by Leslie Meier
“Who’s Moira?”
“She’s married to the director, Dylan, and she’s got the leading female role.” Lucy paused. “She’s also Deirdre’s mother.”
“Ah,” said Bill. “It’s all becoming clearer. She wants a baby-sitter for Deirdre.”
“I think that might have something to do with it,” said Lucy. “But I don’t care. It’s going to be fun, being in the show with Rachel and Pam.” She didn’t add the fact that her involvement with the Malones gave her an inside track on the murder, knowing that Bill would hardly approve of her conducting her own investigation.
Tom Silva and the crew had suddenly disappeared, and This Old House was replaced with a bank of phone operators and an ancient English actor pitching for donations to PBS. Bill flicked through the stations, looking for something else, and settled on a basketball game. “So what’s the play about?”
“I’ve just started reading, but so far it’s about an Irishman, Finian, who steals a pot of gold from a leprechaun and brings it to America so he can plant it near Fort Knox so it will grow and make him rich. He has the idea that all that government gold in Fort Knox will somehow fertilize his stash. He thinks all Americans are rich, that gold somehow grows here.”
“That’s news to me,” said Bill. “Have you noticed any gold growing in our garden?”
“Not so far,” said Lucy, “but I live in hope. This house is so old, you’d think somebody sometime would have buried something valuable in the backyard. But all I ever find are bits of broken bottles and dishes. And bits of plastic toys, probably from our own kids.”
“I know what you mean. Every time I rip out a wall in some old wreck, I’m hoping I’ll find a sock full of gold coins that somebody stashed there and forgot, but all I ever seem to find are mouse nests.”
“Old Dan was a bit of a miser,” said Lucy, remembering how Dave Reilly had the same idea at the wake, when he tried to search the drawers and cabinets. “Maybe you’ll find something at the Bilge.”
“Believe me, I’m keeping my eyes peeled.” He laughed. “Come to think of it, he was a bit like a leprechaun, wasn’t he? Kinda little and stooped and wrinkled, and smoking that pipe of his. Maybe he did have a pot of gold stashed there.”
Zoe padded into the room in her bare feet and pajamas, to kiss her parents good night before going to bed. “It’s very difficult to take a leprechaun’s gold,” she said in a serious tone as she climbed onto her father’s lap.
“And why is that?” he asked.
“They always come up with a trick,” replied Zoe. “They make you look away or send you on an errand and promise to give it to you tomorrow. Something like that.”
“But what if you trick the leprechaun?” Bill asked with a grin.
“It’s very hard to trick a leprechaun. Almost impossible,” said Zoe, with the conviction of a true believer. “But if you do, you can be sure the leprechaun will get you back. People in America think leprechauns are fat, jolly, happy little men, but Deirdre says that’s wrong. They’re really mean and spiteful, not jolly at all.”
“You’d better think twice about taking that gold,” Lucy told Bill. “If it does turn up, that is.”
“Better leave it for the leprechaun,” said Zoe. “And you know what else Deirdre told me?”
“Nope,” replied Bill.
Zoe adopted a serious expression, as if about to impart some extremely valuable information. “Fairies aren’t nice, either.”
“Tinkerbell is nice,” said Lucy.
“Not really,” replied Zoe. “Remember how jealous she was of Wendy? Deirdre says that’s typical. They’re very vain and selfish little creatures.”
“You’re shattering all my illusions,” complained Lucy. “Next thing you’ll be telling me there’s no Santa Claus.”
“Mo-om,” said Zoe, making the word two syllables and rolling her eyes for good measure. “You and Dad are Santa Claus. Nobody believes in Santa Claus.”
“Okay, what about the tooth fairy? She’s nice,” said Lucy.
“You’re the tooth fairy,” said Zoe. “I know because you always forget and tell me to get back in bed and close my eyes, and then you tiptoe into my room.” She furrowed her brow. “What do you do with all those teeth?”
“What teeth?” asked Lucy, all innocence.
“You know,” said Zoe.
“Do not,” insisted Lucy. “But I have heard that the tooth fairy gives them to other little children who don’t have teeth yet. Only the good ones, of course. The ones without cavities or fillings.”
“Fairies don’t recycle teeth,” said Zoe. “But they do steal little children.”
“No, they don’t,” said Lucy. “Gypsies steal children. Everybody knows that.”
“Fairies do, too,” said Zoe. “Deirdre says so. They steal them and replace them with changelings.”
“What’s a changeling?” asked Bill.
“I’m not sure,” admitted Zoe. “But I’m pretty sure they’re no good.”
“What do the fairies want with children, anyway?” asked Lucy. “Children are a lot more trouble than you might think. You have to feed them and change their diapers, and sometimes they’re fussy and they cry. It’s hard to imagine fairies being very good parents. They’re too delicate and flighty. Not to mention that a human baby must weigh a lot more than your average fairy. How do they carry them?”
“I’m not sure,” said Zoe, yawning. “I’ll have to ask Deirdre.”
“You do that,” said Lucy, giving her a hug. “And remember, all these creatures are make-believe. They’re not real. They’re just stories. So you sleep tight and dream of lollipops.”
“I will, Mommy.” She paused, holding her mother’s hand. “Will you tuck me in?”
Lucy looked at Bill. This was an unusual request. For some time Zoe had insisted on putting herself to bed, insisting that only babies needed bedtime stories.
“Sure,” said Lucy, getting up. “Would you like a story? We haven’t read Make Way for Ducklings in ages.”
“Two stories,” said Zoe, bargaining the way she used to when she was younger and wanted to delay putting out the light.
“Okay,” said Lucy. “Two stories.”
Lucy enjoyed cuddling with Zoe and rereading two of her favorite children’s books, Make Way for Ducklings and Blueberries for Sal, lingering over the familiar words and pictures in the well-worn copies, which had long ago lost their dust jackets, but the reassuring bedtime ritual didn’t have the result she expected. Instead of sleeping like a baby, Zoe spent a fitful night, disturbed by frightening dreams. Lucy went to her bed twice, finding her shaking and crying, and both times crawled into bed with her until she fell asleep. Then she returned to her own bed, where she herself tossed and turned, unable to sleep for worrying about Zoe.
When Monday morning came, they were both tired. Lucy had two cups of coffee and made a mild coffee-milk for Zoe, in hopes of perking her up enough to get her off to school. The little dollop of coffee didn’t have much effect, however, and it was a very sleepy little girl who dragged herself onto the school bus. Lucy was sure she’d get a call from the school nurse.
As it happened, the nurse didn’t call, but the day seemed longer than usual, anyway. She didn’t have enough energy to go out and track down those elusive prospectors for her feature story, so she worked on routine jobs, like the events listings, mortgage rates, property transfers, and the ever-popular police log listing all the DUI arrests in the past week. There were fewer DUIs than usual, which she figured was due to the fact that the Bilge was closed.
At lunchtime she headed over to Our Lady of Hope for a chorus rehearsal, but as she approached the church, she noticed a hearse parked outside, along with a black limousine and a handful of cars.
She assumed the rehearsal would be postponed. Frank, after all, would be needed to play the organ. But even if a substitute director could be found on such short notice, it would hardly be seemly to have the chorus singing jolly show tunes downs
tairs in the hall while a funeral was in progress upstairs in the sanctuary.
She went to the church hall, anyway, just to check, and found a notice announcing Old Dan’s funeral on the door. Of course, she thought, the medical examiner had announced the autopsy results, which meant the body had been released to the family, who would want to bury it as soon as possible.
She followed the path around to the front of the church and was just in time to see the funeral director closing the door on the hearse. People were leaving the church and making their way to their cars for the procession to the cemetery. Lucy felt it would be rude to zoom off before the procession was under way. People in Tinker’s Cove took funeral processions seriously: traffic came to a standstill, and pedestrians stopped in their tracks on the sidewalk. Men removed their hats as a sign of respect, and some people even lowered their heads or crossed themselves when one went by. So she waited in her car until the procession began moving, only to find herself waved into line by one of the men from the funeral home. Might as well go along, she decided. She really didn’t have a choice, and maybe she could write it up for the paper. Fortunately, because of the rehearsal, she had dressed more carefully than usual and was wearing gray wool slacks instead of jeans under her black winter parka. The duck boots were a mite casual for a funeral, but she figured a lot of other people would be wearing them.
When she arrived at the cemetery, she parked in line with the other cars and made her way to the grave, where the mourners had gathered. The snow cover was pretty much gone, revealing soggy brown grass underfoot, but it was cold, and the wind seemed to go right through her parka. She shoved her hands in her pockets and tried not to shiver as she joined the group.
Dylan was there, of course, hatless and wearing a somber black topcoat. Moira cut her usual dramatic figure, with wildly blowing hair and the long black cape, which was so voluminous that she had stood Deirdre in front of her and wrapped it around her, too, leaving only her little face exposed to the cruel weather.
A mere handful of Bilge regulars had showed up, including Frank Cahill. He was the best dressed of the group in a wool suit and zippered down jacket. The rest were wearing the working man’s uniform of rubber boots, lined jeans, and layers of shirts, sweaters, and thickly insulated sweatshirts, which could be added or subtracted as needed. Today the whole kit was required, and Lucy noticed that a few had pulled their watch caps down over their ears and some had even pulled up their hoods over their hats.
Also in attendance were about a half dozen older women, bundled up in warm coats and layers of hats and scarves. She guessed they were regular churchgoers who never missed a funeral. A few were saying the rosary, whispering under their breath as they counted the beads with their gloved fingers.
There was a bit of chatter as people gathered, most avoiding looking at the yawning grave that awaited Old Dan’s body and the mountain of earth beside it, covered with a green carpet of fake grass that looked extremely bright against the milky sky, bare trees, and brown grass. The conversation died, however, when Father Ed stepped forward and gave a nod, signaling the pallbearers to remove the casket from the hearse and carry it to the grave. She was watching this somber procedure when she noticed a late arrival: state police detective lieutenant Horowitz. He chose a spot on the opposite side from the mourners, standing beside the gravedigger. It seemed an odd choice to Lucy until she realized he had chosen that spot so he could see the faces of the mourners. That meant, she realized with a shiver, that he suspected the murderer was standing among them.
The graveside service was mercifully brief. Father Ed read the prescribed words for the burial ceremony from a small black book. They were slightly different from the familiar phrases in the Book of Common Prayer, which Lucy had heard so often, but expressed the same idea: we come into the world with nothing, and we leave it with nothing except the hope of eternal life in heaven. Then it was over, and people scattered, heading for the warmth of their cars. The gravedigger started up his backhoe, and Father Ed shook hands with Dylan and Moira and patted little Deirdre’s head. Lucy made a beeline for Detective Horowitz.
“Have you got a minute?” she asked.
“I must have known you’d be here,” he said, rubbing his nose with a gloved finger. “Otherwise, why would I have bothered to wear my long underwear? I must have known you’d have a zillion questions and would keep me standing out in the cold.”
“Well I didn’t wear my long underwear, so you won’t get any sympathy from me,” said Lucy, wrapping her arms across her chest and stamping her feet, which felt like frozen bricks. “And not a long list of questions, either.” She paused. “I have some information that I think you might find useful.”
“Ah,” he said. “Nancy Drew has discovered a clue? In the grandfather clock, perhaps? Or the old mill?”
“I didn’t know you were a fan,” said Lucy.
“I have a niece,” he said. He leveled his gaze at her and shook his head. “I only hope she doesn’t turn out like you.”
“I’m sure you’re joking,” said Lucy. “Do you want my information or not?”
He sighed. “Shoot.”
“Well,” she began, looking over her shoulder to make sure Dylan was out of earshot and discovering he was getting in the limousine, “I’ve learned that Dylan was in the country earlier than he said. He didn’t come with his wife and daughter, but some time before them.”
Horowitz drew his pale brows together, making a crease above his nose. “Are you sure?”
“His daughter told me he wasn’t on the plane with her and Moira. He met them at the airport.”
“Interesting,” said Horowitz, raising an eyebrow.
“So you think he may be the killer?” asked Lucy.
“Could be,” said Horowitz, keeping his face blank.
Lucy seized on this admission, hoping for a scoop. “Can I print that in the paper?”
“Sure,” he said, with a slight smile. “You can say that at this point we haven’t eliminated anyone. Everyone’s a suspect.”
Lucy wasn’t about to admit he’d dashed her hopes and came right back with a question. “So you haven’t made much progress in the investigation?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he said. Before she could follow up with another question, he continued. “And, by the way, a piece of advice. Leave this investigation to us. This killer is a very dangerous person and I…well, I was going to say I’d hate to see you get hurt, but the truth is, you’re a nuisance, and my job would be a lot simpler without you poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, but I’m sure your husband and children would miss you. So keep that in mind, okay?”
For once, Lucy was speechless and stood mute, jaw dropped in astonishment, as Horowitz marched off toward his unmarked car. “And I thought he liked me,” she muttered as she, too, hurried to get out of the wind and into the shelter of her Subaru.
But no sooner had she seated herself behind the wheel and started the engine than she noticed the prospector Paul Sullivan walking slowly among the gravestones and scanning the ground with his metal detector. Realizing that she couldn’t pass up this serendipitous opportunity to continue her interview, she reluctantly got out of the car, leaving the engine running and the heater on high.
“I say, you must be cold,” she said, hailing him. “Do you want to sit for a bit in my car and get warm?”
“No thanks,” he said. “I dress for the weather.” It was true. His entire body was encased in a bright orange jumpsuit. “This is official Coast Guard winter gear. I got it from a guy who was retiring. It’s what the Coasties wear out at sea. It’s the best you can get.”
“I could use one,” said Lucy, resolving to make this interview short. “So tell me. Do you find a lot of valuables in the cemetery?” For a moment an awful thought crossed her mind. He couldn’t possibly be digging up jewelry from the graves, could he?
As if reading her mind, he answered, “The dead don’t give up anything, but the living do.” H
e showed her the small change he’d collected, along with a gold ring. “It’s not from a grave. Couldn’t be, because the dead are all buried in coffins. Somebody must’ve dropped it.”
“Nonetheless,” she said, with a shudder, “some people might think there’s something kind of creepy about prospecting in the cemetery.”
“Some people are afraid of ghosts,” he said, with a wink. “But not me. I like it here. It’s quiet, and it reminds me of something my mother used to say when somebody crossed her.”
“What was that?” asked Lucy.
“It’s an old Irish curse,” he said, chuckling and sweeping his metal detector across the dead grass. “May the grass grow before your door.”
Lucy was back in the car, holding her frozen hands in front of the heat vents, before she realized what it meant. If the grass was growing unchecked on the path to your front door, it meant you weren’t coming and going. You no longer walked the earth, because you were dead.
Chapter Nine
Saturday morning a light, wet snow was falling but wasn’t enough to get excited about. Moira, however, didn’t see it that way when she arrived bright and early to drop off Deirdre. Sara had been pressed into service as a rather unwilling child minder while Lucy was at the rehearsal. “Not a baby-sitter, Mo-om,” insisted Zoe, “because we’re not babies.”
“Oh yes, you are,” said Sara. “If you need a baby-sitter, you’re a baby.”
“Am not.”
“Are so.”
And so it went until Lucy came up with the politically correct term of child minder and sweetened the deal by promising to pay Sara a couple of dollars an hour, far below the going rate but better than nothing at all. Nevertheless, Sara was hardly civil when Moira and Deirdre arrived. Moira couldn’t get over the snow and exclaimed about it while Lucy removed Deirdre’s parka.
“We don’t get much snow in Ireland, you know. I wish we did. It’s so beautiful. I love the way it sticks to the trees and turns everything ordinary into a winter wonderland. It’s like fairyland, isn’t it, Deirdre?”