Free St. Patrick's Day Murder by Leslie Meier

skunk.”
    “Elfrida certainly has had an interesting life,” said Lucy.
    “You can say that again,” agreed Phyllis. “She’s on her fourth husband, and to tell the truth, I don’t think he’s going to last much longer.”
    “Is he sick?”
    “Strong as an ox. And a good provider, too. But Elfrida says he’s boring.”
    “You can’t have everything.”
    “That’s what I keep telling her, but she says stability isn’t everything. She needs more, she says.”
    “It seems to me that having six kids would be exciting enough for anyone,” observed Lucy, sitting down at her desk.
    “Didn’t I tell you? She’s pregnant again.”
    “She’s a one-person population boom,” said Lucy.
    “If you ask me, she should figure out what causes it and stop doing it,” sniffed Phyllis. “The IGA’s too crowded by far these days. And the traffic…”
    Lucy smiled to herself as she booted up the computer. “You can’t blame it all on Elfrida. And it works the other way, too. We’ve printed quite a few obits lately.” She sighed. “I’ll be darned if I know what I’m going to write about Old Dan.”
    “Might as well save yourself the trouble,” said Phyllis. “Everybody’s heard all about it already.”
    “Somehow I don’t think that’s quite the attitude Ted’s looking for,” said Lucy as the door flew open and Ted breezed in.
    “What attitude would that be?” he demanded, unzipping his jacket and tossing it at the coat rack, where it caught on a hook.
    “All the news that’s fit to print and some that isn’t,” said Phyllis, smiling smugly. “That’s what I was telling Lucy.”
    “And what’s wrong with that?” he asked.
    “Nothing,” said Lucy, finding herself on the spot and not liking it very much. “We were just joking.”
    “Oh.” He shrugged and sat down at his desk. “I heard that wake was pretty rowdy. I’d like to put it on the front page. Did you get any pictures?”
    “I think so,” said Lucy. “I snapped a nice one of Frank Cahill playing the fiddle.”
    “Fiddles at funerals? What next?” said Ted.
    “It sure beats sitting around in the funeral parlor,” said Phyllis. “And Elfrida said the food was a lot better than the sherry and peanut butter and bacon hors d’oeuvres you usually get at the reception afterwards.”
    “It was not the usual Tinker’s Cove funeral,” agreed Lucy, typing in the phrase as the lead for her story. Her fingers flew over the keyboard as the story seemed to write itself. When she finished, she turned to Ted. “Any news on the investigation?”
    He shook his head. “The police have been interviewing Bilge regulars, but they’re not making much progress. That bunch isn’t real comfortable talking to the cops.”
    “Guilty consciences, no doubt,” said Phyllis.
    “You got it,” said Ted. “Though there’s a big difference between taking an undersized lobster now and then and slicing off somebody’s head. I don’t really see one of the regulars as the murderer.”
    “Little grudges can get out of hand,” said Lucy, “and a lot of people had bones to pick with Old Dan.”
    “Anybody in particular?” asked Ted.
    “As a matter of fact, yes. Dave Reilly, you know that kid who plays with the Claws, he was complaining at the wake that Old Dan gypped him out of a winning lottery ticket. He came to blows with Dylan about it.”
    “Probably just had a little too much of that free booze,” said Ted.
    “Well, yeah,” said Lucy. “What do you think those guys do all day at the Bilge? They drink. Old Dan was always willing to pour another. He never cut anybody off that I ever heard of.”
    “Me, neither,” said Phyllis, clucking her tongue. “Too much drink can bring out the devil in any man.”
    “And Dave Reilly’s not the only one,” continued Lucy. “Brian Donahue’s been moaning around town about how Old Dan stiffed him on money he owed him for some repairs.”
    “Makes you wonder how big a tab Brian had run up,”