Murder Takes the High Road(16)
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.”