St. Patrick's Day Murder (7 page)

“I’m keeping my fingers crossed. The Bloomberg job is almost finished, and I don’t have anything else lined up.” He took a long swallow. “I’ll work up the proposal tonight.”

“Make it an offer he can’t refuse,” said Lucy. She managed the family budget and knew how tight things could get in the last months of winter, before building picked up again in the spring. She went over to the back stairway and yelled for Sara. “Supper’s ready, and you haven’t set the table. Let’s go!”

There was no answer, but Lucy heard Sara clattering down the front stairs.

“What happened?” she asked Bill as she ladled the stew into the tureen. “When did my sweet, bouncy little Sara turn into this unpleasant stranger?”

“It’s your fault,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “You kept feeding them, and they grew up.”

“I’ve still got Zoe,” she said, carrying the tureen into the dining room.

“But only for a few more years,” warned Bill, following her with the noodles and salad. “She’s growing up fast, too.”

Later that night they had proof positive that Zoe was still very much a little girl. She woke in the middle of the night, sobbing hysterically and screaming for her parents.

“What’s the matter?” asked Lucy, rushing to her bedside and taking her in her arms.

“I’m scared.”

Lucy smoothed her daughter’s damp hair. “There’s nothing to be scared of. You’re perfectly safe here, in your own bed, in your house, with your family all around.”

“I know. But I’m still scared.”

“You probably had a nightmare.”

Zoe nodded.

“Do you remember what it was about?”

Zoe nodded again. “The h-h-headless man,” she finally said.

“He can’t hurt you,” said Lucy, but she wasn’t entirely convinced. It seemed that Tinker’s Cove would be dealing with Old Dan’s death for a long time to come, and in ways nobody quite expected.

Lucy remained with Zoe for almost an hour before the child fell back to sleep. Only then did she go back to her own bed, but she couldn’t settle down. Her mind was full of stray thoughts: income tax, that shingle that blew off the roof, the funny noise the car was making. She finally did drift off but dreamt she was awake and wouldn’t have believed she slept except for the fact that when the alarm went off at six, she rushed downstairs, convinced the dishwasher had overflowed on the kitchen floor. When she found the floor perfectly dry, she realized she must have been dreaming.

The girls had left for school minutes shy of missing the bus, Bill was in the shower, and she was still in her nightgown and robe, hanging on to her third mug of coffee at the kitchen table, when there was a knock at the door. She was surprised when she recognized Brian Donahue through the glass but figured he wanted to see Bill about some work.

“He’s in the shower, but you’re welcome to wait for him,” she told him. “There’s still some coffee in the pot if you’d like it.”

“That would be great. Thanks,” he said, taking off his hat and carefully wiping his boots on the mat.

“Take a seat,” said Lucy, emptying the pot into a mug and setting it on the table in front of him. She sat back down and watched him add milk and sugar. “I hope you’re not wasting your time. I don’t think he’s got any work coming up. Nothing for certain, that is.”

Brian’s eyebrows shot above his wire rims. “That’s not what I heard. Dylan Malone told me he’s hiring Bill to completely renovate the Bilge. ‘Waterfront dining in summer and fireside dining in winter,’ he said. ‘With the atmosphere of a genuine Irish pub.’”

“Bill mentioned that last night, but he wasn’t sure he had the job.”

“Dylan seems to think he does.”

“I guess he should know,” said Lucy, with a smile.

“I could really use the work,” said Brian. “Old Dan never paid me for a job I did a couple of months ago, fixing the rotted floor behind the bar.” He swallowed some coffee, and his mouth twisted as if it were bitter, in spite of the four teaspoons of sugar he’d added. “That Old Dan sure was a cheap bastard. I never should’ve agreed to do the work unless he paid in advance. That’s what everybody told me, but it was too late. I’d already finished the job.” He raised his head and looked at her. “This is the only way I’ll ever get a cent out of that cheapskate, if Bill hires me, you see?”

“You could go to the wake,” she said. “Take your payment in free drinks.”

“He owes me more than a couple of drinks,” grumbled Brian.

“I’ve never been to a real Irish wake,” said Lucy. “Just visiting hours at the funeral home.”

“You think this’ll be different?”

“I’m no expert, but from what I’ve heard, they’re pretty lively affairs. Sometimes they even sit the dead person’s body up and put a drink in its hand.”

“That’d be a problem for Old Dan,” said Brian, thoughtfully. “I mean, he could hold the drink, but you sort of need a head to complete the image. Not that he could actually drink it, of course, being dead and all, but you know what I mean.”

Lucy did. How could you have a wake with a body that had no head?

The first thing Lucy noticed when she arrived at the Bilge for Old Dan’s wake on Sunday afternoon was an unearthly noise, something between sobbing and moaning, which, she was surprised to discover, was issuing from Moira, who paused occasionally to dab at her dry eyes with a small, lace-trimmed linen handkerchief. To Lucy’s relief, there was no sign of a body or even a closed coffin. Moira and her husband, both in black, were sitting side by side in front of the bar, where an enlarged photo of a much younger Old Dan was displayed. Candles were burning on either side of the photo, and a small bronze crucifix and a string of rosary beads had been arranged in front of it.

Only a handful of people had arrived so far, mostly elderly women, and they were seated in chairs that had been set against the wall, reciting the rosary with Father Ed. Lucy stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure how to proceed. If this were visiting hours at the local funeral home, she would first have passed through a receiving line of mourners, and then, if the body was laid out in a casket, she would have paid her respects to the deceased. But here there was no receiving line, and she didn’t feel comfortable interrupting Moira’s vocal display of mourning. There was no sign of Deirdre, thank goodness, and Lucy assumed Moira had found somebody else to mind her.

She was greatly relieved when Frank Cahill approached her. “Thank you so much for coming,” he said. “Would you like to express your sympathy to the family?”

“I’d like to, but I don’t want to intrude,” she replied. “Moira seems quite overcome with grief.”

Frank shook his head. “No, no. She’s keening. It’s the expected thing, you see. She’d probably appreciate a break.” He stuck out his arm, rather like an usher at a wedding, and conducted Lucy to the bar, where he presented her to Dylan and Moira.

Moira fell silent and dabbed at her eyes, which were dry, and gave Lucy a small, tight smile.

“Lucy here wishes to tell you she’s sorry for your trouble,” prompted Frank.

“That’s right. I’m very sorry. Terribly sorry,” Lucy babbled, staring at the photo of Old Dan. It must have been his high school graduation picture, she thought, now that she had a closer view. It showed a cocky young man, with a thick head of red hair and a charming, lopsided grin.

“Did you know my brother well?” inquired Dylan. “It’s a grand likeness, is it not?”

Lucy didn’t think the photo looked anything like the Old Dan she’d known. The red hair had long ago turned to gray, and she couldn’t recall ever seeing him smile. Mostly, he had kept his head down and muttered to himself on the rare occasions he’d left the Bilge to go to the bank or post office. While most people in town saw these necessary errands as an opportunity to chat and catch up on the news, Old Dan never greeted anyone, not even with a nod.

“He was a very handsome young man,” said Lucy. “I really only had a nodding acquaintance with him.”

“So you’re here because of the paper? You’re going to be writing up the wake?” asked Dylan.

“I sure am,” said Lucy. “We’ve never had a traditional Irish wake here in town, and people will be interested.”

“As well they might be,” said Dylan. “We Irish are well acquainted with death and know a thing or two about sending a poor soul off in style. There’s the keening, of course. Moira’s a wonderful keener,” said Dylan.

Moira blushed at the compliment. “And you see, we’ve turned the mirror to the wall,” she said, pointing behind the bar.

“And stopped the clock,” added Dylan, indicating a Guinness clock with its hands frozen at nine o’clock.

“And there’s always plenty of food and drink at an Irish wake,” said Father Ed, pointing to a lavish spread laid out on the bar’s tables, which had been strung together and covered with a white linen cloth.

It was probably the first time in the Bilge’s long and disreputable history that a tablecloth had been used, thought Lucy, noticing the platters of cold meats and steaming chafing dishes, with bottles of Irish whiskey liberally interspersed.

“Will you have a wee drop in memory of Old Dan?” asked Frank.

Lucy hesitated. She didn’t really like whiskey, but there didn’t seem to be anything else except Guinness stout, which she wasn’t fond of, either. There was no sign of her preferred drink, white wine.

Frank gave her a nudge. “It’s customary,” he said, passing her a glass with a generous inch of amber liquid in the bottom.

“Well, then, here’s to Old Dan,” said Lucy, raising the glass and taking a sip.

“Now, now, that won’t do,” said Dylan, standing up and raising a glass. “May the road rise to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, the rain fall soft upon your fields. And until we meet again…” he recited, pausing dramatically and lifting the glass higher, “may God hold you in the hollow of His hand.” Then he drained his glass in one swallow and fixed his eyes on Lucy, challenging her to do the same.

“May God hold Old Dan in the hollow of his hand,” she said and, taking a deep breath, downed the whiskey in her glass. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’d better eat something right away, or this will go straight to my head.”

“Absolutely, help yourself. There’s plenty of everything and more where it came from,” said Dylan.

Feeling slightly tipsy, Lucy made her way to the buffet. Once she had served herself, filling her plate with corned beef and cabbage and Irish soda bread, she took a seat and surveyed the room. People had been arriving steadily, and a good crowd had gathered, including a number of Old Dan’s best customers. A few had even shaved and put on a clean shirt for the occasion. Frank conducted each person in turn to offer their sympathy to Dylan and Moira. Lucy chewed contentedly, interested in watching the people and listening to the occasional click of beads as the woman seated beside her quietly recited her Hail Marys and Our Fathers.

She was feeling quite mellow when the door flew open and Dave Reilly entered, his long hair streaming behind him. His jacket was open, revealing a T-shirt with the Claws logo, a lobster holding a guitar. Frank hurried over to greet him, but Dave shoved him aside and staggered drunkenly across the room, toward Dylan and Moira. Spotting him, Dylan immediately got to his feet and stood protectively in front of his wife.

“Here, now,” said Dylan. “You’re very welcome indeed if you want to pay your respects to my brother, but we don’t want any trouble here.”

“That’s right,” said Frank, taking hold of Dave’s arm. “We don’t want any trouble.”

“Pay my respects!” bellowed Dave, shaking off Frank’s hand and gesturing wildly with his arm. “That’s a good one!” He stabbed his finger toward the photo of Old Dan. “He’s the one who should pay me, and more than his respects. That old bastard owes me five thousand dollars, and I’m here to collect.”

The room was suddenly silent. Even the old women had stopped mumbling their prayers.

“I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place,” said Dylan, equably. “I never knew my brother to borrow money, him being rather tight with a dollar as I recall, but I don’t doubt—”

“Borrow! He didn’t borrow from me. He cheated me!” shouted Dave.

Dylan’s face hardened, and he pulled himself to his full height. “You’re saying my brother was a cheat?” he asked, puffing out his chest.

“A damned rotten cheater, that’s what he was,” said Dave, tossing his hair back and clenching his fist. “I bought a winning lottery ticket off him. It was worth five thousand dollars, but when I gave it to him for payment, he told me it was no good, that I had it wrong. And I believed him!”

“Anyone can make a mistake,” said Dylan, with a shrug.

“It was no mistake,” said Dave. “I had the winning ticket, but he switched it on me, and a week later I hear he’s been to the lottery commission to collect the money.”

“It seems to me that’s water under the bridge,” said Frank. “Whoever’s got the ticket wins the money.”

“And what do you want me to do about it?” asked Dylan.

“I want you to pay me, that’s what. I want my five thousand dollars!” Dave lowered his voice to a threatening growl. “And I’m not leaving until I get it.”

Dylan shook his head. “I haven’t got it, so I can’t give it to you, can I?”

“Oh, it’s here all right,” said Dave, marching around the bar and yanking open a drawer. “The old miser stashed everything away.” He was working his way along the bar, pulling open drawers and dumping their contents on the floor. Coins and bottle caps were rolling every which way; bits of paper and string and plastic bags all came tumbling out.

“That’s enough, now,” said Dylan. “This isn’t the time or the place.”

“Oh, it isn’t?” said Dave, whirling around. He lifted his arm and socked Dylan right on the jaw, making a sickening smacking noise as his fist connected with Dylan’s face.

From the sound, Lucy expected Dylan to crumple to the floor, but he remained on his feet. He gave his head a quick shake, worked his jaw from side to side, and then, taking Dave unawares, caught him with a left hook. Dave responded by trying to wrap his hands around Dylan’s neck, a move that Dylan blocked by wrapping his arms around Dave and pinning his arms to his sides. The two men staggered around the room like exhausted boxers, smashing into chairs and tables and scattering the assembled mourners, most of whom were watching the fight avidly, including the ladies with rosaries. The Bilge regulars were more vocal, delivering cheers when a punch connected and jeering at the misses. It wasn’t until the combatants threatened to tumble into the refreshments that Father Ed decided it was time to intervene.