Irish Parade Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Ah, thought Lucy, a radio announcer for the country-western channel. “No introduction?”

  “Nothing. He asked for Ted, called him ‘Mr. Stillings.’ Ted happened to be in the morgue, but he popped out like a jack-in-a-box when he heard the man’s voice. Then they were gone, and again, no explanation when he returned.”

  “I dunno,” said Lucy, shaking her head in puzzlement. “Either he’s working on a feature story of some sort about little-known celebrities, or it’s got something to do with the business. Maybe he’s once again on the brink of bankruptcy and is trying to refinance, or . . .” Here she stopped, unwilling to continue and voice the notion that Ted might be selling the Pennysaver.

  The bell on the door jangled, and they both turned to see who their next visitor might be. This time the stranger was tall, dark, and undeniably handsome. He was also young, and dressed in brand-new country duds: ironed jeans with a crease down the leg, a plaid shirt topped with a barn jacket, and fresh-from-the-box duck shoes that hadn’t yet ventured into muddy territory.

  “What can I do for you?” asked Phyllis, in her polite receptionist voice.

  “I have an appointment with Ted Stillings. Will you let him know I’m here?”

  Phyllis and Lucy both perked up, presented with an opportunity to ascertain the fellow’s name. “Gladly,” said Phyllis, with a big smile. “Who shall I say is here?”

  “Rrr,” he began, then caught himself. “Just say his eleven o’clock is here.”

  Phyllis’s ample bosom seemed to deflate a trifle. “Actually, you’d better take a seat. Ted’s not here, but I expect him shortly, Mr. Rrr . . .”

  “Thanks,” he said, smiling and revealing a dazzling white perfect bite. He sat down on one of the chairs next to the door, opposite the reception counter; even bent at the knee, his long legs pretty much filled the intervening space. He picked up the latest copy of the Pennysaver from the table between the chairs and began reading it.

  Lucy took this opportunity to study him, taking in his thick, Kennedy-esque hair, his sweeping black brows, hawkish nose, square jaw, broad shoulders, and large hands. Dudley Do-Right, she considered, recalling the cartoon character. Clearly, she was no Sherlock Holmes.

  “Did you travel far?” she asked.

  “Not too far,” he said, with a shrug.

  “So you’re familiar with Maine?” she continued.

  “Sure,” he said. “Lobsters, blueberries, and moose.”

  “Would you like some coffee while you wait?” asked Phyllis.

  “No, thanks.” He nodded. “I’m good.”

  “We also have tea,” offered Lucy. “If you’re a tea drinker.”

  “Thanks, but I’m all set,” he answered, turning the page of the paper and burying his nose in it. Lucy doubted he was really all that interested in the Tinker’s Cove High School’s basketball team’s recent defeat at the hands of the Dover Devils, and figured he was trying to avoid conversation. But why? Why were all these recent visitors so secretive, and what was Ted trying to hide?

  She glanced at the antique Regulator clock that hung on the wall above the stranger’s head, just as the big hand clicked into place at twelve, indicating it was exactly eleven o’clock. Like clockwork, the bell jangled as the door opened and Ted arrived, bristling with energy and rubbing his hands together. “Ah, you’re already here,” he said, extending his hand.

  The stranger stood up and took Ted’s hand, giving it a manly shake. “Good to meet you,” he said.

  “Same here,” said Ted. “Did you have a good drive?”

  “Not bad,” said the stranger. “Bit of traffic in Portland, but otherwise clear sailing.”

  Lucy and Phyllis picked up on that last, and their eyes met. Was this a clue to his identity? Was he a fisherman? A yachtsman?

  “That’s great,” said Ted. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m usually ready for a coffee around now. We don’t have Starbucks, but we’ve got our own Jake’s. How about it?”

  “Sounds great,” said the stranger.

  Ted opened the door, holding it for the visitor, who stepped outside. Ted followed, and the two walked past the plate-glass window with the old-fashioned wooden blinds, their progress followed by the two women inside the office. Then they were out of view, leaving nothing behind except questions.

  “Who is he?” asked Phyllis.

  “Why is here?” asked Lucy.

  “What’s Ted up to?” asked Phyllis.

  “I wish we had some answers,” said Lucy.

  Chapter Two

  By the time Wednesday, deadline day, rolled around, Lucy and Phyllis were increasingly concerned about the future of the Pennysaver, and their jobs. Ted’s strange behavior had continued, with increasingly frequent unexplained absences, and the parade of unidentified visitors had not abated. Worst of all was the day Ted’s wife, Pam, dropped by and tucked a bottle of champagne in the office fridge. Lucy and Pam were good friends, but when Lucy asked about the bottle, Pam had just replied with an enigmatic little grin. After she left, the bell on the door was still jangling when Lucy finally spoke the unspeakable.

  “It’s over. They’ve sold the paper.”

  “I think you’re right,” said Phyllis, her plump cheeks drained of color. “But who’d buy it? Weeklies like the Pennysaver are going the way of the dodo.”

  “Yeah, but think of the real estate. This building is right in the middle of Main Street and is probably worth a pretty penny. We’ll be gone, replaced by tacky T-shirts and postcards for the tourists.” Lucy glanced around at the newsroom, which didn’t seem to have changed much since 1910, apart from the addition of PCs on each scarred wooden desk. “Or maybe a retro coffee shop? Scuffed and worn is kind of chic now.”

  “And Ted and Pam will probably buy themselves a condo someplace warm,” said Phyllis, picturing them lounging by a turquoise pool. “Not that I blame them,” she added, with a shrug.

  “Yeah,” agreed Lucy. “Ted fought the good fight, but we all know it’s a losing battle. The media is the enemy of the people, the news is fake, and newspapers are just clutter that doesn’t bring joy when you can get all your news on your cell phone.”

  “Shhh,” hissed Phyllis, spying Ted through the window. “Ted’s coming back.”

  The door flew open, the bell jangled, and Ted strode in, positively vibrating with energy and good cheer. “Heidy-high, heidy-ho,” he exclaimed. “How are you ladies this fine day?”

  Lucy and Phyllis exchanged a nervous glance. “Pretty good,” offered Phyllis.

  “Busy,” said Lucy, hitting the keyboard. “I’m working on the big story about the proposed zoning changes.”

  “Terr-rr-rific,” growled Ted, sounding like Tony the Tiger. “Nobody can do zoning like you, Lucy. You actually make it interesting.”

  “I do my best,” said Lucy, with a sick feeling growing in her stomach.

  Ted practically danced through the office and perched on the edge of his chair, powering up the PC that sat on his totally impractical but beloved antique rolltop desk. Then he popped up and fixed himself a cup of coffee, took a few sips while peering out the window through the old-fashioned wooden blinds, then abandoned the half-drunk cup, setting it down by the coffeepot. He bounced on the balls of his feet, then cleared his throat.

  Here it comes, thought Lucy. At least I’ll be able to collect unemployment, and maybe I’ll get severance. No, not likely; the most I’ll get is unused vacation time.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” ordered Ted, raising his pointer finger. “I’ve got to go out, but when I come back, I’ll have an important announcement.” Then he was gone, the bell gave a few sad little jangles, and Lucy moaned aloud, resting her forehead on her desk.

  “The visiting nurses are hiring home health aides,” said Phyllis. “Maybe I could do that.” She didn’t sound very excited at the prospect.

  “Unemployment will probably get me through the winter,” said Lucy, trying to sound hopeful. “Come summer, the IGA will
probably be hiring, or I could work at the fudge shop.”

  “Yeah,” said Phyllis, trying to sound encouraging. “There’s lots of opportunities.”

  “No, there aren’t,” said Lucy, facing reality. “If there were, we wouldn’t be working here—now, would we? The pay’s lousy, the benefits nonexistent, and our boss is borderline abusive.”

  Phyllis laughed. “You love it, you know you do.”

  “I do,” admitted Lucy. “The first time I saw my byline in print, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”

  “Yeah,” said Phyllis, with a big sigh. “It was sure fun while it lasted, but all good things come to an end.” Her attention was caught by a shadowy figure outside the door, and the two women watched as the door opened and the mysterious tall, dark, and handsome stranger stepped inside.

  “Welcome back,” said Phyllis. “What can I do for you?”

  “Uh, nothing,” he said, giving them a brief, but dazzling smile. “I’ve got a meeting with Ted.”

  “Too bad you missed him,” said Lucy. “He just went out.”

  The stranger consulted his phone. “No problem. He’ll be back.”

  Cripes, thought Lucy. Talk about being out of the loop. This guy gets text updates from Ted, while Phyllis and I are left completely in the dark. It was enough to make you want to quit, except it was too late for that.

  “Take a seat,” said Phyllis, with a wave of her hand. “Can I get you coffee? Tea? Water?”

  “No, thanks, I’ll just catch up on the news,” he said, grinning and plucking a copy of last week’s issue off the pile on the reception desk.

  “It’s old news,” said Lucy. “Today’s deadline day. The paper comes out tomorrow.”

  The stranger seated himself, stretching out his long, blue-jeaned legs, and started reading the second section, which featured Ted’s over-optimistic analysis of the high school girls’ basketball team’s chances of making it to the state championship. Phyllis returned her attention to the pile of last-minute ads she was entering into the classified section, and Lucy resumed her struggle to make the proposed zoning regulations comprehensible to the average reader. The office was silent, apart from the quiet clicks of the two keyboards, the rustle of the paper when the stranger turned the page, and the ticking of the big old Regulator clock on the wall.

  Lucy finished the zoning story and filed it for editing, thinking it was probably the last story she would ever write for the Pennysaver. Too bad she couldn’t go out with a bang, a real scoop, instead of this tedious collection of details that hardly anyone would bother to read. She was thinking back on some of the big stories she’d written uncovering corruption, arson, and even murder. Well, that was all in the past, she thought, when Ted returned along with Sam Wilson, the publisher of the Gilead Gabber. The Gabber was similar to the Pennysaver, except it had the advantage of covering a neighboring town that happened to be the county seat, where the courts and county government were located. She figured Ted must have sold the Pennysaver to Sam, who was known as a shrewd businessman, and wondered if Sam would be keeping her and Phyllis on or letting them go. Probably letting us go, she decided, considering that Sam already had a complete staff in place.

  As she watched, Ted went straight to the little fridge and grabbed the bottle of champagne. The stranger stood up, and the three men gathered in a loose little knot. “I have an announcement,” said Ted, looking very pleased with himself. “So listen up, ladies, and Lucy, can you grab some paper cups?”

  Somewhat resentfully, Lucy got to her feet and rummaged in the cupboard beneath the coffee station, producing the cups. Wasn’t it bad enough she was going to be fired? Did Ted actually expect her to celebrate?

  “I know there’s been a lot of unexplained activity around here lately, but it’s all been for a good cause,” began Ted, peeling the foil off the bottle. “I am delighted to announce that I am now the proud owner of the Gilead Gabber, and I’ve hired a new reporter. Let me introduce Rob Callahan, who comes to us straight from the Cleveland Plain Dealer.”

  The tall, dark stranger gave them all a big smile, and Ted popped the cork. “Champagne all round, to our exciting new venture!”

  Lucy and Phyllis were dumbstruck, Ted was giggling with glee, Sam Wilson was nodding with satisfaction, and Rob was passing around the paper cups of champagne.

  “To a new venture!” exclaimed Ted.

  “To a new venture,” they all repeated, before sipping the bubbly.

  “We thought you were selling the Pennysaver,” confessed Lucy. “This is quite a surprise.”

  “We were braced for the worst,” said Phyllis.

  “I won’t lie. I was considering it, but then I heard about this new project to improve and support local news outlets. It’s called the TRUTH Project. Do you want to tell them about it, Rob?”

  “Sure.” He nodded. “We know that democracy depends upon an informed electorate, and this project is an effort to respond to the increasing number of news deserts that are appearing in the country as local papers find it impossible to remain in business. There are lots of towns that don’t have or are in danger of losing their reliable source of local news, which is typically a weekly paper like the Gabber or the Pennysaver. The project is funded by a charitable foundation and will offer financial support and journalistic expertise to improve local news, because we know that what happens on the local level has national and international impact. School boards can vote to distort or even eliminate subjects like evolution, state legislatures can gerrymander voting districts to skew elections, health departments can limit resources for AIDS education and addiction. These issues are most often decided on the local level, and voters need to be informed when they go into the voting booth.”

  “So, thanks to a grant from the TRUTH Project, I’ve been able to purchase the Gabber, and increase staff,” said Ted. “We’re going to be covering the entire county, and that includes the courts and the county sheriff, the community college—it’s a whole new ball game.”

  “Wow,” said Lucy, sitting down in her chair and taking another sip of champagne. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “What about you, Sam?” asked Phyllis. “What’s next for you?”

  “Retirement,” he said. “I’m not getting any younger, you know, and I’ve wanted to retire for quite a while now, but I didn’t feel it was right to quit. It means a lot to me that the Gabber’s in good hands.” He put down his glass and shook hands with Ted. “So I’m out of here. I know you’re eager to get started, and I wish you all the good luck in the world.”

  “Are we going to be moving to Gilead?” asked Phyllis, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. She lived only a few blocks from the office and usually walked to work.

  “Are you keeping the entire Gabber staff?” asked Lucy, aware of that paper’s head reporter, Fran Croydon, who’d won numerous awards for her warm and fuzzy feature stories.

  “I’m not making any changes immediately. I’ll be splitting my time between the two offices,” said Ted. “The two papers will operate independently for the time being, under their own banners, but the content will be shared. So the Gabber will have your stories, Lucy, and the Pennysaver will now have the county news, too. And we’re also going to have an online edition.”

  “That’s going to be expensive,” said Phyllis.

  “And a lot more work,” said Lucy.

  “Well, I’ve got money from the TRUTH Project, and we’ve got Rob to help,” said Ted, draining his paper cup and setting it down. “I’m planning on merging the two eventually, but for now I’m feeling my way. So let’s get to work on next week’s news section. The big news, of course, is the purchase of the Gabber, and I’ll write that up myself. The other big story is the upcoming election of the grand marshal for the St. Patrick’s Day parade over in Gilead—we need to profile the candidates.”

  “Won’t Fran cover that?” asked Lucy, aware of Fran’s numerous contacts and figuring she’d have to cede some of her usual assignments.<
br />
  “No. She’s on leave. She had to have cardiac bypass surgery,” said Ted.

  “All that sugary sweetness probably got to her,” said Lucy, regretting the words the moment they flew out of her mouth.

  “Bad attitude, Lucy. She’s only on leave; she’s planning on coming back when the doctor gives her the okay.” He took a moment to think. “That’s a good story for Rob to cut his teeth on; he can get a feel for the area and the power players.”

  “I always write that story for the Pennysaver,” said Lucy, protesting.

  “Actually,” said Rob, “I have a story in mind about this puppet maker, Rosie Capshaw. I ran into her by accident at the gas station, and we got talking. I thought it would be a nice human-interest sort of piece and a good way for me to introduce myself to the readers. You know, kind of reassure them that I’m not some sort of muckraker.”

  “Sounds interesting,” said Ted, “and the perfect story for Lucy. She’s great with features.”

  “I can do that and the grand-marshal story,” offered Lucy, who had just read a magazine article advising working women to lean in and seize opportunities.

  “No, Rob can do the grand marshal. Remember, you’ve got all the local meetings, too, Lucy.”

  “Oh, right.” Lucy stared into her cup, where the remaining champagne had gone quite flat. Just like her future, she thought, fearing that Rob would get the real news stories while she was stuck with puff pieces and boring town committee meetings.

  “That’s all for now,” said Ted, checking his phone. “I’ve got to get over to Gilead to get things rolling over there.”

  “But it’s almost deadline, and you haven’t edited my stories yet,” protested Lucy.

  Ted caught himself in mid-stride and turned to Rob. “You can handle a little copyediting, can’t you?”

  Lucy’s jaw dropped, waiting for Rob’s answer.

  “Sure thing,” said Rob, seating himself at Ted’s desk and cupping his hand on the mouse.