Whispers in the Mist (23 page)

To his surprise, Bijou kept her nose to the ground, snuffling. Her tail rocked back and forth, and, by Christ, his clown-faced girl might have finally gotten the point. After giving her a treat, Alan pushed her sniffer back into Gemma’s dirty socks, then pointed her head to the ground. She circled a bit, then honed in on the second patch of disturbed ground again. This wasn’t science, but it seemed to Alan that Bijou had caught Gemma’s scent.

He led her toward the door, covered her nose again, then pointed to the ground. Bijou sniffed at the threshold, then up the doorframe. With a huff, she sat and started sniffing the wind again. She was clearly done for the day, and Alan didn’t blame her.

Alan took one last look around before heading back to his car. Westward, the direction he and Dermot had hiked, held nothing. North led to the barren, rocky Burren, also unlikely for a woman who sought covered refuge. East led to the neighbors, cows, sheep, and the village.

The view south looked a lot like the view toward the Atlantic: rock walls undulating over the hills and heather purpling the hillsides. A hedgerow followed the lane past Danny’s house on its southern route toward the next village. A blurred patch of green disappearing around one of the hillsides looked like a mirage.

Pressure gathered in Alan’s chest. That same quickening that had accosted him when Camille had entered his orbit. It was an instinct that he’d often tested by seeking her out. He’d always found her too.

It seemed he couldn’t resist his compulsive stalker tendencies even after all these years. At least they had a legitimate use now. If anyone could track Gemma down, it would be him.

THIRTY
-
NINE

C
LARKSON REPLAYED
M
ALCOLM’S MOMENT
in the spotlight as he revealed his alibi and made a cuckold of Danny at the same time.

“Shame that I’m compelled to spill secrets,”
Malcolm said.
“I don’t kiss and tell. I’m a gentleman. I’d tried to break it off—in fact, I thought I had—but you know how women can be. At least that’s what I’ve found. Women grow so attached, don’t they?”

Danny was too stunned to be angry. “He was playing with me.”

Clarkson paused the video. “What’s that now?”

“During our interview yesterday, he made a point of mentioning Ellen a couple of times. He asked about her. He couldn’t resist dangling her to see if I knew about their—thing.”

“You’re telling me that pulling him in this morning wasn’t some kind of vendetta?”

“No, Sir. It was about finding McIlvoy. And I didn’t pull him in. O’Neil did.”

“Give me some bloody credit, yeah?” Clarkson said. “You’re supposed to be on leave, yet in you come to write a bloody statement without a prompting. And now this revelation. You were hoping for something.”

“Like I said, about McIlvoy. But I’ll tell you what, Malcolm is on my shit list now. He doesn’t provide the information about McIlvoy, I’ll see to the obstruction charges myself.”

“Don’t you go there,” Clarkson said. “Now get out of my sight. You look like shite, you’re not thinking straight, and you’re so tainted we need a warning label on you.” Clarkson ordered O’Neil next. “Get Lynch the hell out of here too. With our apologies.”

At the door, Danny paused. “How’s the hunt for Gemma McNamara going?”

“We’re on it.”

“I hope so because she’s the key.”

“To what?”

“To nailing McIlvoy.”

Danny dragged a plastic chair until it bumped up against the hospital bed and sat down. Ellen laid quietly, eyelids smooth and twitch-free. An enormous bandage encased her head, which he’d expected, but not the wire that extended from somewhere within the bandages—no, from within her skull—into a monitoring device. More bloody phrases: “intracranial pressure” and “drainage.”

He’d understood quickly enough and urged the nurse to be on her way. He was fine, he’d said, even though he wasn’t. Weariness collapsed him onto folded arms with Ellen’s hip warm against the top of his head. He closed his eyes against the shadows within his arms and felt for Ellen’s hand. Her skin felt the same at least, pearly almost, that soft and lustrous fairness he’d always admired. Still admired, he reminded himself.

The scent of soap and citrus clung to her skin. The smell of steam rolling out of the bathroom. Ellen loved her long showers at the end of the day. He pictured her scrubbed and fragrant and bundled in her thick robe, enjoying a cuppa in her favorite chair, letting her hair air dry in long waves under the lamp. With a rare night off from the children, she’d been relaxing when—

No, stop thinking about it.

Exhaustion overwhelmed him. In addition to the nurse, the surgeon had also come and gone. In a tone somehow both businesslike and commiserating, he’d explained Ellen’s condition with yet more words: “induced coma.” In other words, someone—perhaps McIlvoy—had hit her so hard with the alabaster statue from Italy that he’d cracked her skull wide open. “Her brain needs time to heal. We need to run more tests and wait.”

Beneath the exhaustion, a current of anger burbled on low ebb. Rising bubbles of pain and regret and rage grew and burst with sticky
pops
that hurt Danny deep in his soul. For now, it was manageable. For now, the current anchored him.

Danny sat up and pulled Ellen’s diary out of his jacket pocket, wondering what it had been doing in the bedroom closet. Ellen could have dropped it, or set it down in a distracted moment with the kittens, or hidden it away from his prying eyes. Not that it mattered. Ellen had always been prone to mislaying her keys, her reading glasses, anything, really.

He opened the journal to a random page and caught Merrit’s name.
I wouldn’t have thought she was Danny’s type, but can I blame him if he shagged her? Not hardly. But that doesn’t mean I have to like the twit.

“Jesus, Ellen, would you listen to yourself in here?” he said.

A few pages on, Ellen wrote:
It’s nice to be wined and dined, and to be noticed as a woman. I know what M is doing—a seduction—but he’s very good at it. I find that I’m rather drawn to him.

Danny’s stomach churned. That was disgusting. He let the book fall open to a page bookmarked by a pen. Ellen’s last entry, last night, after the shower but before her attacker had arrived.

… I can’t get Danny’s look out of my head when he picked up the children tonight, like he didn’t know me anymore, like I wasn’t
worth
knowing anymore, and maybe I’m not.

Danny flipped the diary pages back to the previous week. And there, indeed, screamed Ellen’s words confirming Malcolm’s alibi for the night of Toby Grealy’s murder. Danny still couldn’t fathom why Malcolm had offered up the alibi unless it was to humiliate Danny. He hadn’t prioritized finding the phantom graffiti artist, true, but surely Malcolm understood that vandalism didn’t rate as high as murder.

No, the alibi had to be a good old-fashioned diversionary tactic. Most likely to distract Danny from prying into Malcolm’s relationship with McIlvoy.

Whatever the reason, if that was the game they were playing now, then he, Danny, owed Malcolm the next jab. The thought comforted Danny, gave him something to think about as he continued reading the diary passage.

… he dared to pawn me off with a pair of earrings. I could care less about parting gifts. I wanted closure, an apology, an explanation, something, after the way he’d dumped my sorry arse after weeks of fawning over me. Malcolm’s all about being the big man, but in private he’s an insidious little whisperer, seeping into you like the bloody fog, and before you know it your clothes are off yet once again.

I’m still not sure what I did to deserve his contempt toward the end of the night. Dare to slap him so his bloody contact lens fell out? He didn’t like that at all. Slapped a hand over his eye and refused to put on his specs. He’s after being the vainest man I’ve ever met.

My poor ego. What fool was I.

Danny’s mobile vibrated. He grabbed it out of his pocket, and glancing toward the corridor, whispered hello. He wasn’t supposed to be using it on the ward.

O’Neil spoke fast and hushed without greeting him. “Something came back about our mysterious John McIlvoy, after all. Hold a sec.”

Danny closed the diary and tucked it back into his pocket. He placed his hand on Ellen’s and promised himself that he’d return with a novel to read aloud to her and her favorite lavender sheet spray.

O’Neil returned to the phone. “You there?”

“What about McIlvoy?” Danny said.

“Dead as last spring’s lambs.”

FORTY

A
T 4:00 P.M.,
L
IAM
said goodbye to his last love-starved festival participant for the afternoon, and Merrit tried not to appear too relieved. A pall had fallen over the plaza, what with the seeping fog, the increased Garda presence, and the whispers of serial killer faeries.

Her lungs spasmed, that unsubtle warning that the anxiety she’d struggled with since childhood was building up.

“I could use a drink before dinner,” she said.

“Agreed.”

Merrit was too busy maneuvering Liam across the plaza to check his expression, but his voice sounded beat. The day had dragged, both of them preoccupied with Ellen and Gemma.

“I can’t get the graffiti out of my head,” she said. “The
slag
on my car doesn’t seem to fit. If there’s a pattern, shouldn’t the graffiti have been on Ellen’s car instead—or Dermot’s car, for that matter?”

Liam paused before opening the door to Alan’s pub. “In someone’s mind you connect—to something.”

There went her lungs again. She forced herself to inhale deep into her diaphragm.

Alan’s pub echoed the grey pall outdoors. He’d lit a fire but most of the wall sconces remained dark. A few candles dotted the tables. Crazy shadows flickered over the walls and though a few customers had started to find their way inside, the room was nowhere as boisterous as usual. That said, Seamus and many of the crows sat in their usual spot near the taps while Alan stooped over Bijou spread-eagled on the floor in front of the fireplace. He stood and approached when he saw them.

“How’s Bijou?” Liam said.

“Sore. She needs more rest before I take her out again.” Alan rubbed his shoulder. “To search for Gemma.”

“I’d like to help if I can,” Merrit said.

“You just missed Danny. He picked up Dermot and left, no explanation. He’d come from the hospital.”

“How is Ellen?” Liam said.

By way of answer, Alan shook his head. Several locals acknowledged Liam with waves. Merrit repeated her offer to help Alan.

“I’d rather you didn’t come along. No offense intended.”

Merrit nodded, but she felt the sting nevertheless. Alan led Liam to an empty barstool beside Malcolm. Malcolm held his brandy snifter as usual and beamed around the room before greeting her with a wave toward her necklace.

“It’s a miracle how well expert craftsmanship holds up over the years, isn’t it?” he said.

Out of the silence rose desperate laughter, cracked, hysterical. Seamus tottered toward them.

“Malcolm, you grand pretender. I hope you rot in hell with your precious jewelry and your precious shop.”

He swayed and grabbed Nathan Tate’s arm to steady himself. His distressed mirth couldn’t have been more shocking than if he’d started tearing out his hair.

Malcolm swirled his brandy. “Ah well, we can forgive Seamus in the realm of his sorrow. I’m nothing if not sensitive to others’ pain. In fact, I was thinking that in honor of my former employee, Brendan, I’d offer a sale, entice people in with a memorial sign.”

Seamus stared at Malcolm.
Gobsmacked
was the slang word that popped into Merrit’s head. Utterly gobsmacked. She dug her hand into her oversized shoulder bag and grasped her inhaler. The various tensions around the room closed in on her like one of her panic attacks.

“A tasteful sign,” Malcolm continued. “I don’t mind saying that I have sound design instincts. I could—”

A pint glass crashed against the floorboards at Malcolm’s feet. Guinness splattered onto his linen trousers and he shut up properly then. Slow and considering, he blinked down at spots of beer.

“Best get home to clean yourself, you preening sack of shite,” Seamus said.

This wasn’t going well. Everyone on edge, the claustrophobic greyness of the past week pressing in on them. Merrit breathed against her clutching lungs and entwined her arm through Seamus’s. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Maybe I can walk with you—”

“Get off me, you.” He stepped away and jerked his arm up to loosen her grip. Bei
To Arlene Joyce Alber, my mother,

Who inspired my love of books and reading.

In memory of her memory.
ng taller than she, and drunk, and none too coordinated, his elbow caught her square in the mouth.