Murder Takes the High Road(20)

It was strange how you could love someone, but really not know them very well. Or maybe I had known him, but he had changed. Maybe Vance brought out the worst in him. Or maybe the worst in him was what brought out Vance.

I didn’t know. What I did know was that I could never trust Trevor again, and that meant there was no chance in hell we’d ever get back together.

At the same time, I can’t deny I felt a mix of emotions at the idea he might have some regrets. Uppermost was a weird sort of depression because if Trevor did have regrets, what the hell had all that grief and misery been for?

*

The dining hall was packed by the time I arrived, and the noise level was more reminiscent of a high school cafeteria than a baronial mansion. Not only was there an unexpected number of independent guests, another tour bus had arrived shortly after our own. Everyone crowded in at the long, linen-covered tables, jostling the tall candelabras and knocking chair backs against each other.

Happily, I was able to find a seat a safe distance from Trevor and Vance, slipping in across from Sally, who I’d yet to spend any time with. She had tried to tame her mop of curls by tying them in a ponytail, but most of her hair had escaped. She wore a bright red blouse printed with studious cats wearing spectacles.

I shook out my napkin and looked around for someone I could place a drink order with.

Trevor studiously avoided looking my way. Not so Vance, who glowered at me across the breadbaskets and water glasses. There was something peculiar about his hair. He was wearing it afro style. Some guys can carry that off, but on Vance the look was more Mad Scientist than Odell Beckham Jr.

Sally slid the breadbasket my way. “Did you hear something about a mysterious death on the last tour?”

I wasn’t sure if this was starting to be funny or not.

“I’ve heard vague rumors. Actually, one rumor. I think Rose started it.” I glanced around for Rose, and sure enough, there she was at a table near the enormous windows, whispering earnestly to Daya and Roddy Bittywiddy. The Bittywiddys looked both shocked and titillated at whatever information was being conveyed.

“It might be true.”

“What?” I stared at Sally.

“I guess Wally Kramer tackled Alison about it, and apparently she was very...”

“She admitted it?”

“Not exactly. She didn’t deny it though. In fact, he said she was very cagey.”

“Very cagey? What does that mean?”

Sally shook her head. “I was thinking maybe we should...” Once again, she let it trail.

“We should what?”

“I don’t know. Investigate?”

I gawked at her. “What? Us? How? Why?”

She seemed startled at my response. “Why? Well, because.”

“Because why?”

“We’re all mystery buffs, after all. Who better?”

“Police. The local constabulary. The not local constabulary. Scotland Yard. The gamekeeper. The gatekeeper. The keymaster. I don’t know. Pretty much anyone other than us.”

“You can’t be serious,” she protested.

“I was going to say the same thing to you.”

“But...”

Was I being punked? She seemed perfectly sincere. Alarmingly sincere. I said, “But what? I mean...what does it have to do with us? If there was a death on the last tour, that’s awful, but how does it affect this tour?”

“A mysterious death,” she tried to clarify.

I frowned. “What does that mean though? An unsolved murder? Is that what everyone is thinking? That would be for law enforcement, not us. It would be an ongoing investigation.” I could see I was proving a great disappointment to Sally, but murder—real murder—wasn’t a game. It was...alarming.

I said firmly, “If there was something wrong, the authorities would have shut the tour company down.”

“Would they?”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Maybe the authorities didn’t realize what they were dealing with.”

I was starting to feel like I’d stepped into a Christopher Guest film. I asked carefully, “What were they dealing with?”

“Murder,” she whispered—and I’m not sure why she was whispering, since I had already used the M-word twenty seconds earlier.

I shook my head. “Why don’t we just ask Alison? I bet this could all be cleared up in two minutes.”

“Wally did ask her. Remember?”

A waitress appeared to take my drink order. I ordered a Famous Grouse single malt—and then asked her to make it a double. As much as I loved reading about murder and mayhem, I had never kidded myself I’d make a good detective. The extent of my sleuthing ability was finding misfiled books and lost editions.

The starters arrived before Sally could resume her pitch. Paté of unknown origin for her. Carrot, turnip and lentil soup for me. We were amicably divvying up the flower-shaped pats of butter for the still-warm bread when Ben and his mother arrived.

“There’s no hot water,” Yvonne informed the table, squeezing in three seats down. “None.” She had transferred the name tag from her coat to the black sequined blouse she wore. Ben pulled out the chair next to me. We smiled briefly at each other.

“Who had time to shower?” Nedda’s voice drifted from the other side of the immense, many-armed sterling silver candelabra. “Not us.”