St. Patrick's Day Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Melting snowflakes glistened in Deirdre’s jet-black hair and stuck to her long eyelashes, making the little girl look even more beautiful and ethereal than usual. “Can we play in the snow?” she asked.

  “Sure,” said Lucy, “if it’s all right with Sara. She’s in charge while your mother and I are at the rehearsal.”

  “And I don’t want any nonsense from you midgets, either,” said Sara, pouring milk into her bowl of cereal.

  “Sara, you need to adjust your attitude,” chided Lucy. “I’m counting on you to be responsible and to set a good example.”

  “Sure, Mom,” said Sara, shuffling off to the family room in her fuzzy slippers.

  “It’s just an act,” an embarrassed Lucy told Moira. “She’s really very reliable. She’ll take good care of the girls.”

  “I don’t doubt it. I remember being a rebellious teenager myself. I must have driven my mum to distraction. I was crazy about the boys,” said Moira as they left the house and got in her car. “I used to sneak out of my room at night and go off to the clubs with my girlfriends. We were underage, but they always let us in. We’d dance all night and then be too tired to get up for school the next morning. We’d have to go, though, and the sisters would be furious with us when we couldn’t keep our eyes open in class.”

  She started the car and reversed neatly enough, but when she shifted into drive and pressed the gas pedal, the car skidded crosswise down the drive, fortunately coming to a stop before the mailbox.

  “What happened?” asked Moira, wide-eyed.

  “You’re not used to driving in snow,” said Lucy, trying to seem calm even though her heart was pounding. “You need to go slow and accelerate very gently, and if you start to skid, steer into the skid and, whatever you do, don’t brake.”

  “But how do I stop the car if I can’t brake?”

  “You go slow to start with, and you anticipate stops, tapping the brake gently so you don’t lose control.” Lucy paused, letting her advice sink in. “Are you ready?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” said Moira, backing the car slowly away from the mailbox and then creeping onto Red Top Road, fishtailing slightly as she made the turn. “I’m beginning to think snow isn’t quite as wonderful as I thought,” she said. “Maybe rainy old Ireland isn’t so bad after all.”

  They were late arriving at the church hall, and the rehearsal was in full swing. Brian Donahue and the crew were hard at work at the rear of the stage, hammering the scenery together. Frank was at the piano, leading the chorus in some warm-up vocalization exercises, and Dylan was coaching Dave Reilly, who was playing the lead part of Woody, on his lines. No wonder he was having trouble, thought Lucy as she hurried over to take her place with the chorus. The Claws’ rock repertoire was bigger on wails and groans than actual lyrics.

  Now that she had a couple of chorus rehearsals under her belt, Lucy felt a lot more comfortable singing with the group and thought she did all right. She didn’t get any dirty looks from the others, and Frank didn’t single her out for a correction as he did some of the singers. They’d gone through all of the songs and been instructed to know the lyrics by heart for the next rehearsal when Frank introduced Tatiana Olsen, the local dance teacher who was playing the part of Susan.

  Lucy knew Tatiana from the days when Elizabeth and Sara took ballet lessons, but she hadn’t seen her in a while. Amazingly enough, she didn’t seem to have aged a bit. Her long hair was still dark and glossy, her back was straight, and she hadn’t gained a pound.

  “Look at her,” whispered Pam, with a nudge. “Doesn’t she look fabulous?”

  “It must be all that dancing,” whispered Rachel.

  “Exercise really works,” said Lucy, with a huge sigh. “It’s not fair.”

  “Tatiana’s going to teach you some basic dance steps,” Frank told the chorus members, then called for Moira to join them. “We need you, Moira, for the first act finale, and you, too, Woody, I mean, Dave.”

  With a nod to Dylan, Dave bounded up onto the stage and made a low, sweeping bow to Tatiana, as if he were D’Artagnan bowing before the Queen of France. The flamboyant gesture wasn’t missed by Moira, who was across the room, pouring herself a cup of coffee. Narrowing her eyes, she took her time, adding sugar and creamer and leaving the paper packets scattered on the table, completely ignoring the trash basket.

  “Moira, darling, we’re waiting,” called Frank, and all heads turned in her direction. Only then, when she was certain everyone was watching, did she begin her approach to the stage, sipping her coffee as she crossed the room. Finally reaching the steps to the stage, she set her half-empty cup on a windowsill, then took her place next to Dave.

  Frank looked about ready to explode, his face and even his ears turning an unhealthy shade of red, but Tatiana remained serene, arranging the chorus members behind the leading couple and teaching them all some simple combinations to accompany “Great Come-And-Get-It Day,” the rousing song and dance number that climaxed the first act. After running through the steps a few times, she suggested they try it with the music. Frank took his place at the piano, and they stumbled through the number, trying to dance and read their sheet music at the same time. Tatiana, meanwhile, instructed Moira and Dave in their solo pas de deux, performed in front of the swaying and humming group while singing a few lines as a duet.

  Moira had no trouble at all projecting her, or rather Sharon’s, interest in Woody by swinging her hips provocatively and holding hands rather longer than necessary, but when she attempted to sing her line, she was only able to gasp out a few words before giving up entirely.

  Frank abruptly banged out a chord, bringing everything to a sudden stop. “Moira, my dear,” he began, speaking in an extremely condescending tone, “this simply won’t do. It needs to be lively, darling. It should trip off your tongue while your little feet are doing their thing. We’ll have to think of something.” He adopted a thoughtful pose, scratching his chin, and then lifted his face as if suddenly inspired. “I know. We’ll record your part, and you can lip-synch. How’s that?”

  Moira glared at him. “Who do you think I am? Ashlee Simpson?”

  “Now, now, darling. You know they all do it. All the big stars do it in concert,” said Frank. “You don’t think million-dollar divas can do all those gymnastics and then belt out a tune. It can’t be done. There’s no shame in it.” He paused. “We have the technology.”

  “Technology be damned,” she said. “What if it doesn’t work? Then I’m stuck out there looking a fool. I won’t do it.”

  “Well, what do you suggest, then?” asked Frank.

  “For one thing,” she began, tossing her head and glaring at Tatiana, “we could adjust the choreography. I know your intentions are good, but you’re obviously an amateur. This number calls for an entirely different approach. It needs to be reworked. It’s simply no good.” She smiled condescendingly at Tatiana. “Trust me. I know what pleases an audience.”

  Tatiana lifted her chin and stared at Moira through her lashes. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “I tend to forget that most people aren’t in dancing shape.”

  Moira pulled herself up to her full height and was about to deliver a retort but was cut off by Frank.

  “The choreography’s not the problem,” he declared, smiling at Tatiana, “and we don’t have time to change it. The show’s in four weeks.” He sat back down at the piano and played a few notes before turning to Moira. “I would have thought a professional like yourself would have come better prepared.”

  “How dare you!” shrieked Moira, with a dramatic toss of her head. “Who do you think you are—a church organist, for Chrissake—to criticize me, who’s been appearing on stage ever since I was six years old!”

  Frank turned to Tatiana. “And she still acts like she’s six years old.”

  “That’s it!” declared Moira, stamping her feet. “I’m not sticking around to be insulted! I’m out of here!”

  And they all watched openmouth
ed as she grabbed her cloak from the chair it was lying on and stormed out of the hall, slamming the door behind her so hard that her half-empty cup of coffee toppled off the windowsill and splashed on the floor.

  “Oh, dear,” said Lucy, nudging Rachel and Pam, “there goes my ride.”

  Dylan watched her go, then approached Frank. Unlike his temperamental wife, Dylan seemed calm and collected, with a businesslike expression on his face.

  Frank struck a chord on the piano. “Take ten, people,” he said.

  The cast members broke into little groups. Some helped themselves to coffee from the industrial-size pot on the counter that divided the hall from the kitchen, a few went outside for a smoke, and others got Cokes from the machine in the hall. Rachel cleaned up the spilled coffee, then joined Pam and Lucy on the row of seats set along the wall.

  “Only four weeks ’til Saint Patrick’s Day,” said Rachel. “Do you think we’ll be ready?”

  “Not if the star of the show walks out whenever things don’t go her way,” said Lucy.

  “Come on,” said Pam. “Frank was awfully hard on her. Nobody knows their lines yet.”

  “I don’t agree,” said Rachel. “He was right. A professional should have prepared, gotten her voice in shape, and learned the songs, taken some dancing classes.”

  “Maybe you’ll get the part after all,” said Lucy, nudging Rachel. “Frank seems pretty ticked off.”

  Frank’s face had gotten quite red, and he was apparently mincing no words in his discussion with Dylan, even though he was keeping his voice low. Whatever he was saying, Dylan didn’t seem to be taking it well. Finally, he erupted and shouted, “You may be the musical director, but don’t forget, I’m the director. I”—he was stabbing his chest—“make the final decisions!”

  Frank stood a moment, glaring at him, then capitulated. “Okay, but it’s your funeral,” he said, sitting back down on the bench.

  “My funeral if she loses the part,” muttered Dylan, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and heading outside.

  Lucy and her friends overheard him as he marched past, and they had a good laugh together.

  “I think I’ll call home and see how Sara’s making out,” said Lucy, pulling out her cell phone. She couldn’t get a clear signal, so she began walking around the room, even trying the stage, where she found Brian on his hands and knees, hammering studs together.

  “Forget it,” he said. “This building’s in a dead zone or something. You might have better luck outside.”

  Lucy looked out the window, where the snow was falling thicker than ever. “I guess I’ll pass,” she said, pocketing the phone. “How’s the scenery coming?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Dylan there thinks we can whip up Irish countryside and rural Missitucky, complete with a babbling brook and bridge, in four weeks and with a budget of five hundred bucks.” He shrugged. “You know the price of wood. It can’t be done.”

  “No, it can’t,” she agreed. “Has he got the same attitude about the Bilge renovations?”

  “I gotta hand it to your husband,” said Brian, with an admiring nod. “He’s got a way with him. He’s got Dylan thinking it’s a privilege to write checks to him.”

  “Well,” said Lucy, “he is a fine craftsman.”

  “That he is. I’m learning a lot from him.” He sat back on his heels. “Looks like Frank isn’t getting along any better with Dylan than he did with his brother,” he said.

  This was news to Lucy. “Frank didn’t like Old Dan?” she asked.

  “They had their moments,” he said, chuckling. “They had a big fight one night, and Old Dan kicked him out.”

  “Not an unusual occurrence at the Bilge,” said Lucy. “At least not from what I’ve heard.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, there was usually some sort of fight most nights—but not with Old Dan. He was off-limits. But not to Frank. He hauled off and socked him, gave the old guy a black eye.”

  “What was it about?” asked Lucy.

  “To tell the truth, I’m not sure. Frank gets a bit touchy when he drinks too much.”

  “Touchy enough to kill Old Dan?”

  Brian’s eyebrows shot up. “Frank? Kill somebody? No way.”

  Lucy wasn’t quite so willing to dismiss Frank as a suspect. He had a mean streak; she’d seen it in the way he taunted Moira. And after years as a reporter covering local tragedies, she believed that almost anyone, given the right circumstances, could resort to violence. Battered wives finally turned on their abusive husbands, husbands with financial problems or a mistress killed the wife and kids rather than confess, old folks who could no longer manage their senile spouses found a drug overdose or a pillow could provide a quick solution, and old feuds that had simmered for years sometimes boiled over into fisticuffs or worse. She was thinking along these lines when she was interrupted by another piano chord.

  “Okay, girls and boys, it’s time to get back to work,” announced Frank. “There’s plenty we can do while our leading lady gets over her hissy fit.” He flipped through the score. “I know. Let’s do ‘The Begat.’ That’s a nice rousing number. Chorus! Senator Rawkins! Places, please.”

  “The Begat” was indeed a rousing number, and Lucy was humming it when Rachel dropped her off at home a couple of hours later. An inch or two of wet snow had fallen, and the roads hadn’t been cleared yet, making the going rather tricky even for an experienced Maine driver like Rachel. Lucy hoped Moira’s first stop after leaving the rehearsal was to fetch Deirdre and take her home. She didn’t like to think of Moira attempting it now on the slippery roads.

  But when she went into the house, stamping the snow off her boots and calling out that she was home, there was no answer. The house had that quiet, empty feeling that meant no one was home, not even the dog.

  A couple of empty mugs with the dregs of hot chocolate in the bottom sat on the kitchen table, an encouraging sign that Sara had taken her child-minding responsibilities seriously. Lucy assumed she had taken everyone out for a walk in the snow and sat down on the bench by the kitchen door to unlace her boots. She hadn’t really expected Sara to do anything so ambitious, but perhaps she’d got tired of being cooped up in the house all morning with the younger girls. Or perhaps Deirdre had begged to go out in the snow, which was a novelty to her. Or maybe Bill had come home from work early and taken them all sliding, as he sometimes did. Whatever the reason for this blissful peace, she decided she was going to take advantage of it and stretch out on the couch with a book. She only got through a few pages, however, before she dozed off and the book dropped to the floor.

  It was there that Sara, and Libby, found her about twenty minutes later.

  “Mom! Wake up!”

  Sara was shaking her shoulder, and Libby was licking her face. “Whuh?” was all she could manage to say.

  Sara was leaning over her. “Did Deirdre’s mom come? Did she take Zoe, too?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Lucy, suddenly alert.

  “The girls were here when I left. I only went out for a minute to put the dog in her run, but she slipped out and she ran off before I could catch her. I was afraid she’d get lost in the snow, so I followed her, and it took longer than I thought. But when I left, the girls were sitting at the table, drinking hot chocolate.”

  “I dunno,” said Lucy. “They weren’t here when I got home. Maybe Moira came while you were gone.”

  “I don’t think so, Mom,” said Sara. “I wasn’t that far from the house. I heard your car, but that’s all.”

  “I’m pretty sure I saw tire tracks in the driveway,” said Lucy, standing up.

  “Not anymore. It’s stopped snowing,” said Sara, pointing toward the window. “It’s been raining for at least fifteen minutes.”

  It was true. The snow was melting fast, falling off the trees in great wet plops of slush, and the driveway was a soupy sea of slush. Remembering Moira’s frame of mind when she left the rehearsal, Lucy considered the possibility that she might h
ave gone off on her own, deciding to take some time to soothe her ruffled spirits. “If Moira didn’t pick them up, what do you think happened? Do you think they went out on their own?”

  Sara bit her lip. “I don’t think so, Mom. I gave them strict orders not to, and besides, they’d been playing outside earlier, and their coats and mittens and snow pants were soaking wet. I put them in the dryer, and it was still running when I went after the dog.”

  Lucy hurried through the dining room and kitchen, into the laundry room, and yanked open the dryer door. There was nothing there except a crumpled sheet of fabric softener. Lucy picked it up and fingered it, trying not to panic. “They’re gone,” she said, struggling to control the fear—and guilt—that threatened to overwhelm her. “We have to find them.”

  Chapter Ten

  Lucy’s hands shook as she zipped her parka and pulled the hood over her head. She tried to calm herself, tried to believe she was overreacting, but one look at Sara’s white face and enormous, fear-filled eyes sent her dashing for the door. Sara handed her the dog’s leash, and Libby sprang out through the barely open door, pulling her right across the porch and sending her flying down the stairs. All of a sudden she was flat on the ground, her hands and face in the cold, wet muck. Her knees and elbows hurt, but she ignored them, scrambling to her feet and hanging on to the leash as Libby dragged her through the slippery mush.

  “Zoe! Deirdre! Zoe!” yelled Lucy, but there was no answer from the glistening black trunks of the fir trees, no reply from the slick, lichen-covered boulders or the blank white sky. The sleety rain continued to fall, soaking through her “guaranteed waterproof” parka, but she didn’t feel it as she sloshed through the icy mess, desperately searching for any footprints, any sign of the girls.

  It was all this nonsense about fairies and the snow transforming the woods into fairyland, she thought as the dog dragged her deeper into the woods, slipping and sliding with every step. But why hadn’t they come back to the house when it started to rain? Had they found some sort of shelter? A hut built by kids, maybe, or a tarp erected by one of the homeless wanderers who occasionally took up residence by the pond? Or had they had some sort of accident?