by Leslie Meier
“I’m on it,” said Ted, reaching for a pen and adding a check to the list in his notebook.
“That’s not fair,” protested Lucy. “I had it first.”
“I’ve got something else for you,” said Ted. “You know those guys with the metal detectors that you see poking around everywhere. I want you to write about them.”
Lucy’s jaw dropped. “You’re stealing my story, and you want me to write about old guys with metal detectors?”
“Calm down, Lucy. It’s a good story,” said Ted. “They turn up lost jewelry, valuable coins, all sorts of stuff. You can make a really interesting, prizewinning story out of it. Give it that Lucy Stone treatment.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Ted. You’re too obvious.”
Phyllis chimed in. “You can say that again.”
Lucy glared at him. “So what’s the real story here, Ted?”
He bowed his head. “You’re right. Normally, I’d let you cover Old Dan since you broke the story, but this one isn’t for you. It looks like it’s going to get nasty.”
Phyllis and Lucy were all ears. “What do you mean?” asked Lucy.
“Well, I stopped at the police station on the way here, and they just got the preliminary autopsy results, and the word is that Old Dan didn’t lose his head from natural causes. It was sliced off with a blade of some sort.”
Phyllis and Lucy looked at each other, then back at Ted.
“A freak accident?” suggested Phyllis.
“That doesn’t sound like an accident to me,” mused Lucy. “Somebody must have killed him.”
Ted shrugged. “That’s what it looks like. He was beheaded.”
“That’s disgusting,” said Phyllis, adding a disapproving sniff.
All of a sudden, Lucy got it. Ted thought a beheading was an unsuitable subject for a woman. “So you’re not letting me cover it, because it’s a beheading?” demanded Lucy, furiously. “Like I never heard of Anne Boleyn? Or Charles I? Or Marie Antoinette? Like I never read A Tale of Two Cities? That’s your reason? Because I’m a girl, is that it?”
Ted shook his head. “No. Not because it’s gruesome. Lord knows, you love that stuff. Because it’s dangerous, that’s why. Some crazy guy with a machete or hatchet or something sharp is running around loose, and I don’t want you tangling with him, that’s why.”
Lucy wasn’t impressed. “Oh, so it’s for my own good, is it? Like I can’t take care of myself.”
“Enough.” Ted put up his hands. “I’m the boss, and it’s my decision. That’s all there is to it. I’m covering Old Dan, and you’re writing about old guys with metal detectors.”
“Okay, Ted,” fumed Lucy, reaching for her coat. “We’ll see who wins the Pulitzer.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Ted as Lucy pushed the door, with its little jangling bell, open and marched outside. “If anyone can do it,” he told Phyllis, “she can.”
“You’ll be sorry,” said Phyllis, reaching for the phone. “Elfrida? That you?” She chuckled nastily. “Did you see the paper this morning? The legal ads?”
Chapter Five
Lucy took Shore Road home, keeping an eye out for the metal detector prospectors she was supposed to write about, but didn’t spot any. She had a feeling this story wasn’t going to be as easy to get as Ted thought. That was so typical, she decided. He’d see something—like maybe a kid with a weird haircut or a mom with a baby in a newfangled backpack or, in this case, some old guy with a metal detector—and decide it was a trend and absolutely had to be covered. And she was always the lucky one who got to track down these elusive trendsetters and extract a story from them.
She turned onto Red Top Road, behind the school bus, and braked when it stopped, first at the new development of houses on Prudence Path and again at her own driveway, where she watched as Zoe and Sara got off and ran to the house. They were already in the kitchen, shedding their coats and book bags, when she arrived.
“Don’t leave that stuff on the kitchen floor,” she told them. “Zoe’s got a playdate.”
“Is Sadie coming?” asked Zoe, who at ten years of age was obediently hanging her coat on the hook. Sadie was her best friend and a frequent playmate.
Sara, age fourteen, was ignoring her mother and looking for a snack in the refrigerator. “How come we don’t have any string cheese?” she asked. “All my friends’ moms buy string cheese.”
“Sounds disgusting,” said Lucy. “Have some yogurt instead, after you pick that stuff up off the floor.”
“I don’t like yogurt,” replied Sara.
“Have a glass of milk,” said Lucy. “There are chocolate chip cookies in the cookie jar….”
“Mom, she’ll eat ’em all!” protested Zoe. “There won’t be any for me and Sadie.”
“Like I’d even eat your disgusting cookies,” said Sara, scooping up her coat and backpack and stomping up the stairs. “Like I want to weigh five hundred pounds.”
“Sadie’s not coming,” said Lucy, giving Zoe a hug. “It’s somebody new. Her name is Deirdre. She’s far from home, she lives in Ireland, and she needs a friend while she’s here in Maine.”
“Okay,” said Zoe, agreeably. “When is she coming?”
If only they could stay ten forever, thought Lucy. “I think I hear a car now,” she said.
They went over to the window and watched as the little white rental car rolled to a stop by the porch steps and the doors popped open. Once out of the car, however, Deirdre hung back shyly until her mother took her by the hand and led her up the porch steps to the kitchen door. Lucy greeted them with a smile.
“I really appreciate this, Lucy. You have no idea,” said Moira, kneeling down to unzip Deirdre’s pink parka and handing it to Lucy.
“It’s no trouble at all,” said Lucy, hanging it on one of the hooks by the door. The girls seemed to be hitting it off immediately, she noticed with relief, and were heading for the family room, hand in hand, to look at a book Deirdre had brought.
“I’m almost out of my mind. Things have been that crazy,” said Moira, pushing her unruly mop of red hair back with her hands. “The police, the people from the funeral home, the priest…There’s always something to do, somebody to call. And poor Dylan! This was the last thing he expected. He thought his brother would be taking care of us.”
“It must be very upsetting,” sympathized Lucy. “How is he coping?”
“About as well as can be expected,” said Moira, and before Lucy could even offer her a cup of tea, she was at the door. “I’ll be back at six or so,” she said, departing in a swirl of black cape.
Lucy set up a snack tray with a plate of cookies and two glasses of milk and carried it into the family room, where the girls were kneeling at the coffee table, poring over Deirdre’s book.
“What’s the book about?” she asked.
“Fairies and little people,” said Deirdre. “May I have a biscuit?”
“Of course,” said Lucy, struck by her politeness. “They’re for you and Zoe to share. Drink some milk, too.”
“Thank you,” said Deirdre, taking a bite of cookie and a swallow of milk. “These biscuits are very good.”
“They’re not biscuits. They’re cookies,” said Zoe.
“In Ireland we call them biscuits,” replied Deirdre.
“Biscuits are something else here,” said Lucy. “They’re soft, like bread. I’ll make some for you sometime. They’re really good with butter and jam.”
“I’d like that. Thank you very much,” said Deirdre, turning the page. “Oh, look, Zoe! This is Meab, the queen of the fairies.”
Pleased that the little girls were getting along so well, Lucy went back to the kitchen and started browning some beef-stew meat. As she peeled and chopped the carrots and onions and turned the meat, she kept an ear out for squabbles, but all she heard from the family room was an occasional giggle. The afternoon passed quickly, and Lucy was calling Sara to set the table—for the third time—when Moira returned.
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br /> “And how did the little colleens get along?” she asked.
“Wonderfully,” said Lucy. “I’ve hardly heard a peep all afternoon. Deirdre’s a delight. She’s so polite.”
“Never fear. She has her moments,” said Moira.
“They all do,” agreed Lucy, going into the family room to fetch the little girl. “Your mom’s here. It’s time to go home.”
“Already!” wailed Zoe.
“Oh, please, can’t I stay a bit longer?” asked Deirdre.
“Yeah. Can’t she stay longer?” chimed in Zoe.
“I’m afraid not,” said Moira, who had followed Lucy. She glanced around the room, and Lucy wished she’d done something about the stains in the carpet and the worn place on Bill’s recliner. But Moira didn’t seem to notice. “What a lovely room,” she declared. “I love rooms that have that lived-in look.” She turned back to Deirdre. “It’s time to go now, Deirdre. Your father’s expecting us.”
“But can’t I play just a wee bit longer?” asked Deirdre.
What with those lashes and that adorable accent, Lucy thought the child was good enough to eat. But her mother wasn’t moved. Her voice was firm when she said, “That’s enough now. It’s time to go.”
“Perhaps you can come another day,” suggested Lucy. “Maybe even sleep over.”
“Wouldn’t that be fun,” said Moira, taking Deirdre’s hand and leading her to the kitchen, where she helped her into her parka. “But now it’s time to say good-bye and come away. Just like in the poem by Mr. Yeats. ‘Come away, O human child! / To the waters and the wild / With a faery, hand in hand,’” she recited, dropping her voice theatrically, “‘For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.’”
A funny poem to recite to a child, thought Lucy as she waved good-bye from the door. She thought her job as a parent meant protecting her children from the world’s weeping, but maybe that was an American idea. Come to think of it, most of the old fairy stories were full of frightening ideas. She had hardly turned away from the door and returned to the stove to check her stew when Bill came breezing in.
“Something smells delicious,” he said, standing behind her and wrapping his arms around her. She leaned back against him, rubbing her cheek against his springy beard and breathing in the scent of outdoors and freshly sawn wood that he’d brought with him.
“Beef stew,” she said, “with noodles.”
“My favorite,” he said, giving her a squeeze before pulling away to hang up his coat and take off his heavy work boots and put on a pair of house shoes. Then he got himself a beer from the refrigerator and sat down at the kitchen table.
“How was work?” she asked. Bill was a restoration carpenter, and his latest project, converting an old root cellar into a wine cellar, was almost finished. He didn’t have a new job lined up yet, and they were both a bit worried about it.
“Good news,” he said, popping the top of his beer and taking a pull. “I might have a new job. Nothing definite, yet, but that Irish guy, Old Dan’s brother, came by and asked me about renovating the Bilge. Seems he wants to fix it up.”
Lucy’s eyebrows shot up. “Already? The poor man’s not even in his grave.”
“Maybe they’d talked about it before Old Dan died,” said Bill. “It seems like the plans are pretty well developed. This Dylan seems to know exactly what he wants, more than if he’d just walked in the door and decided the place needed some freshening up. He’s talking about putting in a bay window and a fireplace and doing over the whole kitchen. It’s going to be a real restaurant, not just a bar.”
“So you think Dylan was coming in as a partner?”
Bill shrugged. “That’s the impression I got. I know he wants to get started right away. He asked if I was available immediately, and I said I was.”
“So you think you’ll get the job?”
“I’m keeping my fingers crossed. The Bloomberg job is almost finished, and I don’t have anything else lined up.” He took a long swallow. “I’ll work up the proposal tonight.”
“Make it an offer he can’t refuse,” said Lucy. She managed the family budget and knew how tight things could get in the last months of winter, before building picked up again in the spring. She went over to the back stairway and yelled for Sara. “Supper’s ready, and you haven’t set the table. Let’s go!”
There was no answer, but Lucy heard Sara clattering down the front stairs.
“What happened?” she asked Bill as she ladled the stew into the tureen. “When did my sweet, bouncy little Sara turn into this unpleasant stranger?”
“It’s your fault,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “You kept feeding them, and they grew up.”
“I’ve still got Zoe,” she said, carrying the tureen into the dining room.
“But only for a few more years,” warned Bill, following her with the noodles and salad. “She’s growing up fast, too.”
Later that night they had proof positive that Zoe was still very much a little girl. She woke in the middle of the night, sobbing hysterically and screaming for her parents.
“What’s the matter?” asked Lucy, rushing to her bedside and taking her in her arms.
“I’m scared.”
Lucy smoothed her daughter’s damp hair. “There’s nothing to be scared of. You’re perfectly safe here, in your own bed, in your house, with your family all around.”
“I know. But I’m still scared.”
“You probably had a nightmare.”
Zoe nodded.
“Do you remember what it was about?”
Zoe nodded again. “The h-h-headless man,” she finally said.
“He can’t hurt you,” said Lucy, but she wasn’t entirely convinced. It seemed that Tinker’s Cove would be dealing with Old Dan’s death for a long time to come, and in ways nobody quite expected.
Lucy remained with Zoe for almost an hour before the child fell back to sleep. Only then did she go back to her own bed, but she couldn’t settle down. Her mind was full of stray thoughts: income tax, that shingle that blew off the roof, the funny noise the car was making. She finally did drift off but dreamt she was awake and wouldn’t have believed she slept except for the fact that when the alarm went off at six, she rushed downstairs, convinced the dishwasher had overflowed on the kitchen floor. When she found the floor perfectly dry, she realized she must have been dreaming.
The girls had left for school minutes shy of missing the bus, Bill was in the shower, and she was still in her nightgown and robe, hanging on to her third mug of coffee at the kitchen table, when there was a knock at the door. She was surprised when she recognized Brian Donahue through the glass but figured he wanted to see Bill about some work.
“He’s in the shower, but you’re welcome to wait for him,” she told him. “There’s still some coffee in the pot if you’d like it.”
“That would be great. Thanks,” he said, taking off his hat and carefully wiping his boots on the mat.
“Take a seat,” said Lucy, emptying the pot into a mug and setting it on the table in front of him. She sat back down and watched him add milk and sugar. “I hope you’re not wasting your time. I don’t think he’s got any work coming up. Nothing for certain, that is.”
Brian’s eyebrows shot above his wire rims. “That’s not what I heard. Dylan Malone told me he’s hiring Bill to completely renovate the Bilge. ‘Waterfront dining in summer and fireside dining in winter,’ he said. ‘With the atmosphere of a genuine Irish pub.’”
“Bill mentioned that last night, but he wasn’t sure he had the job.”
“Dylan seems to think he does.”
“I guess he should know,” said Lucy, with a smile.
“I could really use the work,” said Brian. “Old Dan never paid me for a job I did a couple of months ago, fixing the rotted floor behind the bar.” He swallowed some coffee, and his mouth twisted as if it were bitter, in spite of the four teaspoons of sugar he’d added. “That Old Dan sure was a cheap bastard. I never
should’ve agreed to do the work unless he paid in advance. That’s what everybody told me, but it was too late. I’d already finished the job.” He raised his head and looked at her. “This is the only way I’ll ever get a cent out of that cheapskate, if Bill hires me, you see?”
“You could go to the wake,” she said. “Take your payment in free drinks.”
“He owes me more than a couple of drinks,” grumbled Brian.
“I’ve never been to a real Irish wake,” said Lucy. “Just visiting hours at the funeral home.”
“You think this’ll be different?”
“I’m no expert, but from what I’ve heard, they’re pretty lively affairs. Sometimes they even sit the dead person’s body up and put a drink in its hand.”
“That’d be a problem for Old Dan,” said Brian, thoughtfully. “I mean, he could hold the drink, but you sort of need a head to complete the image. Not that he could actually drink it, of course, being dead and all, but you know what I mean.”
Lucy did. How could you have a wake with a body that had no head?
The first thing Lucy noticed when she arrived at the Bilge for Old Dan’s wake on Sunday afternoon was an unearthly noise, something between sobbing and moaning, which, she was surprised to discover, was issuing from Moira, who paused occasionally to dab at her dry eyes with a small, lace-trimmed linen handkerchief. To Lucy’s relief, there was no sign of a body or even a closed coffin. Moira and her husband, both in black, were sitting side by side in front of the bar, where an enlarged photo of a much younger Old Dan was displayed. Candles were burning on either side of the photo, and a small bronze crucifix and a string of rosary beads had been arranged in front of it.
Only a handful of people had arrived so far, mostly elderly women, and they were seated in chairs that had been set against the wall, reciting the rosary with Father Ed. Lucy stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure how to proceed. If this were visiting hours at the local funeral home, she would first have passed through a receiving line of mourners, and then, if the body was laid out in a casket, she would have paid her respects to the deceased. But here there was no receiving line, and she didn’t feel comfortable interrupting Moira’s vocal display of mourning. There was no sign of Deirdre, thank goodness, and Lucy assumed Moira had found somebody else to mind her.