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

not,” said Paul. “I decided to play it safe and kept the ring.”
    “Do you still have it?”
    He shook his head. “All I’ve got is the Social Security, you see. The little bit I make from prospecting helps keep a roof above me head. So I sold it so I’d have something against a rainy day—or an empty oil tank.”
    Lucy felt a surge of sympathy, tinged with fear for her own future. Chamberlain College was making fast work of the education fund, and there was no retirement fund at all for her and Bill. “On average, how much do you think you make in a year?” she asked.
    “On average? I don’t know. I certainly don’t find a diamond ring every day, you know. And I didn’t get seven thousand, only about half that. So I guess, on average I make a couple of thousand a year.”
    Lucy nodded. “It’s a lot of work, too, I imagine.”
    “Ah, but there’s the health benefits. Plenty of fresh air and exercise—if I don’t catch me death of the pneumonia.”
    By now it was blowing harder, and Lucy’s teeth were chattering. It was time to wind this interview up. “Well, thanks so much for your time. Do you mind if I take your picture for the paper?”
    “Ah, better not. My ugly mug might break your camera.”
    “Oh, I’ve heard that line before,” said Lucy, who was used to coaxing people to pose. “It won’t hurt a bit. I promise.”
    But Paul Sullivan was having none of it. “No, no. I must insist,” he said firmly. “But I did see a couple of other prospectors down around the bend. Perhaps you could photograph them.”
    “Thanks for the tip,” said Lucy, watching as he continued on his way across the beach, swinging the metal detector as he went. She cast a longing glance at the Subaru, which she knew would be toasty warm from sitting in the sun, and began trudging across the pebbly beach in the direction he’d indicated. It was tough going. She was walking against the wind, and her favorite slip-on driving shoes were too flexible to offer support on the slippery gravel. She finally reached the rock breakwater that sheltered the swimming area and clambered up onto the boulders to get a better view, but there was no sign of anyone on the beach. She must have missed them, she decided, pulling her beret down over her ears and shoving her hands in her pockets for the trek back. Or maybe they were never there at all, she thought, wondering if Paul Sullivan had sent her on a wild goose chase to avoid having his picture taken.
    Back in the warm car, she rubbed her frozen hands together and tried to relax the muscles that had clenched against the cold, but she was seized with fits of shivering. When her hands had thawed enough to grip the steering wheel, she started the engine and drove slowly across the parking lot, which was empty except for a few seagulls, which waited until the car was almost upon them before walking out of the way. They didn’t consider her enough of a threat to bother flying.
    Unlike the gulls, Lucy didn’t have the luxury of sitting in the sun. She was already late for a planning board meeting, and they were taking a vote on the first agenda item when she arrived.
    “The board votes four to one to approve a site plan for six additional parking spaces at the Seaman’s Cooperative Bank,” said Chairman Ralph Nickerson, with a bang of his gavel.
    “Thank you very much,” said the architect, rolling up the plans, which had been spread on a table in front of the board members.
    “That goes for me, too,” said the bank president, shaking hands with each board member in turn.
    “Next on the agenda, we have an application from Dylan and Daniel Malone for improvements to the façade of the Bilge, located at 15B Main Street, book two, page one twenty-three,” said Nickerson. “Are the applicants present?”
    Dylan Malone stood up. “I am Dylan Malone,” he said, his brogue rather thicker than usual. “As you have probably heard, my brother, Daniel, is now deceased.”
    “We