Whispers in the Mist by Lisa Alber Read Free Book Online Page A

them.”
    Nathan pointed to the chalkboard, where Alan’s quote attempted its wisdom. The meaning of a word is its use in language .
    “Don’t give me that shite,” Elder Joe said. “You’re not even from here, so what do you know?”
    “I’m as Irish as you,” Nathan said.
    “But not from around here. What’s your story anyhow?”
    Nathan pushed his empty pint toward Danny for a refill. Danny tried to recall what he knew about the man. Originally from one of the W counties—Wicklow, Waterford, Wexford, somewhere—but had lived in England for a long while. Nathan didn’t speak much, but Seamus had taken him on as one of his crew. He was an artist of some sort. Danny had heard some of the local women liked the looks of him. Goatee and silver rings on his fingers. A bit of early silver at his temples and a wounded air that attracted the lassies.
    “I don’t have a story,” Nathan said.
    Elder Joe burped. “The feck you don’t.”
    And so it went. Danny had to wonder how Alan kept his sanity with their voices pounding against him up to the second he tossed them out of the pub for the night. Their leader, Seamus, kept up his own banter with Mickey, something to do with a neighbor’s wife who was so mean she’d eat you through a sack. Seamus had the grace to wait for the crowd to thin before bringing up the inevitable.
    “Grey Man’s after leaving you a present, eh?” he said, more subdued than usual. “No use denying it.”
    “If you mean, am I starting on a new case, then yes.” Danny lifted his empty pint to the tap and filled it halfway. He watched the thick brown liquid swirl, its tan foam rising to the top. A guilty stab reminded him that he’d forgotten to call home to check on the kids. The first twenty-four hours of a major case were always hell. “You know I can’t talk about it.”
    “No matter.” Seamus sucked down half his pint in one go. “We’ve got the nearabouts truth from that eejit Milo of Milo’s Silos.”
    “Brilliant,” Danny said. “He loud-mouthing it all over the land?”
    “Seems so.”
    A shiny bald head caught Danny’s attention as it leaned into their tight locals’ circle around the taps. Malcolm Lynch, owner of Pot o’ Gold Gifts. Every time Danny saw the man, he pictured an alien in human drag. The man had no hair, not even eyelashes or eyebrows, not that it mattered. He ran a nice shop, one of the better ones, and always seemed to be smiling.
    Malcolm cradled a brandy snifter between his two middle fingers so it rested at a tilt in the palm of his hand. “Gents, top of the lovely coming day to you,” he said. “Thought I’d pop in for a nightcap before off to bed.”
    A series of grunts and waggling fingers greeted Malcolm. His smile widened. “The day I’ve had.” He gazed at them expectantly and when no one responded except for a few more grunts, he continued on a brighter note. “And what’s the talk?”
    Seamus gulped more beer and swiped at his upper lip with the back of his hand. “And what do you think? Jaysus.” Seamus informed Malcolm that they’d been talking about the dead boy in Blackie’s Pasture. “You must have heard the news. Grey Man got him, would you say?”
    Malcolm let his gaze wander down to Seamus’s gut before beaming his smile around the room. “Grey Man indeed.”
    Annoyed, Danny told them to close their traps about that old superstition. Malcolm sipped from his snifter. A serene smile danced over his face.
    “What’s got you?” Seamus said.
    “It’s no wonder I didn’t hear the latest news,” Malcolm said, “what with my grand day in the shop. I’m telling you it was the dosh all the way around. I’m that lucky I didn’t have time to hear the gossip.”
    Seamus rolled his eyes. “Ay, well, you mind how you treat Brendan, who does all the real work, as we all know.”
    “The real work—like father, like son—like that?” Malcolm said. “Couldn’t be bothered to unlock the shop door if I didn’t