Murder Takes the High Road(62)

“How she copes is of no interest to me,” John interrupted. “None. I know you admire her work, Carter, and you can find excuses for what she did. But I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with that woman. Never mind that sick story she read tonight where she killed the main character. Only a sociopath would think it was funny to terrify a busload of people into believing someone was knocking them off one by one.”

“Yeah, but we weren’t terrified. That’s the thing.”

He bunched his shirt up and threw it at the marble bust. It draped over the bust’s face. “You sure as hell were worried this morning.”

I had to give him that. “Okay, yes. A little. But everyone else enjoyed it, even if most of them didn’t catch on until after the fact.” I hated to admit outright that in some secret chamber of my heart, even I had sort of been enjoying myself. It had been exciting, even thrilling. I had been made newly conscious of how much I enjoyed being alive.

I said, “Would you be this hostile, if you didn’t know her history?”

“I don’t know. Maybe not. All I can tell you is watching everyone fawn over her this evening was more than I could take.”

John wasn’t being a jerk just to be a jerk. He was genuinely disturbed. I said, “I’ll grant you she’s got a macabre sense of humor.”

He unbuckled his trousers, stepped out of them.

“She was a kid, John. I think it does make a difference. It did in the eyes of the law. And I do agree with her that there are degrees of wickedness. I think premeditated murder is the worse crime.”

“Don’t quote the law to me,” he said.

I met his gaze and the glare faded out of his eyes. He sighed. “I don’t see it the way you do, but I am sorry if I wrecked this evening for you. I know how much you’ve been looking forward to this part of the trip.”

He seemed disarmingly sincere, and somehow the next thing I knew, I was hugging him. “It’s okay. I’m sorry this is hard on you.”

He gave a funny half laugh. “Carter?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you...on your best behavior or are you honestly this nice of a guy?”

“I don’t know. Am I that nice?” As compliments went, nice guy seemed a little like a consolation prize.

His grin was wry. “Yes. You are. You’re the kind of guy I was always hoping I’d meet. And never did.”

Okay, that was a little better, and the kiss that followed it up was better still.

“Except you did,” I said, when I could. “Meet me.”

“I did,” he agreed, and kissed me again.

I’m not sure which one of us reached for the light...

*

I woke to darkness and the familiar sound of John—by now I took that for granted—moving quietly around our room. Less quietly than usual though. In fact, there was something a bit frantic in the not-quite-silent dragging and stuffing noises.

I felt for my phone, checking the time. Three nineteen on a cold and cheerless October morning. I moaned. “Seriously, John?”

A section of shadow detached itself from the rest of the gloom, coming to the foot of my bed and looming over me. I sat up and turned on the lamp, shading my eyes to stare up at him.

“What the hell are you doing every night?”

“You’re awake. Good.” John was dressed in jeans, corduroy shirt and boots. He needed a shave and his hair was sticking out in tufts. He looked both severe and harassed. Or maybe just severely harassed.

“No, not good. Why are the two of us awake at this time of the morning?” Better question: why were the two of us awake and not putting the time to better use?

“Because, unfortunately, we’re not the only two awake.”

I looked past him and saw that he was in the process of packing his suitcase. My heart sank. Hell.

“Who else is awake? And how would you know—and why would you care? What the hell is going on?” This was the moment of truth. If he couldn’t answer honestly...

“Carter.” He hesitated. Sighed. “I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

“Uh, yeah. I know. You haven’t exactly been subtle either.”

I think that flicked his professional pride. He said with a trace of indignation, “It’s not easy to be subtle on a tour bus!”

“Fair enough. Are you...what? An undercover cop?”

“An insurance investigator.”

“And you’re investigating what? The Scherfs and Rices obviously. Are they supposed to be hired assassins? International jewel thieves?” I shivered and hauled the bedclothes up around my shoulders.

“Art thieves.”

“Art thieves? Seriously? They’re not high school teachers?”

“Well, yes. They are high school teachers. Also art thieves. And yes, seriously.” He certainly looked serious.

“You’re kidding. They’ve stolen something on this trip? What?”

“No. They haven’t managed to pull a job off on this trip—I don’t think—or they’d be under arrest right now.”

I hadn’t missed that I don’t think. “Wait. So, they’re suspected art thieves? Or they’re really—”

He snapped, “The fact that they haven’t been arrested yet doesn’t change the fact that they’re really criminals.” By the testiness of his tone, I deduced this was a touchy subject.