St. Patrick's Day Murder (3 page)

Eager to get back to the office and file her story, Lucy chugged up the hill and swung around the corner onto Main Street, where she collided with Father Ed O’Neil, the priest from Our Lady of Hope Church, nearly knocking him over. Father Ed was well into his sixties and had never been a large man. He was only an inch or two taller than Lucy and probably weighed less.

“Oh, Father Ed, I am so sorry,” she apologized.

“No matter, no matter,” said Father Ed, straightening his jacket and smoothing his red hair, which was liberally salted with white. “I should have looked where I was going.”

“The fault was mine,” said Lucy, wondering why the mere sight of his backwards collar seemed to inspire her to confess when she wasn’t even Catholic. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, fine. Couldn’t be finer,” he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet and rubbing his hands together. “And why, may I ask, are you in such a hurry?”

“My deadline’s at noon,” said Lucy, pointing to her watch and sidling past him. He was notoriously long-winded, and she didn’t want to get trapped in a lengthy conversation.

He turned right along with her, maintaining eye contact and making it impossible for her to continue on her way without being rude. “And you have a big story?” He cocked his head.

“Not really,” she said, with a shrug, guarding her scoop. She didn’t want the news to get all over town before the paper hit the newsstands later this afternoon.

“Perhaps I can be of service,” he suggested, planting himself firmly in her path. “I have some big news.”

She was stuck, she realized. Father Ed wasn’t going to let her go until she’d heard him out.

“Terrific,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound sarcastic. “Fire away, Father. We’re always interested in the doings at Our Lady of Hope.”

“Well,” he said, “it’s a bit of a story. Maybe we should find a place to sit down. I could buy you a cup of coffee at Jake’s?”

“Oh, no, Father. As I said, I’ve got to get back. Deadline’s at noon and…”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll be as brief as I can be. Did you know that this year is the one hundredth anniversary of Our Lady of Hope here in Tinker’s Cove?”

“No, no, I didn’t,” said Lucy, looking with longing at the
Pennysaver
office, just across the street.

“Well, to be precise, it’s just the anniversary of the building. The congregation is much older, started by émigrés from the famine, the Irish famine back in the 1840s. That was a terrible time, you know. So much suffering.”

Lucy nodded. She knew about the terrible famine that had prompted so many Irish families to leave their homeland. “And you’re doing something special to celebrate the anniversary?” she asked, prompting him.

“Yes, indeed. That we are.”

“And what are you doing?” She prompted him again, conscious of the minutes ticking away.

“We are staging a gala show,” he said, his blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “As you no doubt know, the church puts on a show every spring around St. Patrick’s Day. Last year it was
Bye Bye Birdie,
and it was a terrific success.”

“Yes, it was,” agreed Lucy, who had gone with her husband, Bill, and her two youngest children, Sara and Zoe.

“So you saw it?”

“Yes, it was great. But what are you doing this year?”

“This year we’re doing something special. Not that
Bye Bye Birdie
wasn’t great. Why even you said it was. But for the hundredth anniversary, we really want something…What’s the phrase? Something boffo.” He clearly enjoyed rolling the words off his tongue. “We really want to
wow
everybody!”

“I’m sure you will,” said Lucy, desperate to be on her way. “But what is the show?”

“Oh, I have it all right here,” he said, pulling a folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket.

It was only with the greatest difficulty that Lucy managed to restrain herself from grabbing the paper and running across the street to the office. Instead, she stood, tapping her foot, while he carefully unfolded it with his gloved hands.

“As you can see here,” he said, pointing, “we’re going to stage
Finian’s Rainbow.
Now is this right? Is it clear enough? Mrs. Kelly always worries about getting her press releases done properly. In the correct format, if you know what I mean.”

“It’s fine. I’m sure it’s fine,” said Lucy.

“Now, whatever you do, don’t miss this bit,” he said, pointing to the second paragraph. “Because this is where we announce that the show is going to be directed by a professional actor. We may be amateurs, but we want this show to be as close to professional as we can make it. So we’ve hired this chap from Ireland who has considerable stage experience.”

“Well, that’s very wise,” said Lucy. “I’ll be sure to get every word in. Now if you’ll just give me the press release…”

Father Ed was reading the paper, checking it one last time. “I think it’s quite clear. It seems so to me. But if you have any questions…”

“I know where to reach you,” said Lucy, snatching the paper.

“I’m at the church, you know,” he called as she ran across the street.

“I know,” she yelled back from the other side. Two more steps and she was across the sidewalk and yanking open the door, setting the little bell jingling.

“Where have you been?” bellowed Ted Stillings, the publisher, editor, and chief reporter. He was in his usual position, hunched over the computer that sat on the rolltop desk he’d inherited from his grandfather, an editor of some renown. Now pushing fifty, he still looked boyish, thanks to a full head of hair and an efficient metabolism. “Do you know the time? It’s a quarter to twelve! It’s a deadline, not a guideline, or have you forgotten?”

“Hold the presses,” Lucy yelled back, thrilled to be able to utter the famous phrase. “I’ve got big news.”

“This better be good,” warned Phyllis, who multitasked as receptionist, listings editor, and classified ad manager. She raised her thinly plucked eyebrows over her colorful harlequin reading glasses. “He’s in a state.”

“This is big,” said Lucy, savoring the moment. “Dan Malone’s headless body was found floating in the harbor this morning.”

Her announcement didn’t have quite the effect she’d expected. Instead of stunned amazement, Phyllis expressed puzzlement. “Who’s Dan Malone?” she asked. For his part, Ted was skeptical. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Dan Malone is the proprietor of the Bilge, and he’s been missing for three days,” said Lucy.

“Filthy place,” said Phyllis, dismissing the news with a shrug and returning to her listings.

Lucy continued. “And while I don’t have an official identification, the fact remains that a dead body has been found in the icy water, and Old Dan has gone missing, and the bar’s been closed for three days.”

“Did you say this body is headless?” inquired Ted.

“Yes,” said Lucy, exhaling vehemently.

“Probably happens all the time,” said Phyllis. “Tides and whatnot.”

“Not in three days,” said Lucy, through clenched teeth. “At least that’s what my expert source says.”

“Who is your source?” asked Ted.

“Can’t tell,” said Lucy. “I promised.”

“Barney Culpepper,” said Phyllis. “Bet you a dollar.”

“Not necessarily,” said Lucy, sliding Father Ed’s press release across the counter to Phyllis. “Last-minute listing. I promised you’d get it in.”

Phyllis glared at her. She’d recently lost quite a bit of weight, and the new, skinny Phyllis wasn’t nearly as agreeable as the jolly, plump one. Even her wardrobe had become more sedate, as she’d given up the brightly colored muumuus she favored when she was heavy for a more subdued professional look. “The listings deadline was noon yesterday,” she said, adjusting the red and black scarf she’d tied over her gray turtleneck sweater.

“Oh, please. I promised Father Ed,” begged Lucy.

“Why don’t you type it yourself, then,” said Phyllis, sliding it right back to her.

“Oh, all right.” Lucy snatched it up. “And, Ted, do you want me to write up the body? I’ve got a photo.”

“Of the body?” he asked eagerly.

“No. Of Barney Culpepper at the end of the pier, looking at it.”

“See!” crowed Phyllis. “Didn’t I say Barney was her secret source?”

“Sure,” he said, with a sigh. “Keep it short and sweet. Just the facts. I’ll download the photo.”

“Okay,” said Lucy. She plunked herself down at her desk, coat and all, and began typing.

“Just the facts,” he repeated, taking her camera. “You’ve got twelve minutes.”

She didn’t need twelve minutes, however, considering the meager facts at her disposal. The most she could produce was a three-inch brief outlining the bare facts of the discovery of a headless body. She couldn’t even get the police chief to give her a statement; his only comment was, “No comment.”

That done, she shrugged off her winter coat and started in on Father Ed’s press release, typing it practically verbatim, but stripping out the numerous laudatory adjectives. When she came to the “brilliant Dylan Malone,” who would be directing the show, however, it seemed to be an accurate description. She deleted “brilliant,” of course, but she couldn’t help being impressed by a long string of credits, which included everything from classic roles at Dublin’s Abbey Theatre to a part as a cop on a long-running BBC action adventure show. It all held up when she checked him out on Google, where there was even a photo of his handsome face, complete with a roguish smile.

She was studying the face and trying to guess his age when Ted broke into her reverie. “Are you done yet? It’s past noon.”

“Oh, right,” she said, pulling herself away and typing in the final sentence. She hit
SEND
, shipping the file to Ted for final editing and leaned back in the chair, dramatically wiping her brow.

“Enough drama,” snapped Phyllis. “You’re just sitting and typing. It’s not as if you’re actually working.”

“You know what I think? I think you need some chocolate,” said Lucy. “I know I could sure use some. It’s not every day that a headless body turns up and I have to cover it.”

“Well, if it is Old Dan, it’s no more than he deserved, if you ask me,” said Phyllis, pursing her lips. “That Bilge place attracts a rough crowd. There’s always fights and goodness knows what all.”

“There’s no arguing with that,” said Lucy. “The police could have closed the place plenty of times, but they never did. Do you know why, Ted?”

Ted was in the middle of shipping the completed issue to the printer, via the Internet. When he finished, he stretched and leaned back in his chair. “Good job, ladies. Thanks for your hard work.” Then he swiveled his chair around and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “You know what I think? I think it was one of those ‘the devil you know is better than the one you don’t’ situations. They kept an eye on the place. They never let things get too out of hand. They kind of tolerated it as an escape valve for the town’s rowdy element.”

“Well, I never,” exclaimed Phyllis. “Since when is it up to the police to decide which laws they’re going to enforce?”

“I guess there’s always a little bit of that. Not everything is black and white,” replied Ted. “Cops have to make judgment calls all the time. Should they give a citation or a warning, for example, to the distracted mother with three kids in the car who goes through a stop sign?”

“A warning,” said Lucy.

“A citation,” said Phyllis.

Ted threw up his hands just as the door opened and a handsome man walked in, sporting a thick head of dark hair, an intricately knitted Irish fisherman’s sweater, with a white silk scarf knotted around his neck, and a roguish grin. Lucy recognized him immediately, and her identification was confirmed when he stuck out his hand to Phyllis and, taking hers, lifted it to his lips, announcing himself in a thickly accented voice as “Dylan Malone, straight off the plane from Shannon Airport in Ireland.”

“Enough of your nonsense,” said Phyllis, snatching her hand back and blushing furiously, right up to the roots of her dyed orange hair. It was the one thing she hadn’t changed.

“Look,” exclaimed Lucy, jumping to her feet. “Your photo is still on my computer. I just wrote up the press release about
Finian’s Rainbow
.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, taking her hand and leaning over it. “And you are?”

“Oh, how silly of me,” dithered Lucy, uncomfortably aware that she, too, was blushing. “I’m Lucy Stone. I work here.”

“So I see,” he said. “And I’m sure you do a wonderful job.”

“Don’t be too sure,” said Ted, getting to his feet and holding out his hand. “I’m Ted Stillings.”

“He’s the boss,” said Phyllis, beaming at Dylan.

“Well, this is certainly a fine establishment, and Tinker’s Cove is as fine a town as I’ve seen anywhere, even in my own country of Ireland,” replied Dylan. “In fact, it’s a bit like Ireland, with the sea and the rocky coast.”

“I’ve never been to Ireland,” said Lucy, “but I’d love to go.”

“Oh, you should. You shouldn’t miss it,” said Dylan as he looked at her closely. “If I’m not mistaken, you’ve got a bit of Irish blood, haven’t you?”

“Not that I know of,” said Lucy. “A bit of everything but, I think.”

“Oh, well, ’tis no matter. People are the same the world over.” He paused. “Now if I may, I wonder if you could help me?”

“Certainly,” said Phyllis, succumbing to his charm. “What can we do for you?”

“Well, you see, we arrived this morning, myself and my wife, Moira, and our little girl, Deirdre, and the plan was that my brother would meet us at Logan Airport in Boston and bring us along here to Tinker’s Cove. But he never turned up at the airport, and when I called him at his home here in Tinker’s Cove, there was no answer, and there was no answer at his place of business, either. So we rented a car and came along, but I confess I’m a mite worried about him, and I wonder if you might know of his whereabouts.”

It was suddenly very quiet in the newspaper office. Finally, after a long pause, Ted asked the question they all feared they knew the answer to. “What is your brother’s name?”

“Why he’s quite well known hereabouts, I believe. He’s a publican and proprietor of a fine establishment known as the Bilge. He’s Daniel Malone, that’s who he is.”