Murder Takes the High Road(47)
He looked unexpectedly defensive. “Not at the moment. That doesn’t mean—”
I put my hand up. “Your Honor, I rest my case.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure what point you think you just proved.”
It was my turn to grin. “Maybe I just wanted to find out if you’re spoken for.”
John stared at me in surprise and then got a funny, sheepish look. “Oh. Okay.”
“Now I’ve made my point,” I said.
He considered and laughed. “Fair enough.”
That little exchange went a way toward distracting me from my initial alarm over Sally’s sudden departure.
A sudden departure was not sudden death. A second death would have been all but impossible to explain. But being called home to the States? It was possible. It was definitely more probable than a secret murder plot spanning the length of a year.
John had to be right. I was letting my love of mysteries run away with me.
Chapter Sixteen
Scotland looks small on the map.
It looks like you could drive its circumference in a couple of days—maybe less. But that’s forgetting the very long and uneven coastline—and the narrow roads that follow that sweeping coastline. It’s forgetting the lack of divided highways, let alone freeways. It’s forgetting the wild and winding mountain roads of the highlands—which occasionally turn into single tracks where most traffic comes from the occasional lost cow. It’s forgetting how much time is spent slowing down or pulling over to let oncoming traffic pass—or how many bathroom breaks a busload of middle-aged people require in the course of a day.
At one of our stops I wandered out of the restroom looking for somewhere to buy a bottle of juice or soda and rounded the corner of the building to find Alison and Daya Bittywiddy arguing.
“You already agreed,” Alison said.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Daya said. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.” Alison was speaking quietly. Daya not so much.
“But you can’t! It’s too late to change course. What are we supposed to do?”
“That’s not my problem—” Daya looked up and saw me.
Alison had started to reply but fell silent. It was cold enough for breath to hang in the air, but in her case, I wasn’t sure if it wasn’t steam coming out of her ears. “Carter!” she said with false cheeriness.
I gestured toward the door behind her. “Just stepping inside to grab an apple juice.”
They were silent as I passed them, and when I stepped out again, they had disappeared.
It was only about one hundred and twenty miles from Strathpeffer to John o’Groats, but it was nearly two o’clock when we arrived in time to grab a late lunch before traveling on to Gills Bay to catch our ferry.
John o’Groats was a lonely little spot, rocky and wind-scoured, famous for being the most northerly point on the island of Britain. Wild dogs skulked on the outer edges of the café parking lot, ever hopeful for scraps, while tourists from some of the other buses posed for photos beneath the famous Land’s End sign.
“I’ve got to phone my office anyway, and it’s got to be a landline,” John told me as we disembarked. “I’ll see if I can get through to Sally or reach someone at her home number.”
I was a little disappointed we weren’t going to investigate this lead together, but had to agree. I watched him walk briskly off down the road toward the village proper until his trench-coated figure disappeared over the rise, and then considered my limited lunch options.
In the end I had an unexpectedly gorgeous cheese plate for lunch at The Storehouse. Half an apple, a small bunch of grapes, flatbread and generous portions of sharp and pungent Stilton, wax-wrapped cheddar, an Orkney cheese and a firm but creamy cheese from Dryfesdale. I washed it all down with a pint. It was delicious. I drank my beer and watched the porpoises in the bay through the café’s picture windows.
When I walked outside, Ben called to me and asked if I’d take a photo of him beneath the iconic sign, which I did.
“I wouldn’t mind living someplace like this,” he said, taking back his camera. The cold had whipped color into his face, and his eyes sparkled. “It would be an adventure.”
“It would, yeah. You’d have to get used to the rain.”
“I live in Seattle. I like rain.”
According to my guidebook, the area was sometimes used for surfing, but on that cold, windy gray day it was hard to imagine the weather conditions ever being right.
“Well, you’re thinking of making a new start.”
His smile faded. “Yes.” He looked past me toward where our bus was parked. “We should be boarding, I suppose.”
The drive west to Gills Bay was short and hilly. Heather bloomed purple and the rocks were yellow and gray and green with lichen.
The bay had an unbroken stretch of lowlying rock coast featuring a small harbor where brightly colored little boats bobbed on the choppy water. The large concrete pier was used as the mainland terminal for Pentland Ferries.
It was a one-hour crossing, but unexpectedly rough. I leaned over the railing next to John, who had already delivered the bad news that he had tried twice but been unable to reach Sally or anyone at her home number, and had to settle for leaving a message on the answering machine.