by Leslie Meier
Never what you wanted to hear, she thought, as Lynne disappeared into the service bay. She returned in a moment, with Fred in tow.
“What’s the bad news?” asked Lucy, as Fred wiped his greasy hands on a towel. “Did I destroy the rim?”
“Nah, everything’s fine, but I couldn’t save the tire. It looked pretty new, too.”
“It was,” said Lucy, with a sigh. “I got new tires for Christmas.”
Fred shook his head. “Funny thing. It looked like somebody shot at it with a nail gun or something. I found five of these.” He reached into the chest pocket of his bib overalls and produced a handful of roofing nails. “They’re short, but they did the job, eventually.”
“That’s why I didn’t realize I had a flat until I’d gone some distance?”
“That’s right,” said Fred.
“A nail gun? I couldn’t have just picked up the nails?” asked Lucy.
“It’s all I can figure.” Fred shrugged. “Seems like a mean sort of trick, but you never know with folks today.”
“I suppose it could have been an accident,” said Lucy, trying to think if she’d passed any construction sites. The only possibility, she thought, was the sheriff’s office, where workers had been putting on a new roof. “Like maybe somebody dropped a nail gun?”
“It happens,” said Fred. “My cousin got shot that way. He was lucky; it went into his butt, but the doc said it only missed his spine by an inch or so.” He grinned, revealing a missing tooth or two. “He went online and found all these X-rays of people with nails in their heads, anywhere you can think of.” He paused. “They really oughta make those guns safer, or train people better, or something.”
“Well, thanks for fixing the car,” said Lucy, turning toward Lori and the cash register and handing over her credit card. “I’ve gotta get back to work. Like those Disney dwarves used to sing in the movie, “I owe, I owe.”
“That’s a good one, Lucy,” said Fred, before going back to the waiting car in the service bay. Lynne gave her a slip to sign, and wincing at the total, Lucy signed on the dotted line.
That evening, when she was mixing up a meat loaf, both girls came home together and caught Lucy letting Libby the dog lick off her greasy fingers.
“Mom, that’s gross,” complained Zoe.
“No, it’s not. The meat loaf is in the pan, and when Libby finishes I’m going to wash my hands.” She wiggled her fingers. “It’s just a little treat for her.”
Libby agreed, wagging her tail as she thoroughly licked Lucy’s hands, leaving them cleaner than clean. “Maybe I don’t really need to wash . . .” suggested Lucy, displaying her hands and eliciting a chorus of groans from her daughters.
“I’m losing my appetite,” complained Sara.
“Well, you can make the salad,” suggested Lucy, sudsing up. When she’d finished washing and was drying her hands, she asked if they remembered Melanie Wall.
“Remember,” groaned Zoe. “I wish I could forget.”
“Yeah,” agreed Sara, who was emptying a bag of salad greens into a bowl. “At first, we felt bad for her and tried to cover things up so Mrs. Bonaventure wouldn’t fire her. But after a while, that got real tiresome.”
“Especially since she didn’t seem to care about keeping the job,” added Zoe, slicing up a tomato. “All she wanted to do was get high.”
“What was she like?” asked Lucy, putting the towel back on its hook. “I seem to remember her as rather quiet, like a little mouse.”
“She was real quiet, like a little ghost. And when she wasn’t high, she was a good worker. She had a funny little sense of humor.” Sara shook her head. “You just knew she came from a messed-up home; she was one of those girls who never had a chance.”
“She wanted to be friends so bad. She was always asking what we were doing after work or on the weekend.”
“And then she got arrested, so we were real glad we never hung out with her,” said Sara.
“You never heard from her after that?” asked Lucy, watching as Sara put a sheet of plastic cling wrap over the salad bowl.
“I don’t think so,” replied Zoe, with a shrug, heading up the back stairs.
“Why do you want to find Melanie Wall?” asked Sara, tucking the salad into the fridge.
“No reason,” said Lucy, setting the oven at three-fifty and sliding the meat loaf inside. “Just curious, I guess.”
“Sounds like trouble to me,” said Sara, plopping down at the kitchen table and checking her phone. She glanced at Libby, who had settled on her doggy bed and was snoozing. “Let sleeping dogs lie. That’s what they say.”
“You’re probably right,” said Lucy, scrubbing up some potatoes.
* * *
Much to Rob’s surprise, his photos of the elementary school kids making Valentines for Vets was a big hit, featured above the fold on the front page of both the Gabber and Pennysaver editions and posted as a photo essay in the online Courier. Lucy’s story describing the grand-marshal candidates also got a lot of attention and sparked a number of office betting pools on the final choice. When the press conference announcing the grand-marshal selection finally came around a week later, it happened to be a Wednesday, deadline day, and Ted was holding the paper for the big announcement. Lucy got off to a slow start because she forgot to set the alarm and cast a longing glance at the shortcut but drove right by, staying on Red Top Road and sticking to the main roads even though it meant she might be late. Nothing ever started on time, she told herself, as she waited at the stop sign to make her turn onto Route 1, especially news conferences.
The Hibernian Knights had their own building, a modest but well-maintained, gray-shingled building that stood in the middle of a huge parking lot. When Lucy arrived, there were already quite a few cars in the lot, including a good number of official vehicles from the sheriff’s department, fire department, highway department, and water department, as well as a plain black sedan with clergy plates that Lucy happened to know belonged to Father Bill, from St. Brigid’s Church.
Stepping inside, she discovered that the lobby was empty and everyone was settling into their seats in the main meeting room. The podium on the stage was empty, but several board members were seated in the circle of chairs arranged behind the podium. They were all male, apart from the secretary, Lucy noted, and dressed in everything from business suits and ties to the retired man’s uniform of flannel shirt, sweater vest, and chinos. She recognized their state rep among the group, along with an assistant DA. The three candidates were seated on the other side of the stage, chatting and doing their best to appear as if they were best buddies. Taking a seat near the front, Lucy noticed that Eileen Clancy was nervously twisting a handkerchief in her hands, and James Ryan was tapping one foot and glancing repeatedly at the podium. Only Brendan Coyle seemed truly unconcerned about the selection, focused instead on the conversation.
There was a bit of a buzz when Sheriff Murphy entered, accompanied by two of his uniformed deputies. The three men stood at attention as the fire department’s color guard marched onto the stage and everyone rose for the Pledge of Allegiance. That was followed by “The Star-Spangled Banner,” sung by the Singing State Trooper, Ed Corrigan. When that business was completed, the color guard marched into the wings, and the two deputies seated themselves with the other Hibernian board members. The candidates sat a bit straighter, and the sheriff took his place at the podium.
“Thank you all for coming,” he began, with an expansive grin, which prompted a bit of a chuckle from the audience. Puzzled at first, Lucy realized that attendance was probably required, especially if these local functionaries wanted to keep their jobs.
“This year, we had an especially fine group of candidates for grand marshal, and if you will indulge me, I will introduce each of them.” He proceeded to do so, beginning with Eileen, who blushed furiously as he outlined her contributions to the community, her business acumen, and her devotion to her students. “She has dedicated her life to perpet
uating Irish culture through dance, and dozens—nay, hundreds—of young people have a better appreciation of their heritage thanks to her efforts.”
When the applause died down, he introduced Brendan Coyle, launching into a long description of his various good works. Brendan seemed amused by the account, occasionally shrugging his shoulders as if to brush off the accolades. When Murphy described his efforts at community organizing as “rabble-rousing” he smiled broadly and raised his hand. “Anybody who’s interested, meet me afterward,” he invited, getting a big round of applause.
The sheriff’s tone changed as he described James Ryan, calling him a quiet man who worked tirelessly to benefit the community, especially the Irish-American community. He cited low-interest loan programs and involvement in community projects, and cited him as a major fund-raiser for St. Brigid’s. “We might as well name that beautiful new organ after him. He twisted a lot of arms and got us all to dig deeper than we thought we could, right?” he asked, getting a roar of approval from the audience.
Lucy was beginning to get tired of all this jollity, which frankly seemed rather false to her. She’d covered lots of similar events when a check was given to a worthy cause; they called them “grin and grabs” at the paper, which is pretty much what they were. Some worthy would give a brief speech, a check would be handed over, and everybody would smile for the photo. She’d also covered prize presentations, MVP announcements, award ceremonies at the school, even a big lottery winner, but she’d never encountered an atmosphere this thick and ripe with forced bonhomie and self-congratulation. It was supposed to be about the candidates for grand marshal, but something else was happening: It was really all about the sheriff and the people to whom he granted his favors. These folks were the “in” crowd, they were determined to remain so, and the devil take the rest.
“Well, now I’ll turn this over to the president of the Hibernian Knights board of directors, our very own assistant district attorney, for whom I see a bright future, Mr. Kevin Kenneally.”
Kenneally was tall and skinny, with a thick thatch of red hair. He was dressed in a gray suit, starched white shirt, and green tie, and his shoes were highly polished. He had a big class ring on one finger but had not yet achieved a Rolex watch. He had a charming, “aw shucks” air about him, and got straight to business after thanking the sheriff for his kind words.
“As president of the board of directors of the Hibernian Knights, I am happy to announce that the grand marshal for the St. Patrick’s Day parade will be”—he paused dramatically before saying the name that everyone expected—“James Ryan.”
Ryan, of course, had a few words to say, and Lucy dutifully jotted down them down, checking her watch. This thing had gone on for more than an hour, and since it was breaking news, she had to write it up immediately. She figured she could file the story in the old Gabber office in Gilead, which would save her the drive back to Tinker’s Cove. How much of this back-patting self-congratulation would Ted want, she wondered, aware that he couldn’t hold the paper indefinitely.
Finally, it was over, and people were gathering around Ryan to congratulate him. Lucy saw Eileen Clancy standing by herself, looking dejected, and decided to offer a bit of consolation and maybe get a quote.
“Too bad, Eileen,” she said, with a smile. “Maybe next year?”
“It just wasn’t my year,” she said, through clenched teeth. “Jim Ryan’s been waiting for some time to be chosen.” She paused. “You’ve got to pay your dues, and I guess I’m still in the debit column.” Then, realizing she might have misspoken, she added, “Of course, Jim is the best choice. He’ll be a fabulous grand marshal. I wish him all the best.”
Right, thought Lucy, imagining that Eileen was probably picturing Jim Ryan’s float hitting a pothole and sending him flying.
“I’ve got to go and congratulate him,” she said, stepping away from Lucy. “Thanks for coming, and have a great day.”
“You, too,” said Lucy, turning to speak to Brendan Coyle, who was chatting easily with Kevin.
“I was just telling Brendan that it was very close,” said Kevin, slapping him on the shoulder. “Next year, I predict he’ll be chosen.”
Brendan smiled at her. “Maybe, maybe not. Times are changing, and people are becoming more open-minded. Even the Hibernian Knights are bound to change, to become more in step with society at large.”
“Make that baby steps,” said Kevin, shaking Brendan’s hand and heading over to join the group around James Ryan.
“So you’re not disappointed?” asked Lucy.
“You know that Woody Allen line about not wanting to belong to a club that would admit him as a member? That’s kind of how I feel about the Hibernians.”
“Off the record, I’m sure.”
“Absolutely,” said Brendan, with a wink.
Lucy had tucked her notebook in her bag and was headed for the door when she was hailed by the sheriff. “Grand day, isn’t it?” he said, beaming at her.
“You must be very pleased.”
“Indeed I am.” He paused. “You’ll be giving this the coverage it deserves, a major announcement and all?”
“Our deadline is usually noon, but Ted’s holding the paper,” said Lucy. “And the story will go online right away.”
“That’s great.” The sheriff furrowed his brow. “By the way, I heard your car broke down last week? Is everything okay?”
“Just a flat,” said Lucy. “How did you know?”
“Oh, all the breakdowns are reported to me.” He bared his teeth in a grin. “Routine public safety policy.”
“Well, Silver Cloud came quickly, and I was home before the storm got too bad.”
“It was quite a blow, wasn’t it?” He caught her eyes with his direct gaze. “You should be more careful in future, not go wandering off into dangerous territory.”
“I will,” said Lucy, wondering if the sheriff was offering a bit of kindly advice, or a threat.
Chapter Nine
Leaving the Hibernian Knights hall, Lucy’s eye was caught by the massive gray granite prison that squatted atop the tallest hill in the county and loomed over the little town of Gilead. Sun glinted off the razor wire that topped the tall chain-link fence that encircled the prison, and she wondered if daylight penetrated the small, heavily barred windows. Probably only briefly, it at all, she decided, calculating the angle of the sun and the thickness of the jail’s granite walls.
The sheriff could have campaigned to replace the nineteenth-century jail with a modern facility, but had chosen not to. Maybe the idea hadn’t even occurred to him, she thought, turning her back on the grim structure and walking to her car. It seemed odd, though, considering how he made sure the deputies had the latest, glitziest squad cars, painted with enormous enlargements of the sheriff’s seal on the doors. He’d also modernized the county’s emergency dispatch system, instituted annual fitness exams and weapons training for deputies and corrections officers, and, somewhat controversially, had changed the color of their uniforms from dark gray to a rather bright shade of blue. “Friendlier,” he’d said, announcing the change, but keen observers had noticed that the new color flattered his baby-blue eyes.
Lucy was familiar with the jail; she’d been inside numerous times to interview locals charged with crimes and awaiting trial, and she always came away with a sense of relief that she could leave. The place gave her the willies, especially the sound made by the various doors a visitor had to pass through. They all closed with a resounding thud that made you wonder if they would ever open again.
It was telling, she thought, negotiating the route to the Gabber office, that when prison reform activists organized demonstrations protesting conditions in the county jail about a year ago, the sheriff had refused any suggestion that the prison could be modernized or improved. He had stubbornly refused to acknowledge the protestors, who had eventually given up and moved on in search of greener pastures, and had continued to resistany and all calls to humanize the fa
cility. The women’s wing was especially harsh, she remembered, and the slightest infraction resulted in solitary confinement. “For the ladies’ safety,” the sheriff had insisted, when questioned, quickly moving on to his decision to change the female prisoner’s uniforms from gray to pink—a move that Lucy knew the women had not appreciated; one inmate had complained that they all now looked like bottles of Pepto-Bismol.
No matter what the sheriff did, thought Lucy as she parked her car, nobody ever opposed him. He always got exactly what he wanted, and after his veiled warning to her, she understood why. Thinking back, she tried to figure out how she had crossed him, what she’d done that had made him feel he had to assert his power over her, but she couldn’t imagine what it was. All she’d done was ask some questions, which he’d easily brushed away. Maybe her reputation as a hard-hitting journalist had preceded her? Hardly, she thought, climbing out of the car. She’d covered a few big stories, she’d had some lucky scoops, but for the most part she wrote boring stories about town committee meetings and getting-to-know-you features about locals and their varying achievements: growing big pumpkins, sewing patchwork quilts, running in a marathon. All she’d done that might possibly have irritated the sheriff, she realized, reaching the doorway, was ask for the parade guidelines. That must be it, she decided. She’d asked for the guidelines, implying that he’d lied when he told her Rosie had applied too late, after the deadline. She’d confronted him with information that seemed to indicate there was no deadline, and he didn’t like it. In fact, she wondered, reaching for the door, was it possible he had suggested to one of the roofers that he have a small accident with the nail gun? Stepping inside the overheated office, Lucy suddenly felt chilled.
“Hey, Lucy, you’re finally here,” called Ted, looking up from the huge steel desk, big as an aircraft carrier, that had formerly been occupied by Sam Wilson.
“Wow, some change from the Pennysaver,” said Lucy, looking around the carpeted modern space, which even boasted a rubber tree plant. The newsroom, with its neat row of cubicles, was empty, however.