Murder Takes the High Road(6)

John, his back to me, was busily unzipping his suitcase. He said, “I was afraid you’d have already gone to bed.”

I appreciated his tact in ignoring the spat between me and Trevor. Or maybe he was too jet-lagged to notice. Either way, I was grateful.

“No. Trevor and I were just...” I watched him pull out a brown leather kit bag and a brown plaid bathrobe, and instead asked, “How was your flight?”

He threw me a quick look and smiled. “Long.”

John wasn’t exactly handsome, though he had a nice smile and attractive, regular features. He looked to be in his late thirties, around my own age, which was a surprise since everyone else on the trip, except for Trevor and Vance, was at least a decade older than me. I’d discovered Vanessa’s books in my twenties, so it never occurred to me that her bus tours might lean toward an older demographic.

“Yeah. I’m from LA. I arrived this afternoon. It was a long trip.”

John made no response. I searched for something else to say. “I managed to read all of Wolverine on my flight,” I offered.

John nodded politely. “Okay if I use the john?”

“Sure. I’m all through in there.”

John vanished into the tiny bathroom and closed the door.

I climbed gingerly into my twin bed. I hadn’t slept in a bed this small since my college dormitory years—which, come to think of it, was the last time I’d shared a room with someone I wasn’t planning to have sex with.

I set the alarm on my phone, wondering if any of our neighbors had heard me and Trevor squabbling. We hadn’t gotten too loud until we reached the point of debating who loved Vanessa more, and there would probably be a lot of that on this trip.

I sighed and scrunched the flattened, spongy excuse for a pillow under my head, staring out the long rain-starred window at the lights of the airport across the road.

The bathroom door opened and John stepped out, modestly tying his bathrobe around his waist. “What time do we leave in the morning?”

“Nine. Right after breakfast. We stop in Pitlochry for lunch and shopping. We’re on our own for the noon meal, but there’s a rest stop before that in Tyndrum, and I think everyone will head for the roadside café where Vanessa murdered the little ginger-haired waitress in Pressure Cooker.”

John’s expression was blank. I thought I understood the reason.

“It’s one of the standalones,” I said. “Maybe you only read the MacKinnons?”

“Maybe.” He sounded cautious.

“It seems like a lot of people on the tour never read past the last MacKinnon book, so don’t feel alone.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “No, I won’t. You said you’re from Los Angeles?”

“Right.”

“Do you go on these tours all the time?”

“No. This is my first. My first bus tour. My first any kind of tour.”

“Mine too.” He smiled. “What’s the group like?”

“Well, too soon to tell, really. Tonight was our first official get-together. Everyone seems nice.”

“Good. I guess a few people arrived early. Like yesterday?”

“I think so. To do a little sightseeing and shopping.”

“But not you? You only arrived today?”

“Right. I’ve been here since three o’clock Glasgow time.” Which had been...seven in the morning back in LA and probably accounted for this weird mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. Or maybe that had to do with the argument with Trevor. Were we going to spend the next ten days fighting? Well, why not? We’d spent the past ten months fighting.

“I see.” Was John disappointed I hadn’t arrived early for shopping and sightseeing? It kind of sounded that way. Why should he be?

“Is it your first time in Scotland?”

“Yes.” He said, “I guess the tour has a block of rooms on this floor?”

“I think Alison said we were on the third and fourth floors.”

He nodded. Meeting my look of inquiry, he said, “Well.”

“Well?”

He smiled awkwardly. “Just...well.”

“Oh.” I nodded. “Right. Well!”

Oh God. This was going to be ten days of hell.

On the bright side, we probably wouldn’t be spending that much time in our room, so...

But then again, why should it be ten days of hell? I was perfectly good at conversing with people at work. My neighbors thought I was a nice, friendly guy. My friends thought I was a nice, friendly guy. My family thought I was a nice, friendly guy. I was a nice, friendly guy.

Maybe a little reserved in social situations, but not so reserved I couldn’t make this work.

“So,” I said. “What’s your favorite Vanessa book?”

“Blink,” John said immediately.

“Her first standalone. That was a great one. I agree.”

“I thought it was a great balance between police procedural and psychological thriller.”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“A brilliant novel about murder and memory and relationships and cops and modern Scotland.”

Yes, it was. And why was he reciting the book blurb to me? I remembered the quote because only two days ago I’d been sorting through my Vanessa novels trying to decide what to bring to have her sign for me.