“Say, you didn’t happen to have a customer in here in the last day or two,” Slater said. She described Dave and what he was wearing.
The waitress, Ingrid according to her name badge, looked up at the ceiling for a moment in thought. “It’s possible,” she said eventually. “But I can’t be certain. We’ve been busy the last couple of days.”
“Coach party?” Aston asked, exasperated. It was the worst luck for them that a tiny town where everyone knew everything had been disrupted with so many visitors just in time to make his life difficult. Their life, he reminded himself. Dave’s disappearance was frustrating for him, but it must be truly distressing for Slater. Dave was her colleague and friend.
“Yah, coach party,” Ingrid said. “Sorry about that.”
Slater nodded. “No problem. One other thing. You know a local man, Old Mo?”
Ingrid laughed. “Of course! Who doesn’t? Dear Old Mo. Lovely man, but crazy as a loon.”
“Really?”
“Sure. He tells wonderful stories, but lives in a world of his own.” Ingrid punctuated the statement with a roll of her blue eyes.
“He lives here in town?” Aston asked.
“Not quite.” Ingrid pointed out the window, past the small harbor. “He has a shack not far from the lake edge, about a kilometer of town. You follow the road until it ends, then the path up the hill. You can’t miss it, there’s nothing else out there. You want to visit him?”
“We’re making a nature documentary about the lake,” Slater said. “It’s always good to interview locals about stuff.”
“Oh, really?” Ingrid straightened and drew one hand back over her hair. “I’m a local! I would love to be on television. I’ve lived here all my life.”
“Well, great,” Slater said, her TV smile suddenly gleaming. “When we’ve finished out on the lake I intend to do some interviews around town. I’ll be sure to come back here.”
Ingrid let out a small laugh of satisfaction, almost a yelp. “I’ll get your breakfasts!” She skipped away like a dancer.
“Nice girl,” Aston said with a crooked grin.
“Bless her,” Slater said. “The enthusiasm of youth, trapped in the middle of nowhere.”
After breakfast and coffee, feeling about three thousand per cent better than he had on waking, Aston trudged beside Slater as they asked around after Dave in several other shops and eateries. All with the same result. The cameraman had either been invisible in the unexpected crowd that had passed through town or he’d disappeared like a ghost. Or both.
Slater’s concern was clear and Aston felt bad for her. He liked Dave, despite only just meeting the man, and was worried for him too. He gripped Slater’s hand as they walked back toward the harbor.
“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” Aston said, though his words sounded hollow.
“Are you?” Slater asked. “Really?”
Aston sighed, shook his head. “No, I guess I’m not. But I really hope he does. You know, he may be waiting for us back on the boat.”
“Maybe. But I can’t help thinking something terrible has happened.”
“It is starting to feel that way,” Aston admitted. “Should we go to the police?”
Slater shook her head. “Call me a callous bitch, but we have a job to do here and if we bring ourselves any more to the attention of that Rinne we risk having everything shut down around us. I’m really worried for him, but Dave is a grown man.”
“What if it’s something, you know, nefarious?” Aston asked.
Slater cocked her head. “Nefarious?”
“Yeah, criminal or whatever. What if Dave’s been abducted or attacked or something?”
Slater paused, looking back toward the small town. The lake made gentle wet sounds behind them. “Let’s give it twenty-four hours. If there’s still no sign of him by then, we’ll go to the police.”
Aston shrugged. “Okay. Your call. Meanwhile?”
Slater let go of his hand, turned, and walked purposely along the road past the harbor, heading for the trees beyond and the path that snaked between them. “Let’s go and see Old Mo and get us some more juicy monster stories.”
Chapter 17
“Think this is it?” The motley collection of weathered boards, dirty glass, and rusted nails that passed for a cabin made Aston feel a bit off. Every corner was almost a right angle, but not quite. Bits of tarpaulin and canvas hung here and there, some covering irregular lumps on the surrounding grass. Bones — some fish, others he couldn’t immediately identify — lay scattered on the ground. All around, the sickly-sweet odor of decay hung heavy in the air, cloying in the shade and closeness of the surrounding trees. To their right, the land sloped steadily downwards, Lake Kaarme glinting distantly between shadowy trunks a few hundred yards away.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve seen several horror movies that started out like this,” Slater said.
“Not scared are you?’
“No, just rethinking all the times I called those characters ‘stupid’ for walking up to the creepy old house.”
“And chatting with the scary old man?” He inclined his head toward a figure seated on a rock under one particularly old looking tree, whittling a piece of wood with a large, wicked-looking knife.
Old Mo, if this was indeed him, was not what Aston expected. In fact, Aston had seen the fellow before, several times around town. The snow white hair was bright even in the low light, the man’s short frame thickly muscled, and his leathery skin was tanned a golden brown. He glanced up from his carving and smiled.
“Can I help you?” he called.
“Are you Old Mo?” Slater asked.
“That’s what they call me.” Old Mo stood, slipped his knife into a sheath at his belt, and ran a hand through his shock of hair. “My mother named me Moses, but I was never very good at parting the water.”
Aston forced a laugh.
“We’re making a nature documentary,” Slater began. “We’re interested in stories about the lake monster and we hear you’re the man to ask.”
Mo flinched. He knitted his brow and folded his arms. “Try again.”
“I’m sorry?” Slater asked.
“Nature documentary that wants monster stories? Anyway, I’ve seen you around, seen what you’ve been up to.” He gestured down the slope. “I watch what happens out there on the water, you know. Sometimes I take long walks.” He tipped his head in the direction of their boat, a couple of miles along the shore.
“We really are a film crew,” Slater said.
“I’m the researcher on the crew,” Aston interrupted. “We are making a film, and of course the monster, or its legend, will have to feature. We just want to learn about the creature and assess the plausibility of its existence, and how that might affect the local fauna and so on.”
Mo appeared unconvinced. “All I know are stories. No facts.”
“That’s fine,” Slater said. “Stories often contain some truth. Also, they’re more entertaining than straight facts.”
“You’re going to put me on television?” The old man raised his bushy eyebrows.
“Maybe. It isn’t up to me, but can I record your stories and run them past the man in charge. You never know.”
Mo considered this for a full ten seconds before giving a single nod and striding toward the shack. “Come on in,” he said over his shoulder as he passed them by. “But I should warn you, some stories are best left untold.”
Slater cast a doubtful look at the shack and then at Aston.
“He’s good at setting up his trade as a yarn spinner, I’ll give him that,” he said. “It’ll be all right,” he added, in voice intended only for her ears. “You’ve got me.” He gave her a wink.