by Josh Lanyon
“The fact that she even went there.”
“It stayed with me for days.”
Hmm. Had he actually read the book? But why say it was his favorite, if he hadn’t? Why not pick one of the MacKinnons?
I ventured, “She wouldn’t have risked trying to pull off such an ambiguous ending in one of the MacKinnon novels.”
John looked regretful. “I’m not really up on the MacKinnons.”
“Oh?”
Okay. That was unusual. But possible. Not everyone loved series books. It was possible some readers only knew Vanessa through her standalones. I’d never met one yet, but they had to be out there.
And, after all, why would John admit to not reading the MacKinnons, but fudge about his favorite standalone? That wasn’t logical.
He gave a sudden huge yawn. “I’m beat,” he said, meeting my eyes with the guileless direct stare you get from patrons who are going to try to argue their way out of paying their overdue fines. “I’m going to turn in now. But if you want to read or watch TV, go ahead.”
“It’s going to be a long day tomorrow. I should probably sleep too.” I sat up and snapped off the lamp on the table between our beds.
John flicked off the wall switch. His pale outline crossed the floor and climbed into his own narrow bunk.
“Goodnight,” I said.
“’Night.” The bed frame squeaked as he rolled onto his side, offering a broad pajama-clad back.
I studied the outline of him in the gloom, thinking. Was it possible John hadn’t actually read any of Vanessa’s work?
No.
The whole tour was tailored to fans of Vanessa’s work. It was too expensive and too idiosyncratic for the ordinary celtophile. He had to be a fan. Well, not just a fan. A super fan. A fanatic. An ordinary fan did not pay gobs of money and travel the ocean to meet any old author. The shelling out of airfare was the gesture of the truly devoted.
After a few puzzled moments, I lost interest in John and his reading habits and returned to worrying over the problem of Trevor.
I realized that I’d been foolish not to anticipate how unpleasant this trip might be, given the current situation between us. The problem was, I’d never really thought much about the tour. My focus had been on thwarting Trevor by using my ticket. I had looked forward to how irritated he’d be by my presence. And he was. He was every bit as pissed off as I’d imagined. Mission accomplished.
And now I had ten days of Trevor being pissed off to look forward to. Which...
I sighed.
“Did you say something?” John asked politely.
“Me? No.”
Silence.
I considered the wide-awake and listening stillness of a guy I did not know from Adam, and decided it was the darkness and the fact that we were in bed that made it uncomfortable. Again, I was reminded of college dorm life.
Once you reached a certain age—no, it wasn’t an age thing. It was the fact that I had been for all intents and purposes married for three years. When I woke up in the night, I still expected to find Trevor there. Except that wasn’t correct either. Trevor was the default, but nowadays I didn’t expect to find anyone there.
And wouldn’t for the foreseeable future.
Even as I told myself this, I felt my heart deflate. The foreseeable future was a long time, and the fact of the matter was, I had liked being one half of a couple.
I liked sharing my life with someone. I liked the comfort and joy of a steady relationship. I liked having someone to celebrate the good times with—and someone to turn to when the times weren’t so good. I liked security. I liked having regular sex with someone I trusted. Ha. More fool me. But partnership was more than sex and security. It was companionship too. I liked having someone to share my favorite books and films with. I liked cooking meals together and spending Sunday mornings having breakfast in bed. As much as I liked my book clubs and my film club and my cooking classes, as much as I enjoyed Sunday brunch with friends...it just wasn’t the same.
Not that it had been perfect with Trevor. When I was feeling lonely—and there was nothing like trying to fall asleep next to a complete stranger to make you feel lonely—I tended to view those years in a warm nostalgic glow, as if lit by the candlelight of a romantic dinner. The truth was, Trevor had driven me crazy a lot of the time. I used to wish he had a little more sense of humor, that he’d occasionally bother to hide the fact that my friends and family bored him, that he’d take on some of the responsibility of cohabitation—or just pay a utility bill on time for once.
Anyway. It was dead and done—and I’d already conducted the postmortem and filed my report.
Which didn’t change the fact that the next few days were going to be awkward. Awkward at best. Painful, was more like it. Trevor was not what anyone would call a good sport. He was going to do his best to make sure I regretted thwarting his wishes. The fact that I already regretted it wouldn’t make any difference.
Either way, the trip was paid for. No refund was possible. The options were two: I could spend the next few days coping with life on the road waiting for whatever revenge Trevor might come up with, or I could cut my losses, fly home and spend my vacation enjoying my books and garden—which was how I usually spent my vacations.
The airport was just across the road, literally a few yards away from where I lay. If I was going to pull out of the tour, sooner would be better than later. Later was going to be a huge hassle for everyone. Later was going to look like—and feel like—Trevor drove me off. Whereas I could get up, pack my bag, quietly leave tonight and... Trevor would still have driven me off, but it wouldn’t feel so much like the failure it would five days from now.
Strangely enough though, I wasn’t so sure now that I wanted to bail.
Yes, I had been bored and out-of-sorts at dinner, and yes, being around Trevor made me miserable, but I was here in Bonnie Auld Scotland. At long last I’d stopped talking about traveling and actually started traveling.
And I was going to meet my favorite author in the world—spend four nights in a castle on an island in Scotland, which even if the castle wasn’t owned by Vanessa, would be a really cool thing.
Plus, there was my new roomie John, who had definitely aroused my interest. Not that interest—although he was vaguely attractive, I guess—the interest that was more like curiosity. The intense curiosity that was programmed into the genetic code of every real mystery reader.
I listened to the rain, which was coming down pretty hard, a restless tick-tick against the window.
It would be a cold, wet walk to the airport. Whereas this bed, though narrow and suffering a pillow shortage, was warm and reasonably comfortable.
I continued to weigh the options while my eyelids grew heavier and heavier...
* * *
I woke to the sound of someone moving furtively in my bedroom.
I opened my mouth to yell, then remembered that you weren’t supposed to yell if the burglars were already in your space. You were supposed to be very quiet until you could slip away to safety. While I was reasoning this through—and realizing that there was no quiet way to disappear right out from under someone’s nose—I remembered I was in a hotel room in Scotland and that my roommate seemed to be sneaking into his clothes in the middle of the night.
No. He probably wasn’t sneaking. He was probably trying to be considerate.
I said, “I’m awake, if you want to turn on the light.”
John’s silhouette jumped about a foot and swore. He said with a hint of accusation, “I thought you were asleep.”
“I was. I’m a light sleeper.”
I could tell from his silence that he didn’t like that. And I didn’t like that he didn’t like that, because why would he be worried about me sleeping through whatever he was getting up to?
Not for the first time it occurred to me t
hat there was something a little odd about John.
“I can’t sleep,” he said brusquely. “I’m going for a walk.”
“Okay.” I peered at the clock on the low table between our beds. One o’clock in the morning. I’d have been a little uneasy about walking around a strange city in the middle of the night, but clearly John was a more adventurous soul. You probably had to be pretty resilient to sell insurance for a living.
I closed my eyes—only to jerk awake at the sounds of commotion in the hall outside.
The room was still dark. In fact, it felt like only a minute or two had passed, but a quick glance at the clock indicated it was now five-thirty in the morning.
I was trying to analyze the memory of the sound that had woken me—it sounded a lot like a cow kicking a glass milk can over—when I heard the door lock turn.
I raised my head as the door inched open. A pale form hovered for a moment and then cautiously stuck his head in as though to make sure the coast was clear.
I reached up and snapped on the light. Both John and I winced in its glare.
“What the hell?” I inquired. Politely, I thought, given the circumstances.
“Oh, you’re awake,” John said. Ever so casually.
“Again.” I continued to squint at him from beneath the hand shielding my eyes.
“Er...yeah. Sorry about that. The maids left their cleaning cart in the hallway.”
“And you thought you’d take it for a spin?”
“Ha! No. I didn’t see it in time.” He held his phone up as though in explanation.
“Are you in for the night? Or still doing laps?”
He pushed the door wide-open and stepped inside. “In for the night. What’s left of it.”
“Thank God.” I turned the light off, flopped over onto my pillow and went back to sleep.
Chapter Three
John slept peacefully through the alarm going off at six-thirty.
He continued his dreamy slumbers while I showered, shaved, packed, and shoved my suitcase into the hall so it could be carted down to the bus. And he was still dead to the world when I stepped out, letting the hotel room door shut loudly behind me, and headed down to breakfast.
“I hear we have a new recruit!” Laurel Matsukado greeted me in the line for the breakfast buffet.
“Yep. He flew in last night.”
“There’s no info on him in the bios.”
I was a little disconcerted at how diligently my fellow travelers had studied for our trip. I had glanced at the bios, sure, but that’s about all I’d done. Lucky for me, I had a good memory—a good memory being essential in my line of work, as Yvonne could testify.
I said, “No. Alison told me he’s an insurance salesman from San Diego.”
“Ah.”
The line shuffled forward and we picked up plates and cutlery. Behind glass, the breakfast selections looked pretty much like the breakfast selection at home barring bacon that looked like smoked ham, fat, juicy gray sausages that seemed vaguely indecent sprawled on a breakfast plate, and black hockey pucks that were labeled “puddings,” no doubt as a practical joke on tourists.
I filled my plate and wandered toward the dining area. Edie and Bertie, the twins from Michigan, and the elderly, elegant Rose waved me over to their table.
We got the pressing business of my new roommate out of the way—I had to confess I hadn’t noticed if he was wearing a wedding ring and had failed to ascertain his availability status—and then Rose whispered, “Did you hear there was a death on the last tour?”
I gave up trying to cut my crispy pudding in half and looked at her. “Huh?”
Edie and Bertie seemed equally startled at this turn of conversation.
Rose nodded gravely. She threw an uneasy look over her shoulder in the direction of Alison and Hamish in line for the buffet. Alison was blithely chatting away to Hamish, who was peering suspiciously through the counter glass. “I overheard them talking about it last night.”
“You mean like a heart attack or something?” I asked.
“I don’t think so.”
Edie and Bertie asked in unison, “What then?”
“I don’t know. At least... I’m not sure.”
“Hmm,” I said. “Well, it was probably natural causes, whatever it was.” There were a lot of older people on this tour. I was pushing forty and I was likely the youngest person on board. Or maybe John was younger than me. Not by much though. Anyway, it stood to reason that now and again a vacationing oldster might end up with a one-way ticket to that big resort in the sky.
The other three gave me a look of impatient disgust.
“No!” Rose said. “I think it was something more.”
She straightened up abruptly as Alison and Hamish walked past with their laden plates and sat down a couple of tables away. Rose’s exaggerated air of innocence wouldn’t have fooled a baby, but beyond wishing us good morning, Alison and Hamish paid us no attention.
The sisters gave each other meaningful looks. Rose met my gaze and shook her head. Which I guess was supposed to be a warning not to pursue the topic.
We were a bunch of mystery fans on a tour celebrating fictional murder in all its gory detail, so I guess it was natural enough that we—they—might be more prone to jump to criminal conclusions than your average tourist.
Rose was certainly enjoying herself. There was a sparkle in her eye and a flush in her cheeks that I hadn’t noticed last night. In fact, she kind of looked like someone in love.
In love with the idea of murder?
Well, that was all of us, right?
Edie, Bertie and Rose finished eating and left to get a good seat on the bus. I enjoyed another cup of coffee and finished my meal at a more leisurely pace, glancing through the newspaper an earlier diner had left at the neighboring table.
There were the usual sports and political updates—the teams and names largely unfamiliar—national lottery results, the foiled attempted snatching of a schoolgirl, a false alarm at the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, and the hit-and-run death of a travel agent the previous afternoon.
Given the number of times Alison’s breakfast had been interrupted by members of our party, I found myself wondering if that travel agent had voluntarily jumped into the road. I bet it was even odds.
I folded the paper, left it to alarm the next tourist, and headed out to the bus.
The rain of the night before had stopped. The sky was blue, the sun shone brightly, glittering in the giant oily puddles dotting the parking area. The scent of jet fuel and cooked food drifted on the breeze. The roar of planes taking off from the airport competed with traffic from the M8 motorway.
I meandered over to the long silver-and-black bus, which was open and more than half full, as I discovered when I climbed aboard.
“Sixteen,” Yvonne informed me from the first seat on the left.
“What was that?”
“You’re the sixteenth member to board. I hope we’re not going to be late departing. It’s a very long drive today.”
Ben, seated next to her, offered an apologetic smile.
I smiled back and kept moving down the aisle.
Trevor was prone to car sickness, so I knew he’d be sitting up front. I chose a seat midway down the row and made myself comfortable by the window.
Around me, everyone was settling in. Stowing water bottles, arranging neck pillows, checking cameras and cell phones. The Scherfs and Rices spoke quietly while they studied a map.
“Good morning,” I said.
Gerda glanced up, smiled distractedly, went back to perusing the map.
I opened my guidebook, but the warmth of the sun through the window was so soothing that I settled for watching the planes land and take off from the airport next door.
“Seventeen, eighteen,” Yvonne announc
ed as Trevor and Vance boarded.
They were smirking and smiling at each other, making a big production of choosing their seat. Finally, they settled right behind Yvonne and Ben, and spent the next few minutes fussing with each other’s collars and scarves, and taking turns giggling at under-breath comments. I knew they weren’t behaving like adolescents just to annoy me, but annoy me it did. Which was all on me. If I couldn’t stand to watch them together, I shouldn’t have come.
It wasn’t that I was still in love with Trevor. In fact, I was close to disliking him. Not in a he-done-me-wrong way, but more how-did-I-never-notice-what-a-jerk-he-was way. And yet dislike was not indifference. I wanted indifference.
How long before I was comfortably indifferent to him? To both of them?
Was this trip going to be good for achieving that goal? Or was it going to be detrimental? If I was going forward with the tour, and it appeared I was, I didn’t want to spend it distracted by thoughts of Trevor. Not even negative thoughts.
I went back to watching the planes. From where I sat, Glasgow Airport looked like a small airport, but it was the second busiest in Scotland. I watched streams of people flooding in and out, the constant arrival and departure of shuttle buses and cars.
The Matsukados appeared, clutching plastic bags and neck pillows and water bottles.
“Nineteen, twenty,” Yvonne informed them—and the rest of us. “And there’s Alison and Hamish. Where is twenty-one?”
“Where is twenty-one what?” Jim asked, bewildered. Laurel ushered him on.
Yvonne turned in her seat to stare at me. “Where is twenty-one?” she repeated.
“He was still sleeping when I went down to breakfast.”
Her eyes widened in consternation.
Alison boarded, began her headcount and was informed by Yvonne that I had callously left my roommate languishing while I gorged myself on scrambled eggs and sausages. Well, she didn’t exactly put it that way, but there was definitely a witness-for-the-prosecution tone to her update.
Alison looked alarmed and retreated, vanishing inside the hotel. She returned a short time later and held a brief conference with Hamish.
