later that night. . .

“Holy mother o’ Jesus.” Joseph slammed the door, not against the wind—there was none—but against the outside world which was about to prove taxing, if he was any judge.

     He took off the uniform cap he wore maybe once a year and threw it down on the kitchen table.

      “Hi, darlin’,” said his wife. “Baby’s asleep.”

      “Katie Dougherty, bar the door.”

      “Would that be on account of this murther I hear tell of at the Post Office?”

       “There were nae murther at the Post Office,” he said.

       “Ach, don’t I know it, think on,” she said. “Twas at your mother’s.”

        He dropped the brogue. “That’s the bitch of it. It’s as if she and Bobby were in cahoots to put me on the spot.”

        “You know they’re not.”

        “I know, but it feels like it. I am on the spot. And they are the prime suspects. At least according to some brilliant detective work by the eager beavers who arrived on the island yesterday and know everything already.”

        “Rumor had it Bobby was romancing Malcolm’s daughter Kate.”

        “And rumor had it he was romancing that off-island rich kid the year before. And someone else the year before that. And for that matter, my mother!”

         “Being in a place this small can really be a drag,” said the city girl. “I believe that Bobby truly loves your mother. But sex—no way!”

          “Sometimes I think it would be a good thing. Not Bobby, but somebody. Especially since she retired. The Garden Club isn’t doing it for her. She needs attention. Affection. I can’t give her what she needs.”

          “Nae, darlin’, it’s as much as you can do to give me what I need. But I think you should try. Baby’s asleep.” And Katie wrapped her arms around him.