Whiskey Island by Emilie Richards Read Free Book Online

silent again, and as he moved away, the first flakes of snow melted under his feet. He swung the flashlight carelessly back and forth as he moved toward the lot entrance, stopping one last time at Casey’s car for a final sweep of the ground.
    He almost missed the cuff link. It lay just behind her left front tire, and had his light not revealed an unexpected glimmer, he never would have seen it. He moved forward and stooped to retrieve it, holding it in his palm.
    The cuff link was gold, large and surprisingly ornate. The glimmer he’d noted came from diamonds, rows of them entwining in two S ’s.
    He was not an expert on such things, but at first glance he knew the cuff link was old and probably valuable.
    He wrapped his fingers around it, debating what to do. The carjackers had been caught in the act, and in no way could the cuff link be evidence of their crime. He doubted, in fact, that it had anything to do with them, at least not directly.
    But the homeless man, the man he was more and more certain he’d seen, might well have dropped this. The man was probably a scavenger. He might comb the city trash for items to sell, even hoarding some as personal treasures.
    This valuable cuff link, as odd as it seemed, might well belong to him.
    Niccolo debated what to do, but his mind was made up even before he slipped the cuff link into his pocket.

5
    T he Donaghue clan, in all its degrees of separation, loved celebrations. If Bobby Donaghue’s first grader lost a baby tooth, they celebrated. When Kyle Donaghue Flanagan was elected Cuyahoga County auditor, they celebrated. Had Kyle—known as Sticky Fingers Pete to the family—been banished from that office for unethical activities, they might even have celebrated that, as well.
    The Donaghues were three and four generations removed from the famine that had propelled their starving ancestors into coffin ships and sent them to America. The horror had dissipated with each new generation, but the urge to celebrate life’s smallest moments had not.
    A great number of the Donaghue celebrations took place at the Whiskey Island Saloon. There had been a memorable bash at the turn of the millenium—so memorable, in fact, that the place had been relatively quiet ever since, as the family recovered. But just one night after the attempted carjacking and Casey’s unexpected homecoming, the Donaghue clan was in full swing again. Megan, who had foreseen it, had stocked the kitchen accordingly. If nothing else, the leftover potato chowder was going quickly and would never see the freezer. They had the carjackers to thank for something.
    “How’s my favorite niece?”
    Megan submitted to an uncle’s beery hug. This was Dennis, her mother’s eldest brother. Marriage into the Donaghue clan was as good as a blood tie, as long as the new in-law didn’t preach or put on airs. The in-law’s relatives were accepted, too, most particularly if they had a drop of Irish blood.
    “I’m fine, Uncle Den.” She hugged him back, then pushed him away. “You’re switching to Coke now, aren’t you?”
    “You want me to toast my nieces’ very lives with a soft drink?” Dennis Cavanaugh frowned so magnificently that his tortoiseshell glasses slid down his ski-slope nose.
    “I want you to stop toasting them.” Megan knew who among the family to chide, who to cajole and who to refuse. Uncle Dennis had a two-drink limit because once he’d had a few more, he was harder to get rid of than fleas at the dog pound. As a child, she’d been told that, after one memorable binge, Dennis had moved in with her parents, and it had taken a full week to send him packing.
    “Have a bowl of potato chowder to take your mind off your thirst.” Megan chucked him under a whiskery chin.
    “Rosaleen’s?”
    She nodded. Rosaleen was Megan’s great-great-grandmother, and her recipes had been the mainstay of Whiskey Island cuisine since the saloon was established. The recipes were legendary, not just within the