Carla Neggers - The Mist

“If the man who was killed helped kidnap Abigail,” Fiona said thoughtfully, dropping into a chair opposite Bob, “why did the Brit kill him? If he’s a bad guy, too?”

“We can sit here and tick off all the possibilities. They had a spat. The Brit decided the other guy was reckless. The Brit got greedy and wanted the other guy’s cut of whatever they’re getting paid.”

“Or he didn’t kill him.”

“My point is, we don’t know. That’s why we keep plugging away at the facts and evidence.”

“Simon’s friend Will must-”

“Do you know ‘Whiskey in the Jar?’”

Fiona rolled her eyes in a way-not a bad way-that reminded him of her mother. “Of course, Dad. You’ve heard me play it a hundred times.”

“I’ve never sung it with you.”

But she wasn’t giving up. “The Brit-Fletcher-could have killed that man in self-defense, couldn’t he?”

“Yes. Whatever happened, Fi, you didn’t cause it.”

“I’m in the middle of it.”

“That’s ending now.”

For once, she didn’t argue. “How’s Keira?”

“I only talked to her a few minutes before you called me. She’s no happier about being under police protection than you are. She knows it has to be done. Simon has to concentrate on doing his job.”

“Scoop…it was hard to see him this morning.”

“You were brave to go to the hospital on your own like that. He’s doing better. He’ll make it.” Bob tried to soften his voice, but heart-to-heart talks with his daughter-with anyone-made him squirm. “Fi, Scoop’s a good guy. The best. But he’s a lot older than you. In another five years, maybe it won’t seem like so much, but right now-you should stick with guys closer to your own age. These losers here. The fiddle player. He’s not bad, right?”

She made a face. “Dad, Scoop’s just a friend.”

“Yeah? What about the fiddle player?”

“Him, too. Besides, Scoop’s got a thing for Keira.”

“You see too much. Play your music.”

She returned to her friends on the small stage and picked up her harp. They had a half-dozen different instruments among the three of them and would switch off depending on the number. They all could sing.

Bob walked up to the lobby to Lizzie Rush’s cousin Jeremiah at the reception desk. Tom Yarborough and Lucas Jones had already interviewed him and said he was smart, clever and creative. Too creative, Yarborough had said, convinced the kid knew more than he was admitting. He wasn’t lying, just parsing his answers-which Yarborough always took as a challenge.

“Talk to me about Abigail Browning,” Bob said to the young Rush.

He scooped a few envelopes to stack. “She was here last week and again two nights ago.”

“She? Not they?”

“Correct. She was alone both times.”

“Irish music night?”

“Every night is Irish music night, but her first visit was in the afternoon. She had tea.”

“Formal tea or like a tea bag hanging out of a cup?”

“Something in between.”

“What about your cousin?”

“My cousin?”

Playing dumb. “Lizzie. The one who just found a dead guy up the street.”

Jeremiah maintained his composure. “She’s often in Boston. Our hotel offices are here.”

“Right. So how much has she been in town since June?”

“On and off. Not so much in July. Almost constantly in August. She was working with our concierge services on new excursions. That’s her area of expertise. But she spent time on her own.”

“Spying on Abigail?”

He paled a little and gave up on his stack of envelopes. “I didn’t say that.”

“Okay, so back to Abigail. How did you recognize her?”

“Garrisons have stayed here. They book rooms at the hotel for their annual meeting and various functions for the Dorothy Garrison Foundation and Fast Rescue. Abigail’s been here for those, but she’s also John March’s daughter.” Jeremiah stopped himself, as if he knew he’d gone too far.

Bob tilted his head back. There was something about the way Jeremiah had said March’s name. “You know Director March?”

“Not me. Not personally.”

“But you’ve seen him,” Bob said, getting now what Yarborough meant about dealing with Jeremiah Rush. If all the Rushes were like him, Yarborough would go crazy. “When?”

“He comes here once a year. It’s a long-standing tradition.”

“What, he got married at the Whitcomb or something? He and his wife have their anniversary dinner here every year?”

“No.” The kid looked as if he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “He has a drink at Morrigan’s.”

“He comes alone?”

“Yes, always.”

“When?”

“Late August, so around now.”

“Whoa. How long has this been going on?”

Jeremiah glanced at his desk. “I should get back to work. Reporters have been calling-”

“They’ll keep calling, don’t worry. So, how long?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Well, you did. How long, Mr. Rush?”

The kid licked his lips. “At least thirty years. Since before I was born.”

Thirty years ago, March was a BPD detective, and Bob was a twenty-year-old kid in South Boston, the son of a cop who wanted nothing more than to be a homicide detective. “What’s this tradition about?”

“I don’t know for a fact, but whatever it’s about, it’s always struck me as a private matter.”

“Something to do with Lizzie or her dad?”

Jeremiah rubbed a smudge on his desk.

“You have an idea,” Bob said, no intention of backing off.

“An idea,” he said, “isn’t fact.”

“Do you Rushes ever tell the whole story about anything?”

“Fiona’s excited about her trip to Ireland,” Jeremiah said with a fake smile. “My dad wants to invite her and her party to something special at our hotel there-depending on what she wants to do.”

“Shop, listen to music and have high tea. She talk to Lizzie about Ireland?”

“Some. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“When I was a kid, your pub downstairs was this WASP bastion. When did you decide to convert it to an Irish pub and call it Morrigan’s?”

Jeremiah looked as if he wanted to melt into the woodwork. He gave up on the smudge. “It was after Lizzie’s mother died. Her name was Morrigan.”

“And what happened to her?”

This time, the kid didn’t flinch. He seemed to know Bob had him now and he might as well give up the rest. “She tripped on a cobblestone in Dublin.”

“Dublin,” Bob said.

“It was an accident,” Jeremiah Rush said.

Before Bob could drag the rest out of the kid, syllable by syllable if necessary, John March walked into the lobby, surrounded by FBI agents.

His teeth clenched, Bob kept his eyes on the young Rush. “You have a quiet room where Director March and I can talk?”

“Yes. The police watching your daughter-”

“Aren’t moving. The rate things are going, people will like having a police presence. Won’t hurt business.”

“We all just want Fiona and her friends to be safe.”

Jeremiah Rush seemed perfectly sincere. He pointed to the stairs that curved up to a balconied second floor. “Please feel free to use the Frost Room.”

“Named after a relative or the weather?”

“The poet.”

While March stood back, not saying a word, Bob suggested the FBI director’s entourage go up and sweep for bombs, bugs, spies, God knew what. He took the half flight of stairs down to Fiona and told her and the officers on her detail where he’d be. He said on the mezzanine level with Director March. He didn’t say he’d be prying the truth out of an old friend accustomed to keeping his mouth shut.

He returned to the lobby level, and he and March headed up to the elegant, wood-paneled Frost Room. Most of its furnishings looked as if they’d been carted up from the old bar. Musty books on shelves, dark oil paintings of dour men, pewter Paul Revere could have made. Somehow, the place managed not to be stuffy. But Bob didn’t want to try to figure out the Rushes and their approach to hotel decorating.