Whispers in the Mist (20 page)

“No, I can’t say that I did. I last saw him at the shop, as I mentioned before. I went to bed early. Weekends are still the workweek for me. If I take a weekend at all, it’s on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, but never mind this month. September is never ending, isn’t it? I don’t know how I get through sometimes. I have to eat extra to keep the weight on.” He skimmed his hand down his flat stomach, ending in a happy pat. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help with Brendan. Seamus is inconsolable—”

“So you’re on good terms with him,” Danny said.

Malcolm paused in the midst of picking a minute particle from his jacket. “Were we ever on bad terms?”

“The business about pub politics. You did accuse him of the graffiti on your windows. Plus, your issues with Brendan.”

“By Christ, I’m not about to hold a man’s lazy son against him at a time like this. Time to turn the cheek and offer support. I don’t mind saying that I know how to relegate the past to the past. Start fresh with each day is what I say.”

“Magnanimous of you, I’m sure,” O’Neil said.

With a final particle flick, Malcolm announced that he might like tea, after all. Danny let him natter on about the annual fundraising auction that occurred each September during the festival. Malcolm rather thought his donation of several Aran wool scarves would fetch nice prices. Mrs. O’Brien, self-proclaimed village matriarch and auction organizer, had come to him personally to welcome him to her committee. For a woman with highly attuned organizational skills, Malcolm concluded, she was sadly in need of his guidance.

He sat down with a cup of tea for himself. “You’ll see,” he said, “the auction will fetch more money than ever this year. I haven’t seen your wife at the meetings for weeks now, and I would hate to see her lose her standing in the community. I hope she’s doing well?”

“As you might expect,” Danny said.

“Back to Friday night,” O’Neil said. “What time did you go to bed?”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow at Danny over a sip of tea. Danny raised his eyebrows right back. Malcolm set the teacup in his saucer and stirred in about three granules of sugar, taking his time. He nodded satisfaction after the second sip.

“Answer the question,” Danny said.

“Friday night, that’s easy enough to remember. I repaired Merrit Chase’s necklace before bed,” he said. “It needed a new clasp. So, let’s say ten. Like I said, I didn’t hear a peep.”

Danny had been waiting for a chance to introduce his true topic of interest. He grabbed it while he could. “Merrit’s necklace is a Firebird Design, correct?”

Malcolm nodded. “No surprise. It’s my best line. I hope to expand it, you know. It deserves a wider audience. It always has, but sometimes the timing isn’t right.”

Danny asked Malcolm whether the name Toby Grealy rang any bells with him.

“Toby. Grealy.” Malcolm shook his head, looking bemused. “Can’t say that I’ve heard that name before.”

“And John McIlvoy?”

“Of course. Whatever could he—”

“Did you know him when he was married to a Siobhan McNamara of Dublin?”

“Our current business relationship began when he moved back to Ireland. He’d been living on the Continent. As far as I’m concerned, anything about him from before then doesn’t exist. I couldn’t care less.”

“Lucrative business relationship then,” O’Neil said.

Malcolm sipped his tea.

“When did he move back?” Danny said.

“1996? Yes, around then.”

“And how did you meet?”

Malcolm sighed and set his teacup aside. “What is this all about, good Danny?”

“We would like to speak to John McIlvoy. Routine questions. His name came up in conjunction with our investigation. Since you sell his work, you must have his contact information. We’ve been unable to find any records for him or even a phone number.”

“That’s because he’s one of those off-grid types.”

“Then an address will be fine.”

Malcolm raised his shoulders and arms in an elaborate shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“How’s that possible?”

“The return address on his shipments lists a post office box, which is where I send his checks.”

“I’d like his post office box address then.”

“The problem with that,” Malcolm said without a hint of apology, “is that of course I’ll pass on your request to talk to him, and he’ll react as you’d expect. He’ll close the postal box.”

“So don’t let him know,” O’Neil said.

Malcolm continued speaking to Danny as if O’Neil didn’t exist. “I don’t know why you need his address anyhow. You can contact him through his website.”

“Not all the way off-grid, is he?” Danny said.

“Alas, even hermits need a website if they hope to sell their products.” Malcolm fetched his laptop off a side table. “Here, let me show you. I helped him design it, if you must know. Simple but effective, I think.”

The Firebird Designs site appeared on the screen. Close-up shots of his jewelry took up most of the page space. Malcolm clicked a button and the view changed to a contact page. “See? Maybe if you catch him on a good day, he’ll agree to meet you somewhere.”

He laughed, shaking his head as if he didn’t believe this for a second.

“We’ll email him. Meanwhile, we’d still like his post office address.”

Malcolm made a production of navigating to a file and jotting down the address on a slip of paper.

“Don’t alert McIlvoy that we have the address,” Danny said.

Malcolm nodded as he buttoned his suit jacket. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d best check on my new girl. How odd that I miss that little plonker Brendan. At least he knew how to handle the register.”

Malcolm opened the door and bowed them out with a sweeping hand gesture. Danny let O’Neil exit ahead of him so that Malcolm wouldn’t catch O’Neil’s mocking eye roll.

“The man’s so shiny everything bounces off him,” O’Neil said as they walked the length of the Turkish rug.

“You’re just peeved because he shined you on. Next time, try using your lady charms on him.”

“If you don’t mind my saying, Sir—sod off.” He grinned as he said it and continued with, “Malcolm must know all about McIlvoy’s past.”

“And he doesn’t seem to care.”

“I’ll wager you Malcolm’s keeping a hefty portion of the sales in return for helping McIlvoy stay off-grid. Quid pro quo.”

“Could be.”

Danny stepped back into the shop with its colorful displays. From this vantage point, the Firebird Designs case appeared center stage, the darling of the store. Malcolm’s golden goose. He always had a gleam in his eye, but upstairs just now the gleam had sharpened when Danny had brought up McIlvoy.

THIRTY
-
THREE

L
IMESTONE TERRACES GAVE WAY
to a gentler terrain as Merrit drove south toward Ennis, the County Clare seat. More houses, fewer cows, but the same ancient rock walls undulating along with them. After a year in Ireland, Merrit had gotten the hang of maneuvering on the narrow roads. It was fun, actually, and she never grew tired of the changing landscape, the way sun and cloud and rain and wind continually refreshed the scenery.

Beside her, Gemma was lost in her own world. She sniffed and dabbed at her nose with a tissue. Fresh black nail polish decorated her fingernails.

It occurred to Merrit that the graffiti had begun after Gemma and Dermot arrived in the village. But that had to be a coincidence. Not everything happened for a reason, and not everything was connected to everything else. Random chaos was part of life too. But then again, maybe it was
too
coincidental that they’d arrived right before the graffiti began.

Lost in thought, it took a second for Merrit to notice the slip of paper that Gemma held up at eye level near the steering wheel.

I can feel you wanting to talk to me
, she’d written.

“That obvious, eh?”

Gemma nodded.

“Danny told me to stay out of your affairs because they’re Garda business. I didn’t think I was interfering with anything …”

She let the thought dangle and Gemma didn’t disappoint.

He’s referring to Lost Boy. Toby. My cousin.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I had no clue.” Once again, she petered off, but this time because she didn’t have the words to console Gemma. After a minute, she admitted this out loud. “And here I am dragging you off to a paint store. We can turn around if you want.”

No.
I need the distraction
. She hesitated, then jotted again.
Why are you helping me?

Merrit opened her mouth and closed it again. She’d been about to say something altruistic—because it was the right thing to do—which was true. However, and this was a big
however
, there were also her selfish needs.

“Maybe I’m trying to prove myself to the locals. I’d like to be part of the community.” She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, unsatisfied with that answer. “I need to find a reason to stay in Ireland. My own reason apart from being Liam’s daughter. It’s just an accident of birth that I’m supposed to be the next matchmaker.”

Gemma relaxed back into her car seat.
Thank you for telling me the truth. I understand.

“I thought you might.” A cemetery with hundreds of Celtic crosses slipped past their windows. So picturesque, so peaceful. Merrit loosened her grip on the steering wheel. “Besides, you could use the help, couldn’t you? There’s a lot going on what with the graffiti, your cousin, Brendan too. Not to mention the whole thing with McIlvoy and your mom. But how is it all connected?”

I’m not leaving until I know. I don’t care what Dermot says
.

Gemma turned away from Merrit and grabbed a clean tissue from her pack.

“Thanks for letting me drag you along. I’d forgotten what it feels like to hang out with someone who doesn’t know me, or think she knows me. I had a friend in the village—Marcus—but he’s not around right now.”

By the time they arrived in Ennis, Gemma had wiped her eyes and returned to blinking at nothing in particular. She was out of the car and walking toward TK Paint & Décor before Merrit had opened her car door, but her bravado faltered when she reached the entrance.

Catching up with her, Merrit quipped, “Okay, let me do the talking,” and was gratified to see Gemma’s lips soften into an almost-smile.

A pudgy man with the roundest face Merrit had ever seen stepped away from a display of color swatches. “’Allo, and what’ll I be helping you with today?”

“Are you the in-house color consultant?” Merrit said.

“That would be me wife, the K in TK Paint & Décor. Kathleen!”

Kathleen stood a head taller than her husband and just as pudgy. She wiped orange-spattered hands on her smock as she approached. Gemma wandered toward the swatches.

As soon as Merrit mentioned the word
graffiti
Kathleen clapped her hands in delight and said how much she relished working with artists. “We have a fine line of spray paints that you can use on masonite board, plywood, canvas, you name it.”

“Not graffiti as art, unfortunately. Here, let me show you.”

Merrit led Kathleen outside. Ripping away the garbage bag that was still taped to the car door, she explained that she was new to Lisfenora—a year but that was nothing by Irish standards—and was hoping for some clues about the paint. Maybe it would help her narrow down who had vandalized her car.

“Oh, love, that’s a shame. Why, look at that. How interesting. Your vandal used a paintbrush, not a spray can. I can tell you right now that he’s no artist.”

“I could have told you that,” Merrit said.

“Not for the reason you think—the shoddy penmanship, not an inch of creative flair to be seen. I’m after telling you no graffiti artist in his right mind would use a paintbrush or this type of paint. This is a semi-gloss for pity’s sake. And an inferior brand if I’m not mistaken.”

Kathleen scraped at the paint. “Just as I thought. Already flaking away. Well!”

By then, Gemma had caught up with them.

“What does it mean?” Merrit said.

“This is interior paint. Your average wall-painting paint. Won’t stand up to the weather. And this particular hue—it’s been out of fashion for a few years now. The good thing is that a car shop should be able to fix you right up, good as new.”

Kathleen patted Merrit’s shoulder. “Poor you—the village slapper, are you? And American too, by the sounds of it. Ah well, live and let live I always say.”

Gemma didn’t bother to hide her grin as they drove away. Merrit didn’t mind that it came at her expense.

THIRTY
-
FOUR

E
LLEN TOSSED ASIDE HER
novel, dismissing its romanticism as pure bollocks. She couldn’t concentrate. Earlier, Danny had bundled the children off to his car and reminded her that Gemma and Dermot needed to find a new place to stay. She still didn’t understand what the fuss was about. He didn’t live here anymore, and it wasn’t like she had any connection to his investigation. But that was the least of her worries.