Irish Parade Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Lucy eventually found herself hitting the keyboard, but she was only putting down random thoughts. What did the funeral actually have to do with Gabe McGourt, she wondered? It was no secret that he was not exactly Mr. Right, especially when it came to his relationships with women. He was divorced, and his wife steadfastly refused to talk about what happened, but the divorce took place around the same time that Melanie accused him of sexual assault. Were the two connected? There had certainly been gossip at the time, which had only died down when Melanie left town and the case was dropped. Gabe hadn’t learned his lesson, however, if Allie and Rosie were to be believed, and Lucy didn’t see why they shouldn’t be. It all added up to a picture of an abusive, violent man who was unfortunately in a position of power—someone whose death probably came as a big relief to a number of people. So why did the sheriff organize this huge funeral, making a hero out of a man who was flawed and deeply troubled? The only reason that came to mind was to create a cover-up, a lie so big that it smothered the truth.

  Looking back over her notes, Lucy realized she had a story, a story that had flowed out of her mind, down her arms, and through her fingers as they flew over the keyboard. The text flowered on the screen, growing inch by inch, until she suddenly ran out of words. It was all there, the whole stinking mess, and before she could change her mind, she hit the SEND button.

  It didn’t take long for Ted to respond. Lucy had just come back from a bathroom break when she saw his email. “Lucy, you know I can’t use this. Needs corroboration and named sources.”

  She immediately picked up the phone and called, angrily defending her story. “You’re as bad as the rest of them; you’re complicit in a cover-up!”

  “Calm down, Lucy,” he advised. “I know you’re on to something, but it’s too soon, and you need more evidence. It’s a great story,” he said, emphasizing the word story, “but right now that’s all it is. It’s what you think is the truth, not necessarily actually the truth. You need more facts to back up these accusations.”

  “You know I’m right, Ted,” grumbled Lucy.

  “Maybe.” Ted paused. “Probably. But I don’t want to risk the future of The Courier on a story that’s going to get me hauled into court on a libel charge.” Another pause. “You know what, I think you should send that story to the lawyers, to Nancy and Jason. It might help them.”

  “Okay,” said Lucy, somewhat mollified. “What about the health department stuff? The sex ed and harassing the Irish Festival?”

  “Yeah, play that up. Get some more quotes, beef it up. You know what to do. Okay?”

  Lucy found herself smiling. “Okay.”

  Around lunchtime, Lucy’s mind began to drift. She was hungry, and she felt a bit guilty about abandoning Edna. Work was her first priority, but there came a point when it was also an escape from difficulties at home. She had a demanding job, and she’d been busy, but she couldn’t help feeling she’d been neglecting Edna. No wonder the poor woman was falling under Kate’s spell; she had been left all alone day after day.

  There was nothing keeping her at the paper; it was the nature of the job that she made her own hours, taking the time she needed to cover nighttime meetings, to interview sources when they were available, and then to write it all up. That meant she could come and go as she wished; she was no nine-to-fiver. Now, after putting in a long morning, she was well ahead on her assignments and could take some time to attend to her other responsibilities, among which Edna topped the list. Wouldn’t it be nice, she thought, to take Edna out for lunch? The Queen Vic was open year-round, and it would be a nice treat for them both.

  She picked up her cell and called Edna, but her call went to voice mail. A minute or two later, Edna called back. “I couldn’t find my phone,” she said, somewhat breathlessly, causing Lucy to smile. She’d seen Edna go through her frantic little pantomime several times, as she tended to leave her phone wherever she’d last used it. Most often, however, it was buried in the bottom of her roomy purse.

  “Well, as it happens,” began Lucy, “I’m pretty much finished for the day, and I wondered if you’d like to go out to lunch with me? The Queen Vic does a lovely club sandwich. . .”

  “Oh, Lucy, aren’t you sweet! I’d love to have lunch with you, but Kate’s already called. She’ll be here any minute; she’s going to take me to some new place in Rockland that she says everybody is raving about, and then we’re going to see the Wyeths at the museum. She says we might even be able to take a side trip to see the house in that famous painting, the one with the woman lying on the hill.”

  “Christina’s World,” said Lucy.

  “That’s the one!” exclaimed Edna. “Have you been?”

  Lucy admitted she hadn’t. “I’ve heard it’s a very powerful experience,” she added. “Sounds like you’re going to have a lovely afternoon.”

  “Best of all is spending it with Kate,” enthused Edna. “I know it must seem weird, since she’s the product of my husband’s affair with another woman, but we do seem to have a special connection. I suppose she reminds me of him. After all, half her DNA came from him!”

  It occurred to Lucy that, as far as she knew, Kate was only making a brief visit to Maine, supposedly for business; making contact with the Stone family was an extra. “How long is she here for?” asked Lucy. “Doesn’t she have to get back to Florida soon?”

  “Oh, Lucy! Didn’t I tell you? It’s wonderful news,” trilled Edna. “She’s got one of those Airbnb’s, right outside Tinker’s Cove. She’s rented it for a month, and from what she tells me, it’s gorgeous and has fabulous views. Right on the water, with a fireplace, and there’s plenty of room if I want to stay with her for a bit.” She giggled. “We could have an overnight, like the kids do.”

  Oh, boy, thought Lucy. “Sounds wonderful,” she said, trying to sound as if she meant it. “Have a good time, and I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “Oh, don’t set a place for me. I don’t think we’ll be back before eight or so. I’ll probably eat with Kate; she mentioned something about a farm-to-table restaurant. She knows this place that cooks locally sourced sausage over an open fire.”

  I just bet she does, thought Lucy, wishing she could consign Kate to the flames. “I guess we’ll see you when we see you.”

  Ending the call, Lucy considered calling Bill with the news about Kate, but decided there was no rush. He was bound to be upset, and he’d find out soon enough. Soon enough came at dinner when he asked where his mother was.

  “She’s out with Kate Klein,” said Lucy, passing the mashed potatoes.

  He helped himself to a big serving. “Wasn’t Kate supposed to go back to Portland? Or Florida?”

  Lucy sighed, preparing to face the worst. “She’s got herself an Airbnb. She’s staying for a month.”

  Bill set down the gravy boat. “She’s here for a month?”

  “Talk about a smooth operator,” commented Zoe.

  “Really nervy, if you ask me,” offered Sara.

  “All that and more,” grumbled Bill.

  “She’s obviously making a play for Mom’s affection,” said Lucy, spearing a bit of lettuce with her fork. “She took her to Rockland today for lunch and the museum, and they’re having a farm-to-table dinner. Wood-fired.”

  “Oh, at that cool place out on Route 1?” inquired Zoe.

  “I think so.”

  “We should try it; it’s supposed to be really good.”

  “That’s a good idea,” suggested Lucy. “If Edna likes the food, we could take her there, too. Like it’s her idea, make her feel good about sharing something new and exciting.” She cut into her pork chop, sourced from the IGA. “If you think about it, we’ve kind of taken her for granted. We haven’t done anything to make her visit special; we’ve all been busy and have left her here all alone.”

  Bill was miffed and quick to defend himself. “Well, I’m sorry, Lucy, but I have an anxious client who wants his job done on time!”

  “I know, Bill. I’ve go
t commitments, too. We all do. But we could have made more time for your mother, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “I think you’re right, Mom,” said Zoe. “I’m free tomorrow afternoon, and there’s a movie at the library. I could take her.”

  Sara nodded approvingly. “What is it?”

  “It’s about an English woman who was a dedicated Communist. I missed it when they showed it at the college.”

  “I’m not sure that’s the sort of thing that Edna would enjoy,” said Lucy, thinking that this was going to be harder than she thought.

  “No, I suppose not,” admitted Zoe. “And I was going to go with this guy, anyway.”

  “Which guy?” asked Sara, very interested.

  “Oh, no one you know.” She paused. “He’s just a friend.”

  Dinner had been over for an hour, the table was cleared, and the dishwasher was humming when Edna came home, looking very tired. She dragged herself across the family room, where the family was gathered so Bill and the girls could watch Duke versus Michigan, and plopped down on the sectional without bothering to take off her coat. “That was quite a day,” she said.

  “Did you have a good time?” asked Lucy, looking up from her crossword puzzle. She had no interest at all in March Madness.

  “Oh, yes. It was a lot of fun, but Kate is quite a bit younger than I am, and that windswept hill out by Christina’s house—well, it took quite a bit out of me.”

  “Can I get you something, Grandma?” asked Zoe, eager to do her part in the family’s decision to pay more attention to Edna. “Shall I take your coat?”

  “Thanks, dear. That would be lovely.” Edna shrugged out of her coat, with Zoe’s help, and asked for another favor as Zoe carried it off to hang it up. “Would you mind getting me that navy sweater from my suitcase? I’m a little chilly.”

  “Happy to,” said Zoe, zipping out of the room. A few minutes later, she was back, with the sweater and a thick manila envelope. “Is this the will you were looking for?”

  Suddenly, Bill didn’t care about his brackets. “Did you find the will?” He snatched the envelope and opened it, unfolding the enclosed document. “You did. This is it. Where was it?”

  “In the suitcase,” said Zoe, helping her grandmother put the sweater on.

  “My suitcase?” inquired Edna. “Really? I had no idea?”

  “It was under the lining. When I took the sweater out, I noticed the zipper on the lining was partly opened, so I went to close it, and I felt something bulky under it, and I knew the will was missing, so I took a peek, and there was this envelope, along with a couple of passports.”

  “Of course.” Edna dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled tissue she had extracted from the sleeve of her blouse. “Bill put it there when we took that Caribbean cruise in December. I remember him doing it, saying you never knew when it would be needed and we’d better have it with us. It’s been there all this time.” She blew her nose. “I don’t know how I could have forgotten.”

  “Just the sort of thing Dad would do,” said Bill.

  “So like him,” agreed Edna. “He always did it, whenever we traveled.” She sighed and seemed to shrink into the sofa. “Now you’ll all think I’m, you know, developing memory problems.”

  “Nothing of the kind,” said Lucy, giving her mother-in-law a hug. “We’re just glad it’s turned up.” She paused, glancing at Bill, who was holding the folded document. “Can we read it?” While she was pretty sure she knew what to expect, there was always the possibility of a surprise. A bequest for Bill, perhaps. Or maybe even the very thing she dreaded: some sort of provision and acknowledgment of Kate as his daughter.

  “Sure.” Edna shrugged. “It’s very straightforward, the same as my will. We left everything to each other.” She gave Bill a weak little smile, signaling he should commence reading.

  “Okay, here goes,” he began, scanning the first page. “There’s some legalese about paying debts and taxes . . .’”

  “That’s the first part?” interrupted Zoe, sounding surprised. “The first part of the will is about debts and taxes?”

  “Always,” said Bill, with a nod. “You can’t escape those, even by dying.” He turned back to the will. “After paying state and federal taxes and any outstanding debts, we get to the monetary bequests. ‘I’—that’s Dad—‘give, devise and bequeath all the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, both real and personal and wherever situated, to my wife, Edna P. Stone, if she survives me.’ ” He then scanned the remaining pages. “That’s all that’s really relevant now.”

  Lucy found herself letting out a long sigh of relief.

  “Tell them the rest, Bill,” said Edna, in a resigned tone. “They’re probably dying to know what happens when I go.”

  “Not at all!” exclaimed Lucy, squeezing Edna’s shoulders. “We don’t want to think about losing you.”

  “And it doesn’t really matter, because you could change it. You could write another will,” said Sara, always the realistic one.

  “I won’t. I wouldn’t do that. My Bill’s the one who earned the money, and he wanted it to go to his son after I die.” She twisted the tissue she was holding in her hands and raised her teary face, looking straight at Bill. “And I’m trying not to spend too much, so there’ll be plenty for you.”

  “Well, that’s completely unnecessary,” said Bill. His head was down, and he was replacing the will in its envelope, and when he spoke his voice was thick. “Dad wanted to provide for you; you were his everything, and that’s the way it should be. You should have everything you need,” he said, pausing, and then adding, “or want. It’s your money now to spend as you see fit.”

  “That’s right,” said Lucy, standing up. “And I think we’re all agreed, right?”

  Both Sara and Zoe chimed in. “Absolutely,” said Sara.

  “For sure,” agreed Zoe.

  “Well, that’s one problem solved,” said Lucy, standing up. “I’m going to make a cup of chamomile tea. Would anyone like one?”

  “Sounds lovely, dear,” said Edna, somewhat mechanically.

  Lucy went off to the kitchen, where she filled the kettle and set it on the stove, then got out a couple of mugs and dropped in the tea bags. While she waited for the water to boil, she couldn’t help wondering why Edna wasn’t ecstatic about the discovery of the will, and wondered how she could have forgotten that it was in the suitcase. Edna must have known—she said it herself—that Bill Sr. always took the will along when they traveled. It seemed odd that the suitcase wasn’t the first place she had looked for the will. Even odder, why didn’t she notice the hidden documents when she packed the suitcase to come to Maine?

  The only answer that Lucy could come up with was that maybe on some deep psychological level she hadn’t wanted the will to be found. But why? Because it would mean that her husband was really gone forever? Or maybe because she wanted Kate to have a claim on his estate, since she believed wholeheartedly that Kate was his daughter and she knew she wasn’t mentioned in the will. Of course, as Sara had pointed out, Bill Sr.’s will wasn’t the last word. Edna could decide to write a new will of her own at any time and could leave every last cent to Kate.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the kettle’s whistle, and she filled the mugs with boiling water and placed them on a tray, along with spoons and the sugar bowl. Proceeding into the family room, she had to admit she was relieved that the will had been found. Now they’d see if Kate was genuinely interested in establishing a relationship with Edna and the rest of the family, or if she was simply after the money.

  Chapter Seventeen

  By noon the next day, Phyllis was literally tearing her green-tinted hair out, trying to keep up with the phone calls and drop-in customers who wanted to take advantage of Ted’s latest brainstorm: one week of free classified ads. Everyone, it seemed, had simply been ignoring the amazing items they no longer wanted that they’d stored in their attics, basements, and garages. Yesterday’s trash was today’s treasure,
and that rusty old Radio Flyer wagon was now a vintage collectible, offered for $100 or best offer.

  Lucy was helping out, amused at the sudden eagerness to get rid of a size 14 wedding dress, never worn; a set of Japanese knives, never used; and a genuine, bright red English phone booth, described as a “unique decorative accent and conversation piece,” offered for $995. “Why on earth have people been storing all this stuff?” she mused aloud, thinking it might make an interesting feature story, when the phones suddenly fell blessedly silent.

  “Why did they ever get it all in the first place?” countered Phyllis, leaning back in her chair and fanning herself with a manila folder.

  Lucy stood up and stretched, then went over to the water cooler and filled a cup for herself and one for Phyllis, who she suspected was in the early stages of menopause. “Here you go; you’ve got to stay hydrated.”

  “Thanks,” said Phyllis, draining the paper cup and then heading directly for the bathroom. Her phone rang, and she paused, sighing as she reached for it, but Lucy stopped her.

  “I’ll get it,” she said, plopping herself down in Phyllis’s desk chair. The caller wasn’t a customer, however; it was Ted.

  “Lucy, I want you to get an interview with Rob Callahan.”

  “At the jail?” Lucy wasn’t keen on the idea; she’d conducted a few jailhouse interviews in the past and always found it a deeply depressing and upsetting experience. The corrections officers were always officious, she had to submit to a pat-down before they’d admit her, and the sound of those numerous doors clanging behind her made her fearful that she’d never get out again. Worst of all was the smell, which she guessed was a mix of sweat, fear, and Lysol, and which clung to her clothes and hair after she’d made her escape. But she always did get out and then felt a bit ashamed of herself for being so squeamish.