St. Patrick's Day Murder by Leslie Meier

Lucy.
    “It’s no trouble at all,” said Lucy, hanging it on one of the hooks by the door. The girls seemed to be hitting it off immediately, she noticed with relief, and were heading for the family room, hand in hand, to look at a book Deirdre had brought.
    “I’m almost out of my mind. Things have been that crazy,” said Moira, pushing her unruly mop of red hair back with her hands. “The police, the people from the funeral home, the priest…There’s always something to do, somebody to call. And poor Dylan! This was the last thing he expected. He thought his brother would be taking care of us.”
    “It must be very upsetting,” sympathized Lucy. “How is he coping?”
    “About as well as can be expected,” said Moira, and before Lucy could even offer her a cup of tea, she was at the door. “I’ll be back at six or so,” she said, departing in a swirl of black cape.
    Lucy set up a snack tray with a plate of cookies and two glasses of milk and carried it into the family room, where the girls were kneeling at the coffee table, poring over Deirdre’s book.
    “What’s the book about?” she asked.
    “Fairies and little people,” said Deirdre. “May I have a biscuit?”
    “Of course,” said Lucy, struck by her politeness. “They’re for you and Zoe to share. Drink some milk, too.”
    “Thank you,” said Deirdre, taking a bite of cookie and a swallow of milk. “These biscuits are very good.”
    “They’re not biscuits. They’re cookies,” said Zoe.
    “In Ireland we call them biscuits,” replied Deirdre.
    “Biscuits are something else here,” said Lucy. “They’re soft, like bread. I’ll make some for you sometime. They’re really good with butter and jam.”
    “I’d like that. Thank you very much,” said Deirdre, turning the page. “Oh, look, Zoe! This is Meab, the queen of the fairies.”
    Pleased that the little girls were getting along so well, Lucy went back to the kitchen and started browning some beef-stew meat. As she peeled and chopped the carrots and onions and turned the meat, she kept an ear out for squabbles, but all she heard from the family room was an occasional giggle. The afternoon passed quickly, and Lucy was calling Sara to set the table—for the third time—when Moira returned.
    “And how did the little colleens get along?” she asked.
    “Wonderfully,” said Lucy. “I’ve hardly heard a peep all afternoon. Deirdre’s a delight. She’s so polite.”
    “Never fear. She has her moments,” said Moira.
    “They all do,” agreed Lucy, going into the family room to fetch the little girl. “Your mom’s here. It’s time to go home.”
    “Already!” wailed Zoe.
    “Oh, please, can’t I stay a bit longer?” asked Deirdre.
    “Yeah. Can’t she stay longer?” chimed in Zoe.
    “I’m afraid not,” said Moira, who had followed Lucy. She glanced around the room, and Lucy wished she’d done something about the stains in the carpet and the worn place on Bill’s recliner. But Moira didn’t seem to notice. “What a lovely room,” she declared. “I love rooms that have that lived-in look.” She turned back to Deirdre. “It’s time to go now, Deirdre. Your father’s expecting us.”
    “But can’t I play just a wee bit longer?” asked Deirdre.
    What with those lashes and that adorable accent, Lucy thought the child was good enough to eat. But her mother wasn’t moved. Her voice was firm when she said, “That’s enough now. It’s time to go.”
    “Perhaps you can come another day,” suggested Lucy. “Maybe even sleep over.”
    “Wouldn’t that be fun,” said Moira, taking Deirdre’s hand and leading her to the kitchen, where she helped her into her parka. “But now it’s time to say good-bye and come away. Just like in the poem by Mr. Yeats. ‘Come away, O human child! / To the waters and the wild / With a faery, hand in hand,’” she recited, dropping her voice theatrically, “‘For the world’s more full of weeping than you can