Page 26 of Whispers at Dusk
“Right. This wacko—appropriate English word?—the other night was going on and on about Bloody Marys and the real thing. Can you imagine that? I’m surprised someone didn’t freak out and nervously attack the fellow. People are talking, of course. But...”
He stopped speaking, frowning, looking at the two of them. “I understand,” he continued, “we’re getting investigators in from Paris, London, and the United States.”
“Yes,” Mason said quietly. “We are two of those investigators. We aren’t here to offend in any way, but we are curious about your Bloody Mary patron. Do you know him? Is he a local?”
“No, he’s not local. But he is in now and then. He’s with the dig that’s going on. They think they’ve discovered a gravesite circa 1000 to 1250. I guess you know, theViking Agebasically began with the attack and massacre at Lindisfarne Abbey, Northumberland, and most agree, ended at the Battle of Largs in 1263. Yes, at death, Vikings were sometimes sent out to sea with their ships ablaze, but sometimes they were buried as well. One of our premier scholars, Eric Lindstrom, found sagas suggesting the site and then... Well, I’m not sure, but it aroused a fascinated colony of archaeologists.”
“You think your Bloody Mary guy is an archaeologist?” Della asked.
“He didn’t happen to pay with a credit card, did he?” Mason put in.
“The man isn’t stupid. He’s just a drunk, and he was teasing a girl at the bar next to him when he was going on and on. He’d say something and her eyes would widen, and he’d laugh and be charming and, well... I guess I was just offended. We have young women who have died.”
“It is offensive,” Della agreed, touching his hand. “We understand, believe me.”
“Of course, you do,” Sven murmured. “I guess you see too much.” He frowned, looking out at the tables. A pretty blonde waitress was moving effortlessly through the room as it grew more and more crowded. As Mason turned to see what was causing Sven to stare, he saw the waitress was moving back from a man.
He was young, mid-twenties. He had shaggy soft brown hair, straight nose, good features, and a ready smile.
He had all the features described to Della by the ghost.
And Sven was frowning.
“Don’t look now...” he murmured.
But, of course, they were all looking.
And the young man looked at them. At first, he appeared puzzled. Then frightened. And then he turned and bolted out of the pub and raced into the street.
“Argh! Had to be a runner!” Della cried.
But she was already up and racing for the door. With all speed, Mason leaped to his feet and followed her.
They needed to catch Mr. Bloody Mary.
Four
Della was thankful she had spent her young years growing up with two brothers who played soccer and spent hours a week just running through their local park.
One thing she could do, no problem, was run. In college, she had managed to come in first in marathons that took place in New York and New England.
“Stop! Agents, stop!” she shouted.
As she had expected, the man ignored her.
She was on him, and he didn’t get more than a block before he was just a foot or two ahead with Mason Carter running neck and neck with her.
Their suspect hopped over a dividing wall. Without hesitation, Mason gave her a boost and she was over the wall and landing down hard on their suspect. Naturally, he struggled, but she kept him down. Mason was right there, having skimmed his own way up the wall. He hunkered down at her side and drew their suspect’s arms behind his back, got hold of his wrists, and cuffed him.
“Police brutality!” the man shouted.
“I don’t think so,” Mason said, standing and drawing the man to his feet.
“She jumped on me!”
“You were running,” Mason told him. “Why were you running?”
“Because I didn’t do anything!” he swore.
