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

entirely convinced. It seemed that Tinker’s Cove would be dealing with Old Dan’s death for a long time to come, and in ways nobody quite expected.

    Lucy remained with Zoe for almost an hour before the child fell back to sleep. Only then did she go back to her own bed, but she couldn’t settle down. Her mind was full of stray thoughts: income tax, that shingle that blew off the roof, the funny noise the car was making. She finally did drift off but dreamt she was awake and wouldn’t have believed she slept except for the fact that when the alarm went off at six, she rushed downstairs, convinced the dishwasher had overflowed on the kitchen floor. When she found the floor perfectly dry, she realized she must have been dreaming.
    The girls had left for school minutes shy of missing the bus, Bill was in the shower, and she was still in her nightgown and robe, hanging on to her third mug of coffee at the kitchen table, when there was a knock at the door. She was surprised when she recognized Brian Donahue through the glass but figured he wanted to see Bill about some work.
    “He’s in the shower, but you’re welcome to wait for him,” she told him. “There’s still some coffee in the pot if you’d like it.”
    “That would be great. Thanks,” he said, taking off his hat and carefully wiping his boots on the mat.
    “Take a seat,” said Lucy, emptying the pot into a mug and setting it on the table in front of him. She sat back down and watched him add milk and sugar. “I hope you’re not wasting your time. I don’t think he’s got any work coming up. Nothing for certain, that is.”
    Brian’s eyebrows shot above his wire rims. “That’s not what I heard. Dylan Malone told me he’s hiring Bill to completely renovate the Bilge. ‘Waterfront dining in summer and fireside dining in winter,’ he said. ‘With the atmosphere of a genuine Irish pub.’”
    “Bill mentioned that last night, but he wasn’t sure he had the job.”
    “Dylan seems to think he does.”
    “I guess he should know,” said Lucy, with a smile.
    “I could really use the work,” said Brian. “Old Dan never paid me for a job I did a couple of months ago, fixing the rotted floor behind the bar.” He swallowed some coffee, and his mouth twisted as if it were bitter, in spite of the four teaspoons of sugar he’d added. “That Old Dan sure was a cheap bastard. I never should’ve agreed to do the work unless he paid in advance. That’s what everybody told me, but it was too late. I’d already finished the job.” He raised his head and looked at her. “This is the only way I’ll ever get a cent out of that cheapskate, if Bill hires me, you see?”
    “You could go to the wake,” she said. “Take your payment in free drinks.”
    “He owes me more than a couple of drinks,” grumbled Brian.
    “I’ve never been to a real Irish wake,” said Lucy. “Just visiting hours at the funeral home.”
    “You think this’ll be different?”
    “I’m no expert, but from what I’ve heard, they’re pretty lively affairs. Sometimes they even sit the dead person’s body up and put a drink in its hand.”
    “That’d be a problem for Old Dan,” said Brian, thoughtfully. “I mean, he could hold the drink, but you sort of need a head to complete the image. Not that he could actually drink it, of course, being dead and all, but you know what I mean.”
    Lucy did. How could you have a wake with a body that had no head?

    The first thing Lucy noticed when she arrived at the Bilge for Old Dan’s wake on Sunday afternoon was an unearthly noise, something between sobbing and moaning, which, she was surprised to discover, was issuing from Moira, who paused occasionally to dab at her dry eyes with a small, lace-trimmed linen handkerchief. To Lucy’s relief, there was no sign of a body or even a closed coffin. Moira and her husband, both in black, were sitting side by side in front of the bar, where an enlarged photo of a much younger Old Dan was