Thirteen Diamonds

tip from Ophah, the receptionist at Silver Acres, who had told me a week ago that a young man named Mark delivered a package from a seafood restaurant in Durham to a resident on the morning that Gerald died. It had slipped my mind at the time, since I hadn't been planning a murder investigation, but now that I was in the middle of one I figured I'd better follow up every lead.
    Of course I had forgotten his name was Mark, but I did remember that he had the same name as that of Ophah's son. Tess knows everybody's family history so I asked her the name of Ophah's son. With this information I started calling seafood restaurants in Durham. On the sixth call, to the Sea Chantey, I got a hit. A young man named Mark tended bar during the evening shift, several nights a week. Since the delivery was made during the day it was a long shot, but it was all I had. That's where we were headed now.
    We arrived about 7:30. There was ample parking in front of the restaurant, which had a brick front and the solid look of an establishment that served above-average food. As we approached the front door I told Sandra to let me do the talking. Inside, three couples waited in the reception area. A young lady in a long skirt talked on the phone and wrote rapidly on a chart that sat on a dais.
    She hung up, looking harried, and said, “Good evening. Do you have reservations?”
    “Actually, we're waiting for somebody,” I said. “Uh, don't you have a bar where we can sit for a few minutes? I need a drink.”
    “Right through there,” she said, briskly, pointing to the doorway to our right.
    “Is Mark on duty?” I asked, in what I hoped was an offhand manner.
    She nodded. “He's tending the bar.”
    We walked through the doorway. A sprinkling of couples sat at small round tables, the men and women absorbed in each other. A dozen men and one or two women sat in front of a big-screen television set, on which a baseball game was in progress. A few more men slumped on barstools, their eyes also focused on the TV screen.
    We stood for a minute to let our eyes adjust to the dim light. I looked behind the counter. The handsome man mixing drinks must be Mark. A waitress served beer to one of the tables of men.
    “Let's sit at the bar,” I said to Sandra, who made a face. I led the way to the end of the bar away from the television set, where several stools stood empty. I let Sandra have the end stool. She sat down on it carefully, tugging at her skirt, which was too short for a schoolteacher.
    Mark had short, dark hair and was close to Sandra's age—thirtyish. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up almost to the elbows and he moved with speed and dexterity as he mixed drinks.
    When he finished an order he bustled down to our end of the bar and said, “What can I get for you ladies?” as he placed paper napkins in front of us.
    “Draft beer,” Sandra said in a voice that was meant to tell him that she didn't usually frequent places like this.
    “Same,” I said, giving him my best smile, but he was still looking at Sandra.
    He produced two tall glasses and filled them carefully from the tap, not cheating us with excess foam.
    I had my wallet out when he set them in front of us, but he said, “Would you like to run a tab?”
    “Sure,” I said, thinking this would give us more chances to speak to him. “Are you Mark?”
    He nodded, surprised. “How did you know?”
    “I've heard about you,” I said, trying to sound mysterious. A roar from the baseball fans partially drowned out my voice. I was about to add something more when he excused himself and hustled to fill more orders.
    Sandra sipped her beer and said, “It's going to be hard to get his attention while the game of the week is playing. Those guys are drinking a lot of beer.”
    They made a lot of noise, too. I hoped that Sandra's presence would bring Mark back to our end of the bar, but I wasn't about to tell her that. She would say that she didn't date bartenders. In fact, it seemed as if she didn't date anybody. After one mistake, perhaps nobody was good enough for her now.
    I wondered whether I would have to knock over my glass to get some attention, or ask Sandra to sit on the bar and show off her legs, when Mark wandered back, this time with a more casual manner. 
    He said, looking at Sandra, “What brings you ladies here?”
    “We're waiting for someone,” Sandra said, stiffly.
    “Anybody I know?”
    “We're waiting for Godot.”
    “I'll tell you