St. Patrick's Day Murder Page 4

  “Of course, they are, Dylan,” replied Moira, stroking his cheek. “So tell me. Were you able to identify the body? Is it really your brother, Dan?”

  He bowed his head, resting his chin on his chest for a moment, then raised it and gazed at the ceiling, revealing a glistening tear in the corner of his eye. “I’m afraid there’s no doubt,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “His wallet and his driver’s license were found in his pocket.” He blinked furiously, attempting to hold back the tears that were threatening to come. “He had an Irish penny in his pocket.”

  “For luck,” said Moira, pressing her sobbing husband’s face to her breasts.

  Lucy felt like a voyeur, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the grieving couple.

  “Not that it did him much good,” mumbled Dylan.

  “That’s not for us to judge, Dylan,” said Moira, pronouncing her words in an even thicker accent. “For all we know, he had some sort of terrible cancer and was spared a painful, lingering death. We don’t know the whole story, do we? We only see a little bit, here and there, as if we’re looking through a telescope.”

  Her words seemed to give Dylan strength, and he straightened up. “You’re right. It’s not for me to despair, but to press on. That’s what Daniel would want, wouldn’t he?”

  “That’s the Malone way,” said Moira.

  “Aye, the Malone way. And Daniel was every bit a Malone.” He suddenly seemed inspired. “And we can’t let him leave this world without giving him a proper farewell. We’re going to give him a genuine old-style Irish wake, right there in the bar. That’s what we’re going to do.” He made eye contact with Lucy. “And will you help us get the word out that the whole town is invited?”

  Lucy readily agreed to run an announcement in the paper, but as she finally made her escape and hurried back to the office, she couldn’t help wondering if the scene she’d just witnessed had been genuine or if it had been staged for her benefit. She wanted to believe them, but she couldn’t help remembering that they were actors, after all, trained to manipulate the audience’s emotions.

  Chapter Four

  Lucy always woke with a wonderful sense of freedom on Thursday mornings. The deadline had come and gone, and, for better or worse, the past week’s work had been committed to paper and ink. This week’s edition was on its way to the readers, stacked and ready for purchase at the Quik Mart and IGA, and perhaps, even now, arriving in subscribers’ mailboxes.

  Ted wouldn’t be in the office until the eleven o’clock budget meeting, which meant Lucy would have most of the morning to herself, once she got her husband, Bill, a restoration carpenter, off to work and the two youngest girls, Zoe and Sara, off to school. The older children, Toby and Elizabeth, had pretty much flown the nest. Toby, the firstborn and only boy, and his fiancée, Molly, had bought a house together on nearby Prudence Path and were expecting their first child. Elizabeth, next in line, was a junior at Chamberlain College in Boston.

  Lying in bed, savoring the final few moments before the alarm went off, Lucy found her mind turning to Toby and Molly. She didn’t understand why they weren’t married, weren’t even thinking about it, even though the baby was due to arrive in only a few months. She was happy about the pregnancy and excited about the prospect of becoming a grandmother, but she would be a lot happier if the baby’s parents were married. She had even raised the topic, tactfully, with Toby, but to no avail. “It’s just a ceremony, a piece of paper,” Toby had insisted. “It doesn’t mean anything. We feel married.”

  The alarm sounded, and Lucy gave a little humph as she reached to turn it off. “I don’t care what Toby says. Feeling married isn’t the same as being married,” she told Bill as she sat up and reached for her slippers with her feet.

  “It’s too early in the morning to start that again,” said Bill, yawning and stretching.

  Lucy gave him a sharp look. “Sometimes I think you’re on Toby’s side. Don’t you care that your grandchild is going to be illegitimate?”

  “Not really,” he said, with a shrug, as he stood up. “I don’t think it matters all that much.”

  Lucy also got up, and they stood facing each other across the bed. “Of course, it matters. People should be married before they have children. That’s just the way it is. Bringing a life into the world is a big responsibility. What kind of parents will they be if they can’t even decide to get married?”

  Bill sighed. “They’re going to be fine parents. What matters to me is that the baby is healthy. That’s what’s important.”

  “Babies need stability to thrive,” said Lucy. “That’s why marriage is important: to create a stable home.”

  “Marriage doesn’t create a stable home,” said Bill, padding across the floor to the door, where he turned. “You know that as well as I do. Sometimes I think the real reason you want Toby and Molly to get married is so you and the girls can plan a wedding.”

  Lucy smiled, thinking of the three women she was going to meet for breakfast: Sue, Pam, and Rachel. They had been friends ever since they were young mothers, a tight group who minded each other’s kids, got together for potluck suppers, and shared tears and laughter. When the kids got older and they found themselves drifting apart, they started getting together for breakfast every Thursday to keep in touch. They eagerly followed reports on each other’s children, and Lucy would have liked nothing better than to announce that Toby and Molly had finally set the date.

  The buzz was louder than usual when Lucy arrived at Jake’s Donut Shack. Old Dan’s death was big news, especially to the crowd of unemployed fishermen and construction workers who began the day with a leisurely breakfast at Jake’s, then drifted over to the Bilge, where they remained until it was time for dinner. Even if they didn’t read the Pennysaver, and Lucy suspected most of that crowd was not subscribers, word had spread quickly about the gruesome find in the harbor. The story had even been picked up by the morning radio and TV news, but they didn’t provide any more information than Lucy had in her three-inch brief.

  The crowd at Jake’s all knew each other, and conversation was often general, including the whole room. “You know what this reminds me of?” asked one gray-haired fellow seated at the counter, who Lucy knew was a retired lobsterman. “That old ‘set her again’ joke.”

  “What joke’s that, Walt?” asked someone, giving him an opening to continue. Lucy stopped to listen, as did most everybody else.

  “Well,” began Walt, “there was this lobstahman who took his wife out in the boat with him one day to help set the traps. Now a woman doesn’t belong in a lobstah boat, everybody knows that, but maybe he wasn’t feeling good or something that day. Anyhow, as you’d expect, it wasn’t long before she began to scold him, telling him he wasn’t doing this or that right, and as it happened, whether by accident or on purpose I can’t say, but it so happened that she fell right out of the boat and into the water.”

  The gang at the counter nodded and laughed knowingly.

  “Well, this poor lobstahman was kinda sad and depressed about it all, ’cause even though she was a scold, she did keep him warm at night, and now all he had was the dog, a smelly old Labrador, with whiskahs longer than his wife’s.”

  By now the crowd was having a great old time, nudging each other and slapping their knees.

  “So, like I said, being kind of depressed, he went for a walk along the beach with an old buddy who helped him set lobstah traps now and again, and what to his amazement did he see, but his wife’s body, washed up on the shore, with twelve or thirteen big lobsters hanging on her. As you know, it wasn’t a pretty sight, and the lobstahman was very upset. ‘What should I do?’ he asked. ‘Well,’ said his buddy, ‘if I was you, I’d set her again.’”

  At this the room exploded in loud, raucous laughter. All except for Lucy’s friends, who were seated at their usual table.

  “I’ve lived here for more than twenty years,” she said, joining them, “but I’ll never appreciate Maine humor.”

&nb
sp; “It is a terrible joke,” agreed Rachel Goodman, who was known for her soft heart. She often convinced her lawyer husband, Bob, to take hopeless cases pro bono.

  “Especially considering that poor man they found in the harbor,” agreed Pam Stillings, who was married to Lucy’s boss, Ted.

  “It could almost put you off eating lobster,” chimed in Sue Finch, who prided herself on her gourmet cooking. “But not quite,” she added, and they all laughed.

  “So tell us, Lucy. What’s the inside scoop on Old Dan?” asked Rachel, taking a sip of the healthful herb tea she’d taken to drinking instead of coffee. Jake’s didn’t serve it; she brought the tea bags from home and ordered a pot of hot water.

  “No inside scoop this time. You know as much as I know,” replied Lucy.

  “Ted told me Old Dan’s brother is in town, along with his wife and child,” said Pam, checking that the dangling silver earrings she’d worn since college were still in place.

  “For the funeral? That was fast,” said Sue, who was checking her BlackBerry for messages. She was in the process of opening a new business, Little Prodigies Preschool, and it was never far from her mind.

  “No, no. He’s an actor,” said Lucy. “He’s going to direct the spring show at Our Lady of Hope.”

  “And she said she didn’t have the inside scoop!” exclaimed Rachel.

  “So what can I get you ladies this morning?” asked Norine, the waitress, setting a cup and saucer in front of Lucy and filling it with coffee. “The usual?” she asked, going round the table and topping off the others’ cups. “Hash and eggs over easy for Lucy, egg white omelet and whole wheat toast for Rachel, French toast for Pam and”—she cocked a disapproving look at Sue—“black coffee for her.”

  “I ate at home,” said Sue, who weighed herself every morning and restricted herself to water if she gained an ounce over what she considered to be her ideal weight, 110 pounds.

  “Like hell,” growled Norine, marching off to give Jake the order.

  “What’s it to her if I don’t want to look like a blimp?” complained Sue.

  “You really shouldn’t skip breakfast,” advised Rachel. “It’s the most important meal of the day.”

  “That’s absurd,” countered Sue, taking a sip of coffee. “The most important meal is cocktails….”

  “And you never skip that!” finished Lucy.

  “Darned tootin’,” said Sue, grinning.

  “So what’s this Dylan like?” asked Pam. “Ted says he’s very Irish, whatever that means.”

  “You could say that,” said Lucy. “And he’s very much the actor. He was wearing a white fisherman’s sweater and a silk scarf. Very eye-catching.”

  “Interesting,” said Sue, who was by far the best dressed of the group, in a clingy black turtleneck sweater and tailored wool slacks. Unlike most of the women in Tinker’s Cove, she even wore heels. “What about the wife?”

  “Also very dramatic,” said Lucy. “She was wearing a cape, a long one with a hood, and she has gorgeous red hair. They have a little girl, too, and she’s adorable.”

  “And he’s going to direct the show? Is that what you said?” asked Rachel. “They came all this way for an unpaid, volunteer job?”

  “No, he’s getting paid. Father Ed told me they’d hired a professional,” said Lucy. “The wife, that’s Moira, said it’s a busman’s holiday. Combining a family visit with a job.”

  Hearing Rachel humming a scrap of a tune, Lucy glanced at her curiously.

  Rachel blushed. “It’s from the show they’re putting on: Finian’s Rainbow. I was in it in college. It was great fun.”

  “I didn’t know you acted,” said Pam.

  “Isn’t she the sly one!” said Sue.

  “What part did you play?” asked Lucy, ever the reporter.

  “I was Sharon. The lead,” replied Rachel. “I sang and danced and fell in love with the leading man.”

  “In the play or in real life?” asked Lucy.

  “Both,” said Rachel

  “I bet it wasn’t Bob,” teased Pam.

  Rachel smiled. “It wasn’t Bob.”

  They were prevented from pursuing this line of inquiry when Norine arrived with the plates of food, and they all dug in. Except Sue, of course, who continued to sip her coffee and fiddle with her BlackBerry.

  Rachel put down her fork. “You know what would be fun? Let’s all be in the show!”

  “We’re not members of the church,” said Pam.

  “It doesn’t matter,” insisted Rachel. “It said in the announcement that everybody is invited to audition.” Noticing the lack of enthusiasm on the part of the others, she continued. “It will be fun! Honest. The songs are great, and the story is so funny. It would be a blast.”

  “I can’t sing,” said Lucy.

  “I get stage fright,” said Pam.

  “I’m too busy,” said Sue. “I mean it. I’m flat out with the preschool.”

  “Well, I admit Sue does have a lot going on right now,” conceded Rachel. “But, Lucy and Pam, aren’t you the ones who always say winter is unbearable because it goes on forever and there’s nothing to do and spring never seems to come?”

  Lucy had to admit the words had a familiar ring. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll try out, but they’ll never pick me.”

  “I’ll give it my best shot,” said Pam, “but I can’t guarantee I’ll show up on opening night.”

  “Believe me,” declared Rachel, “you won’t want to miss it!”

  Fueled by too much caffeine and a dollop of guilt over the huge, cholesterol-rich breakfast she’d consumed, Lucy hurried to the newspaper office to get a head start on the coming week. She hadn’t had a chance to write up the story about the harbor project. There would certainly be new developments in Old Dan’s death, and there were always listings, those press releases announcing ham and bean dinners, dance recitals, and new books at the library.

  “Well, aren’t you the early bird,” said Phyllis when she sailed through the door a bit before ten o’clock.

  Since this was later than her usual time, but earlier than she needed to be there, she wasn’t sure if she was being congratulated or chided. It was hard to tell with Phyllis these days. “I thought I’d get a head start on the listings,” she said, hoping to smooth Phyllis’s perpetually ruffled feathers.

  “I haven’t got them sorted yet,” sniffed Phyllis. It was her job to open the mail and file the press releases by date.

  “I can do that. No problem,” said Lucy, who knew Phyllis had been busy all week collecting information for the tax preparer.

  Phyllis considered this. “Okay,” she finally said, as if she were doing Lucy a favor instead of the other way around. “Oh, this came for you,” she said, handing Lucy a pink “While You Were Out” slip.

  “I haven’t had one of these in ages,” said Lucy, unfolding it.

  “I guess they don’t have voice mail in Ireland,” sniffed Phyllis. “She insisted I take a message.”

  Indeed, the message was from Moira, asking Lucy to call her at the inn. Lucy sat down at her desk and dialed the number on the slip and was immediately connected to Moira’s room.

  “Thanks so much for calling,” said Moira, speaking with that Irish accent, which almost made Lucy think she could smell the shamrocks. “I hate to bother you but…”

  “It’s no bother,” said Lucy, wondering if shamrocks did actually have an odor.

  “Well, there’s so much to do for the wake and all, and none of it is very interesting to a child.”

  Probably like grass, thought Lucy, or maybe clover. “Of course not,” she said. “Would she like to come and play with Zoe this afternoon? You could bring her over at three thirty or so, when the girls get home from school.”

  “You’re a lifesaver, Lucy,” said Moira when Lucy had finished giving her directions to the house.

  “I’m happy to do it,” said Lucy, basking in the warm glow of a good deed. “I’ll see you then.”

 
She spent the next half hour opening the mail and sorting it, keeping an eye out for possible leads for a feature story. Maybe an interview with Dylan, she thought, opening the fourth copy of the Finian’s Rainbow audition announcement. Mrs. Kelly apparently believed that the more copies she sent, the greater the chances it would actually appear in the paper. Lucy was tossing the extras in the trash when Ted arrived, looking rested and refreshed, with his hair still wet from the shower. The good mood didn’t last long; it usually evaporated as soon as he spied a typo in the paper.

  Lucy held her breath as he plucked a paper off the stack on the reception counter and scanned the front page. He nodded happily, turning the pages all the way through the local news, the editorials, even the sports. The frown didn’t appear until he got to the legal ads announcing upcoming hearings. “Hysterical Commission?” he bellowed. “Hysterical!!”

  Phyllis wasn’t about to be cowed. “Freudian slip,” she said, peering over her glasses. “They turned down my cousin Elfrida’s paint color.”

  “About time she painted that house,” said Ted. “What color did she want?”

  “Black and white.”

  “Those are approved colors,” said Ted. “What’s the problem?”

  “She wanted zebra stripes.”

  Lucy was giggling at her desk, earning a warning stare from Ted. “So you decided to get back by playing a little joke on them, is that it?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” said Phyllis, continuing to punch numbers into the adding machine. “Anyone can make a mistake.”

  “I give up,” said Ted, throwing his arms up. “Let’s figure out the news budget for next week.” He strode across the little office and sat down at his desk, swirling his chair around, flipping his notebook open, and propping one ankle on the other knee.

  “I’ll follow up on Old Dan,” volunteered Lucy.