St. Patrick's Day Murder (8 page)

“Break it up,” he said, grabbing each man by the shoulder and pulling them apart. “If you’ve got to have a fight, take it outside, but don’t be knocking over the Jameson whiskey. Don’t you know it’s sacrilege?”

“Right, Father, right,” panted Dylan. “I shouldn’t be fighting at my own brother’s wake.”

“And you,” said Father Ed, pointing a finger at Dave. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Now get yourself out of here, and I expect to see you at confession tonight and at mass bright and early tomorrow morning.”

Dave hung his head. “Yes, Father.”

“Now be off with you,” said Father Ed, shooing Dave out the door. When it closed behind him, Father Ed turned to the group. “It wouldn’t be a real Irish wake without a bit of a dustup, now would it?” he asked, and a number of people chuckled in agreement and began setting the room to rights. Frank produced a fiddle and began tuning it, soon producing a lively jig.

When he’d finished, Moira asked him to play “Danny Boy” for her, and she sang so beautifully that a couple of the old ladies had to dry their eyes. Other songs followed, and soon everybody was joining in, singing old tunes their mothers and aunts and fathers and uncles had sung to them. Lucy had never seen anything like it. This wasn’t like the formal recitals she was used to: it was simply a group of people joining together to sing the songs they loved. She recognized some of them, she even knew the words to a few, but for the most part, she just sat and listened until she realized it was getting late and she had to get home to make dinner. She dragged herself away, straining to hear the last bits of music as she crossed the parking lot to her car.

Chapter Six

“I
hear that wake was something else,” declared Phyllis when Lucy arrived at work on Monday morning. “Elfrida says there was a real hootenanny with fiddle music and singing.”

“Was she there? I didn’t see her,” said Lucy.

“Was she there? Are you kidding?” snorted Phyllis. “That one wouldn’t pass up a free meal.”

“There was plenty of food. And drink, too.”

“Well, one thing I will say for Elfrida,” said Phyllis, smoothing her sweater—a black cardigan trimmed with a tasteful scattering of jet beads—over her still substantial but somewhat deflated bosom, “she’s a teetotaler. Won’t touch a drop of alcohol. Not since her first husband died in that crash. Drunk as a skunk.”

“Elfrida certainly has had an interesting life,” said Lucy.

“You can say that again,” agreed Phyllis. “She’s on her fourth husband, and to tell the truth, I don’t think he’s going to last much longer.”

“Is he sick?”

“Strong as an ox. And a good provider, too. But Elfrida says he’s boring.”

“You can’t have everything.”

“That’s what I keep telling her, but she says stability isn’t everything. She needs more, she says.”

“It seems to me that having six kids would be exciting enough for anyone,” observed Lucy, sitting down at her desk.

“Didn’t I tell you? She’s pregnant again.”

“She’s a one-person population boom,” said Lucy.

“If you ask me, she should figure out what causes it and stop doing it,” sniffed Phyllis. “The IGA’s too crowded by far these days. And the traffic…”

Lucy smiled to herself as she booted up the computer. “You can’t blame it all on Elfrida. And it works the other way, too. We’ve printed quite a few obits lately.” She sighed. “I’ll be darned if I know what I’m going to write about Old Dan.”

“Might as well save yourself the trouble,” said Phyllis. “Everybody’s heard all about it already.”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s quite the attitude Ted’s looking for,” said Lucy as the door flew open and Ted breezed in.

“What attitude would that be?” he demanded, unzipping his jacket and tossing it at the coat rack, where it caught on a hook.

“All the news that’s fit to print and some that isn’t,” said Phyllis, smiling smugly. “That’s what I was telling Lucy.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Lucy, finding herself on the spot and not liking it very much. “We were just joking.”

“Oh.” He shrugged and sat down at his desk. “I heard that wake was pretty rowdy. I’d like to put it on the front page. Did you get any pictures?”

“I think so,” said Lucy. “I snapped a nice one of Frank Cahill playing the fiddle.”

“Fiddles at funerals? What next?” said Ted.

“It sure beats sitting around in the funeral parlor,” said Phyllis. “And Elfrida said the food was a lot better than the sherry and peanut butter and bacon hors d’oeuvres you usually get at the reception afterwards.”

“It was not the usual Tinker’s Cove funeral,” agreed Lucy, typing in the phrase as the lead for her story. Her fingers flew over the keyboard as the story seemed to write itself. When she finished, she turned to Ted. “Any news on the investigation?”

He shook his head. “The police have been interviewing Bilge regulars, but they’re not making much progress. That bunch isn’t real comfortable talking to the cops.”

“Guilty consciences, no doubt,” said Phyllis.

“You got it,” said Ted. “Though there’s a big difference between taking an undersized lobster now and then and slicing off somebody’s head. I don’t really see one of the regulars as the murderer.”

“Little grudges can get out of hand,” said Lucy, “and a lot of people had bones to pick with Old Dan.”

“Anybody in particular?” asked Ted.

“As a matter of fact, yes. Dave Reilly, you know that kid who plays with the Claws, he was complaining at the wake that Old Dan gypped him out of a winning lottery ticket. He came to blows with Dylan about it.”

“Probably just had a little too much of that free booze,” said Ted.

“Well, yeah,” said Lucy. “What do you think those guys do all day at the Bilge? They drink. Old Dan was always willing to pour another. He never cut anybody off that I ever heard of.”

“Me, neither,” said Phyllis, clucking her tongue. “Too much drink can bring out the devil in any man.”

“And Dave Reilly’s not the only one,” continued Lucy. “Brian Donahue’s been moaning around town about how Old Dan stiffed him on money he owed him for some repairs.”

“Makes you wonder how big a tab Brian had run up,” said Ted. “Old Dan probably figured they were even.”

“Not according to Brian,” said Lucy. “But that’s not really the point I’m trying to make. Just think. I never set foot in the Bilge until the wake, but if I can think of two people who had grudges against Old Dan, there must be a heck of a lot more who have really big chips on their shoulders.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” said Phyllis.

“I dunno,” said Ted. “I think Old Dan could have been into something outside of Tinker’s Cove. Like organized crime, the IRA, something like that.”

“You’ve been watching
The Sopranos
again, haven’t you?” accused Phyllis.

“Actually, yes,” replied Ted. “But the fact that he was beheaded doesn’t seem to fit with some drunk fisherman. It’s more like somebody is sending a message.”

“Somebody very evil,” said Lucy, shivering.

“You guys are giving me the creeps,” said Phyllis.

An hour or two later, Lucy found herself on the town beach, wishing she’d worn warmer clothes. She’d been fooled by the blue sky and bright February sunshine into thinking it was warmer than it actually was. A stiff northerly breeze was blowing across the water, whipping up whitecaps and tossing her hair, working its way up her coat sleeves and down her collar. On days like this, she couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be a fisherman out on the open sea. Maybe the physical work kept them warm, maybe they got used to it, but she was already thinking about retreating to the warmth of her car when she spotted her quarry. Shoving her hands deeper into her pockets, she struggled across the loose gravel, toward the lone metal prospector out today.

“Hi!” she hailed him. “Do you have a minute?”

“I’ve got all the time in the world,” he replied, slowly swinging the wand of his metal detector back and forth across the pebbles.

Unlike her, the prospector was dressed for the weather in an olive green army surplus parka with a fur-trimmed hood. Underneath the hood, she discovered he was well into his sixties, with bushy gray eyebrows, blue eyes, and red cheeks and nose. He was also wearing insulated pants and sturdy rubber boots.

“I’m Lucy Stone, from the
Pennysaver
. I’m writing a story about prospectors like yourself, and I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. I could use the company. It gets a bit lonely out here,” he said, extending his mittened hand. “Paul Sullivan’s the name.”

“Not too many people on the beach this time of year, are there?” said Lucy, taking his hand. “So tell me, what exactly are you looking for?”

“The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow,” said Paul, winking at her. “But until I find it, I’ll take whatever turns up. Rings and jewelry that people wore to the beach in the summer. Coins that fell out of their pockets. Doubloons washed up from sunken pirate ships…”

“Really?”

“Not yet,” said Paul, with a shrug, “but you never know.”

“What’s the most interesting thing you’ve found?”

“A little brass plate from a ship, with the words
life jackets
inscribed on it. I’ve always wondered what ship it came from and how it happened to sink.”

This was pretty good stuff, thought Lucy, scribbling away in her notebook. “And the most valuable?”

“A diamond ring.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No. Two carats. I had it appraised. They said it was worth seven thousand dollars.”

Lucy thought of the little half-carat solitaire engagement ring she was wearing on her finger. She never wore it when she went swimming or worked in the garden, but always placed it carefully on the crystal ring holder sitting on her dresser. “Some poor woman must have been awfully upset when she discovered she’d lost it,” she said.

“Finders keepers, losers weepers,” said Paul, winking again.

“You didn’t advertise for the owner? They might’ve given you a reward.”

“Or they might not,” said Paul. “I decided to play it safe and kept the ring.”

“Do you still have it?”

He shook his head. “All I’ve got is the Social Security, you see. The little bit I make from prospecting helps keep a roof above me head. So I sold it so I’d have something against a rainy day—or an empty oil tank.”

Lucy felt a surge of sympathy, tinged with fear for her own future. Chamberlain College was making fast work of the education fund, and there was no retirement fund at all for her and Bill. “On average, how much do you think you make in a year?” she asked.

“On average? I don’t know. I certainly don’t find a diamond ring every day, you know. And I didn’t get seven thousand, only about half that. So I guess, on average I make a couple of thousand a year.”

Lucy nodded. “It’s a lot of work, too, I imagine.”

“Ah, but there’s the health benefits. Plenty of fresh air and exercise—if I don’t catch me death of the pneumonia.”

By now it was blowing harder, and Lucy’s teeth were chattering. It was time to wind this interview up. “Well, thanks so much for your time. Do you mind if I take your picture for the paper?”

“Ah, better not. My ugly mug might break your camera.”

“Oh, I’ve heard that line before,” said Lucy, who was used to coaxing people to pose. “It won’t hurt a bit. I promise.”

But Paul Sullivan was having none of it. “No, no. I must insist,” he said firmly. “But I did see a couple of other prospectors down around the bend. Perhaps you could photograph them.”

“Thanks for the tip,” said Lucy, watching as he continued on his way across the beach, swinging the metal detector as he went. She cast a longing glance at the Subaru, which she knew would be toasty warm from sitting in the sun, and began trudging across the pebbly beach in the direction he’d indicated. It was tough going. She was walking against the wind, and her favorite slip-on driving shoes were too flexible to offer support on the slippery gravel. She finally reached the rock breakwater that sheltered the swimming area and clambered up onto the boulders to get a better view, but there was no sign of anyone on the beach. She must have missed them, she decided, pulling her beret down over her ears and shoving her hands in her pockets for the trek back. Or maybe they were never there at all, she thought, wondering if Paul Sullivan had sent her on a wild goose chase to avoid having his picture taken.

Back in the warm car, she rubbed her frozen hands together and tried to relax the muscles that had clenched against the cold, but she was seized with fits of shivering. When her hands had thawed enough to grip the steering wheel, she started the engine and drove slowly across the parking lot, which was empty except for a few seagulls, which waited until the car was almost upon them before walking out of the way. They didn’t consider her enough of a threat to bother flying.

Unlike the gulls, Lucy didn’t have the luxury of sitting in the sun. She was already late for a planning board meeting, and they were taking a vote on the first agenda item when she arrived.

“The board votes four to one to approve a site plan for six additional parking spaces at the Seaman’s Cooperative Bank,” said Chairman Ralph Nickerson, with a bang of his gavel.

“Thank you very much,” said the architect, rolling up the plans, which had been spread on a table in front of the board members.

“That goes for me, too,” said the bank president, shaking hands with each board member in turn.

“Next on the agenda, we have an application from Dylan and Daniel Malone for improvements to the façade of the Bilge, located at 15B Main Street, book two, page one twenty-three,” said Nickerson. “Are the applicants present?”

Dylan Malone stood up. “I am Dylan Malone,” he said, his brogue rather thicker than usual. “As you have probably heard, my brother, Daniel, is now deceased.”

“We extend our sympathies to you, Mr. Malone,” said Nickerson. The board members nodded in agreement. “I assume you wish to go forward with the application?”

“Yes, I do,” said Dylan, stepping forward and distributing copies of the plans to each member. “As the surviving partner, I am now the sole owner. My brother and I…” Here Dylan’s voice broke, and he took a moment to collect himself before continuing. “My brother and I had hoped to undertake a complete remodeling of the bar, transforming it into a full-service restaurant offering waterfront dining in the summer and fireside dining in winter. As I understand the situation, this board only has oversight of the exterior changes.”