Twanged

by Carol Higgins Clark

  Brad picked up the pages of Louisa’s research. “Those fairies from hundreds of years ago in Ireland were a tough bunch. We already know that they were mad as hell about the tree being cut down that was used to make your fiddle there, but did you know that these fairies used to carry off accomplished musicians to entertain at their feasts? If the human guest partook of any of their sumptuous food, then he wouldn’t be able to return to his worldly existence. So you know what that means, don’tcha? You’ve got to eat before you leave home for a gig.”

  Brigid laughed.

  “I’ve got a few more here,” Brad said. “Horses sneezed to protect themselves from the fairies. . . . Hmmmm . . . Why do you sneeze, partner?”

  Chuck scratched his nose. “Dust.”

  “Good answer. And Fridays are a day for storms, so people are loath to go to sea on that day. But get this, Brigid. If you encounter a red-haired woman before going to sea, that is definitely bad luck. Fishermen turn back if they see one on their way to the boat.”

  Brigid leaned into the microphone with a devilish grin. “Us redheads get blamed for everything. The one that I always thought was fun is that if you tie a little bag of clay around your neck when you’re going to bed, then your future spouse will appear in a dream.”

  Chuck looked at Brad. “You’d better try that.”

  “I’m afraid I’d have a nightmare starring my ex-wife.”

  “I do think,” Brigid continued with a chuckle, “that people invented these superstitions to deal with their fancies and their fears. Life is so unpredictable, and it was a way of trying to put a little order into it.”

  “Hey, I think we have some callers on the line here, Brigid,” Chuck said. He pushed a button. “Hello.”

  “Brigid?” It sounded like a voice of a teenaged girl.

  “Yes.”

  “Hi, Brigid. My name is Tiffany and I just want to tell you that I lovvvvve your voice . . .”

  “Thanks, Tiffany,” Brigid said softly.

  “. . . and you should keep that fiddle. Your friend gave it to you fair and square. Don’t listen to anybody who tells you any different. It really bugs me when people try and, like, boss you around.”

  “Thank you,” Brigid said. “I appreciate that.”

  “Thanks for calling, Tiffany,” Chuck added as he pushed another button. “Hello. Hello.” They could hear the echo of the seven-second delay on the caller’s radio. “Turn off your radio, please,” Chuck urged.

  “Hello, I’m here,” an older-sounding woman began. “My name is Marjie, and, Brigid, I just want to tell you that my parents came over from Ireland. My father used to play the fiddle, and that’s why I love country music so much.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Brigid said.

  “I’m coming to the concert Friday. My husband and I want to get there early with our beach chairs and get a good spot.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Brigid said.

  “The thing I like about country music is that it really gets down to the nitty-gritty of feelings, you know what I’m saying. It’s not that noise you hear on other stations.”

  “You got that right,” Brad said.

  “Can you tell us a little about your album?” Marjie asked. “I’m going to buy it, but what about the other songs on it?”

  “One of my other favorites on it is ‘I’ve Got a Place to Live (But without You I Feel Homeless).’ “

  “Oh. Very good.” The woman clucked approvingly. “Well, I’m trying to figure out what the CT on your fiddle could stand for. I’ve got the map of Ireland out and everything. When I come up with a good guess, I’ll call it in. My husband and I would love to get to meet you personally.”

  “Thank you very much,” Brigid said warmly.

  “Okay,” Brad interrupted. “We’ve got to take another break now. We’ll be riiiight back.” He raised his arm and wiggled his finger, a sign to the engineer to plug in the commercials.

  The door of the control room opened and Regan turned. There with a big smile on his face was Ned Alingham. He was wearing a pair of plaid shorts, sneakers, and a short-sleeved button-down shirt with a pen clipped to the pocket. A folder was tucked under his arm. His big smile disappeared when he spotted Louisa.

  “Hello,” Regan said.

  “How are ya, how are ya?” he responded.

  “Here, sit down,” Regan offered, pulling out a chair next to her.

  “Hnnn,” Louisa said, smiling. “Hello.”

  Ned looked at her suspiciously and sat. He held his folder close to him as though his life depended on it.

  “Are you going to be on the show?” Regan asked.

  “A little later,” he said. “They want me to talk about feng shui and how it brings good luck to your life. It brought good luck to my grandmother. She practiced feng shui without knowing it and caught a thief.”

  “How did that happen?” Regan asked.

  “She rented rooms in her house for extra money. One night she rearranged the furniture and put a little table with a lamp on the landing of the stairs. A boarder tried to sneak out in the middle of the night without paying. He had all her silver in his bag. Wouldn’t you know he tripped over the cord of the lamp and went flying. Woke up my grandmother. She made him pay up and then called an ambulance. He broke his leg.” Ned smiled. “Granny was a character.”

  “She caught him because she moved a table?” Regan asked.

  Ned nodded. “As you can see, feng shui is in my blood. My grandmother was always rearranging people’s furniture for them. When I first read about feng shui as a serious art form, I knew it was my calling.”

  Louisa gestured grandly with her arms. “I find the whole subject so fascinating.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You do?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “I didn’t think you felt that way the other night.”

  “Well, let’s face it,” Louisa said. “I still insist that there are some rooms where, feng shui or no feng shui, the dresser fits on only one wall. Hnnn.”

  “A true feng shui expert would find a solution,” he replied with a bit of impatience in his voice.

  “Saw the dresser in half?” Louisa asked jokingly.

  “If need be,” Ned said definitively.

  Regan crossed her legs, anxious to change the subject. “I understand you’re working on the theatre at Chappy’s,” she prompted him.

  Ned rolled his eyes. “It’s taking forever. We were supposed to be done with that by now. I must say I was disappointed because it would have helped to drum up a little business over the summer.”

  He warmed up quickly and was talking in that hushed intimate manner that people seem to develop with each other in greenrooms before being interviewed on radio or TV. She’d seen it when she’d gone around with her mother. It’s a kind of instant rapport, a shared kinship, resulting, Regan thought, from either nervous energy or boredom while you wait your turn.

  “What’s taking so long with the theatre?” Regan asked.

  “It turned out Chappy’s wife had rented out the servants’ quarters to that guy Garrett for the summer. Chappy didn’t know she’d done it. We wanted to get to work a couple of months ago and have the theatre ready this summer, but now we have to wait until after Labor Day.”

  Regan raised her eyebrows. “He didn’t know she had rented it out?”

  “Apparently not. She didn’t think we’d be building the theatre until the fall.”

  “Had he ever rented it out before?”

  Ned’s eyes bulged behind his glasses. “No! He never did. They just got married again last September. Maybe she thought it was a good idea because of the money. Not that they really need it. In any case, it set us back a little bit.”

  “You said they got married again?” Regan asked.

  Ned laughed with excitement. “Yeah. They were married more than twenty years ago, but it didn’t last long. A couple of years ago, she called him up after she heard his mother had died. I guess they found wha
t had been missing the first time around.”

  “Did either get married to anyone else in between?” Regan asked.

  “Chappy, never. Bettina did once, I think.”

  Louisa, who’d been intently listening, her eyes going back and forth between them, shifted in her chair. “I’m going to interview them for the article I’m writing about the Hamptons. And I want to include a piece on you and Claudia.”

  Ned looked at her with a contented half-smile on his face. “I’m sure we can arrange that.”

  Suddenly a joyful strain of voices burst through the speakers singing “W-H-C-MMM. Hamptons Country Music.”

  “And we’re back,” Brad announced. “We have a lot going on this morning—this whole week, as a matter of fact. Brigid O’Neill is with us, and she told us during the break that she’d be happy to return on Thursday morning to announce the winner of the contest. Who can come up with the most original meaning for the initials CT carved into the side of her fiddle? She’s going to play that fiddle for us in just a few minutes.”

  “I can’t wait to hear people’s guesses,” Brigid said offhandedly.

  “Me too. We have another caller here,” Brad announced. “Hello, what’s your name?”

  “I don’t give out that kind of information,” a squeaky male voice said grumpily.

  “Everybody has a right to their privacy,” Brad replied goodnaturedly as he rolled his eyes at the others. “What would you like to say to Brigid O’Neill today?”

  “I want to tell Brigid that she should get rid of that fiddle.”

  “Get rid of it?” Brad asked, dubious.

  “GET RID OF IT!”

  “Why?”

  “Because it is bringing her bad luck. I saw what happened at that party the other night. The lady was pushed into the pool!”

  Next to Regan, Louisa inhaled sharply.

  “Pushed?” Brigid asked.

  “I was there. I saw it. Don’t believe me if you don’t want to, but SHE WAS PUSHED! And you know something? Maybe it was meant for you, Brigid. You have to be careful!!!”

  Oh my God, Regan thought. He isn’t a crank caller.

  Brigid stayed calm. “So you saw what happened?”

  “YES!” The squeaky voice was getting excitable. “And I’m coming to the concert. Then you and me can throw that fiddle into the ocean together.”

  Brigid sighed. “Well, I’d really like to keep the fiddle.”

  “I don’t want you to! I have to protect you from the bad luck it will bring you. AND STOP SINGING

  THAT SONG ABOUT JAIL TO OTHER PEOPLE! THAT’S OUR

  SONG!” He slammed down the phone.

  Oh brother, Regan thought. It sounds like our pen pal has blown into town.

  22

  Brigid, you must be starved,” Regan said when they walked out of the radio station.

  Louisa had torn out of the parking lot a few moments before.

  The interview had lasted a couple of hours. After numerous callers, Brigid had played the fiddle. Then someone had phoned in wanting to buy it for one hundred thousand dollars. When Brigid said no, the price kept going up. At half a million dollars, the caller, a very old woman who wanted to buy it for her husband, finally gave up.

  “You’d better guard that fiddle with your life,” Brad had urged upon her departure.

  “I’m trying to think of where you should place it in the home,” Ned had said, scratching his head.

  “In a vault,” Regan had answered.

  Now, as Regan unlocked the car, Brigid looked over at her. “I am kind of hungry.”

  “What do you feel like having?” Regan asked.

  “After an interview like that, something simple and hearty.” Brigid laughed. “Like bacon and eggs at a greasy spoon.”

  “I’ve got just the place,” Regan said as she turned on the ignition. “The All Day All Night Diner in Southampton. It’s a classic.”

  Two?” the waitress asked hurriedly, barely glancing in their direction as they entered.

  “Yes,” Regan answered.

  The waitress’s name tag read LOTTY. She grabbed two menus. “Smoking or non?”

  “Nonsmoking,” Brigid answered, and they followed her around the corner.

  Suddenly Lotty turned, a look of recognition coming over her face. She glanced at the fiddle case and then stared at Brigid. “You’re Brigid O’Neill, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Brigid said, smiling.

  “Oh, I was listening to you back in the kitchen this morning. Brad and Chuck come in here all the time. I love your music.” She led them to a corner booth.

  “Thank you.” Brigid acknowledged the praise as she took a seat.

  Regan slid in on the other side.

  Lotty put her hand on her hip. “I love country music. The lyrics just kill me. If I’da known you were in jail” Lotty began to sing softly, “I wouldn ‘ta felt so baaaaad about you not callin’. . . .” She laughed and let out a little snort. “Oh, excuse me. That song just cracks me up.”

  Sitting at one of the narrow tables no more than six feet away, he nearly choked on a piece of English muffin when he saw them. He’d just started to eat his soft-boiled egg when they walked in. It was perfectly cooked, and he had just put a little pat of butter on it and the right amount of salt and pepper.

  One spoonful of egg followed by one bite of muffin, chew and swallow, was the special way he liked to ingest this particular meal. Now he was too nervous to take a sip of his nice hot coffee!

  Brigid was right there! Just feet away. The rest of the tables in the section were empty. Within seconds he could be over there, touching her.

  He started to sweat. His stomach hurt. He wanted to talk to her but he couldn ‘t do it here. She might recognize his voice from this morning.

  Who was that lady with her?

  Why is the waitress singing their song? He could feel himself getting madder and madder.

  I have to get out of here, he thought. They can’t know it’s me who called.

  Look at how pretty she is!

  Look at them laughing and talking! His eyes teared up and he felt like such a baby. He was so in love with her. He needed to be alone with her so she’d have the chance to fall in love with him. Just like in The Sheik.

  He had to get to her. But how? He’d figure it out.

  Since he ‘d gotten up this morning, it had been a bad day. Why was he feeling so confused again?

  I can’t wait for the concert Friday night,” Lotty said as she came back with a steaming pot in her hand. “Coffee?”

  Regan and Brigid both accepted.

  “Be right back.”

  Regan watched as Lotty turned and walked over to a guy with a weird haircut dining alone.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  He nodded, picked up his napkin to wipe his mouth, and made the signal for the check with his right hand.

  “You’re leaving so soon?”

  He nodded again.

  Lotty whispered, but Regan could hear her. “You were asking about the country radio station yesterday. That’s Brigid O’Neill over there. She was on this morning.”

  He glanced over at them, but when he saw Brigid and Regan looking, he turned away quickly.

  “He’s embarrassed,” Regan said.

  Brigid waved to him when he left. “Bless his heart.”

  In about as delicate a manner as possible for Lotty, she plunked their plates of eggs, crispy bacon, and whole-wheat toast down on the table.

  “Two cholesterol specials,” Brigid joked.

  “You said it,” Lotty replied cheerfully, then glanced around. All the tables in the area were now empty. She gestured with her thumb. “The guy who was sitting at that table over there before—he’s come in three times in the past couple days. Doesn’t matter if it’s breakfast, lunch, or dinner, he always orders eggs.” She laughed. “I don’t know why he was in such a hurry to get out of here today. He didn’t finish, and he usually licks his plate clean.” />
  “Maybe he got sick of eggs,” Brigid said.

  “Or maybe someone rushed him over the results of his cholesterol test,” Regan commented as she took a bite of the wonderful-smelling bacon.

  “Well, he’s a quiet type so at least I didn’t have to listen to any complaints! Now enjoy!” Lotty said as she hurried off to clear a table of dirty dishes.

  23

  Arnold Baker had been the president of Welth College for ten years now. A graying man with a military carriage, he’d just turned fifty-seven and enjoyed his life in the Hamptons. His wife was involved with the various fundraisers around town, his two children were grown and living in New York City, and he had a white clapboard house on a pond, which suited him just fine. It was filled with his books, pipes, and tweed jackets.

  The only thorn in his side was Chappy Tinka. Here’s a guy, Arnold often thought, who’s a textbook case of being ruined by your inheritance. He would never have to lift a finger in life again. Never really had to lift a finger much before either. Arnold knew that since his twenties Chappy had worked, if you want to call it that, in the family business. When his mother died a few years ago, the entire Tinka fortune had plopped in his lap. He was an only child and so was his father, which of course meant Chappy got everything. Arnold knew that there were distant cousins who bore the Tinka name, but unfortunately for them they were not descendants of Alvin Conrad Tinka, the found of Tinka Tacks.

  What does Chappy Tinka do right away after he is freed from the iron hand of his mother and inherits all that money? He goes crazy! Builds a god-awful monstrosity of a house and ruins the look of the neighborhood for all those oceanfront houses on the block. Now he was planning on ripping down the servants’ quarters and building a theatre on his property. How appalling! The worst part of it was that no one could stop him. The land had been in the family for so long that it was grandfathered and the zoning laws didn’t apply to him.

  Arnold knew the neighbors were worried that if his thespian efforts didn’t work out, he might turn the whole place into a cineplex showing eight movies at once. The whole neighborhood would end up smelling of popcorn!