by Lisa Alber
Copyright Information
Whispers in the Mist: A County Clare Mystery © 2016 by Lisa Alber.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First e-book edition © 2016
E-book ISBN: 9780738749723
Book format by Bob Gaul
Cover design by Ellen Lawson
Cover image by iStockphoto.com/18485054©northlightimages
Editing by Nicole Nugent
Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Alber, Lisa, author.
Title: Whispers in the mist / Lisa Alber.
Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota : Midnight Ink, an imprint
of Llewellyn Worldwide, Ltd., 2016. | Series: A County Clare mystery ; #2
| Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by
publisher; resource not viewed.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016017776 (print) | LCCN 2016007592 (ebook) | ISBN
9780738749723 () | ISBN 9780738748962
Subjects: LCSH: Teenage boys—Death—Fiction. |
Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | Mute persons—Fiction. | Family
secrets—Fiction. | Ireland—Fiction. | Psychological fiction. | GSAFD:
Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3601.L3342 (print) | LCC PS3601.L3342 W55 2016 (ebook)
| DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016017776
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Acknowledgments
I’m honored that I get to thank Terri Bischoff and Jill Marsal. Thank you!
Whispers in the Mist was a long time in coming, and many people provided invaluable feedback along the way. Cheers to you! Michael Bigham, Cindy Brown, Tracy Burkholder, Jeannie Burt, Dawn Caldwell, Debby Dodds, Warren Easley, Sharon Eldridge, Holly Franko, Susan Gloss, Jennifer Goodrick, Wendy Gordon, Alison Jakel, Kassandra Kelly, Becky Kjelstrom, Evan Lewis, Janice Maxson, LeeAnn McLennan, Angela M. Sanders, and Kate Scott.
Thanks to D.P. Lyle and Chris Ginocchio for their medical insights.
I’m indebted to Elizabeth George and the Elizabeth George Foundation for providing me with time.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I traveled to Ireland for the first time for fiction research in 2001. Since then I’ve visited the country three more times. With each visit, I become more savvy and better at knowing what questions to ask.
That said, I’m the first to admit that some aspects of Garda Síochána hierarchy confound me. For the series, this means that Division Superintendent Alan Clarkson, Danny’s boss, works a position that doesn’t exist. What I called garda officers in Kilmoon are actually referred to as DOs—detective officers. (In England, the equivalent officers are DCs—detective constables.) I’ve corrected the latter error for Whispers in the Mist.
I’d like to give a special shout-out to my Garda besties, former Detective Sergeant David Sheedy and Detective Sergeant Brian Howard. Thank you, thank you!
As I continue writing and researching, I’ll continue to learn—which is one of the fun aspects of writing this series. Meanwhile, literary license covers all breaks with reality, some purposeful, some not. Thank you.
To Arlene Joyce Alber, my mother,
Who inspired my love of books and reading.
In memory of her memory.
Wednesday
There is special providence
in the fall of a sparrow.
William Shakespeare
There was always a voice within the fog; from ancient times its wet hiss could cajole, could fool an innocent into Grey Man’s grasp. Grey Man brought death, everyone knew that. Locals in Lisfenora village, County Clare, had always known what haunted the fogs that rolled in off the Atlantic.
So it went without saying that on a Wednesday afternoon, mid-September 2009, locals marked the day Grey Man spread its moist shroud over sheep, rock walls, and pocked limestone along the Irish coastline. Local lore about the predatory faerie that oozed its way onto land when the fog rolled in sent children to their mammies’ beds in fright for their lives. In the fogs that lay thick over the land, anyone might catch a glimpse of a figure with a cloak made of swirling mists. It might arrive anytime to cling to the land with sinister tendrils, waiting for the right moment to snatch an innocent soul into its gloom.
Later, the most superstitious of the locals claimed to have felt a tingle along their spines and a few hairs risen on their necks.
And later still, all of them would ponder Grey Man within their midst.
ONE
A BREEZE BUFFETED DANK mist against Danny Ahern, sinking a chill deep into his bones where regret had already started to calcify. Standing at the threshold of the house into which he had carried his bride and later their wee ones, he wavered, closing his eyes. This, the scene of the slow, corrosive death of his marriage.
On a silent exhalation, he opened his eyes and pushed open the front door to the sound of wailing from one of the bedrooms and screeching from the kitchen. Mandy ran into the living room, her gaze clouded with panic.
“Mam!” She skidded to a halt upon seeing Danny. “Da, you’re here!”
“You bet I am. Every day, all the time.”
Mandy had called Danny to inform him that her ride to school had cancelled and Petey was acting scared and Ellen had rolled over instead of getting out of bed.
One of Ellen’s bad days, in other words. They might both be to blame for the failed marriage, but he was the culprit for Ellen’s current mood. He’d moved out a year ago, and he was certain Ellen remembered the exact date as well as he did. September 8, 2008. After two long years of turmoil and waning patience on both their sides, he’d finally admitted that he was the reason she wasn’t healing. His very presence rubbed her the wrong way, intensifying her guilt over their youngest daughter’s death. Beth had fallen from a jungle gym—an accident—but the extended emotional aftermath had worn out their marriage.
September wasn’t a good month for either of them. Beth had died in September.
“I’ll drive you to school, sweetie.” His son’s wailing still echoed from the back of the house. “Why’s Petey crying?”
Mandy l
eaned against him. “He had a nightmare and went to bed with Mam. He won’t come out of her room.”
Jesus, the look in his daughter’s eyes. She was only nine years old, for Christ’s sake. Her gaze shouldn’t be dulled by worry and fear that she was doing everything wrong. He knew the feeling well, but she must not end up stuck on that sorry path.
“You did everything right,” he said. “Just perfect.”
Her chin wobbled. Danny knelt and hugged her to his chest, his heart breaking.
“Are you feeling bad?” he said.
She nodded against his shoulder. “My tummy hurts.”
“That’s no good,” he said. “In fact, that’s a fat bloody wad of cowshite.”
“Da,” she sighed, but she smiled as she raised her head. “That didn’t even make sense.”
Danny carried his daughter back to the kitchen, poured cereal, milk, and orange juice, and told her to brush her hair. He found Petey standing beside the windows in Ellen’s bedroom, hiccuping on snotty breath and peeking outside from between the edges of the closed curtains. Ellen sat on the bed with her head resting on raised knees. Danny picked up Petey and carried him out of the room. His initial sadness gave way to worry when he felt Petey’s feverish forehead.
“You get to stay home from school today, little man. How do you like that?”
Petey landed on his bed in a jumble of limbs, his hair stuck to the sweat on his forehead. Danny swiped at the reddish-brown hair that his children had inherited from Ellen and tucked Petey’s lanky limbs—Danny’s contribution to the gene pool—under the covers.
“I’ll be safe at home, won’t I?” Petey said.
“Of course you will. Mandy said you had a nightmare?”
Petey grabbed his stuffed flamingo. “Because yesterday I saw him. You know.”
Danny didn’t know but he nodded, keeping his expression neutral.
“He came out of the fog right in front of our house. He had a big cape like you see the baddies wear on the telly, and he was dragging someone behind him. Sucking her up. She tried to run away, I saw her, but then he held out his hand and his evil Grey Man powers made her come back to him. But when she came back she was all curled up like her stomach hurt.”
Danny sat on the edge of the bed, inhaling the sweet scent of child sweat and trying to come up with a comforting response. Petey, at five, was prone to nightmarish fancies on the best of days—and today wasn’t one of those.
Petey gazed up at him, imploring him to believe that he’d seen Grey Man.
“Did you see a swallow?” Danny said. “Swallows always follow Grey Man when he’s lurking about.”
Petey shook his head. “There was too much mist.”
“That’s true. Here’s what I think. I think that Grey Man passed our house without stopping for a reason, and that reason is that he knows I’m a detective sergeant, and I’ll capture him and I’ll throw him in jail.”
Petey rolled away. “But you don’t live here anymore.”
Danny rolled him back over and kissed his forehead. “Grey Man knows I’m around, just a few miles away. He knows I protect everyone in this house. Now, how about you think about the great day you’ll have doing a bunk from school?”
Petey semi-settled, Danny checked on Mandy in the kitchen, and then returned to Ellen. He exhaled hard in an attempt to dislodge the knot that always affixed itself to his rib cage when it came to his wife. The bedroom smelled fusty, like too many unbathed skin cells settled on every surface. Danny flung back the curtains so that the rings clanged against the curtain rod.
Ellen lifted her head. Dark circles dragged down the skin beneath her eyes. Her hair lay tangled around her shoulders rather than in its usual sleep-braid. “I know,” she said.
“Have you been taking your meds?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Leave it. I had a bad night, that’s all. I’m awake now, and I’ll see to the kids. I’m fine.”
“You’re sure? I could—”
“I said”—she tossed a pillow in his direction—“I’m fine.”
This was the way of it between them now. Petty jolts of annoyance at every turn.
“I’ll take Mandy to school,” Danny said, “and I told Petey he could stay home—”
Ellen sighed.
“—and that’s not a problem, right?”
Ellen rose and closed the bathroom door behind her with a decided click. Not quite a slam, but enough to let Danny know she’d read something in his tone that he should have kept to himself.
“I’ll come the usual time tonight,” he said through the closed door. Normally, he visited each evening to tuck the children into bed. His favorite time of day, in fact. Reading stories returned them to their sunnier days as a family. He was determined to maintain as many of their old routines as possible.
For now, there was nothing for it but to kiss his son goodbye and bundle Mandy into his ailing Peugeot. The car ground to life with a sputter and a gurgle. Ellen had been better the last three or four months, but her improvement didn’t come without relapses.
The fog had thickened in the thirty minutes he’d been inside the house, bringing with it the scent of the ocean. Drystone walls along the side of the road lurked like a monster race of serpents, petrified but ready to return to life. Danny’s mother used to tell him all manner of old tales about serpents, changelings, sprites, and especially Grey Man, who festered offshore waiting for its chance to ooze inland, visible to anyone who could see beyond the fog of their limited vision.
Danny turned onto the lane toward Lisfenora and Mandy’s school.
“Da?” Mandy tapped his thigh. “I think maybe Petey did see Grey Man. On our lane.”
“Believe me, sweetie, Grey Man hasn’t come calling. Not to worry.”
Five minutes later, Danny’s mobile briiinged and Mandy held it up to his ear while he drove. He’d spoken too soon.
TWO
FROM DANNY’S HOUSE, DOZENS of lanes wound between hedgerows, whose bare branches disappeared into the mists, and over hillsides dotted with limestone and grazing cows. A few of these lanes meandered into Lisfenora, a village that turned into a tourist attraction each September. Brightly painted shops and pubs with names such as the Plough and Trough Pub welcomed the throngs of visitors who arrived to participate in the annual Matchmaking Festival—or, if not to participate exactly, to join the party atmosphere for a randy weekend.
During the day, Liam the Matchmaker held court in the plaza, a small, cobblestoned square in the village center. Despite flowers well past their bloom and benches in need of new paint jobs, the plaza, and the village in general, held its own when it came to satisfying tourists on the hunt for all things Irish quaint and Irish picturesque.
The matchmaker himself didn’t disappoint either. He wore his signature purple topcoat with tails and a fluffy scarf to ward off the chill. He was slender, frail almost, but held himself erect. He wore his
advanced age like women wore shawls: casually draped around himself, as if he could shuck off decrepitude with a quick flick of the wrist.
At least, this is what Merrit Chase thought as she wriggled around to get the circulation in her feet going again. She perched next to Liam, the father she’d met for the first time a year ago, on their appointed divan, which the village supplied along with a caravan tent. Merrit supposed she could start thinking of Liam as “Dad” by now, but she didn’t. He was “Liam” and would be for a long while to come, maybe even for the next thirty-three years of her life. He was still a little scary to her, a little overwhelming, not to mention a lot worrisome. It had been a challenging year, to say the least.
Distracted by her tingling toes, she half spied a man beelining toward Liam through the crowd that had congregated in the plaza. She didn’t think much of him until he halted with a skid of his shoes in front of Liam. His voice practically curdled it sounded so sour.
“You have a death to answer for, Matchmaker,” the stranger said.
Merrit fro
ze with one leg stretched out in front of her. Not five minutes previously, she’d felt something lurking besides the mist that had started to creep in from the fields. Foolishness, maybe, but Merrit couldn’t help her paranoia. Before leaving for the plaza, she’d discovered the word slag painted on her driver’s side car door in bold magenta slashes. The graffiti “artist” could be any of the locals who eyed her with skepticism, even suspicion, as she perched next to the celebrity matchmaker at the center of it all. The culprit could even be the man who stood before them now, swaying from one foot to the other with freckles dotting his receding hairline.
“Well?” the man said. “Nothing to say about killing my mother, Matchmaker?”
The man caught Merrit glancing at his shaking hands and shoved them into his pockets. Merrit sat forward, wanting to reach out to him despite his—hopefully—false accusation, but just then Seamus Nagel, who had been waiting for his turn with Liam, stepped up and pushed the freckly man out of the way.
“Bugger off,” Seamus said. “Liam chose me next. Been watching his antics for years, and I’ll not wait another second for my turn with him.”
“We’ll chat,” the stranger said to Liam. “This needs to end.”
“If by ‘this,’ you mean your rudeness, then yes, I agree,” Liam said.
Seamus guffawed and settled next to Liam with an enthusiastic slap of hands on thighs. “Cheeky bastard.”
“Indeed,” Liam said.
Merrit peered into the crowd where the man had disappeared. That was a little more than cheeky. Beneath the man’s accusatory tone she’d sensed something more. A kind of desperation.
Liam sat between her and Seamus, unflappable as usual. He nodded at her. Ready?
Her lungs spasming with anxiety, Merrit leaned in to whisper in his ear. “What did that man mean?”
“Bugger all if I know.”
She wasn’t sure she believed him. She knew from firsthand experience that he wasn’t an angel beneath his charismatic façade. He had a complicated past and a tendency to sideline the truth when it suited his purposes.
