Irish Parade Murder Page 17

  Lucy’s first reaction was shock that little Allie had been involved in drugs, and sadness that she’d gone to prison. Then, remembering they weren’t alone but in a crowded rehearsal, she looked about, hoping no one was listening. “Lower your voice,” she advised. “You’re entitled to your views, but I don’t think most people agree with you. I don’t want to get into some sort of confrontation.”

  Zoe raised her eyebrows in astonishment. “Mom, you’re a reporter. You’re supposed to be interested in finding out the truth and printing it.”

  The words stung, like a slap on the face. “I know,” admitted Lucy, as the group walked toward the exit. “I don’t like it one bit, but right now I think we have to be cautious and wait for the right opportunity. A lot of people are caught up in this thing . . .”

  “They’re being manipulated,” said Zoe. “The sheriff is playing on their emotions.”

  “That’s true,” said Lucy, holding the door for the others, “but if you saw the display I saw today, you’d think twice before mouthing off. I just want to keep you safe. I don’t want to see you girls in jail like your friend Allie.”

  “Oh, Lucy, don’t be silly,” said Edna, chuckling, as they walked through the parking lot. “The police protect us from bad people, and they put their lives on the line for us.” She turned to face Sara and Zoe. “Girls, you should always remember that. When your father was a little boy, I used to tell him that if he was lost and didn’t know his way home, he should find a policeman. The policeman would hold his hand and bring him home.”

  “Right, Grandma, we’ll remember,” called Sara, as she and Zoe ran across the lot to Zoe’s little Corolla.

  “Kids today,” said Edna, as Lucy used her fob to unlock the doors of her SUV, which responded with a loud click. “They’re so cynical.”

  “Aren’t we all,” murmured Lucy, as she slid behind the wheel.

  “What did you say?” asked Edna, settling herself in the passenger seat.

  “Just that it’s nice to have you with us,” said Lucy, starting the engine.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lucy tried to hang on to Edna’s rosy description of the police as she covered Gabe McGourt’s funeral on Saturday, but as the seemingly endless procession of police cars and motorcycles proceeded through the small town, she found it increasingly difficult. Complicating her emotions was the fact that she was clearly in the minority; the entire route to the cemetery was lined with grieving citizens, respectfully removing their caps and bowing their heads as the gleaming black hearse containing McGourt’s body drove by. These folks, like Edna, believed the police were their friends, ready to protect them. As a reporter, however, she knew how easy it was for a formerly upstanding citizen to find him or herself on the wrong side of the law: a fight with a spouse that got out of hand, a drink too many at a party, a moment’s distraction while driving. Her mother always used to comment on other’s misfortunes by saying, “There but for the grace of God go I,” and Lucy had taken it to heart and knew only too well that she herself was not without sin. It was perhaps that conviction that made her somewhat leery of the massed ranks of police that had gathered in Gilead. Truth be told, she found all those blue uniforms and holstered weapons awfully intimidating.

  Admission to the cemetery was controlled, limited to the immediate family and high-ranking officials, while the masses of attending officers remained outside the gates, in parade formation. Lucy and Ted, along with other media reps, were allowed entry but were confined at some distance from the grave and the blue canopy provided to shelter the mourners from the capricious early-March weather.

  No storms were expected, thought Lucy, noticing that the day was especially fine and unusually warm for March. A light breeze blew, and a few clouds flitted through the blue sky, but it seemed to her that even the weather was making a mockery of this elaborately staged event. A gray sky and light rain would have been more appropriate, allowing her to begin her story by noting: “Even the sky mourned the loss of Corrections Officer Gabriel McGourt, shedding copious tears on the assembled company . . .”

  It was not to be, however, as the sun stubbornly insisted on shining, and even the bagpiped refrain of “Amazing Grace,” played at a rather quick tempo, wasn’t somber at all but lent a down-home, countrified air to the proceedings. The media area was unfortunately located too far from the gravesite for her to hear the priest’s words, but Lucy divined that the service was ending when a gun salute was fired, followed by a lone trumpet sounding taps.

  “Well,” said Ted, as they exited the cemetery and once again encountered rank upon rank of uniformed officers, “if I were a criminal, this would be the perfect time to rob a bank.”

  “I’m in,” said Lucy, “let’s do it.”

  “Sorry, no can do. We’ve got to meet the TRUTH Project lawyers.”

  “It’s a missed opportunity,” said Lucy, calculating that it would take some time for the road to be cleared by the departing mourners. “But making a clean getaway looks like it might present a problem.”

  Ted assessed the traffic jam and sighed. “I’ll call and tell the lawyers we’ll be late.”

  When they arrived at the old Gabber office, which had a brand-new sign announcing that the paper had been renamed The Courier in gilded letters above the door, they found two people they assumed were the lawyers waiting for them. It was an easy assumption, since the woman and man sitting in the reception area were both wearing suits. His was dark gray, and hers was navy blue, and they both were accompanied by oversized briefcases, which sat at their feet like obedient little dogs.

  That conclusion was reinforced by Hilda Neely, who, it was rumored, had been the paper’s receptionist since shortly after the Civil War, and who seemed to grow tinier and more crooked every year. “There’s some folks to see you,” she told Ted, in a quavery voice. “They say they’re lawyers.”

  “Hi, I’m Jason Boardman from the TRUTH Project,” said the guy, who was rather short and had a full head of very curly brown hair. “And this is Nancy Porter-Fuchs.”

  Nancy extended her hand, which featured neatly clipped, unpolished nails and a wedding band that glittered with some sizable diamonds. She stood a full head above her partner; her blond hair was cut in a short pixie cut, and her squarish face was free of makeup except for lip gloss.

  “Glad to meet you,” said Nancy, grasping Lucy’s hand in a strong grip.

  “Same here,” replied Lucy, amused that Nancy had greeted her first. “I’m Lucy Stone, and this is Ted Stillings, the publisher.”

  “Great to meet you, Ted,” said Jason, shaking hands with both of them.

  “So let’s get down to business,” urged Nancy. “We understand one of our TRUTH Project reporters is in a bit of a jam.”

  “Let’s sit in the conference room,” said Ted, leading the way down a short, carpeted hall and into an attractively furnished room, also carpeted, that was a far cry from the Pennysaver’s dusty old morgue. A large, gleaming table surrounded by padded chairs took up the center of the room, where a whiteboard hung on one wall and a bank of windows filled another, offering an admirable view of the fortress-like prison that loomed over the town. A beverage bar featuring a Keurig machine stood opposite the windowed wall. “Make yourselves comfortable,” said Ted, “and uh, Lucy, would you make some coffee for everyone.”

  “None for me,” said Nancy, giving Ted a disapproving stare.

  “That would be great,” said Jason, who had placed his large briefcase on the table and was opening it. “Two sugars and a cream.”

  Lucy’s emotional barometer swung between amusement and resentment as she busied herself fixing coffee for Ted and Jason and fished bottled water out of the mini-fridge for everyone. Jason didn’t wait for her to join them but cut right to the chase, asking Ted to explain the situation.

  “As I told you on the phone, Rob Callahan, the reporter assigned to us by the TRUTH Project, is currently in the county jail, charged with murdering Gabe McGourt. McG
ourt worked at the county jail as a corrections officer, and the two were apparently rivals for the affection of a young woman, Rosie Capshaw. At least, that’s what the DA contends.” He paused. “As you have no doubt noticed, Gabe McGourt’s funeral has attracted a lot of attention, as well as police from all over the country.”

  “We looked over your original application for the project,” said Nancy, “and one of the factors you mentioned was the need to investigate the local sheriff, John P. Murphy. You suggested that this Murphy guy is—how did you put it?—‘blocking any and all efforts to investigate his office. ’”

  Interesting, thought Lucy, waiting for the Keurig to go through its paces. No wonder Rob had wanted to focus on Murphy immediately and had no doubt been frustrated by Ted’s insistence on taking it slow.

  “That’s true,” said Ted. “That’s why I was so happy when we got Rob. I was hoping to finally expose the corruption.”

  “Given all that, it looks like Rob is being framed. Would you agree?” asked Nancy.

  “That’s not entirely accurate,” said Lucy, delivering the hot coffee to Ted and Jason. “Rob lied when he was questioned by the police about a fight in a bar with Gabe McGourt. He said it never happened, but there were witnesses who claimed they saw the two men fighting.”

  “And these witnesses are credible?” asked Jason.

  “They’re local people,” said Lucy, “which makes them a lot more believable to folks around here than some troublemaker from Cleveland.”

  Nancy and Jason turned to Ted, looking for his take on the situation. “Lucy’s got a point,” he admitted. “Rob didn’t exactly fit in with the bar crowd, and the sheriff is a master manipulator. They’ve had this huge funeral for Gabe McGourt, with crowds and the flags and all. He’s now officially a fallen hero, and his death has become a tragedy affecting the entire community.”

  “What about the case against Callahan?” asked Nancy, unscrewing the top of her water bottle. “Do they have evidence? Did anybody see him tampering with McGourt’s vehicle?”

  “There’s video showing him near the truck, but not actually meddling with it,” said Ted.

  “I think the case is mostly built on the witnesses and this supposed rivalry over Rosie Capshaw,” said Lucy, finally taking a seat and joining the others at the table.

  Jason was thoughtful, chewing on his mouth. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us,” he said.

  “Yeah,” agreed Nancy. “We’d better get started and hear what Rob Callahan has to say for himself. Looking on the bright side, it’s not far to the prison.”

  “Just up the hill,” said Ted, glancing at the window.

  “Well, we’re off,” said Nancy, standing up.

  “Nice to meet you all,” said Jason, closing his briefcase.

  “We’ll keep you posted,” said Nancy, before exiting the room.

  When they’d gone, Ted let out a big sigh and turned to Lucy. “What do you think? Does Rob have a chance?”

  Lucy gazed out the window, unable to take her eyes off the gray stone prison, surrounded by chain-link fencing and tall watchtowers. “I don’t know. I’m not too optimistic, but we’ve got to keep the faith. Best justice system in the world, right? Innocent until proven guilty.”

  “I hope so,” said Ted, leaning heavily on the table as he stood up.

  “You know, Ted, my daughter told me about a high school friend who spent a couple of months in the county jail on drug charges. She said this Allie Shaw was terrified of Gabe McGourt; she said he was one of the worst corrections officers.”

  “It’s no secret, Lucy. The guy was trouble.”

  “Well, do you want me to talk to Allie and see what she has to say? Maybe do a little opposition research?”

  “Not now,” said Ted, shaking his head. “Better not speak ill of the dead, at least not until his body’s cold.”

  “The sooner the better, if you ask me. The way this is going, Gabe McGourt is going to be our next saint. We need to get the truth out, and fast. That’s our job, isn’t it?” she said, realizing she was echoing her daughter’s argument.

  “No.” Ted shook his head. “Let’s wait and see what the lawyers advise. Meanwhile, you’ve got that school budget story to write. That’s top priority, and there’s a School Committee meeting Monday night.”

  “Monday?” Lucy had been looking forward to a quiet family dinner, followed by catching the final episode of her favorite TV mini-series.

  “Monday. And I want your story by ten on Tuesday morning, so I can post it online.”

  Lucy sighed, grateful for the invention of the DVR. “Aye, aye, sir.” She saluted and marched out the door, deciding to head for home to salvage what was left of her weekend.

  * * *

  The School Committee met in the administration building, a small one-story clapboard structure located behind the high school. The meeting had just started when Lucy arrived, joining the handful of concerned citizens, mostly parents, who bothered to attend the bi-weekly meetings. As she took her seat, she got a smile from the committee chairman, Lydia Volpe, who was a retired kindergarten teacher and had taught all of Lucy’s kids. Although she was definitely getting on in years, she’d remained slim and dressed in bright colors that flattered her olive complexion.

  “We’re hoping to finalize the budget tonight,” said Lydia to the assembled committee, “then we’ll submit it to the selectmen for their approval. A positive response from them will go a long way toward convincing the town meeting to vote in favor.” She glanced at the thick sheaf of papers on the table in front of her, then continued, “Most of our work is done; tonight we’re just hearing about a handful of new initiatives. First up, Maureen Clawson, who heads the phys ed department. I see you’re asking for an additional twenty-five thousand. Can you tell us what that’s for?”

  Maureen was a very tiny, very fit woman who tied her hair back in a ponytail and always dressed in a track suit. Tonight’s suit was bright green, with a strip of white piping on the sleeves and legs. “It’s for an eighth-grade sex-ed program we feel is urgently needed. The money will pay for materials and a part-time educator.”

  “Urgently needed?” inquired Phil Botts, the newest board member. He was a realtor and frequently pointed out that quality schools boosted property values.

  “Yes,” said Maureen, with a wry smile. “So far this year, we have five pregnant students.”

  “I see the need for sex ed,” said Francine Dewicki, a supermom who was a fervent booster of the school, “but isn’t eighth grade a bit young?”

  “One of our moms is fourteen,” said Maureen.

  “My question is why does the town need to fund this program?” asked George Wells, a middle-aged man who had a flourishing accounting business. “Isn’t funding available from the state?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Maureen, who had been waiting to get this off her chest. “The state legislature did indeed vote last year to fund sex ed in public schools, but the funds are administered by the county health department. I spoke to the director, requesting that she apply for the funds, and she told me it is unfortunately against her religious principles. She’s been quite vocal about her belief that sex should only take place within the bonds of matrimony and recommends we offer abstinence training instead of filling our children’s innocent heads with filth.”

  “But that doesn’t work, does it?” asked Lydia, her dark eyes flashing. “I mean, human nature being what it is.”

  “Research shows that abstinence training is ineffective,” offered Maureen, with a smirk. “Not that research was actually needed on the subject.”

  “Not if you’d seen what these girls wear to school,” observed George. “Pajamas, short shorts, ripped jeans, flimsy T-shirts . . .” He stopped, aware that Maureen and Francine were both giving him withering glances.

  “So are we ready to vote?” asked Lydia, eager to change the subject.

  Receiving nods all around, she called the question, which Lucy was pl
eased to see passed unanimously.

  When the meeting finally ended, sometime after eleven o’clock, Lucy sat right down at the kitchen table and finished up the school budget story on her laptop. She only made brief mention of the fact that the county health director was blocking available state funding for sex ed, but planned to take up the matter with Ted in hopes of investigating further. If the health director was blocking funds for sex ed, what else might she be doing? Cutting off funds to combat opioid addiction? What about HIV testing? It seemed something that readers would be interested in.

  When she arrived at the office the next morning, Ted announced he was pleased with her work on the school budget and had already posted her story.

  “Thanks,” she said, hanging her jacket on the coat stand. “What did you think about the county health director trying to block the state funds for sex ed?”

  “What?” inquired Phyllis, looking up from the classifieds she was entering into the computer. She was wearing one of her favorite sweatshirts, which was scattered with glittering sequined shamrocks.

  “She has religious objections. She wants abstinence education, believes sex should only take place within the bonds of matrimony.”

  “Who is this woman?”

  Lucy was flipping through the county government directory. “Her name is Martha Dodd,” reported Lucy. “Anybody know her?”

  Phyllis and Ted both shook their heads.

  “Well, I think we should investigate Ms. Dodd and the conduct of her office,” said Lucy. “She tried to throw a monkey wrench in the Irish Festival, sent one of her agents, who threatened to shut it down if they didn’t apply for a bunch of permits.”

  Ted didn’t seem thrilled by the idea. “I guess we’ve got to do it,” he said, reluctantly, staring down at his shoes. “It seems like a blatant misuse of power.”

  He looked so miserable that Lucy began to have second thoughts. “I don’t have to do it; there’s plenty of other stories.” She hadn’t noticed until now how he suddenly seemed to have aged and always seemed tired.