Whispers in the Mist (8 page)

“Oh, but I’ve got to return to the festival. Right now I’m most interested in fixing the chain on my necklace.”

Malcolm pursed his lips, and Merrit felt compelled to compliment the jewelry again. She found herself promising to return when she had more time. Malcolm relaxed and said that he’d see her necklace fixed good as the day it was made.

With her stated business complete, Merrit had no excuse to stay. Still, she loitered, picking up the Firebird Designs artist’s statement and willing Danny to approach. She had a feeling Malcolm would be insulted if he knew that she was pretending to be interested in the jewelry as a way to talk to Danny about Liam. Malcolm seemed the sensitive type that way.

She read the statement, curious despite herself. Signed “J,” the statement professed a need to create jewelry that reflected inner beauty.
Your inner beauty made manifest for all to see
. The picture that accompanied the text showed a man of indeterminate age wearing a brimmed hat and sporting an unruly beard. He hunched over a work surface scattered with gems.

Finally, Danny arrived. “Time to escort Miss Chase outside.”

Malcolm called out a promise to have the necklace ready for her on Sunday. Almost to the door, Merrit told Danny under her breath that maybe he could have a word with a couple of tourists named Gemma and Dermot McNamara to tell them to lay off Liam. They claimed that Liam had matched their mother to her murderer.

“I heard,” Danny said. “But there’s nothing criminal in having a belief.”

“So you won’t talk to them?”

“No.”

Beneath Danny’s gruffness, Merrit caught a hint of something else; he wasn’t as disinterested as he let on. Liam had always been a surrogate father to him. More importantly, Liam missed Danny’s visits. It would be up to Merrit to bridge their gap since she was the one who had caused it in the first place.

“Liam could do without the extra stress,” she said. “He’s still fragile. Besides, don’t you have strict slander laws over here?”

“I think the word you’re looking for is
defamation
.”

“Whatever. At least they don’t know where Liam lives, and no one’s going to tell them, right?”

“Let’s hope not.” Danny handed her off to O’Neil. “No more visitors until we’re done.”

She grabbed his arm. “You still care for Liam. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

He shifted backwards a step and spoke as he turned away. “Don’t go there. Playing the guilt card on me won’t work again.”

Bloody Merrit. Of course Danny cared about Liam’s welfare, but she’d have to excuse him if he didn’t feel like jumping when she called “boo.”

“Let’s wrap this up,” Danny called.

The few partials they’d retrieved might come back with a match. If not, they were back to nothing with Lost Boy.

Danny surveyed the shop, wondering why Lost Boy had entered. To buy an overpriced heraldic name plaque or Irish turf incense? Danny thought not. He approached Malcolm and asked him to go over his interaction with the deceased once again. “Is there anything else that comes to mind?” Danny said.

Malcolm’s fingers wandered amongst the pieces of jewelry in his case, twitching them by minute degrees until he was satisfied with their arrangement. “Perhaps if I give Merrit a discount, she’ll wear a necklace or bracelet while she works the festival—”

“Malcolm.”

Malcolm straightened. His lips puckered up to his nose as if he smelled something bad. “That lad, yes. I have an instinct about people, and this one, he didn’t come off right from the second he entered the store. I was onto him, you might say.”

“Oh? You didn’t mention that before.”

“I was trying to keep to the facts, but now that I’ve thought it through and seen how diligently your men powdered the areas he pawed, I realize that my observations are as important as the facts.”

Malcolm had first caught sight of the boy as he’d strolled back and forth outside the shop. He was obvious enough the way he slouched with a mobile over his ear, pretending to have an intense conversation while snatching glimpses of Malcolm’s wares in the windows. “At first, I assumed he was a spy for a rival shop owner a few villages over,” Malcolm said with a put-upon sigh. “It’s amazing the lengths people will go to in an effort to mimic a good thing. I get it often enough.”

“Then our victim entered the shop?”

Malcolm perked up at the word
our,
as if he were an honorary member of the investigating team. Danny nodded encouragement.

“He did indeed come into the shop. On Sunday. I had to light a second scented candle because he smelled ripe as curdled milk. But I always give a man a chance, so I called out to him to take his time browsing. He wasn’t a bad-looking lad. In fact, a good-looking young fella.” He nodded as if satisfied, even pleased, with his opinion on the matter. “Give him a few years and he’d have cut a fine specimen for the women. But still, I could have sworn he was trying to make me out for a shakedown, as they say.”

Danny wondered who the “they” were who said “shakedown.” Malcolm went on to describe how Lost Boy had pawed merchandise far too rich for him. “Needless to say, I shooed him out,” Malcolm said. “It’s not good for business, having grubs like that in the store.”

The boy’s visit had occurred on Sunday afternoon. Benjy’s report stated that the boy was attacked on Tuesday evening. Two days. And two days was more than enough time for a person’s life to derail. Sometimes all it took was a blink of a moment, the moment you looked away.

“And your shop assistant? It’s still Seamus’s lad, eh?” Danny said. “I’d like to ask him a few questions.”

“Brendan snuck off for lunch even though I’d asked him to start on the inventorying.” Malcolm heaved one of his smiles up at the ceiling. “Best done if I do it myself as usual.”

“He’s working tomorrow?” Danny said.

“If you could call it that, but, yes, he’ll be here.”

A necklace with a pendant like tree branches caught Danny’s attention. The artist had carved in texture that suggested tree bark. The graceful design forked into stylized tines. The work was quite nice, Danny decided.

Years ago he might have bought such a necklace for Ellen. He turned away from the display without examining its wares or his guilt further.

TEN

T
HE KITTENS WERE NOTICEABLY
fatter in twenty-four hours. They couldn’t get enough of the warm kitten formula that Ellen fed them through a plastic glove with pinpricks in two of the fingertips. The poor mites were still so fragile, though, mewling like their little hearts would give out when she picked them up. She kept them in a dark and quiet corner of her closet, off limits to the children unless she was present. She still hadn’t washed them, not wanting them to catch a chill.

She smiled to herself, enjoying a nostalgic fit of sadness as she remembered her first days breastfeeding Beth, who’d been as ravenous as these two. Plus, later there’d been the constant vigilance, the endless laundry—but she’d loved it all. The kittens weren’t far different there either. They had already fallen into a regular feeding cycle, and she already had a pile of soiled towels. As she nudged the dribbling plastic fingers toward their seeking mouths, she thought about kitty litter. So nice to ponder something as innocuous as litter boxes.

She settled herself against the closet wall with legs poking into the bedroom. She had never noticed the mustiness inside the closet or the bedraggled state of her wardrobe. Fallen hems, frayed cuffs, and stains everywhere. She’d been living like this for too long; long before Danny had moved out. It took a fresh perspective from the floor of a closet to bring home to her how far she’d let herself fall since Beth’s death. That was three years ago, and perhaps three years was sufficient for the serious grieving.

Tears welled and dripped onto her cheeks. She didn’t notice the chronic leaking anymore. With careful maneuvering and much patience, Ellen managed to only lose half the milk to the towels this time. So long as the kittens got enough sustenance to fall back to sleep, she was satisfied.

She changed the damp towel that lined the kittens’ box with a fresh one and made her way down the hall toward the kitchen. She tossed a pile of towels and children’s underwear into the washing machine. The children would be home from school in an hour, dropped off by one of her neighbors. Ellen browsed the cupboards for an afternoon treat for the three of them. She pulled down pancake mix. Yes, pancakes with Nutella on top. Odd kind of snack, but why not? They’d love it. And so would she, never mind her so-called
flabby
hips.

Just like that, what little energy she had dissipated. She leaned against the counter. For the past day, she’d used kitten care as a pathetic attempt to avoid looking at herself too closely. She’d have one last say. Somehow.

Resolved but not exactly revived, Ellen forced herself back to the task at hand only to hear an engine idling at the front of the house. Danny?

Ellen trotted into the living room and twitched the curtains for a peek outside. The fog had returned, grey enough to leach the bloom out of a rose. No, the engine rumble didn’t sound like Danny’s Peugeot. This engine sounded troubled in other ways, and it edged along her lane at too slow a pace, fog or not. Ellen doubled back to the laundry alcove, peering along a set of utility shelves. With Danny’s old hurling stick in hand, she returned to the living room. Visions of Petey’s Grey Man cavorted through her imagination, lurking about on the lane, perhaps in league with the squatters hiding out in the stone folly.

The car had moved on past her house to loiter in front of Mr. Travis’s pasture next door. She opened the door and squinted at faint brake lights that faded when the engine grumbled to a stop. The fog’s chill penetrated her bones. Footsteps brushed through the grass, loud against the stultifying silence.

“Young Travis, that you?” she called. “How’s your father? I hope his back isn’t out again.”

The footsteps paused, then quickened. She caught a glimpse of a figure heading up the hill along the drystone wall. Ellen surprised herself by breaking into a run toward the parked car. She could at least memorize the plate number. Her troubles with Danny didn’t touch on the children. He’d get the owner’s name and particulars without questioning her paranoia. Strangers did not loiter within shouting distance of the Ahern children. This was a given.

The car gave her pause: a late-model Volvo. She approached with bat high, more puzzled than suspicious now. She was sure she’d seen this car before. She stopped, listening to the shush within the dark. She eased up to the passenger-side window and glanced into the car’s interior. Nice leather interior. Takeaway cartons and—

“Jaysus!” she squealed.

A head appeared in the backseat window. With heartbeat rocketing all around her body, Ellen stumbled backwards and fell into a sprint toward the house. The car door opened and light footsteps followed her. Unfortunately, Ellen was out of shape. She stopped and whirled around, waving the hurling bat in every direction.

“Stand back! Don’t come any closer!”

Before Ellen stood a skinny lass somewhere in her twenties, with a mass of tangled curls enveloping her face. Other than a little undernourished and in need of a shower, the girl didn’t appear endangered or dangerous. She’d jumped out of the bat’s trajectory and now circled around Ellen as if she were the one who needed to take care, not Ellen.

Ellen pointed the bat at the girl and spoke with ragged voice. “Hold your hands in the air. Please. And stand still. Give me a second here.”

The girl kept her gaze aimed at the bat while Ellen got her breathing and nerves under control. Now she recognized the vehicle. For two days it had been hugging an embankment about a quarter mile down the lane. Not that she gave a flying shite about that, because the whole thing beggared the question of why this girl and her companion had been cruising her lane in the first place.

“Those wouldn’t happen to be your sleeping bags up in the cottage, would they?” she said.

The girl nodded. Her mouth opened and closed while her hands jerked into a graceful dance.

“Are you deaf?” Ellen said.

With a huff of frustration, the girl shook her head.

“Okay then, how about this. Are you here for the matchmaking festival but don’t have a hotel? That’s a nice chariot you have. I’m guessing that you’re not used to sleeping rough.”

The girl nodded and stared at the ground.

“Right then.” Ellen lowered the bat. “You can relax your guard. I’m not going to pummel you. Bloody Christ, strays everywhere, aren’t there?”

The girl stepped forward, her expression intent. She had sharp features softened by large brown eyes that grabbed at Ellen with their expressiveness. The girl reached out a hand, oh so slowly, as if to calm an agitated dog.

Intrigued, Ellen held her ground until she understood the girl’s intention. The girl lifted one of Ellen’s hands and pressed an index finger against her palm.

“Go on then,” Ellen said.

The girl wrote with her fingertip. After a shrug from Ellen, she repeated the gesture across Ellen’s palm, harder this time.

“Right,” Ellen said. “I understand. Is that a ‘k’?”