St. Patrick's Day Murder (18 page)

Zoe’s face closed up, and she got up from the table. “I don’t want to miss the bus,” she said. She put on her coat and packed her lunch in her backpack and went out without kissing her mother good-bye. Lucy stood at the kitchen sink, watching through the window as Zoe walked slowly down the driveway. She looked exactly like someone who’d lost her best friend. Lucy sighed and glanced at the clock.

“You’d better hurry, Sara,” she said.

When they were both gone, she sat down at the table, where Bill was working on a second cup of coffee.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at her,” she said. “She’s grief-stricken.”

He shrugged. “She knows you’re upset about Molly.”

“I’ll apologize when she gets home from school.”

“I bet she’ll have forgotten all about it by then.”

“I doubt it.” Lucy exhaled. “I wish she’d forget about fairies.”

“It’s too bad. She had a nice friendship going with Deirdre.”

“She really misses her.”

“If only Deirdre didn’t come with a whole retinue of wee folk,” said Bill, chuckling.

“Maybe I could talk to Moira mother to mother and get her to tell Zoe that it’s all make-believe.”

“Have Deirdre keep the sprites and elves at home,” said Bill, smiling. “And the girls can only play here, under your supervision.”

“Right,” said Lucy. “We’ll get her hooked on video games and rap music.” She smiled for the first time that morning. “How’s that for revenge?”

Chapter Fourteen

W
hen Lucy got back to the hospital, she found Molly had been moved out of the emergency room and was comfortably settled all by herself in a semiprivate room with a stunning view of the harbor.

“Nice digs,” said Lucy, giving her a peck on the cheek. Today Molly’s face was even more puffy and swollen, which Lucy knew was a symptom of toxemia. She’d looked it up on Google before leaving the house that morning. It hadn’t made for encouraging reading.

“It looks as if I’m going to be here for a while,” said Molly. “Doc Ryder says I’ll probably have to stay here until the baby is born.”

Lucy had expected as much. “How do you feel?”

“Stupid,” said Molly, shaking her head ruefully. “I thought all this swelling was just part of pregnancy. I didn’t know it meant something’s wrong.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” said Lucy. “I’ve had four kids, and I didn’t know about it until I looked it up on the computer this morning.” She paused, looking out the window and watching a seagull circling against the blue sky. “It could have been a lot worse.”

“I know.” Molly stroked her big stomach. “They say the baby’s okay, but I have to stay here so they can monitor my blood pressure. If it goes up again, they’ll do a C-section.” She shrugged. “That’s not so bad. Lots of people actually choose caesareans these days.”

Lucy nodded and squeezed her hand. Apparently, Doc Ryder hadn’t told her the whole story. That the baby was compromised because of the toxemia, and that Molly herself was at risk of convulsions, organ damage, and even coma.

“Everything will be fine,” said Lucy, trying to reassure herself as well as Molly. “You must do exactly what they tell you. Now, what can I bring you? Books? Magazines? Knitting?”

“Nothing right now. Toby promised to go to the library and get me a bunch of books. Meanwhile, I’ve got the TV. And I’ll probably sleep some,” she said, yawning.

Lucy took the hint. “I’d better go, then. I’ll be back tonight.”

Lucy left, intending to get a pretty nightgown for Molly to replace the hospital gown, and stopped at the nurse’s station to check that she could wear them.

“No problem,” said the nurse.

“How’s she doing—really?” asked Lucy.

“I’m not supposed to discuss a patient’s condition,” she said, leaning over the counter, “but, well, she reminds me of my own daughter, and she’s so young. She’s going to need a lot of support.”

Hearing this, Lucy was suddenly ashamed that she had been so critical earlier, fretting over the fact that Molly and Toby weren’t married. Now that didn’t seem so important. “We’ll be here for them, that’s for sure,” promised Lucy.

“This is one of those touch and go situations that can change in an instant.”

“I was afraid of that,” said Lucy.

“We’re keeping a real close eye on her,” said the nurse. “Try not to worry.”

“Sure,” said Lucy.

Leaving the hospital, she knew that worry was going to be a constant companion until Molly was safely delivered of a healthy baby. No matter how often she shoved it aside to think of something else, it would come right back, catching her when she least expected it. No, worry was going to be around for a while.

Lucy had called Ted earlier and knew he wasn’t expecting her to come to work until later in the day, if at all, so she decided she might as well pay a visit to the Malones and tackle the fairy issue. She was having enough trouble dealing with real problems; she didn’t need made-up ones.

She’d heard that they had moved out of the inn and taken possession of Old Dan’s bungalow right after the funeral, so she headed for Bumps River Road, on the other side of town. Unlike most of Tinker’s Cove, where the historical commission made sure everyone conformed to strict guidelines of “appropriateness” when it came to paint color, roof shingles, and even light fixtures, and comprehensive zoning regulations restricted new development, Bumps River Road was an uncontrolled mix of small businesses, like auto body shops and landscape out-fits, with a scattering of ramshackle houses, all tucked in around the town dump. The area had actually improved in recent years, ever since the smelly dump had been converted into a transfer station, where trash was collected and shipped to a regional disposal facility. Lucy occasionally missed the old dump, where the rule that one man’s trash was another’s treasure meant that you often took home as much as you left, but she didn’t miss the enormous flock of seagulls that converged as soon as you backed up to the edge of the pit, squabbling over your garbage even before it hit bottom.

Some of the businesses on the road had taken their cue from the neatly landscaped transfer station and had fixed up their places, applying fresh paint, installing fences and security lights, spreading blacktop for parking, and even laying down a few strips of loam and a bush or two. A few of the houses had been rehabbed in recent years, too, but not Old Dan’s bungalow.

It was set apart from the others, down a winding dirt driveway. Pine saplings and scraggly low-bush blueberries were filling in the unkempt yard, where a couple of rusty automobile carcasses were rotting away on cement blocks, the tires having been thriftily removed and probably sold. The house had also been neglected. There the paint peeled from the window frames, the porch sagged, and the roof shingles that hadn’t blown away were cupped and curling. A straggly tree stood in the yard. Limbs broken in winter storms dangled down dangerously, and a few crows called noisily from their precarious perches in the very topmost branches.

The derelict bungalow was so unwelcoming, and the caws of the crows so harsh, that Lucy almost decided not to stop but to go right on home. Appearances were deceiving, she reminded herself. Dylan and Moira couldn’t be blamed for Old Dan’s slovenliness; indeed, on closer inspection, she saw the windows had recently been washed, as had the curtains, and the brass doorknob polished. A brand-new welcome mat had even been laid on the rotting porch. Somewhat reassured, she got out of her car, mounted the sagging steps to the porch, and knocked on the door.

At the sound, the crows rose from the tree and flapped around, making a terrific racket with their caws. Watching from the shelter of the porch, Lucy couldn’t decide which was worse: their noisy squawks or their silent, brooding watchfulness when they settled back onto their roosts. She liked birds well enough. She even set out a bird feeder in winter and enjoyed watching the chickadees and nuthatches and cardinals, which were regular visitors. She even liked blue jays, admiring their bright blue feathers and cocky attitude, but she didn’t like crows. They were too smart, too aggressive, and altogether too nasty, with their habit of snatching other birds’ helpless hatchlings from their nests and gobbling them up.

Getting no answer from inside, Lucy tapped again on the glass pane in the door, then cupped her hands around her eyes and peered in. This time the crows remained quiet, but she could see their reflections in the glass, their dark, beaky shapes silhouetted against the bright sky. Now that they had settled down and stopped cawing, she became aware of an eerie wailing sound. Pressing her hands tighter against the glass, Lucy strained to see inside the house. As her eyes adjusted, she finally was able to make out a kneeling figure. It was Moira kneeling over Dylan, who was lying flat on the floor, keening as she had at Old Dan’s funeral.

Lucy tried the knob and discovered the door was unlocked, so she let herself in and rushed to Moira’s side, where she quickly assessed the situation. Dylan was sprawled on his back, apparently felled by a blow to his forehead. There was an enormous amount of blood, but Lucy was encouraged when she felt Dylan’s wrist and found a weak, fluttering pulse.

“He’s alive, Moira. We have to get help.”

Moira didn’t react but kept on keening, rocking back and forth over her husband.

Lucy pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed 911. Reassured that help was on the way, she turned to Moira, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. “What happened, Moira?” she shouted. “Tell me what happened.”

Moira didn’t respond; she just kept on rocking and wailing, apparently in a state of shock. Lucy doubted she even knew she was there.

The wail of the siren as the ambulance came tearing down the driveway and the arrival of the EMTs shattered the spell, and Moira suddenly snapped out of her trance.

“Ohmigod, ohmigod,” she shrieked. “Leave him be.”

“Moira, they’ve come to help,” said Lucy. “He’s alive.”

“He is?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Yes. See. They’re putting an oxygen mask on him to help him breathe. He’s breathing. He’s bleeding. That’s a good sign.”

“Blood! Blood!” she shrieked, tossing her head back and throwing up her hands. “So much blood!”

Lucy was losing patience with Lady Macbeth, or whomever Moira was playing, but the EMTs were unmoved by her dramatics. “Head wounds bleed a lot,” said one, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone to Moira. “Are you his wife?”

“That I am, and what a terrible thing it was to find him like this,” said, Moira, clasping her hands together as if in prayer.

The EMT continued. “His vital signs are pretty strong, but we won’t know what’s what until we get him to the hospital and they do a CAT scan. Do you want to ride in the ambulance with him?”

“I’ll drive her,” volunteered Lucy. “That way she’ll have a ride home.”

With that, they hoisted the still-unconscious Dylan onto a stretcher and wheeled him out of the house to the ambulance. Lucy found Moira’s cloak hanging from a hook beside the door and draped it over her shoulders, then led her by the arm out of the house to the car. As she was starting the car, she remembered Deirdre. The little girl couldn’t be in the house, could she?

“Where’s Deirdre?” she asked Moira.

“With Dave Reilly. She loves helping him paint the scenery.”

“You’d better call him and ask him to keep her,” advised Lucy. “Do you need my cell phone?”

“No, I have one,” said Moira, hesitating a moment before opening it. Dave Reilly’s number was the first in the address book.

Once again, Lucy found herself sitting on an uncomfortable chair in the waiting area at the emergency room. This was getting to be a bad habit, she thought, casting a glance at Moira. She was sitting on the edge of her seat, anxiously awaiting the doctor’s report on her husband’s condition. Lucy wasn’t entirely convinced that she wasn’t playacting but tried not to pursue that train of thought. Instead, she asked her about Old Dan. It seemed too much of a coincidence that one brother was attacked so soon after the other’s violent death.

“I would never have guessed your husband and Old Dan were brothers,” said Lucy. “They seem so different. Were they close?”

Moira shrugged. “Well, Daniel moved to America some time ago.”

“But now with cheap long distance and e-mail, it’s easy to keep in touch.”

“I suppose they did. I never paid much attention. Why do you ask?”

“I’m thinking of doing a story on far-flung families for the paper,” said Lucy, who hadn’t really been intending to do any such thing but, now that she’d thought of it, was thinking it was a pretty good idea, after all.

“Daniel was quite a bit older than Dylan,” said Moira. “He’d already emigrated before Dylan was born.”

“But they were partners in the Bilge?”

“There was a bit of money when their mother died. I think that’s what it was. Daniel offered to sell Dylan a half interest in the business for his share of the inheritance. It seemed like a good deal for us.”

“Did they have any enemies?” asked Lucy.

“Old Dan must have,” said Moira. “But everybody loves my Dylan.”

“Not quite everybody,” said Lucy. “Somebody disliked him enough to conk him on the head.”

Moira narrowed her eyes, and Lucy wondered if she had an idea who might have attacked her husband, but if she did, she kept the thought to herself. Lucy was about to question her when the door swung open and Doc Ryder appeared. “Lucy!” he exclaimed. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

“No kidding,” said Lucy. “I came with Moira, Dylan’s wife.”

“I’m Doctor Ryder,” he said, taking Moira’s hand. “I just examined your husband.”

“Will he be all right?” asked Moira, clinging to his hand and whispering.

Doc Ryder covered her hand, now holding it with both of his. Lucy felt like groaning. You’d think a doctor would be able to resist Moira’s charms.

“I wish I had better news for you,” he said.

Moira gasped.

“Now, now,” he continued quickly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. He’s a strong man, and he’s holding his own. He has at least a fifty-fifty chance of a full recovery. Maybe more. I’ve spoken to the best brain man in the state, and we’re going to transfer your husband to University Hospital, where they have a lot more experience with head injuries.” He paused, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen anything like this in forty years of practice. The stone that hit him is lodged in the wound.”