Murder Takes the High Road(22)

Commonsense reasserted itself. I relaxed. Of course! The handyman had finally arrived to fix the radiator. And not a minute too soon. The drafty hallway was cold enough to hang meat.

I reached for the doorknob. The next instant the door flew open and someone charged out, knocking me down the short flight of stairs.





Chapter Seven

Ow. Ouch. Owww...

Step by step, I went bumping down the staircase. I received the confused impression of peacock-blue carpet, dark wood bannisters, and silver-and-white tin ceiling tiles as I tumbled backwards down the stairs. Even as a pair of black boots leaped over me—narrowly missing my nose—I was still thinking in terms of accidental collision.

I smacked down flat on my back, more startled than hurt, and tried to get my breath.

What the hell had just happened?

“Hey!” I cried, belatedly. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The only answer was the sound of retreating footsteps, followed by the squeaking hinges of the interior glass doors that separated this wing of the house from the central section.

“What the...” I sat up cautiously, wincing. As staircases went in this house, that had been a short one, and I was not greatly injured. I was astonished and more than a little pissed off. I scrambled up and set off in tardy pursuit, but by the time I reached the French doors, now standing ajar, there was no sign of anyone.

I continued down the hall, but there was no sight or sound of the intruder. No lights shone from beneath doors.

I turned and went back to my room.

Our door stood wide-open and I could see at a glance that our suitcases had been searched.

Correction. John’s bags had been searched. I’d already dumped mine out in the desperate effort to get down to dinner on time.

After a quick, cursory examination I decided my things hadn’t been touched since I’d ransacked them myself, but John’s belongings were scattered across both the beds. I studied the display of perfectly ordinary boxers, T-shirts, jeans and sweaters.

It didn’t look like he owned anything particularly valuable, and I had no way of knowing if anything was missing. Something did catch my attention though.

Or rather it was the lack of something.

John had not brought a single copy of Vanessa’s books.

Not one.

Now that really was odd because the tour handouts specifically stated that guests were to bring whatever books and memorabilia they wanted signed. It had been made clear that Vanessa’s island home did not offer a gift shop or a bookstore and we would not be able to purchase such items once we left the mainland.

What kind of super-fan wouldn’t want a personalized autograph from their favorite author? It wasn’t like Vanessa attended conferences or did book tours these days.

Once again, I couldn’t help wondering if John was taking part in this tour for private reasons—and if those private reasons were why someone had broken into our room.

*

When I got back downstairs to the ballroom, the ceilidh was in full swing. Chairs had been pushed to the side and everyone was being organized into groups for the Gay Gordons.

I scanned the room for John.

“Room” was an understatement because the ballroom was about the length of two basketball courts.

Yvonne was seated spectator style on a settee next to Daya Bittywiddy. There was no sign of Roddy. Ben had been selected as guinea pig—er, partner—by a very wide elderly woman in a bright yellow Buchanan tartan who was clearly the dance instructor. He stood in line, smiling self-consciously, and I gave him full marks for being a good sport.

Where the hell was John?

There were several musicians on a low platform serving as a stage. Hamish had joined them and was tuning a set of bagpipes, which was never a fast or painless process.

I couldn’t see Alison anywhere. The Kramers, Matsukados, Scherfs and Rices all stood in dance formation. I spotted Vance, red-faced and perspiring, being dragged onto the dance floor by Edie and Bertie. Why was he so overheated when the dancing hadn’t even started? Skeptically, I watched his progress from the doorway.

Why the hell would Vance break into our room? No, that didn’t make sense, because if the intruder had been Vance, he’d have been going through my things, surely? Our intruder had focused on John.

Trevor didn’t appear to be anywhere, but Trevor hated to dance, so that wasn’t surprising.

Once I’d made sure John was also not in the ballroom, I headed for the bar and, sure enough, found him hiding out with Roddy Bittywiddy and Jim Matsukado.

“You look like a man in need of a drink,” John smiled in greeting.

“Pretty strenuous, eh?” Jim commented. Since I’d been sure I’d seen him lined up with the dancers, I had to wonder who else I’d missed.

“How long have you two been here?” I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the windows. I looked flushed and disheveled, hair standing on end, which, given my tumble, was probably to be expected.

John and Jim glanced at each other. Jim shrugged. “About ten minutes.”

“Was Trevor in here?”

“Nope,” John drawled. “Maybe you got your signals crossed.”

I looked at him in surprise. “Huh? Uh, no, I—Actually, someone was in our room. They knocked me down while making their escape.”

Jim said all the usual things. John did not. In fact, John merely stared at me while I answered Jim’s questions. Not, in my opinion, a normal response. In fact, I couldn’t help thinking John’s very lack of reaction seemed downright...suspect.