St. Patrick's Day Murder by Leslie Meier Page A

understand.’”
    A funny poem to recite to a child, thought Lucy as she waved good-bye from the door. She thought her job as a parent meant protecting her children from the world’s weeping, but maybe that was an American idea. Come to think of it, most of the old fairy stories were full of frightening ideas. She had hardly turned away from the door and returned to the stove to check her stew when Bill came breezing in.
    “Something smells delicious,” he said, standing behind her and wrapping his arms around her. She leaned back against him, rubbing her cheek against his springy beard and breathing in the scent of outdoors and freshly sawn wood that he’d brought with him.
    “Beef stew,” she said, “with noodles.”
    “My favorite,” he said, giving her a squeeze before pulling away to hang up his coat and take off his heavy work boots and put on a pair of house shoes. Then he got himself a beer from the refrigerator and sat down at the kitchen table.
    “How was work?” she asked. Bill was a restoration carpenter, and his latest project, converting an old root cellar into a wine cellar, was almost finished. He didn’t have a new job lined up yet, and they were both a bit worried about it.
    “Good news,” he said, popping the top of his beer and taking a pull. “I might have a new job. Nothing definite, yet, but that Irish guy, Old Dan’s brother, came by and asked me about renovating the Bilge. Seems he wants to fix it up.”
    Lucy’s eyebrows shot up. “Already? The poor man’s not even in his grave.”
    “Maybe they’d talked about it before Old Dan died,” said Bill. “It seems like the plans are pretty well developed. This Dylan seems to know exactly what he wants, more than if he’d just walked in the door and decided the place needed some freshening up. He’s talking about putting in a bay window and a fireplace and doing over the whole kitchen. It’s going to be a real restaurant, not just a bar.”
    “So you think Dylan was coming in as a partner?”
    Bill shrugged. “That’s the impression I got. I know he wants to get started right away. He asked if I was available immediately, and I said I was.”
    “So you think you’ll get the job?”
    “I’m keeping my fingers crossed. The Bloomberg job is almost finished, and I don’t have anything else lined up.” He took a long swallow. “I’ll work up the proposal tonight.”
    “Make it an offer he can’t refuse,” said Lucy. She managed the family budget and knew how tight things could get in the last months of winter, before building picked up again in the spring. She went over to the back stairway and yelled for Sara. “Supper’s ready, and you haven’t set the table. Let’s go!”
    There was no answer, but Lucy heard Sara clattering down the front stairs.
    “What happened?” she asked Bill as she ladled the stew into the tureen. “When did my sweet, bouncy little Sara turn into this unpleasant stranger?”
    “It’s your fault,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “You kept feeding them, and they grew up.”
    “I’ve still got Zoe,” she said, carrying the tureen into the dining room.
    “But only for a few more years,” warned Bill, following her with the noodles and salad. “She’s growing up fast, too.”

    Later that night they had proof positive that Zoe was still very much a little girl. She woke in the middle of the night, sobbing hysterically and screaming for her parents.
    “What’s the matter?” asked Lucy, rushing to her bedside and taking her in her arms.
    “I’m scared.”
    Lucy smoothed her daughter’s damp hair. “There’s nothing to be scared of. You’re perfectly safe here, in your own bed, in your house, with your family all around.”
    “I know. But I’m still scared.”
    “You probably had a nightmare.”
    Zoe nodded.
    “Do you remember what it was about?”
    Zoe nodded again. “The h-h-headless man,” she finally said.
    “He can’t hurt you,” said Lucy, but she wasn’t