Murder Takes the High Road(11)
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 paté; 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.