Murder Takes the High Road(54)

“Wrong cottage?” John suggested.

“No. It’s the right cottage. It’s the only one with purple flower boxes.”

We knocked again. Still no one came to the door.

“Maybe she went out for a walk while we were looking for a way down to the beach,” John said. “Or maybe she takes the No Solicitation thing very seriously.”

“Maybe she’s hiding on the other side of the door, listening to us,” I said. “Maybe we’re scaring her.”

A floorboard creaked on the other side of the door.

John and I looked at each other.

I said, “Either way, I’m starting to feel uncomfortable.”

He nodded.

We didn’t say anything on the climb back up the path. I knew we were both thinking the same thing. The woman I’d seen couldn’t have been Sally, but it sure had looked like her—and Sally had been a smoker too. Of course, lots of people smoked. Still. Why hadn’t the woman answered the door? I was pretty well convinced someone had been in that cottage.

“The thing is,” I said, as though we had been debating out loud, “there isn’t supposed to be anyone else on the island but Vanessa, her employees, and the tour guests.”

“She must work for Vanessa. Maybe she’s one of the salmon farm employees.”

“The salmon farm is on the other side of the island. I guess she could be household staff, but why would she live down here? It’s not like there’s a shortage of rooms at the castle.”

John said, “Maybe she’s hired to take care of the cottages.”

“But then—”

“Or maybe she likes her privacy. Or she could be a squatter. She could be a crazed fan.”

I’m not sure why, but the memory of standing in the Highland Museum of Childhood studying that elaborate open-faced dollhouse came to me. Each tiny room like the set of a play. And each little play an act in a larger story.

I said slowly, “Or she could be Sally.”

John stared at me for a moment. “Or she could be Sally.”





Chapter Eighteen

Vance met us as we were trying to retrace the way back to our room.

We had taken a wrong turn on the second—third?—floor, and John was complaining that he’d been in fun houses that were less confusingly laid out, when Vance called to me. He sounded out of breath, as though he had been pursuing us over field and farm, and for all I knew, he had.

“Hey,” I said warily. I couldn’t recall Vance voluntarily speaking to me ever before.

He looked unusually overwrought, but that was largely due to his hair which more and more appeared to have been styled by Edward Scissorhands.

His pale eyes bored into mine. “Can I have a word?”

“Sure,” John said. “The word is not now.”

That protective streak of John’s was kind of entertaining, but it wasn’t necessary. “That’s two words,” I told him. To Vance, I said, “Yes. If you make it snappy.”

John gave me an on-your-head-be-it look and kept walking as Vance fastened a hand on my arm and drew me to a small alcove behind a blue-and-gold arras depicting hunters closing in on a strangely sanguine unicorn.

I freed myself from his grip. “Do you mind?”

He scowled. “I do mind, yeah. I know what you’re up to, Carter.”

“What I’m up to?”

“First you accuse me of attempted murder—” I tried to interrupt, but he kept talking. “Then when that didn’t work, you made up this idiotic story about Rose being murdered and Sally being eliminated as a witness.”

“I didn’t make up any story,” I said indignantly—and probably a little guiltily.

“And now you’re trying to suggest that someone’s after Daya.”

“What the hell are you talking about? When did I ever mention Daya? I don’t think I’ve even had a conversation with her.”

Vance didn’t hear a word I said. “All in an obvious, pathetic attempt to get Trevor back.”

“To get...” I didn’t have to pretend to be astonished. I was floored. “You’re delusional, Stafford.” I started to walk past him, but he stepped in front of me. I glanced longingly at the staircase behind him, but resisted temptation.

“Don’t you have any pride?” he demanded.

I shot back, “Don’t you?”

He seemed to lose color, although I can’t say the lighting was exactly flattering to either of us. I was probably the same shade of mortally offended beige.

His voice trembled, though that would be anger as much as anything. “Trevor and I are together now. Whatever you had with him is over. It’s history. You’re history.”

“You don’t have to convince me.” I was pretty mad myself.

“Meaning Trev is the problem?” Vance gave a theatrical laugh. “Ha! Right.”

A door opened to the right of us and Edie Poe looked out. Her eyes widened and she hastily closed the door again. Great. In thirty seconds the Poe sisters would probably have their water glasses pressed to the door.

“No, I don’t mean that because—” Once again I broke off as another door opened. Roddy poked his head out, spotted us, and withdrew like an alarmed turtle. I finished, “—there is no problem. I’m not sure what this is supposed to be about, but I don’t want Trevor back.”