Carla Neggers: The Mist

Across the pub, in their thick West Cork accents, the local men kidded and argued. Alone at her table, alone in their country, Lizzie was struck by their ease with each other-one that spoke of a lifetime together. She was on her own, and, by choice, had been for much of the past year, at least when it came to her dealings with Norman Estabrook and the FBI.

“I was hoping Keira would be here,” Will Davenport said, with just the slightest edge of concern in his voice.

Just Keira? Why not Simon, too?

Lizzie settled back in her chair and reached down to pat the dog, his fur warm from the fire.

Something was wrong.

Eddie set another frothy-topped pint on the bar. “Keira’s gone to Allihies for the day to research that old story. The one about the three brothers and the stone angel. It got her in trouble once. It hasn’t again, has it?”

“I stopped in Allihies before driving up here,” Davenport said. “She wasn’t there, but I haven’t come because of the story.”

“The grandfather of the woman who told it to Keira heard the story in the Allihies copper mines. The last of them shut down years ago. Keira planned to visit the museum that’s opened in the old Cornish church there.” The Irishman lifted the pints onto a tray and gave Davenport a pointed look. “The mansion the British owners built for themselves has been turned into a luxury hotel.”

The Brit didn’t rise to the bait. “Things change.”

“That they do, and sometimes for the better. Other times, not.”

“Did Keira say when she’d return?”

“You’d think she’d be back by now, with the gale. That story of hers has drawn curious tourists all summer.” As he walked out from behind the bar with the tray, Eddie glanced toward Lizzie. “They’re all wanting to find the stone angel themselves.”

“Assuming it exists,” Davenport said.

The Irishman shrugged, noncommittal, and carried the beers to his fellow villagers. Lizzie was aware that both he and Will Davenport had played a critical role in uncovering the identity of a serial killer who’d become obsessed with Keira’s story. She and Simon had, from all Lizzie had heard, encountered true evil. That was two months ago, when Simon was supposed to be laying low ahead of Norman ’s arrest.

While Eddie delivered the drinks, Davenport walked over to the fire, his gaze settling on Lizzie. She was used to being around men. She worked as director of concierge services and excursions for her family’s fifteen highly individual boutique hotels, and she’d grown up with her four male Rush cousins, who now ranged in age from twenty-two to thirty-four. They were all striking in appearance, but, even so, she felt herself getting hot under the Brit’s scrutiny. He had the bearing and edgy good looks that could spark even the most independent woman to fantasize about having her own prince charming come to her rescue.

Lizzie quashed that thought. No Prince Charming for her. Not now, not ever.

He nodded to her book, still open at the mesmerizing illustration of the farm. “Is that the Ireland you’ve come here to find?” His eyes, Lizzie saw, were a rich hazel, with flecks of blue, green and gold that changed with the light. “Fairies, thatched roofs and pretty gardens?”

Lizzie smiled. “Maybe it’s the Ireland I have found.”

“Do you believe in the wee folk?”

“I’m keeping an open mind. Keira Sullivan’s quite the artist, isn’t she? I overheard you and the barman. I gather you know her.”

“We met earlier this summer. Did you just purchase her book?”

“Yes. I bought it in Kenmare this afternoon.” That wasn’t true. Keira’s young cousin in Boston, Fiona O’Reilly, a harp student, had given it to her, but that, Lizzie decided, was something Will Davenport didn’t need to know. “I heard about the story that brought Keira here. Three brothers tussle with fairies over an ancient Celtic stone angel. The brothers believe the angel will bring them good fortune in one form or another, and the fairies believe it’s one of their own turned to stone.”

Davenport studied her with half-closed eyes.

“It’s a wonderful story,” Lizzie added.

“So it is.” His tone gave away nothing.

Lizzie pushed her empty plate to the center of the table. She wanted more coffee, but she’d already drunk two cups and figured they’d give her enough of a caffeine jolt to counteract any jetlag. She was accustomed to changing time zones but had slept only fitfully on her flight from Boston.

She turned the book over to the full-color, back-cover photograph of Keira Sullivan in a dark green velvet dress. She had pretty cornflower-blue eyes, and her long blond hair was decorated with fresh flowers. “Keira could pass for a fairy princess herself, don’t you think?”

“She could, indeed.”

Lizzie doubted she’d ever pass for a fairy princess, even if she wore velvet and sprinkled flowers in her hair.

Not that she was bad looking, but her eyes, a light green, seemed to have perpetual dark circles under them lately. She’d had a rough few days.

A rough year, really.

“Do you know Keira?” Davenport asked.

“No, we’ve never met.”

“But you’re familiar with the story-”

“It was in all the papers,” Lizzie said, not letting him finish. “Yes.”

He was clearly suspicious now, but she didn’t care. His presence and Simon’s absence were unexpected and called for a revision of her plan. Whatever she might have ended up telling Simon, she had no intention of telling his friend Lord Davenport anything. She needed more information about what was going on, where Simon was, where Keira was.

“What brings you to the Beara Peninsula?” Davenport asked.

“I’m hiking the Beara Way.” She wasn’t, and she didn’t like to lie, but it was easier-and possibly safer for all concerned-than telling the truth. “Not start to finish. It’s almost two hundred kilometers. I don’t have that much time to spare.”

“You’re on your own?”

She gave him a bright smile. “Now, that’s a bold question to ask a woman having coffee and crumble by herself.”

His eyes darkened slightly. “I trust you’ve a room for the night. The weather’s terrible.” He gestured back toward the bar where Eddie had returned with his empty tray. “Perhaps Eddie could direct you to a local B and B.”

“It’s decent of you to be concerned.” Lizzie doubted concern for her had anything to do with his motive. She’d sparked his interest by having Keira’s book out, by being there alone by the fire. If she was staying nearby, he wanted to keep an eye on her. “I have a tent. I can always camp somewhere.”

She saw the beginnings of a smile. He had a straight mouth, a strong jaw, a hint of a wave to his dark blond hair. As good-looking and expensively dressed as he was, he wasn’t in any way pretty or soft.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a woman who likes to sleep in a tent,” he said, with the barest hint of humor.

In fact, she thought, he was right. It would take more than a suspicious British spy to get her to sleep in a tent in any weather. Not that she hadn’t, or couldn’t, or wouldn’t if she needed to-but she’d have to have good reason. Wind, rain, rocks, uneven ground, no indoor plumbing. She wasn’t fussy, but she did like the basics.

She got to her feet. Her walking shoes, which she’d bought before leaving Dublin that morning and scuffed up to make them look less new, had toes shaped like a duck’s bill. They were ugly but comfortable and, supposedly, indestructible.

“The gale’s dying down already.” She tried her smile again on Davenport, but it had no visible effect. “I haven’t heard the windows rattle in the last ten minutes.”