Murder Takes the High Road(2)
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.