by Leslie Meier
“What’s the most interesting thing you’ve found?”
“A little brass plate from a ship, with the words life jackets inscribed on it. I’ve always wondered what ship it came from and how it happened to sink.”
This was pretty good stuff, thought Lucy, scribbling away in her notebook. “And the most valuable?”
“A diamond ring.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No. Two carats. I had it appraised. They said it was worth seven thousand dollars.”
Lucy thought of the little half-carat solitaire engagement ring she was wearing on her finger. She never wore it when she went swimming or worked in the garden, but always placed it carefully on the crystal ring holder sitting on her dresser. “Some poor woman must have been awfully upset when she discovered she’d lost it,” she said.
“Finders keepers, losers weepers,” said Paul, winking again.
“You didn’t advertise for the owner? They might’ve given you a reward.”
“Or they might not,” said Paul. “I decided to play it safe and kept the ring.”
“Do you still have it?”
He shook his head. “All I’ve got is the Social Security, you see. The little bit I make from prospecting helps keep a roof above me head. So I sold it so I’d have something against a rainy day—or an empty oil tank.”
Lucy felt a surge of sympathy, tinged with fear for her own future. Chamberlain College was making fast work of the education fund, and there was no retirement fund at all for her and Bill. “On average, how much do you think you make in a year?” she asked.
“On average? I don’t know. I certainly don’t find a diamond ring every day, you know. And I didn’t get seven thousand, only about half that. So I guess, on average I make a couple of thousand a year.”
Lucy nodded. “It’s a lot of work, too, I imagine.”
“Ah, but there’s the health benefits. Plenty of fresh air and exercise—if I don’t catch me death of the pneumonia.”
By now it was blowing harder, and Lucy’s teeth were chattering. It was time to wind this interview up. “Well, thanks so much for your time. Do you mind if I take your picture for the paper?”
“Ah, better not. My ugly mug might break your camera.”
“Oh, I’ve heard that line before,” said Lucy, who was used to coaxing people to pose. “It won’t hurt a bit. I promise.”
But Paul Sullivan was having none of it. “No, no. I must insist,” he said firmly. “But I did see a couple of other prospectors down around the bend. Perhaps you could photograph them.”
“Thanks for the tip,” said Lucy, watching as he continued on his way across the beach, swinging the metal detector as he went. She cast a longing glance at the Subaru, which she knew would be toasty warm from sitting in the sun, and began trudging across the pebbly beach in the direction he’d indicated. It was tough going. She was walking against the wind, and her favorite slip-on driving shoes were too flexible to offer support on the slippery gravel. She finally reached the rock breakwater that sheltered the swimming area and clambered up onto the boulders to get a better view, but there was no sign of anyone on the beach. She must have missed them, she decided, pulling her beret down over her ears and shoving her hands in her pockets for the trek back. Or maybe they were never there at all, she thought, wondering if Paul Sullivan had sent her on a wild goose chase to avoid having his picture taken.
Back in the warm car, she rubbed her frozen hands together and tried to relax the muscles that had clenched against the cold, but she was seized with fits of shivering. When her hands had thawed enough to grip the steering wheel, she started the engine and drove slowly across the parking lot, which was empty except for a few seagulls, which waited until the car was almost upon them before walking out of the way. They didn’t consider her enough of a threat to bother flying.
Unlike the gulls, Lucy didn’t have the luxury of sitting in the sun. She was already late for a planning board meeting, and they were taking a vote on the first agenda item when she arrived.
“The board votes four to one to approve a site plan for six additional parking spaces at the Seaman’s Cooperative Bank,” said Chairman Ralph Nickerson, with a bang of his gavel.
“Thank you very much,” said the architect, rolling up the plans, which had been spread on a table in front of the board members.
“That goes for me, too,” said the bank president, shaking hands with each board member in turn.
“Next on the agenda, we have an application from Dylan and Daniel Malone for improvements to the façade of the Bilge, located at 15B Main Street, book two, page one twenty-three,” said Nickerson. “Are the applicants present?”
Dylan Malone stood up. “I am Dylan Malone,” he said, his brogue rather thicker than usual. “As you have probably heard, my brother, Daniel, is now deceased.”
“We extend our sympathies to you, Mr. Malone,” said Nickerson. The board members nodded in agreement. “I assume you wish to go forward with the application?”
“Yes, I do,” said Dylan, stepping forward and distributing copies of the plans to each member. “As the surviving partner, I am now the sole owner. My brother and I…” Here Dylan’s voice broke, and he took a moment to collect himself before continuing. “My brother and I had hoped to undertake a complete remodeling of the bar, transforming it into a full-service restaurant offering waterfront dining in the summer and fireside dining in winter. As I understand the situation, this board only has oversight of the exterior changes.”
“That is correct,” said Nickerson.
“Well, as you can see, the plans call for new clapboard siding, a new door in a traditional style, and the installation of a bow window with flower boxes. In addition, the area immediately in front of the building will be surfaced with flagstone and fenced off, creating a patio.”
This was a major improvement, thought Lucy, recalling the Bilge’s dingy appearance, which featured dark, rotting cedar shingles; a single small window, which was curtained in black cloth; and a somewhat scarred and dented steel door. It was distinctly unwelcoming, sending the message that if you weren’t a regular, you had no business going there.
“And will there be tables on the patio in the warmer months?” asked Millicent Fenton, one of the board members. She had snow-white hair piled on her head and a string of pearls around her neck and spoke with the perfect diction of a private girls’ school graduate circa 1950.
“I would like to have that option, yes,” said Dylan. “In the summer people enjoy eating outside in the fresh sea air and sunshine.”
“Yes, they do,” said Millicent, beaming at him.
Lucy would have been willing to bet the house that this proposal would pass easily. The Bilge had been an eyesore for as long as anyone could remember, and the board members weren’t going to pass up an opportunity to get rid of it.
“Is there any comment from the public?” asked Nickerson, rhetorically. He seemed surprised when one of the handful of people in the audience raised his hand.
“Uh, yes, would you state your name and address please?” said Nickerson.
“I’m Will Gottsegen, and I live at Thirty-five Exchange Street.”
“That’s an apartment building, isn’t it?” asked Nickerson, looking down his nose and over his half-glasses. “Are you a renter?”
“It’s my building, and I’m here about some improvements I want to make,” said Gottsegen, who was wearing jeans and the rubber boots favored by fishermen. “But I’d like to make a comment about these plans for the Bilge. It sounds to me like it’s going to get too fancy for the local folk, if you know what I mean. We’ve got plenty of places in town for the tourists, but what about us working folk? Where are we supposed to go? The Bilge is more than a bar. It’s a place where a working man can relax after a hard day, and it don’t seem like a guy who’s been sweating and baiting traps all day is gonna be welcome there anymore.”
“Everyone will be welcome,” proclaimed Dylan
. “Of that, you can be sure. It will be like a real Irish pub, where the whole community can gather for refreshment.”
Gottsegen grimaced, clearly skeptical of Dylan’s claim, but the board members nodded, clearly entranced with the idea of an Irish pub in Tinker’s Cove.
“And will there be entertainment? Will your lovely wife sing those charming Irish tunes she sang at the wake?” asked Nickerson.
“Yes, indeed,” said Dylan. “There will be entertainment, genuine Irish sessions, and I’m sure my Moira will be joining in from time to time.”
“Ah, that will be fine,” said Nickerson. “Shall we vote?”
As Lucy recorded the vote, which was unanimously in favor, it occurred to her that the wake had been perfectly timed to convince the board of the desirability of transforming the Bilge into an upscale establishment. The application had been submitted before Old Dan’s death and had his name on it, but she doubted that the improvements were his idea. He had been content for as long as anyone could remember to cater to the local working crowd. She’d never heard even a whisper that changes were in store for the Bilge. And, looking at Gottsegen’s scowling face, she was pretty sure it was unwelcome news to him and the other regulars.
Dylan, on the other hand, was beaming as he shook hands with each of the board members and thanked them. It occurred to Lucy that Dylan was behaving as if he intended to settle in Tinker’s Cove, so she followed him out of the meeting room and caught him in the hall.
“Do you mind answering a few follow-up questions?” she asked, with a friendly smile.
“I’m in an awful hurry,” he said, tossing his scarf over his shoulder.
“I’ll make it quick,” she said. “As you heard tonight, a lot of Old Dan’s regular customers never guessed that he was planning to upgrade the Bilge and are quite upset. Was it really his idea?”
Dylan didn’t miss a beat but threw her a grin. “My brother tended to keep his cards close to his chest, if you know what I mean.”
“So the plan was for you and your family to relocate to Tinker’s Cove so you could become an active partner in the business?”
“You know we Irish aren’t much for the long-range plan. We tend to take things as they come.” Dylan shrugged. “Now I really must go, or my Moira will be fretting and wondering what’s keeping me.”
“Well, thanks for your time,” said Lucy, heading back to the meeting room and retaking her seat. She tried to keep her mind on the topic at hand—a request from the Community Church to replace its traditional wooden shingles with asphalt, which was prompting a heated discussion—but her thoughts kept returning to Old Dan’s murder. She knew that prosecutors always kept in mind the Latin phrase cui bono, which she understood meant “who benefits,” when investigating a crime, and it seemed that Dylan had come to town with plans for his inheritance. Of course, he had an alibi, because he hadn’t arrived in town until after the murder, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have had a hand in arranging Old Dan’s death. Was ownership of the Bilge, not to mention Old Dan’s house and whatever other assets he might have stashed away, a strong enough motive to commit murder? Maybe, she thought, for an aging actor whose career had stalled. After all, Dylan would hardly have taken the job directing an amateur production if he had had a more promising alternative.
“Well, I guess we’re done for tonight,” said the committee chairman, banging his gavel.
Lucy felt her face reddening. “Sorry,” she said, raising her hand. “What was that vote?”
Chapter Seven
It was one thing to enjoy going to the theater for an evening out and another thing entirely to actually get on stage and perform, thought Lucy as she drove over to Miss Tilley’s house to pick up Rachel on Saturday morning. It was audition day, and Lucy had serious doubts about the whole thing. She couldn’t imagine why she’d let Rachel convince her to try out for the show. No, she’d be happy to buy tickets for the whole family and sit in the audience and clap like crazy for the local amateurs, but get on stage herself? Impossible!
No, she told herself, the only reason she was even going to the audition was because she’d promised Rachel, and maybe, she admitted to herself, to get a look at Dylan in action and consider whether he really was a likely suspect in his brother’s murder.
Rachel was at the door of Miss Tilley’s little gray-shingled, Cape Cod–style cottage when Lucy pulled into the driveway, and she called to Lucy when she got out of the car. “Come on in. Miss T wants to visit with you.”
Lucy was pleased at the prospect of catching up with her old friend, especially if it meant delaying her moment of truth at the audition. Julia Ward Howe Tilley—nobody called her anything except Miss Tilley—was the town’s oldest resident and was long retired from her job as town librarian. It was in that capacity that Lucy first met her, soon after she and Bill and baby Toby had arrived in Tinker’s Cove and settled in their “handyman’s special” on Red Top Road. Lucy treasured her friendship but knew it couldn’t go on forever, since Miss T was well over ninety. She had lost none of her sharp wit, however, although she did rely on Rachel for help with daily chores, like cooking and cleaning.
“Well, Lucy Stone! It’s about time you paid a visit to a decrepit old lady,” said Miss Tilley, grasping Lucy’s hands with hers and giving them a strong squeeze.
“Not that decrepit, if your hand strength is any indication,” said Lucy, stretching out her fingers. “How are you? Still doing yoga every morning?”
“Of course,” said the old woman, pointing to a chair. “Sit down and stay awhile. I want to hear all about Dan Malone’s gruesome end.”
“Not much to tell, really,” said Lucy, unbuttoning her coat and perching on the chair. “They found him in the harbor, without his head. That’s all anybody knows so far.”
“I never thought much of him,” sniffed Miss Tilley. “No better than Paddy’s pig he was.”
Seeing Rachel’s raised eyebrows, Miss Tilley adopted a stubborn expression and defended her choice of words. “That’s what my father used to say. He didn’t think much of the Irish, and he wasn’t alone. And now we’re practically being invaded, what with this brother and his wife and even a child. The town’s being overrun. Finian’s Rainbow for goodness sake. Why put on that old chestnut when they could go with something trendy, like Hair.”
Hearing this, Lucy began to giggle, and Miss Tilley fixed her with a beady stare. “It’s just because it’s Irish. That’s the only reason they’re doing it,” she said.
“Maybe the church preferred a show that didn’t include nudity,” said Lucy.
“Well, the church was founded by Irish immigrants,” said Rachel. “They’re celebrating its hundred-year anniversary.”
“Don’t remind me,” said Miss Tilley. “One hundred years of papist nonsense! Fish on Friday and people wearing nasty smudges on their foreheads on Ash Wednesday and those enormous families because they’re not allowed to use birth control, all because some silly old man in Rome said they’d go to hell, as if he knew anything about the difficulties of producing and raising a family!”
“Things have changed quite a bit,” said Lucy, amused at the old spinster’s vehemence on the subject. “Nowadays most Catholics practice birth control.”
“And about time, too,” said Miss Tilley. “Why it was tragic what those young girls went through. Why Old Dan’s mother herself got in trouble. That’s why she had to leave her job here and go back to Ireland.”
This was news to Lucy. “Old Dan’s mother lived here? In Tinker’s Cove?”
“Indeed she did. I remember her well. Brigid Heaney was her name. She worked for my mother as a maid of all work….”
“When was this?” asked Lucy.
“Oh, let me see, it was before the Second World War, of course. It was when Mama’s health began to fail. The late thirties, around then, I think, and Mama was very glad to have the help, but she quit after a few months and went to work for the O’Donnells. Better pay, she claimed, and s
he wouldn’t have to work so hard since she was only going to have to clean house and wouldn’t have to do the laundry and help with the cooking, like she did for Mother.”
“You mean the ambassador, Mick O’Donnell?” asked Lucy, naming the founder of a legendary political dynasty that continued to the present day. Lieutenant Governor Cormac O’Donnell still occasionally used the enormous Queen Anne–style family “cottage” on Shore Road.
“He was just a congressman then,” said Miss Tilley, with a sniff. “And she was only with them for a year or so before she hightailed it back to Ireland in a hurry to get married to Mr. Malone.” She chuckled. “We got the birth announcement seven months later.”
“She was lucky to have that option,” said Rachel. “A lot of girls in her situation found themselves out on the street, with no choice but to become prostitutes.”
“Not little Brigid. She knew how to take care of herself. That’s for sure. She might’ve been on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor, but she’d tell you she was descended from the High Kings of Ireland, that her situation was only a small setback,” said Miss Tilley, leaning back and slapping her hands on her bony thighs. “She had the gift of blarney. That’s for sure!”
“So who was the father of Brigid’s child?” asked Lucy, scenting a scandal. “Was it the ambassador?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him, but there were plenty of other lads about,” said Miss Tilley. “I imagine she managed to convince the poor fellow she married that it was his, come a bit early. That’s what girls did then. Or maybe the ambassador gave her some money, to sweeten the deal.”
Lucy and Rachel sat silently for a minute, reflecting on the advantages of coming of age after the invention of the birth control pill. Then Rachel roused herself and checked her watch.
“We’d better get going, Lucy, or we’ll miss the audition.”
“That would be fine with me,” said Lucy. “I’d be perfectly happy painting scenery.”
Rachel grabbed Lucy’s hand and pulled her out of the chair. “Come on! Since when have you been a shrinking violet?”
