Whispers in the Mist (31 page)

“I didn’t realize Firebird maintained
brand
integrity
.”

“You doubt me?”

“Seems to me Firebird is Firebird. That’s the brand. Not McIlvoy, not you.” Danny set his teacup aside. “Who gives a fat cow’s arse about you?”

Malcolm swung out of his chair and shoved his empty teacup into the sink. He flushed. “I’m the brand. Me, Malcolm Lynch, and my designs, yes,
my
designs, will see their way to the best shops in Dublin, and from there—”

Here we go, Danny thought. “Like I said, rather full of yourself then.”

Malcolm picked up the teacup again. He smoothed his index finger around its rim. “There now. No harm done. I wager you don’t know the difference between bone china and fine china. This set is antique bone china from Royal Ascot. Hand painted. And look what you almost made me do, break one of my pieces. You don’t know how to handle fine collectibles, do you?”

Now it was Danny’s turn to cock his head. This episode of the Malcolm Show had just turned bizarre.

“Even though I’m the true soul of Firebird Designs,” Malcolm continued, “I’ve had to live under McIlvoy’s endless presence. It’s all me, it’s always been me. My initiative. My business acumen. Even my design ideas. Some of us have a greater purpose. But how could you possibly understand that?”

In a moment of clarity, Danny understood the crux of the man. This wasn’t his overactive imagination creating stories out of sparrows either. Malcolm loathed McIlvoy. How it must chafe not being able to preen and fawn with the credit of Firebird Designs.

And then Nathan Tate’s father happened along, who looked similar to a picture on an identification card.

“How long had you been on the prowl for some poor bastard to die as John McIlvoy? I imagine that could take years. You needed to find someone the same height and coloring. Someone no one would miss. The Golden Goose Theory isn’t quite correct, is it? It’s not so much about protecting McIlvoy as about getting rid of him permanently.” Danny leaned back, thinking it through. “A fake death to camouflage a real death later?”

Rather than an inquisitive spaniel, Danny thought he glimpsed something more fierce going on alert as Malcolm stood.

“Would you like some ladyfingers?” Malcolm excused himself and stepped the two steps to the refrigerator to fetch a pink bakery box. “Lovely, these. I discovered this bakery in Ennis not two months ago and have been talking it up. In fact, I helped triple their business. The
Clare Challenger
reviewed them last week—a smashing review, I might add. I don’t eat many sweets as you might have guessed, but my palate never lies.”

A
brriing
caused Malcolm to jump toward his mobile sitting on the counter. He grimaced when he realized that the sound wasn’t coming from his phone, but from Danny’s pocket instead.

“Sir,” O’Neil said when Danny answered, “a couple of officers are picking up Seamus at Fox Cottage. He attacked Gemma, but Merrit got him under control. Merrit’s coming to the station too. No one seems to be hurt.”

Danny kept his voice casual. “She’s an anxious one, is our Mandy.”

O’Neil picked up on Danny’s subterfuge, saying, “You’re not after doing something stupid, are you?”

“Perhaps so. You settle a hot water bottle against her stomach and she’ll fall back asleep right as rain.”

O’Neil got the hint and rang off.

“No hassle,” Danny said into empty air. “You didn’t wake me. Right. Cheers.”

Danny clicked off. He stared into the pink bakery box where a dozen perfect confections coated with powdered sugar beckoned him to indulge. Bloody hell. Seamus? Something loosened itself from deep inside his brain, but he didn’t have time to think it through. He’d have to wing it to get under Malcolm’s slippery suit of skin. Somehow. Talking about John McIlvoy wouldn’t do it.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’d better wash my hands before I eat.”

Malcolm nodded his agreement and waved Danny toward the bathroom. “The guest soap is to the right.”

A bloody guest soap. God, how he wanted to see the bastard squirm.

Inside the bathroom, Danny ran the water and texted O’Neil. Without waiting for a response, Danny wetted the guest soap, mussed the hand towel, and returned to Malcolm.

Sitting down, he picked up a ladyfinger and pointed it up at Malcolm. “Did you know that Ellen kept a journal?”

FIFTY
-
FOUR

A
LAN ALWAYS FELT MOST
restless during this quietest time of the day, beyond the height of night but well before light peeked over the eastern horizon. He stood in Fox Cottage watching through the window as Merrit drove toward the Garda station. The guards had already left with Seamus. Merrit had chosen to follow them and had called him to watch Gemma. She liked to be involved, that one. Maybe she would make a good matchmaker in the end.

He dropped his hand to Bijou’s head. “Good girl.”

She wagged her tail in response to his voice. She was dopey from the painkillers but otherwise her usual self.

He raised a window sash to inhale quietude. Gemma’s presence was loud behind him with her abundant curls tangled in all directions and spine erect against the sofa back. She wore an ancient U2 concert t-shirt, child’s size by the looks of it, and a pair of Dermot’s boxers, making her look more childlike than ever.

If she’d been aware and reactive, moving her hands in that graceful way of hers, he’d have found the whole tangled, half-naked mess of her arousing. While she was still catatonic, thinking that felt like a taboo, so he banished it from his mind.

Telling Bijou to stay, he approached Gemma. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He was still a stalker, watching her while she was unaware of him. One would think he’d feel comfortable with that, but he twitched with embarrassment. For her, for him.

“Gemma?” he said. “Do you know I’m here?”

Her gaze remained fixed in space and her expression vacant.

He fetched orange juice with a straw and stooped in front of her. She sucked when he touched the straw to her lips, went lax when it dropped away. It was eerie, like a machine, obedient yet unresponsive at the same time.

Behind him, Bijou inched toward the sofa. The big gulumph thought she was being stealthy, but her heavy breathing gave her away.

“Bijou, stay.” Bijou poked the back of his neck with her wet nose. “Bijou,” he warned in a louder voice.

Gemma rocked forward the tiniest bit. Toward Bijou. At least, Alan could have sworn she did.

“That’s right, Gemma, Bijou is here too.”

He placed a hand under hers and signaled to Bijou.
Good dog, come. Good dog,
come
. It didn’t matter that Bijou couldn’t see the movements. What mattered was that somewhere in her brain Gemma register that her canine friend was nearby.

Bijou sidled up beside Alan and plopped her head on Gemma’s lap. Her tail thumped harder than ever and she drooled with excitement. Her head canted to the side with ears perked as she gazed at Gemma like she was a doggy savior.

Alan knew his dog’s body language. She was now waiting on a game. So much stillness from one of her humans meant that next there’d be wild movement and tumbling playtime. She woofed in response to the suspense of the wait.

Alan hesitated, unsure whether eighty pounds of keyed-up dog colliding into 110 pounds of immobilized woman was a good idea. On the other hand, given that Gemma preferred animals to people—one of her best qualities, in fact—there might be nothing better than mounds of fur and slobbery tongue to awaken her.

“This might be a go,” he said to Bijou, who whined in response.

Alan maneuvered himself so that he sat next to Gemma.

“Time to try,” Alan said. “Bijou, go!”

Two seconds later, the force of Bijou’s joy toppled Gemma sideways against Alan. The dog head-butted her, licking her legs, pawing her arms. When she didn’t receive a response, her tail sagged. She aimed a whine at Alan.

“It’s okay, girl,” Alan said. “Go on, play.”

Alan watched, amazed as Bijou nestled against Gemma’s supine form so that she was half on top of her. With a whine that Alan swore sounded distraught, she started licking Gemma. Her arm, her chest, her neck, her face. That great tongue of hers lolled over Gemma’s chin, mouth, cheeks, nose, even her eyes, which Gemma shut automatically.

Gemma’s nostrils flared.

“Careful,” Alan murmured. “I don’t think she can breathe.”

Bijou placed one paw over Gemma’s shoulder and covered her face with even more slobber.

Gemma’s chest hitched up, trying to gain purchase against Bijou’s weight.

Alan grabbed Bijou’s collar, but he hesitated. He was witness to a small, extraordinary event, here, now, that defied logic but that somehow made all the sense in the world: his dog knew what she was doing. Alan believed this without question.

Bijou continued licking. Gemma’s mouth popped open on an inhalation. Bijou’s tongue lapped over her nostrils, her lips, drowning Gemma in saliva.

Alan’s hand hovered, primed to pull Bijou away. Gemma’s struggles increased as her body sought more oxygen. Alan’s pulse accelerated, fearful, hopeful, undone. His chest ached with tension.

Gemma’s face turned red with exertion. Alan positioned both hands around Bijou’s collar and just as he was about to give up the delusion about his wise dog, he saw consciousness like a torch beam rising out of Gemma’s soul. In three rapid blinks, she was gasping and squirming beneath Bijou. Bijou backed off with chest heaving as much as Gemma’s.

“Holy mother,” Alan breathed.

His beast couldn’t track worth a damn, but licking, ay, licking enough to suffocate, she could manage. He couldn’t think of what to say other than doggy words, but then, if there was anyone who’d understand, it was Gemma.

“Good dog, Bijou. Good, good dog. Best dog ever.”

Gemma’s gaze traveled over the ceiling. After a long moment, her eyes widened. Her mouth opened in a big O. Before Alan had a chance to react, she’d scrabbled over the back of the couch and run to the closest door, opened it to see a closet, slammed it, and run on until she reached the front door. She shot out of the house, heedless of her bare feet.

“Gemma!”

Alan had no trouble catching up with her, but once he did she squiggled and slid around in his embrace. His grip slipped. It was like trying to hoist an eel.

Sounds rasped against unused vocal cords, piercing and incoherent. Alan cringed against Gemma’s high-pitched shrill. She had to be ripping out her vocal cords she was trying so hard.

Her chest heaved on a long inhale. After a pause, a lifetime of a pause it seemed to Alan, her scream shattered the night quiet.

FIFTY
-
FIVE

D
ANNY BIT INTO THE
ladyfinger he held. “For the last few months Ellen has been writing in her journal more than usual.”

Malcolm used a spoon to transfer another one of the sponge biscuits from the box to a small plate. “I’ve cultivated a skill. Transformation I call it, and I can’t help admitting that I could write a book. I’d call it
Transform Your Thoughts, Transform Your Life
.” He settled back in his chair with a dreamy smile. “It’s about moving on. And you, good Danny, need to move on.”

Danny squeezed his knees again. Remain calm. Just for a little longer. Don’t think about moving on, about the real truth—that he’d moved on a little too fast, that in the past year he’d been happy in his own quiet space away from Ellen’s turmoil, happy to play daddy every night and weekend.

“Transformation,” Danny said. “That’s quite a word right there. It makes me wonder how you’d transform yourself into a good lover. I have it straight from the source, dated some time last month, that Ellen was less than enthusiastic about your—shall we say—abilities.”

Malcolm’s ever-pleased smile remained, but Danny heard the beginning of a crack when he said, “Nonsense. She was mad for it even on that last night.”

“I can understand your embarrassment. I’ve had to face the fact that I couldn’t satisfy her, and I’ll admit I’m relieved that I’m not the only man—”

“I told you—”

“And then Siobhan McNamara’s earrings—the ones Toby was wearing—your parting gift, I take it? Frankly, I don’t know how you could be such an utter bollocks. Alibi or not, you’re pointing right at yourself for Toby Grealy’s murder. Because how else could you get your hands on them unless you’d ripped them off him yourself?”

Malcolm cut a piece of ladyfinger and forked it into this mouth. “Poor Ellen. That was my last night with her, the final breakup after the breakup. Sometimes it takes women a few rejections to realize the truth.”

“How did you get the earrings?”

“If you must know the truth—and I do hate to say this because he’s my friend—Seamus gave them to me.”

Danny swallowed hard against a wad of ladyfinger. Seamus again.