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course, they are, Dylan,” replied Moira, stroking his cheek. “So tell me. Were you able to identify the body? Is it really your brother, Dan?”
    He bowed his head, resting his chin on his chest for a moment, then raised it and gazed at the ceiling, revealing a glistening tear in the corner of his eye. “I’m afraid there’s no doubt,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “His wallet and his driver’s license were found in his pocket.” He blinked furiously, attempting to hold back the tears that were threatening to come. “He had an Irish penny in his pocket.”
    “For luck,” said Moira, pressing her sobbing husband’s face to her breasts.
    Lucy felt like a voyeur, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the grieving couple.
    “Not that it did him much good,” mumbled Dylan.
    “That’s not for us to judge, Dylan,” said Moira, pronouncing her words in an even thicker accent. “For all we know, he had some sort of terrible cancer and was spared a painful, lingering death. We don’t know the whole story, do we? We only see a little bit, here and there, as if we’re looking through a telescope.”
    Her words seemed to give Dylan strength, and he straightened up. “You’re right. It’s not for me to despair, but to press on. That’s what Daniel would want, wouldn’t he?”
    “That’s the Malone way,” said Moira.
    “Aye, the Malone way. And Daniel was every bit a Malone.” He suddenly seemed inspired. “And we can’t let him leave this world without giving him a proper farewell. We’re going to give him a genuine old-style Irish wake, right there in the bar. That’s what we’re going to do.” He made eye contact with Lucy. “And will you help us get the word out that the whole town is invited?”
    Lucy readily agreed to run an announcement in the paper, but as she finally made her escape and hurried back to the office, she couldn’t help wondering if the scene she’d just witnessed had been genuine or if it had been staged for her benefit. She wanted to believe them, but she couldn’t help remembering that they were actors, after all, trained to manipulate the audience’s emotions.

Chapter Four

    L ucy always woke with a wonderful sense of freedom on Thursday mornings. The deadline had come and gone, and, for better or worse, the past week’s work had been committed to paper and ink. This week’s edition was on its way to the readers, stacked and ready for purchase at the Quik Mart and IGA, and perhaps, even now, arriving in subscribers’ mailboxes.
    Ted wouldn’t be in the office until the eleven o’clock budget meeting, which meant Lucy would have most of the morning to herself, once she got her husband, Bill, a restoration carpenter, off to work and the two youngest girls, Zoe and Sara, off to school. The older children, Toby and Elizabeth, had pretty much flown the nest. Toby, the firstborn and only boy, and his fiancée, Molly, had bought a house together on nearby Prudence Path and were expecting their first child. Elizabeth, next in line, was a junior at Chamberlain College in Boston.
    Lying in bed, savoring the final few moments before the alarm went off, Lucy found her mind turning to Toby and Molly. She didn’t understand why they weren’t married, weren’t even thinking about it, even though the baby was due to arrive in only a few months. She was happy about the pregnancy and excited about the prospect of becoming a grandmother, but she would be a lot happier if the baby’s parents were married. She had even raised the topic, tactfully, with Toby, but to no avail. “It’s just a ceremony, a piece of paper,” Toby had insisted. “It doesn’t mean anything. We feel married.”
    The alarm sounded, and Lucy gave a little humph as she reached to turn it off. “I don’t care what Toby says. Feeling married isn’t the same as being married,” she told Bill as she sat up and reached for her slippers with her feet.
    “It’s too early in the morning to start that