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  “You could try staying sober,” said Lucy.

  All three looked at her as if she were crazy.

  “Or find another bar,” she added.

  “The others don’t open ’til noon,” said Brian. “Town bylaw.”

  “Old Dan has a special dispensation?” she asked.

  The others laughed. “You could say that,” said Dave, with a bit of an edge in his voice. “He sure doesn’t play by the same rules as the rest of us.”

  “Special permission. That’s good,” said Brian.

  “Yeah, like from the pope,” said Frank, slapping his thigh. “I’ll have to tell that one to Father Ed.” He checked his watch. “Come to think of it, I wonder where he is? He usually stops in around now.”

  My goodness, thought Lucy, echoing her great-grandmother who had been a staunch member of the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union. She knew there was a lot of drinking in Tinker’s Cove, especially in the winter, when the boats sat idle. Some joker had even printed up bumper stickers proclaiming: “Tinker’s Cove: A quaint little drinking village with a fishing problem,” when government regulators had started placing tight restrictions on what kind of fish and how much of it they could catch and when they could catch it. She’d laughed when she first saw the sticker on a battered old pickup truck. After all, she wasn’t above pouring herself a glass of wine to sip while she cooked supper. She certainly wasn’t a teetotaler, but her Puritan soul certainly didn’t approve of drinking in the morning.

  The laughter stopped, however, when they heard a siren blast, and the birds at the end of the pier rose in a cloud, then settled back down.

  “Something washed up,” said Lucy, by way of explanation. “Probably a pilot whale.”

  The others nodded, listening as the siren grew louder and a police car sped into the parking lot, screeching to a halt at the end of the pier. The birds rose again, and this time they flapped off, settling on the roof of the fish-packing shed.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” said Dave. “Real bad.”

  He took off, running across the parking lot, followed by Brian and Frank. Lucy stood for a minute, watching them and considering the facts. First, Old Dan was missing, and second, a carcass had turned up in the harbor. She hurried after them but was stopped with the others at the dock by Harry, who wasn’t allowing anyone to pass. At the end of the pier, she could see her friend Officer Barney Culpepper peering down into the icy water.

  “I know Barney,” she told Harry as she pulled her camera out of her bag. “He won’t mind.”

  “He said I shouldn’t let anybody by,” insisted Harry, tilting his head in Barney’s direction.

  Lucy raised the camera and looked through the viewfinder, snapping a photo of Barney staring down into the water. From the official way he was standing, she knew this was no marine creature that had washed up. “I guess it’s not a pilot whale?” she asked, checking the image in the little screen.

  Harry shook his head.

  “It’s a person, right?” said Dave. “It’s Old Dan, isn’t it?”

  Lucy’s fingers tightened on the camera. There was a big difference between jumping to a conclusion and learning it was true, a big difference between an unidentified body and one with a name you knew.

  “I’m not supposed to say,” said Harry.

  “You don’t have to,” said Brian. “It’s pretty obvious. The Bilge has been closed for days, and there’s been no sign of him. He must’ve fallen in or something.”

  “Took a long walk off a short pier,” said Dave, with a wry grin. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “He was known to enjoy a tipple,” said Frank. He eyed the Bilge. “He’ll be missed.”

  “What a horrible way to go,” said Lucy, shivering and fingering her camera. “In the cold and dark and all alone.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t alone,” said Dave, raising an eyebrow.

  “What do you mean?” asked Lucy. “Do you think somebody pushed him in?”

  “Might have,” said Frank. “He made a few enemies in his time.”

  Dave nodded. “You had to watch him. He wasn’t above taking advantage, especially if you’d had a few and weren’t thinking too hard.”

  Something in his tone made Lucy wonder if he was speaking from personal experience.

  “And he wasn’t exactly quick to pay his bills,” said Brian, sounding resentful.

  Another siren could be heard in the distance.

  “So I guess he won’t be missed,” said Lucy.

  “No, I won’t miss the old bastard,” said Frank. “But I’m sure gonna miss the Bilge.”

  The others nodded in agreement as a state police cruiser peeled into the parking lot, followed by the white medical examiner’s van.

  “The place didn’t look like much,” said Brian.

  “But the beer was the cheapest around,” said Dave.

  “Where else could you get a beer for a buck twenty-five?” asked Frank.

  The three shook their heads mournfully, united in grief.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Leslie Meier lives with her family in Massachusetts. Her newest Lucy Stone mystery, FATHER’S DAY MURDER, was published in hardcover in June 2003. She is currently working on the eleventh, which will be published in 2004. Leslie loves to hear from her readers and you may write to her c/o Kensington Publishing. Please include a self-addressed stamped envelope if you wish a response.

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  Copyright © 1991 by Leslie Meier

  Previously published in a hardcover edition by Viking and a paperback edition by Dell under the title MAIL ORDER MURDER.

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  ISBN: 978-0-7582-2889-5