by Leslie Meier
“When was this?” asked Lucy.
“Just the other day; he was out working on his bike when Angie walked by.”
“But she was bothered enough to tell someone?”
“Yeah, she’s a good girl. She told her mother, and Elfrida called Wilf, so he went over to talk to him. You know, man to man.”
“And what happened?”
“Wilf said that at first he got all indignant and huffy, but when Wilf told him she’s only sixteen, he lost interest real fast.”
“That’s good. From what I’ve heard he’s”—Lucy paused, catching herself—“make that was kind of a jerk. Barney caught him speeding lots of times, but always let him off with a warning.”
Phyllis smirked. “Professional courtesy, I guess.”
“I guess,” agreed Lucy, thinking that the sheriff’s men, whether they were deputies or corrections officers, were above the law as long as they remained loyal to the sheriff. He would intervene if one of them got in trouble, and the accuser would pay the price, not the wrongdoer. She was pondering this situation when Rob came in, clearly furious.
“I was stuck in traffic forever, thanks to a crash on Route 1, which I should have been covering instead of talking to Mr. Goring, who should be called Mr. Boring!”
“No worry. I covered it,” said Lucy.
Rob seated himself in Ted’s chair, shoulders hunched in a sulk. “I saw smoke. Were there any fatalities?”
“Yeah. The driver was trapped.” She shuddered. “It was awful; they couldn’t get him out.”
Rob was silent. Lucy wasn’t sure if he was thinking about how awful it would be to be trapped in a burning car, or if he was upset about missing a breaking news story. “Who was it?” he finally asked. “Have they made an identification?”
“Not officially,” said Lucy, “but my sources say the truck belonged to Gabe McGourt.”
“Gabe McGourt?” Rob was stunned. “The guy I’ve been investigating?”
“The very same,” admitted Lucy. “Of course, he could’ve loaned his truck to somebody else. It’s not certain until they make an official ID.”
“This smells to high heaven,” said Rob, with a self-satisfied smirk. “Take my word for it, this accident was no accident. Not if the victim is Gabe McGourt.” He drummed his fingers on Ted’s desk. “I’d bet my life on it.”
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” said Lucy.
“What?”
“Bet your life on it.”
Chapter Eleven
When Lucy arrived at the office the next morning, she found Rob chatting with Rosie Capshaw. It occurred to Lucy that perhaps there was something going on between the two and wondered why she hadn’t thought of it earlier. Perhaps because she considered Rob so obnoxious, that’s why. She couldn’t imagine that a nice young woman like Rosie would be the least bit interested in him.
“Hi, Lucy,” he said, beaming with joy and apparently elated simply to be in Rosie’s presence. “Rosie’s here.”
“I am indeed,” agreed Rosie, with a chuckle, “and Brendan is on his way.”
“Great.” Lucy couldn’t wait to break up this lovefest. “Let’s meet in the morgue; that way we won’t disturb Rob while he works.”
Rob’s expression changed to one of sadness, and Rosie gave him a sympathetic smile before she followed Lucy into the morgue. They had just seated themselves at the big conference table when Brendan arrived. “Good to see you,” he said, full of enthusiasm as he took a seat. “I’m glad to be here, but all the credit goes to Rosie. The Irish Festival was her idea, after all.”
“But you took my little idea and ran with it,” said Rosie. “He’s the one who started making phone calls and getting things moving. All I’m doing is bringing my puppets, that’s all.”
“She’s too modest, this girl,” insisted Brendan. “She was the one who said we should collaborate with the Chamber of Commerce . . .”
“And once Corney came on board, things really started to happen,” said Rosie.
“She was already here, this morning,” said Lucy. “She brought this press release.”
“Oh, let me see!” Rosie and Brendan studied the sheet of paper, nodding along as they read.
“Anything you want to add?” asked Lucy.
“Yes, we’re still looking for people who want to participate, with a talent, or food, or anything at all. We’re open-minded, and everybody’s Irish on St. Patrick’s Day. All they have to do is call either me or Brendan,” said Rosie.
“And we want to make it clear that the festival is not competing with the parade. The parade is a special and wonderful expression of Irish pride,” said Brendan. “The festival is scheduled for the afternoon, after the parade, and is another way for folks to celebrate Irish heritage, even if they’re not Irish.”
“Point taken,” said Lucy. “Mind if I snap a photo of you two?”
Rosie and Brendan had been gone a few minutes when a couple of uniformed state troopers, along with Assistant DA Kevin Kenneally, came into the office.
Wondering what had brought them to the Pennysaver, she was about to greet them when Kenneally began speaking.
“Rob Callahan,” he began, “we have a few questions for you.”
“No problem,” said Rob. “Want to sit down?”
“Thanks,” said Kenneally, taking the offered chair. The two uniforms remained standing behind him.
“So what’s this all about?” asked Rob.
“I understand you’ve been inquiring about Gabe McGourt,” began Kenneally. “Do you mind telling me why?”
“Nothing personal,” said Rob, looking puzzled. “I’d heard some rumors that he was involved in a sexual harassment situation, and I was wondering if there was a story there. That’s all.”
“And have you had any personal contact with McGourt? Spoken with him? Had a disagreement of any kind?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Are you sure? Because if you’re lying, it could be a problem for you, and I notice you’ve clearly been in a fight.”
“It wasn’t with McGourt; it was some other guys,” said Rob. “Look, am I under suspicion of something? Because I didn’t hear you give me my Miranda rights.” He turned to Lucy, who was standing by mutely, in amazement. “Did you hear them read me my rights?”
“Uh, no,” said Lucy, giving Kenneally a puzzled look. Then her brain switched into high gear, and she asked, “Has McGourt been positively identified? Was he the victim in that crash yesterday?”
Kenneally looked at her. “Sorry, but we’re not ready to make an official announcement,” he said. “Maybe this afternoon.” Then he directed his steely gray gaze to Rob. “No need to get all upset,” he said, standing up. “Just a little chat, that’s all.”
“Yeah,” said one of the troopers, looking Rob in the eye. “See you around.”
“Not if I see you first,” muttered Rob, under his breath, as the three made their way to the door.
Kenneally paused at the reception counter to speak to Phylllis. “Have a nice day, now,” he said, before grabbing the doorknob.
So Kenneally, taking his cues from the sheriff, was following the playbook for ambitious young politicians, making friends with the receptionist, thought Lucy. She watched with amusement to see Phyllis’s reaction and wasn’t disappointed.
“Hmph,” was all he got, as he and the two troopers stepped outside. Kenneally closed the door gently, and the little bell gave a quiet little ting.
“That was weird,” Lucy said. “And scary.”
“You’re telling me,” said Rob. “I hope they don’t think I was involved in this accident.”
“Never mind,” said Phyllis, joining in. “Everything will be all right. Kenneally’s just trying to stir things up.”
“Well, I don’t like it,” said Rob. “I’m supposed to be covering the news, not making it.”
For once, Lucy felt a slight sympathy for Rob. She’d been in his shoes, and she knew they weren’t very comforta
ble.
As Kenneally had suggested, the DA released the name of the accident victim that afternoon, by which time practically everyone in the county had heard the news and concluded it had to be Gabe McGourt. Lucy immediately attempted to contact his ex-wife and other family members, which always made her feel a bit like a ghoul. She knew, however, that people were most honest when grief was fresh and they were emotionally vulnerable, and often gave the most memorable and touching quotes then. She also believed that survivors appreciated the opportunity to memorialize their loved one—at least, that’s what Ted always told her. “You’re helping them process their grief, Lucy,” was his usual rejoinder when Lucy complained about writing obituaries.
This time, however, the survivors weren’t taking calls. She called again and again, but the ringing phones were never answered, and the voice mails were not returned. When Ted asked how she was getting on, and she admitted not at all, he sent her out to knock on their doors. But even then, the doors remained shut, and the shades were drawn at McGourt’s mother’s and ex-wife’s homes. In fact, both houses seemed deserted, as if the occupants had left town.
With deadline fast approaching, they had no option except to run the official laudatory announcement released by the sheriff, which cited McGourt’s education, numerous citations for superior achievement in his work as a corrections officer, and complimentary quotes from his coworkers. The copy included a quote from the sheriff himself: “Gabe will be greatly missed by all of us in the department, for both his excellent work ethic and his unfailing kindness and generosity to everyone he worked with, inmates as well as colleagues.” It ended with a notation that funeral plans would be announced shortly.
Ted wasn’t happy about the situation and made it clear in an introduction that the obituary had been provided by the sheriff’s department, and that while The Courier had made every effort to contact family members, those efforts had met with no response. “This is weird,” he said, finalizing the story and sending it to the print shop. “I’ve never encountered anything like this before.”
“It’s the sheriff,” said Rob. “You only get what he wants you to get.”
“Maybe the family just wanted privacy,” said Lucy. “It’s possible.”
“I don’t think so,” said Ted. “I’m beginning to think Rob is right, and that’s why the Gabber never had anything except puff pieces about the sheriff and the county government.”
“Well, it’s up to us to change that,” said Lucy. “We just have to follow the news and see where the stories take us. Go after the truth.”
“You’re right, Lucy,” said Ted. “But be careful.”
“Yeah,” advised Rob. “Watch your back. Whatever you do, don’t break any traffic regulations. Speeding, going through a stop sign, you could end up getting seriously harassed.”
* * *
Ted’s and Rob’s words of caution haunted her on Thursday afternoon. That morning, Rachel, who had directed several little-theater amateur productions, had told her that rehearsals for the festival talent show were already beginning and had invited her to stop by to interview some of the participants. She didn’t really think she’d end up in jail for running a stop sign, but then she remembered her flat tire on the lonesome road through the woods and began to think Rob might have a point, and she drove very carefully and mindfully as she made her way to the Community Church.
A busy scene greeted her when she stepped inside the church basement. Tables had been set up, where volunteers were busy making posters and costumes; others were working in the kitchen area, probably baking Irish soda bread, if Lucy could trust her nose to identify the buttery scent that was filling the hall. Performers were taking turns rehearsing on the stage, coached by Rachel.
“Hi, Lucy,” Rachel smiled, greeting her warmly with a hug and air kisses. “This festival is going to be great. Just listen to this.” She called out Sam Parris’s name, and a young black man who had been waiting in the wings took the stage. “Sam, this is Lucy Stone from the Pennysaver; she’s covering the rehearsal for the paper. Would you mind giving her a preview?”
“I’d love to,” said Sam, with a big smile. He straightened his back, took a deep breath, and began singing an old Irish folk tune in the clearest, most beautiful tenor voice Lucy had ever heard.
“Can you believe it?” murmured Rachel, a blissful expression on her face. “Pitch perfect. And that tone . . .”
“Amazing,” said Lucy, enjoying the song too much to remember to take a photo. It ended much too soon, Sam got a smattering of applause from the others, and she belatedly grabbed her phone. “Can I take your picture?” she asked.
“With Rachel, too?” Sam asked.
“Of course.”
Rachel quickly grabbed two green cardboard leprechaun hats, which they slapped on their heads. Then they stood together, arms around each other, smiling broadly for the photo. Checking the image of the white woman and the black man, which neatly illustrated the inclusiveness of the festival, Lucy was delighted. She also suspected that Rachel had purposely chosen Sam for the photo to make that very point, which was further emphasized by the leprechaun hats. “Those hats were just what the photo needed,” she said. “Good work.”
Rachel announced a ten-minute break for the performers and sat down with Lucy, where she enthusiastically listed the various acts and Lucy jotted them down. “I cannot believe there is so much untapped talent, but people have been coming out of the woodwork, eager to strut their stuff. Sam is extraordinary, but he’s not the only one.” She smiled mischievously. “What about you, Lucy? Perhaps you could write a poem, or read one?”
“No way,” she said, laughing at the idea.
“Well, what about one of your news stories? That account of the ropewalk fire, for instance. A bit of local history. . .”
Lucy was adamant. “I don’t think so. But maybe Zoe and Sara could perform an Irish dance. They actually took classes from Eileen Clancy a few years ago, and every once in a while, they do a jig around the house. It’s kind of funny, actually; they’ve added their own bits.”
“Oh, that sounds perfect for the festival,” enthused Rachel. “Do you think they’ll do it?”
“I’ll ask. I bet they’d get a kick out of it, pun intended!”
Rachel groaned. “Back to work for me,” she said, getting up. “Check out the crafts people,” she advised. “They’re doing some interesting stuff. And there’s going to be food, too. Irish stew and soda bread, corned beef sandwiches, fish and chips—even beer, if they can get a temporary license.”
Lucy had her doubts about the temporary license, but didn’t say anything. She knew the licenses were granted by the town’s board of selectmen, but needed approval from the chief of police. The chief, Jim Kirwan, was known as a team player; he made a point of mentioning the cooperation his department received from the sheriff at every press conference. He was unlikely to oppose Murphy if he voiced an objection to the temporary license. Time would tell, but Lucy suspected the sheriff would do everything he could to pose hurdles for the festival planners.
Leaving Rachel to continue the rehearsals, Lucy briefly interviewed several volunteers who were making banners and posters, along with a jewelry maker known for his claddagh rings and Celtic crosses, a potter who was offering teapots and mugs glazed in a beautiful green color, and a knitter who made pot holders and baby clothes featuring intricate patterns adapted from traditional fishermen’s sweaters. Spotting Rosie, who was just arriving with a banshee head on a pole, she went to greet her.
“Hi, Rosie. Who’s your scary friend?”
“If you think he’s scary now, wait ’til he gets his fluttery, ragged clothing. Pretty spooky, if I say so myself,” she said, with a gleeful cackle. “Especially after dark, when I light him up.”
“I guess he’ll be in the noise parade, after dark?” asked Lucy, referring to the proposed schedule of events.
“Along with a bunch of his buddies: St. Patrick with snakes, Mother Jon
es, a couple of leprechauns, and a lot more screaming banshees.”
“There’ll be sound effects?” asked Lucy.
Rosie gave her a look. “It’s a noise parade, right? Everybody makes noise however they can, pot lids, drums, kazoos.”
“You’ve got me there,” admitted Lucy. “But it seems this is more like Halloween than St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Ah, who do you think invented Halloween? I’ll bet it was the Irish!”
“That’s a bet I’m not taking,” said Lucy, laughing. “But while I’ve got you, I was wondering if you know of any connection between Rob and Gabe McGourt? The cops were in the office questioning him . . .”
“About Gabe?” demanded Rosie, shocked to her core. “Like they think he had something to do with the crash?”
“They were certainly implying he had some sort of disagreement, some issue with Gabe, but Rob insisted he was only doing his job, investigating a sexual harassment accusation that he suspected was hushed up and might be worth a story.”
“Is that what he told the cops?” asked Rosie, sounding dismayed.
“Yup.” Lucy leaned in. “Isn’t that right? Is there something more?”
Rosie grabbed one of the gray steel folding chairs that were scattered around the room and sat down, removing the pole and dropping it on the floor with a clatter and holding the banshee head in her lap. Lucy found the odd juxtaposition of a beautiful young woman holding a disembodied head slightly disturbing; it reminded her a bit of paintings she’d seen of Salome holding the head of John the Baptist. But Rosie wasn’t wicked, she reminded herself; she wasn’t a bit like Salome.
“I wish he’d told the truth,” said Rosie, absentmindedly stroking the papier-mâché head. “Rob and I have become friends . . .”
Lucy interrupted. “Just friends?”
Rosie shrugged. “Right now we’re just friends; we’re both new here, we’re outsiders. It’s only natural that we’d be drawn to each other. We’re both artists, I don’t know if you know, but Rob is working on a novel . . .”