St. Patrick's Day Murder (23 page)

Barney looked doubtful. “Like the Hatfields and the McCoys?”

“Something like that,” said Lucy as a suspicion blossomed in her mind. She turned to Moira. “Who was your husband’s mother? What was her name? Her maiden name?”

“What on earth does that have to do with this?” demanded Moira.

“Possibly everything. Who was she?” said Lucy.

“Her name was Brigid, Brigid Heaney,” replied Moira.

Lucy felt as if she’d put the last piece in a jigsaw puzzle. Suddenly, everything made sense. “I knew it,” she said. “It’s not the Hatfields and McCoys. It’s the Malones and the O’Donnells. They go way back. Miss Tilley told me that Brigid Heaney, Old Dan and Dylan’s mother, worked for the O’Donnells years ago, until she left in a hurry and went back to Ireland and married her old boyfriend. A child, probably Old Dan, was born soon after.”

“Hold on, Lucy,” protested Barney. “You’re jumping to conclusions here. Think about it. Do you really think that Cormac O’Donnell would risk his future in politics to get even with…who? A maid or cook or somebody who hasn’t been seen or heard from for years and years?”

Lucy had to admit it was a bit of a stretch. But then she remembered Cormac wasn’t the only O’Donnell brother. “Not Cormac,” she said, slowly. “It must be Mikey Boy.”

Barney shook his head, and his jowls quivered. “No way. He’s gone. He’s been out of the country for years.”

“That’s what everybody thinks, but nobody actually knows his whereabouts. He could’ve come back, slipped in from Canada or something. Think about it. Remember that FBI guy that Mikey Boy killed. His body was mutilated, wasn’t it?”

“No head or hands,” admitted Barney. “Typical gangland stuff so the body couldn’t be identified.”

“Maybe,” said Lucy. “But I did some research on that brain ball thing, and I found that ancient Celtic warriors used to make them and carry them around for bragging rights.”

Barney looked at her as if she were crazy. “I’ve heard you come up with some pretty crazy ideas, Lucy, but this takes the cake. You think Mikey Boy has come home like some sort of Celtic warrior to avenge an old wrong? He’s risking his freedom, maybe even his life, to wipe out the Malones?”

Moira, who had finished answering the desk officer’s questions, suddenly spoke up. “And he’s doing a fine job of it, too.”

Barney’s head snapped around. “Do you think it’s Mikey Boy?”

“I have no idea,” said Moira. “I never heard of him ’til the other day. But somebody is out to get us, and it’s somebody who knows the old Irish tales.”

“Moira,” said Lucy, taking the woman’s hands in her own, “can you think of anyone who wants to harm your family?”

“On the contrary,” she said, lifting her chin up proudly. “We are the darlings of Irish theater. I thought everyone loved us.”

Barney shook his head and grabbed the incident report, which he quickly scanned, then told the desk officer to take it to the captain. He was soon back. “Captain wants to see you,” said the desk officer, pointing at Moira. When Lucy got up, too, he shook his head. “Just her,” he said, ushering Moira through the door.

Lucy looked at Barney. “What’s going on?”

“Captain wants to be sure before he calls the state police and requests another AMBER Alert.”

“Will he do it?”

“I don’t think he’s got any choice. The mother says her kid is missing, and it seems more’n likely she was abducted, probably snatched before she even set foot in the house. The crime-scene guys will go over the house. We’ll know more then.” He sighed. “You don’t s’pose she coulda wandered off on her own?”

“She’s an imaginative little thing and believes in fairies and all sorts of magical creatures, but it doesn’t seem likely. She’s not an outdoorsy kid, and it’s awfully cold today. And it still gets dark pretty early this time of year,” said Lucy, who was feeling guilty for forbidding Zoe to play with Deirdre. If she’d been at their house, this might never have happened. “She’s pretty self-sufficient. I have a feeling she’s used to spending a lot of time by herself. I think she would have gone into the house and made herself comfortable with a book until her mother got home.”

The door opened, and the desk officer was back with orders for Barney. “Captain wants you to take a look-see at the house. It’s on Bumps River Road.”

“I know where it is,” said Barney, following him through the door and leaving Lucy alone in the waiting room.

She sat for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do. Her first impulse was to stay put. She didn’t want to abandon Moira, who might need emotional support, or just a ride home. But as she sat in the empty room, listening to the tick of the big clock on the wall as the minute hand lurched its way through the hour, she began to have second thoughts. She knew how the police operated, and she was pretty sure Moira was undergoing some pretty intensive questioning by investigators following strict procedures. They would insist on questioning Moira alone; they wouldn’t want a companion confusing the issue. And if Moira needed a ride home, they had plenty of cars.

In fact, she realized as she left the building, there were signs that the captain was taking Deirdre’s disappearance very seriously. She could see through the window that the parking lot beside the station was filling up with official vehicles, including several from the state police and neighboring towns. And when she got in her car and started it, the AMBER Alert was announced on the radio.

Just hearing the description of Deirdre as “a nine-year-old, with freckles, wearing a pink parka and white snow boots” made Lucy feel as if a tight hand was squeezing her heart. Too often she’d read about innocent little girls who got into cars with neighbors or strangers, uncles or family friends, who promised them ice cream and treats but instead gave them something they’d never expected. After using them up, they threw the little girls’ broken bodies away in the woods or along a deserted road, like so much trash. And if Deirdre was in Mikey Boy’s clutches, there was no limit to what he might do.

When the white crime-scene van arrived, Lucy came to a decision. The van would go to the Malone house, which would be the focus of the investigation. But she had a different idea. There was another house she thought deserved a closer look: the O’Donnell place on Shore Road.

From the outside, the big, old Shingle-style mansion looked deserted. There were no cars in the white oyster-shell drive. There was no comfortable wicker furniture scattered on the big porches, no beach towels were drying on the railings, and no white muslin curtains flapped at the tightly closed and shuttered windows that looked blindly out toward the sea. All seemed closed up tight against the winter weather as Lucy walked around the house, looking for signs of habitation. There was nothing, nothing at all. Even the plastic garbage cans by the kitchen door were empty, Each one weighted by a single cement block.

It was when she was replacing the lid on the last one that she noticed a small, square door, probably originally designed for coal or ice deliveries when the house was built in the late eighteen hundreds. There was no reason why anyone would use it nowadays, but the winter brown grass in front of it had been worn away, down to bare earth. She stood, staring at it, trying to think of some explanation. An animal? No, the door was secured with a ring and hasp fastened by a padlock. As she stooped down to take a closer look, she remembered the words of the old prospector she’d encountered in the cemetery at Old Dan’s funeral. He’d recited an old Irish curse: “May the grass grow before your door.” She was thinking about this when a sudden caw made her jump. Looking up to the sky, she saw a flock of crows winging by, calling to each other. They flapped on, and she bent down again to examine the lock. It had the fuzzy, dull look that galvanized metal acquires when it is exposed to the elements, except for the area around the keyhole, which had bright and shiny scratch marks. Somebody had been using that door quite recently, somebody who didn’t want to make his presence known.

Lucy dropped the lock as if it were burning her hand and ran back to her car as quickly as she could. She didn’t think that Mikey Boy, and that’s exactly who she suspected it was, would appreciate her company, so she started the car and drove as quickly as she could down the drive. Once she was on Shore Road, deserted this time of year, she called the police station and asked to speak to Barney. Much to her surprise, she was put through.

“I thought you’d be out at the Malone house,” she said.

“Just got back.”

“Did you find anything?”

“Nope. Tire tracks, but they match Moira’s car.”

“I think I may have found something.” She took a deep breath. “Somebody’s been coming and going at the O’Donnell house.”

“I don’t think so, Lucy. We do regular patrols on Shore Road. I do ’em myself sometimes. There’s nobody out there this time of year except raccoons and crows.”

“Well, this raccoon can use a lock and key,” said Lucy, braking at the stop sign. “I think you ought to take a look inside the house.”

“Gosh, Lucy, you know I can’t do that without a warrant, and with all this AMBER Alert going on, how do you think I’m going to get the captain to call the judge? Huh?”

Lucy knew he was right. The department wasn’t equipped to handle much more than traffic stops and petty crimes. “Well, can you come and take a look at the lock? From the outside?”

“Yeah, I’m due for a break. Meet me at the Quik Stop.”

Lucy had an enormous cup of coffee with cream and eight sugars and a bag of donuts ready for Barney when he pulled alongside her in the cruiser. She hopped into the passenger seat, and he swung out of the parking lot in that confident way cops have, not seeming to check if anybody’s coming. He made short work of the donuts and coffee as he sped down the road, with his lights flashing. Minutes later they were both crouched down by the door, studying the lock and examining the ground.

“You’re right, Lucy,” he said, finally, as he straightened up. “Somebody’s been living here.” He nodded toward a small cellar window. “See that? The window’s been covered with cardboard so the light won’t show.”

Lucy hadn’t noticed it before, but Barney was right. She listened as he pulled out his radio and reported their findings to the station in an unemotional, businesslike tone. It wasn’t until he clicked off that he allowed his emotions to show.

“Whew,” he said, his eyes bright with excitement. “This is something. I mean, if Mikey Boy is really back and I, I mean we, discover him and they actually capture him, well, you know. Wow!”

“It would be quite a scoop,” said Lucy, picturing herself receiving first place for investigative reporting at the New England Newspaper Association convention.

“Yeah,” agreed Barney, imagining himself on
Inside Edition
, chatting with Deborah Norville.

Their daydreams were interrupted by the arrival of the crime-scene van. “So whatcha got?” demanded the head technician.

“This house is supposed to be deserted, but somebody’s been using it,” said Barney, leading him to the door.

“Whose house is it?” asked the technician, quickly surveying the situation.

“The lieutenant governor’s,” said Barney.

The tech’s eyebrows shot up. “Cormac O’Donnell? Say, isn’t his brother wanted by the FBI?”

“He’s the one,” said Barney.

The tech gave a low whistle, then crouched by the door and lifted the lock with a pencil to examine it. He straightened up slowly, examining the ground in front of the door, and Lucy found herself holding her breath. What if they were wrong? What if all they’d done was start a big goose chase? “Cameras,” said the tech. “I need pictures. We’ve definitely got signs of entry by somebody who doesn’t want to use the front door.”

Lucy had never seen anything like it. The sun had set, briefly tinting the sky a blazing shade between pink and orange, but it was as light as day outside the O’Donnell place, thanks to bright lights set up by police investigators. The entire state police force seemed to be on the scene, along with local cops from Tinker’s Cove and nearby towns, and a handful of FBI and ATF investigators, identifiable by the white initials on their black Windbreakers. The news of a possible Mikey Boy capture had spread fast, and several network TV trucks were parked on Shore Road, with their satellite dishes thrust high into the sky on collapsible poles.

The investigators were concentrating on the cellar, where it was clear that Mikey Boy had taken up residence. He’d made himself quite comfortable with a cot and sleeping bag. He had a fancy radio that picked up international stations and had even rigged up cable TV.

“I don’t think he went to all this trouble to watch
American Idol
, said one agent, lugging out the TV.

“Nah,” agreed another, who was carrying the tagged radio. “A fugitive’s gotta keep up with the news.”

The agents were systematically stripping the cellar, carrying away everything as evidence, right down to the boxes of groceries. They were also looking for a hidey-hole or escape hatch, but Lucy gathered from their conversation that they weren’t having much success. “They sure don’t build ’em like this anymore,” said one cop, emerging from the cellar, with cobwebs and dust clinging to his white jumpsuit. “Those cellar walls are solid rock, three feet thick.”

“Well, it’s all yours,” said another, who was carrying a box of assorted items, which he added to the collection set on the lawn. “This is the last of the stuff.”

Another technician, who was logging the items as evidence before stowing them in a van, nodded.

Curious, Lucy approached and started checking out the stuff. It would make a good human interest angle. What sort of stuff did Mikey Boy have in his hidey-hole?

A lot of peanut butter, she discovered, and plenty of toilet paper. He apparently had a sweet tooth, judging from the large amount of candy, with a special fondness for Butterfinger bars. There were a couple of bottles of Jameson, too, but they hadn’t been opened. There were plenty of warm clothes and boots, a pair of high-powered binoculars, and in the same box, a metal detector.

Lucy stared at it so long that the technician noticed. “It’s a metal detector,” he told her. “Mebbe he was looking for some loot he’d buried years ago. They never did turn up that two million from the armored truck job.”