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

Deirdre.
    “Not at all,” said Lucy, climbing down with the jar of molasses. “They use anesthesia, like they do for any operation.”
    “And then they sew you up!” exclaimed Zoe, gleefully. “Sadie had stitches once, and she said it hurt real bad.”
    “Mummy says it’s all worth it to have a beautiful baby like me,” said Deirdre, dreamily. “She says I was such a beautiful baby, she was afraid the fairies would steal me.”
    Lucy set the molasses on the table with a thud. “Now, Deirdre, you know that’s just make-believe. Fairies don’t steal babies. Now, off you go.”
    “Thanks, Lucy,” said Molly, picking up the jar and lumbering to her feet.
    “Do you need anything else?”
    “Nope, I’ve got it all. I’ll bring some over when I’ve finished baking them.”
    “No, you won’t,” said Lucy, smiling.
    “You’re right,” admitted Molly, buttoning her coat. “I’ll probably eat them all, just like I ate a whole half gallon of coffee ice cream the other night.” She grinned ruefully. “I can’t seem to help myself. And the weird thing is, I never liked coffee ice cream before.”
    “It goes with the territory,” said Lucy. “You’re eating for two.”
    “Feels more like twenty sometimes,” said Molly, closing the door behind her.
    Lucy returned to her soup, chopping up carrots and celery and adding them to the pot. Moira hadn’t said when she would pick Deirdre up, and Lucy wondered if she would still be with them at dinnertime. The Malones were an odd sort of family, she thought as she stirred the pot. Not exactly irresponsible parents, but awfully eager to assign child-care duties to someone else. And then there was the day they had discovered Old Dan’s body, the very same day Dylan had come to the newspaper, seeking news of his brother. She remembered it clearly, how he’d come through the door, claiming he was right off the airplane, straight from Ireland that very day.
    Maybe it was just a phrase, a bit of blarney, as Miss Tilley put it, or maybe Dylan Malone had indeed arrived in the country days ahead of his family. But why would he bother to lie about it? Perhaps he had a reason for keeping that information to himself.

Chapter Eight

    A fter a bean soup supper on Sunday evening, Lucy took the script of Finian’s Rainbow into the family room and settled down on the couch, joining Bill, who was in his usual spot, in the recliner, watching a This Old House rerun on PBS. She figured he must know every single show by heart, but he never tired of watching Tom Silva poking away at what seemed to be perfectly good siding and discovering rotted timbers underneath. The image of that crumbling wood—“Nothing holding this old house together except paint”—always gave her pause, since she knew that the last thing her highly regarded restoration carpenter husband wanted to do when he came home from a long day reconstructing somebody else’s antique house was to work on his own antique house. She suspected the 150-year-old farmhouse was rotting away around them and occasionally had nightmares about the porch falling off, or about opening a door and stepping into a ruined room, with wallpaper hanging in shreds and gaps in the walls that you could see through. She didn’t want to risk watching the show and discovering yet another potential problem, so she decided to ignore it and focus all her attention on the script.
    Resolutely blocking words like termite damage and rainwater seepage from her consciousness, she was soon caught up in the story of Finian and his daughter, Sharon. She even found herself humming along to the songs.
    “Lucy, that can’t possibly be the tune,” said Bill. “Are you sure they really want you in this show? Do they know you can’t sing?”
    “Frank Cahill, he’s the musical director, was clearly underwhelmed by my talent,” admitted Lucy. “But Moira insisted, and I’m in the chorus.”
    “Who’s Moira?”
    “She’s married to the director,