Murder Takes the High Road(23)

“You’re sure it wasn’t the handyman?” he asked finally, after Jim departed to alert the front desk—which, come to think of it, probably should have been my first action too, so maybe John wasn’t the only one behaving suspiciously.

I snorted. “Not unless he’s a handyman with a very guilty conscience. Like I said, I started to open the door and whoever was in there burst out and knocked me down the stairs. Not that I would blame anyone responsible for maintaining this place for trying to flee, but he ran through the French doors. Into the hotel. Not out.”

“And you’re sure you couldn’t tell who it was?”

I hesitated. My suspicions leaned toward Vance, although I knew that wasn’t logical. “It happened pretty fast. He charged me with his head down. Plus, he wore some kind of hood. Everybody kind of looks the same when you’re upside down. Tall, I think. He had on boots and jeans.”

“Was the door lock damaged? Could you tell?”

“It didn’t appear to be. It might have been picked. I wouldn’t know. But this place isn’t exactly high security. I think you could get into any room by wiggling the door handle hard.”

“Ha. True. You’re sure the intruder was male?”

I squinted, trying to remember what I’d seen. “Yes. I did get an impression of...male. Size? Force? I’d have to say male. And he had on some kind of waxed jacket. Maybe green or gray? Like I said, it happened so fast.”

“Temple?”

I shook my head. Of that I was sure. I’d know Trevor upside down—or inside out, for that matter. “No.”

“Stafford?” John was watching me closely.

I thought again of Vance’s flushed, sweaty appearance in the ballroom. But really, nearly every guy in there had a flushed, sweaty appearance.

“I don’t know. The jacket isn’t right. Vance wears a navy blue parka. I can’t deny it went through my mind.”

“Vance thinks he’s got cause for grievance.”

“Yeah, but it would be crazy to take a chance like that. For what purpose?”

John shrugged. “You can’t go by that. People do crazy stuff for crazy reasons.”

“Even so.”

“He’s clearly jealous. Clearly suspicious.” John continued to study me.

Reluctantly, I shook my head. “It seems to me that someone was looking for something. Something specific. It’s not like Vance doesn’t know everything there is to know about me. Besides.”

“Besides?”

“You might have been the target.”

He raised his brows. “How do you figure that?”

“Your stuff was spread out over both beds. Mine wasn’t touched.”

“He could have started with my stuff and hadn’t got around to yours yet.”

“Well, that’s true. Anyway, you should probably take a look. See if any of your belongings are missing.”

“Yeah, that seems like a good idea.”

It seemed like the obvious idea, anyway, and didn’t the fact that it wasn’t the first thing that occurred to him sort of confirm my suspicions? John too believed whoever had searched our room had been looking for something in particular. Something in his luggage, not mine. Further, I felt his lack of concern indicated confidence that whatever it was someone had been after, he knew they hadn’t found it.

The whole situation was just...odd.

And it only got odder once we returned upstairs and the hotel manager came to speak with us. John reassured her that none of his possessions were missing—and that he believed the incident had been a misunderstanding.

“A misunderstanding?” I—and Ms. Eccles—echoed. She was tiny, trim and platinum-haired. She wore a nicely tailored beige suit and limped ever so slightly, as though her feet permanently hurt. An impression strengthened by her surreptitiously slipping her pumps off as she leaned against the dresser.

John nodded. “If I had to guess, yes.”

“Who or what is being misunderstood?” I asked.

John shot me a look that said as clear as words, you can shut up now.

Which went against the grain—my grain, anyway—but at the same time, there was clearly something going on here I didn’t understand, and I didn’t want to put my foot in it. Whether it was logical or not, I felt a kind of loyalty to John, if only because he was my bunkmate.

At the same time, I was the one who had been knocked down a flight of stairs—though granted, a short flight—and I didn’t want that to become a regular thing.

John said to Ms. Eccles, “If I had to guess, I’d say this was a prank or a practical joke. We’ve got some real comedians in our group.”

“A joke?” Ms. Eccles said doubtfully. “Aye. I see.” Of course, she couldn’t help being thrilled at this alternate version of events, and I didn’t blame her.

She said tentatively, hopefully, “You’re absolutely certain nothing is missing?”

“Absolutely,” John said.

She turned to me. “And you’re sure you’re uninjured, Mr. Matheson?”

I looked at John. He was doing his best impression of a hypnotic gaze. I sighed, stopped rubbing my elbow, which I’d banged on the banisters. “I’m sure.”