Irish Parade Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Where is everybody?” she asked.

  “Out. They’re on the beat. Looking for stories, taking photos, building connections. You can’t report local news from a desk; that’s what I told them.”

  “How many of these keen newshounds have you unleashed on an unsuspecting public?” asked Lucy.

  “Actually, there’s just Rob and you, and Pete Popper. Fran Croydon is still recuperating from her surgery.” He gave her a little half smile. “Pete’s over at the high school, covering a science fair.”

  “So much for beating the bushes for news,” said Lucy. “I’ve got the grand-marshal announcement to write up for you.”

  “Don’t tell me. Let me guess,” said Ted, as if there was some question as to who was chosen. “Was it . . . James Ryan?”

  “Darn,” muttered Lucy, slipping out of her jacket. “You spoiled my surprise.”

  “Write it up. I saved twelve inches for you on the front page. You can go longer if you want for the online edition, which we can put up as soon as you’re done.”

  “You’ll post it?”

  “Actually, no. I need Rob for that. Where is he?”

  “Out on the beat, I suppose,” said Lucy, choosing a cubicle and powering up the PC, which immediately obliged by lighting up. “So all this new equipment came with the Gabber?”

  “Even the fake plant,” said Ted, beaming at her.

  She’d just finished a concise account of the grand-marshal announcement when the door opened and Rob came in, wearing dark sunglasses. He took his jacket off and hung it on the rack, but kept the sunglasses on when he seated himself in the farthest cubicle.

  “What’s up?” asked Ted, who hadn’t looked up from the story he was editing when Rob came in.

  Rob’s answer was indistinct, but Lucy thought she caught the word “budget.”

  “Everything all right?” asked Ted, fixing his gaze on Rob. “Why are you wearing sunglasses indoors? And why can’t you talk?”

  Rob removed the sunglasses, revealing a very swollen, very black eye. His lip was also swollen, which Lucy hadn’t noticed previously, distracted as she was by the Ray-Bans.

  “That’s quite a shiner,” said Ted. “It looks painful.”

  “Id iz,” mumbled Rob, through his teeth.

  “Don’t tell me you walked into a door,” said Lucy.

  “Id wuz a bar,” said Rob.

  “You got in a bar fight?” Ted didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Dat place out on Route 1.”

  “And they just didn’t like the looks of you?” asked Lucy. “So somebody decided to rearrange your face?”

  “I axed the wrong question,” admitted Rob.

  Lucy had a flash of inspiration. “Not the sheriff. You didn’t go off about him, did you?”

  “No.” Rob shook his head, slowly. “I’m not stupid,” he began, speaking with effort. “I very tactfully steered the conversation to Gabe McGourt and that girl, Melanie Wall. Like I was new in town, and I’d heard something about it and was just curious.”

  “Who were you talking to?” asked Ted.

  “Just a bunch of guys, fishermen probably. They were real friendly, talking about the local talent, until I mentioned this McGourt guy. Then they hustled me outside, and one guy, the big one, socked me in the face. I remember the first hit. After that, it’s all a blur.”

  “Did you go to the ER?” Lucy couldn’t help it, her motherly instincts came to the fore. “You might have a concussion.”

  “Nah. I was only out for a minute or so. I drove home and found some frozen peas in the freezer. Not mine. Probably left by the last tenant.” He sighed a long sigh. “Lucky, hunh?”

  “Stupid, more like,” said Ted. “What did I tell you? Everybody knows everybody around here, and even if they don’t like them, they’ll stick up for them against an outsider. You’ve got to be careful, do your homework, suss things out.”

  “That’s what I was trying to do,” said Rob, in a defensive tone.

  “Ted’s right,” said Lucy, somewhat surprised to find herself agreeing with her boss. “It’s worse than I thought. The sheriff is into everything; he knows every single thing that goes on. He’s scary; you don’t know if he’s truly concerned about you or if he’s threatening you. It’s a little bit of both, and it’s how he keeps everybody in line.”

  “Has he threatened you, Lucy?” asked Ted, concerned.

  “I honestly don’t know.” She shrugged. “I’m probably just being oversensitive. I get a flat tire and I think the world is out to get me.”

  Ted was thoughtful, toying with his stapler. “This is new to me,” he said. “We’re in uncharted territory. Sam, bless him, was happy to be Murphy’s official spokesperson, and I don’t blame him; he had bills to pay and payroll to meet, and he kept the Gabber afloat in tough times. But that’s not my way.”

  “So what are we going to do?” asked Lucy.

  “We’re going to go slow, we’re going to build contacts, we’re going to do research, and we’re going to chip away and expose the truth. One morning, Sheriff Murphy is going to wake up and find the feds banging at the door with a search warrant, and he’s going to wonder how it all happened.” He nodded. “That’s the plan.”

  “Sounds good,” said Lucy. “Meanwhile, I’ve got this puff piece . . .”

  “Post it, Rob.” Ted grinned. “It’s going to be a stealth attack.” He got up and fixed himself a cup of coffee, taking it with him and pulling up a chair next to Rob’s desk. “So refresh my memory,” he began, after taking a big slurp. “Who exactly is Gabe McGourt, and what makes him newsworthy?”

  “He’s a prison guard who was accused by a woman named Melanie Wall of sexual assault.”

  “And you want to follow up on it?”

  “I do. But I can’t find any trace of Melanie; the whole thing just kind of dissolved into thin air. Nothing happened, and McGourt, as far as I know, is still working at the jail.”

  “Do you remember anything about this, Lucy?” This was followed by another slurp.

  “Not much,” said Lucy. “Melanie worked at the Queen Vic with my girls last summer. She was a chambermaid, but they didn’t stay in touch.”

  “Do you think you could ask them about her, Lucy?”

  “I already tried,” said Lucy. “They said she was nice enough, but kind of flaky. She came in late; one time they found her passed out on an unmade bed. I got the impression that they got tired of covering for her.” Lucy shrugged. “And then one day she didn’t come in. End of story.”

  “Well, maybe they’ll think of something,” said Ted, draining his mug.

  As it happened, Ted was right. When Lucy got home that evening, Zoe handed over her cell phone. “I was cleaning out old messages, and I found a text from Melanie,” she said. The message was brief and to the point: “Heading back to Boston. Let’s stay in touch.” There was also an address, somewhere in Quincy.

  “Did you stay in touch?” asked Lucy, returning the phone. The address was easy enough to remember, 15 Granite Street, but Lucy jotted it down on a piece of paper, just to be safe.

  “Nope. That was a busy time for me, I was still working at the Vic, and school was starting up. I probably swiped right past it.”

  “Well, this was a lucky find. Sara and I are going apartment hunting in Boston tomorrow. Want to come?”

  “Wish I could,” Zoe replied, with a sigh, “but I’ve got a paper due.”

  “We’ll bring you something,” promised Lucy, reaching for the refrigerator door. “Some chocolate from Phillips.”

  “Don’t forget,” she said, adding the name of the famous Boston candy shop to Lucy’s note with the address. “I’m counting on it.”

  Lucy had been looking forward to this expedition with Sara ever since theylearned that Sara’s internship had led to a full-time job in the geology department at the Museum of Science. She was thrilled and excited for her daughter, but she was also well aware of the advantages of having a place to stay
in the city. She foresaw a future filled with visits to the Museum of Fine Arts, Italian dinners in the North End, sorties to Cambridge bookstores and boutiques, and even the occasional Broadway show that had taken to the road.

  She was telling all this to Sara as they drove together down Route 1, but Sara wasn’t equally enthusiastic. “Remember, Mom, I’m just getting a starting salary, and rents are crazy in Boston. I’m probably going to have to get a roommate, or else it’s going to be really small, like a studio.”

  “Oh, your Dad and I are flexible. You can get one of those inflatable mattresses,” said Lucy.

  “Really?” Sara was skeptical. “Do you think you’d be comfortable like that?”

  “Sure, for one night,” said Lucy.

  “I guess that might work,” admitted Sara, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

  “We wouldn’t get in your way, you know,” continued Lucy. “But we would want to visit every once in a while, make sure you’re happy and all.”

  “I’m an adult, Mom,” insisted Sara. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I know. You are very capable, but I’m your mother, and I’m going to be worrying about you.”

  “There’s no need, Mom. Really.”

  “We’ll see,” said Lucy, philosophically. “You might be surprised to find that you miss us, and you’ll be happy to see a friendly face. And we’ll take you out to dinner. Anywhere you want to go. Just think of it.”

  Sara didn’t answer, but looked glumly out the window.

  The first appointment was for an apartment in a high-rise near the Museum of Science, handy for Sara’s job.

  “It’s petite,” admitted the real estate lady, unlocking the door, “but perfect for a young woman who’s starting out.”

  She opened the door with a flourish, and Lucy popped in ahead of Sara, eager to see the apartment. It was small, really only one room with a mini-kitchen on one wall. The window gave a view of the opposite building, a similar brick high-rise. Opening one door, expecting a bath, she discovered a closet. Sara had found the bathroom, which Lucy discovered was actually a cramped space smaller than the closet.

  “Well, it’s doable, I suppose,” she said brightly, “especially since the rent can’t be very much.”

  “It’s a bargain at twenty-four hundred a month,” said the real estate lady. “And you’ll need first, last, and a security deposit. Oh, and no pets.”

  “There really isn’t room for a pet,” said Lucy, heading for the door.

  “So you want a place that allows pets?” asked the real estate lady, unwilling to lose a potential renter.

  “No,” laughed Sara. “This is way beyond my budget, I’m afraid.”

  “You could get a roommate,” suggested the woman.

  “I think we’ll have to keep looking,” said Sara. “Do you have anything for around a thousand a month?”

  “For that, you’ll have to go out of town,” said the woman, with a little sniff. “Quincy is supposed to be quite affordable.”

  “Oh, good,” said Lucy, remembering the cute little studio there that Sara had borrowed during her internship. “We were planning to go there anyway.”

  “Do you have any properties there?” asked Sara, politely.

  “Oh, no,” said the woman, recoiling as if the idea was simply too ridiculous to even contemplate. “Definitely not in Quincy.”

  As they joined the usual traffic jam on the Southeast Expressway, Lucy suggested they might as well stop in Dorchester at Phillips for Zoe’s chocolate and then continue back on the highway to Melanie’s place to get the lay of the land. “If she’s there, she might have some suggestions for you,” she said.”

  They were past the giant gas tanks, with the colorful designs created by Corita Kent, when the GPS told them to exit the highway. Following its directions, they soon found themselves on a narrow street crowded with three-decker houses and were able to park right in front of number 15. Like the other houses on the street, it boasted three porches stacked on top of each other, each one belonging to an apartment. There was a small lawn boasting a couple of rhododendron bushes and a patch of grass.

  “This is obviously a working neighborhood,” said Lucy, commenting on the availability of parking spaces. They climbed the steps to the porch at number 15 and studied the names handwritten next to the three doorbells; WALL was conspicuously crossed out next to the top bell, and replaced by SCHERMERHORN. Lucy pressed it anyway.

  “Mom! What are you doing?”

  “Maybe the Schermerhorns know something about Melanie.”

  “If they’re even home,” muttered Sara.

  As it turned out, one of the residents was just returning from the Stop & Shop, coming up the short walk behind them, carrying a couple of bags of groceries. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I hope so. We’re looking for Melanie Wall.”

  “I guess she’s moved,” said Sara.

  “She had the apartment before my husband and I got it,” said the woman, who was in her early sixties, with a wild head of graying hair. She was dressed in workout pants and sneakers, topped with a Bruins sweatshirt and a quilted vest. “I never met her.”

  “When did you move in?” asked Lucy, figuring this was Mrs. Schermerhorn. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “I don’t mind. It was last September. The owner—she lives in the house, on the first floor—she said the previous tenant hadn’t paid her rent in a couple of months, so we could have the place.”

  “What happened to her stuff?” asked Sara.

  Mrs. Schermerhorn shrugged. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask Carole.”

  “Do you think she’s home?”

  “Only one way to find out. It’s the bottom bell,” she replied, putting her groceries down on the porch floor and unlocking the door. “Have a nice day,” she said, picking up the bags and stepping inside, careful to make sure the door closed behind her.

  Lucy pressed the bottom bell, and a voice called out, “Coming.” Some minutes later, the door was opened by an elderly woman in an aqua leisure suit, who was leaning on a cane. “If you’re selling something, I don’t want it,” she said, stepping back and starting to shut the door.

  “Not selling anything,” Lucy said quickly. “We’re looking for your former tenant, Melanie Wall. Did she leave a forwarding address, by any chance?”

  “No such luck,” the woman said, in a defensive tone. “Are you from the city?” she asked, suspiciously.

  “No. We’re old friends of Melanie’s. We’re from Maine.”

  “Well, that’s all right then. I only asked because the city has all these rules that make it real hard to evict a tenant, even if they don’t pay their rent.”

  “I understand,” said Lucy, who suspected Melanie’s belongings had found their way to the Salvation Army. “So you don’t have any idea about what happened to Melanie?”

  “Nope. She left in June; she already owed me for May, too, and she never came back. I tried her phone, no answers, and when September rolled around with no sign of her—that’s when a lot of renters come back from wherever they spent the summer, and you get the college kids looking—well, that’s when I decided enough was enough, and I talked it over with Bunchy—he’s my nephew—and he said I should go for it, and he and a couple of buddies cleared the place out. If she showed up and made a fuss, well, he said he’d take care of it.”

  “Did she show up and make a fuss?”

  “No.” She glanced upward. “These new folks are nice, and they pay right on time.”

  “Good tenants are hard to find,” said Lucy, agreeably. “My daughter here is looking for a place, she’s got a job at the Museum of Science.”

  The landlord looked her over and nodded. “She looks like a nice girl.”

  “She is. I wonder if you know of anything that’s available?”

  “For not too much money,” added Sara. “I’m just starting out.”

  “My sister’s got a basement, a studio, reall
y. She’s two streets over, on Gilbert, number 45. I’ll call and tell her you’re coming.”

  “Thanks for your help,” said Lucy.

  “Yeah, I really appreciate it,” said Sara.

  They easily found 45 Gilbert Street, which was a Craftsman-style bungalow, with a well- tended garden in front. The owner, who looked like Carole’s twin, greeted them with a smile, and they quickly concluded the arrangement, agreeing to rent the modest, but very clean, studio for $950 a month.

  “Boy, that seems like a lot of money for a very small apartment,” said Lucy, as they headed back on the Southeast Expressway for home. “And a basement, to boot.”

  “Yeah, Mom, but I can afford it. I won’t have to share. And face it, I don’t have much furniture.”

  “We’ll have to start checking out some yard sales,” said Lucy, slamming on the brakes to avoid rear-ending the SUV in front of her. “I’m glad you can take the T to work; this traffic is crazy.”

  “Yeah, I can walk to the station. That’s good.” Sara looked out the window, studying the glitzy new apartment buildings that had sprung up next to the highway. “I saw these advertised, right by the expressway. The rents are crazy.”

  “Your place is homey, and there’s trees and a garden, more like what you’re used to.”

  “Yeah.” Sara sighed. “It’s kind of upsetting about Melanie, isn’t it? I know she had a lot of problems, but people don’t just disappear, do they?”

  “I think they do, especially if they owe a lot of money.”

  “But wouldn’t she want her stuff? Even if she had to sneak in to get it?”

  “Was she like that? Sneaky?” asked Lucy, as they descended into the darkness of the O’Neill Tunnel, which ran underneath downtown Boston.

  Sara was silent, thinking, and didn’t speak until they emerged into the light again at the stunning Zakim Bridge, with its triangular cables and support piers that echoed the nearby Bunker Hill Monument. “She was real evasive and edgy, always looking over her shoulder. She had this boyfriend, and she was terrified of him.”

  “Do you remember his name?” asked Lucy.

  “Gabe, Gabe Mcsomething. We tried to tell her she could get a restraining order, told her to talk to Officer Sally, but she said it was no good. He had friends in the department. She said all she could do was get away, and one day I guess she did because she didn’t show up.” Sara was thoughtful. “I hope that’s it. I hope he didn’t, you know . . .”