Murder Takes the High Road(17)

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.