He grinned. “The pub we saw on arrival is a hotel too. I’m pretty sure it won’t be booked out.” He wasn’t sure how he felt about the whole situation. He couldn’t deny he’d enjoy a tumble with her, and Slater seemed to think the same. She’d been more flirtatious than he had, especially once he shared her concerns about Dave. But he couldn’t help thinking it would all be just too damned complicated. Then again, if they had a few drinks tonight and ended up in a room rather than rooms, he would not complain.
A tanned, fit-looking old man who had watched them leave days before emerged from the grocery store opposite, two laden plastic bags in hand. His white hair whipped in the wind. Aston caught his eye and smiled. The old man nodded back, not smiling but less surly looking than he had appeared as they left. There seemed to be a hint of curiosity in his gaze.
“Laine said he saw Dave heading for the liquor store, right?” Slater said, interrupting Aston’s thoughts. She pointed across the street to a shop with rows of glittering bottles lining the shelves behind plate glass.
“Yeah,” Aston said. “Wanna start there?” He glanced back, but the old-timer was already heading away from them toward the lake.
Inside the store, the warmth was a welcome relief from the biting wind across the harbor. The proprietor, a tall man with a mop of sandy curls, smiled and lifted a hand in greeting.
Slater returned the gesture as she approached the counter. “I’m sorry, do you speak English?”
“Why are you sorry?” The man folded his arms and set his jaw.
“Oh, I just…”
The shopkeeper flapped a hand and laughed. “Is okay, I’m joking. My English is passable.”
“Anyone who can correctly use the word passable is pretty fluent, I reckon,” Aston said.
The man nodded once in humble acknowledgment. “What can I do for you?”
“A friend of mine came in about this time last night,” Slater said. “American, little bit chubby, black woolen cap. Do you remember him?”
The shopkeeper frowned and stuck out his bottom lip. “I can’t be sure. Honestly, we were strangely busy last night. A tourist coach party came into town, lots of Americans. They left again this morning, passing through to somewhere else, like usual.”
Slater let out an exasperated sigh. “Okay, thanks.”
“How many places are there to stay in town?” Aston asked.
“Several guest houses and the like,” the shopkeeper said. “But the only actual hotel is across the road there.”
Aston couldn’t suppress a grin. “The one with the bar underneath?”
“That’s it.”
He turned to Slater. “Seems most likely to me.”
“And we can take a little time to get our thoughts together, unwind a bit.” She turned to the shopkeeper and smiled. “Thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiled and waved as they left.
“Bloody friendly bloke,” Aston said as they hunched against the wind and jogged across the road.
“Almost too friendly,” Slater said with theatrically narrowed eyes. “Probably a pedophile or a politician or something.”
Aston laughed and shook his head. “Gutter press, you are!”
Slater slapped his arm. “I’m not a hundred per cent sure I get that, but if it means what I think it does, that’s about as harsh an insult as you could throw at me!”
They ducked into the pub and were once again wrapped in very welcome artificial warmth. A low hubbub of activity and conversation filled the space, with a dozen or so patrons enjoying drinks. Here and there people had meals in front of them, steak and fries and casseroles and other things Aston was at a loss to identify. They chose stools at the bar, close enough to the bartender that they could easily engage him in conversation, but not so close as to be right in his face.
Slater was pleased to find beer and hot wings on the menu. Aston ordered Vauhtiveikko, a wheat beer recommended by the bartender and, after some deliberation, a bowl of smoked reindeer soup.
“Screw Rudolph,” he said in response to Slater’s quirked eyebrow. “I prefer Halloween to Christmas.”
After a while, Slater began to chat up the bartender. He was a thickset man with pale skin and black hair, his round head and even rounder belly reminded Aston of a snowman. He said that he hadn’t seen Dave, but that the hotel had been busy with the coach party last night and had no rooms available. Perhaps their friend had found a guest house?
Slater gave a noncommittal shrug as if it was of no importance, and continued to chat as their food arrived and they tucked in. It was very good and Aston had no regrets on Rudolph’s behalf.
Slater’s small talk was smooth, practiced, and the bartender seemed eager to please. He answered all her questions quickly with enthusiastic nods for emphasis and, to his credit, only the occasional glance at her breasts. Slater skillfully guided the conversation toward the subject of the creature.
“I know it’s crazy, but I’ve heard some stories about some sort of lake monster here,” she began. “Not that I believe in that sort of thing, but when I was a kid I loved to read about Nessie. I used to imagine there was a monster in the lake behind my house. Of course, the biggest thing that lived in there was a turtle.” She shrugged.
The bartender smiled. “Nessie is just a myth, something the Scots embellished for the sake of tourism. Our monster is real.”
“Seriously?” Aston hoped he didn’t sound as skeptical as he felt. “I figured it was just a legend.”
“Some legends are true.” The bartender flashed Slater a knowing smile. “I could tell you a few stories if you like, but only if you’re drinking.” He eyed her empty mug.
Aston quickly ordered up another round and they settled in. Around them, the low hum of conversation faded away as the man launched and his story.
“The natives have plenty of tales about the creature. Lots of sightings, mostly by the full moon.” He saw Aston roll his eyes. “I didn’t make up this stuff, I’m just repeating it. Anyway, according to legend, they often found signs of the creature coming ashore at the full moon. Prints, tracks, and the like. Also deer carcasses, reindeer, moose, even wolf. Or bits of carcasses. And, from time to time, one of their own would go missing.”
“And they blame the monster?” Slater asked.
“Not at first. But after a while, someone must have made the connection to the full moon. Finally, it came into a nearby settlement and took a little girl. She managed a single scream before it spirited her away, enough to wake her father. He followed the tracks and saw the beast carrying her into the water.”
Slater shuddered. Whether it was a genuine response or just for show, Aston couldn’t say. “That’s horrible. Did he say what the creature looked like?”
“It depends on which version of the story you hear. Some go into great detail, giving it everything from giant flippers to clawed hands. Those are clearly embellished. One of our elders, a guy we call Old Mo, is sort of our local storyteller. He says the oldest versions of the tale simply mention a long snout and sharp teeth.”
“But obviously it’s just a legend, right?” Aston asked. He took a sip of his beer. “I mean, is there any evidence to support it?”
Slater shot a warning glance in his direction. Her meaning was clear. I’ve got this guy talking; don’t shut him down.
But the bartender didn’t seem to mind. “We don’t have, what you call it, a fossil record or any remains. What we do know is that, up until a hundred years ago, the natives continued to make a sacrifice to the beast at the full moon.”
“What kind of sacrifice?” Slater said in a voice just above a whisper.
“An animal sacrifice, as far as I know. A goat, a cow, a deer…” He paused, looked around, and leaned in close to Slater, resting his elbows on the bar. “But Old Mo says that wasn’t always the case. If someone was close to death they would offer themselves to the creature. After all, a human sacrifice is supposed to be the most powerful one of all.”