Gasping for breath, Sherry fumbled in a pocket and retrieved her hair clip. In a smooth, practiced motion she secured her hair and arranged her face simultaneously. Once again she looked remote and in control. “He’s terrified of flying,” she explained, “so he tends to drink too much on flights. I can deal with him.”
She stood and put out one hand to take Kenny’s arm, but he swatted her away. “Don’t you touch me, you—”
“Let him stay with me a while,” Jim advised. “We’ll be right back there.”
Sherry obviously would have preferred to keep him at their seat, but after a short hesitation, she shrugged. “Whatever.” She spoke to Kenny in what sounded like a warning. “Just remember, honey, this is going to be a real good trip. Okay?”
For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why that should sound like a threat.
But Kenny, too, caught her warning tone. “Good trip?” he mumbled as he staggered behind Jim to the seats in the back. Before he sat, he turned and shot her a look of pure venom. “A real good trip to hell.”
6
Nine days later, when the police sergeant would interview me about the body in the coffin and our group of travelers, he would ask, “Did anything unusual occur on this trip? Anything out of the ordinary?”
Unusual? Out of the ordinary?
“From the very first day,” I would have to admit.
To begin with, nobody else met us at Prestwick Airport in Glasgow Wednesday morning. How could anybody be making money on this trip? I could tell that Laura was wondering, too.
When we reassembled after collecting our luggage and going through customs, nobody mentioned the fight. The way Kenny and Sherry acted, you’d have thought they’d slept soundly on the trip while the rest of us shared the same nightmare.
Joyce, however, looked strained and peaked, as colorless as the pale blue of her parka, which did nothing to enhance her brown hair and eyes. Still, she managed to stay pleasant while ushering us out into a cold drizzle where a short green bus waited, blazoned with “Gilroy’s Highland Tours” in white and the name “Jeannie” in yellow script by the door. The driver gave Joyce a cheerful wave through the drizzle, looked the group over, then peered around for more of us.
“That’s our bus?” I whispered to Laura.
“Will it last two weeks?” she whispered back. “Maybe I could sell them a new one and pay for my trip.”
Seldom had I seen a shabbier vehicle. Did I say it was green? Actually, one fender was red, another black. Large dents decorated both the back bumper and the front, as if somebody had gotten angry and jerked the poor thing back and forth, hitting cars fore and aft.
Joyce gave it one dismayed look and strode over to speak to the driver. We didn’t hear what she said, but we heard him cackle and exclaim, “Och, auld Jeannie here’ll get us there and back nae bother. She’s got a fine engine, has Jeannie.” He smacked her side and turned as if he’d smack Joyce on the bottom, as well. She quickly turned toward Jim and Brandi—probably worrying that they’d quit the tour and go home. Jim directed a porter to stow their bags in the open luggage door with no more visible concern than if the bus had been a limousine.
The driver, who had the name “Watty” embroidered on his flat black cap in yellow script, was as shabby as his bus. His black wool pants sagged. His red shirt had faded to a dull rose. And under a scruffy black jacket he had on the most disreputable argyle sweater I’d ever seen. Joe Riddley would have looked like a fashion plate beside him. The man wasn’t much taller than me, with lines like sunbeams radiating from button-black eyes and grizzled curls springing from the cap, which dripped water in four directions. “Mind yer step, mind yer step,” he muttered as we deposited our bags and climbed up the high steps.
I stretched up and whispered to Laura, “Tip well. He looks like he can use it. But
She stood and put out one hand to take Kenny’s arm, but he swatted her away. “Don’t you touch me, you—”
“Let him stay with me a while,” Jim advised. “We’ll be right back there.”
Sherry obviously would have preferred to keep him at their seat, but after a short hesitation, she shrugged. “Whatever.” She spoke to Kenny in what sounded like a warning. “Just remember, honey, this is going to be a real good trip. Okay?”
For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why that should sound like a threat.
But Kenny, too, caught her warning tone. “Good trip?” he mumbled as he staggered behind Jim to the seats in the back. Before he sat, he turned and shot her a look of pure venom. “A real good trip to hell.”
6
Nine days later, when the police sergeant would interview me about the body in the coffin and our group of travelers, he would ask, “Did anything unusual occur on this trip? Anything out of the ordinary?”
Unusual? Out of the ordinary?
“From the very first day,” I would have to admit.
To begin with, nobody else met us at Prestwick Airport in Glasgow Wednesday morning. How could anybody be making money on this trip? I could tell that Laura was wondering, too.
When we reassembled after collecting our luggage and going through customs, nobody mentioned the fight. The way Kenny and Sherry acted, you’d have thought they’d slept soundly on the trip while the rest of us shared the same nightmare.
Joyce, however, looked strained and peaked, as colorless as the pale blue of her parka, which did nothing to enhance her brown hair and eyes. Still, she managed to stay pleasant while ushering us out into a cold drizzle where a short green bus waited, blazoned with “Gilroy’s Highland Tours” in white and the name “Jeannie” in yellow script by the door. The driver gave Joyce a cheerful wave through the drizzle, looked the group over, then peered around for more of us.
“That’s our bus?” I whispered to Laura.
“Will it last two weeks?” she whispered back. “Maybe I could sell them a new one and pay for my trip.”
Seldom had I seen a shabbier vehicle. Did I say it was green? Actually, one fender was red, another black. Large dents decorated both the back bumper and the front, as if somebody had gotten angry and jerked the poor thing back and forth, hitting cars fore and aft.
Joyce gave it one dismayed look and strode over to speak to the driver. We didn’t hear what she said, but we heard him cackle and exclaim, “Och, auld Jeannie here’ll get us there and back nae bother. She’s got a fine engine, has Jeannie.” He smacked her side and turned as if he’d smack Joyce on the bottom, as well. She quickly turned toward Jim and Brandi—probably worrying that they’d quit the tour and go home. Jim directed a porter to stow their bags in the open luggage door with no more visible concern than if the bus had been a limousine.
The driver, who had the name “Watty” embroidered on his flat black cap in yellow script, was as shabby as his bus. His black wool pants sagged. His red shirt had faded to a dull rose. And under a scruffy black jacket he had on the most disreputable argyle sweater I’d ever seen. Joe Riddley would have looked like a fashion plate beside him. The man wasn’t much taller than me, with lines like sunbeams radiating from button-black eyes and grizzled curls springing from the cap, which dripped water in four directions. “Mind yer step, mind yer step,” he muttered as we deposited our bags and climbed up the high steps.
I stretched up and whispered to Laura, “Tip well. He looks like he can use it. But
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