Whispers in the Mist

by Lisa Alber

  He prodded Seamus awake. “Did Brendan know Lost Boy? His name was Toby Grealy.”

  Seamus shook his head. He blinked with sorrow fathoms deep and let his eyes drift shut. Danny unfolded a wool blanket from the end of the bed and spread it over him. A tear leaked out of one of Seamus’s eyes.

  Danny sat on the edge of the bed. Now he could absorb what he’d learned today, and not just about Brendan’s death.

  Toby Grealy. Somehow his arrival in the village had unleashed their very own Grey Man as Benjy had said. Somehow Brendan got swept up in the darkness at the heart of the McNamara family’s past. On the return drive from the morgue, Dermot had managed to quell his tears right up to the moment he’d blurted, “Toby is—was—our brother. Gemma doesn’t know yet. She can’t. Not until she can handle it.”

  Half brother, Dermot had meant to say, with John McIlvoy as father.

  TWENTY-NINE

  MERRIT HELD OUT GEMMA’S polka-dotted scarf and tried to ignore the buzz that assaulted her from all directions. Alan’s pub was busier than ever. Merrit felt more than a few curious stares from the locals aimed at her back as she stood before Gemma, who seemed oblivious as she read Love in the Time of Cholera. Bijou lay with her head on Gemma’s lap. Her tail whapped the suede dog bed in greeting.

  “I found your scarf on our porch. Must have slipped off the other day.” Gemma continued reading, so Merrit placed the scarf on the pillow near Bijou’s stomach. “Gemma, listen.”

  But Merrit didn’t know what to say next. As usual, Gemma barricaded herself within her hoodie and curls. Her face was visible in profile, expressionless in that mystifying way of hers. Today, though, red puffiness rimmed her eyes.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” Merrit said, “but I’d like to help. If I can.”

  Still, no response from Gemma. Giving up, Merrit turned to find Ellen Ahern waiting with her two children holding either hand. She said nothing, but her squint caused Merrit to excuse herself. She wanted to apologize for her very existence and assure Ellen that the slag painted on her car meant nothing despite what tongue-waggers might say about her and Danny. Instead, she retreated backwards until she backed into Alan.

  “Ellen knows Gemma?” Merrit said.

  His gaze wandered toward Gemma, then away again. “She and Dermot are staying at the house.”

  With that, he walked away. On her own and feeling it, Merrit watched Gemma light up as Ellen’s children climbed onto the pillow with her and Bijou. Ellen spoke, and Gemma tilted her chin down in some kind of agreement. After a few more words, Ellen beckoned the children and left without acknowledging Merrit.

  Shrugging off her discomfort, Merrit returned to Gemma. Again, Gemma ignored her.

  “I’m at loose ends today because it’s Liam’s day off from the festival. He didn’t use to do that, but with his health—”

  Merrit waited. Gemma turned a page in her novel. “Okay then. I’ll see you around. I’m going to pick up my necklace now. The owner of the gift shop around the corner should have it fixed good as new. You can come with me if you want.” She paused. Still nothing. “Right. I’ll let you know how much it costs. Not that I care, but Dermot insisted that he wanted to pay for the repair.”

  At long last Gemma responded by grabbing her rucksack and pulling out a pad and pen. No, she wrote. I broke it. I’ll pay for it.

  A few minutes later, they stood in front of Pot o’ Gold Gifts. Gemma’s force of will had been evident in every tortured step they took away from the pub. Squaring her shoulders, Gemma raised her chin enough to blink at Merrit’s neck. Her nostrils flared like a shying horse. If only Merrit knew what was going on inside the woman’s head.

  Inside the shop, a harassed-looking blond girl stood behind the counter poking at a monitor. She peered at the screen as if trying to decipher Egyptian hieroglyphics. At the sound of the entrance bell, she hollered for Malcolm. He appeared, looking dapper as usual and with a bright smile aimed over the head of his grumbling employee.

  “Merrit! Top of the day to you,” he said. “And a wonderful day it is. I have your necklace right here, better than new if I may say so.”

  “I’m glad it wasn’t a problem,” Merrit said. “I miss wearing it.”

  “Of course you do. Who wouldn’t?” He aimed his satisfied smile at Gemma lagging behind Merrit. “And who’s this?” He twisted to catch a glimpse of her. If anything, his voice ratcheted up a notch, and his wide smile returned fresher than ever. “A new customer, perhaps?”

  Gemma leaned away from Malcolm’s enthusiastic attempts to engage her. Poor Gemma, thought Merrit. She must get this kind of crap all the time.

  “She’s along for the ride, that’s all,” Merrit said.

  Malcolm’s shoulders stiffened.

  “Thanks so much for fixing my necklace. You don’t know how grateful I am, and I know your time is valuable.”

  Relaxing again, Malcolm led the way past marble crosses and local pottery. “Valuable indeed. And I must say that it’s amazing that I function as well as I do sometimes. Believe me when I say that owning a shop isn’t for the faint of heart.”

  Behind her, Gemma grabbed Merrit’s arm, then let go. When Merrit turned, Gemma shook her head as if saying, I’m fine, I’m fine.

  Gemma hadn’t looked up since she’d entered the store. It could be too much: the tourists bumping against them; Malcolm’s big presence; the prospect of seeing a necklace that had disturbed her the first time she saw it. Merrit found herself brightening her tone to match Malcolm’s.

  “Gemma liked my necklace,” she said. “Maybe she can check out the rest of your jewelry.”

  “Of course, of course, but you’ll have to excuse me. Busy day today. You take your time.” Malcolm stooped behind the counter and rose with Merrit’s beloved keepsake dangling from his fingertips. “That will be twenty euros.”

  Gemma fumbled with her pocketbook and dropped a bundle of euros onto the floor in her haste to pay. Malcolm didn’t seem to notice as he placed the necklace in a box and the box in a bag, saying what a pleasure it was to see Merrit. Finally, Gemma pushed four fivers in Malcolm’s direction and stepped back.

  “Very good, and a good day to you.” Malcolm moved down the counter to help another customer.

  “Come,” Merrit said. “I’ll show you jewelry by the same designer as my necklace.”

  At the Firebird Designs display, Gemma stared, mesmerized, as she trailed her fingers over the glass cabinet. Her other hand dug into her jacket pocket. With the same shell-shocked gaze that had animated her face right before she snitched the necklace, Gemma pulled out a small black box and snapped it open. She held it up against the glass near other semiprecious earrings with silverwork borders.

  Merrit leaned in for a closer look. “Were these your mom’s?”

  Gemma shook her head as she continued to compare them against Malcolm’s current stock. Merrit held out her moonstone necklace. All from the same designer, no doubt about that.

  “Where did you get these earrings if not from your mom?” Merrit said.

  Gemma wrote that Ellen Ahern had given them to her, that they’d been a gift. Merrit didn’t know what to make of this except that it didn’t bode well for Danny’s marriage if his wife was giving away his presents. But that was neither here nor there. Merrit’s only concern was Gemma and the distress that etched the first faintest lines around her eyes.

  “I think I understand.” She aimed for a low and easy tone. “Your mom had jewelry like this.”

  Gemma’s blink told Merrit she was correct. A matching set, she wrote. I just remembered it.

  “My necklace is a moonstone, and your earrings are opals. Do you know what kind of stone your mom owned?”

  Gemma shook her head.

  “Maybe this Firebird man keeps records. Maybe we can contact him to see who bought a matching set of opals or moonstones or some other blue stone back then.”

  Gemma’s head shaking grew more agitated. She was about to write s
omething when Malcolm reappeared.

  “My new salesgirl needs to learn the trade, and what better way than straight into the fire? Most people aren’t as quick to catch on as I was at that age, I’ll admit, but still there’s no use for it because otherwise I’d run myself ragged with this business. In fact, I already do. Ah, well, what’s a man to do? May I show you a ring, or perhaps a pretty bracelet?”

  Gemma still held the box against the glass case. She’d frozen in place at Malcolm’s breezy interruption.

  “My goodness.” He plucked the earrings out of Gemma’s hand, surprise evident. “What do we have here?” He lingered over them and handed them back. “One of his better designs, I must say.” A customer approached him. “Oh, excuse me again.”

  To Merrit’s relief, Malcolm escorted the customer to the other side of the shop. Gemma snapped the box closed and tucked it into her jacket pocket. For many minutes, she studied the Firebird baubles. No, not studied, Merrit corrected herself. The opposite, in fact. Her eyes had landed on them but her focus had turned inward with such intensity that Merrit almost passed her hand in front of Gemma’s face to see if she would respond.

  “Gemma?”

  She surfaced with a blink and picked up the framed artist’s statement that stood beside the display. Her hands trembled as she stared at an image of the artist himself, caught in profile and half obscured by a floppy hat as he bent over his work. His scraggly beard fit the image of a recluse.

  Gemma set the statement down so that it faced away from her. She scribbled on her pad.

  The man who killed my mom was a jewelry maker. Back then, he didn’t have a special name for himself, though. She tapped the jewelry case and continued writing. This is him. Firebird Designs is John McIlvoy.

  THIRTY

  DANNY ARRIVED AT HIS house more than ready for the children’s nightly ritual. They were his wee antidotes. He couldn’t get Seamus’s devastation out of his mind, the way he’d accepted Brendan’s death as if it were a fate he deserved.

  Ellen retreated ahead of him to her bedroom with the comment that Dermot was already asleep. No surprise there. He had to be nursing a bugger of a hangover. Gemma didn’t look up as he crossed the living room. She huddled on the sofa with a book on her lap, picking at nap on the sofa cushion.

  The house felt weighty, like any second something was about to erupt. Along with Seamus’s grief, he kept seeing Toby, the way his soul-bearing light had faded out, and his daughter Beth, whose light had also faded. All he wanted to do was squash Petey and Mandy against himself so they’d sink into his skin and he could carry them around with him everywhere.

  Three hours later and playtime, dinner, baths, and reading ticked off, Danny sat in the children’s darkened room watching the shifting moon shadows through the fog. A breeze churned it into alternating thinner and thicker wisps. His children’s faces brightened then faded, their sleep smiles doing much to relieve his generalized distress.

  Petey’s hand rose from the covers. Danny knew what was coming, the pleas not to leave yet, and preempted the request by sliding onto the bed next to his boy. Petey burrowed himself against his hip, like the warm wee kitten he was, and his hand dropped onto Danny’s stomach, relaxed, open, trusting.

  He could hold his children tight, tight, tight against him, but this hadn’t helped Seamus with Brendan.

  “Da?” Petey whispered.

  “Hmm?”

  “When will you move back home?”

  “That’s a difficult question.”

  “No, it’s not. You can talk to Mom after I go to sleep and then move back in tomorrow.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Why not?”

  Why not, indeed? “My turn for a question: When you saw the Grey Man outside our house, did he see you?”

  “No, that’s not right.” Petey sighed in imitation of Mandy, who imitated her mom. “It was only Dermot with Gemma walking up the lane because their car broke down. Gemma found the kittens in Mr. Travis’s field.”

  “Right, that’s good then. No Grey Man.”

  “Yes, Grey Man. He’s still out there.”

  Danny pressed a goodnight kiss against Petey’s forehead and eased out of the room. He opened the door to the master bedroom without his usual knock. Ellen set aside her diary as he closed the door behind him.

  “I’m uncomfortable with Dermot and Gemma in the house. I’d like them to leave.”

  Ellen frowned. “You don’t live here anymore. You don’t have a say.”

  “I do have a say,” Danny said. “My income pays for their food, for everything around here. More importantly, they’re connected to my current investigation.”

  “I like them here and the kids like them here.”

  “I understand that, but this isn’t negotiable. I’ll pick up the children for a sleepover tomorrow night and drop them off at school on Tuesday morning. This will give Dermot and Gemma a day to sort out a new place to stay.”

  Her watchful gaze irked Danny, as if she had cause to worry over his behavior. He opened the jewelry box and pulled out the top tier, but the box with the earrings was missing. “Gone,” he said. “And now it’s all okay, I suppose.”

  “I gave them to Gemma.”

  He could care less about that. “Who gave them to you?”

  “Danny, don’t. It’s done. It doesn’t matter. I was a fool. Besides, you think people haven’t poked their noses into our business, wondering about the coincidence that you happen to be staying in Fox Cottage with Merrit just down the track in Liam’s house?”

  “Nothing happened. Nothing is happening.”

  “So you say.”

  “I shouldn’t have to say anything about her to you, or anyone. She was a witness and victim in my last investigation. You imagine some attraction between us, so that makes it bright and bonny for you to shag someone else, fine. That’s your delusion.” He slammed the jewelry box shut. “Don’t forget. I’m picking up the children tomorrow night.”

  “Fine.” She shoved the diary into her robe pocket. “You’d know who gave me the earrings if you’d bother to observe, detect, put two and two together—do what you do so well with your work.”

  Touché.

  Monday

  The gods visit the sins of

  the fathers upon the children.

  Euripides

  THIRTY-ONE

  MERRIT PUSHED AWAY HER seafood chowder, for once having eaten less than Liam. “Almost time to get back to the plaza,” she said.

  Liam sat with the matchmaking ledger in front of him. He jotted a note beside one of the names, but most of his gaze was aimed at a woman who sat next to the fireplace. Merrit remembered her. A music teacher from Cork. Unlike some of the festival participants, she’d seemed at ease with the process, ready to be pleased rather than disappointed. A man pulled up a chair next to her. They leaned toward each other, laughing over a private joke. “I put the bug in his ear to talk to her.” Liam eased the book closed. “Sometimes they don’t need me at all.”

  Merrit smiled, but her thoughts were on Gemma, who sat curled up beside Bijou as usual. She noted how Gemma tensed when the door opened or when a customer made a sudden move. Yet her vigilance softened when Alan came into view or when his voice rose above the general chatter and clink inside the pub.

  “Now,” Liam said, “please enlighten me about what’s troubling you.” He glanced at Gemma. “And never mind sorting out the vandalism or Gemma. Those are nice preoccupations, but not the heart of it.”

  Dang him. He wasn’t going to let it go. Merrit could tell by the way he gazed at her, that penetrating look he used on the lovelorn during the festival.

  “What’s bothering me is that we need to find John McIlvoy,” Merrit said.

  The day before, Merrit had managed to lead trembling Gemma back to the comforts of Bijou after their foray into Pot o’ Gold Gifts. Other than letting herself be led, she hadn’t responded to Merrit’s appeals for more information about the ma
n behind Firebird Designs. John McIlvoy, her mother’s killer, if Dermot was to be believed.

  “We do not need to find McIlvoy,” Liam said. “Talk to Danny. You ought to mend those fences anyhow.” Liam waved at someone behind her. “Speaking of. Danny-boyo,” he called.

  Merrit sighed. Village life. She still wasn’t used to the closeness of it.

  Danny approached from the entrance, bringing the scent of fog with him. He wore a jacket and tie under a black trench, all of which fit him on the loose side. Ellen must have bought the suit because its dark chocolate hue mimicked the depths of Danny’s eyes. He didn’t seem the type to care about that kind of thing.

  “Fancy this good timing.” Liam patted the chair beside him. “Sit down.”

  Merrit sipped her coffee, all too aware of the not-so-furtive glances coming from the locals in the room. Even Alan had paused to take in their threesome.

  Danny sat where Liam indicated. “Old troll.”

  Liam acknowledged his son Kevin’s nickname for him with a nod. His smile dimmed but the crinkles remained around his eyes.

  Danny swung his glance toward Merrit and then out the window. “I need to follow up on the graffiti.”

  “O’Neil got the details already,” Merrit said. “He didn’t seem too worried about it.” Her nonchalance was a sham, and she knew that Danny knew it. She continued before he could reply. “I found out something that might interest you. About Dermot and Gemma.”

  “Of course you did.”

  Merrit ploughed on. “According to Gemma, the man who killed her mom also made my necklace. John McIlvoy—”

  “Yes, I have heard of him.”

  “—and he’s a jewelry maker. Firebird Designs, to be exact. The jewelry in Malcolm’s store.” Merrit felt for her moonstone’s comforting smoothness. “Malcolm must know McIlvoy’s details, so maybe you could help Dermot and Gemma resolve their mom’s death.”