Free Missing Susan by Sharyn McCrumb Page A

was apparent that Nancy was the one who did most of the talking in social situations. “I’m Charles Warren. We’re from San Diego, and I own a computer electronics firm. I guess we came on this trip because we’ve always wanted to see England, and mostly because Nancy likes mysteries.” He nodded toward his wife, obviously ready to relinquish the floor.
    “I’m Nancy Warren and I just adore British mysteries,”said the small blonde beside him. “I grew up with Nancy Drew and then I moved on to Agatha Christie.” She reminded Rowan Rover of the sweet-girl-next-door movie actress, June Allyson.
Lucky I don’t have to kill her
, he was thinking.
    “Am I next?” said the elderly woman beside her. She was tall and slender, and her energy and alertness belied her age. “My name is Maud Marsh and I’m seventy-seven. I’m from Berkeley, and I read Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers. I like the sort of mysteries that don’t have gangsters in them.”
    “Will you be able to keep up with us on a walking tour?” asked Susan.
    Maud Marsh gave her a mirthless smile. “I usually walk five miles a day at home. I doubt we’ll be doing more than that.”
    “Some of us may have trouble keeping up with you,” said Rowan gallantly. “Who’s next?”
    “Martha Tabram,” said the well-dressed brunette with the Canadian accent. “My husband is a surgeon in Vancouver, and since he couldn’t get away this fall for a real vacation, I decided to try this tour. I wanted to see the south of England again, and this seemed like an ideal way to do it.”
    “Susan Cohen, from Minneapolis,” said the intended victim, swishing her blonde hair like a model in a shampoo ad. “I’m young, so I don’t have to exercise yet, but I thought a tour might be a fun way to see England, and maybe enlarge my book collection. I admire British mysteries, too—those by Colin Dexter and P. D. James—but we also have a lot of good mystery writers around Minneapolis. Has anybody read R. D. Zimmerman? He has this one book called—”
    Rowan Rover realized that henceforth they might all have to pretend to have read a good many books that they had actually never heard of. “Fascinating,” he said hurriedly. “And you are Elizabeth …”
    “Yes. Elizabeth MacPherson. I’m a forensic anthropologist,with a doctorate but no job yet. My husband is a marine biologist. He went off to do seal research, so I decided to take this tour. I’ve read a few murder mysteries, but I really love true crime.”
    “Having a husband who comes home with the Gulf Stream could drive anybody to true crime,” murmured Rowan, “but we’re glad to have you, anyhow. And you are …?”
    “Kate Conway,” said the youngest member of the group, flashing her dark eyes at him. She was wearing a simple blue sheath dress and a string of pearls. “I’m an emergency room nurse. I like to travel. I enjoyed the public television presentations of Sherlock Holmes.”
    When the discussion of Jeremy Brett’s interpretations of the Sleuth of Baker Street versus those of Mr. Basil Rathbone had subsided, Rowan Rover invited Alice MacKenzie to identify herself to the group. She announced herself in sympathy with the Christie readers and the Jeremy Brett watchers. Thereupon the attention turned to her roommate, Frances Coles.
    Frances managed to smile and look terrified at the same time. She tugged at a lock of auburn hair and smoothed imaginary wrinkles out of her corduroy skirt. Rowan, who was hopeless at guessing ages, thought she might be in her early forties, but since she was a Californian it was hard to tell, since they cheated by exercising and going on diets. “I just wanted to come to England because I read so much about it,” she said softly. “I used to teach second grade. I’m a great fan of Ellis Peters.”
    “You are in luck,” said Rowan Rover magnanimously. “We shall be visiting Brother Cadfael’s home city of Shrewsbury at the end of next week and you