St. Patrick's Day Murder (12 page)

“So you think he may be the killer?” asked Lucy.

“Could be,” said Horowitz, keeping his face blank.

Lucy seized on this admission, hoping for a scoop. “Can I print that in the paper?”

“Sure,” he said, with a slight smile. “You can say that at this point we haven’t eliminated anyone. Everyone’s a suspect.”

Lucy wasn’t about to admit he’d dashed her hopes and came right back with a question. “So you haven’t made much progress in the investigation?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he said. Before she could follow up with another question, he continued. “And, by the way, a piece of advice. Leave this investigation to us. This killer is a very dangerous person and I…well, I was going to say I’d hate to see you get hurt, but the truth is, you’re a nuisance, and my job would be a lot simpler without you poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, but I’m sure your husband and children would miss you. So keep that in mind, okay?”

For once, Lucy was speechless and stood mute, jaw dropped in astonishment, as Horowitz marched off toward his unmarked car. “And I thought he liked me,” she muttered as she, too, hurried to get out of the wind and into the shelter of her Subaru.

But no sooner had she seated herself behind the wheel and started the engine than she noticed the prospector Paul Sullivan walking slowly among the gravestones and scanning the ground with his metal detector. Realizing that she couldn’t pass up this serendipitous opportunity to continue her interview, she reluctantly got out of the car, leaving the engine running and the heater on high.

“I say, you must be cold,” she said, hailing him. “Do you want to sit for a bit in my car and get warm?”

“No thanks,” he said. “I dress for the weather.” It was true. His entire body was encased in a bright orange jumpsuit. “This is official Coast Guard winter gear. I got it from a guy who was retiring. It’s what the Coasties wear out at sea. It’s the best you can get.”

“I could use one,” said Lucy, resolving to make this interview short. “So tell me. Do you find a lot of valuables in the cemetery?” For a moment an awful thought crossed her mind. He couldn’t possibly be digging up jewelry from the graves, could he?

As if reading her mind, he answered, “The dead don’t give up anything, but the living do.” He showed her the small change he’d collected, along with a gold ring. “It’s not from a grave. Couldn’t be, because the dead are all buried in coffins. Somebody must’ve dropped it.”

“Nonetheless,” she said, with a shudder, “some people might think there’s something kind of creepy about prospecting in the cemetery.”

“Some people are afraid of ghosts,” he said, with a wink. “But not me. I like it here. It’s quiet, and it reminds me of something my mother used to say when somebody crossed her.”

“What was that?” asked Lucy.

“It’s an old Irish curse,” he said, chuckling and sweeping his metal detector across the dead grass. “May the grass grow before your door.”

Lucy was back in the car, holding her frozen hands in front of the heat vents, before she realized what it meant. If the grass was growing unchecked on the path to your front door, it meant you weren’t coming and going. You no longer walked the earth, because you were dead.

Chapter Nine

S
aturday morning a light, wet snow was falling but wasn’t enough to get excited about. Moira, however, didn’t see it that way when she arrived bright and early to drop off Deirdre. Sara had been pressed into service as a rather unwilling child minder while Lucy was at the rehearsal. “Not a baby-sitter, Mo-om,” insisted Zoe, “because we’re not babies.”

“Oh yes, you are,” said Sara. “If you need a baby-sitter, you’re a baby.”

“Am not.”

“Are so.”

And so it went until Lucy came up with the politically correct term of
child minder
and sweetened the deal by promising to pay Sara a couple of dollars an hour, far below the going rate but better than nothing at all. Nevertheless, Sara was hardly civil when Moira and Deirdre arrived. Moira couldn’t get over the snow and exclaimed about it while Lucy removed Deirdre’s parka.

“We don’t get much snow in Ireland, you know. I wish we did. It’s
so
beautiful. I
love
the way it sticks to the trees and turns everything
ordinary
into a
winter wonderland
. It’s like
fairyland
, isn’t it, Deirdre?”

Melting snowflakes glistened in Deirdre’s jet-black hair and stuck to her long eyelashes, making the little girl look even more beautiful and ethereal than usual. “Can we play in the snow?” she asked.

“Sure,” said Lucy, “if it’s all right with Sara. She’s in charge while your mother and I are at the rehearsal.”

“And I don’t want any nonsense from you midgets, either,” said Sara, pouring milk into her bowl of cereal.

“Sara, you need to adjust your attitude,” chided Lucy. “I’m counting on you to be responsible and to set a good example.”

“Sure, Mom,” said Sara, shuffling off to the family room in her fuzzy slippers.

“It’s just an act,” an embarrassed Lucy told Moira. “She’s really very reliable. She’ll take good care of the girls.”

“I don’t doubt it. I remember being a rebellious teenager myself. I must have driven my mum to distraction. I was crazy about the boys,” said Moira as they left the house and got in her car. “I used to sneak out of my room at night and go off to the clubs with my girlfriends. We were underage, but they always let us in. We’d dance all night and then be too tired to get up for school the next morning. We’d have to go, though, and the sisters would be furious with us when we couldn’t keep our eyes open in class.”

She started the car and reversed neatly enough, but when she shifted into drive and pressed the gas pedal, the car skidded crosswise down the drive, fortunately coming to a stop before the mailbox.

“What happened?” asked Moira, wide-eyed.

“You’re not used to driving in snow,” said Lucy, trying to seem calm even though her heart was pounding. “You need to go slow and accelerate very gently, and if you start to skid, steer into the skid and, whatever you do, don’t brake.”

“But how do I stop the car if I can’t brake?”

“You go slow to start with, and you anticipate stops, tapping the brake gently so you don’t lose control.” Lucy paused, letting her advice sink in. “Are you ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” said Moira, backing the car slowly away from the mailbox and then creeping onto Red Top Road, fishtailing slightly as she made the turn. “I’m beginning to think snow isn’t quite as wonderful as I thought,” she said. “Maybe rainy old Ireland isn’t so bad after all.”

They were late arriving at the church hall, and the rehearsal was in full swing. Brian Donahue and the crew were hard at work at the rear of the stage, hammering the scenery together. Frank was at the piano, leading the chorus in some warm-up vocalization exercises, and Dylan was coaching Dave Reilly, who was playing the lead part of Woody, on his lines. No wonder he was having trouble, thought Lucy as she hurried over to take her place with the chorus. The Claws’ rock repertoire was bigger on wails and groans than actual lyrics.

Now that she had a couple of chorus rehearsals under her belt, Lucy felt a lot more comfortable singing with the group and thought she did all right. She didn’t get any dirty looks from the others, and Frank didn’t single her out for a correction as he did some of the singers. They’d gone through all of the songs and been instructed to know the lyrics by heart for the next rehearsal when Frank introduced Tatiana Olsen, the local dance teacher who was playing the part of Susan.

Lucy knew Tatiana from the days when Elizabeth and Sara took ballet lessons, but she hadn’t seen her in a while. Amazingly enough, she didn’t seem to have aged a bit. Her long hair was still dark and glossy, her back was straight, and she hadn’t gained a pound.

“Look at her,” whispered Pam, with a nudge. “Doesn’t she look fabulous?”

“It must be all that dancing,” whispered Rachel.

“Exercise really works,” said Lucy, with a huge sigh. “It’s not fair.”

“Tatiana’s going to teach you some basic dance steps,” Frank told the chorus members, then called for Moira to join them. “We need you, Moira, for the first act finale, and you, too, Woody, I mean, Dave.”

With a nod to Dylan, Dave bounded up onto the stage and made a low, sweeping bow to Tatiana, as if he were D’Artagnan bowing before the Queen of France. The flamboyant gesture wasn’t missed by Moira, who was across the room, pouring herself a cup of coffee. Narrowing her eyes, she took her time, adding sugar and creamer and leaving the paper packets scattered on the table, completely ignoring the trash basket.

“Moira, darling, we’re waiting,” called Frank, and all heads turned in her direction. Only then, when she was certain everyone was watching, did she begin her approach to the stage, sipping her coffee as she crossed the room. Finally reaching the steps to the stage, she set her half-empty cup on a windowsill, then took her place next to Dave.

Frank looked about ready to explode, his face and even his ears turning an unhealthy shade of red, but Tatiana remained serene, arranging the chorus members behind the leading couple and teaching them all some simple combinations to accompany “Great Come-And-Get-It Day,” the rousing song and dance number that climaxed the first act. After running through the steps a few times, she suggested they try it with the music. Frank took his place at the piano, and they stumbled through the number, trying to dance and read their sheet music at the same time. Tatiana, meanwhile, instructed Moira and Dave in their solo
pas de deux
, performed in front of the swaying and humming group while singing a few lines as a duet.

Moira had no trouble at all projecting her, or rather Sharon’s, interest in Woody by swinging her hips provocatively and holding hands rather longer than necessary, but when she attempted to sing her line, she was only able to gasp out a few words before giving up entirely.

Frank abruptly banged out a chord, bringing everything to a sudden stop. “Moira, my dear,” he began, speaking in an extremely condescending tone, “this simply won’t do. It needs to be lively, darling. It should trip off your tongue while your little feet are doing their thing. We’ll have to think of something.” He adopted a thoughtful pose, scratching his chin, and then lifted his face as if suddenly inspired. “I know. We’ll record your part, and you can lip-synch. How’s that?”

Moira glared at him. “Who do you think I am? Ashlee Simpson?”

“Now, now, darling. You know they all do it. All the big stars do it in concert,” said Frank. “You don’t think million-dollar divas can do all those gymnastics and then belt out a tune. It can’t be done. There’s no shame in it.” He paused. “We have the technology.”

“Technology be damned,” she said. “What if it doesn’t work? Then I’m stuck out there looking a fool. I won’t do it.”

“Well, what do you suggest, then?” asked Frank.

“For one thing,” she began, tossing her head and glaring at Tatiana, “we could adjust the choreography. I know your intentions are good, but you’re obviously an
amateur
. This number calls for an entirely different approach. It needs to be reworked. It’s simply no good.” She smiled condescendingly at Tatiana. “Trust me. I know what pleases an audience.”

Tatiana lifted her chin and stared at Moira through her lashes. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “I tend to forget that most people aren’t in dancing shape.”

Moira pulled herself up to her full height and was about to deliver a retort but was cut off by Frank.

“The choreography’s not the problem,” he declared, smiling at Tatiana, “and we don’t have time to change it. The show’s in four weeks.” He sat back down at the piano and played a few notes before turning to Moira. “I would have thought a
professional
like yourself would have come better prepared.”

“How dare you!” shrieked Moira, with a dramatic toss of her head. “Who do you think you are—a church organist, for Chrissake—to criticize me, who’s been appearing on stage ever since I was six years old!”

Frank turned to Tatiana. “And she still acts like she’s six years old.”

“That’s it!” declared Moira, stamping her feet. “I’m not sticking around to be insulted! I’m out of here!”

And they all watched openmouthed as she grabbed her cloak from the chair it was lying on and stormed out of the hall, slamming the door behind her so hard that her half-empty cup of coffee toppled off the windowsill and splashed on the floor.

“Oh, dear,” said Lucy, nudging Rachel and Pam, “there goes my ride.”

Dylan watched her go, then approached Frank. Unlike his temperamental wife, Dylan seemed calm and collected, with a businesslike expression on his face.

Frank struck a chord on the piano. “Take ten, people,” he said.

The cast members broke into little groups. Some helped themselves to coffee from the industrial-size pot on the counter that divided the hall from the kitchen, a few went outside for a smoke, and others got Cokes from the machine in the hall. Rachel cleaned up the spilled coffee, then joined Pam and Lucy on the row of seats set along the wall.

“Only four weeks ’til Saint Patrick’s Day,” said Rachel. “Do you think we’ll be ready?”

“Not if the star of the show walks out whenever things don’t go her way,” said Lucy.

“Come on,” said Pam. “Frank was awfully hard on her. Nobody knows their lines yet.”

“I don’t agree,” said Rachel. “He was right. A professional should have prepared, gotten her voice in shape, and learned the songs, taken some dancing classes.”

“Maybe you’ll get the part after all,” said Lucy, nudging Rachel. “Frank seems pretty ticked off.”

Frank’s face had gotten quite red, and he was apparently mincing no words in his discussion with Dylan, even though he was keeping his voice low. Whatever he was saying, Dylan didn’t seem to be taking it well. Finally, he erupted and shouted, “You may be the musical director, but don’t forget, I’m the director. I”—he was stabbing his chest—“make the final decisions!”