by Leslie Meier
Fearing that Mikey Boy would return, Lucy grabbed her by the hands and began pulling her toward the stairs. The girl didn’t resist, but she didn’t cooperate, either, so Lucy knew she had no option except to carry her. She grabbed the child under the arms and hoisted her up, then started retracing her path up the stairs. She was struggling upward with her burden when she heard a voice.
“You’re too damn nosey,” he said.
Startled and fearing the worst, she looked up and saw the man she’d known as Paul Sullivan standing at the top of the stairs, backlit by the bright lights she’d turned on.
“I’m taking this little girl back to her mother,” she said, taking one step.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” he said.
His tone was casual, matter-of-fact, and it terrified Lucy. She frantically ran through her options, including trying the other stairs, the ones that led to the parking lot, but remembered how rickety they’d looked. She also wasn’t sure that the door to the outside was unlocked. For all she knew, it had an outside padlock, and she’d be trapped inside.
“It’s time for the truth, Michael O’Donnell,” she said, making the decision to stick to the path she knew, the stairs that led to the light, to safety. “The police are on to you. They’re tearing the house apart. It’s just a matter of time before they get you.”
He laughed. “They haven’t found me yet.”
“Your time is running out,” she said, determined not to let her voice shake. “Why make things worse for yourself?”
“At this point, nothing I do will make a bit of difference,” he said, chuckling. “I’m a damned man to be sure.”
“You must have had your reasons,” she said, summoning her strength to climb another step. Deirdre was heavy, and she had to struggle to keep her balance and not to fall backwards.
“I only ever wanted what is rightfully mine,” he said, watching her. “Brigid Heaney was a witch. She stole my father’s honor and his money.”
“She blackmailed him?”
“She claimed Daniel Malone was his son,” he snorted. “As if my father would consort with the likes of her. A housemaid! But he paid, right up to the day he died.”
“It’s all in the past,” she said. Lucy’s arms and shoulders were burning, and her back was aching. Even worse, she was beginning to feel dizzy from the strain of holding the girl. Her position halfway up the staircase was precarious. She had to get moving or she would fall.
“In the past!” He pounded his fist on the doorjamb. “It’s right here in the wood and glass and shingles and paint. And I’m going to reclaim it,” he declared, hoisting a red gasoline can.
Aware it was now or never, Lucy squeezed Deirdre tighter and charged up the last few steps in a desperate attempt to escape. Thrown off balance by Deirdre’s weight, she tumbled against Mikey Boy, and taken by surprise, he fell down, dropping the gas can. It tumbled noisily down the stairs, and the pungent scent told her that gasoline was spilling out. She ignored it, concentrating on getting Deirdre out of there as fast as she could. She managed to get back on her feet and struggled to disentangle Deirdre from Mikey Boy’s grip. She kicked him in the head and pulled the girl by the arms and finally freed her and started toward the door, dragging the child, but Mikey Boy lunged after her, wrapping his arms around her legs and bringing her down hard on her elbows. As she fell, she screamed, “Run, Deirdre! Run!” but the girl simply stood staring at her. Then, before she knew what had happened, Mikey Boy had flipped her over and was on top of her, holding her down by the sheer force of his weight. No matter how she struggled, she couldn’t free herself. She felt his arm pressing against her neck, cutting off her breath. She tried to push his arm away with her hands, desperate for air, but she couldn’t budge it. From the cellar, she heard a hissing sound, and she smelled smoke. She looked around frantically for some weapon, something to hit him with, and saw the crow, perched on the bar. It cawed once, then raised its wings as if to fly, but remained in place, growing larger and larger. The light in the room began to dim, and she knew then that there was no escape for her or Deirdre. She would die, the last of Brigid Heaney’s descendants would be destroyed, and Mikey Boy would triumph.
Nevertheless, she struggled futilely until, with a squawk, the bird flew through the open door and Bill rushed in. He knocked Mikey Boy on the head with a two-by-four, grabbed Deirdre with one hand and Lucy with the other, and dragged them both through the door just as the entire place burst into flames behind them. He pushed them to the ground and crawled, pulling and dragging them, until they were clear of the fire. Turning around, Lucy saw the Bilge explode, turning the entire sky red. High in the sky, above the fire, the crow wheeled and cawed, then flew off into the darkness.
Chapter Twenty
Lucy was still feeling a bit stiff and sore when she arrived at the church hall on opening night, Saint Patrick’s Day. The bruise on her neck was fading from deep purple to a bilious green-yellow, and she had covered it with foundation. As she stood in front of the bathroom mirror, applying the make-up, she had been amazed to see the bruise disappear. If only she could do the same with the memory of her encounter with Mikey Boy, she thought, but it wouldn’t go away. She was still waking up in a cold sweat, terrified, from nightmares. Sometimes it was Mikey Boy pressing down on her, smothering her, and other times it was the fire, spreading its flickering tongues across the floor until it engulfed Deirdre, intent on her song and her curly wood shavings. The worst dream, however, was the one with the crow. It started out as a normal-size crow, and she tried to shoo it away, but instead of leaving, it grew larger and larger, until it spread out its enormous wings and blacked out the sky. Even knowing for a fact that Mikey Boy had died in the fire and was no longer a threat to anyone didn’t help. When she woke from that dream, she was always too frightened to go back to sleep, and she’d have to creep downstairs and settle herself on the couch, with a book, for the rest of the night. That was the only way she could forget what might have happened if the cell phone hadn’t beeped, announcing a voice-mail message, at the very moment Bill was returning to the bedroom to get dressed after his shower.
But nightmares were far from Lucy’s thoughts as she went backstage to the dressing room. She was running through the songs, performing a silent rehearsal in her mind. Not surprisingly, other chorus members in the cramped little room were doing the same thing, and every now and then, she’d catch a snatch of a tune or notice a bit of fancy footwork as someone practiced a dance routine. Rachel was humming under her breath as she adjusted her costume, a low-necked red dress with white polka dots, puffed sleeves, and a full skirt. Lucy’s costume was identical, except it was bright blue with white dots.
“Lucy!” exclaimed Rachel, giving her a big hug. “You look great!”
“So do you,” she replied. Lowering her voice, she continued. “Any chance you-know-who won’t be able to perform?”
“No such luck,” said Rachel, with a shrug. “She looks fit as a fiddle. And Dylan’s back, too. The word is he came straight from the hospital.”
“He looks quite distinguished in his bandage, like a maharajah in a turban,” said Pam, joining them, with her yellow polka-dot costume over her arm. She hooked the hanger on an overhead pipe and began pulling her sweater over her head. “I hear it was a near thing. He almost died at one point. They say he’s made an amazing recovery.”
“I can hardly believe anyone would do all those terrible things, not even Mikey Boy,” said Rachel. “If it wasn’t for Lucy, he would have killed little Deirde.”
“It was a close thing,” said Lucy, shuddering. “If Bill hadn’t arrived in the nick of time, we’d both be dead.”
Wiping away a tear, Rachel enfolded Lucy in a big hug.
“I just keep thinking the same thing over and over,” said Pam. “Why did one brother grow up to be a murderous criminal and the other a respectable statesman?”
“Mikey Boy must have been a complete psychopath. That’s the on
ly explanation. Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe he didn’t get the necessary nurturing as an infant—family circumstances change from child to child, you know—but chances are, it’s a combination of the two,” said Rachel, who had majored in psychology.
“He had to be crazy,” agreed Pam. “I mean, that collection of heads…”
“The police say he was under the delusion that he was some mythic Irish warrior. Apparently, it was their custom to take their vanquished enemies’ heads home with them and use them for decoration around the front door,” said Lucy. “The police found a notebook he’d been keeping. It was written in Gaelic and was kind of his own personal epic. He was fascinated by the old legends and got himself mixed up with a character named Fionn MacCumhaill. He thought the Malones had dishonored his father, who he believed was descended from the High Kings of Ireland.
“Dan and Dylan Malone’s mother, Brigid Heaney, worked for the O’Donnell family as a maid and claimed the ambassador was Old Dan’s father, and I guess it must have been true, because he paid her some money, maybe hush money. Maybe he just felt obliged to support the child. Anyway, she went back to Ireland and, with the help of her newfound wealth, convinced her old boyfriend to marry her in spite of her condition. Eventually, the boys grew up. Old Dan emigrated to America, and Dylan stayed in Ireland. When Brigid died and left them a bit of money—money that Mikey Boy claimed was rightfully his—the brothers decided to go in together and make the Bilge a proper restaurant.”
“When did Mikey Boy come back to Tinker’s Cove?” asked Rachel.
“The police think it was some time in the fall,” replied Lucy.
“And did he plan to murder Old Dan right from the start?” asked Rachel.
“They’re not sure, replied Lucy. “Maybe he just wanted to come home after being a fugitive for so many years. It could be that his mental condition had deteriorated, living all alone in that cellar with his gruesome collection of heads….”
“Yeah,” agreed Pam. “Winter in Maine is a bitch. Sometimes after I’ve been snowbound for a week or two, I’d like to go out and kill somebody, too.”
They were all laughing when a burst of applause caught their attention, and they saw Dylan standing in the doorway.
“I have an announcement,” he said, smiling and holding up his hand for silence. “First of all, let me say it is terrific to be back with all you wonderful, wonderful people. You’ve all been real troupers through this.”
Despite herself, Lucy found herself beaming at him along with everybody else. You had to give it to him. The guy had something. Charisma? Whatever it was, it made him very appealing.
“Secondly, I’m afraid I have some bad news,” said Dylan.
Everybody groaned, fearing the show had been canceled.
“I’m afraid the lieutenant governor, Cormac O’Donnell, won’t be able to attend tonight’s performance as promised.”
There were a few knowing chuckles.
“Apparently, he’s embarked on an extended trade mission to Asia,” said Dylan.
This time everybody was chuckling. “Convenient timing,” whispered Lucy.
“And don’t forget the cast party, after the show, in the rectory,” said Dylan. “Father Ed has promised green beer for everyone. That’s it. Places, everybody. Break a leg.”
Applause was still ringing in Lucy’s ears as she and the other cast members walked the short distance from the church hall to the rectory next door. The show had been a terrific success, capturing the audience right from the start. They’d laughed and cheered and clapped their hearts out, and it wasn’t just because they were rooting for their friends and neighbors. Everyone had done a wonderful job. Each scene had unfolded without a hitch; each song and dance number had gone off beautifully. Well, there was one exception, she reminded herself. Moira had skipped her solo during the big dance number, but that was okay. Nobody in the audience caught on, and the cast members were in a forgiving mood, considering everything she’d been through. And even Lucy had to admit Moira had been enchanting on stage, revealing ability that had been hidden during rehearsals. It was as if the lights and the audience brought her out of herself and allowed her true talent to shine.
Buoyed as everyone was by the show, a few people were skeptical about holding the cast party at the rectory. “Why couldn’t we go somewhere else?” muttered Tatiana. “Someplace where we could really party.”
“Don’t worry,” advised Frank. “Father Ed knows a thing or two about having a good time.”
This was met with knowing chuckles from Dave and Brian, among other members of the old Bilge crowd. Lucy found herself reminiscing, remembering when she’d spoken to them outside the closed door of the Bilge on the morning when Old Dan’s headless body had been found. Back then, she hadn’t suspected what strange turns her life would take in the weeks to come.
“Why so glum, Lucy?” inquired Rachel, giving her a nudge. “Are you worried about Molly?”
“A bit,” admitted Lucy. Her anxiety about Molly and the baby was like the pilot light on her old gas stove; it burned constantly on a low flame, always ready to flare up into full-blown panic. “But so far, so good,” she added, crossing her fingers.
“She’s in good hands. They both are,” said Pam as they mounted the steps and were warmly greeted by Father Ed.
“Wonderful job, everyone. Terrific show. The audience loved it. Come on in, come in, everyone,” he said as they filed past.
Once inside, it was clear that Tatiana needn’t have worried. The rather prim and proper parlor, where Mrs. Kelly had made sure that not a speck of dust could be found and every chair had its own lace antimacassar, had been decked out with green crepe-paper streamers and holiday cutouts. It made for some rather odd combinations, as Rachel pointed out.
“Poor St. Sebastian,” she said, pointing to a sepia-tinted print that had a cardboard cutout taped over it. “You can just see his arrows poking out around that jolly little leprechaun.”
“Don’t worry about him,” said Father Ed. “He’s in heaven with all the other saints.” He smiled and raised his eyes heavenward. “I think it must be rather merry up there. Practically every day a holiday, what with all the Saints’ Days.”
“So you think they’re celebrating Saint Patrick’s Day in heaven, too?” asked Lucy. The product of a rather straightlaced Protestant upbringing, she found the idea rather shocking.
“Of course, and we should follow their example. Come, everybody,” he said, leading the way to the dining room.
There were oohs and aahs as the hungry cast members spied the platters of corned beef sandwiches, the bowls of chips, the green-tinted potato salad, and the huge sheet cake picturing Finian and Sharon dancing across fields of green icing beneath a colorful sugar rainbow. And on the sideboard, there were pitchers and pitchers of green beer, along with bottles of Irish whiskey and Baileys Irish Cream.
“Help yourselves,” proclaimed Father Ed. “But first a toast. Get yourselves a glass, and raise it high.” When everyone was ready, he continued. “Here’s to our good friend Dylan Malone, miraculously preserved by heaven to direct this show, and to his beautiful and talented wife, Moira….”
“Here, here,” they all chimed in.
“And to the amazing Frank Cahill, who kept everyone on course…”
“Here, here,” they repeated.
“And to all of you, who made this wonderful evening possible. S’láinte!”
“S’láinte!” they shouted, raising their glasses and downing the contents.
It was then that Lucy felt her cell phone vibrating in her pocket and, fearing the worst, withdrew to a quiet corner to take the call.
“Mom!”
As she’d feared, it was Toby. She braced herself for bad news.
“Molly’s had the baby!” he crowed proudly.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
“Everything’s fine. The baby’s healthy, almost five pounds, and Molly’s doing great.”
; “Did she have a C-section?”
“No, no. She went into labor about seven, and the baby was born around nine thirty.”
“That was quick,” said Lucy, who had labored sixteen hours to produce Toby.
“Really? Everything was great. Just like the classes.”
“Amazing,” said Lucy, who, with four babies, had never had a textbook delivery.
“Well, I got a bunch of calls to make, Mom….”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Oh yeah. It’s a boy.”
“Have you named him?”
“Sure. What else? Patrick!”
“Terrific. Now we’ll really have something to celebrate. Congratulations, and give my love to Molly.”
Lucy closed the phone and replaced it in her pocket, then went to share the good news with Pam and Rachel, who had been hovering anxiously in the doorway.
“Is everything all right?” asked Rachel.
“You look stunned,” said Pam, giving her a hug.
“That’s how I feel,” said Lucy. “I can’t believe it. I’m way too young to be a grandmother!”
Two of her four kids may be out of the nest, but Lucy knows only too well that mothering is a lifetime commitment. At least she gets to kick back and enjoy a fancy Mother’s Day brunch with her brood—that is, before the festivities are interrupted by a nasty scene courtesy of Barbara Hume and Tina Nowak. Oppposites in every way, the only thing these mean moms have in common is the need to best each other at every turn, using their teenage daugthers as pawns in elaborate games of one-upsmanship…
