Murder Takes the High Road(24)
John looked relieved. So did Ms. Eccles.
“Well, then!” She didn’t actually dust her hands, but the impression of moving on to more important matters was distinct. “If you gentlemen are sure we don’t need to contact the authorities...?”
“Not necessary,” John assured her. “It’s under control.”
Ms. Eccles threw me a look of sympathy, slipped her shoes back on, and departed.
I closed the door behind her, saying, “She thinks I’ve got either a nut or an ex-con for a roommate, and I’m kind of wondering the same thing.”
John was busily folding his clothes and stuffing them back in his suitcase. He looked up in surprise. “Did you really want to spend the evening chatting with some bored and lonely police constable? Seeing that neither of us had anything stolen?”
“But that’s probably only because I walked in on the thief.”
“Maybe. Probably.” It was the right answer but I could see from his expression that he didn’t agree.
“Well, isn’t it?”
John looked wary. “Isn’t what?”
“Look, John, do you know what our intruder was after?” He opened his mouth, but I read the expression in his eyes and cut in before the prevaricating could begin. “No. Stop. Let me put it this way. Is there something going on I should know about?”
No grown man could believably wear that expression of soulful innocence. “I don’t think so.”
“Because I’m going to be very unhappy if I get caught in the middle of...hostilities.”
At least he seemed genuine as he replied, “I can’t picture any scenario that would involve, um, an act of hostility. Or at least anything more hostile than knocking into you while trying to escape.”
“Right. I see.” I didn’t.
He said carefully, “If I thought there was such a possibility, I’d act accordingly.”
“Okay.” Whatever that meant. I wanted to be reassured, and John seemed sincere, if obscure. To be honest, the break-in already seemed unreal, faraway—though I was pretty sure I had the bruises—additional bruises—to prove it had happened.
John was continuing in that painstaking way, “You were—I’m guessing, of course—just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t happen again.”
“Okay. I hope you’re right.”
“I’m sure I am.”
I couldn’t help wishing, as I returned to the ceilidh downstairs, that John had sounded a little more confident when he made that last assertion.
Chapter Eight
Although it doesn’t take long to recount the events of that night, it had taken a couple of hours to live them, and by the time I got back to the ceilidh the second time, the party was winding down.
Ordinarily I’d have been disappointed, but with all that had happened that evening, I was feeling preoccupied. So preoccupied, I barely registered Vance’s usual glower when he caught sight of me. I did notice that Trevor was still missing in action, but most of our group was present and accounted for. Alison was nowhere to be seen and John had remained upstairs, but everyone else seemed happily occupied listening to the music or joining in the dances.
I was roped into the final Dashing White Sargent of the evening, sat out the last waltz, and joined in on “Auld Lang Syne.” Gazing at the ring of smiling, singing faces of my fellow Tours to Die For members, it struck me again how quickly we were all bonding. It was probably like being in war. Okay, maybe not, but the challenges of traveling forced intimacy to develop at a faster than usual pace. I already felt like I’d known some of these people for years.
As the musicians packed up their instruments, several couples adjourned to the bar for a nightcap. I was tempted to join them when Ben asked if I was going to have a drink, but Yvonne—who ten minutes earlier had announced she was retiring for the evening—popped back in, saying she’d changed her mind about going up to bed so soon.
I hardened my heart against the disappointment in Ben’s eyes and said, “It’s been a long day. I think maybe I’ll turn in too.”
“Maybe tomorrow night,” he said.
“Sure. Maybe.” I smiled, but increasingly I had the feeling that Yvonne would make sure to be anywhere Ben and I were. I didn’t know if she didn’t care for me in particular or was just generally possessive of Ben’s attention, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t imagining things.
When I arrived upstairs, I found John in bed reading my copy of Prey for Mercy.
“We’ll make a fan of you yet,” I said.
He grunted noncommittally and set the book on the nightstand. “How was the party?”
“Fine. It was fun.” I glanced around the room. John had neatly packed his scattered belongings away again. He wore what appeared to be a rather natty pair of blue-and-brown plaid pajamas—was that supposed to be his clan tartan?—and looked reasonably comfortable given the narrowness of the beds and the winter breeze gusting around the cracks in the window frame.
He folded his arms comfortably behind his head. “How was Vance?”
“No outward sign of guilt. He ignored me and I ignored him.”
John’s mouth suddenly quirked into a grin. “You know that blackout that happened while Temple was in here lecturing you about accusing his boyfriend of attempted murder?”