Irish Parade Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Great. I interviewed Rosie Capshaw this morning and got a lot of material. I can write it up this afternoon. There aren’t very many meetings this week, just the selectmen, so if you’ve got anything else for me, I can certainly handle it.”

  “If I may,” said Rob, raising a finger and getting a nod from Ted, “it’s a common failing—no, that’s not the right word—common practice on a lot of local papers to rush the writing process. If you have a light week, why not take the time to polish your story and make it really shine?”

  Lucy felt her cheeks redden. She’d always been a fast worker, and Ted rarely made any changes in her work, which had won numerous awards from the regional press association. And here Rob was advising her to polish her work, when his editing had ruined a perfectly correct story that happened to be quite well-written, too.

  “Good point, Rob,” said Ted. “And there’s always the possibility of breaking news, so it will be good to have a light budget this week. You’re doing the parade grand-marshal selection; how’s that going?”

  “Well, actually, maybe that is a story for Lucy,” said Rob, giving her a condescending little smile. “I think my experience could be put to better use, especially when there’s hard news begging to be covered. I’ve done a little digging around, and this little parade doesn’t seem terribly significant.”

  “It’s not a little parade,” said Phyllis, whose dander was up. “It goes on for hours, with bands and floats. The governor always comes, and all the local politicians show up, and there’s police and fire departments from all over the state.”

  “Yeah, people come from all over to watch, even from as far as California,” added Lucy. “Choosing the marshal is a big deal; it’s an enormous honor.”

  “And there’s a woman in the running this year. They’ve never had a woman as grand marshal, and if she gets chosen, it will be huge,” declared Phyllis.

  “That’s right. It will probably be James Ryan, he’s a big-shot banker,” said Ted. “But Brendan Coyle’s got an outside chance—he does that Walk to End Hunger every year—and Eileen Clancy is undoubtedly popular; she runs that dance school where all the kids learn to step-dance.”

  “And their mothers, and their grandmothers,” asserted Phyllis, who was clearly rooting for Eileen.

  “That’s the thing,” said Lucy, speaking her thoughts as they developed. “People have favorites; they root for the person they want. Phyllis likes Eileen Clancy, but I’d really like to see Brendan Coyle chosen, and I think we’re pretty typical. Most everyone in the community gets involved.” She paused for a breath. “And the parade brings a lot of money into the county. The bars and restaurants do a huge business; so do the inns and motels, not to mention the gift shops.”

  “Well, you clearly know more about this than I do, so why don’t you do the story?” said Rob, who wasn’t about to give up the argument. “I’ve been studying the town reports for the past few years, and I was shocked to see that the same handful of people have been sitting on the board of selectmen for decades. It’s an abuse of power that needs to be investigated.”

  Lucy couldn’t help it—she laughed. “That’s because nobody wants the job, which is actually a big pain in the neck. If it wasn’t for Roger Wilcox and the others, we wouldn’t have any selectmen at all.”

  “And they do a good job,” said Phyllis, with a sharp nod that made her wattles wobble and set her dangling heart earrings to shaking.

  “I think we can leave that story for later,” said Ted, “when elections roll around. For now, let’s leave the budget as it is. I think Rob will find the Hibernian Knights are worth investigating. Sheriff Murphy is chairman of the Hibernian board, and he and the other board members also happen to be county commissioners. They pretty much run the county.”

  “But I’m only supposed to cover this grand-marshal selection?” Rob was incredulous. “Why didn’t you tell me the sheriff’s crooked?”

  “Baby steps, Rob,” cautioned Ted. “We don’t know that he’s crooked; as far as I know, nobody’s ever investigated to find out. We need to start slowly, gain his confidence. Remember, we’re the new guys in town, and we’re going to have to win his trust. We’ll give him a nice, folksy story about the grand-marshal candidates.”

  “I see your point, but I think that approach is risky. Before you know it, we’ll be swallowing his blarney.”

  Ted looked amused. “I think we’re up to the challenge,” he said. “So we’re sticking with the budget.” He looked around the table. “Anything else?”

  Lucy was tempted to mention Rob’s hack job on her story but decided to let it go for the moment and wait until Ted saw the correction. She shook her head, Ted rose, and they all trooped back into the newsroom.

  “I’m heading over to Gilead,” announced Ted, “so Rob can use my desk until we get him settled with his own.”

  Lucy figured it was now or never, if she wanted to clear up the mess Rob had made of her story. “Oh, before you go, Ted, I want you to look at a correction I wrote,” said Lucy, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

  “What correction?”

  “Um, well, Rob made some changes when he edited my story that turned out to be incorrect. The town planner called, and she was pretty upset, so I told her I’d make sure we ran a correction.”

  Rob wasn’t about to let this accusation pass. “That’s ridiculous!” he exclaimed heatedly. “I made very few changes, just a few typos and misspellings.”

  “That’s not true,” said Lucy, looking him straight in the eye. “You messed the whole thing up; it doesn’t even read like my writing.”

  Ted looked puzzled. “Lucy’s copy is usually clean. I rarely need to fix anything.”

  “Like I said, just a few little tweaks,” insisted Rob, appealing to Ted.

  “Well, there’s one way to find out,” said Ted. “Send me the original story, Lucy, so I can compare it to the edited one.”

  Lucy realized she’d made a big mistake. She’d sent the story to Ted’s file without keeping a copy for herself. She had no way to prove that her copy had been changed. No way at all. “I don’t have it. I didn’t save a copy,” she said.

  Rob, who had just seated himself at Ted’s desk, swung around in the swivel chair and met her eyes. His gloating expression said it all: I win, you lose.

  “Well, I’ll make sure we run a correction, Lucy. Meanwhile, carry on, kids,” said Ted, shrugging and reaching for his jacket. “Play nicely.”

  Then he was gone, and Rob was peering at the computer screen. “By the way, Lucy,” he began, in an offhand manner, as he began typing, “if you need any help with the puppeteer story, I’m here for you.”

  Speechless with fury, Lucy grabbed her bag and coat and marched out of the office and into the chilly March air. She was standing next to her car, fumbling with her keys and struggling with her jacket when her cell phone rang, and she started digging frantically in her tote, searching for the darn thing. Finally finding it after it stopped ringing, she seated herself in the car and checked her voice mail. She started the engine, wiggled into her jacket, fastened her seat belt, and played the message. It was Rosie Capshaw, informing her that her parade application had been denied. Sheriff Murphy had turned it down flat; she hadn’t even been given an opportunity to present her work to the Hibernian board, or even to him. The original paperwork had merely been returned to her, with a red “Denied” stamp and his scrawled initials.

  Lucy sat in the car, fingering the phone, and waiting for the heat to kick in. It was sunny and breezy; the wind was tossing tattered brown leaves about on the street and sidewalk, where patches of dirty, icy snow still lingered, making walking treacherous. Valentine’s Day was just around the corner, and some of the stores had hearts in their windows or were flying holiday banners, but spring seemed very far away. She was furious with herself for letting Rob best her, but she vowed it wasn’t going to happen again. From now on, she was going to save every story she wrote before she sent i
t on for editing. Editing! Was Rob going to be editing her work from now on? Or mangling it, which was more the case. She had to find a way to let Ted know what was really going on. Even better, she had to come up with a real scoop, a huge story that would show her brilliance as a reporter. A story that would win the Pulitzer Prize, for goodness’ sake. But where was that story?

  She bit her lip, pondering the possibilities. Genealogy scams? That was trendy, but maybe a bit too personal, considering the sudden appearance of Catherine Klein. She knew Bill wouldn’t want to go public with his awkward family situation. She realized she was still holding her phone and started to replace it in her bag when it hit her: she was holding the story in her hand. It was the sheriff’s refusal to let Rosie Capshaw’s puppets appear in the parade. Suddenly energized, she shifted into gear and headed straight for the county offices in Gilead.

  Chapter Five

  The county complex in Gilead was situated atop a hill that overlooked the town’s main street and included the stately Superior Courthouse, built of granite in 1850, the modern brick District Court building, and, looming over both courthouses, the fenced and gated county jail. The sheriff’s office was located nearby on a side street, in a colonial-style, red-brick building. When Lucy pulled into the parking area, she noticed that several prisoners were hard at work, scraping the shingles off the roof under the watchful eye of a guard. A few others were working on the ground below, and they smiled at her as she passed, but didn’t pause in their work picking up the shingles that rained down and collected on the tarps that protected the windows and foundation plantings. She smiled back, then greeted the guard. “Spring’s got to come sooner or later,” she said.

  “Looks like it’s gonna be later this year,” he replied, never taking his eyes off the prisoners.

  Continuing on into the building, she gave the receptionist her name and asked if she could meet with the sheriff.

  “Do you have an appointment?” asked the receptionist, checking the book. “I don’t see you here.” From above, they could hear the roofers moving around, and the steady scraping of the shingle shovels.

  “No, I’m afraid not, but if he has a spare minute, I promise I’ll be brief. I just have a quick question.”

  The receptionist picked up the phone and relayed Lucy’s message. Lucy figured she’d be sent on her way, but much to her surprise, the door behind the receptionist’s desk opened, and the sheriff himself bounded out and greeted her. “Lucy Stone,” he said, taking her hand in both of his huge ones, “I’ve been an admirer of your work for a long time. And now that Sam has sold the Gabber, I understand you’ll be covering our little town, too. This is a great development, having a paper that covers the entire county, and I’m looking forward to meeting your boss, Ted Stillings. He’s a fine journalist and committed to public service, as am I.”

  Wow, thought Lucy, reclaiming her hand, this was quite a charm offensive and the last thing she’d expected. Sheriff John P. Murphy was a very large, very attractive man. His great height was topped with a thick thatch of graying hair, his blue eyes twinkled, his cheeks were ruddy, and he smiled easily and often, displaying a fine set of teeth. His uniform, probably tailored, flattered his manly physique, and he easily carried the heavy utility belt containing his weapon and a shiny set of handcuffs. He radiated such a sense of confidence and strength that he really didn’t need the gleaming badge that was pinned to his shirt; he was a natural leader.

  “You flatter me,” said Lucy, unable to resist a bit of flirtation. “But beware, I’m here to ask the tough questions.”

  “Ah, so you’re after the dirt, Lucy Stone. I expect no less from the Pennysaver’s star reporter.” He gave her a wink. “Come into my office, and we’ll see how well I can stand up to your penetrating and insightful questions.”

  Shaking her head with amusement, Lucy entered the office through the door the sheriff held for her. “Take a seat,” he said, indicating the leather couch that stood against one wall.

  Instead, Lucy chose the visitor’s chair that stood by his desk.

  “You’re not kidding; you are all business,” said the sheriff, seating himself at his huge mahogany desk. The wall behind him was covered with awards and photos of himself with various rich and powerful people, almost all men. “Go ahead, then, ask away.”

  Lucy produced her notebook and flipped it open. “I’m writing a story about Rosie Capshaw and her puppets, which are most impressive. She told me that she hoped to march with the puppets in the St. Patrick’s Day parade, but her application was denied. Can you tell me why it was turned down?”

  “That I can,” began the sheriff, with a big sigh and speaking with the faintest Irish brogue. “The decision wasn’t up to me, you see. I had no choice in the matter. It’s most unfortunate, but the darling girl didn’t apply in time.” He sighed again. “The committee has its rules, you see, and we must abide by them; that’s what rules are for. It wouldn’t be fair, now would it, to let the puppets in the parade when other groups that were also late weren’t allowed.” He leaned back and tented his hands. “And definitely not fair to the many groups that followed the rules and worked hard to get their applications in before the deadline.”

  “So that’s all it was? A question of timing? It wasn’t because of the controversial nature of her puppets?”

  “Controversial?” He was all surprise and innocence. “In what way are these magnificent puppets controversial?”

  “Well, Mother Jones, for example, was a labor organizer and a bit of a rabble-rouser. She’s considered a heroine by the left.”

  “Mother Jones was indeed active in organizing labor, as were many other Irish folk. They were no strangers to oppression in Ireland, and they didn’t come all the way to America to be trod under foot by the wealthy Yankee mill owners, now did they?”

  “I suppose not,” admitted Lucy. “So if Rosie Capshaw gets her paperwork in order next year, will the committee allow her puppets to march in the parade?”

  The sheriff shrugged his enormous, epauletted shoulders. “Who knows what the committee will decide? I don’t tell them what to do, but if it were up to me, I’d be happy to see St. Patrick and Mother Jones marching in the parade.”

  “Well, that’s all I need. Thank you very much for your time,” said Lucy, closing her notebook and rising from her chair.

  “You’re not leaving already?” he asked, seemingly downhearted at the prospect of her departure.

  “I’m afraid so. I have other work to do.” She smiled and shrugged. “Deadlines, you know.”

  “I understand.” He stood up. “Remember, my door is always open to you, so don’t hesitate if you have further questions.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I will,” said Lucy, unable to resist smiling.

  “Have a fine day,” he said, opening his office door and holding it for her. She had reached the outer door when he spoke to the receptionist. “Now, Nora, if Lucy Stone calls or wants to see me, be sure to put her right through.”

  Lucy was certain he’d spoken intending her to hear, so she turned around and gave him a smile of thanks.

  “I certainly will, sir,” replied Nora, as Lucy opened the door and stepped outside.

  She wasn’t at all sure what to make of the sheriff, but she had to admit he was not at all what she’d expected. The man was charming and polite, he’d graciously made time to speak with her, and she believed his answers were sincere. Organizations had their rules and were entitled to stick to them. It was a shame that Rosie had applied too late, but there was always next year. Those were her thoughts as she drove back to the office, where she was happy to find Phyllis, but no Rob.

  “So where’s the boy wonder?” she asked, as the bell on the door announced her arrival.

  “Raking muck, uncovering crime, exposing dirty secrets,” said Phyllis. “Oh, and covering his own tracks, the little liar. It’s bad enough he messed up your story, but then he had to go and make it worse by denying it.”

  “I s
ee he’s won your heart,” said Lucy.

  “Little brat,” snorted Phyllis. “He was actually advising me to make the classified’s livelier reading. I told him people pay by the word and just want to get that snow blower sold in as few words as possible.” She yawned and glanced at the clock. “So what were you up to this afternoon?”

  Lucy plunked herself down in her desk chair and swiveled around to face Phyllis. “I did a follow-up with the sheriff, asking why he’d denied the puppeteer’s request to march in the parade.”

  “And why did he?”

  “She applied too late, after the deadline.”

  “There’s no deadline,” said Phyllis, adjusting the zebra-striped cheaters that were sliding down her nose.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure. Somebody from the Hibernians called Wilf yesterday and asked if his banjo band would march. Wilf said the guy seemed pretty desperate; apparently they don’t have enough bands.”

  “I can’t believe it,” said Lucy, realizing she’d been fooled, taken in by the sheriff’s charm offensive.

  “No, God’s honest truth. I heard the call.”

  “I can’t believe I fell for it. I swallowed that sheriff’s story hook, line, and sinker. I’m an idiot.”

  “I don’t imagine you’re the first,” said Phyllis, shrugging her well-upholstered shoulders. “That’s how he stays in power. He beguiles his critics into submission.”

  “Not anymore,” vowed Lucy. “Not me.”

  She immediately reached for the phone on her desk and called the sheriff’s office. As promised, Nora put her call through immediately, and she steeled herself to resist the man’s blarney.

  “Ah, so soon,” he cooed. “What can I do for you, Lucy?”

  “Just a little thing. Could you please send me a copy of the parade guidelines? I need it for my story.”

  “Oh, sadly, that’s the one thing I cannot do for you, my dear. You see, the guidelines belong to the Hibernian Knights, and the board must vote to release them. If it were up to me alone, you’d have them in a matter of minutes. This email is a wonderful thing, now, isn’t it?”