“So, we’re really doing this, aren’t we?”
“Looks like,” Patrick told her. “How long do you think Mick and Atticus will take gathering their notes?”
“I’m not sure,” Ava said. “Hopefully not too long. Did you mean what you said back there?”
“About?”
“About Old Town.”
“I did. I love it here, Ava. Always have. Pop and I used to come here all the time when I was a kid so it’s always held a special place in my heart. I guess it’s kind of why I decided to move here and not to Halifax or someplace else.”
“That’s good,” she said. She cast her eyes downward. “You know, if you ever want to talk about… anything. You can talk to me. I’ve been told I’m a good listener.”
He knew what she was getting at. Atticus’ outburst back at the newspaper certainly hadn’t helped the situation. “Thanks, but maybe some other time.”
“All right, but the offer still stands. When you’re ready.”
He thought about it long and hard, agonizing over the need to tell her everything. To spill his guts right there on the street and explain everything that had happened to him late last year. About what had happened back in Garden City with Detective Berlin and those blasted pictures. About the people in the white masks. About the torture and the pain, he endured at their hands.
But, he couldn’t tell her.
Not yet, anyway. He wasn’t ready.
It would be too hard to explain, anyway. Too hard to put into words. If he could even find the right words.
No, the timing wasn’t right. The goal had been to find a way to plow ahead and focus on building new memories, new friendships, and a new life. He must stick to the goal.
She broke the awkward silence by asking, “So, where do we start?”
He cast the thoughts of the past away like a troublesome pest. “Well, do you know this Olivia person?”
She shook her head. “Can’t say that I do.”
“Well, maybe we should start there. Find out what we can and then try to talk to her.”
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, you got me. I don’t know about you, but I’m beat.”
“Yeah, I guess it has been a day, hasn’t it? It was fun, though. It’s not every day I try and solve a murder.”
He tried to find a reason to keep the day going. He didn’t want it to end. “Care for a drink?”
She smiled. “No, I should get home. Rain check?”
“You got it.”
“All right then,” she said, and stuck out her hand. “Here, give me your phone. I’ll give you my number.”
Patrick reached to his belt, thumbed the home screen, and swiped it to life.
She tapped away on the screen and then gave it back to him seconds later. “You know, you should really put a passcode on your phone. What if you lost it? You don’t want just anybody accessing your phone.”
He looked down at it. “Yeah, I probably should, shouldn’t I? I’d say I’ll do it first thing tonight, but I’ll probably forget. I’m useless when it comes to these sorts of things.”
“Well, try and remember to at least give me a ring. I’ll expect to hear from you in the morning. No excuses.”
“All right.”
“Thank you for today, Sully. I really do mean it.”
“You’re welcome. And hey, I had fun too.”
“Jeez, I haven’t had this much adventure in a long time. Who woulda thought? When I woke up today, the last thing on my mind would have been trying to solve a murder. This is crazy.”
“Yeah, I suppose it is. But now, the hard part begins. It’s not going to be easy. It’s not going to be all sunshine and rainbows, Ava. The world is a very mean and nasty place…”
She grinned. “Is that a Rocky quote? Did you seriously just quote me a line from Rocky?”
“Maybe,” he said, smirking.
The girl knows her stuff. She even loves Rocky Balboa.
“All right,” she said. “Be seeing you, Sully.”
“See you,” he said, watching her saunter down the sidewalk, stopping briefly to light up a cigarette. By the time she had reached the end of the street, he had already decided on where to go to next.
Perry Halliday had the right idea. It was time to get that drink.
Earlier today, he had remembered seeing a pub directly across the street from Perry’s bookshop and now thought, it was like serendipity.
***
The Seraph Inn was a two-story building with pastel yellow siding, black shutters, and exposed red bricks at its base and on the pillars at the side of the building. Above the white wood enclosed entryway, three flags fluttered in the fitful breeze: a Canadian flag, an American flag, and the Union Jack. A pair of smoky black benches sat on the sidewalk wedged in between potted plants and small shrubs; a thin layer of snow painted on top.
As Patrick approached the black wooden door, a plaque to his left told him the story of the inn. It seemed like everything in Old Town had a plaque. Was it a city by-law or something else? Boasting, perhaps?
He read on: Built in what was believed to be 1789, The Seraph Inn was one of the country’s oldest inns. John Ross rebuilt it in 1815, following the fire that laid siege to the town in the War of 1812. It had had many names over the years such as Mansion House and Fraser’s Hotel while ownership exchanged hands. Finally, at the bottom of the plaque, it boasted that it was also home to the spirit of Captain Colin Swayze who was said to walk the inn at night, perhaps in longing for a young woman.
Sorry about your luck, pal.
Once inside, he saw that getting a table was going to be more difficult than he thought. Swarmed with patrons, not an inch of space between them, it was loud, hot, and uncomfortable. A sea of bodies, packed in there like sardines in a tin can.
He maneuvered close to the bar, making himself thin and attracted the attention of a busy bartender.
“Whaddya have?” the woman asked him as she met him at the end of the bar.
“What’s on tap?” he asked her.
The woman sneered, decidedly put off by his request. “Well, what do you like? Pale ale, lager, or something darker?”
“How about a craft beer?”
“Craft? Hmm. An Oast House, okay? They’re local.”
“Sure, I’ll give it a shot.”
The bartender slid him a bottle with a red label on it and went back to tending to the other patrons at the bar.
“I think you’ll like that one,” a man now said to Patrick’s right.
Patrick looked down at the grungy, textured label with a red circle and white border. The word OAST written in large scripted font diagonally in the center of the bottle. “Yeah?”
“New in town or just visiting?”
What is it with this town and faces?
“I’m new, yeah,” Patrick said, anticipating the next line from the stranger.
“Thought so,” the man said. He took a pull on his beer: a Budweiser. Turning back to Patrick, he stuck out his hand and said, “The name’s Millie.”
Patrick shook his hand, noticing the callus feel to them. Tawny spots embedded inside his fingernails from all the dirt and grime in his line of work. “Millie? As in Millie Swanson?”
Millie scrunched his face, lowering an eyebrow warily. “Do I know you, friend?”
Patrick avoided eye contact with him, suddenly realizing he shouldn’t have blown his chance to get information out of him so early in the conversation. “No, I wouldn’t say that. Your name came up today is all.”
“Oh,” Millie said with a nod. After swallowing another gulp of his drink, he looked back over at Patrick. “Needin’ some work done?”
“What? No, it’s not that.”
“Well, what is it then?” Millie glanced around the room. “Have I done something wrong?”
Just nice to see you’re not in the morgue is more like it.
“No, not at all,” he told him. “But, I think we’re going to be new neighbors.”
Millie was quiet.
“I’m moving into the same apartment building,” Patrick tried again, thinking maybe he simply hadn’t heard him over the swelling crowd in the pub. “That is, once this thing gets sorted out with the previous occupant.”
Turns out, Millie had heard him after all. He added: “That business with Wagner?”
“That’s right.”
“Yeah, I only just heard.”
“Did you know him very well?”
“Wagner? Not really. Saw him every now and again. We didn’t exactly hang with the same crowds, if you catch my drift.”
“Right, right.”
“I tell you what, though. He sure was a quiet one. Barely ever heard a peep from the guy. Not like that girl upstairs. She’ll be your problem soon enough now that you’ll be across the hall from her. Good luck with that, buddy. You know how those college students love their parties.”
“Great,” Patrick said, playing up the sarcasm. “You mentioned a crowd a second ago. Do you happen to know who he hung out with?”
“Other artist types. The Frenchman and some other girl.”
“Frenchman? Oh, you mean Jean Claude Michaud?”
“Yeah.”
Patrick leaned forward. “I don’t think he’s French, it’s just—”
“Coulda fooled me. Anyway, them artists like to stick together. They’re like a—whaddyacallit—a clique. Haven’t seen the girl around in a while, though.” He took another swig. “Why do you ask? You a detective or somethin’?”
“Or something.”
Millie raised that eyebrow again, sipping at his drink slowly. He licked his lips and said, “Well, between you and me, he was probably up to no good. Probably selling pot and pills on the side or somethin’.”
Patrick kept his voice low. “Pot? What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know. Just this feelin’ I had, I guess. There were always a lot of people coming and going out of that place. All hours of the night. Men, usually. I always had the feeling that it was all meant to be on the down low-like, you know? I caught people sneaking around a few times. Hanging around in the hallways.”
“Like it was all supposed to be very hush-hush? A secret?”
Millie nodded. “That’s right. In secret.”
Something wasn’t adding up. Either Millie Swanson was way off base, or there was more to Marc Wagner than he’d been led to believe.
Needed to dig deeper.
“How about a guy named Trevor Hurst? Ever hear that name?”
“I don’t think so, no. Why do you ask?”
“Don’t worry about it.” He could have told him his reason for asking, but the less everybody knew, the better. He had to play this close to his chest. If Wagner’s relationship with Hurst really was a secret, he didn’t want to be the one spreading the news all around town. It might tip the killer off that someone was asking questions. Someone other than Detective MacKay and the rest of the department.
Millie then stood and slid his stool back under the bar counter. “Well, all right. It’s been nice talkin’ with you but, I’m going to head out for a smoke and get on home. It’s been a long day. I hope you find what you’re looking for, friend, but I’d be careful if I were you. If Wagner really was murdered like they’re saying, the killer couldn’t have gone very far. Town like this, he might even be here scattered amongst all these folks. Know what I’m saying? It’s winter time, not many tourists.”
Patrick chuckled. “Yeah, thanks for—”
“Don’t mention it,” Millie said with a wave of the hand. He stopped briefly at the door to say his hellos and goodbyes to some friends and then went on outside.
Patrick turned his attention back to his drink and began to pick and prod at the label. Starting from the top and working his way down, he pulled it away from the bottle, thinking about Wagner. He glanced back at the exit. Should he follow him? Ask him some more questions or would that be too obvious?
He knew he needed more, but he needed a plan. Some kind of strategy.
What would Mitch do?
The female bartender came back over holding a small towel and a large pint glass. “Another round, hun?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
He spun around on his stool and leered at the crowd. Was Millie, right? Could the killer really be here?
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