Twanged

by Carol Higgins Clark

  “Wonderful.”

  Luke looked at his watch and turned to Nora. “Honey, it’s four-thirty. I want to unpack the rest of the car and take a quick shower. If we’re going to this party, we should leave here soon. The traffic gets pretty bad at this time of day.”

  “Oh, does it ever!” Louisa agreed heartily. “I’ll have to put that in the article, too. ‘From tractors to Mercedes-Benzes’ . . .”

  Nora smiled. “Why don’t you two relax while we unload the rest of our things from the car and get ready?”

  Louisa smoothed out the folds in her caftan. “Lambie and I will sit here and enjoy this nice view. Oh, I can’t wait to see Regan. She’s such a darling. I’m so sorry she won’t be staying here with us.”

  “Duty calls,” Nora said. “I think she’ll have some fun on this job, though.”

  “Oh yes! God bless the young people! I’ll certainly want to chat at length with Brigid O’Neill and get a good look at that fiddle I’ve been hearing so much about!”

  “She seems like a lovely girl,” Nora said, escaping through the front door and out to where Luke was leaning against the car and massaging his temples.

  “Do you think they’d notice if we never went back inside?” he asked.

  “She’s always a little wound-up when she first arrives. She’ll calm down. I hope.” Nora leaned against her husband, enjoying the scent of his skin and his clothes, as he put his arms around her. The street was calm and quiet except for an occasional bird wanting to make its presence known with a chirp or a caw.

  “Maybe she’ll want to stay at the Chappy Compound to do her research,” Luke said hopefully.

  “Regan would kill us.” Nora chuckled. “I just wonder who she’ll latch on to at the party tonight.”

  “She’s bound to rile some poor soul.”

  Little did he know just how riled.

  8

  This place is something, huh, guys?” Brigid called from her perch at the guest house’s kitchen table as her band members came ambling down the stairs in their bathing suits. Before they could answer, the phone began to ring. “That’s got to be my manager, Roy,” she said as she ran to pick up the cordless phone that was plugged into the wall of the pantry.

  After they had settled in, Regan and Brigid and Kit had congregated in the kitchen to catch up with each other.

  Chappy and Duke had helped them shlep in their bags. “I hope these quarters will suffice!” Chappy had cried. “I’ve never had any complaints! But if you do, you must speak up and your needs will be attended to!”

  After assurances were uttered over and over that indeed this was a most delightful, charming place to stay, with such an incredible view of the water, Chappy had, to the relief of them all, retreated to his castle to prepare for the party.

  Upstairs were six bedrooms. Regan’s room faced the road and Kit’s house. Brigid’s room was right across the hall and had a view of the ocean. They were furnished in typical old-beachhouse style: floral wallpaper, wooden dressers circa who knows when, and beds somewhere in between twin-sized and full that very well might have been passed down by Chappy’s pilgrim ancestors. The bedspread were the knotty white kind that Regan never ever saw for sale anywhere but always seemed to come across in people’s vacation homes, particularly if they were near the water.

  “What style would you call this decorating?” Regan had asked Kit while surveying her room.

  “Early leftovers,” Kit had answered. “Our house is much the same. I must say it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a TV with rabbit ears.”

  “That’s what I like about these kind of joints,” Regan had said. “They take you back.”

  “To the Dark Ages. I feel as if our place is a set for a fifties television show, and Father Knows Best is going to walk in any minute,” Kit had said while putting Regan’s bag down on the hooked rug and studying the sheer white curtains blowing in the breeze. “I will say this: It’s got that good beachy smell.”

  “Early mildew?” Regan had asked.

  They were barely seated at the table when the call from Roy came in.

  A few minutes later Brigid walked across the room, winding up the conversation. “Keep calling with good news. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Roy.” She clicked off, laid the phone on the table, reached for the soda she had abandoned, and smiled at them benevolently.

  Regan smiled back. “Good news?”

  Brigid shook her head. “I can’t believe how much has happened since I met you two in Ireland! This whole fiddle business is unbelievable! A couple of guys who started a country music station out here want me on their show on Monday. They’re hosting the music festival.” She put her feet up on the wicker chair next to her and glanced out at the water, as though to assure herself that she was so close to the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Can I borrow the fiddle next time I go on a date?” Kit asked.

  “Only if I go as your bodyguard,” Regan answered.

  “I’ll take a pass.”

  Brigid laughed. “It’s great to see you two again.”

  “You too, Brigid,” Regan said. “Now that we have a quiet moment, would you mind showing me the letter that Austin spoke about?”

  Brigid’s face turned serious. “He’s such a worry-wart. I read it to him on the phone the other night, and he got all nervous and called my mother. I’m glad you’re here, Regan, but I didn’t feel that threatened by it. I know a lot of people in the public eye get nasty letters.”

  “I understand,” Regan said. “But after the theft at Malachy’s cottage, we’ve got to be extra cautious. So can I see it?”

  Brigid swung her legs down off the chair. “Why not? Time for show-and-tell.”

  “By the way,” Regan said as Brigid got up, “where is the fiddle?”

  “Under my bed.” She arched one eyebrow. “Where no one would think to look.”

  The nice part about being in a private place like this, Regan thought, is not having to worry about leaving the fiddle in a hotel room or lugging it around everywhere.

  “As a matter of fact,” Brigid said, “Chappy asked if I would bring the fiddle over tonight and play a little.”

  “Do you mind?” Regan asked, knowing that many performers resent being asked to entertain when they’re invited to parties.

  “Not at all. I’ll ask the guys if they want to play, too. Let me get the letter.”

  A few minutes later she returned, carrying a white envelope in one hand and lugging a heavy plastic bag in the other. She dumped the contents of the sack, which included letters and postcards and little presents that people had left for her at Fan Fair, onto the table.

  “Wow,” Kit said, impressed. “Those are all for you?”

  Brigid nodded happily. “To think that just last year I was playing to a bunch of empty chairs in the biggest dumps around. I read every one of these letters riding that bus. They are all pretty nice and normal except for this one.” She handed the white envelope to Regan.

  Regan took it from her and pulled out the single sheet of plain white paper. The angry black lettering gave her a chill. Someone had clearly attempted to disguise their handwriting. She read it aloud.

  DEAR BRIGID,

  YOU’VE TAKEN SOMETHING THAT DOESN’T BELONG TO YOU. AND I DON’T WANT TO HEAR YOU SINGING THAT SONG ABOUT JAIL ANYMORE. IF YOU DON’T HEED MY WARNING, I’LL HAVE TO TAKE FURTHER ACTION.

  “Nice, huh?” Brigid said.

  Regan sighed. “So someone left this last week at Fan Fair?”

  Brigid nodded.

  “The curse on the fiddle isn’t mentioned, but the writer seems to know about it,” Regan observed.

  “What is this about the curse?” Kit asked.

  Brigid rolled her eyes. “Oh, it’s the blarney, as we say. The Irish have a history of superstitions.” She explained it all to Kit, concluding with a half-smile. “The fairies like music, you see, and they don’t want to be deprived of it. They never leave Ireland, so apparently the fiddle mustn’t, either.
Or else you’ll have an accident or face death.” She managed to laugh. “In my opinion the worst part of that letter is that the person who wrote it doesn’t want to hear me play my hit song!”

  Regan folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. “You don’t mind if I hold on to this?” she asked Brigid.

  “I don’t want it,” Brigid said.

  “A lot of nuts write letters like this,” Regan said. “But most of them are cowards who would be afraid to do anything in person.”

  “That’s right,” Brigid replied. “I have friends with albums out who get hate mail. And they’ve been fine.”

  “Absolutely,” Regan agreed, the letter in her hand, the theft of one fiddle and the curse on this one weighing heavily on her mind. An accident or face death. Not if I can help it, she thought.

  9

  He drove and drove, heading home, listening to his radio the whole time and thinking of Brigid. He liked to sing along to the music. Whenever the news came on, he switched channels.

  So Brigid was in the Hamptons for the Fourth of July. When he was a kid, he liked that holiday. Not anymore. He hadn’t been invited to a picnic in years. And he was scared of firecrackers. Ever since the owner of that chicken coop tried to shoot him, he didn’t like any type of loud noises.

  Now he ‘d have another chance to try and get to her. And be alone with her. Fan Fair had been impossible. Branson had been impossible.

  He’d make it happen in the Hamptons.

  10

  Brad Petroni and Chuck Dumbrell had both loved country music from the time they’d been kids growing up next door to each other in Hicksville, Long Island. Their favorite game had been to dress up as cowboys, and instead of building a standard treehouse, like most young boys, they’d nailed together a little structure called Dumboni’s Saloon, handpainting the name over its makeshift swinging doors. Since neither one of them had access to horses, the family dogs were often called in as stand-ins, getting hitched to the post outside their establishment for thirsty cowboys.

  At night in the summer, they’d arrange rocks in a circle and pretend they were sitting around a camp-fire, imagining themselves to be Roy Rogers.

  When their friends had started listening to rock music, they’d put on their headphones and tuned in to Gene Autry and Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline. Now their selections included Garth Brooks and Clint Black and Dwight Yoakum and Reba McEntire and Mary Chapin Carpenter and the teenage sensation LeAnn Rimes. Their dream had always been to start a country music station in the New York area, which wouldn’t be easy.

  They never gave up the dream.

  Now, both aged thirty-five and divorced, lonesome cowboys, as they called themselves, they’d pooled their limited resources, gotten a couple of loans, and bought a small, faded station in Southampton. They’d gone on the air Memorial Day weekend and were still working out the kinks, but their biggest break was not only to be named as the esteemed hosts of the Melting Pot Music Festival on July Fourth but also to obtain the broadcast rights. People would be driving in their cars to parties and listening to their radios at home. Everyone knew about the festival: maybe they’d tune in to listen to all the action and then leave their dial on Country 113.

  One of their missions in life was to spread the word about country music. The other was to make a living at it.

  Seven mornings a week they were on the air together. Sometimes at night, too.

  Off the air they spent time dreaming up ideas for contests and promotions. Anything to get people to listen. Recently they’d been discussing how they could do some sort of tie-in to the music festival.

  Right now they were both working quietly at their desks, doing catch-up work.

  Chuck scratched his scalp and pushed his granny glasses farther back onto his pointy nose. He’d been thumbing through newspapers, looking for anything that might spark an idea for an on-air discussion when he’d come across the item in the Irish Tablet about Brigid O’Neill and her fiddle. Since much of country music had its roots in the rhythms and strings of the music Irish immigrants had brought across the sea with them, Chuck took out a subscription to the Tablet. It was a place they should advertise, he thought. Everybody these days wanted to get back to their roots. People who read the Tablet should be brought up to speed on how their ancestors’ music had such an influence on country music today. “Let’s leave no stone unturned, partner,” he often said to Brad.

  As Chuck read, he tugged on his strawberry blond hair, pulled back in the obligatory ponytail. He was a long and lanky type who always managed to look as if he had a couple days’ worth of whiskers on his face. A toothpick hung from his mouth, its end decorated with blue foil. Slowly he looked up from the paper. “Ya know what?” he asked.

  “Nope,” Brand answered absentmindedly. He was busy poking around his desk, gathering papers together. A short, dark-haired man with rounded features and wild eyebrows, he was driven by a great desire to pay the bills. He never wanted to go back to working for somebody else.

  “I feel a wind blowin’. It’s brainstorm time.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I think I know how we can plug the Melting Pot Festival. . . . This article here talks about Brigid O’Neill and that fiddle of hers. We’re going to have her on the show next week.”

  “Monday,” Brad declared. He walloped the head of a stapler with his palm, and the three pieces of paper he had gathered together were now an official document. “Gotcha!” he said with satisfaction.

  “The initials CT are carved into it. Why don’t we have a contest to see who can come up with the best explanation for the initials? We’ll give out VIP tickets to the concert for the most creative answer. And a copy of her new album that she can autograph in person at the concert.”

  Brad looked over at his partner, naked admiration in his eyes. He held up an imaginary gun in the air and fired the trigger. “Good brainstorm, Kemo Sabe. What kind of things do you think people will come up with?”

  Chuck caressed his stubble. “My brainstorm didn’t get that far. But the pot is stewing on the campfire. The fiddle is supposed to be cursed if it leaves Ireland. I guess Brigid O’Neill doesn’t care. I hope she’s right. Why don’t we also talk about that and other Irish superstitions on the show with her?”

  “You think she’d mind?”

  “Nah. It’s a hot story. We’ll get everyone talking about the initials and the curse. And any other good curse stories we can dig up.”

  “What other famous curses are there? Besides the Hope Diamond?” Brad asked, referring to the diamond that always seemed to bring bad luck to its owners. Some of them, like Marie Antoinette, had been beheaded.

  Chuck leaned back in his chair and chewed on his toothpick for inspiration. “Lava rock in Hawaii. If you take any home with you, the gods get real upset. Brings bad luck.”

  Brad started to get excited. “This is good,” he said, his barrel chest heaving up and down and his rangy eyebrows furling and unfurling. He looked at the calendar up on the wall. “The concert is Friday. Let’s announce the winner of the initial contest Thursday.” He paused. “This is our big chance to get in the saddle, isn’t it, partner?” he asked.

  “You said it, buckaroo. It’s our chance to kick up a little dust and raise some hell.”

  With that, the phone rang. Chuck took the call. Brad couldn’t get the gist of the conversation because it was a lot of “yups,” “nopes,” and “good enoughs.”

  When Chuck hung up, he yelled, “Yeehaw!”

  “What is it, partner?” Brad asked.

  “Because we’re the esteemed hosts of the Melting Pot Music Festival, we just got ourselves an invitation to ride over and dine with Miss Brigid O’Neill tonight at the Chappy Compound.”

  They leaned together and high-fived each other across the desk.

  11

  Get downstairs and help them out!” Chappy yelled to Duke’s closed door as he pounded on it. He was dressed in white pants, blue blazer, and white buck shoes
. People were due to arrive any moment and he was frantic.

  The door opened. Duke was standing there with a can of hair spray in his hand. He looked at Chappy’s flyaway locks. “Want some?” he asked.

  “NO! Now let’s get going!”

  “Okay, okay.” Duke took one last look at himself in his full-length mirror, put down the hair spray, picked up a bottle of cologne, and gave himself a good spritz. “Want some?” he asked again.

  “NO, NO, I don’t! I can’t believe how long you take to get ready! Let’s go!”

  Duke, clad in crisp khaki pants and freshly washed blue-and-white striped shirt, had enjoyed a workout an hour before in the exercise room. He lifted weights, rowed a stationary boat, and did stretches. Now he closed his bedroom door behind him. “Are any casting directors coming?”

  “What are you asking me that for?”

  “But you said—”

  “FORGET what I said. This party is so we can get Brigid to trust us. So we can get close to her. So at the end of the week we can switch the fiddle. That’s what I’m worried about.” Chappy stopped in the middle of the hallway to point his finger at Duke. “Got it?”

  Duke saluted. “Roger.”

  “Ugh!” Chappy cried as he led the way down the grand stairway and across the foyer into the monstrous-sized kitchen where Bettina, dressed in a gold jumpsuit and spike heels, was harassing the help about the hors d’oeuvres.

  “I told ya I wanted more healthy choices,” Bettina crowed at Constance, who was in the process of preparing pigs in a blanket. Two waiters, dressed in the standard uniform of caterers at Hamptons parties—black pants and white shirts—were struggling with a pastry bag at the two-hundred-square-foot kitchen table.