Blood Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 2)

by Stephen Penner

Warwick raised her own eyebrow and leaned forward onto the tabletop. “Are you certain?”

  “Oh, aye. I’m right sure. I don’t remember seeing her that night, an’ I’d a been lookin’ fer her.” She turned a sheepish smile toward her manager. “I’m paid quite well,” she assured, less than convincingly, “but I do depend on me tips. And seein’ as how this Saturday is the first o’ the month, well, me rent is due an’ I been payin’ close attention to me tips. No, if Jessie MacLeod had been here, I’d a known it. I’d a gotten that tip.”

  Warwick nodded, her expression inscrutable. She turned to Chisholm, whose was anything but, then back to Mary. “Thank you, Miss MacLachlan.”

  The waitress pushed the thanks away, practically curtsied to Quentin, then bounced back to her tables. Warwick and Chisholm gathered up their photograph, thanked Michael Quentin, and exited out onto the street.

  “I knew it,” Chisholm could barely control the exclamation.

  “Hm,” Warwick answered. “Let’s see what they’ve got to say at the Frankenwald.”

  ***

  ‘Frankenwald’ is a German word meaning, more or less, ‘French forest.’ It was also the name for one of the trendier nightclubs in Aberdeen, located in a newly gentrified neighborhood in the north end of town. The linguistic incongruity of a Scottish bar named after a German word for French terrain was given further life by the clubs intentionally asymmetrical facade and decor. Refurbished cement friezes shared the century-old entrance with bricks painted a shade of purple which could only be described as ‘grape soda.’ Inside, framed Degas prints shared wall space with neon light sculptures and mirrors advertising various brands of British and Irish beers. The serving bar appeared to be maple, with a seemingly never ending row of enormous wooden keg taps behind it. Flanking the bar was a billiards section on one side and a black linoleum dance floor complete with disco ball on the other. And way in the back was an eight foot tall elk, stuffed and mounted.

  Somehow, though, the various decorations worked together to create a unified theme of incongruity. A dozen early patrons, each dressed differently from the next, continued the theme. The only thing that really wouldn’t have fit in the eclectic tavern was a pair of on-duty lady police officers. Warwick walked in first; Chisholm closed the door behind them.

  The bartender, it turned out, reflected his surroundings. He was taller than average, thick about the neck, chest and arms, and had long, greasy black hair pulled back into a pony tail, several days stubble on his fatty cheeks, and an eye patch from under which stretched the ends of a very nasty looking vertical scar. He was dressed in a white tuxedo, with tails. His plastic nametag said, ‘Hello. My name is Günther.’

  He was wiping down the counter with a rag of dubious cleanliness when the officers walked in. He looked up at them, then returned his gaze to the countertop without a word.

  “Hello,” Warwick commenced the introductions. “I’m Detective Sergeant Elizabeth Warwick of the Aberdeen Police. This is my Partner, Detective Sergeant Alison Chisholm. We’d like to ask you some questions.” She held up her badge and I.D. to confirm her identity, and her seriousness.

  Günther slowly raised his gaze from the countertop and leveled it at the officers. Then he looked down again at his rag. “I’m a wee bit busy just now.” A Scottish brogue, not a German accent.

  “It will only take a few minutes,” Warwick assured. “we just have a few questions.”

  Günther didn’t look up. “Ask your questions if you’d like. But I can’t promise I’ll answer.”

  Warwick glanced to Chisholm who shrugged in response. Warwick extracted Jessie MacLeod’s photograph from her jacket pocket and placed it on the damp bar. “Do you know this woman?”

  The bartender hesitated a moment then pushed the rag to one side and squinted at the likeness. “Should I do?”

  “Her name’s Jessie MacLeod,” Warwick prompted. “I believe she’s a regular customer here.”

  “Do you now,” Günther replied with a grin. “Well, we’ve lots of regular customers, officer.”

  “Sergeant,” Warwick corrected.

  “We’ve lots of regular customers, Sergeant.”

  “And is she one of them?”

  Günther frowned and pulled his rag back over. “I can’t say.”

  “Well then, look more closely,” Warwick instructed. “Can you tell me whether she was her last Sunday night?”

  Günther did not in fact look more closely. Instead he resumed his wiping and repeated, “I can’t say.”

  “Then think about it for a minute,” Warwick ordered. She was losing her patience. “And tell me whether she was here last Sunday night.”

  Günther stopped wiping and took a long deep breath. Then he stood up fully and exhaled through his nose for a rather long time. “I can’t say,” he reaffirmed.

  “Listen, Günther. Maybe you don’t understan—”

  “Or maybe it’s you what don’t understand,” the bartender growled back. “This is the hottest nightclub in Aberdeen right now. We’ve literally hundreds of regulars. And if the boss is lucky, that’ll last about six more months. Then the regulars, they start going to the next hotspot, the boss closes up shop, and I’m looking for a new job. I see no reason to speed things up any by letting it be known that we help out coppers who come round asking questions about our regulars. So even if I did recognize the lass—which quite honestly, I don’t—my answer is the same: I can’t say.”

  Warwick considered this for several moments, then she peeled Jessie’s photograph off the counter. “Thank you for your time, Günther. Come on, Chisholm.”

  Warwick turned on her heel and headed toward the door. Chisholm hurried alongside barely able to wait until they were outside to begin buzzing in her partner’s ear.

  38. The Suave and Debonair Mr. Grant

  The knot in her neck was gone. The pain in her shoulders was gone as well. And her headache had receded, leaving just an empty tenderness behind her eyes. Her conversation with Prof. MacKenzie had relaxed Maggie thoroughly. She had expected, sought even, confrontation, but instead had found only soothing hospitality and sincere interest. The pleasantness might even have been magnified by its very unexpectedness and Maggie had left the academic’s office feeling calm and refreshed.

  She’d decided to take the long way home, enjoying her stroll beneath the summer sun, and for the first time that day, she forgot about the nightmares.

  Maggie turned the corner of her apartment building and stopped. A thick smile unfurled across her face, starting self-consciously in one corner of her mouth but quickly blossoming across her entire countenance. Left tidily in the center of her welcome mat, atop the elegantly written ‘Ceud Mìle Fàilte’ were a dozen long-stemmed red roses, vased elegantly with a veritable bush of greens. She stepped over happily and extracted the card from within:

  ‘Mo chridhe (I looked it up),

  Tha mi duilich. Call me.

  - Iain.’

  “Oh yeah,” Maggie mumbled to herself. “I was a jerk.”

  She unlocked her door and transported the flowers inside to display them proudly on her kitchen table. She sat down in one of the chairs there and stared at the card.

  ‘Tha mi duilich.’ Gaelic for ‘I’m sorry.’ He’d even spelled it right. But more importantly, they both knew he had nothing to apologize for; she was the one who should be apologizing—for forgetting about their Argyll rendezvous, and for then berating him over being concerned about her. So, in the end, the card meant he was man enough to swallow his pride for the sake of their relationship.

  “Good play, Romeo,” she whispered as she reexamined the card. Then she set it down and walked over to the phone.

  “Good Afternoon. MacTary’s Woolens.” Iain answered.

  “Tha mi duilich cuideachd,” Maggie said.

  “Er, how’s that again?” Iain sputtered. “I don’t think I heard you properly, miss.”

  “I said: I’m sorry too,” Maggie translated. “Thanks for t
he flowers.”

  “Oh, it’s you! Hello! So you liked the flowers, eh? Not too clingy, then?”

  “Just clingy enough,” Maggie smiled. There was a pleasant pause, then, “Dinner?” she suggested.

  “Brilliant,” Iain was quick to reply. “Where would you like to go?”

  “Mm. You choose. Pick me up at six. I’ll wear a dress.”

  “All right. Six, then. And I won’t wear a dress.”

  “Good,” Maggie laughed. She could feel her recent lack of sleep begin to catch up with her in the warmth and comfort of home. The back of her neck was heavy with fatigue. “I think I’ll take a beauty nap before then.”

  “Och, you don’t need to do that,” Iain assured.

  “Yeah, okay, that was too clingy,” Maggie laughed.

  “Aye, well, I couldn’t just let it pass by either.”

  “Oh, you’re right. You were screwed either way. That’s why I like you so much. You know the score, but you stick around anyway.” She laughed again. “I’ll see you tonight, mo chridhe.”

  “Tonight, mo chridhe,” Iain replied.

  Then Maggie shuffled off to bed, the phrase lingering in her ears.

  ‘Mo chridhe.’ ‘My heart.’

  ***

  “Aye, right. Spellbook. Ballygoomy. Got it.” Iain swallowed a mouthful of roasted potatoes then pointed his fork toward his dining companion. “But how did you end up in Wales?”

  “Patience, grasshopper,” Maggie raised a solemn palm to Iain’s puzzled face. “And it’s ‘Ballincoomer,’ not ‘Ballygoomy.’”

  “Aye, whatever.” He waved the correction away with his fork. “So get on with it. How does my mysterious wee Maggie come to find herself in Aberwistwhich?”

  “Aberystwyth,” Maggie corrected again with a stamp of her foot and the slightest of pouts. Then she saw the twinkle in Iain’s eye. “You knew that, didn’t you? You’re just teasing me.”

  “Well, I’ve heard of Aberystwyth, aye? But no, I can honestly say I’ve never heard of Ballygoomy.” Then before she say anything, he amended, “Ballincoomer.”

  Maggie chuckled and took a sip from her wine glass. She could hardly begrudge him a little playful teasing. He’d been quite magnanimous and forgiving about her small faux pas of missing their rendezvous before going M.I.A. and incommunicado for two days, only to reappear and bite his head off.

  He said he’d been worried half out of his mind. She’d been glad to hear it—in a sick, selfish, just-where-is-this-relationship-going? kind of way. She figured she owed him an explanation. At least.

  But not every last detail. Complete candor wasn’t necessary just yet. One word about black magic and he’d be out the door before she got the chance to utter the next one.

  She stole a peek at his deep blue eyes.

  But maybe not, she thought. He was being exceedingly understanding about her little Wales detour. Maybe…? But no, she decided. No reason to broach that subject just yet. I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it.

  “Okay.” She set her utensils down and explained. About the Spellbook of Ballincoomer. About the ruins of the Ballincoomer Abbey. About the faded inscription on the ruins’ stone walls. And about the internet café where she’d confirmed the presence of the Welsh Book of Souls at the library in Aberystwyth.

  “From ancient ruins to an internet café?” Iain asked rhetorically. “Quite the juxtaposition.”

  Maggie opened her mouth to agree, but then closed it and stared across the table. “‘Juxtaposition?’”

  Iain sighed heavily. “It was in the same book as ‘hence.’”

  Maggie had to laugh. “I don’t doubt it. Anyway…” And she finished her tale, including Gwen and Susan and the manuscript, but excluding the kidnapping and police interrogation. She did tell him about the nightmare, though; she needed some excuse for having been so mean to him.

  When she’d concluded, Iain nodded thoughtfully. “Well, the whole thing sounds very interesting.”

  “Really?” Maggie squinted appraisingly at him.

  “Oh, aye. Fascinating.”

  “Even the part about the orthographic differences between Old Gaelic and Old Welsh?”

  “Och, especially that part.” A boyish grin played at his mouth and eyes.

  Maggie shook her head. “I don’t know about you, Iain Grant.”

  Iain smiled broadly, his blue eyes sparkling. “Well then, stick around. There’s a lot to learn.”

  ***

  A moonlit stroll up to her flat arm-in-arm with Iain—that would have been perfect. But it was late July at the 57th Parallel. Even at ten o’clock in the evening the sun was still shining brightly, albeit lower, in the summer sky. She’d just have to settle for the arm-in-arm part.

  As the reached the door, Maggie squeezed his hand and looked up at him. “Would you like to come inside?”

  “Aye, I would,” Iain replied. “But I shouldn’t. It’s getting late and I need to be at the shop extra early tomorrow. Early delivery of tweeds direct from Harris.”

  Maggie’s disappointment shone on her face, but she tried to understand.

  Iain leaned down and kissed her pouting lips. “Another time?”

  The pout curled into a smile. “Definitely.”

  39. Tea for Two

  There was a message; the red light on Maggie’s answering machine was flashing. But having just spent the last four hours with Iain, Maggie was fairly certain the message wasn’t from him. And if it wasn’t from him, then she didn’t need to hear it just then. So she ignored the blinking red light and skipped off to bed, Iain’s kisses still warm on her lips.

  She didn’t have a single nightmare.

  In the morning, the day’s first cup of coffee steaming in her hand, she pressed the answering machine’s ‘play’ button:

  “Hello, Maggie. This is Sarah MacKenzie. After you left this morning I realized I’d forgotten to invite you out to tea. I always take my new students out to tea. You know, a relaxed environment, get to know each other a bit better, discuss where you’d like to see your research go, things like that. I’m available tomorrow afternoon, or the next day, then—hmm, let’s see—then not again until the middle of next week. So ring me up when you get in and we’ll schedule something. Ta.”

  Maggie considered her coffee mug and the clock in turn. She felt a certain relaxation knowing where her next caffeinated beverage would come from. And at twenty after nine it wasn’t too early to return Sarah’s call.

  Someone was in her office just then so she couldn’t really talk, but a three o’clock tea at ‘The Green Door Café’ was agreed upon. Maggie made sure to get directions. Then she hung up the phone and strolled into the kitchen to make breakfast.

  The cereal was gone before the coffee was gone. And the coffee was gone before the newspaper was finished. But eventually there was no denying that breakfast was over and Maggie reluctantly pushed herself up from the kitchen table and began the drudgery of cleaning up after herself. She washed the few dishes she’d used and dropped the newspaper into the recycling bin. Then she decided to change the water in the flower vase. She wanted Iain’s roses to last as long as possible.

  But as she pulled the bouquet from the vase, she inadvertently shoved her left thumb onto a particularly sharp and long thorn.

  “Ow!” she shrieked. She followed up with a heartfelt, “Damn!”

  The blood immediately began to ooze from the gash in her thumb-pad. Sucking the offending digit, she managed to complete the water change one-handed. She returned the roses to the kitchen table then extracted her thumb from her mouth and regarded the swelling droplet of blood rising from the center of her thumbprint. She let it grow and watched in morbid fascination as it reached critical mass, then broke free and slid down her thumb to splatter onto the table top.

  ‘Infantsblood shall be spilt onto ancestral earth.’

  Maggie reinserted her thumb into her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. It had been a hell of a week.

  The MacLe
od kidnapping and the bloody words in the same Old Gaelic dialect as her Dark Book.

  The Owen kidnapping and the bloody prophesy of the Welsh Book of Souls.

  Not to mention Brìghde the Healer and the elusive Spellbook of Ballincoomer.

  How did it all fit together? Or did it at all? Was she just wasting her time? She’d thought that perhaps she could help—maybe uncover something helpful to the police at least. But the police in Aberystwyth had been quite unfriendly; and she really didn’t have anything to tell the Aberdeen police even if she were disposed to do so. And besides, didn’t she have enough to keep herself busy?

  Iain Grant and the promise of a late-summer romance?

  Sarah MacKenzie and the impending responsibilities of her studies.

  She really needed to figure out where her priorities lay. But she was relieved to remember that for today at least, fate had selected her studies. Professor Sarah MacKenzie, come on down!

  Maggie grabbed a paper towel from the counter and wiped her blood off the kitchen table. Then she walked back toward the bathroom for a band-aid and a shower.

  ***

  The ‘Green Door Café’ was well hidden. It was several blocks away from campus, just outside the invisible frontier which separated the student’s Aberdeen from that of the city’s permanent inhabitants. There was a small commercial district, dominated by eclectic boutiques with names like ‘Retro Scotia’ and ‘Bibble’s Baubles.’ At the middle of the block, just past an upscale women’s clothing boutique named ‘Carrie Jean,’ was a narrow opening to a small cul-de-sac alcove. Inside the alcove and tucked around behind ‘Carrie Jean’ Maggie stood the hidden entrance to ‘The Green Door Café.’

  The door was a dull white, not green. Good thing she’d gotten directions.

  The interior continued the feeling of comfortable secretiveness. All told there couldn’t have been more than a ten seats in the entire place. And this had been accomplished by shoving several small tables cheek-by-jowl between the narrow walls of the closet-like café. Still, rather than being cramped, the room felt cozy. This was likely the combination of the well-worn wood furnishings, the aged floral print wallpaper, the pleasant variety of framed watercolor prints, the baroque strings quietly filling the air from a pair of ceiling-bound speakers, and, most of all, the heavy-set gray-haired woman who looked up from the infinitesimal counter to give Maggie a warm smile that combined welcome with an unspoken understanding that, having found the place, she would undoubtedly come again. The woman let the smile fade, its residue still coating her lips, and returned her attention silently to the very thick book in her hands. Maggie reholstered her own ‘hello’ smile and stepped to the table in the back where sat, her back to the door, Prof. Sarah MacKenzie.