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Authors: Stuart Woods
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noises about doing something about it—arresting Patrick and Lorna, I guess, and putting the kids into an orphanage. Then . . .”
“So what stopped them?”
“Then Patrick died—a tree he was cutting down fell on him—and it seemed better just to let things lie, I guess. There wouldn’t be any more children, and nobody would ever have adopted the others. Dermot was nearly grown, anyway, and Brian and Mary were . . . well, you’ve seen Brian. The whole thing just died down.”
“What about the priest? You said he’s been around here for a long time. He would have had a lot of influence with Irish Catholics, wouldn’t he? Couldn’t he have stopped it in the beginning?”
“John, what I’ve told you so far I know to be true. But this, I stress, is just rumor. Nobody knows for sure but Lorna Kelly.” He paused, seeming undecided as to whether to go on.
“Well, come on, Mac,” Howell said. “You can’t just leave me hanging.”
“It’s said that Father Harry married them in the Church.”
Now Howell was speechless. “Well,” he was finally able to say, leaning back in the booth and shaking his head, “every small town has its eccentrics, I guess, and its skeletons, too.”
McAuliffe shrugged and returned his attention to the stuffed cabbage.
CHAPTER
6
T here was a parking ticket waiting for Howell on the windshield of the station wagon. He had put money in the meter, but his conversation with Mac McAuliffe had kept him at Bubba’s longer than he had anticipated. Five bucks down the drain for want of a dime. The back of the ticket said that it could be paid at the sheriff’s office, opposite the courthouse.
The sheriff’s office was a storefront in the square. Inside, a radio operator and two female clerks sat in an open office area separated from the public by a counter. He recognized one of the women immediately. What was her name? She had been a features writer on the Constitution when he was there. She recognized him, too, and beat one of her coworkers to the counter. “Can I help you, sir?” She quickly held a finger to her lips, her face miming urgency. Heather MacDonald, that was her name. He had seen her byline in the paper not more than a few weeks before.“What can I do for you?” she asked, her back to the others.
“Oh, I just want to pay a parking ticket.” Scotty, they called her. She was small, with short, dark hair; pretty. He had eyed her in the city room more than once.
“May I see the ticket, please?” Her eyes were begging him to go along.
He handed her the ticket. What the hell was she doing in Bo Scully’s office? He glanced over her shoulder. The sheriff was at his desk in a glassed-in office at the rear.
“That’ll be five dollars,” she said, reaching for a receipt book. She palmed a notepad at the same time. “Name?”
“John Howell.”
“Address?”
“The Denham White cottage on the north shore.”
“RFD 1, that would be.” She quickly wrote something on the notepad and turned it around, then went back to the receipt. It read: “Just shut up and leave. I’ll contact you later.”
“I guess so. I haven’t received any mail yet.” Howell looked up and saw Scully coming toward them. “Hi, Bo,” he said.
She quickly crumpled the note and ripped off the receipt. “Here you are, sir.”
“What brings you to see us, John?” Scully asked, stepping up to the counter.
“Came to pay a fine; forgot about a parking meter.”
Scully laughed. “Pity you didn’t see me instead of Miss Miller here. You might have bribed me to fix it.”
Howell laughed, too. Miss Miller? What the hell was going on here?
“John, meet Scotty Miller, our latest addition here. She’s hell on the word processor. Scotty, this is John Howell, the famous newspaperman.”
“The former newspaperman,” Howell said, shaking Scotty’s hand.
“So he keeps telling me,” Scully said. “I was just on my way out, John. Want to take a ride with me?”
“Where
“So what stopped them?”
“Then Patrick died—a tree he was cutting down fell on him—and it seemed better just to let things lie, I guess. There wouldn’t be any more children, and nobody would ever have adopted the others. Dermot was nearly grown, anyway, and Brian and Mary were . . . well, you’ve seen Brian. The whole thing just died down.”
“What about the priest? You said he’s been around here for a long time. He would have had a lot of influence with Irish Catholics, wouldn’t he? Couldn’t he have stopped it in the beginning?”
“John, what I’ve told you so far I know to be true. But this, I stress, is just rumor. Nobody knows for sure but Lorna Kelly.” He paused, seeming undecided as to whether to go on.
“Well, come on, Mac,” Howell said. “You can’t just leave me hanging.”
“It’s said that Father Harry married them in the Church.”
Now Howell was speechless. “Well,” he was finally able to say, leaning back in the booth and shaking his head, “every small town has its eccentrics, I guess, and its skeletons, too.”
McAuliffe shrugged and returned his attention to the stuffed cabbage.
CHAPTER
6
T here was a parking ticket waiting for Howell on the windshield of the station wagon. He had put money in the meter, but his conversation with Mac McAuliffe had kept him at Bubba’s longer than he had anticipated. Five bucks down the drain for want of a dime. The back of the ticket said that it could be paid at the sheriff’s office, opposite the courthouse.
The sheriff’s office was a storefront in the square. Inside, a radio operator and two female clerks sat in an open office area separated from the public by a counter. He recognized one of the women immediately. What was her name? She had been a features writer on the Constitution when he was there. She recognized him, too, and beat one of her coworkers to the counter. “Can I help you, sir?” She quickly held a finger to her lips, her face miming urgency. Heather MacDonald, that was her name. He had seen her byline in the paper not more than a few weeks before.“What can I do for you?” she asked, her back to the others.
“Oh, I just want to pay a parking ticket.” Scotty, they called her. She was small, with short, dark hair; pretty. He had eyed her in the city room more than once.
“May I see the ticket, please?” Her eyes were begging him to go along.
He handed her the ticket. What the hell was she doing in Bo Scully’s office? He glanced over her shoulder. The sheriff was at his desk in a glassed-in office at the rear.
“That’ll be five dollars,” she said, reaching for a receipt book. She palmed a notepad at the same time. “Name?”
“John Howell.”
“Address?”
“The Denham White cottage on the north shore.”
“RFD 1, that would be.” She quickly wrote something on the notepad and turned it around, then went back to the receipt. It read: “Just shut up and leave. I’ll contact you later.”
“I guess so. I haven’t received any mail yet.” Howell looked up and saw Scully coming toward them. “Hi, Bo,” he said.
She quickly crumpled the note and ripped off the receipt. “Here you are, sir.”
“What brings you to see us, John?” Scully asked, stepping up to the counter.
“Came to pay a fine; forgot about a parking meter.”
Scully laughed. “Pity you didn’t see me instead of Miss Miller here. You might have bribed me to fix it.”
Howell laughed, too. Miss Miller? What the hell was going on here?
“John, meet Scotty Miller, our latest addition here. She’s hell on the word processor. Scotty, this is John Howell, the famous newspaperman.”
“The former newspaperman,” Howell said, shaking Scotty’s hand.
“So he keeps telling me,” Scully said. “I was just on my way out, John. Want to take a ride with me?”
“Where
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