Murder Takes the High Road
Josh Lanyon
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.