not been for me.

Also, though I was not naïve enough to think that having casual sex with John automatically equaled the start of a grand passion, it did feel like something had altered between us. So, while I had been honest when I denied that there was anything between me and John, times had changed.

“Something wrong?” John studied me. “You want the window seat?”

“No. That’s fine.”

“You take the window. That way you can open it if you decide you need fresh air.”

I wasn’t used to even this level of attention, let alone solicitude. It was kind of embarrassing, but kind of nice too. Besides, the bus did smell kind of...lived in.

I sat down without further fuss. John said in a voice intended for my ears only, “How many people on this tour would you guess were aware of the rumor that something went wrong on the last trip?”

I was happy to consider a topic other than Ben’s hurt disappointment. “I’m not sure. Daya, certainly, although I don’t know that she thought anything of it until Rose began insinuating foul play. Rose started dropping hints that very first morning at the Caledonian Inn. I’m not sure why she was so convinced something was wrong, but it seemed to me that she talked to everyone who would listen.”

“And of those people, do you think any of them suspect that something suspicious happened to Rose?”

“Sally, obviously. And me, I guess. And Trevor. Which probably means Vance. And maybe you. Or maybe not you.”

His expression was neutral. I asked, “Do you think something suspicious happened to Rose?”

He shook his head, but it was not as a negative so much as an I don’t know. He said, “And how many people do you think suspect Sally was deliberately got out of the way?”

“Sally wasn’t discreet about her suspicions, that I can say for sure. She was like Rose in that respect. She shared her belief that someone knocked Rose off, in the shuttle to Strathpeffer that morning—she said it right in front of the van driver, along with everyone else.”

“My God,” John said.

“I know. I don’t think anyone took it seriously though. In fact, mostly people seemed to think the discussion was in bad taste.”

“Really? That’s interesting. Especially since you’re all primed to see mystery in every delay and detour. Of which, I might add, there have been a hella lot.”

“I guess Daya might have taken it seriously. She wasn’t in the van, but according to Ben, she seemed to believe there was something to her friend’s story about the accidental drowning.”

John said disapprovingly, “The bathtub drowning.”

“Yes. And, yes, your objections have been duly noted. Statistics tell us that most drowning deaths occur within four miles of a bathtub.”

He snorted.

“Why do you ask?” I asked.

“Just trying to get the chronology straight in my mind. How was Alison at lunch?”

“Okay, as far as I could tell. She seemed like her normal self. She and Daya had some kind of argument at the rest stop, but she seemed fine at lunch.”

“She didn’t try to speak to you or anything?”

I shook my head. “Looking back, I don’t think she gave me a thought.” I considered that for a moment. Yes, for all the malign stares on the bus that morning, Alison seemed to have forgotten about me by lunchtime. How was that possible? I either posed a threat or I didn’t.

I said, “This is going to sound odd, but... I’m not sure if what we think is wrong is the real problem.”

“I’m not following.”

“Something is wrong. I do believe that. I feel like there’s something happening that we don’t see. An...undercurrent running beneath the surface interactions.”

“That makes sense if someone really did do away with Rose.”

“Right. Yes. Except, I’m not sure that’s it. It’s hard to explain.”

John’s gaze was curious.

“I know,” I said. “I’m not making sense.”

“I wouldn’t say that. Actually, I think your instinct is right. I sense it too. That, for lack of a better word, undercurrent.”

“Do you?”

He nodded. “Maybe there’s always a lot of tension on trips like this. I’ve never been on one, so I wouldn’t know. You’ve got a lot of different personalities here and there’s bound to be friction.”

“It doesn’t feel like that though,” I said slowly. “It feels...different.”

Darker. Dangerous. I didn’t want to say it aloud because it sounded melodramatic. Besides. What could be darker than doing away with Rose and possibly Sally in order to cover up an earlier crime?

By that point the bus had bumped and ground its way off the ferry and across the sand and rock to a graded dirt road that wound its whimsical way into the heather-blanketed hills. The drop on the other side of the road was steep. Below, we could see sleek, fat gray seals basking on the rocks. Seabirds took turns diving straight into the choppy blue water.

Alison had been staring glumly out the front window, but she rose and took the mic. It magnified the tail end of her sigh.

“Welcome to Samhradh Beag, the Short Summer. This is a 766-acre island with a full-time population of fifteen, including Vanessa, her household staff and all other employees.

“When Vanessa first purchased the island, there was still a salmon farm, several holiday cottages—you’ll see them when we get closer to the castle—a small sailing school, a café and a post office. Vanessa continues to maintain the salmon farm, but everything else is long gone. There are no shops and no paved roads. There’s a helicopter pad for occasional use or in the event of an emergency. Mail and essentials are delivered weekly from mainland shops, and left secured near the jetty.”

“What happened to the people who used to live on the island?” Bertie asked.

Ben asked, “How often does the ferry come?”

“The ferry only makes the trip twice a year. To bring our tour group across and then carry them back again four days later. There is no regular ferry service to the island. Only invited guests are welcome. Vanessa owns her own boat, of course, but it’s easier to charter a helicopter when she wants to travel to and from the mainland. She rarely leaves home these days.”

Daya gave one of those disapproving sniffs.

Each lazy curve in the road offered another breathtaking view of hills carpeted in wildflowers, distant tawny mountains, crystal blue bays. Cell phones and cameras clicked away.

“Vanessa’s ethos is that she’s simply the caretaker of the island, and that it’s her job to interfere as little as possible with the natural ecology. Over the past fifteen years, she’s planted nearly two hundred thousand native trees as part of a woodland regeneration scheme.”

The bus labored up a rise in the road, gears straining. We topped the crest and the castle came into view.

There were several gasps.

Edie whispered, “It really is a castle.”

“Castle Dìomhair likely dates to the mid-sixteenth century. It served as a hospital for casualties of Dunkirk in 1940, but afterwards fell into disrepair until it was renovated and converted into a hotel by a local family. In 2003, Vanessa purchased the island, made the castle her home, and four years later began inviting readers to visit as part of Tours to Die For.”

“What does the name mean?” Nedda called.

“There’s a difference of opinion. Some people think it means secret castle and others believe it means castle of secrets. It’s probably the same thing in the end.”

Not really. But I kept my inner librarian quiet.

“Is it haunted?” Bertie asked. “It looks haunted.”

“Absolutely,” Alison said cheerfully. “Through the years there have been numerous claims that Castle Dìomhair is haunted. Visitors and hotel staff used to regularly report witnessing apparitions in the forms of a small girl and a middle-aged lady.”

“What about a teenage boy?” someone said.

Who? The voice sounded thick, unfamiliar. Who had spoken?

No one said a word. I don’t think anyone moved a muscle. I’m not sure we didn’t all hold our breath.

After a sharp pause, Alison said, “No. Nor have the middle-aged lady and small girl been identified, although descriptions of their clothing indicate that they might date back to the 1920s when a fire destroyed much of the structure. The roof was replaced at that time, stonework around the windows was repaired and electric lighting was installed.”

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 some 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.”

“I think the idea is we might want to stay in contact with each other.”

“I guess,” John said in the tone of someone who did not believe it for one second.

Present company not included though. I hoped he continued to feel that way. John seemed to have run out of things to say.

By then we had reached the cliffs. As we walked along the path overlooking the old summer rentals. I saw a tall woman with long, curly brown hair sitting behind one of the cottages, smoking.

“Hey,” I said, catching his arm. “Does that look like Sally to you?”

“Where?”

I pointed. “Down there in the cottage with the lavender window boxes. Damn! She’s gone inside now.”

I wasn’t sure if the woman had seen me pointing, but she had definitely scurried inside.

John looked taken aback. “You think Sally’s here on the island?”

“No, of course not.” I could hear the doubt in my own voice.

But it had certainly looked like Sally, and I couldn’t shake the feeling whoever the woman was, she had disappeared into the cottage because she’d noticed our approach.

I expected John to quote me all the reasons the woman couldn’t possibly be Sally, but to my surprise, he said, “Why don’t we walk down and find out?”

We took a couple of minutes to find the crooked path through spiny yellow gorse that smelled unexpectedly like coconut. Sand and small pebbles skittered under foot, and John reached out a helpful hand. I linked fingers without hesitation. Holding hands with John felt natural, felt right.

When we finally reached the cottage with the lavender window boxes, the curtains were drawn and no one answered our knock.

“Now that’s weird. She definitely went inside.”

“Wrong cottage?” John suggested.

“No. It’s the right cottage. It’s the only one with purple flower boxes.”

We knocked again. Still no one came to the door.

“Maybe she went out for a walk while we were looking for a way down to the beach,” John said. “Or maybe she takes the No Solicitation thing very seriously.”

“Maybe she’s hiding on the other side of the door, listening to us,” I said. “Maybe we’re scaring her.”

A floorboard creaked on the other side of the door.

John and I looked at each other.

I said, “Either way, I’m starting to feel uncomfortable.”

He nodded.

We didn’t say anything on the climb back up the path. I knew we were both thinking the same thing. The woman I’d seen couldn’t have been Sally, but it sure had looked like her—and Sally had been a smoker too. Of course, lots of people smoked. Still. Why hadn’t the woman answered the door? I was pretty well convinced someone had been in that cottage.

“The thing is,” I said, as though we had been debating out loud, “there isn’t supposed to be anyone else on the island but Vanessa, her employees, and the tour guests.”

“She must work for Vanessa. Maybe she’s one of the salmon farm employees.”

“The salmon farm is on the other side of the island. I guess she could be household staff, but why would she live down here? It’s not like there’s a shortage of rooms at the castle.”

John said, “Maybe she’s hired to take care of the cottages.”

“But then—”

“Or maybe she likes her privacy. Or she could be a squatter. She could be a crazed fan.”

I’m not sure why, but the memory of standing in the Highland Museum of Childhood studying that elaborate open-faced dollhouse came to me. Each tiny room like the set of a play. And each little play an act in a larger story.

I said slowly, “Or she could be Sally.”

John stared at me for a moment. “Or she could be Sally.”

Chapter Eighteen

Vance met us as we were trying to retrace the way back to our room.

We had taken a wrong turn on the second—third?—floor, and John was complaining that he’d been in fun houses that were less confusingly laid out, when Vance called to me. He sounded out of breath, as though he had been pursuing us over field and farm, and for all I knew, he had.

“Hey,” I said warily. I couldn’t recall Vance voluntarily speaking to me ever before.

He looked unusually overwrought, but that was largely due to his hair which more and more appeared to have been styled by Edward Scissorhands.

His pale eyes bored into mine. “Can I have a word?”

“Sure,” John said. “The word is not now.”

That protective streak of John’s was kind of entertaining, but it wasn’t necessary. “That’s two words,” I told him. To Vance, I said, “Yes. If you make it snappy.”

John gave me an on-your-head-be-it look and kept walking as Vance fastened a hand on my arm and drew me to a small alcove behind a blue-and-gold arras depicting hunters closing in on a strangely sanguine unicorn.

I freed myself from his grip. “Do you mind?”

He scowled. “I do mind, yeah. I know what you’re up to, Carter.”

“What I’m up to?”

“First you accuse me of attempted murder—” I tried to interrupt, but he kept talking. “Then when that didn’t work, you made up this idiotic story about Rose being murdered and Sally being eliminated as a witness.”

“I didn’t make up any story,” I said indignantly—and probably a little guiltily.

“And now you’re trying to suggest that someone’s after Daya.”

“What the hell are you talking about? When did I ever mention Daya? I don’t think I’ve even had a conversation with her.”

Vance didn’t hear a word I said. “All in an obvious, pathetic attempt to get Trevor back.”

“To get...” I didn’t have to pretend to be astonished. I was floored. “You’re delusional, Stafford.” I started to walk past him, but he stepped in front of me. I glanced longingly at the staircase behind him, but resisted temptation.

“Don’t you have any pride?” he demanded.

I shot back, “Don’t you?”

He seemed to lose color, although I can’t say the lighting was exactly flattering to either of us. I was probably the same shade of mortally offended beige.

His voice trembled, though that would be anger as much as anything. “Trevor and I are together now. Whatever you had with him is over. It’s history. You’re history.”

“You don’t have to convince me.” I was pretty mad myself.

“Meaning Trev is the problem?” Vance gave a theatrical laugh. “Ha! Right.”

A door opened to the right of us and Edie Poe looked out. Her eyes widened and she hastily closed the door again. Great. In thirty seconds the Poe sisters would probably have their water glasses pressed to the door.

“No, I don’t mean that because—” Once again I broke off as another door opened. Roddy poked his head out, spotted us, and withdrew like an alarmed turtle. I finished, “—there is no problem. I’m not sure what this is supposed to be about, but I don’t want Trevor back.”

Vance gave another of those loud, disbelieving laughs.

I lowered my voice. “And he doesn’t want me back.”

“I know he doesn’t, but you keep coming up with these ludicrous attempts to get his attention. He doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Oh my God. Are you serious? That’s what this is about? He was talking to me today because, A, it’s not fucking high school, and B, like the rest of us, he loves a good mystery, and thinks there might be one developing right under our noses. That’s the total extent of what’s going on. So relax.”

“You’d like that!”

“I would, yeah. I bet everyone on the tour would.” I was mad enough to plow through him, but that time Vance didn’t try to stop me. He stepped aside and I continued to the staircase, heading up to the room I shared with John.

Honestly, it was laughable. But I didn’t feel like laughing. Slamming the door and taking a couple of turns around the long room helped a little. What helped more was the reflection that I honestly didn’t care what Vance or anyone else said, let alone thought. I didn’t want Trevor back. Heck, I hoped he and Vance would be happy together, although it was looking less and less likely to me.

John was in the bathroom shaving while he hummed “A Hundred Pipers,” one of the more annoying pipe tunes from the day’s travels. Or rather, the piped version was annoying. There was something kind of endearing about John’s baritone rendition.

He could up and gie me a blaw, a blaw any time he wanted...

My third loop around our basketball-sized court of a room, the bathroom door opened and John stuck his head out. “Good. You’re back.”

“Mostly.”

“What was that about?”

“Who knows? Vance is tired of my shameless chasing after Trevor.”

His dark brows shot up. He had very expressive eyebrows.

“He’s convinced I’m manufacturing mysteries out of coincidence in my desperate attempt to get Trevor’s attention.”

John stepped out of the steamy bathroom, tying a white towel around his lean waist. “You’re not really bothered by that, are you?”

“Yes and no. It’s ridiculous—and I think even Trevor knows it’s ridiculous. But purely from an ego standpoint...it does kind of bother me that they, Vance at least, have gone around telling everyone I’m stalking them.”

“I think by now most people have had enough time to make their own minds up about who’s preoccupied with who.” Despite that reassurance, John’s gaze was uncomfortably direct. “But you had to expect some pushback when you decided to come on the tour knowing they’d be here too.”

“Yes.”

He waited while I struggled with it.

Finally, I admitted, “I don’t think it was a conscious decision, but I realize now that maybe I did kind of hope that me being here would put pressure on them, maybe even spoil the trip for them. I don’t want Trevor back—and I haven’t for a long time—but I wanted him to regret leaving me. I wanted him to be sorry. I wanted him to want me.” I made a pained face. “I feel like a dick even admitting this in private.”

John shrugged. “He hurt you. They both did. It’s natural that you’d want...”

“Revenge?”

His grin was crooked. “Revenge seems kind of strong.”

“There’s a lot of it in Scottish music,” I said gloomily.

“Well, luckily we’re not in a musical. What puzzles me is what you were doing with Temple to start with.”

I sighed. “He was really a lot of fun at first.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“He was. He seemed to fit in with my family and friends. Although now he says he was just being polite.”

“Because nothing’s more polite than pretending to be someone you’re not.”

“And I felt like it was time to settle down. Most of my friends were married and having kids. Trevor really wanted it. To move in together. To be a couple. I don’t know. It seemed like the natural next step.”

John made a thoughtful sound.

I said carefully, “I thought at the time what I felt for Trevor was the most I was going to feel. I didn’t realize—it didn’t occur to me there might be...more.”

John’s eyes gleamed. His mouth curved in a sexy grin. “No?”

“Er, no.”

“But now?” He was walking toward me again, and the knot in the towel around his waist began to undo.

“Now I realize—” The words caught in my throat. His towel dropped over my feet as he reached me, and his mouth covered mine.

A gentle kiss. A nuzzle of soft lips, the exchange of uneven breaths. His tongue touched my lower lip in playful seduction. I liked the gentleness and the playfulness. I closed my eyes, stopped thinking about Trevor. Trevor Who? I couldn’t remember what we had been talking about—I was just glad we had stopped talking. Everything seemed to have narrowed to this: the taste of John, the pound of his heart against mine, the feel of his arms pulling me close, closer.

Our mouths brushed again, locked in warm, wet suction. The hunger was sudden and fierce. I pressed my tongue to John’s and he moaned, opening to me, half-swallowing me. I’d forgotten kissing could be like this. Sweet and hot and dizzying. I’d forgotten what it was like to be passionately aroused, to yearn for someone’s touch with an almost physical ache. I was flooded in feeling, dissolving in the need for more, the need for John and only John.

My arms wrapped around him, I pressed closer, feeling the poke of his arousal through my now painfully constricted jeans. I shivered in sensory overload. Need was a hot, aching, desperate thing, and it seemed to take forever to get out of my clothes, even with John’s help—or possibly because of John’s help—I had to tear my mouth away and gulp a breath, almost lightheaded from lack of oxygen.

I managed to shove down my jeans and briefs without injuring myself, stepped out of them as John tripped over his towel and knocked us both to the nearest bed. I liked that he was laughing too, and that his hands were shaking, and I liked the flushed size of his cock nudging my own and the faint smell of soap and sex.

“Your hair smells like the sea breeze and your mouth tastes like honey,” he said, and that I didn’t laugh at because he sounded almost wondering.

His hands shoved under my buttocks as my hands fastened on his hips. We humped and heaved against each other. Awkward and ungraceful, and then miraculously working it out, falling into rhythm, hips rocking against each other, cocks banging painfully, pleasurably, rough and ready...give and take.

I gulped, “John. God, John... I think I—” but managed to swallow it. I think I might be falling in love with you. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it might be true and it was too soon to say so.

I didn’t know when he came. I was too lost in my own reactions. Release flooded through me. Sharp, intense, almost piercingly sweet. We lay slumped together for long, shuddering moments. John’s face was pressed into my throat, his arms still wrapped around me.

He moved his head a couple of times. It could have been in negation. I thought it was more disbelief—because I felt the same way.

Eventually, I said, “When I first booked the tour I would never have believed that this was how it would end up.”

John rolled onto his side facing me. He smiled faintly. “When I first booked the tour I would never have believed this was how it would end up.”

“I bet.” I liked the blunt handsomeness of his profile. Could imagine looking at—and liking—that profile for the next fifty years. “About being on rebound.”

He raised his gaze from my mouth to my eyes. “Mmm?”

“This isn’t a rebound thing for me.”

He said ruefully, “But you can’t know that yet, can you?”

“I think I can. For one thing Trevor and I have been over for ten months, nearly a year. My feelings for him died before we finished divvying up the CDs. What I told you earlier is the truth. What drove me to go on this trip was mostly ego. I wanted him to see he’d made a mistake.”

John didn’t say anything, but I had his full attention.

As hard as it was to admit, I needed to get this out. “But his leaving me wasn’t a mistake because we weren’t really happy. In the end, it’s the way he did it that made me so bitter, rather than the fact we split up.”

The gravity of John’s face relaxed into a startlingly affectionate smile. “See? If nothing else—” He broke off as the sound of a gong reverberated from below. “What the hell was that?”

“The dinner gong, you barbarian.”

“The dinner gong? That sounded like we just declared war.”

I sat up. “Hopefully not. I’m already going to be so late.”

He caught my hand and pressed a kiss to the palm. “But worth it?”

“Definitely worth it.” I jumped off the bed and headed for the bathroom.

“Do you want me to wait for you?” John rolled off the bed. He pulled on a fresh shirt, white with blue pinstripes, and began to do up the buttons.

“No. I’ll meet you down there.” I smiled at the marble bust he’d nearly throttled earlier, and then stopped in my tracks. “Oh. My. God.” I slapped my forehead. “Of course.”

I turned back to John, who looked alarmed at whatever he read in my face.

He rose and came toward me. “What’s the matter?”

Funny, how natural it felt to walk right into his arms. “I just figured it out.”

“You just figured what out?”

“All of it. This whole crazy setup. At least I think so.”

“O-kay,” he said in the tone of one humoring the patient.

“How the hell did I not realize when I found that key in the flower vase?”

“Uh...”

“That was right out of one of Vanessa’s books. Talk about obvious!”

John said, “I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

I could barely contain my excitement. “Don’t you see, John? All of it, I mean. This castle and Rose’s sudden death in the night and her missing journal and then Sally’s disappearance?”

John’s eyes narrowed, and I could see he was now on the same track. “You’re saying this is like one of Vanessa’s books?”

Okay, sort of on the same track.

“No,” I said. “Not remotely. It’s like one of those murder mystery dinners!”

“Uh...okay. Oh. I see.”

“Have you ever been to one?”

“Nope.”

“I have. A bunch of times. And that’s what this reminds me of: a super well done How to Host a Murder. They have tours and cruises and train rides too.”

“Who does?”

“Event planning companies. Granted, I’ve never seen one that lasted for more than a few hours. It would be hard as hell to keep up the illusion. But I bet they have them.”

John absently stroked my back. “Let me see if I have this right. You think Tours to Die For is secretly hosting a make-believe whodunit?”

“Yes! Well...yes. I think so.” Hearing John put into words, the idea sounded farfetched. But the notion that Rose Lane had been murdered in her sleep and Sally...what? Thrown down a well? Was equally—or maybe even more—farfetched.

“What would be the point of hosting such an event if no one knew it was going on?” John asked, reasonably.

I thought it over. “Nearly everyone on this tour is a rabid mystery buff. The possibility of being caught up in a real-life mystery is guaranteed to entertain most of us, even if we don’t take it seriously.”

John’s mouth twitched like something funny had occurred to him.

“What?”

“Some of you would be bound to take it more seriously than others.”

I knew just as surely as if he had a thought bubble over his head that he was remembering me sneaking out of Rose’s hotel room the night before. I cleared my throat.

“Er, yeah. Probably.”

He grinned.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “You don’t have to say it.”

“Your expression when you saw me standing there—”

“You can shut up now.”

“No, but really, you make a very cute burglar. You can come burgle me any time.”

He bumped encouragingly against me, clearly not intending his words to act like an ice bucket, but they had that effect. My excitement faded. “Damn. You’re right.”

“I...am?”

“Our room being searched doesn’t fit. Shoving me down the stairs couldn’t be part of any planned murder-mystery weekend because I could have broken my neck.”

The good humor faded from John’s face. In fact, he looked unexpectedly bleak. “Yes. I know.”

I sighed. “It was a nice theory, and I’d prefer to think there’s nothing potentially dangerous going on, but the break-in messes up my whole thesis. No insurance company in the world would cover an enterprise that included shoving people down stairs.”

“True.” John said neutrally, “But maybe our room being searched wasn’t part of the rest of it.”

His eyes met mine apologetically.

“No?”

“I don’t think so,” John said. “In fact, I’d bet money on it.”

I started to answer but was cut off by a second loud and resounding reverberation of the dinner gong. We were about to miss having drinks in the drawing room with Vanessa.

“Maybe we could skip dinner, Sherlock,” John murmured, running a suggestive hand over my ass cheek. “We could continue to discuss the case. What do you say?”

“Regretfully, I say no way. If I’m right about this, the next couple of days are going to be so much fun.”

He sighed and gave me a light swat. “Okay. I’ll see you down there. Don’t fall through any trapdoors.”

“It’s the secret panels you have to watch out for,” I said. “Those are the ones that get you in the end.”

He cocked an eyebrow, opened his mouth, and I laughed. “Hold that thought, Watson.”

Chapter Nineteen

By the time I finished my shower, shaved, dressed and hurried downstairs I had completely convinced myself we were at the start of a Mystery Weekend to end all Mystery Weekends, so it was frankly a little disappointing when I walked into the drawing room and the first person I spotted was Rose.

She wore a yellow sequined dress and stood at the center of a circle of my fellow tour members, beaming and preening. Holding up her drink, she chortled, “As if I’d be so stupid as to let anyone see I suspected them of murder!”

John came up on my left and pushed a glass into my unresisting hand. “Surprise,” he said softly.

“Damn. It’s over?” I can’t pretend I didn’t feel deflated. Not only was the game finished, I’d missed the grand reveal.

“They always fall for it,” Hamish said sardonically, reaching for one of the hot morsels on the circulating trays of hors d’oeuvres. He had removed his alarming corrective glasses—and his hair piece and, it turned out, an impressive set of prosthodontics. He was probably twenty years younger than I’d ever suspected. So much for my sleuthing skills. So much for all our sleuthing skills. Hamish had sat under our noses for three days in that ridiculous get-up and we’d never suspected a thing.

Chagrined, I looked at John. He laughed. “It’s even worse in my case.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant, but didn’t get a chance to question him because Sally, in a brown silk dress decorated with smiling Cheshire cats, reached us and threw her arms around me. “Surprise!” She was laughing. “Or is it? I thought you were going to ruin everything this afternoon.”

“So, it was you down by the beach?” Not that there was much doubt now.

“I thought you guys would never go away! Of course, I didn’t know at the time the mystery weekend was going to be wound up tonight.” She made a face. “That was a letdown. I was really looking forward to my appearance at the séance.”

“Séance?”

“Yes. It would have been so much fun. It’s all cancelled now.”

I glanced around the room. Everyone was in their best party duds. Trevor and Vance were wearing kilts. Not just kilts. Vance was done up in full Highland regalia, from his ghillie brogues to the brown-and-white—suspiciously eagle-like—feather in his balmoral. What the—?

I took a harder look at Trevor’s muted blue-and-green kilt. The tartan was Matheson Hunting.

“How come you don’t have a kilt?” John asked.

“Uh, I used to.”

“Can you believe it?” Laurel joined us. “I feel like I should turn in my magnifying glass. I missed every single clue. I honestly believed Rose had died in her sleep and Sally had returned home. Jim didn’t notice anything either.”

“Alison said she never had so much trouble getting a group buzzing before,” Sally said. “There was supposed to be one other plant, but I’m not sure who. Apparently, she bailed on fulfilling her part at the last moment.”

“Daya.” I remembered the argument between Alison and Daya I’d stumbled on the day before. I glanced around the room, but Daya was nowhere to be seen. Roddy was there though. Flushed with alcohol and excitement, he was babbling enthusiastically to the Poe girls, who both wore hunted expressions.

A little ways off stood Ben and Yvonne. They were not speaking. Not to each other and not to anyone else in the room. As though feeling my gaze, Ben’s eyes met mine. He stared coldly at me and then looked away.

I sighed inwardly. Would trying to speak to him make it better or worse? What would I say? Can’t we still be friends? Vance already provided about all the drama I could take.

Sally was saying, “Was it? I don’t know. I only know the third person was supposed to have the missing journal. She was scheduled to disappear from the tour during the boat crossing, at which point you were all supposed to totally freak out. Well, those of you paying attention.” She grinned at me.

“We’ve been phoning your family,” I told her severely.

“I know!” She giggled, seemingly delighted by the idea.

As Sally was drawn away by Nedda, John clicked his glass against mine.

“Congratulations. You were right. It felt like a Host Your Own Murder, or whatever you called it, because it was.”

“How to Host a Murder. Yes. I guess so.” I sipped my drink. Single malt. He knew what I liked.

He seemed both amused and sympathetic. “Disappointed?”

“Er, that would probably make me a sociopath. I’m relieved. Mostly. And feeling like a total and complete dumbass for being quite so suggestible.”

“No, but you were perfect.” Sally rejoined us. “We were dropping clues like mad, and nobody was picking up on them.”

“How did it work? Was it all arranged before the tour began?”

“Oh, no. Alison selected Rose the first night, and then Rose suggested me as the next victim because I totally bought into her story. I even warned her about making notes in her journal in front of Alison and Hamish.” Sally made a face at her own gullibility. “I wanted you to be the next victim, but Alison said we didn’t dare remove the only person paying attention to what was going on.”

“Whoa,” John said. “That was a close call.”

No lie. Being part of the mystery plot was liable to have spoiled getting to know John, and getting to know John was the best part of the trip by far.

Sally seemed about to explain further, but the hard, clear ring of silver against crystal cut across the noisy room. We all turned, falling silent.

Vanessa stood before the fireplace, but this was a very different woman from the afternoon’s Vanessa. She wore a black beaded sheath. Diamonds sparkled at her wrists and throat. She looked as cool and distant as a star in the midnight sky.

Her smile was hard and brittle. “I know you’re all dying to hear the details of our little mystery charade, but let’s save them for dinner. Grab your drinks and follow me.”

She glanced around and casually commandeered Trevor and Vance, strolling between them into the dining room.

The rest of us followed, quiet and docile, like lambs to the slaughter.

* * *

Something was wrong.

It was not the dinner, however. The mussel, onion and chanterelle soup was hot and delicately flavored. The roasted wild duck was perfectly seasoned and perfectly cooked. There was plenty of wine, good wine, and silver baskets of warm homemade bread were passed round the table many times. It was a wonderful meal, but after the first few bites, we could have been eating rocks in a box for all the attention I paid to the food.

As relieved as I was to find Rose still alive and Sally all in one piece, something still felt off. I remained uneasy, unsettled, though I couldn’t understand why.

Vance and Trevor were not speaking. That was immediately obvious to me, having been on the receiving end of Trevor’s icy and prolonged silences more than a few times. Vance, however, looked like he could hold his own in the sulking department, and they were not my concern anyway.

For the first time during the tour, Joel and Gerda Rice had broken off from Nelson and Wilma Scherf. The Scherfs spent the meal chatting with the Poe sisters. The Rices spent the meal chatting with the Kramers. And all the while, the Scherfs and the Rices watched John like cats keeping an eye on a particularly insouciant mouse.

If I noticed their attention, I figured John had to be aware of it, but if so, it didn’t worry him. He seemed in a great mood, eating his dinner with apparent appreciation, talking and laughing with the Matsukados and Alison and Hamish. He clearly thought the murder mystery weekend concept was no weirder than the tour’s original concept.

Yvonne sat on my left, sighing in long sufferance over each course, and serving as a buffer between me and Ben. If that was deliberate on her part, she could rest easy. Not only had Ben nothing to say to me, he had nothing to say to anyone at the table. That was puzzling. I didn’t think his dour mood could be all disappointment in me. So why had he gone so dark and gloomy since that afternoon?

All of these interactions were odd and uncomfortable, but could not account for my feeling of unease.

A pair of maids moved unobtrusively around the table, pouring wine and dishing out soup as Alison explained how Vanessa’s “murder game” worked. At the start of each tour, Alison selected two likely members of the group as “facilitators.” These people were given a very loose script to follow which they could embellish as they liked. Before the facilitators mysteriously disappeared from the tour, they each chose another person to act as an accomplice. As reward for their efforts, the facilitators came directly to the island to spend extra time with Vanessa in her castle.

“I wish it had been us,” Bertie said wistfully to Edie, who nodded sadly.

“By the time the tour reaches the island, it’s usually mayhem.” Alison was still smiling, but she sounded more put-out than pleased.

“It seems rather cruel to me,” Yvonne said.

Elizabeth Ogilvie, Vanessa’s PA, made a kind of clucking with her tongue. It was a uniquely Scottish sound, and clearly a reprimand.

Unexpectedly, Vanessa laughed. While she was following the conversations flowing around her, she had said almost nothing during the meal, and I think most of us were a little intimidated about trying to engage her.

Anyway, if she found it funny, Alison did not. She turned red. “Of course it’s not cruel,” she snapped. “It’s fun. You’re mystery readers. You all loved being in a real-life mystery.”

“This wasn’t a so-called ‘real life’ mystery,” Yvonne pointed out. “It was a needless and unwanted distraction from the tour we paid for. The very expensive tour we paid for.”

“Mother,” Ben murmured into the awkward pause.

“Oh? Some guests enter more into the spirit of things.” Vanessa shrugged her slim shoulders. She was still smiling that mocking little smile at Yvonne.

That was what had changed. That was what was wrong.

Something had happened since Vanessa had greeted us that afternoon. Something had made her angry. Very angry. It was there in the brightness of her tawny eyes and the twin points of color in her pale face, and it was in her smile. Not the wide, beautiful smile she had greeted us with. I could imagine her smiling like this right before she hit Donald Kresley with a rock. It made the hair on the back of my neck prickle.

What could have rocked her poise? Not Yvonne’s carping. If the rest of us could put up with Yvonne’s complaints for three days, Vanessa was unlikely to have reached the breaking point in the half an hour before dinner.

It needn’t be anything to do with the tour. Maybe she’d had bad news from her publisher or agent or salmon farm manager. Maybe the cook was quitting. Judging by this dinner, that would truly be a tragedy.

Anyway, for the most part I thought Alison was right. As a whole, our tour group seemed delighted to have taken part in Vanessa’s game, even if they’d missed most of the innings.

“The person searching our room—the guy who pushed me down the stairs—that was all part of this too?” I leaned over to ask Alison.

She shook her head. “No. That wasn’t part of the game. I’m afraid someone did try to rob you.”

I glanced at John. He was smiling as he listened to Laurel, but he patted my knee in apparent reassurance beneath the cover of the linen-topped table. I felt an unexpected surge of, well, call it affection because I was afraid to call it by the word that jumped to mind. No matter how easy and natural it felt between us, I’d only known him a couple of days.

After all, I’d lived with Trevor for three years and still hadn’t really ever known him.

Then again, I’d never had that instant sense of recognition, of being simpatico with Trevor that I’d felt with John. Maybe that meant something. Or maybe I just wanted it to mean something.

Could it really happen like that? So easily, so naturally? I’d heard friends talk about falling in love at first sight. I had always believed they were confusing lust for love, and then the love had come later. Not that there was anything wrong with that.

Alison interrupted my thoughts, saying darkly, softly, “She basically ruined this tour’s game. Until now it’s always been so much fun.”

“Don’t take what she said to heart. I think we all enjoyed being part of an adventure.”

She gave me an exasperated look. “I don’t mean her.” She glanced dismissively in Yvonne’s direction. She mouthed, “Bittywiddy.”

Oh. Right. Daya, who had agreed to take part in the murder game and then abruptly changed her mind.

“Where is Daya?” I asked.

Yvonne, who had apparently been listening in the whole time, answered. “Roddy said she wasn’t feeling well after the ferry ride.”

“It was rougher than I expected,” I admitted.

Alison, still brooding over the spoiled game, said, “Ordinarily, by the time we get to the ferry, everyone is totally engaged and going crazy trying to figure out what’s happening. It’s like a team building exercise. And having shared that experience, it makes the rest of the tour brilliant.”

“Anyway, I thought it was a lot of fun,” I said. Which was true, especially in hindsight.

“You were pretty much the only person playing.” Alison suddenly laughed. “Oh my God. That was priceless when you snuck into Rose’s room. Hamish and I were rolling. We had a bet on that one.”

“You were watching?”

“Of course we were watching! I knew you’d go for it. Librarians are always the most proactive about getting to the bottom of the mystery. And teachers, of course, but you can’t count on all teachers.”

On that cryptic note, she turned away leaving me to wonder how many people had been spying on me that night and whether there were peepholes or miniature cameras or periscopes or whatever the hell installed at the Ben Wyvis Manor House Hotel. I sincerely hoped no one had been peering through the keyhole of our room—or that no film of any of my exploits existed.

Dessert was served. Toasted coconut ice cream with raspberry sauce. It was sweet and tart and delicious. Drambuie and other liqueurs circulated, but I stuck to ice cream. I’d had plenty of wine already, and my sense of disquiet persisted.

That said, by the time the meal was finished, Vanessa seemed to have relaxed a little. We adjourned to the library on the first floor.

As I walked through the carved double doors, my immediate thought was that this was where Vanessa lived. It just felt different from the rest of the castle.

The room was enormous, lined floor to ceiling with books as well as beautiful objets d’art. Not the curiosities and kooky knickknacks that decorated the halls and guest rooms. No stuffed animals or phony family portraits. Genuinely lovely pieces of sea glass and stone sat on low tables or behind the glass panes of the bookshelves.

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 sweater 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.”

“Is that their MO? I mean, aren’t they more organized than that? If they’ve been hitting museums—”

“They’re good at improvisation.”

The whole museum heist thing sounded pretty sophisticated for a group of high school teachers, but the dine and dash sounded even less likely.

“Sure. But if your company isn’t on the hook—”

“We still need to connect them to two robberies we are on the hook for.”

“True. Of course.”

After all, this was John’s area of expertise. He surely must know his quarry. Certainly, fleeing the island looked pretty guilty.

Meeting my doubtful gaze, he said, “I’ve been downstairs listening outside their rooms. They’re packing right now, which means they’re about to leave this island.”

“How are they going to do that?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t been able to verify. I’m guessing they’ve chartered a boat. That’s going to attract the least attention.” He added with dark humor, “If they’ve hired a helicopter, the friendly skies might get less friendly—not to mention crowded.”

“You’re flying out tonight?” I glanced at the twin windows and the pitch-black night beyond.

He checked his watch. “ETD forty minutes. Give or take.”

“Ah.” I admired his confidence. And his determination. Also his expense account. I could see a lot of potential for miscalculation, but presumably that was because I looked at things like a budget-conscious librarian and not an intrepid insurance investigator. I was dismayed at how much I didn’t want him to go. I took a deep breath and shoved the blankets back. “Okay. Well. How about if I go with you—just to see you off?”

He looked startled—and pleased. “I’d like that. But...”

I pulled the blankets up again in instinctive retreat. “You don’t want me to?”

“No, not that. I do want you to. But there’s always a slim chance of...danger.”

“Really? You told me in Strathpeffer you were sure there was no danger.”

John said quickly, “Which is true. I think. But when people feel cornered, they can react badly.”

Those violent impulses Vanessa liked to write about.

“Okay. Fine. I’ve been warned.” I was already up and searching for my jeans. I stopped as John rested a hand on my bare shoulder.

His eyes were serious, searching. “This isn’t goodbye. You know that, right?”

“I hope not.”

He drew me up and we kissed. The warm pressure of his mouth was fleeting but heartfelt.

“It’s not goodbye,” he whispered. “No way. We live in the same state. You’re only three hours away from me. Give or take and depending on traffic. We can get together any time we want.”

“We could. We should.”

“I would like to get together,” John said. “The minute you get home, I’d like to get together.” He looked around, grabbed my copy of Pressure Cooker from the bedstand, pulled out a pen, and scribbled something on the first page. “I’m not carrying a card because I was afraid our room would be searched again. That’s my work phone, my home phone and my cell phone.”

I stared down at those lines of resolute black scrawl. “I’m not sure if I’m flattered or flabbergasted you just defaced a book for me. But yes. I do really, really want to hear from you.”

“I have your number. I’ll text you as soon as I know what’s happening.”

“Okay.” I scrambled into my jeans and reached for my fisherman’s wool sweater. It was cold. Ridiculously cold. I thought I could see my breath in the gloom. It seemed the wood stacked in the fireplace was not intended solely as décor.

John slipped on his trench coat, picked up his suitcase, and waited as I finished pulling clothes over my goose bumps.

As I shrugged on my coat, he eased open the door and we crept silently into the hall.

A small lamp with blue hanging crystals sat on a table a few yards from our room, lighting the long hallway. It couldn’t quite dispel the shadows that seemed to stretch from every corner. The somber portrait of a lady in historical costume gazed down on us with pursed mouth and disapproving eyes.

“She must have been a barrel of fun at ye olde ceilidh,” John muttered.

I smothered a laugh.

All was silent. I’d have been willing to bet money we were the only people up and moving on the entire island, but John never hesitated. We stepped softly down the hall, glancing at each other every time a floorboard squeaked, softly down the staircase, softly across the front hall with the giant portrait of the fatuous young laird and his equally fatuous hunting dogs.

We unlocked the heavy front door.

The wind almost slammed the door shut again. The smell of the sea and other wild things drifted in, stirring the rugs and paintings.

Still several hours from sunrise, the world beyond this threshold was startlingly dark. No street lights, no other houses, no sign of life as far as the eye could see. Not even stars to guide our way.

And dark as it was, it was even quieter. So quiet I thought I could hear the waves washing against the beach.

Mystery lover or no mystery lover, if I’d been on my own, I’d have gone back to bed. John was made of sterner stuff.

We slipped outside and he pointed upward. “Look.”

Light shone from one of the windows overhead. Shadows moved to and fro behind the drapes.

He was right. Someone sure as hell was on the move.

John gripped my arm, pointed and we ran across the flagstone courtyard and hunkered down behind a short stone wall.

We waited. The damp soaked the knees of my jeans. The clammy sea breeze whispered down the back of my neck.

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to apprehend them before they leave the island?” I whispered.

“Yes. Only I’m not a cop.”

Oh. Right. Details.

Just as I was thinking that crouching on the damp ground waiting for villains was maybe a job best left to teenage sleuths, the front door of the castle inched open. Flashlight beams crisscrossed the dark ground as four shades tiptoed into the night, lugging, hauling, dragging their suitcases. They seemed to have a lot of luggage for criminal masterminds, but what did I know? Maybe they packed grappling hooks and black ski masks with their PJs and antacids. Quiet voices carried on the wind, though the words were lost.

“They’re walking all the way to the pier?” I asked. That pier was several miles away.

“No. They won’t take the ferry. They’ll head for the cove. That’s what I would do.”

“I hate to nitpick, but isn’t what you would do what you’re actually doing? Flying out.”

John said patiently, “If I was them, I’d hire a boat to meet me down in the cove where the abandoned vacation cottages are. There’s a dock down there.”

I hadn’t noticed the dock when we’d been looking for Sally, but John sounded confident. We waited, watching, our breath clouding in the night.

Sure enough the four shadows headed the way John and I had walked that afternoon.

We waited until they were almost out of sight, the sounds of their suitcase wheels and quiet cursing dying off in the distance. John gripped my shoulder. “Come on.”

We followed at a careful distance, hurrying as best we could in an awkward half-crouch. The ground was mushy and uneven, and I narrowly missed tripping over one of the grates in the grass. The cold, dank air of the underground tunnel gusted up against my face. John caught my arm, keeping me from landing on my face.

“Okay?” he whispered.

I nodded.

We scuttled along, yards behind as the four shadows vanished over the ridge, following the hidden trail down to the beach that John and I had walked earlier that day.

“They’re making good time,” I whispered.

John nodded, squeezed my shoulder and pointed.

“How do you know where they’re headed once they leave here?” I asked.

“The mainland is the obvious choice, so I think they’ll aim for Orkney.”

“Really?”

He nodded.

I saw that a large fishing boat sat anchored not far from the shore. Lights twinkled as she bobbed in the black water.

“How are they getting out there?”

John had pulled out a small pair of binoculars and was scanning the anchored vessel. He started to answer, but then swore.

In the distance I heard the unmistakable approach of a helicopter’s engine. Far, far through the expanse of clouds and night, a star seemed to be heading our way.

He shoved the binoculars inside his jacket. “Shit. He’s early! We’ve got to move.”

We left the cliff, running back the way we’d come, trying not to break our necks on the slippery ground or crash into anything with thorns—which was pretty much every shrub in Scotland.

When we reached the spindly new growth forest, we slowed to a painful jog, and then finally, out of breath, half-walked, half-crawled up a small hillock to the cleared area of the landing pad.

I’d thought I was in pretty good shape, but by that point I was drenched in sweat and gulping for breath. Hands braced on my knees, I looked at John, who did not seem nearly as winded. He gave me a grin and a thumbs-up.

Yeah, I was not the only one who loved his job.

The whup-whup-whup of the helicopter engine was deafening now, and the little trees below us bent in half at the force of air rushing from the blades.

There would be no missing the helicopter’s approach. I wondered what the Rices and Scherfs made of it, what they would do next. Would they abandon their plan? Would they change course and head for the mainland after all? Or would they opt for door number three and pull out a bazooka?

I had firsthand knowledge someone in that group did not like to feel cornered.

The helicopter hovered overhead and then slowly descended, kicking up dirt and tiny bits of gravel.

John turned to me. This was it. The big goodbye. It was even more painful than I’d expected.

“Be careful,” I said. “Your bad guys may be working from a different script.”

John pulled me close. “I’m going to miss you,” he said, his face pressed close to mine. His breath was warm against my face, his eyelashes flickering against my own.

“Same.” It was all I could get out over the lump in my throat.

His hands tightened on my shoulders. His lips said against mine, “You be careful. I mean that, Carter.”

I nodded. Tried to joke, “Hey, you’re the one going after a criminal gang. I’m still on vacation.”

There was no smile in his voice. “I’m serious. Watch yourself. I hate leaving you here. There’s something going on with this tour. I don’t know what, but I don’t like it.”

I didn’t have a response because, unfortunately, I agreed with him. The revelation that both Rose and Sally were unharmed had relieved my unease for a few hours, but it had come back full force in the library that evening.

In fact, illogical or not, my unease had developed into full-blown foreboding. Or maybe that was more about not wanting John to go.

I pulled back. Met his gaze. “I promise. I’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

He threw an impatient look at the waiting helicopter and yelled into my face. “I’ll try to call you later.”

I nodded, yelled back, “Yes. I’d like that.”

John kissed me—quick and hard—and ran toward the helicopter, clutching his suitcase.

He climbed inside. I watched, holding my hair from my eyes, as the helicopter rose, blades twirling. Up, up, and then it whirled away. I stood there until its light disappeared into the night.

Chapter Twenty-One

When I opened my eyes the next morning I had the strange feeling I had dreamed the past four days.

Everything felt so...normal.

Or as normal as waking in an isolated Scottish castle surrounded by marble busts of unknown historical figures, cracked Grecian urns and a stuffed raven could be. I blinked up at the glass-eyed bird of prey, which I hadn’t noticed the day before, and felt for my phone.

Eight thirty.

Hell. The bus would be leaving at nine for a tour of the island. I glanced at John’s empty bed and sighed. I checked my messages, but there was no text from him. No word from anyone at all.

No news was good news, right?

At some point in the wee hours the central heat had kicked on, and the room was at a survivable temperature. I crawled out of bed, padded into the empty bathroom, still steamy from my neighbors’ morning ablutions, and was weirdly cheered to spot one of John’s crumpled white T-shirts beneath the bath towels strewn on the floor. I picked the damp shirt up and folded it carefully, as though it was a precious artifact placed in my safekeeping.

I hadn’t dreamed the past couple of days—or nights—and if John said he’d call, well, he’d probably call. He seemed like a guy who kept his word.

And who couldn’t use a little of that in their life?

I made my shower quick and hurried downstairs to the dining room where Yvonne greeted me with a crisp, “Fifteen.”

“Morning.” I nodded politely at Ben.

To my relief we seemed to be on nodding terms again, because he silently tipped his head in return. I couldn’t help noticing he didn’t look well. He was pale and haggard. His eyes were red-rimmed.

Daya appeared to have made a full recovery however. She and Roddy sat across from Yvonne and Ben, surrounded as usual by the paraphernalia of knitting, travel guides for places she was not currently in, and neck pillows.

“Someone is running late this morning,” she observed.

“Is John coming on the tour of the island, Carter?” Alison asked.

“Uh, no,” I said casually, heading for the laden sideboard. “John left last night.”

Nice try. Like anyone was going to leave that bombshell lying there?

“Left?” Alison repeated. “He’s left the island?”

“Wait. John is gone?” That was Trevor at the far, far end of the banquet table. Vance sat beside him wearing an expression of open alarm.

I nodded. “He had to charter a helicopter out last night. I think there was some kind of insurance emergency.”

As explanations went, that was pretty weak, and I was not surprised to see my fellow passengers staring at me in open disbelief. It wasn’t like FEMA—or the UK equivalent—had been called in. No tidal wave had taken out Orkney. The earth had not swallowed John o’Groats. The Crown Jewels were still sitting in the tower. The Sword was still in the Stone. There was nary a national disaster in sight, and we all knew it.

Wait till they found out the Rices and Scherfs were also MIA.

“Insurance emergency? Why on earth wouldn’t he let me know?” Alison protested.

I shook my head. “I don’t have all the details. He must have let someone know because of flight plans being filed and so forth. Right? It was really last minute.” I thrust a coffee cup beneath the silver urn’s spigot and let the magical elixir flow.

Behind me, I could hear murmurs of surprise and mutters of disapproval. I pretended to be deaf.

Happily, they had not heard of the low carb diet in Bonnie Scotland. Along with the usual porridge, puddings and meats, there was a selection of baked goods that would have done the Great British Bake Off crew proud. I took a little of everything, although I wasn’t particularly hungry.

I sat down at the table across from the Poe sisters, who eyed me skeptically.

“We’re leaving in five minutes,” Yvonne informed me.

I nodded and shoved half a scone in my mouth. Almond with a hint of cinnamon. The Poes giggled and reached in tandem for their teacups.

“At least we have Sally and Rose back,” Laurel said cheerfully.

I could feel someone watching me. I glanced over and Trevor was staring. He mouthed, He’s gone? Like we hadn’t already established that?

John was gone, so why the hell I found it so annoying—or maybe it was Trevor’s excitement at the news—I wasn’t sure.

So’s my kilt, I mouthed back.

Trevor blinked.

“Does Vanessa come on the island tour?” Nedda asked.

Alison gave a little laugh. “No, no. Vanessa will join us this evening again. She works during the day.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Yvonne said. Daya gave one of her disapproving sniffs but left it at that.

“Will we be able to get our books signed tonight?” Bertie asked.

“Yes, I think so.” Alison glanced at her watch. “Well, I guess if that’s all of us, we should be starting out.”

“What about the Scherfs?” Sally helped herself to a golden glob of marmalade.

“The Scherfs and the Rices told me last night they planned on hiking the interior of the island and taking photos today. Carter, you can take your scone on the bus, if you’d like.”

I shoved in the rest of the scone, washed it down. “Nope. I’m good.” I took a final mouthful of coffee and rose with the others.

* * *

Later, I wished I could remember more about our trip around the island.

As it was, it felt like trying to remember the details of the last day of sunshine before the hurricane struck. It was a beautiful day, the weather was mild, the blue skies streaked with long, thready clouds that looked like lamb’s wool.

The bus wound its way up and down narrow roads, past fields of golden bracken and around bronze-green hills splotched with purple heather. We trundled our way across the interior of the island, spotting deer and the crumbled ruins of stone crofts along the way.

The highlight of the tour was supposed to be the salmon farm on the other side of the island.

In all honesty, that was way more about salmon than I had ever wanted to know. We learned that “aquaculture,” or farmed fish, now produced fifty percent of the world’s fish. We learned the sea louse had decimated over half the farmed salmon population in Scotland, threatening a multibillion-dollar global economy. We learned that most salmon farms relied heavily, dangerously on chemicals, that waste was out of control, and that the big industrial farms were quickly depleting the world’s natural fish population.

It was kind of depressing and I sincerely hoped salmon was not on the evening’s menu.

After our tour, we returned along the coast, stopping for lunch in a beautiful cove with white sand and sparkling azure water, so clear you could see all the way to the bottom. The kitchen at Castle Dìomhair had provided huge picnic baskets stuffed with delicacies such as, yes, salmon paste sandwiches. Of course, there was also whisky. Dark Origins from the Highland Park distillery on Orkney, in this case.

“And they say crime doesn’t pay,” Sally murmured when we were all replete, lying back on the tartan picnic blanket and turning her face to the sun.

“I’m not surprised John left,” Rose said, out of the blue. “Not after that exchange with Vanessa last night.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The way he spoke to her. He practically accused her of murder.”

“Uh. She did commit murder. She went to prison for murder,” I said.

Nedda said, “I’m not sure what he was doing on the tour to begin with. If he’s ever read one of Vanessa’s books, I’ll eat my hat.” She doffed her straw sunhat as though to prove her point.

Sally pushed up on her elbows. “Why was he on the tour?” she asked me.

Rose and Nedda were both watching me as well.

“I don’t think it’s a mystery,” I said. “He’s got family Scottish connections and he enjoys mystery novels.”

“Not Vanessa’s,” Nedda said.

“Don’t tell me you swallowed that story,” Sally scoffed. “He was obviously up to something. Always skulking around, listening in on people’s private conversations.”

“Skulking?”

“Oh, Carter, come on. We all noticed.”

“Even if he was, it wouldn’t be anything nefarious,” I protested. Not that I needed to defend John, but...

“He upset Vanessa,” Sally said. “She tried to hide it, but I could tell.”

I said, “Vanessa was upset when we came downstairs for cocktails.”

Sally denied this, but Nedda said, “No, he’s right. I thought so too. There was a difference in her from that afternoon.”

A shadow fell across me. “Carter? Can I have a word?”

I squinted against the bright sun and made out Trevor’s silhouette. My heart sank. I didn’t need to see his face. I recognized the we-need-to-talk tone.

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“Don’t mind us,” Rose said.

Sally said, “I knew this was coming.” She lay back and closed her eyes again.

“Like honey to flies,” Nedda murmured. “Where’s Ben?”

Trevor ignored them. “Carter?”

I looked around for Vance and spotted him sound asleep on one of the nearby picnic blankets. Great. No rescue was coming from that quarter.

I rose without a word and strode down the beach, leading him away from our audience. Trevor followed, sounding slightly out of breath as he called, “It’s not a race.”

I sighed and slowed. “What’s the problem now, Trevor? What’s so urgent—”

He caught my hand and drew me forward, and kissed me. Astonishment held me motionless. Astonishment, but also the unexpected familiarity of it. Only for an instant. I shoved him away. He staggered and sat down in the sand.

“Do that again, and I’ll deck you.” I glared, then threw a guilty look back at the picnic blankets. Every single head was turned our way. I could see the round eyes and open mouths all the way from where we stood. In fact, I thought Sally had her phone out and was filming us.

I groaned. “Are you crazy?”

Trevor stood up, brushed the sand from his khakis, and came toward me. His eyes were brimming with emotion. Largely self-inflicted. “You can’t pretend you don’t still have feelings for me.”

“I have feelings for you. None of them make me want to kiss you.”

Trevor closed his eyes as though in pain. “I know I hurt you.”

“Stop,” I said. And to make sure the folks back home were getting the full picture, I planted my hand in his chest. “Seriously. Stop. I don’t want to hear this. It’s over for me. And it should be over for you, seeing that you’re with Vance now.”

I turned to return to the safety of the tour, but Trevor caught my arm.

“I love Vance,” he said. “But I loved you first. This situation is killing me.” He gazed beseechingly into my eyes. Same old Trevor. Reveling in the self-created drama.

I said, “You’ll survive.”

“Don’t. If you hadn’t been so cold, so withdrawn at the end... You forced me to choose.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. It was just so... Trevor.

“So cold and withdrawn after I found out you were having an affair with your dental hygienist? So, it was actually my fault?”

Trevor said indignantly, “He wasn’t my dental hygienist when we met!”

“Uh, true. Is that supposed to make it better? Listen—”

Trevor interrupted, “What if I left Vance? What if I came back to you?”

It was no longer even remotely funny. “I hope you’re kidding.”

Trevor shook his head. “I made a mistake. I see that now. I love Vance, but I love our old life more. I love you more.”

He had it right the first time. He loved his old life more. Trevor was all about comfort and convenience, and while I’d had my drawbacks—clearly—it seemed I was the winner in the providing comfort and convenience sweepstakes.

And what was his plan anyway? That he would stay with Vance until the end of the tour? Or we would break the news to Vance before dinner and Vance could take over my dinner-for-one slot? Did he even have a plan? Or was I supposed to take care of the details—like I’d taken care of so many of the details in our relationship?

“Sorry,” I said. “Like I keep saying, I’ve moved on.”

“No, you haven’t. You wouldn’t have come on this trip if you’d moved on.”

Whatever he read in my face caused his eyes to narrow. His whole expression changed. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me—”

One thing about Trevor, he was very good at sussing out threats to his own interests. “It’s not Ben. No way. Are you telling me it’s that Knight guy? You said there was nothing between you.”

“I’m not telling you anything. Because it’s not your business.”

“He’s not even your type!”

What was my type supposed to be? The unemployed and unfaithful?

I opened my mouth to answer, but the others began to wave and call to us. “Yoo-hoo!” Laurel called. “Carter! Yoo-hoo!”

“Hey, you guys,” yelled Nedda. “We’re leaving!”

“Get your asses back here, you two!” shouted Sally.

My heart lightened. I recognized a rescue operation being launched, and was touched. I waved back.

Vance sat up and began looking around wildly.

Trevor swore. “We’ll finish this later.”

“It’s already finished,” I said, starting back the way we had come.

* * *

I remember even less about the trip back to Castle Dìomhair than the trip out. With the fickleness so characteristic of Scottish weather, clouds began to roll in from the Atlantic and the bright afternoon turned strange and silvery.

Wind shook the bus as we toddled back along the coast road. A few scattered raindrops fell and then, with the next curve of the road, the sun peeked out, only to fade away around the next bend. Lightning flickered in the distance. Sparkling flashes like a short in the solar system.

I was preoccupied by thoughts of John. Wondering if he had successfully caught up with his quarry. Wondering if he would call that night. Wondering if we would really get together once we were back in the States. Wondering what the chances were of a holiday romance turning into something more.

Alison broke out yet another bottle of whisky, and walked up and down the aisles dispensing tiny plastic cups and thimble-sized portions of booze. Even Yvonne broke down and had a couple of mouthfuls. Ben watched her gloomily. I surmised a tipsy Yvonne might be even harder to handle than a stone-cold sober Yvonne.

It was raining in earnest when we arrived back at the castle. The road turned dark in the rain. The broom growing along the side looked gold against the slate skies. The bus’s windshield wipers worked overtime, and the windows were a blur of rain and reflections. The reflections being mostly peering faces and plastic cups.

Elizabeth Ogilvie was waiting for us at the castle entrance, and it was immediately obvious something had happened. She looked white but stoic enough; her eyes were red as though she’d been crying.

She drew Alison and Hamish aside and they spoke quietly for a moment or two and then Alison cried, “No, that can’t be! It can’t be true. Elizabeth, are you sure?”

At that point, we all stopped walking and stared.

Elizabeth and Alison continued to speak, seeming no longer aware of us, as we crowded closer. Even Hamish looked stricken.

“It doesn’t seem possible,” Alison said. She wiped her face, and finally seemed to notice the rest of us waiting and watching. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

Elizabeth said something too softly to catch.

Alison assented, called, “Everyone. Please. Gather round. If I could have your attention for a moment.”

She already had our attention. You could feel the tension and dread in the room.

“I...” Alison faltered. Tried again. “I have something...bad news... I have to tell you that Vanessa is...gone.”

“Gone?” someone echoed. “Where did she go?”

“Dead,” Alison gulped.

No one spoke. No one moved.

Alison made an effort at composure. “It seems...apparently, Vanessa died during the night.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Now you’ve gone too far,” I said.

I hadn’t realized how angry I was until I heard my voice bouncing off the ancient stone floors and walls.

Alison blinked at me in confusion. The others simply stared.

“It was funny the first time. This isn’t funny. This is sick.”

Elizabeth Ogilvie said quietly, “It’s not part of the murder game, Mr. Matheson. Vanessa is dead.”

She was pretty convincing. That I couldn’t deny. But Alison had been convincing when she’d pretended Rose had died. Even Ms. Eccles had been reasonably convincing. So I didn’t buy it. It was too much.

“Really? Then I want to see the body.”

A few of my fellow travelers supported me with uneasy murmurs. A few of my fellow travelers eyed me in alarm.

“Carter.” Ben put his hand on my shoulder.

“No.” I shrugged him off. “Think about Strathpeffer. This is not beyond them. Look around you. The whole place is a stage set. I don’t believe it.”

Shock and confusion gave way to suspicion on the faces of the hold-outs. There were more sounds of agreement.

Elizabeth said in that same quiet voice, “Very well, Mr. Matheson. If you won’t take our word for it, you must see for yourself.”

It sounded a little ominous when she put it like that, and for the first time I wondered if they might be telling the truth.

“The rest of you will have to rely on Mr. Matheson’s report,” Elizabeth added. “I’ve contacted the authorities and received instructions that the room is to be left undisturbed until their arrival. Allowing Mr. Matheson to view the body is already in violation of these orders.”

There was quick agreement from the Tours to Die For gang, who now eyed me with respectful sympathy. My stomach began to roil with a mix of nerves and squeamishness, but I was still deeply suspicious of Vanessa’s sudden “death,” and determined to see for myself.

I followed Elizabeth out of the hall and up the stairs, which then branched in a different direction from the guest rooms.

This wing of the castle was very different, almost spartan. Aside from a couple of suits of armor and the inevitable armory adorning the walls, there was little in the way of decor. No sly faux family portraits. No goofy gimcracks.

My doubt ratcheted with each yard of faded carpet.

At last we reached a large carved door. Face impassive, Elizabeth drew out a set of old-fashioned keys, selected a shiny silver newish one, and unlocked first one deadbolt and then a second. She pushed the door open.

The drapes were drawn. The room was in darkness. My heart turned cold. Elizabeth reached for the wall switch, but even before the light came on I knew Vanessa was dead.

The smell of death lingered in the room.

She lay face down on the floor, next to the bed. Her silver hair covered her face. She wore an indigo blue dressing gown and the diamond jewelry from the night before. Thick wooly gray-and-white Fair Isle socks were on her feet. Somehow the socks made it all real. There was something human and sad about those socks.

“Jesus.” The sound of my own voice startled me. “Was she...” I couldn’t even finish it. I’d never before seen a body that hadn’t been formally prepared for burial. The sight of Vanessa’s corpse was genuinely shocking.

“I don’t believe so. I saw no sign of violence.”

“What could have happened? Was she sick? Did she have some medical condition?”

“She never went to a doctor as long as I worked for her. She said she’d enough of doctors.”

I continued to stand there. It never occurred to me to leave the doorway. It wasn’t necessary.

“Have you seen enough?” Elizabeth asked.

“Yes.”

I backed up. She turned off the light and closed the door. Neither of us said a word as I followed her back downstairs.

When we reached the ground level we discovered that Alison had shepherded everyone to the library. As Elizabeth and I entered the room, every face turned my way.

I nodded.

There was a sort of collective sigh followed by a collective slump.

“Was it...could you tell if it was a natural death?” Sally asked after a few minutes.

There were some shocked noises at this, but of course the thought would occur. It had certainly occurred to me.

“I couldn’t tell,” I said. “I didn’t examine her.” And unless the cause of death was something brutally obvious, wouldn’t have known what to look for in any case.

“What does it matter how she died?” Ben said. “The point is she really is dead.” He looked sick. Surprisingly sick for someone who had only come along on this trip to keep his mother company.

But I sympathized. I felt sick. I sat in one of the velvet wingback chairs and rubbed my face. I wanted to forget the chilly smell of decay. I realized I would never have that promised tête-à-tête with Vanessa now.

Sally said, “It matters because if she was murdered, the murderer might still be here on the island. We might all be in danger.”

“What a bloody ridiculous thing to say.” Daya looked terrified. Roddy took her hand and patted it.

“But she’s right,” Laurel said. “If it was murder—”

The Poe sisters concurred. Everybody concurred. We all watched the same movies and read the same books. Of course we concurred.

“That would be a determination for the authorities,” Elizabeth said.

Maybe she watched the same movies too, because I’d have expected instinctive denial, even outrage at the idea. Elizabeth sounded almost unsurprised.

Granted, she was the personal assistant to a famous murder writer who lived in a castle that looked like a set forgotten by a Hammer Horror Film crew.

Alison stared at her. “But they won’t make it tonight. Listen to that rain.”

We all listened. Even behind these massive walls, we could hear the roar of rain. It beat against the stone, rattled against the windows, smacked and slapped every available surface.

Alison was right. No helicopter would be able to fly in now, and I couldn’t imagine many boats would risk the journey either. In fact, the idea of trying to sail across that choppy water made my stomach flop like a seal on an ice floe.

Trevor said, “If Vanessa was murdered, I think it’s pretty obvious who did it. John Knight sneaking out of here in the middle of the night is as good as a confession.”

“What?” I sat up straight.

He met my gaze in direct challenge. “All that bullshit about having to flee because of an insurance emergency. Was the queen late on her premium? Only you would fall for that.”

“I see. And when do you imagine he committed the crime? We were together the entire night.”

“Presumably you slept most of the—”

“Presumably you should mind your own business.”

His eyes widened with shock. Apparently, the earlier accusations had just been a fishing expedition? As an angry red tide washed over his face, there was some uncomfortable shifting and clearing of throats. And as much as I didn’t like Vance, the expression on his face as he stared at Trevor made even me wince.

Elizabeth said in that same calm tone, “It would appear the Scherfs and Rices also departed at some time during the last twelve hours. Their luggage is missing.”

This naturally caused a lot of excitement and consternation. I remained quiet. I’d share everything I knew with the authorities, once they arrived, but in the meantime, I didn’t know what might jeopardize John’s case.

It worried me that Trevor had been so quick to accuse John. Not least because I had not been awake all night and could not actually vouch for John’s whereabouts when Vanessa had been killed—unless she’d been killed after three a.m. Were the authorities liable to jump to the same conclusions? John’s company could back him up as far as why he’d been on the tour, and the departure of the Scherfs and Rices explained why he’d left when he had. But neither of those things proved John hadn’t decided on a little extracurricular homicide, especially after he’d publicly demonstrated his antipathy for Vanessa.

One thing I’d learned from true crime television was that miscarriages of justice were not as rare as we’d all like to believe.

I suggested, “Maybe someone with some medical experience should take a look?”

I was thinking of Wally. He was a pediatrician, according to his bio. But Yvonne immediately volunteered her services.

Nobody had much to say to that. Ben stared at her.

“Unless you have a better idea,” Yvonne said.

Since Wally didn’t speak up, I didn’t have a better idea—but I wasn’t sure how helpful the offer was since according to her group bio Yvonne was a retired veterinarian.

In any case, her expertise wasn’t needed. Nedda said wearily, “I’ll examine her.” She explained she was a retired GP.

“Why haven’t you said so before now?” Yvonne demanded. “Why isn’t it in your bio?”

“I didn’t feel like spending the trip dispensing free medical advice,” Nedda told her.

There was further discussion, a little debate, and then Nedda disappeared upstairs with Elizabeth.

We waited in a stiff and somber silence.

Hamish muttered something about shock, left the room, and returned shortly after with a bottle of whisky. A red-eyed maid followed, glasses rattling on the tray she held. Hamish began to pour.

After a time, Alison said, “I wonder if arrangements have been made for dinner.”

“Dinner!” Daya exclaimed hysterically. “How can you think about dinner at a time like this?” Roddy patted her hand and made shushing noises. Funny how Daya had seemed the dominant partner in that relationship until tragedy struck. Now she was practically clinging to him.

“It’s my job to look out for your well-being,” Alison said defensively.

“Of course, it is, dear. People have to eat,” Rose said reasonably.

Alison did not leave the room however. No one moved from their chair. We continued to wait, listening to the whispering rain gossiping to the windows.

At last Nedda returned with Elizabeth. “It looks like her heart gave out.” Nedda’s expression was grave.

“Then it was a natural death?” Wally seemed oddly relieved.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t so odd. The relief in the room at Nedda’s words was palpable.

Nedda hesitated. “We tried to phone the mainland. No go.”

My heart sank as I studied her face. There was worry in her eyes.

“Phone the mainland?” Sally repeated. “Why? I thought the authorities were on their way.”

Elizabeth said, “And so they are. In the meantime, we’re experiencing severe weather conditions. There are problems with the phones and broadband after the afternoon’s lightning storms. As soon as the storm lets up—”

I was still watching Nedda. Yes, she was worried and trying to hide the fact. I said, “Which is likely to be when?”

“I-it’s difficult to say. The storm is supposed to pass tonight.”

“You must have a radio or some way of communicating in an emergency,” I said to Elizabeth.

“But the authorities are already coming,” Sally persisted.

“Och, it’s not only us,” Elizabeth said. “There’s likely a problem with blown power fuses at the radio station at Wideford Hill radio station on Orkney. It’s happened before. Last time it resulted in a communications blackout in the Northern Isles, disrupting phones and emergency services.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Vance said.

“Language,” Yvonne snapped.

“Yes, it is,” Vance replied.

Ben scowled at him.

“We can try the radio,” Hamish volunteered.

Sally opened her mouth, scanned Nedda’s face, closed her mouth.

“Let’s do that,” Wally said.

Nedda went with Wally and Hamish to radio the mainland, but they were back shortly after.

“No go,” Wally told us. I thought Nedda must have had a chance to talk to him in private because the alarm in his eyes matched the worry in hers.

* * *

We dined by candlelight.

Not from choice. The power went out midway through the meal.

“It could be worse,” Rose observed. “It could have gone while dinner was being cooked.”

One thing for sure, between the flickering candlelight throwing sinister shadows over everyone’s faces, and the rolling boom of thunder crashing overhead, there was no shortage of ambiance.

It probably goes without saying it was a weird night. A little too And Then There Were None for my taste. With the exception of Daya who, according to Roddy, was lying prostrate upstairs with another headache, we were all in attendance, and at first the evening was almost cathartic as we talked about the books and how much it had meant to meet Vanessa even if only briefly. We discussed the fate of Buried Secrets, but there wasn’t much mystery there. Vanessa had said the book was already sent in to her publisher.

We talked about how Vanessa’s death would likely be received on social media and in the news, and then we started wondering aloud if we would be interviewed and what that would be like and whether—this from Vance—there might be opportunities for us in that.

“What kind of opportunities?” Laurel asked, frowning.

Vance shrugged. “Sometimes papers pay for photos and interviews.”

“Photos?” Elizabeth said.

“Speaking hypothetically,” Vance said.

His too-careless tone made me glad Elizabeth had the foresight to lock Vanessa’s bedroom. It’s amazing how frequently that gets overlooked in mystery novels.

We were all shocked, but I thought Vanessa’s death separated us into two camps. Jim, Wally, Ben, Roddy, Vance...they were clearly there to accompany the real fans. They had not signed on for murder, but they were not grieving. Laurel, Nedda, Sally, Rose, Trevor, the Poe girls and I were the devotees. Daya was presumably a super fan, but she was dealing with her grief in her own way.

Yvonne was the interesting one. To me, Yvonne seemed tuned out. Literally tuned out, as in listening to another channel set to a higher frequency that none of us could hear. Maybe that blunted affect was shock. She was an unusual personality anyway, and extreme circumstances inevitably highlighted her peculiarities.

Whatever the cause, she had very little to say, eating her meal with apparent satisfaction—which was unusual right there—and listening to the rest of us without comment.

Sadness aside, it was a delicious meal. The starter of game soup was followed by roast haunch of sika deer with mashed potatoes, and vegetables drizzled in a port and redcurrant jelly sauce. I was thinking none of us would be hungry, but we all ate, myself included. We even decimated the cheese plate. And there was whisky. More whisky.

By then, we were all half-crocked, which is probably why Sally suggested that we should work together to figure out who had killed Vanessa.

I almost choked on my Laphroaig 10.

Nedda said, “What the what? I never said she was murdered!”

“You didn’t have to, old girl,” Roddy told her, righting the empty wineglass he’d knocked over. “Perfectly obvious to anyone with eyes in their head.”

“It’s the safest way,” Sally said defensively, in response to my sputtering. “We each tell everything we know. Then there’s no reason for anyone to try to shut us up.”

“You underestimate yourself, my dear,” Rose said kindly.

“In a book, yes,” I said. “In real life, I’m not sure cornering a murderer is going to work out well for us.”

“There’s safety in numbers. There are seventeen of us. Eighteen counting Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth. I nearly told her to save her strength.

Sally rushed on, “Not to mention all the people Vanessa employs.”

I said, “And yet, taking all those people into account, Vanessa is still past tense.”

Rose drained her tumbler and reached for the bottle of Glenmorangie before it passed her by. “Maybe Sal has a point. There’s no reason we can’t do some preliminary groundwork. It will make their job easier for the police.”

“Rose, do you remember what happened to you the last time you played amateur sleuth?” I inquired.

Her cheeks grew pink. “That was make-believe.”

“None of us will sleep a wink tonight,” Sally insisted. “We may as well do something useful.”

Everyone began to talk at once.

Everyone but Yvonne. “I’m going to bed.” She pushed back her chair. “I’m exhausted and this conversation is idiotic.” She rose. Ben rose too, but that was just good manners.

Elizabeth said, “You’d better take one of the candelabras.”

Yvonne picked up one of the candelabras. The flames threw wild shadows against the wall as she stared at us. Ben sat down and scrubbed his face with his hands. He looked truly exhausted.

“That could be significant.” Rose pointed at Yvonne. “If anyone refuses to take part, that might mean something.”

“It means I’ve had more than enough of all of you,” Yvonne said.

“Might I make another suggestion?” Elizabeth said. “Lock your door and don’t leave your room until breakfast.”

“Thank you,” Yvonne said. “I have no intention of leaving my room until the boat arrives to take us back to the mainland.” She walked from the room.

In the silence that followed, Edie said, “Maybe Sally’s right. If someone here did commit murder, he—”

“Or she,” Sally said, eyeing the doorway through which Yvonne had disappeared.

I said, “Is not going to take kindly to being outed.”

Vance burst out, “You do understand that it’s one of us, right? One of us killed her? Someone sitting at this table killed her.”

“Shut up,” Trevor told him.

Vance stared. “Shut up?”

“Yes. Shut up. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

There were protests and indignation—not about Vance making a fool of himself, but at the idea one of us was a killer—but the objections faded out to a few mutters and comments. There were a few suspicious glances cast as we finished our drinks, and, not long after, we collected our candlesticks and retired to our rooms.

It was a relief to close my door behind me. I set my candlestick on the dresser, locked the door and leaned back against it, studying the room. By daylight it had seemed quaint but cozy. By candlelight, it was definitely creepy. The glass eyes of the mounted raven glittered.

Sally said her room had a portrait with moving eyes, and the Poe sisters said their room had a secret panel that led into a larger closet.

I checked my phone but there were no messages, no texts. That was most likely due to the storm, but I hoped John was all right. It would have been great to hear his voice. Even a text would have meant something.

How was it possible that I missed John after four days as much as I had missed Trevor after three years?

Probably part of why I missed him was I was scared and feeling out of my depth, and that always goes better with company.

Not that I thought anyone was coming after me, but all the same I didn’t expect to do much sleeping that night. I stretched out on the bed to think.

Someone tapped softly on my door.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I got off the bed and went to answer the knock.

I thought I knew who would be standing on the other side, so it was a surprise to see Nedda in the hallway, wrapped in a green-and-brown-striped flannel bathrobe.

“Can I speak to you?” she asked softly.

“Sure,” I said. I moved aside. Nedda waved to Wally, who—candlestick held aloft—was watching us from the doorway of their room. He nodded, retreating and closing the door.

I shut the door after her. Nedda gazed at me as though trying to make up her mind.

“She was murdered, wasn’t she?” I said quietly.

Nedda’s voice was barely above a whisper. “There was a tiny puncture mark on the back of her neck, beneath her hair. My best guess? Someone jabbed her with a hypo when her back was turned.”

I swallowed. “She was poisoned?” It’s one thing to suspect. It’s another to have your worst fear confirmed.

“It’ll take an autopsy to determine. But that’s my thought. Yes. She was probably injected with a powerful, fast-acting sedative such as gamma-hydroxybutyric acid.”

“Vanessa used GHB in Little Boy Dead.”

“Yes. I remember. That’s one reason I thought of it. Not only does it take effect very quickly, it disappears from the bloodstream after twelve hours.”

“Twelve hours. Then it’s probably already too late for the drug to show up in an autopsy.”

“Yes. The injection site will show up though.” She showed me the photo on her iPhone. There was nothing inherently dreadful about that image of a discolored mark on the nape of someone’s neck. It was only knowing that the neck was Vanessa’s and that she was dead that made me feel queasy.

I said, “In theory it’s a prescription drug, but you don’t have to be a doctor to get hold of GHB. It’s used for everything from date rape to fitness training.”

“I won’t ask how you know that.”

“Research is my life.” For once I wasn’t kidding.

“You also don’t need to be a doctor to use a hypodermic needle. Not the way that was done. There wasn’t any finesse about it. Anyone could have done it.”

“But anyone didn’t do it,” I said. “Vance was right about that. It’s someone from our group. It has to be.”

Nedda looked worried. “I suppose so. I suppose it couldn’t be...”

“What? A fan angry that she ended the MacKinnon series? A reviewer irate about being left off her ARC list? A rival mystery author?”

Actually, given that Vanessa’s motive for killing Kresley was supposed to have been jealousy over his winning a writing prize she believed should have been hers, maybe that wasn’t so off.

“John was a cop, wasn’t he? I suppose he did really leave the island?”

I said hotly, “He’s an insurance investigator. John had nothing to do with it. And yes, he did really leave the island. I watched him go myself.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Nedda said. “We could use a cop right about now.”

“Oh.” I unbent a little. “Right.”

She looked faintly amused. “John didn’t have any part in this. He barely knew who Vanessa was when he joined the tour. This isn’t a random crime. And it wasn’t an impulse.”

“No. It was premeditated. Someone had to bring the drug and the hypodermic needle with them.”

“Exactly. Everyone but John booked the tour nearly two years ago. Someone has been waiting a long time for this.”

“It doesn’t have to be someone on the tour,” I said. “It sounded to me like when Vanessa bought this island, she forced nearly everyone already living here out. That could have caused some hard feelings.”

“That was how many years ago? Why would someone wait so long for revenge?”

“Maybe it’s not about revenge,” I said. “It could be murder for gain. This island must be worth a fortune. Vanessa’s literary estate must be worth a fortune.”

Nedda shook her head. “I don’t think so. Alison told me the island was on the market for years before Vanessa purchased it.”

“Okay. That still leaves her personal wealth. Her literary estate. Book royalties, film royalties. All those translations. That’s got to be some pretty significant earnings. Who inherits?”

“She’s left everything to charity.”

I stared at Nedda. “How do you know that?”

“I read about her charity work years ago, and Elizabeth confirmed it. Vanessa is a major contributor to a charity devoted to rehabilitating violent youthful offenders. According to her will, this island and everything else goes to that organization.”

“Then it’s got to be something in her past,” I said.

Of course, the most obvious thing in Vanessa’s past was the incident that had made her infamous.

Nedda confirmed my thoughts. “Donald Kresley. That’s what Wally thinks too. I’m not so sure. Not this late after the fact. Vanessa lived a long life and I’m guessing made more than a few enemies along the way. There could be a motive for killing her that would never occur to us.”

She had a point. Vanessa had spent almost thirty years as a free woman after getting out of prison. If someone wanted revenge for the murder of Donald Kresley, why wait decades? Why allow Vanessa to live out her life getting richer and more famous? That was a pretty lackadaisical approach to vengeance.

I said, “I think you were right to hide the fact you believe Vanessa’s death was murder.”

Nedda grimaced. “For all the good it did. Everyone in the group believes she was murdered. What scares me is if the killer is someone in our group, to have committed such a crime indicates a seriously deranged psyche. To have taken such a risk...” She shook her head.

I understood her worry. To have acted so boldly, meant someone was either desperate or crazy. And having succeeded once, anyone that bold might be willing to strike again, particularly if they feared their own safety was in jeopardy.

I said, “Well, the fact that our crew is already running with the idea takes the heat off you. Besides, anyone who reads Vanessa knows all about forensic evidence. They’re going to know that shutting you up wouldn’t change the results of the autopsy.”

“If the drug’s not in her body, the autopsy won’t tell them much. And I can hear the defense already arguing that the injection mark was a mosquito bite.”

I grinned. “I see. So, I’m your insurance policy?”

“Yep.” Nedda smiled too, faintly. “You’re smart and sensible and, other than the fact that you’ve got men panting after you, seem pretty good at avoiding drama.”

I felt myself turning red. “Not really,” I said uncomfortably. “This is the first time—”

“Really,” she said firmly. “Three men on this trip were falling over themselves to get to you. It was embarrassing to watch. Anyway, my point is people talk to you. I think if we keep our eyes and ears open...”

She didn’t finish the thought. She didn’t have to. I believed everything Nedda said. Well, not about men panting after me. The sudden jump in my IT factor was confusing—not to mention a fluke. But Nedda was worried and uneasy, absolutely, and she thought it was a good idea to share her suspicions with someone not personally connected to her. Also, Nedda was, like me, a mystery fan, and she just couldn’t help thinking like an amateur sleuth.

“Okay,” I said. “Eyes and ears open. But, Nedda? No snooping. No asking questions or raising hypotheticals. You’re already on someone’s radar. Don’t give them any reason to worry about you.”

“No, of course not. Wally said the same thing.”

“Wally’s right. Anyway, the rest of them will ask all the questions without any prompting from us. We just need to listen to the answers.”

“True.” She sighed. “Right. Well, I’ll let you get some sleep.”

I saw her to the door and watched her down the shadowy hall to her own room. She knocked and Wally practically snatched her inside.

I locked my door and returned to lying on my bed, staring up at the beady-eyed raven.

I can’t say my thoughts were particularly incisive. I was still worried about John. I was alarmed by Nedda’s news. She was right, of course. Vanessa had lived a long and controversial life. There might be any number of people who believed they had cause to dislike, even hate her. There was a reason that even on this tiny, remote Scottish island she had installed double deadbolts on her fortress-like bedroom door.

I couldn’t help thinking that the reason was Donald Kresley.

Sure, Vanessa could have been dispatched by a deranged vigilante type. I didn’t like that idea because that was the argument that might be made against John. But more to the point, even if something like that might work in a book, it was really hard to believe anyone in real life would go to this much trouble and expense—to plan an execution motivated by principle alone for years.

Years.

No.

This murder wasn’t random or on impulse. Someone had plotted and planned—and invested a pretty penny—in order to come on this trip to kill Vanessa Rayburn. That alone spoke to a killer driven by deeply personal motives.

And that brought us—well, me—back to poor young Donald Kresley.

I knew where Nedda was coming from. In a mystery novel, the Kresley connection was too linear. Too obvious. Too simple. The salmon farm manager had it in for Vanessa for reasons unknown. Her long lost twin sister was out to take over her fortune. In fiction there would have to be another obscure and surprising reason for Vanessa’s death. But thanks to all those hours spent watching Homicide Hunter and Unusual Suspects and The Perfect Murder with Trevor, I knew only too well that in real life homicide, eight times out of ten the most obvious suspect was, indeed, the perp.

How boring was that? No wonder police got jaded.

No way in hell was I going to do any sleeping that night. What I wanted to do was sit down at my desk and get to work.

It didn’t make for great crime fiction, but nowadays a big part of detective work was done online. Not in John’s case, obviously, but my mean streets were the URLs of the internet.

However, listening to the wind howl outside those diamond-paned windows, I knew there would be no sleuthing that night. No sleuthing until the weather cleared and power—

I sat up.

What in God’s name was I thinking? The internet? There was an entire library downstairs stuffed with reference books on everything under the sun, including the life and crimes of Dame Vanessa Rayburn.

I went to the door, opened it and listened. Though the hall was in complete darkness, I could hear the buzz of voices.

Everyone was still awake. Still talking.

I would have to wait. I blew out my candle and felt my way across the room to sit beside the window.

The minutes ticked by. Then the hours. I was too tense. Too nervous to fall asleep. I was pretty sure no one was paying attention to me, but I’d have to be stupid not to recognize that there was a tiny element of risk. If I was having trouble sleeping, surely the person who had killed Vanessa would be even more keyed up.

As all mystery readers know, the second murder is very often motivated by fear of exposure and a guilty conscience.

It was just after one a.m. when I relit my taper, eased my door open again and listened intently. To my relief a heavy, exhausted silence met my ears. Mostly. Snores drifted from across the hall where the Poe sisters slept. Snores floated from down the hall where the Matsukados rested.

Good.

I slipped silently into the hall, softly closing my door, and crept down the staircase. The shadows thrown by the candle crouched over me menacingly, then melted into the corners. Last night seemed a lifetime since John and I had sneaked down the winding staircase, hurrying to catch his flight.

There was no hurrying this night. The light from my candle didn’t radiate far, and the steps were steep.

When I reached the library, the doors were closed, and for one awful moment, I thought they were locked. It turned out the handle was stuck and the right door swung silently open.

Closing the door behind me, I felt my way down the length of the room, nearly falling over a chair and then almost knocking a lamp off a table. The rain splashed against the window. The room smelled of old books and old rugs. It smelled like home.

About halfway down the long room, I found a flashlight that Hamish had been carrying earlier. The yellow beam threw a feeble, faded light over the old rugs and towering shelves.

I walked along the shelves until I found the true crime section again, and then began to pull out the books that I knew related to the Kresley killing.

Carrying a stack over to one of the long dark library tables, I began to read.

I had been over nearly all these accounts before. I knew Davidson’s Suspicious Circumstances and Wyecliff’s The Good Girl were the most sensational—and the most popular—but contained the most factual errors—or at least had received the most challenges to their research. The other three, Murder in Sussex, A Walk in the Woods and There Grows an Oak were considered the most comprehensive and complete accounts of both the crime and investigation. There Grows an Oak had won the Man Booker Prize for nonfiction.

I started with Murder in Sussex, refreshing myself with the details of the case. Forty-some years ago, fifteen-year-old Claire Sims had invited her classmate and sometimes boyfriend Donald Kresley to come for a walk in the woods not so far from Ashdown Forest, which had inspired the Hundred Acre Wood in the Winnie the Pooh books. It had been autumn, October. A cold, dreary Friday afternoon.

It was October now. Was that significant? I made a note.

Claire had come home three hours later, wet and muddy and sullen. Donald had never come home.

Kresley’s parents were not alarmed until bedtime came and there was still no sign of Donald. After all, he was sixteen and a responsible kid with many extracurricular activities, including a girlfriend.

Even when they began making phone calls to Donald’s friends, they weren’t really expecting bad news. Even responsible kids forgot to phone home once in a while.

By the next morning though, fear had set in and they had gone to the police. The fear had been focused on traffic accidents, that kind of thing. No one expected the worst.

And, in fact, it was three days later before the worst was discovered.

Initially, there had been some idea of accidental death. Maybe Donald had slipped in the stream, knocked himself out on a rock, and drowned.

But once the pathologists got involved, it was clear the kid had been hit from behind. Further, the body appeared to have been dragged some little distance and placed in the stream. He had died by drowning,

During the first round of questioning, Donald’s girlfriend and all his friends denied knowing he had gone to the woods—let alone why. The ever-popular theory of murder by passing tramp was floated, but eventually discarded.

During the second round of questioning, Donald’s friends had still denied knowing any reason for his going into the woods, but an obvious reason for a teenage boy to be in the woods would surely be a teenage girl. Or to get high. Or another teenage boy. But in Donald’s case, best guess was a girl.

Donald’s girlfriend had been questioned but she had insisted she had not been with him.

The investigation had moved on, but by virtue of there being no other suspects or motives (he had not been robbed or otherwise assaulted), eventually attention had returned to the girl.

Under questioning, Claire broke down and admitted she had killed him, although there was no clear motive then or really ever.

I made a few notes. Most of the book focused on the trial of Claire Sims and legal ramifications. Kresley’s parents had been enraged that Claire had not been sentenced to life in prison. They would probably have gone for the death penalty had it still been an option. But they were no longer living and there was no mention of any siblings, so there went an obvious angle. Not that extended family can’t be moved to vengeance, but that’s more for LA street gangs and Scottish clans. The Kresleys were nice middleclass English folk.

I moved on to A Walk in the Woods. It was very much the same account, but offered more photos. It was depressing and poignant to see how very young Kresley had been—and equally depressing and poignant to see how young Vanessa had been.

By then I had been reading for a couple of hours and the lack of sleep from the night before was catching up to me. I yawned over the pages of photos, distracted by how much Elizabeth Ogilvie resembled Mrs. Kresley.

Next up was There Grows an Oak. Essentially the same account, though approached more lyrically and tragically, and with a lot more photos. The photo where Mrs. Kresley resembled Elizabeth Ogilvie was not included, but in scanning the pictures of Donald and his classmates, I came across a photo captioned Kresley’s girlfriend Evie Waters.

I frowned, trying to make sense of it. Evie Waters was a thin, sharp-faced girl with black hair. She was not Claire Sims. She was not Vanessa Rayburn. She could never be mistaken for Vanessa in any incarnation.

Who the hell was Evie Waters?

I grabbed Murder in Sussex and reread the passages I’d just been over. I skimmed A Walk in the Woods.

I realized that I had taken it for granted that when these writers referred to Kresley’s girlfriend, they meant Claire. I saw now my mistake—and their mistake too because they had used the term “girlfriend” interchangeably for Claire and Evie.

A new player in the drama opened up a whole new avenue of possibility.

I reached for the books I was least familiar with: Suspicious Circumstances and The Good Girl.

Davidson, the author of Suspicious Circumstances, was as confused by the two-girlfriends angle as I had been, and had missed it entirely. What he did have was a rare family photo of the Kresleys.

I stared at it, feeling my scalp prickle. The rain made shushing sounds against the window.

There had been a sibling. A younger sister by the name of Daya.

Chapter Twenty-Four

It was a jolt.

I stared at the photo and it was honestly impossible to tell. She had been one of those pale, skinny anonymous-looking English girls that provide the “also pictured” in hundreds of photos in British biographies and accounts of settling the Empire.

But she was the right age—ten years younger than Donald, which would put her in her late fifties—and the name “Daya” could not be a coincidence. It was not a common name. Too, there was her odd behavior. Her antagonistic attitude toward Vanessa’s work, accepting and then abruptly backing out of the murder game—even her comments that first night at dinner.

The table behind us had been discussing Vanessa’s DBE and someone had said, “I think maybe she was awarded the DBE before the news of her real identity came out.”

And Daya had answered, “No, that’s not correct. I remember the fuss when it was announced. People picketed.”

“That was such a long time ago. Almost thirty years.”

“It doesn’t seem so very long ago to me.”

“Oh, my God,” I muttered. I rose and took a couple of turns around the table. I ran my hands through my hair.

Daya and Roddy were the only two English nationals on the bus. How the hell had we not suspected them?

Correction. No way was Roddy part of any murder plot. That defied belief.

But Daya...

Even when she had hugged Vanessa when we’d arrived at the island. Had that been guilt about what she was planning to do—or an effort to keep Vanessa from recognizing her?

Either way, her weird semi-hysterical behavior from the time we’d reached the island made more sense now. A lot of it probably came down to fear. Fear she would be discovered before she could carry out her plan. Fear she would be caught after carrying out her plan.

Sure, it was all circumstantial, but if I wasn’t on the right track, Daya’s presence on the island was sure one whopping coincidence.

And what a relief because—I could admit it to myself now—I had been afraid that somehow Ben and Yvonne might be involved. Yvonne was such an odd bird, and Ben had seemed so shaken by Vanessa’s death.

But it was okay. Daya was the one we needed to look at.

Daya, who had a strong, solid motive for wanting revenge on Vanessa.

I glanced down at the cover of There Grows an Oak.

My heart paused mid-beat.

I opened the book and flipped back to the photo of Evie.

“Where do you fit in?” I muttered.

The fierce-eyed girl in the photo stared back in challenge.

Evie. Yvonne.

No.

No way.

It was possible though. Whether I liked it or not.

But that raw-boned girl with the wild, dark hair did not look like any woman on this tour. If she looked like anyone... I stared at her photo. Closed my eyes.

I did not want this to be the answer.

But if it was true, we were talking about murder. About cold-blooded, pre-meditated murder.

I picked up the final book, The Good Girl, and began to read.

* * *

The wind died down, and the ghostly voice whispering down the fireplace chimney fell silent. I turned the final pages.

The rain had stopped and the darkness outside the windows was starting to fade when I put The Good Girl down. Wyecliff had a taste for the sensational, even the lurid, but I had to give her her due. She had caught what nearly everyone else had missed.

Sixteen-year-old Donald Kresley had had two girlfriends. Claire Sims had been fifteen. Evie Waters had been fourteen, and her age had been the main reason her existence had been largely covered up by both the prosecution and the defense. Because long before Claire had been brought to trial, it was painfully, embarrassingly obvious that Evie was pregnant with Donald’s baby.

Wyecliff had been unable to trace what ultimately became of Evie Waters. The family had shipped her off to Australia, but when Evie came of age, she had migrated again—and successfully taken herself off the grid.

From there it was guesswork, but I had a pretty good idea of what had happened next. Evie had come to the States with her baby. She had trained as a veterinarian and had eventually married.

That was as far as I could get without aid of the internet, and frankly, it was as far as I wanted to go. This was something for the authorities.

I closed the final book, tossed it onto the stack, and shoved the stack to the edge of the table. For a time, I stared out the window as the skies grew lighter. Finally, I blew out my guttering candle, put my head on my folded arms and closed my eyes.

* * *

I came awake to the chime of texts flying in, one after another.

I yawned, sat up, stretched, and opening my eyes, found Ben sitting across the table from me.

I sat up so fast, I nearly tipped my chair over. I’d have been startled to find anyone in there with me, but finding Ben was definitely an unpleasant shock.

“Ben,” I said. My voice sounded old and creaky.

His gaze was pinned on the stack of books I’d pushed aside so that I could rest my eyes. After a moment, he turned his red-rimmed gaze to mine. He had looked exhausted the night before. This morning, he looked worse. Hollowed out.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

That could have meant anything, of course, up to and including, I didn’t know you were sleeping in here. I said cautiously, “No?”

“My dad was diagnosed with brain cancer two years ago. I didn’t even know he wasn’t my real father until then. But that’s when everything changed.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I truly was.

My phone chimed again as another text arrived.

Ben said, “She loved him. She took care of him until the day he died. She never complained. Not one word.”

I swallowed. My throat was very dry and made a squeaky sound, like a nervous cartoon character. Neither of us smiled.

“She changed. The minute he closed his eyes, she changed. She was obsessed with—” he looked around the beautiful, strange room “—this. With her. Vanessa.”

I nodded. But I knew Yvonne had booked this trip two years ago. She’d mentioned it a couple of times. We had all booked years ago. She had planned and plotted.

Maybe Ben read my thoughts. “She said she wanted to confront her. Vanessa. Wanted to tell her to her face what she had done, the harm she had caused. Wanted her to know that she could forget it, and go on, but the rest of us had to live with it.

“I believed her. I still believe that’s what she intended.”

I unstuck my tongue to ask, “How did your aunt come into it?”

Ben said with quiet venom, “That bitch.”

I didn’t move a muscle. Ben was in a dangerous state of mind. The blackness in his eyes scared me. He had never struck me as the violent type, but he had changed. As long as he was talking, I was okay, but I was afraid to say the wrong thing.

“This was her idea from the beginning. Mother would never have thought of this on her own. They hadn’t contacted each other for years, but then Daya wrote her and told her about the tour. Told her they should go together, confront Vanessa together.” His face flushed with anger. “And then look what happens. Daya tries to back out of it. Says she can’t go through with it. Left Mother to confront Vanessa on her own.”

I felt sick. “What happened?”

He shook his head and kept shaking it. “I think Vanessa recognized her in the hall that day. I don’t know how she could have. Mother...just stared at her. Didn’t say any of the things she’d planned to say. They just stared at each other.”

He raised his dark anguished eyes to mine.

“Ben...”

“It was strange. Silent. Then Elizabeth came down to show us to our rooms.”

That was why Vanessa had been so different that evening. She had recognized Yvonne. But if that was the case, why hadn’t she thrown Yvonne out then and there? Why had she—or so it seemed—let her in her room that night?

Ben was still talking. He had been close to tears, but now he sounded cold and clear. “Whatever she did, it all comes back to Vanessa. In the end, everything that happened is Vanessa’s doing. She sowed this. You can’t blame the victim for fighting back.”

I didn’t say what I thought. That Vanessa had been a fifteen-year-old child when she had committed her crime. That she had served her time, paid her debt to society. That she had not initiated this encounter, and even after recognizing Yvonne, had not thrown her out of her home—or even revealed who she was. Yvonne was clearly not in her right mind, but blaming it all on Vanessa was too much for me.

“Look, Ben, I’m sorry. I really am. I’m not judging Yvonne. It’s obvious after your dad got sick, she wasn’t herself. But if I can put these pieces together, the police sure as hell will. There’s no way Vanessa’s death will be written off as a natural or even accidental death. Everybody on the tour thinks she was murdered.”

I rested my hand on his. Ben’s skin was ice cold. His features hardened as he met my eyes, but he didn’t speak.

“Also, it sounds to me like Daya isn’t going to hold up under any kind of questioning. She might spin her version of events to make it sound like this was all Yvonne’s doing. That she just got dragged into it. The best thing your mother can do now is go to the authorities and give her side of the story first.”

He jerked his hand from mine, and rose, towering over me.

I rose too, glad of the table between us.

Ben said, “Give me a goddamned break! Like anyone is going to take Mother’s side? She killed a Dame of the Realm—or whatever they call it. A famous, rich writer that people who should know better—people like you—fawn over. How much of a fair deal will my mother get over here?”

I still thought talking to Ben was the way to go. If I made the wrong move, showed aggression or tried to run from him, I was liable to trigger the very thing I desperately wanted to avoid. The thing I had to believe Ben wanted to avoid too. But I was considering Plan B too. Judging the distance from where I sat to the doors, trying to decide if I had a chance in hell of getting out before he could grab me. Ben was taller and heavier than me, but not particularly athletic.

“Okay,” I said evenly. “What’s your plan?” I looked automatically to the clock in the corner. Just a little before five in the morning. The servants would be up now. People would soon be stirring. That was good. More people upped the chances of peaceful resolution.

“Don’t say anything. Whatever you think you found out, keep it to yourself.”

“All right.” I gestured to the books stacked beside us. “Say I do keep quiet about this. It’s all speculation anyway. Not proof.” I couldn’t help reiterating, “I don’t have any proof. I’m not the one you have to worry about.”

Ben’s eyes flickered. He said nothing.

“Then what?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

I nodded at the window and the blue haze beyond. “The storm is over. The police will be here first thing this morning. They’re going to fingerprint us—all of us—and start looking into our backgrounds, and they’re going to have their answers by dinnertime. At the latest. Right? We’re not talking about waiting for expensive lab test results. We’re talking about running fingerprints through a couple of databases.”

He shrugged. “By then it’ll be too late.”

“It’ll be too late? What does that mean?”

I didn’t like the way Ben glanced past me and then seemed to consider the display of antique pistols on the opposite wall. He was no longer listening to me. He was figuring out what to do with me.

“Ben,” I said, heart thumping hard. “Why will it be too late?”

Eyes still on me, as though trying to hold me in place with his gaze, he strolled toward the pistols. He said, “By then they’ll be far away from here.”

Those pistols would not be operational, right? And even if by some chance one of them was still in working order, it would not be loaded. And even if one was still loaded—

Ben reached the display and wrapped his hand around the heart-shaped butt of a flintlock. I sprinted for the double doors at the far end of the room.

“Don’t do it, Carter!” he called.

He sounded calm, which should have been reassuring, but had the opposite effect. He was too calm. He sounded like someone who had decided to jump off a skyscraper.

I looked back and he was struggling to pull the pistol from the wall. It was wired in place. That was the good news. The bad news was as I reached the double doors, I saw that he had taken the poker from the fireplace and somehow jammed it through the handles and into the wooden surface, so that it effectively barred the entrance.

I grabbed the poker, tried to wiggle it free. The doors bowed fractionally, but did not give. The poker did not pull free.

“I said leave it.” Ben came up behind me. His hand clamped down on my shoulder and he hurled me away from the door. I crashed into the ottoman, sending it sliding a few feet, and landed on the floor.

Maybe Ben wasn’t athletic, but he was strong. And highly motivated.

The clock began to chime the hour. As it hit three, the doorbell rang.

I hadn’t realized castles even had doorbells, but the sound rang through the halls and corridors like Big Ben tolling the hour.

Ben and I froze, staring at each other.

Of course, it could have been a lost shepherd or a stranded fisherman, but it never occurred to me that it was anyone other than the police. I could see Ben had the same thought.

“Somebody’s got to answer that,” I got out.

“It’ll keep.”

“It’s not going to keep. For God’s sake, Ben. What’s the point of this? It’s over. You must see that.” I scrambled up, keeping as many items of furniture as I could between us, as I edged away from him.

Ben freed the poker from the door with a couple of ferocious yanks, and came down the room toward me, smashing everything in his reach. Lamps, vases, carvings, a small table...

The fast, furious wanton destruction held me in horrified place for a couple of seconds, and then I bolted back the way I had come, past the library desk where my cell phone still lay amid the books. I ran toward the fireplace and the rest of the fireplace toolset.

I didn’t understand what had changed during our conversation. I didn’t understand why he had gone from discussion to destruction, but I was pretty sure he would kill me if he got the chance. Maybe he really did think I was a threat. Maybe he had reached his breaking point and I just happened to be handy when he needed to lash out.

A short besom-style hearth broom leaned against the face of the fireplace. The handle was made of sturdy blackwood. I grabbed it, holding it up like a martial arts Bo staff.

The servants would be up and moving around. The police had surely arrived and would soon be swarming everywhere. I only had to keep Ben at bay for a little longer. Just keep him from cracking open my skull and everything would be okay. Rescue was coming. Even if rescue did seem to have stopped for coffee first.

The poker clanged down on the crossed broom handle and I staggered back against the fireplace.

“What the hell,” I gasped. “Why are you doing this?”

Ben’s face was terrifying. Where had all that rage come from? Why was it all directed at me? Did he honestly think I was the sole obstacle to his mother’s freedom? Because he was hugely overestimating my meddling librarian powers.

I got the broom handle up in time as he slammed the poker down again.

“It didn’t have to be like this,” Ben growled.

“It still doesn’t!”

The flagstone face of the fireplace pressed into my spine—there really was no room left for maneuvering—and my foot shoved against one of the ornate andirons. There was a loud grating sound like cement grinding cement. The twisted iron post gave way and I stumbled back, trying to catch my balance. With one hand I jabbed the broom at Ben, and with my other I reached for the rear wall of the fireplace. My outstretched fingers brushed...nothing. I tumbled backward into dark nothingness.

Chapter Twenty-Five

I landed hard on my tailbone.

The dark was bewildering—and it smelled unsettlingly like I’d fallen into a fish pond. Or maybe a salmon farm. As confusing as this was, I had a pretty good idea what had happened. I remembered reading in my old guidebook that Castle Dìomhair was, like so many constructions of its era, supposedly riddled with secret rooms and hidden passages. So it was a good bet that I’d inadvertently stumbled onto—or into—one of these.

Without a light, I had no idea of where I was, but I wasn’t about to waste this unexpected reprieve. Ben would have seen what had happened, and he’d be right after me. I jumped up, feeling my way down the length of stone wall. It was pitch dark. I had no idea where I was headed, but the memory of Ben’s face kept me moving.

Any second, I knew I would see a flash of light, the door to the passage would slide open, and Ben would burst through.

Except it didn’t happen.

The darkness remained absolute. The silence was unbroken.

I kept moving, hand running along the wall for guidance. The floor seemed to be slanting downward. It was disorienting. The dark, the cold, the smell of stagnant water and dead things.

Where the hell was I? Where was I headed?

Where the hell was Ben?

I continued along, until I came to a full stop. A wall was in front of me. I brailled my way across it, looking for a depression or a frame or a lever or something, anything that might indicate an entrance. Or exit.

Instead, I fumbled my way around a corner.

The tunnel had branched off. The floor had leveled out. I kept walking, and came to another corner. I went on, but more slowly now. I was pretty sure I was not being pursued, which was good. But why wasn’t I being pursued? Where was Ben?

Where was I?

Question: If the police had arrived, why were they not coming to the rescue?

Answer A: The police had not arrived.

Answer B: The police did not know I needed rescuing.

Answer C: The police here took a dim view of amateur sleuthing and the dumbasses who did it.

Answer D: None of the above.

How long had I been wandering around down here? Half an hour? An hour? How long before anyone noticed I was missing?

Oh, here was a thought. How would anyone think to look for me in a secret passage if Ben didn’t tell them what had happened?

I stopped walking.

Yeah. I had been sure Ben wanted me dead. And maybe he had. But most of all, he wanted me out of the way. And I was about as out of the way as a guy could get.

And getting more out of the way with every step.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Can anyone hear me?”

To my astonishment I heard the very faint echo of my words bounce back.

Hey! Can anyone hear me?

Hear me?

Hear me?

I tried it again. “Hello? Is anyone out there?”

Hello? Is anyone out there?

Out there?

Out there?

Okay. Not good. If I was hearing an echo I was a lot farther underground than I’d realized. I might have accidentally stumbled onto one of the old tunnels used by smugglers back in the day. Although I thought those had all been closed off.

Anyway, no need to panic. Ben was unlikely to be still hanging around the library. I could simply retrace my footsteps, go back the way I’d come.

Yeah. Right.

I took my time, and found my way back around the two corners, but the floor did not seem to rise and before long I was turning a third and then a fourth corner, and the floor was sloping down again.

Where the hell was I going?

Even with a light, I might have had trouble. In total and disorienting darkness? No question about it. I was lost.

Completely and totally lost.

* * *

The walls felt damp beneath my hands. I sniffed my fingertips and recognized seawater. The air was less stale now, I could smell rain. Even the darkness seemed to have faded a little.

Was there light ahead? I wiped the sweat from my forehead and took a closer look. Were the shadows thinning?

I had been wandering around for at least a couple of hours. Stumbling down long, interminable passages. I had turned thirteen corners. I had tried yelling for help at intervals, but there was never a response.

I was cold. I was tired. I was hungry. I was starting to think I might really be in trouble.

And then two things happened. The floor beneath my feet turned to rocks and sand. Well, wet sand and wet rocks. Secondly, I heard voices.

“Hello?” I yelled. “Can you hear me?”

A woman screamed in reply, “Yes! Help! Help us! We’re here! Help us! For God’s sake help us!”

A second voice, also feminine—and more familiar to me—cried harshly, “Stop it! Don’t be a fool! Be quiet.”

“We need help! We’re going to die down here!” Daya protested.

I was right. There was daylight ahead. Bars of light striped the ground. I knew where I was now. I stopped beneath the round grate and gazed up at grass and the gray, stormy sky above.

“We’ll be all right,” Yvonne said. “We just have to wait for them to leave.”

I followed the voices, peering through the gloom. I could see them now, bedraggled and white-faced. They were huddled, shivering before a wall of broken rock and debris. They had gone as far as they could. We all had. The rest of the tunnel was blocked off.

“You!” Yvonne cried, spotting me. She raised her arm and came toward me. Something glinted in her hand. A rock? A knife? Hypodermic needle maybe?

I wasn’t taking any chances. I grabbed her arm, twisting it, and she dropped the hypo. I stepped on it, smashing it, and shoved her back. She staggered and fell against the rocks, glaring at me.

“Haven’t you done enough?” I said. “You couldn’t stop at destroying Vanessa. You had to drag Ben into it as well. Now what? How do you think this ends?”

I thought Yvonne would hurl herself at me again. Instead, she glanced at Daya, who began to sob. The fight seemed to go out of her. She leaned back against the rocks and closed her eyes.

I walked back and stood under the grate. Flecks of rain hit my face. “Hey!” I yelled. “Can anyone hear my voice? Is someone up there?”

Footsteps thudded overhead. A rosy-faced police constable in a yellow rain slicker peered down through the bars.

“Mr. Matheson?” he said. “Is that you? Are you all right, sir?”

“I’m all right,” I said. “I’m not alone down here. I’ve found your fugitives. They may need medical attention.”

Things happened pretty fast after that. The first constable was joined by a slightly older female constable. We chatted briefly and they both disappeared with the promise that I would soon be out of my underground prison.

A new visitor in a tan trench coat took their place. John. He looked uncharacteristically haggard as he bent down, reaching down through the grate. “Jesus Christ, Carter. I thought—” His voice shook.

“Hey! You’re back.” I reached up, took his hand, and squeezed it. He squeezed back, his grip hard, warm and reassuring. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be halfway across the Atlantic by now.”

He said tersely, “You know why I’m here.”

“You lost them?” I just managed not to add again.

He gaped at me. “No, I didn’t lose them—well, not for long. I came back for you. I was sitting in the Kirkwall police station when word came through that Vanessa was dead. I knew then I couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk...you.”

Maybe John wasn’t the best detective in the world, but he had the makings of the best boyfriend ever. And after all, how often was I going to need a great detective?

The rain was coming harder now. I smiled up at him and gave his hand another squeeze. “Is that the truth?”

“That’s the truth.”

“You’re a very romantic guy, I have to say.”

He said quite seriously, “I’m a very practical guy. I’ve had lousy, lousy luck in relationships, so when I finally meet a guy I really like, I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave him to be murdered by a Scottish psychopath.”

“It turns out to have been an Anglo-American effort.” I eyed Yvonne and Daya. Daya had stopped crying. She sat watching us, shivering miserably. Yvonne was unblinking and absolutely still.

“I know,” John said. “Daya left a seven-page letter for Roddy. We’ve all read it.”

“A... That was helpful.”

“Yes.”

Yvonne began to laugh. The sound bounced off the tunnel walls and echoed eerily back.

John’s face tightened. “I was afraid. When we arrived, we found Ben in the library burning a stack of books and a bunch of notes in your handwriting. He had your cell phone.”

“I don’t think he was part of it until the cover-up.”

There wasn’t time for more. Reinforcements had arrived and in short order the grate had been dug up and a ladder was lowered. The police swarmed down and Yvonne and Daya were lifted out of the tunnel and escorted back to the castle.

At last I was able to climb out into the fresh air and sun—well, no. This being Scotland I had to make do with fresh air and sweet autumn rain. It didn’t matter. John’s strong arms wrapped around me, and his warm mouth found mine.

* * *

I spent several hours that long afternoon talking to the Area Commander for Orkney, Chief Inspector Dean Gordon. Mostly because Gordon was a methodical man who liked his Is dotted and his Ts crossed. The truth was, Daya’s confession to Roddy—which he had voluntarily handed over to the police in his terror for her safety—answered most of the chief inspector’s questions.

Yvonne also made a sort of confession to the police. She insisted she had only intended to speak to Vanessa that evening, but Vanessa had laughed at her, mocked her, insulted her. When Chief Inspector Gordon asked why she had brought a hypodermic full of poison to her meeting with Vanessa, Yvonne claimed it was for self-defense.

Daya, on the other hand, had not stopped crying since she’d been hauled out of the tunnel. The police surgeon declared her temporarily unfit for questioning. Roddy continued to cooperate with the police though. According to him, Daya had only told him what was really going on the night she and Yvonne had tried to make their escape. He insisted he had not even known that Daya was Donald Kresley’s sister. The police found this difficult to believe, but having spent nearly a week with Roddy, I believed him. Beyond that—and the letter—Roddy had little to offer.

Ben had even less to offer. After being taken into custody he asked for a lawyer and that was that. I saw him being led downstairs to board the boat that would take him, Roddy, Yvonne and Daya to Orkney and the police station in Kirkwall. He met my eyes, nodded politely, and walked past me. I didn’t know if he would have killed me that morning in the library or not. Maybe it had just been one of those terrible moments of violent impulse that Vanessa had spent so much of her life writing about. I couldn’t help remembering the afternoon at John o’Groats when he had stood, eyes shining and wind ruffling his hair, beneath the iconic signpost with all its possibilities.

The last we saw of the gang of four, Yvonne was demanding a full refund for the trip from Tours to Die For.

* * *

It was the end of the tour of course.

The Poes, the Matsukados and the Kramers left that afternoon for the mainland, with the rest of us making plans to leave the island the next day. It was unexpectedly difficult to say goodbye, and there were hugs all around and promises to stay in touch.

Trevor and Vance left as well, but there were no pledges to stay in contact and no fond farewells. To my relief they seemed to be back to behaving like honeymooners, so maybe they’d worked through their rough patch. I honestly hoped so.

Toward evening, the drizzle stopped and the sun made a brief appearance. John and I walked down to the beach again, sitting on the steps of one of the small holiday cottages and talking.

“What did happen with the Scherfs and the Rices?” I asked him curiously.

John tossed a pebble at one of the weathered wooden stakes in the dead flower garden. The pebble knocked the stake down. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“They were stopped and searched in Orkney and the police found nothing. They were released and sailed back to the mainland.” He shrugged. “We had nothing to hold them on.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we’ll get them next time.” He tossed another pebble. It flew past the second stake and clacked against the sagging picket fence, nearly taking that down too.

“What if there isn’t a next time? What if they’ve decided to give up their life of crime?”

John made a derisive sound. “They’ve already rented a car for a week’s tour of the Highlands.”

“Is that so?”

John nodded.

Neither of us said anything for a time. I was wondering whether John would be returning to the States. It would be nice to fly home together. But maybe he would continue to pursue the Rices and Scherfs all over Scotland. Maybe the Rices and Scherfs were going to turn into his Maltese Falcon.

He threw a final pebble and sat up straight. “You’ve still got a week of vacation, right?”

“Yes.”

When he didn’t reply, I glanced at his profile. His lashes veiled his eyes, but there was a tinge of pink in his face. “I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“Oh?”

“What would you say to touring the Highlands together for a week?”

“Busman’s holiday?” I suggested. I mean, why not? My flight home was still five days away. I had nothing and no one to rush home for. Of course, I wanted to spend more time with John. I was always going to want to spend more time with John.

“That’s right,” John said. “Only no bus. And maybe more of a...well.” He cleared his throat.

Maybe more of a what? I was waiting curiously for the rest of it.

“Well?” he said a little sharply. He looked uncharacteristically serious, even a little self-conscious.

It dawned on me what he was trying to say. My heart floated up like a butterfly. My face warmed. “Oh.”

Not bad for a guy who had probably never even read Dorothy L. Sayers.

He continued to watch me with that mix of hope and caution.

I smiled. I felt like I would be doing a lot of smiling from now on.

“Do you like the idea?” he asked tentatively.

“Oh, yes,” I said, “I do.”

* * * * *

To purchase and read more books by Josh Lanyon, please visit Josh’s website here: www.joshlanyon.com

AUTHOR NOTE

While the itinerary of Murder Takes the High Road is based on my own 2015 tour of Scotland, a number of place names were changed to protect the innocent.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to my partners in crime—and travel companions—Lisa, Pamela and Laura.

Sincere thanks to everyone at Carina Press, but especially to my dear (and long-suffering) editor Deb Nemeth. I couldn’t do this without you (and maybe you wish I wouldn’t)!

Now available from Carina Press and Josh Lanyon!

One final game of cat and mouse...

Ex-FBI agent Elliot Mills thought he was done with the most brutal case of his career. The Sculptor, the serial killer he spent years hunting, is finally in jail. But Elliot’s hope dies when he learns the murderer wasn’t acting alone. Now everyone is at risk once again—from a madman determined to finish his partner’s gruesome mission.

Read on for an excerpt from

FAIR CHANCE

Chapter One

“I knew you’d come.”

Andrew Corian, dubbed “The Sculptor” by the national press, was smiling that same old smile. Supremely confident and a little scornful. For a moment it was almost as if he were seated at his desk in his office at Puget Sound University and not in this sterile interview room at the Federal Detention Center in SeaTac.

“Sure you did,” Elliot said.

Corian’s powerful hands, thick wrists handcuffed, rested on the resin table. He spread his fingers, palms up in a “be my guest” gesture as Elliot took the plastic chair across the table.

He had been second-guessing the decision to meet with Corian from the minute he’d acceded to SAC Montgomery’s request, and Corian’s supercilious attitude just confirmed his doubts. They were not going to get anything useful out of the Sculptor.

“How could you resist?” Corian was saying. “A chance to play hero one last time. A chance to convince yourself you got the better of me.”

“Sounds like you’ve been hitting the library psych shelves pretty hard.” Elliot folded his arms on the tabletop, glanced casually around the room.

He’d been in plenty of these interview cells back when he’d been with the FBI. Neutral colors. Durable furniture. Stainless-steel mesh over the bulletproof frosted windows. A guard outside the door. Generic right down to the two-way mirror, behind which stood Detective Pine of Tacoma Homicide and FBI special agent Kelli Yamiguchi.

Just in case Pine and Yamiguchi missed anything, cameras overhead were recording the interview.

Corian’s eyes, a weird shade of hazel that looked almost yellow in the harsh institutional light, narrowed at Elliot’s gibe, but his broad smile never faltered. He seemed to be in a great mood for a guy looking at multiple life sentences.

“I don’t need to read a psychology book to understand you, Mills. There’s nothing complicated about your psyche.”

“But enough about me,” Elliot said. “Let’s talk about your favorite subject. You. Or more exactly, why you wanted to see me.”

The rough material of Corian’s prison khakis rustled as he sat back in his chair. He looked a bit like a cartoonist’s idea of the devil. Gleaming bald head and immaculately trimmed Vandyke. He was a big man and prison had made him bigger. Leaner. Harder. He looked like he ate steroids with every meal and spent all his free time bodybuilding. Maybe the bodybuilding wasn’t far from the truth. There wasn’t a hell of a lot to do while sitting around waiting for trial. Not when you’d been caught red-handed, as it were, in a series of brutal slayings and mutilations spanning more than fifteen years.

He said, “I didn’t want to see you. I gave you permission to visit. That’s all.”

“Two letters in two months? We’re practically pen pals. Come off it, Corian. You want me to sit here and listen to you explain in detail how brilliant you were. How brilliant you still are compared to the rest of us.”

Corian’s smile widened. “That wouldn’t be the only reason.”

“It’ll be the main reason. You’re sure as hell not interested in bringing closure to the families of the victims.”

It was quiet in the interview room. On the other side of the heavy soundproof door a symphony of discordant sounds were reaching crescendo level: guards yelling, televisions blasting, prisoners shouting, the incessant thunder of an industrial-strength plumbing system, the chatter and buzz of walkie-talkies, the jangle of keys and slamming of steel doors.

“You’ve never understood me, Mills.”

“You’re right about that.”

“But you’re afraid of me.”

Elliot sighed. “No, Andrew. I’m not.”

They had never been on first-name terms. Corian replied, “You should be, Elliot.”

“This is bullshit.” Elliot made sure to keep his tone bored, indifferent. The last thing he wanted was for Corian to know just how tense he really was. “If the idea was to get me here so you could practice your bogeyman routine, you’re wasting both our time.” He pushed his chair back as though to rise.

Corian sat back and expelled an exasperated sigh. “Goddamn. Can’t you at least buy me a drink before you screw me over?”

The indignation was almost funny.

“Look, you wrote me. I’m not looking to continue our relationship—if you want to call it that. I don’t need closure. I got my closure when they slammed the cell door on you.”

That wasn’t completely true. Like everyone else involved in the case, Elliot wasn’t going to truly breathe a sigh of relief until Corian was tried and convicted. He wanted the reassurance of knowing Corian was locked up in a maximum facility until the end of time. The numerous court date postponements were wearing on everyone’s nerves.

Corian had the gall to look wounded. It was only partly an act. Being a psychopath, his own pain and his own frustrations were very real to him. It was the suffering of other people he was indifferent to.

“You want something from me. So be it. I’d appreciate a little courtesy. A few minutes of intelligent conversation. Or as close as you can manage.”

Elliot eyed him without emotion. “All right. But we don’t have all day. If you’ve got something to say, you’d better spit it out.”

Corian leaned back in his chair, smiling. “How’s the fall session shaping up? Have they hired someone to replace me yet?”

“Oh, no one could replace you.”

“True.” Corian merely grinned at the sarcasm. “How’s Rollie? I read his book. When you think about it, it’s pretty ironic. The only child of a celebrity sixties’ radical joining the FBI.”

“Yep. Ironic. Are we done with the chitchat?”

Corian’s smile faded. “All right. Ask your questions.”

“As of this date, sixteen bodies have been removed from the cellar of your property in Black Diamond, bringing the number of victims to twenty-three. Is that it? Is that an accurate head count? Or are there more?”

“Head count.” Corian’s smile was pure Mephistophelian. Partly he was acting. Partly he was simply...evil.

An old-fashioned concept, but what else did you call someone who was technically—well, legally—sane and yet a ruthless, remorseless predator? Maybe the problem was with the way the legal system defined insanity, but mostly the problem was how society dealt with monsters like Corian once they were identified and captured. Elliot had grown up believing the death penalty was barbaric, an anathema in a civilized society. But was warehousing monsters really a better plan?

“If you want to go there,” Elliot said. “What did you do with the heads of your victims?”

“That’s an interesting question. Why do you think some of the bodies were buried and some were used in sculptures?” Corian was equally aware that they had an audience, both human and mechanical.

“No clue. Like you said, I’ve never understood you. Why did you only target young men? You’re not gay. Why did you never target women?”

“Where’s the sport in that? Besides, I like women.” Corian didn’t wait for Elliot’s response. “My turn. Why do you think all the bodies were headless?”

A game. That’s all this was to Corian. Another game. “To make it harder to identify the victims.”

Corian tipped his head as though considering this. “I wonder. Maybe. Partly, no doubt. But you’re a student of history. You understand the possibilities and precedents.”

The theory of ritualized cannibalism had certainly occurred to Elliot before that moment, but his stomach still gave a queasy roll of revulsion.

Watching him, Corian said, “You’re horrified, yes, but you’re fascinated too.”

“Mostly I’m troubled. My concern is for the families who deserve to know whether their missing child is one of your victims.”

“I don’t know that they deserve anything. After all, their children wouldn’t be missing if they hadn’t failed as parents.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Elliot said. “It’s the fault of the parents that these young men were captured and butchered for your...art. Did you have some method, some system of record-keeping that would make it possible for you at this late date to identify the remains?”

“What remains? Who says there were any remains?” Corian was grinning. “Waste not, want not.”

It wasn’t easy, but Elliot kept his gaze level, his expression emotionless. “I’m speaking now of the sixteen previously mentioned bodies recovered from your cellar. Do you have any means of identifying them?”

“This is deal-making territory,” Corian said. “We both know you’re not in a position to offer me any deals.”

“Then why am I here?” Elliot gestured at the mesh-covered window. “What’s the point of this?”

Corian pretended to give this serious thought. “Several reasons. First and foremost, your being here annoys the hell out of your boyfriend. Special Agent Tucker Lance.”

The bastard was right about that.

“Okay,” Elliot said evenly. “You’re having your laugh now. But the joke will be on you after the jury listens to all that evidence. It’ll be too late for making deals then.”

Corian’s eyes gleamed. “Don’t you want to ask me why? Why I did it? Why I killed them?”

“I know why. You’re a sick sonofabitch.”

That was the truth. As far as it went. But even Elliot, who knew there was no possibility of understanding a brain like Corian’s, sometimes found himself questioning, puzzling over why. Certainly the families wanted to know, wanted some explanation, wanted to be able to make sense of these multiple tragedies.

How could such things happen?

Was there anything worse than losing a loved one to a random act of violence?

Probably not. But even if you could understand the pathology of one serial killer, you were essentially starting from scratch with the next. At least as far as prevention went.

Apprehension was another matter. But apprehension was moot in this case.

Corian’s lip curled scornfully. “That’s not worthy of you.”

“No? It’s the truth though. The why doesn’t matter.” Elliot’s chair scraped noisily as he rose.

“You’re leaving?” Corian couldn’t conceal his surprise.

Elliot had turned away, but he glanced back. “Yep. Things to do and places to go. I’m not interested in providing the audience for your insanity plea test run. And since you don’t plan on telling me anything I don’t already know...” He shrugged.

Corian was not used to being walked out on. His smile was slightly forced. “Are you so sure?”

Elliot smiled. He headed for the door.

As he reached for the buzzer, Corian spoke.

“Mills. About earlier. I didn’t mean you have anything to fear from me personally.”

The guard opened the door. Elliot spared Corian one final look. “No, of course not. You’re worried about my karma.”

“No.” Corian grinned, looking more satanic than ever. “No, you should be worried. But not about me. My work is done.”

“It sure is,” Elliot replied. “And wait till you see the retirement package we’ve got for you.”

* * *

“He’s in a good mood,” the guard observed as the door to the interview room settled into place with a heavy and final-sounding click.

The guard was probably in his mid to late twenties. Medium height, buff, boyish. Corian’s preferred type, if he only knew it.

“Never happier,” Elliot agreed. “But then who doesn’t like having company?”

By the time he made it over to the viewing room, SA Yamiguchi, Tucker’s second on the multiagency task force responsible for bringing Corian to justice, had already taken off—no doubt in a hurry to get back to the Seattle field office and deliver her “I told you so!” to SAC Montgomery.

She wasn’t alone in that sentiment.

“That was a waste of time,” Detective Pine commented. He and Elliot had history, but this time they were on the same team. Pine was short, dark and ambitious. A few years younger than Elliot. Young enough to believe he had everything under control—young enough to believe in the concept of control.

“Pretty much,” Elliot agreed.

“Why do you think he wanted to see you so bad?”

“He’s lonely?”

Pine’s laugh was sour. “Maybe it’s your sparkling conversation. I nearly spit my coffee out when you started to walk out the first time.”

“I might as well have walked out, for all we got out of him.”

Pine shrugged. “You opened up a dialogue. Maybe that’s worth something.” From his tone, Pine didn’t believe it.

“Maybe.” Elliot didn’t believe it either.

“Do you think he’s serious about trying to claim he had an accomplice?” Pine asked a short time later as they were walking to the parking lot.

It was a relief to be outside. To fill his lungs with fresh air and feel the sunlight on his face. Elliot had nearly forgotten that stale, metallic, disinfected scent unique to correctional institutions. The blur of chemicals was intended to mask sweat and urine and the inevitable odor of way too many people packed into too small a space for too long a time.

Pine added, “That had to be what he meant by ‘my work is done.’ Why would he wait till now to play that card?”

Elliot shook his head. It was definitely late in the game for that move. But then Corian was playing his own game. And making the rules up as he went. “An apprentice? An acolyte? Who the hell knows?”

“That’s for sure. Homicidal freak,” Pine muttered.

Corian was an aberration, true enough, and nothing would have made Elliot happier than to never have to gaze into his odd tiger eyes again. But declining Corian’s invitation was a luxury he didn’t feel he had a right to. Not with so many grieving people waiting for answers.

Wednesdays were not regular visiting days for the detention center, and the large sloped lot was largely empty. Elliot had parked in the shade of a spindly maple, leaves already starting to yellow in the September sun.

“He can’t plead not guilty,” Pine said. “Not with the mountain of evidence we’ve got against him. He can’t imagine—”

“Hell yeah, he’ll plead not guilty.” Elliot was almost touched by Pine’s naïveté. “They always plead not guilty. His lawyers have already laid the groundwork for not guilty by reason of insanity and they’ll keep hauling witnesses onto the stand to testify he’s nuttier than a fruitcake. Which he is. Though not in the eyes of the law. Not so far. So yes, I think it’s entirely feasible he’ll try to play that card. What does he have to lose?”

Nothing. And they all knew it. Including Corian.

Pine gave a curt “See you at the briefing this afternoon.”

Elliot raised a hand in dismissal and peeled off, striding toward his silver Nissan 350Z.

Pine stopped. Turned back. “Mills.”

Elliot looked up from unlocking his car door.

“If he’s not lying about an accomplice...”

Elliot nodded. “Yeah. The thought occurred to me.”

Don’t miss FAIR CHANCE by Josh Lanyon.

Available now wherever Carina Press ebooks are sold.

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Copyright © 2017 by Josh Lanyon

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Author of over sixty titles of classic male/male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON’S work has been translated into eleven languages. Her FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, then the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (HarperCollins Italia) was the first male/male title to be published in print. In 2016, Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan’s annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list). The Adrien English series was awarded the All Time Favorite Couple by the Goodreads M/M Romance Group.

Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist (twice for Gay Mystery), and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads All Time Favorite M/M Author award.

Josh is married and lives in Southern California.

Find other Josh Lanyon titles at www.joshlanyon.com.

Follow Josh on Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads.

Introducing the Carina Press Romance Promise!

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Also available from Josh Lanyon

The Ghost Had an Early Check-Out

To live and draw in LA.

Now living in Los Angeles with former navy SEAL Nick Reno, artist Perry Foster comes to the rescue of elderly and eccentric Horace Daly, the legendary film star of such horror classics as Why Won’t You Die, My Darling?

Horace owns the famous, but now run-down, Hollywood hotel Angels Rest, rumored to be haunted. But as far as Perry can tell, the scariest thing about Angels Rest is the cast of crazy tenants—one of whom seems determined to bring down the final curtain on Horace—and anyone else who gets in the way.

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Get more from JOSH LANYON with the Fair Game series...

FAIR GAME (Fair Game, book one)

FAIR PLAY (Fair Game, book two)

FAIR CHANCE (Fair Game, book three)

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ISBN-13: 9781459293595

Murder Takes the High Road

Copyright © 2018 by Josh Lanyon

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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

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