Murder Takes the High Road(53)

A couple of gulls winged overhead, crying out their creaky song. The wind off the firth tasted clean and salty. I couldn’t help notice black clouds were rolling in from the north, but this was Scotland. Dark clouds were always rolling in from somewhere.

“She’s done all right for herself, that’s for sure,” John observed. “You notice Alison didn’t answer the question about what happened to the people living on the island when Vanessa bought it.”

Now that he pointed it out, yes. Alison had dodged that question. And yes, Vanessa had done all right for herself, which, if you felt like Vanessa had got away with murder, could be adding salt to the wound. I said, “Did you hear that comment on the bus. About the ghost of a teenage boy?”

John said, “Yes. Who said it? Could you tell?”

“No. Could you?”

“No. I thought it came from somewhere in the back, but the acoustics on the bus are tricky. I didn’t recognize the voice.”

“That was the weird thing. I couldn’t even tell if it was male or female. The voice was so...thick.” Choked with emotion, I thought, looking back. It had worried me then. It worried me now.

We continued walking for a time. John said suddenly, “San Diego is a great area for biking.”

“Is it?” I studied him curiously. “Are you a cyclist?”

“I can ride a bike. I wouldn’t call myself a cyclist.”

I thought that over. “You’ve been reading the tour bios.”

“I read yours.”

“Ah.” That was nice.

“You didn’t tell me you were a librarian,” he said.

I grinned. “You know how it is. The minute guys find out, they start treating you differently. Asking if you can fix their late fines, trying to get you to put the new releases on hold for them.”

John’s cheek creased. “That must be tough. Plus, regularly and responsibly employed is always a turn-on. To guys like me.”

And to guys like me, if we were being candid. “And you’re an insurance salesman,” I said lightly.

He didn’t answer at first. Then he gave me a sideways look. “I do work for an insurance company. I’m not actually in sales.”

“No? Let me guess. You’re the night watchman?”

“Ha. Well, maybe. In a way.” He gave me another of those side looks. “I don’t want to make a mystery out of it. I’m really not trying to be mysterious. God knows there’s enough of that going on already. But this isn’t something I can really talk about at the moment.”

“Is there going to be a moment when you can talk about it?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Before the end of the tour?”

He grimaced. “Yeah, well. The thing is, I might have to leave the tour before the end.”

Now that was disappointing. Hugely disappointing. I nodded without comment.

Into my silence, he said, “If that happens, and if it’s okay with you, I’d like to stay in touch.”

My spirits rose. I smiled. “Sure, it’s okay with me. I’d like that.”

“Well, I know you’re on the rebound.” He looked serious. “I’m not going push.”

“Feel free to push.” I tried to sound like I was joking, but I meant it. I was a little surprised at how much I meant it.

He laughed, sounding more awkward than usual. “Anyway, I’ve got your address and phone number—which, by the way, from a security standpoint, including that kind of information on tour group handouts seems pretty reckless.”

“I think the idea is we might want to stay in contact with each other.”

“I guess,” John said in the tone of someone who did not believe it for one second.

Present company not included though. I hoped he continued to feel that way. John seemed to have run out of things to say.

By then we had reached the cliffs. As we walked along the path overlooking the old summer rentals. I saw a tall woman with long, curly brown hair sitting behind one of the cottages, smoking.

“Hey,” I said, catching his arm. “Does that look like Sally to you?”

“Where?”

I pointed. “Down there in the cottage with the lavender window boxes. Damn! She’s gone inside now.”

I wasn’t sure if the woman had seen me pointing, but she had definitely scurried inside.

John looked taken aback. “You think Sally’s here on the island?”

“No, of course not.” I could hear the doubt in my own voice.

But it had certainly looked like Sally, and I couldn’t shake the feeling whoever the woman was, she had disappeared into the cottage because she’d noticed our approach.

I expected John to quote me all the reasons the woman couldn’t possibly be Sally, but to my surprise, he said, “Why don’t we walk down and find out?”

We took a couple of minutes to find the crooked path through spiny yellow gorse that smelled unexpectedly like coconut. Sand and small pebbles skittered under foot, and John reached out a helpful hand. I linked fingers without hesitation. Holding hands with John felt natural, felt right.

When we finally reached the cottage with the lavender window boxes, the curtains were drawn and no one answered our knock.

“Now that’s weird. She definitely went inside.”