“Busy,” DJ commented. “It looks like every car parked on this road could belong to just the clients of the restaurant.”
“Hmm,” Victor grunted. “Turn here.”
They found a spot on the side street and Victor quickly got out. He took the opportunity to stretch his arms and legs, relieved to be out of the car. Somewhat claustrophobic, he’d always felt trapped inside closed vehicles. Victor actually preferred motorcycles, but this was business not pleasure and needs must.
“So,” DJ commented as he joined Victor on the sidewalk. “I guess it doesn’t matter that you don’t much look like your photo anymore. She’ll no doubt know you by the very fact that she doesn’t know you.”
Victor scowled with confusion. “What the hell are you on about?”
DJ shrugged. “Well, there are…what? five hundred people in this town? She probably knows everyone who lives here. We’ll stand out like sore thumbs.”
“Right,” Victor snapped, moving a little more quickly as he approached the door. He just wanted to get this over with and find out if the woman was an immortal or not. If she wasn’t, they could leave and head home. However, if she was…
Victor’s mouth tightened.
If Elvi Black was an immortal, he had to find out all he could about her and take her back to the council for judgment. As DJ had said, drawing attention to herself with this ad was considered a major faux pas. He had to find out what other faux pas she was committing. Judging by the fact that there were also certain rumors circulating around the Toronto club scene that a female vampire was living in one of the small southern towns, advertising wasn’t her only mistake.
DJ opened the restaurant door and Victor paused as a rush of heat and sound rolled over them, coming through the opening on a wave of delectable scents. The glimpse they’d had earlier of the restaurant really hadn’t told the whole tale; the place wasn’t just busy, it was packed. People filled every chair and stool and nearly as many were standing around the open bar at the front of the restaurant…and every single one of these people went silent and turned to peer their way as they entered, including the mariachi band that had been strolling between the crowded tables.
“Have you ever been to Mexico?”
Victor answered DJ’s hushed question with a shake of the head.
“Neither have I,” DJ admitted. “But I think I might like it.”
Victor’s mouth twisted dubiously at this claim as he ignored the rudely staring people and slid his gaze over the colorful décor of the restaurant. The walls were a pale cream broken by splash after splash of color, a blue and gold sombrero hanging on the wall, a huge bright green statue of an iguana and its young on a shelf, a string of clay pots filled with sunflowers as well as several color prints, most of them by Diego Rivera. And on top of all that there were colorful streamers, balloons, and a huge Happy Birthday banner.
Even without the celebratory décor, it was too much color and excitement for Victor. He preferred soothing blues and cool whites. This was…loud and almost blinding to his senses.
“Can I help you, boys?”
Victor glanced down at the man who had approached. Five foot eleven or there about, the man was a good six inches shorter than Victor himself, and three or four inches shorter than DJ. He carried himself with the authority that his badge and uniform afforded him, obviously the local police. Possibly the only one, Victor guessed. It was a small town after all.
“Well?” The officer demanded, his voice and expression going hard in response to Victor’s silent examination.
“No,” he answered simply and started to move past him, pausing abruptly when he found his arm caught in a firm grip.
“This is a private party,” the officer said grimly, and Victor understood why their entrance had drawn attention.
“I was invited,” Victor announced. The answer seemed to echo in the room, making him realize just how quiet the restaurant had become now that the talking and music had stopped. Suddenly uncomfortable, he shifted as the officer studied him more closely.
“Victor Argeneau?” he finally asked, his voice uncertain.
Victor nodded, wondering how the man knew his name. He had a brief horrible memory of a T-shirt his computer geek nephew Etienne had favored for a while. It had been plain white with the words “I’m the teenage nympho you’ve been talking to on-line” or something of that ilk. For one moment he feared this was Elvi Black, but then the man smiled faintly and said, “You don’t look much like that picture Mabel showed me. Your hair was shorter and you were wearing a suit and tie.”
Victor had no idea who Mabel was and didn’t care, but the picture in question was the one DJ had said he’d e-mailed to Elvi Black.
“And you brought a friend,” the officer went on, his gaze turning to DJ with an appraising quality. If Victor looked scruffy compared to his photo, DJ just plain looked scruffy. He had developed something of an allergy to shaving about a year earlier and now resembled a young grizzly Adams. He too wore jeans and a T-shirt, but his jeans were blue and his T-shirt bore the name Alexander Keith’s and a logo for the popular brand of beer. DJ wasn’t much into fashion.
“He drove me,” Victor said as explanation, and was immediately annoyed that he offered one.
“Don’t you have a car, son?” the officer asked suspiciously.
Victor’s mouth tightened. It was always seen as a bit less respectable not to have a car in Canada.
“I have several. I don’t like to drive cars,” Victor answered shortly and then asked, “Where is Elvi?”
“She isn’t here yet. I’m supposed to keep you company for a bit.”