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

said Ted. “Old Dan probably figured they were even.”
    “Not according to Brian,” said Lucy. “But that’s not really the point I’m trying to make. Just think. I never set foot in the Bilge until the wake, but if I can think of two people who had grudges against Old Dan, there must be a heck of a lot more who have really big chips on their shoulders.”
    “Wouldn’t surprise me,” said Phyllis.
    “I dunno,” said Ted. “I think Old Dan could have been into something outside of Tinker’s Cove. Like organized crime, the IRA, something like that.”
    “You’ve been watching The Sopranos again, haven’t you?” accused Phyllis.
    “Actually, yes,” replied Ted. “But the fact that he was beheaded doesn’t seem to fit with some drunk fisherman. It’s more like somebody is sending a message.”
    “Somebody very evil,” said Lucy, shivering.
    “You guys are giving me the creeps,” said Phyllis.

    An hour or two later, Lucy found herself on the town beach, wishing she’d worn warmer clothes. She’d been fooled by the blue sky and bright February sunshine into thinking it was warmer than it actually was. A stiff northerly breeze was blowing across the water, whipping up whitecaps and tossing her hair, working its way up her coat sleeves and down her collar. On days like this, she couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be a fisherman out on the open sea. Maybe the physical work kept them warm, maybe they got used to it, but she was already thinking about retreating to the warmth of her car when she spotted her quarry. Shoving her hands deeper into her pockets, she struggled across the loose gravel, toward the lone metal prospector out today.
    “Hi!” she hailed him. “Do you have a minute?”
    “I’ve got all the time in the world,” he replied, slowly swinging the wand of his metal detector back and forth across the pebbles.
    Unlike her, the prospector was dressed for the weather in an olive green army surplus parka with a fur-trimmed hood. Underneath the hood, she discovered he was well into his sixties, with bushy gray eyebrows, blue eyes, and red cheeks and nose. He was also wearing insulated pants and sturdy rubber boots.
    “I’m Lucy Stone, from the Pennysaver . I’m writing a story about prospectors like yourself, and I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
    “I don’t mind. I could use the company. It gets a bit lonely out here,” he said, extending his mittened hand. “Paul Sullivan’s the name.”
    “Not too many people on the beach this time of year, are there?” said Lucy, taking his hand. “So tell me, what exactly are you looking for?”
    “The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow,” said Paul, winking at her. “But until I find it, I’ll take whatever turns up. Rings and jewelry that people wore to the beach in the summer. Coins that fell out of their pockets. Doubloons washed up from sunken pirate ships…”
    “Really?”
    “Not yet,” said Paul, with a shrug, “but you never know.”
    “What’s the most interesting thing you’ve found?”
    “A little brass plate from a ship, with the words life jackets inscribed on it. I’ve always wondered what ship it came from and how it happened to sink.”
    This was pretty good stuff, thought Lucy, scribbling away in her notebook. “And the most valuable?”
    “A diamond ring.”
    “You’re kidding!”
    “No. Two carats. I had it appraised. They said it was worth seven thousand dollars.”
    Lucy thought of the little half-carat solitaire engagement ring she was wearing on her finger. She never wore it when she went swimming or worked in the garden, but always placed it carefully on the crystal ring holder sitting on her dresser. “Some poor woman must have been awfully upset when she discovered she’d lost it,” she said.
    “Finders keepers, losers weepers,” said Paul, winking again.
    “You didn’t advertise for the owner? They might’ve given you a reward.”
    “Or they might