Murder Takes the High Road(35)

But I’d already come up empty when I surfed the web for any information regarding earlier deaths connected with Tours to Die For. Not a single death, suspicious or otherwise, had popped up on my search. If there had been no original homicide, what could Rose have uncovered that got her killed?





Chapter Twelve

After the Pump Room, there was some debate in our group about whether to visit the next-door pavilion where Vanessa had staged the first murder in Natural Remedy, or to move on to the Highland Museum of Childhood where she had knocked off imaginary curator Sybil Wallace in The Cure for Wellness.

I decided on the museum and walked the third of a mile on my own, enjoying the brisk weather and very pretty village. What would it be like to live somewhere so picturesque? Would you get so used to all the tubs of flowers and old-fashioned lamps you started to take it all for granted? Strathpeffer reminded me of Midsomer Murders and countless other fondly remembered British mystery series, though clearly they didn’t have the homicide rate.

It felt good to stretch my legs after yesterday’s long bus ride. I considered renting a bike for the afternoon. I was in no hurry to get back to the hotel, that was for sure.

I love museums. Dime museums and national galleries, I enjoy them all, and the Highland Museum of Childhood was no exception. In addition to a fascinating exhibition about growing up in the Hebrides in the 1950s, there was a collection of some three hundred fairly creepy dolls, and a collection of vintage toys, board games and doll houses.

But as had happened in the Pump Room, my pleasure was interrupted by thoughts about Rose and her sudden demise. I started thinking about all those different sets of footsteps I’d heard that morning, and what they possibly meant.

First had been the sound of Rose’s door opening and footsteps leaving. That had been right after my alarm went at six. A few minutes later there had been more footsteps—I’d assumed it was Rose returning to her room, but not only could none of those footsteps have been Rose’s, they might not even have been the same person.

Whoever that second pair of footsteps belonged to, that person had unlocked Rose’s door. I had heard her—or him—moving around inside the room, and I had heard what sounded like a dropped suitcase. That had been followed by that odd silence. Even in the midst of arguing with Trevor, I had noticed that sudden hush. As though someone was listening, waiting for something—to be discovered?

But by then wouldn’t the person in Rose’s room have been Alison? Or Ms. Eccles?

Hmm. Unknown.

How had Alison known so early in the morning that Rose was deceased?

Now I was being overly suspicious. Rose must have been taken ill during the night and summoned help. Or maybe gone for help on her own.

It was strange that I hadn’t heard anything—I wasn’t exaggerating when I told John I was a light sleeper. I really was. If there had been a lot of activity centered around Rose’s room, I would certainly have heard it. But maybe if Rose had quietly stolen out and gone for help...

That didn’t exactly jibe with Alison’s story of Rose dying in her sleep. But maybe I was nitpicking an abbreviated version of events.

This morning a suitcase—or something heavy—had fallen. Then what? That peculiar listening silence—which I was probably exaggerating in my memory—and then that surreptitious easing open of the door.

Surreptitious. Once again, I was shading my recollections with suspicion that had not existed at the time.

Except I had been suspicious. The circumstances were, well, suspicious.

I had jumped out of bed and gone out onto the landing to find that Rose’s door had been left open. A few seconds later Alison and Ms. Eccles had walked through the interior French doors.

Which would seem to indicate Alison had not been the one searching Rose’s room. She couldn’t have been. Not Alison, not Ms. Eccles. So, no one in an official capacity.

I stopped in front of a large Victorian dollhouse and considered the open-faced rooms, decorated like tiny stage sets.

What the hell did it all mean?

I felt like I was missing something. What? There was probably a very simple, non-sinister explanation, and yet one did not occur to me.

Eventually I left the museum and walked up the hill toward Blackmuir Woods and the Touchstone Maze. It was a good walk. The woods were just about a mile away, and it was beautiful weather, despite the mushy ground, wet grass and dripping leaves. I strolled past an old barn and crossed through a field. I’d have enjoyed the walk more with company, and I couldn’t help wondering how John was liking his solitary exploration of Inverness.

Assuming that was what he was doing. Since it seemed to be my day for rampant speculation, I wondered if it was just my imagination or was John unnaturally interested in the schoolteacher quartet of the Rices and Scherfs? It had sort of looked like he was in pursuit this morning. Now that I thought about it, he seemed to gravitate toward the four of them. Maybe he thought they were the most likely candidates for new life insurance policies. Given public schools these days, maybe he was right.

Or maybe he just really, really liked them.

I hadn’t paid much attention to the Scherfs or Rices. In fact, of all the members of our group, I felt like I knew them the least. For one thing, unsurprising in longtime friends and coworkers, they were already a tight little unit. Cordial to the rest of us but not chummy. They participated in group activities, but they were always on the outskirts, easily slipping in and out without drawing much attention to themselves. I couldn’t remember having a conversation with a single one of them since the first night we’d dined at Chaophraya.