Whiskey Island by Emilie Richards Page A

Donaghue, the strawberry-blond daughter of the saloon keeper. In short order the gawky and undistinguished Frank had married lovely Deirdre, departed for Vietnam and returned with a pocket filled with medals, as well as several thousand dollars in poker winnings and a premonition that the world was changing and he’d better change with it.
    He had invested in a floundering gravel business near the railyards, and with hard work and savvy he had turned it into a million dollar success story. Now he had his hand and money in a dozen different enterprises, but his main office remained on Whiskey Island, where he seemed to feel most comfortable.
    “What did Nick want?” Megan saw Barry bearing down on them, and she waved the bartender away. She already knew she had to finish this conversation quickly so she could take over.
    “He told me he’d seen an old man heading our way the night before, and he thought he might be living on Whiskey Island. He said the man was dressed in layers of clothing, like he might be homeless.”
    Megan’s stomach knotted. “And he didn’t say where he’d seen him?”
    “No, he was vague about that. I didn’t know…” He shook his head. “I should have made the connection or asked him more. He just said that he had reason to believe the man had crossed the Shoreway the previous night and might have ended up out on the island. He wanted to know if there were any homeless people living out there.”
    Megan felt her way. “I’m not sure why you’re telling me this….” Although she was much surer than she wanted to be.
    “We’ve had reports, Megan. Sightings.”
    “Sightings of what?” She bit off the words.
    “Of a man. No one’s ever caught him, but they’ve seen glimpses. The description’s usually the same. Medium height, layers of old clothing.” He paused, then he shrugged. “Reddish hair. A limp.”
    Megan closed her eyes, but that couldn’t shut out the picture Frank was painting.
    Frank lowered his voice. “Was this homeless fellow involved in the carjacking? Is that why this Andreani was down on the island asking questions this morning?”
    Megan sighed and opened her eyes. “Nick claims he saw a man running away after the police arrived. And no, the man he saw wasn’t a carjacker. If anything, he disabled one of the gunmen and made it possible for the police to capture them both.”
    Frank was silent.
    “Casey thinks she saw him, too,” Megan said at last.
    “Did Casey recognize him?”
    Megan cut right to the point. “It couldn’t be Rooney, Uncle Frank, if that’s where you’re leading. No one’s caught even a glimpse of Rooney in more than ten years. It’s pretty clear he’s gone to that big drunk tank in the sky.”
    “Don’t let your aunt hear you talk that way, Megan.”
    “Don’t worry. I don’t intend to talk about Rooney at all.” She started to leave, but he stopped her.
    “Your friend Andreani could change that.”
    She turned back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Just that he’s pretty determined to find this guy he saw, whoever he is. He seems compelled more than curious. Would you happen to know why?”
    “Niccolo’s a stranger. He’d never even set foot in the saloon until last night. He’s probably just grateful to this guy for rescuing them. If that’s what happened.”
    “I think you should talk to him.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I think he’s going to keep asking questions. And if this homeless fellow is—”
    “He’s not!” She realized she’d spoken loudly enough to draw the attention of those closest to them. In a moment she and Frank would be the center of a crowd. She lowered her voice to a near whisper. “I’ll think about what you’ve said.”
    “I tried to discourage him myself, Megan. If there’s no need, I don’t want him stirring up memories. But maybe he needs to hear it from you.”
    “I’ll think about it.”
    Frank smiled sadly. “I’m here if you need me. I’ll do whatever I can.