Murder Takes the High Road(39)

“The story?” I repeated. “Yeah, that’s the story. And it’s also the truth. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“The hell it isn’t my business! You’ve been watching me with those big, sad eyes, pretending to be the wounded party this whole time, and the truth is, you had something going with Knight all along. All those trips to San Diego. My God, how could I be so stupid!”

“All those...” My face went hot. My pulse sped up. That was not guilt. It was outrage. I thought about the American Library Association conference I’d attended the weekend before Trevor informed me he had met the “love of his life.” Apparently, that single trip to San Diego was what he was referring to.

Also, the “big, sad eyes” comment really pissed me off. I’ve got normal-sized green eyes, and there’s nothing sad about them. The opposite, in fact. Trevor was the one who used to say I had “smiling eyes.”

Yeah, no. It wasn’t funny, it was infuriating. Even so, I knew it was idiotic to engage. Knew it, but couldn’t help myself. Couldn’t help myself loudly.

“I don’t have to explain or defend myself to you! For the record, I met John two nights ago—the very same minute you met him, as a matter of fact—and there is nothing between us!”

“But you wish there was,” Trevor said, and there was that expression again. His normally boyish features twisted with suspicion and distrust.

I made a sound that was supposed to be a laugh, but didn’t quite come off. Didn’t come off because, infuriatingly, Trevor had accidentally hit a nerve. I liked John. A lot. Yes, I’d only known him for two days—well, really, you couldn’t even count the current day—and whatever I was feeling was probably some strain of rebound, but I did uncomfortably, unwillingly wish...something. It wasn’t even defined enough to put into words.

I found other words though. Words to hit back where I knew Trevor was vulnerable. “You know what, Trevor. You sound jealous. You’re acting jealous.”

He recoiled. Even seemed shocked at the idea. “Of you? I’m not jealous. You’re the one who followed me on this trip.”

The key had changed, but the song remained the same.

Sanity returned. “Whatever. I’m not following you now—” I happened to glance over his shoulder and spotted Vance hovering a few feet away. When had he arrived? How had I not seen or heard him? Had he tiptoed down the damned stairs?

Disgust gave way to unease as I took in the expression on his face. Absolute, utter hatred.

I was pretty sure in that moment that Vance had not accidentally brushed against me when we’d been walking along the road in Tyndrum.

“He’s all yours,” I said. My voice sounded thick to my ears. Did Vance know that I knew? Did he care?

“That’s right,” Vance said in a hard, flat voice.

I turned away, continuing downstairs.

*

“Blar Nan Ceann, or Battlefield of the Heads, lies at the western end of what is now the village of Strathpeffer.” Our tour guide for the evening was a Mrs. Jamieson on loan from the local historical society. She was an elderly lady dressed in Edwardian garb. The high-throated black dress and laced boots did not look like a costume; they looked original, which gives an idea of how very elderly—and tiny—Mrs. Jamieson was.

“Very little is known of this battle—not even its actual date,” she added.

“That’s convenient,” someone said. I thought it might be Roddy Bittywiddy. The comment sounded jovial rather than snarky. I’d noticed he’d had quite a bit to drink at dinner.

Mrs. Jamieson was not deterred. “All we know is that the MacKenzies of Seaforth defeated the MacDonells of Glengarry and some grisly incident we can only guess at took place at a well near the battlefield. This well is called Tobar a’ Chinn. Well of the Head. You will not be surprised to hear that this part of the country has more than its share of legends surrounding headless ghosts.” She paused for dramatic effect. “But are they legends?”

There were a few pleased chuckles from the group as we moved away from the moonlit window and shuffled along the dark, drafty hall to our next stop on the ghost tour.

“Our bloody and dramatic history does not end there. In 1486, the MacKenzies, under their chief Kenneth MacKenzie, defeated a large invading force of MacDonalds at Blar Na Pairce or Battle of the Park. That site lies a short distance from here, on the banks of Loch Kinellan. It is said that on midsummer evenings, guests with rooms facing in the southwest direction can still hear the moans and cries of the dying MacDonalds.”

“Are there any more recent ghostly goings-on?” Yvonne inquired.

I heard a couple of sighs, but Mrs. Jamieson’s bloodthirsty enthusiasm was unchecked. “I’m glad you asked,” she said. “I would like to introduce you to Mr. Robert Strathallan, the house’s original owner.”

We had paused in front of a somber, life-size portrait of a disapproving-looking gentleman in brown Victorian garb. He had thinning sandy hair, fishy eyes and a mustache like an industrial push broom.

“Robert Strathallan was a bit of a scallywag, I’m afraid. A god-fearing church-going gentleman to all appearances, but three of his four wives died mysteriously and suddenly.”

“Do the wives haunt the hotel?” Nedda asked.