Irish Parade Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Beautiful china. Did you get it in Ireland?”

  “I did. I went back a few years ago to see the family, the ones that stayed.” Mary Catherine poured a splash of milk into her cup, then filled it with tea and sat down in an armchair that was catty-corner to the sofa. “Now, I can’t help wondering, did you come for anything in particular, or was it just to bring the paper?”

  “Well, actually,” began Lucy, winging it as she spoke, “my boss, the editor, wants to do a sort of follow-up piece about Gabe and how his death has affected his friends and colleagues. It would include memories and how people are coping, now that they’ve lost him, and a good bit about the Blue Lives Matter movement.”

  “I think that would be wonderful,” said Mary Catherine, her cheeks growing a bit pink. “Of course, the funeral was a beautiful tribute—all those wonderful men and women in their blue uniforms. And some of them came so far, just to honor my boy.” She paused and took a polite sip of tea, her pinky finger raised. “But it would be nice to have something a bit more personal, about what a wonderful father he was, and how unfairly fathers are treated by the divorce courts. I hope you’ll put in something about that.”

  “Well, it all depends on what information I can gather,” said Lucy, “and his friends’ memories.” Lucy took another sip of tea. “I will need your help to find contacts. I thought I’d start with the pallbearers, since they’re usually the ones closest to the deceased.”

  “Oh, let me see,” said Mary Catherine, picking the paper up off the coffee table and slowly turning the pages until she found the photo of the pallbearers. “There’s the sheriff himself, of course; he was a pallbearer. Imagine! What an honor for my Gabe! And his cousin Bobby, but Bobby’s away now, in rehab. He overdid it at the wake, and not for the first time, I’m sad to say. I don’t think they’ll let you talk to him.”

  “That’s a shame,” said Lucy, somewhat shocked at Mary Catherine’s frankness.

  “He’s always had a bit of trouble in that department, but at least he’s trying to mend his ways. I take comfort that he’s not the only one who’s fallen; there are plenty of others, but they’re not getting the help they need, which is terribly unfortunate.”

  “So true,” said Lucy, with a sad little nod. “We mustn’t judge, lest we be judged.”

  Mary Catherine gave her an approving nod. “I see you’re a good girl who goes to church. Which parish, might I ask?”

  Lucy took a fortifying sip of tea and resisted the temptation to say she attended the Catholic church in Tinker’s Cove. “I go to the Community Church,” she confessed.

  “Well, at least you go somewhere, and now they do say you don’t have to be Catholic to go to heaven.” Mary Catherine sniffed, then managed a little smile. “That’s one thing that comforts me, you know. Gabe went to confession just before the”—she paused and took a steadying breath before continuing—“the accident. It was the first time in a long time; he’d been fretting about something.” Mary Catherine leaned forward and whispered, “I think he felt guilty about skipping Mass and not taking the boys, which was his Christian duty, and I told him that if his conscience was bothering him, he should go to confession. He did”—she nodded and dabbed at her eyes—“and he told me, ‘Ma, you were right. I really got a load off my mind, and I know what I have to do.’ If only he’d lived and started going to Mass . . .” She blew her nose, tucked the hanky into the sleeve of her sweater, and took another look at the photo. “Three of these men are corrections officers, like Gabe. They’re all in uniform, but I’m afraid I don’t know them. Gabe kept his work separate from his family, because of the criminal element, you know.”

  “No matter. I can get their names from the sheriff’s department.”

  “Of course.”

  “Isn’t there one more?” asked Lucy. “Do you know that tall fellow with the fine head of hair?”

  “Oh, my goodness. How could I miss him? That’s his friend Jimmy; he lives in Chicago now. They’re best buddies, always have been. He’s a dear fellow, and so handsome. A heart of gold has Jimmy; you should definitely talk to him.”

  “I’d like to,” said Lucy. “Do have his address, or phone number?”

  “It just so happens that I do.” Mary Catherine popped up and went straight to a tall secretary that stood beside the door. She lowered the desk flap and began sorting through papers in the little cubbyholes, eventually finding the one she wanted. “Ah, here it is! He wrote it himself, told me to call him if there was anything he could do for me. Anything at all, he said, he’d come running.” As she spoke, she bent down over the desk and began copying the information onto a bit of notepaper, then folded it and gave it to Lucy.

  Opening it, Lucy saw the notepad had been a gift from Catholic Charities, and Mary Catherine had written out the information in a lovely, flowing cursive script. “What beautiful penmanship you have,” she said.

  “We used to hate those penmanship classes at school,” she remembered. “Sister Angela was a devil with that ruler of hers.”

  “No pain, no gain,” said Lucy, realizing she was falling into Phyllis’s penchant for clichés. It was definitely time to go. “Well, I must thank you for this lovely visit, and the tea,” she said, standing up.

  “It’s been very nice,” said Mary Catherine, blinking back a tear or two. “I do get a bit lonely and sad—missing him, you know.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Lucy squeezed her hand. “You have your memories.”

  “And they’ll have to do, that’s what Father O’Byrne says.”

  “Bless you,” said Lucy, wondering where that came from. She headed for the door, feeling she had to escape before she found herself attending confirmation classes at St. Brigid’s.

  “Take care now, and come again,” invited Mary Catherine, opening the door for her.

  Lucy stepped out and made her way down the path, wondering how many sins she’d committed, how many lies she’d told, all to get Jimmy’s phone number. Once in the car, she immediately dialed his number, figuring the sooner the deed was done, the better.

  * * *

  Jimmy answered on the first ring, in a crisp, professional tone, stating his name as James Cunningham.

  “Hi, I’m a reporter with The Courier paper in Maine. I’m working on a story about Gabe McGourt, and I wondered if you might share something about your reaction to his death. His mother gave me your name, and said you were good friends.”

  “How’s his mother doing?” he asked, concern in his voice.

  “Pretty well, I guess. She takes a good deal of comfort from his boys, the grandkids.”

  “She was wonderful to me when I was a confused kid. I owe her a great deal of thanks. She’s the one who encouraged me to go to college.” He seemed to be slipping into a reminiscent mood, and Lucy remained silent, not wanting to spoil the moment. “We were best friends as kids, that’s true, but in recent years we kind of grew apart, the way people do. He stayed in Gilead and worked at the jail; I went to college and got a law degree. The last time I heard from him was sometime last summer.” He paused, apparently remembering he was talking to a reporter. “I certainly don’t want to go on the record about Gabe, no way.”

  Lucy wasn’t about to give up. Sometime last summer could have been the time of Melanie’s disappearance. “I’d appreciate anything you can tell me, completely off the record. He’s kind of a black hole; I can’t get any sense of who he was. Nobody wants to talk about him.”

  “That’s not surprising; he was trouble, and he had a knack for making enemies. I loved the guy, but I couldn’t take him, if you know what I mean.”

  “I guess we all have friends like that. People who are self-destructive,” said Lucy, realizing that he felt a great need to talk about his childhood friend.

  “Yeah, I definitely got the sense he’d gotten himself in some kind of mess. He called late, actually woke me up, and he sounded terrified; he wasn’t really making much sense. He said he’d done something dreadful that
would damn him to hell, but he wouldn’t say what. He asked if I’d defend him if it went to court, and I said I’d do what I could to help him and make sure he got a good defense, but I needed to know more before I could commit myself. He didn’t give me any details; he just got mad at me, which was pretty typical for him. He said I was like all the rest, and hung up. I was relieved and tried to forget all about it, but a couple of days later, I gave him a call, to check on him. He was joking around, insulting me the way he used to do, and said no worries, everything had been taken care of.”

  “That’s really interesting,” said Lucy. “They’ve found the body of a girl he was involved with, and she was killed last summer. Do you remember when he called you?”

  “Oh, God. I think it must have been August, maybe early September . . . something like that, but I can’t be definite.” He sighed. “I wish I could say there was no way he could be involved in something like that, but I really can’t. He had a terrible temper, and he was absolutely awful to his wife. I was happy when she finally left him.”

  “His mother told me something was bothering him and he went to confession just before he died. She said he seemed at peace with himself and told her he knew just what to do.”

  “Oh, God, I wish he’d called me, I would’ve advised him to lay low, not to do anything rash. We could have managed the risk.”

  Lucy was puzzled, “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve seen it happen before. Guy gets the guilts, confesses, and next thing he’s dead because his associates didn’t appreciate being ratted on.”

  “Oh,” said Lucy, with sudden comprehension.

  “Yeah.” He sounded sad. “What a waste.”

  “Well, thanks for your honesty. I respect that you want to stay off the record, and I won’t print a word, but it might help me get to the bottom of the story. Somebody killed him, and the police have arrested an innocent man, one of my colleagues, in fact.”

  “I wish I could be more help,” he said.

  “Me, too,” said Lucy, looking up as a police car approached on the street. “If you think of anything that might help, would you give me a call?” She gave him her phone number, watching as the car stopped in front of Mary Catherine’s house. The door opened, and the sheriff got out, hitched up his gun belt and straightened his cap, then strode up the walk and rang the bell.

  Lucy wondered if Mary Catherine had reported her visit to the sheriff and decided she’d better get a move on. “Thanks again,” she said, ending the call and starting the car. A moment later, she was on her way, wondering if she’d been paranoid or if the sheriff was keeping an eye on her.

  She spent the rest of the day working on the usual features that appeared every week—the Town Hall Almanac, the Citizen of the Week, the Events Calendar—and analyzing the warrant for the upcoming town meeting. She left a bit early, in order to get that meat loaf in the oven, and it was filling the kitchen with a wonderful meaty aroma when Bill came home.

  “Hey! Meat loaf!” he exclaimed, wrapping his arms around Lucy’s waist and hugging her as she stood at the sink, peeling potatoes.

  “With gravy and mashed potatoes,” she said, naming his favorite dinner.

  “Mom’s recipe?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “She’ll love that,” he said, opening the fridge and taking out a can of lemon-flavored seltzer. He popped the top and took a long drink, then sat down at the golden-oak table and asked her about her day.

  “Not great, actually. Your mom left with Kate first thing this morning.”

  “A day out?”

  “Uh, no. She’s gone to stay with Kate in her vacation rental.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. She said she felt she was in the way here, and Kate was going to take her sightseeing . . .”

  “She’s seen all the sights; she’s visited lots of times. It’s March, for Pete’s sake; who wants to go driving around in the rain and wind and mud? And even snow! It’s not safe at her age. What if Kate’s rental car breaks down? Hunh? Has she thought of that? And what about us? Why doesn’t she want to be with us?”

  “I don’t know, Bill. I think she was unhappy; maybe we reminded her too much of visits here with your father.”

  “No. I’ll tell you what’s going on. That Kate is trying to get her teeth into Mom, for her own purposes. She’s after her money, I just know it. And when the will turned up, she figured she’d switch to Plan B and use a charm offensive to con Mom into believing she’s the daughter she always wanted.”

  “So what should we do?” asked Lucy.

  “Maybe I should call her, tell her what I think the truth is about Kate.”

  “No, don’t do that. She won’t believe you. Just ask her about her day; tell her you miss her and want to make sure she’s okay. Ask if there’s anything she needs.”

  “Really?” Bill was skeptical.

  “Yeah. And tell her about the meat loaf and how even though I try real hard, it’s never as good as when she makes it.”

  “Okay,” said Bill, pulling his phone from his pocket and making the call. “It’s worth a try.”

  “Like my mom used to say, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

  Bill groaned, then shifted gears, responding to his mother’s hello. “Hi, Mom,” he began. “It’s kind of quiet around here without you . . .”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lucy listened to the phone conversation with one ear while she prepared dinner and learned that Edna had had a wonderful day with Kate, but complained that she’d found it a bit difficult to keep up. She was looking forward to visiting Camden tomorrow but had begged off Kate’s plan to climb the mountain to see the famous view described in Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poem “Renascence,” since the forecast was for wind and rain, and besides, her arthritis was acting up. She also fretted that while the vacation rental was absolutely lovely, there was only one bathroom on the first floor and the bedrooms, very luxurious to be sure, were both upstairs. Bill didn’t pressure his mother, but let her know that she was missed and reminded her that their house did have an upstairs bathroom.

  Lucy was smiling, actually gloating a bit at Kate’s missteps, replaying that conversation as she drove off after dinner, leaving the house to cover a Board of Health meeting in town. She didn’t usually cover the meetings, which tended to involve routine approvals of plans for septic systems and such, but she’d spotted the county health agent’s name on the agenda and speculated that the board might be questioning her about her refusal to pass along the state funds for sex education. And if the board didn’t bring the subject up, she planned to question the agent herself.

  Her thoughts were running along on a track of their own as she turned out of her driveway and into the dark night, beginning to follow the familiar route she took several times every day, so she was shocked when she noticed flashing blue lights suddenly appearing in her rearview mirror. What on earth? The car had just been inspected; she hadn’t broken any traffic laws, and there was plenty of room for the police car to pass her. She knew the law, however, so she began to pull over, but when the following car didn’t pass but pulled behind her, she found her foot pressing down on the gas instead of continuing to brake. It wasn’t a conscious decision but some sort of primal, instinctive reaction.

  Bouncing from the shoulder and back onto the pavement, she switched on her flashers and continued along the road, driving just below the speed limit. Somewhat puzzled at her own refusal to stop, she rationalized her behavior by reminding herself that she’d attended Officer Barney’s safety presentations for women and had absorbed his lessons: Don’t get out of your car, don’t get in someone else’s car. Stand your ground. Yell as loud as you can for help. Don’t be fooled by a flashing blue light at night; anybody can buy one from police supply outlets. If followed, put on your flashers and drive to the nearest police station; actual, legitimate officers have been trained to recognize what you’re doing and will follow at a safe distance
.

  The problem, however, was that she was still on Red Top Road and was several miles from town and the nearest police station. The road was deserted; there were only a few homes besides their own, and they were clustered together in a small development on adjacent Prudence Path. She’d passed them some time ago and was now proceeding through a dark and lonely wooded area. She hadn’t seen a single other car since she’d started out, except for the police car, which was now right on her tail, too close for comfort. The flashing blue light illuminated the inside of her car, and she felt exposed and vulnerable as she stubbornly drove on at twenty-nine miles an hour.

  The flasher also made it possible for her to identify the following car, which she was dismayed to see was from the county sheriff’s department. That didn’t mean the sheriff was inside; the driver could be one of his deputies. It didn’t matter much, she decided, since she didn’t trust any of them. Not the sheriff himself, and none of his deputies or corrections officers, all of whom were loyal liege men to their boss.

  The one ray of hope lay just ahead, she decided, at the Route 1 stop sign. Route 1 was the main coastal road and was well-traveled, even at night. Whoever was following her would be observed by passing vehicles and would be unlikely to try any shenanigans there. Her heart lifted as she approached the bend before the stop sign—only a few more feet and she’d be in a safer situation.

  It was then that the following car suddenly swerved around her car and abruptly stopped, blocking the narrow two-lane road. She slammed on the brakes to avoid a collision, looked in vain for an escape route on the nonexistent shoulder, then slammed the gearshift into reverse and hit the gas. Since she had had no time to straighten out the steering, the car lurched backward right into the woods, where she got hung up on a fallen tree. The motor roared, and the wheels spun vainly in thin air, leaving her high and dry. She was trapped. Her only option now was to lock the car doors and call for help on her cell phone. She reached for it, trying to control her trembling hands, and began to punch in 911, but it slipped away, and she watched it disappear into the dark floor well.