"Well, how's the story telling these days?" O'Malley asked him.
"It's fine. Two dead, no suspects."
With a shake of his head, O'Malley slipped the pint under Gray's nose. "Don't know how it is a man can play with murder all the day and still have a smile on his face of an evening."
"Unnatural, isn't it?" Gray grinned at him.
"I've a story for you." This came from David Ryan who sat on the end of the bar and lighted one of his American cigarettes.
Gray settled back amid the music and smoke. There was always a story, and he was as good a listener as he was a teller.
"Was a maid who lived in the countryside near Tralee. Beautiful as a sunrise, she was, with hair like new gold and eyes as blue as Kerry."
Conversation quieted, and Murphy lowered his music so that it was a backdrop for the tale.
"It happened that two men came a-courting her," David went on. "One was a bookish fellow, the other a farmer. In her way, the maid loved them both; for she was as fickle of heart as she was lovely of face. So, enjoying the attention, as a maid might, she let them both dangle for her, making promises to each. And there began to grow a blackness in the heart of the young farmer, side by side with his love of the maid."
He paused, as storytellers often do, and studied the red glow at the end of his cigarette. He took a deep drag, expelled smoke.
"So one night he waited for his rival along the roadside, and when the bookish fellow came a-whistling-for the maid had given him her kisses freely-the farmer leaped out and bore the young lover to the ground. He dragged him, you see, in the moonlight across the fields, and though the poor sod still breathed, he buried him deep. When dawn came, he sowed his crop over him and put an end to the competition."
David paused again, drew deep on his cigarette, reached for his pint.
"And?" Gray asked, caught up. "He married the maid." "No, indeed he didn't. She ran off with a tinker that very day. But the farmer had the best bloody crop of hay of his life."
There were roars of laughter as Gray only shook his head. He considered himself a professional liar and a good one. But the competition here was fierce. Amid the chuckles, Gray picked up his glass and went to join Murphy.
"Davey's a tale for every day of the week," Murphy told him, gently running his hands along the buttons of his squeeze box.
"I imagine my agent would scoop him up in a heartbeat. Heard anything, Murphy?"
"No, nothing helpful. Mrs. Leery thought she might have seen a car go by the day of your troubles. She thinks it was green, but didn't pay it any mind."
"Someone was poking around the cottage last night. Lost him in the fog." Gray remembered in disgust. "But he was close enough to leave a footprint in Brie's flower bed. Might have been kids." Gray took a contemplative sip of beer. "Has anyone been asking about me?"
"You're a daily topic of conversation," Murphy said dryly.
"Ah, fame. No, I mean a stranger." "Not that I've heard. You'd better to ask over at the post office. Why?"
"I think it might be an overenthusiastic fan. I've run into it before. Then again..." He shrugged. "It's the way my mind works, always making more out of what's there."
"There's a dozen men or more a whistle away if anyone gives you or Brie any trouble." Murphy glanced up as the door to the pub opened. Brianna came in, flanked by Rogan and Maggie. His brow lifted as he looked back at Gray.
"And a dozen men or more who'll haul you off to the altar if you don't mind that gleam in your eye."
"What?" Gray picked up his beer again, and his lips curved. "Just looking."
"Aye. I'm a rover," Murphy sang, "and seldom sober, I'm a rover of high degree. For when I'm drinking, I'm always thinking, how to gain my love's company."
"There's still half a pint in this glass," Gray muttered, and rose to walk to Brianna. "I thought you had mending."
"I did."
"We bullied her into coming out," Maggie explained and gave a little sigh as she levered herself onto a stool.
"Persuaded," Rogan corrected. "A glass of Harp, Brie?"
"Thank you, I will."
"Tea for Maggie, Tim," Rogan began and grinned as his wife muttered. "A glass of Harp for Brie, a pint of Guiness for me. Another pint, Gray?"
"This'll do me." Gray leaned against the bar. "I remember the last time I went drinking with you."
"Speaking of Uncle Niall," Maggie put in. "He and his bride are spending a few days on the island of Crete. Play something bright, will you, Murphy?"
Obligingly, he reeled into "Whiskey in the Jar" and set her feet tapping.
After listening to the lyrics, Gray shook his head. "Why is it you Irish always sing about war?"
"Do we?" Maggie smiled, sipping at her tea as she waited to join in the chorus.
"Sometimes it's betrayal or dying, but mostly it's war."
"Is that a fact?" She smiled over the rim of her cup. "I couldn't say. Then again, it might be that we've had to fight for every inch of our own ground for centuries. Or-"
"Don't get her started," Rogan pleaded. "There's a rebel's heart in there."
"There's a rebel's heart inside every Irish man or woman. Murphy's a fine voice, he does. Why don't you sing with him, Brie?"
Enjoying the moment, she sipped her Harp. "I'd rather listen."
"I'd like to hear you," Gray murmured and stroked a hand down her hair.
Maggie narrowed her eyes at the gesture. "Brie has a voice like a bell," she said. "We always wondered where she got it, until we found out our mother had one as well." "How about 'Danny Boy'?"