Read Online St. Patrick's Day Murder by Leslie Meier - Free Book Online
Authors: Leslie Meier
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Maine, Women Detectives, Stone; Lucy (Fictitious Character), Irish Americans, Saint Patrick's Day
Ads: Link
displayed. Candles were burning on either side of the photo, and a small bronze crucifix and a string of rosary beads had been arranged in front of it.
Only a handful of people had arrived so far, mostly elderly women, and they were seated in chairs that had been set against the wall, reciting the rosary with Father Ed. Lucy stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure how to proceed. If this were visiting hours at the local funeral home, she would first have passed through a receiving line of mourners, and then, if the body was laid out in a casket, she would have paid her respects to the deceased. But here there was no receiving line, and she didn’t feel comfortable interrupting Moira’s vocal display of mourning. There was no sign of Deirdre, thank goodness, and Lucy assumed Moira had found somebody else to mind her.
She was greatly relieved when Frank Cahill approached her. “Thank you so much for coming,” he said. “Would you like to express your sympathy to the family?”
“I’d like to, but I don’t want to intrude,” she replied. “Moira seems quite overcome with grief.”
Frank shook his head. “No, no. She’s keening. It’s the expected thing, you see. She’d probably appreciate a break.” He stuck out his arm, rather like an usher at a wedding, and conducted Lucy to the bar, where he presented her to Dylan and Moira.
Moira fell silent and dabbed at her eyes, which were dry, and gave Lucy a small, tight smile.
“Lucy here wishes to tell you she’s sorry for your trouble,” prompted Frank.
“That’s right. I’m very sorry. Terribly sorry,” Lucy babbled, staring at the photo of Old Dan. It must have been his high school graduation picture, she thought, now that she had a closer view. It showed a cocky young man, with a thick head of red hair and a charming, lopsided grin.
“Did you know my brother well?” inquired Dylan. “It’s a grand likeness, is it not?”
Lucy didn’t think the photo looked anything like the Old Dan she’d known. The red hair had long ago turned to gray, and she couldn’t recall ever seeing him smile. Mostly, he had kept his head down and muttered to himself on the rare occasions he’d left the Bilge to go to the bank or post office. While most people in town saw these necessary errands as an opportunity to chat and catch up on the news, Old Dan never greeted anyone, not even with a nod.
“He was a very handsome young man,” said Lucy. “I really only had a nodding acquaintance with him.”
“So you’re here because of the paper? You’re going to be writing up the wake?” asked Dylan.
“I sure am,” said Lucy. “We’ve never had a traditional Irish wake here in town, and people will be interested.”
“As well they might be,” said Dylan. “We Irish are well acquainted with death and know a thing or two about sending a poor soul off in style. There’s the keening, of course. Moira’s a wonderful keener,” said Dylan.
Moira blushed at the compliment. “And you see, we’ve turned the mirror to the wall,” she said, pointing behind the bar.
“And stopped the clock,” added Dylan, indicating a Guinness clock with its hands frozen at nine o’clock.
“And there’s always plenty of food and drink at an Irish wake,” said Father Ed, pointing to a lavish spread laid out on the bar’s tables, which had been strung together and covered with a white linen cloth.
It was probably the first time in the Bilge’s long and disreputable history that a tablecloth had been used, thought Lucy, noticing the platters of cold meats and steaming chafing dishes, with bottles of Irish whiskey liberally interspersed.
“Will you have a wee drop in memory of Old Dan?” asked Frank.
Lucy hesitated. She didn’t really like whiskey, but there didn’t seem to be anything else except Guinness stout, which she wasn’t fond of, either. There was no sign of her preferred drink, white wine.
Frank gave her a nudge. “It’s customary,” he said, passing her
Only a handful of people had arrived so far, mostly elderly women, and they were seated in chairs that had been set against the wall, reciting the rosary with Father Ed. Lucy stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure how to proceed. If this were visiting hours at the local funeral home, she would first have passed through a receiving line of mourners, and then, if the body was laid out in a casket, she would have paid her respects to the deceased. But here there was no receiving line, and she didn’t feel comfortable interrupting Moira’s vocal display of mourning. There was no sign of Deirdre, thank goodness, and Lucy assumed Moira had found somebody else to mind her.
She was greatly relieved when Frank Cahill approached her. “Thank you so much for coming,” he said. “Would you like to express your sympathy to the family?”
“I’d like to, but I don’t want to intrude,” she replied. “Moira seems quite overcome with grief.”
Frank shook his head. “No, no. She’s keening. It’s the expected thing, you see. She’d probably appreciate a break.” He stuck out his arm, rather like an usher at a wedding, and conducted Lucy to the bar, where he presented her to Dylan and Moira.
Moira fell silent and dabbed at her eyes, which were dry, and gave Lucy a small, tight smile.
“Lucy here wishes to tell you she’s sorry for your trouble,” prompted Frank.
“That’s right. I’m very sorry. Terribly sorry,” Lucy babbled, staring at the photo of Old Dan. It must have been his high school graduation picture, she thought, now that she had a closer view. It showed a cocky young man, with a thick head of red hair and a charming, lopsided grin.
“Did you know my brother well?” inquired Dylan. “It’s a grand likeness, is it not?”
Lucy didn’t think the photo looked anything like the Old Dan she’d known. The red hair had long ago turned to gray, and she couldn’t recall ever seeing him smile. Mostly, he had kept his head down and muttered to himself on the rare occasions he’d left the Bilge to go to the bank or post office. While most people in town saw these necessary errands as an opportunity to chat and catch up on the news, Old Dan never greeted anyone, not even with a nod.
“He was a very handsome young man,” said Lucy. “I really only had a nodding acquaintance with him.”
“So you’re here because of the paper? You’re going to be writing up the wake?” asked Dylan.
“I sure am,” said Lucy. “We’ve never had a traditional Irish wake here in town, and people will be interested.”
“As well they might be,” said Dylan. “We Irish are well acquainted with death and know a thing or two about sending a poor soul off in style. There’s the keening, of course. Moira’s a wonderful keener,” said Dylan.
Moira blushed at the compliment. “And you see, we’ve turned the mirror to the wall,” she said, pointing behind the bar.
“And stopped the clock,” added Dylan, indicating a Guinness clock with its hands frozen at nine o’clock.
“And there’s always plenty of food and drink at an Irish wake,” said Father Ed, pointing to a lavish spread laid out on the bar’s tables, which had been strung together and covered with a white linen cloth.
It was probably the first time in the Bilge’s long and disreputable history that a tablecloth had been used, thought Lucy, noticing the platters of cold meats and steaming chafing dishes, with bottles of Irish whiskey liberally interspersed.
“Will you have a wee drop in memory of Old Dan?” asked Frank.
Lucy hesitated. She didn’t really like whiskey, but there didn’t seem to be anything else except Guinness stout, which she wasn’t fond of, either. There was no sign of her preferred drink, white wine.
Frank gave her a nudge. “It’s customary,” he said, passing her
Similar Books
