Murder Takes the High Road(33)

Case closed. Not that there had ever been a case to begin with.

*

I couldn’t help scoping the outerwear of every man I passed on my way out of the hotel.

There were plenty of waxed green jackets in sight—despite the pallid sunshine, the slate skies had a heavy, sodden look—but none belonged to members of our tour group.

That didn’t necessarily prove anything. I’d noticed in the hotel bar/lounge area a long wooden railing with hooks where the locals hung their jackets and coats before settling down to a serious night’s drinking. It wouldn’t be hard to “borrow” a jacket for a few minutes’ work.

The hotel provided shuttle service into the village proper, although it was easily within walking distance. Ben had mentioned he and Yvonne and a few others were taking the shuttle, so I decided to join them. I found the red shuttle parked in front of the hotel entrance, exhaust puffing into the cold air.

Ben and Yvonne were already installed in the rearmost seat. The Matsukados and Kramers were in the process of boarding. As I waited my turn, I glanced back at the hotel entrance and saw the Rices and Scherfs pile into an idling rental car. The women wore headscarves and, despite the overcast day, dark glasses. The men wore raincoats and rain hats. They all carried shopping bags.

The silver sedan was just pulling away as John appeared and climbed into a second vehicle. While I wouldn’t say it was a Follow that car! moment, it did seem to me that he was a man on a mission.

“He’s an odd duck,” Yvonne commented, as I slid into the empty seat at the front. “I wonder what he’s up to?”

I glanced back and realized she was watching John’s blue mini disappear down the tree-lined drive. She turned her gaze on me.

“No idea,” I said. “What makes you think he’s up to anything?”

“Instinct.”

I glanced at Ben. He seemed to consider her comment.

“What does he do again?” Nedda Kramer asked.

“He sells life insurance,” Wally said grimly. “You don’t want to get that guy talking about his work.”

Sally came out of the hotel with the shuttle driver and climbed in beside me. As soon as we were underway, she said quietly, “I asked Alison about Rose’s journal. She said there was no journal among Rose’s effects.”

Rose’s effects sounded pretty somber, and for a moment I said nothing. I’d seen Rose writing in that journal—we all had—but its absence didn’t automatically mean something sinister was at work.

I said, “Maybe Rose left the journal on the bus or at one of our stops yesterday.”

“No. She had it when we arrived. I remember distinctly. She was writing in it as we were coming up the hotel drive yesterday evening. I recall because I was thinking it was getting dark and her eyesight must be pretty good for her age.”

“Okay. Even so. The journal could still have been mislaid. Or maybe Alison just didn’t notice it among Rose’s other, um, effects.”

Sally threw me a look of impatience. “You don’t buy that story about Rose passing away in her sleep, do you?”

No surprise to learn I wasn’t the only one who had considered the possibility of foul play, but hearing it put so bluntly took me aback. “Well...it is possible.” In fact, it was the most likely scenario.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She kept her voice down, but sometimes a hiss is as good as a shout. At least it was in Sally’s case. I could feel everyone in the seats behind us tuning in for this special broadcast.

“What’s going on?” Yvonne called.

“Nothing,” I said quickly. Which is what the guilty always say.

“Let me ask you something.” Sally turned in the seat to face the three rows of astonished faces. “Don’t you think there’s something suspicious about Rose suddenly dying during the night?”

Laurel gasped. Jim muttered, “What the hell?” The Kramers exchanged glances. Yvonne, looking genuinely shocked, was the only one who put it into words. “No. Of course I don’t! She was elderly. She was frail.”

“She wasn’t that frail,” I felt obliged to point out. “She left me in the dust last night.”

“I hope I’m in half as good a shape at her age,” Sally agreed.

“What are the two of you suggesting?” Yvonne asked.

What were we suggesting? And was it going to get us sued for slander?

I said, “I’m not suggesting anything. But I’m also not denying there’ve been some weird coincidences.”

“This,” Sally said.

“On the other hand, it’s really hard to believe that Rose managed to discover something incriminating about this supposed mysterious death on the last tour—I can’t even find corroboration such a death occurred—or that her curiosity would have threatened someone so much they felt the need to knock her off.”

“This discussion is not only ridiculous, it’s in very poor taste,” Yvonne said.

Ben said regretfully, “I think I have to agree.”

I was more offended by the idea that I was behaving in poor taste than that my theorizing was ridiculous. To add insult to injury, I knew they were probably right.

Sally turned around in her seat with a kind of flounce. I shrugged and followed suit, minus the flounce.