Twanged

by Carol Higgins Clark

  She gazed down at the sand. What in the world? she thought as she squinted her eyes. The damp sand held an indentation of a body, like the impression left by a head on a pillow.

  Someone must have been here, she thought. But when? And who? The Phantom of the Chappy Compound?

  She moved closer to the disturbed sand, started to examine it, and then something else caught her eye. Right past it was a little pile of. . . what was it? Regan reached over and scooped the pieces up in her hand. She held them up to the light and recognized little bits of broken . . . eggshells.

  How did these get here? she wondered. There were no eggs at the party the other night. Who would be peeling an egg under the deck?

  Regan frowned. We were just talking about eggs today at the diner, she remembered. . . cholesterol specials . . . that strange guy who liked country music and was crazy for eggs. Suddenly Regan got a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  Could he be. . . ?

  Oh God, Regan thought as the pit in her stomach deepened. Was Brigid alone right now?

  I have to get to her! she thought wildly.

  Scurrying out from under the deck, Regan raced across the sand, past the pool area, and over to the guest house. Frantically she pushed open the door. The room was eerily empty. Where was everyone?

  “BRIGID,” she cried, “BRIGID!” Taking the steps two at a time, she ran to the second floor.

  Brigid’s door was closed. She knocked on it sharply. When Regan didn’t get an immediate answer, she flung it open. Brigid was lying motionless on the bed, her back to the door.

  “BRIGID!” Regan screamed.

  Slowly Brigid rolled over, her eyes groggy from sleep. “Regan, what’s wrong?”

  With an overwhelming sense of relief, Regan leaned her head against the door frame. “You’re all right, then?”

  “Yes. I fell asleep. I didn’t realize how tired I was.”

  Regan walked over to the foot of the bed and stood there panting.

  “What is it, Regan?”

  Regan held out her hand. “These eggshells were under the deck at Chappy’s house. It made me think of that weird guy in the diner. I’m sorry, I just thought. . .” Regan swallowed and struggled to catch her breath.

  Brigid smiled. “Regan, I’m okay. I think we both have a right to be jumpy today.”

  Regan nodded. “I got this overwhelming sense that you were in danger again.”

  “I’m really fine.”

  “Where’s everyone else?” Regan asked.

  “Taking naps,” Brigid said.

  Brigid sat up and looked at the clock. “Oh, it’s getting late. We’d better get ready for Kit’s dinner, or we’ll really be in danger!”

  Regan laughed and shook her head as she slowly walked out of the room. “With Kit cooking, we’re in danger either way.”

  Down the hall, crouched in the back of the dark closet, he was breathing heavily and sweating. He had come so close to being alone with Brigid! He had watched the house and seen Brigid on the beach this afternoon. Then he had watched her friend leave in the station wagon. And the others had come out at different times to walk out on the beach.

  He ‘d slipped into the guest house to talk to Brigid because he had to. He couldn ‘t control it anymore. He had to take the risk.

  Then Brigid’s friend had come running in and ruined it for him! He ‘d run to hide in the closet and heard her friend say he was weird! He’d like to get ahold of her and tell her a thing or two.

  What do I do now? he wondered. In the darkness he smiled. Right now I’ll just enjoy listening to Brigid, knowing she’s right outside this door.

  37

  BALLYFORD, IRELAND

  I’ll come down right away, love,” Malachy said. He hung up the old-fashioned phone on the wall in his kitchen area and sat at the table. Suddenly his cottage did not feel as comforting as it usually did. Not with the news he’d just heard from Eileen O’Neill. The news that Brigid had had a close call today.

  He looked down at the food on his plate, his hunger gone. The potatoes and vegetables that just a few moments ago had smelled so good didn’t interest him anymore.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have given her the fiddle after all, he thought. She won the contest with it but now there’s trouble. Nothing but trouble.

  Why did that jerk Finbar have to make such a big deal out of it?

  Malachy’s eyes teared up. I had such a good time with that fiddle. It brought such happiness into my life. I wanted the same for Brigid.

  He remembered the days when she was a teenager and would come up to the cottage to play.

  “Let’s practice,” she’d say. “If we’re going to perform together at all the parties around town, we have to be ready.”

  Oh, Brigid, he thought. I’m worried about you and I want to hear you play again.

  Malachy stood up. He grabbed his jacket off the wall and headed out the door and down into the village to Brigid’s aunt’s house, where her mother, Eileen, stayed in the summer.

  Life’s too short, he thought. I’m going to ask them what they think about me flying over there and surprising her at her concert in the Hamptons.

  Suddenly he found himself whistling as he rode his bicycle through the darkness.

  38

  I’m ready,” Brigid announced as she came out of her room and across the hall into Regan’s. “A nap, a shower, and a change of clothes can do wonders for the spirit.”

  “Oh, I know,” Regan said. She had showered as well, putting on a pair of white jeans and a short-sleeved, black cotton sweater. Brigid had a pair of blue jeans with a rust-colored belt and a white blouse tucked in. Her red hair spilled over her shoulders.

  Brigid sat down on the bed while Regan did a final check of herself in the mirror. She touched up her lipstick and ran a comb through her dark hair one last time.

  “Ready,” Regan said. “Are the others coming?”

  Brigid shook her head as they walked out of the room and down the steps. “Hank and Teddy and Pammy came up from the beach when you were in the shower. Kieran had been asleep in his room. Anyway, Hank and Teddy went into town. They’re meeting up with some old friends of Hank’s. Kieran and Pammy went out to dinner and a movie.” Brigid paused. “I think she let him know in no uncertain terms that she wanted some quality time alone with him.”

  “Ain’t love grand?” Regan joked. They walked out the door and Regan locked it behind them. The early evening was upon them. The sky was streaked with purple and red, the water looked calm, and a soft breeze was blowing. Somebody must be playing taps somewhere, Regan thought. “How long have Pammy and Kieran been dating anyway?” she asked Brigid as they ambled over to Kit’s cottage.

  “About a year and a half.”

  “That long?” Regan said.

  “Yes. Kieran just joined our band about a year ago and he was with her then.”

  “Oh. Where did they meet?”

  “She’s a nurse. Kieran was in a car accident near Nashville. He was banged up and hurt his hand pretty badly. She came upon the scene right after it happened and pulled over. She took care of him on the spot. Then she never stopped taking care of him.”

  “Really?” Regan said.

  “Yes. Apparently he was pretty depressed. He didn’t think he’d be able to play guitar again. She forced him to do occupational and physical therapy—she still makes him squeeze a rubber ball she always has with her. She encouraged him all the way. He credits her with bringing him back.”

  “She does seem like a take-charge kind of person.”

  “She is. She’s even the one who found out we were looking for someone for the band. She scheduled his audition!”

  “So they’re pretty entrenched,” Regan observed. “You know, I’ve saved a couple of guys’ lives along the way but it never led to any romance.”

  “Maybe next time,” Brigid said with a grin.

  Regan laughed. “None of them looked like Kieran, I can tell you that.”


  They walked up the steps of the cottage, onto the wraparound porch, and opened the screen door.

  “Hello!” Regan called.

  “Come on in!” Kit yelled. She appeared from the kitchen wearing an apron over her jeans. “Welcome to Chappy’s Outhouse.”

  “Oh, Kit,” Brigid replied, laughing. “This place doesn’t look bad.”

  “Not at all,” Kit said. “The nice thing about it is it makes me appreciate my apartment when I get home. Now, how about a glass of wine?”

  “After the day we’ve had, I think we both can use one. Right, Regan?”

  “You said it.”

  They followed Kit into the kitchen. The aroma of marinara sauce and garlic filled the air. The stove looked as if it had served up a few meals during the War of 1812. The sink was huge and deep, with a divider running down the middle. “I think this sink used to be the bathtub,” Kit said. “Red wine?”

  They both nodded.

  Kit filled the glasses, handed them over, and clinked hers against Brigid’s and Regan’s. “Cheers,” she declared.

  They all took a sip. “Where are the others?” Regan asked.

  “Angela is getting ready. Garrett should be back any minute. I’m afraid we have a small group tonight. By Thursday this place will be crowded again, but. . .”

  “That sounds fine,” Brigid said. “It’ll be nice to just hang out.”

  “Let’s go out on the porch,” Kit suggested. “We can watch the sunset.”

  “I love this,” Brigid affirmed as they sat on the steps. “I’d like to make a toast to my two new friends.”

  “Hear! Hear!” Regan said, and they all clinked glasses again. “May we share many more adventures together, just none as exciting as this afternoon’s.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Brigid laughingly agreed.

  “I’d like to make a toast, too,” Kit said. “To the Melting Pot Festival. That’s something we want to be exciting.”

  “It had better be,” Brigid said, rolling her eyes. “Or else I’m in big trouble.”

  Big trouble is what I’m afraid of, Regan thought.

  39

  We’ve got to hurry!” Chappy cried. “We’ve got to get in there while it’s still light out. It’s too dangerous to use a flashlight.”

  Duke looked puzzled. “But we have the headlights on our helmets.”

  “What I mean is,” Chappy growled, “if the house is dark and someone outside sees these flashes of light inside, they’ll know something is up.”

  “Ahhhhh,” Duke said, nodding his head in understanding.

  “Ahhhhh, yourself.”

  They had rendezvoused in Chappy’s study moments earlier after Duke had spied Regan and Brigid heading over to Kit’s house. Chappy was sitting at his desk with a clipboard in front of him. The mission had to be completed soon, not only because of the impending darkness but also because he and Bettina were going to a dinner party at the home of one of the women who came to Peace Man’s sessions. Chappy was dreading it. All he could think about was the original CT fiddle. If they pulled this off tonight, how could he go out and leave that fiddle at home while his fingers would be itching to play it without stopping?

  Chappy picked up the Montblanc pen with his name engraved on it. On a sheet of paper before him he had a list of the names of everyone staying in the guest house.

  “Brigid and the snoop Regan.”

  “Check,” Duke said. “They’ve exited the premises.”

  “Kieran and his gal pal, Pammy.”

  “Check. They drove off in the station wagon to watch the sunset and then were heading out to dinner.”

  “Hank and Teddy.”

  “Check. I gave them a lift into town. They were meeting friends for a night of partying. They invited me to join them, but I said no.”

  Chappy looked up. “Well, bully for you.”

  “I also got invited to Angela’s dinner party, but I told her I couldn’t make it because I had to work.”

  “Well, aren’t you the social butterfly?” Chappy asked with a little bit of envy. He put down his pen, first admiring the sight of his name in gold lettering, then dropped the clipboard into his desk drawer. “Our guests are all accounted for, and Bettina is upstairs with her masseuse.” He checked his watch and then looked at Duke. “Are you ready to go into battle?”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Chappy spun around and rapped the bookshelf. Within minutes they were downstairs, passing through Grandpa’s speakeasy with nary a glance, just long enough for Duke to pick up the fiddle that was hot off Ernie’s workbench.

  Like two industrious miners, they traveled through the underground tunnel.

  “It really gets damp down here,” Duke commented.

  “Shut up.”

  When they stepped into the basement of the guest house, Chappy nervously ran his fingers through his hair. “Not too much longer,” he muttered.

  “Not too much longer till we get the fiddle that will bring us good luck,” Duke agreed, starting to get excited. “Maybe I’ll finally be able to get an agent.” His voice resounded in the empty chilly basement. “Maybe I won’t have to wait until next summer to get a part in a play.”

  “SSSSSHHHHHHH!” Chappy held a finger up to his lips. “We have to be careful.”

  With painstaking care, they opened the door at the top of the steps. As they expected, the coast was clear.

  Upstairs in the closet, he was starting to feel restless. He had waited long enough. He was sure they were gone.

  It had been so good to hear Brigid moving around, to hear her voice when she talked to that pain-in-the-neck friend of hers. Brigid sounded so nice. He could even smell the perfume that she sprayed on herself. It smelled so good.

  I can’t stay here. I’m hungry and I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll have to try and see her another time, when she is alone.

  Taking care to avoid bumping his head on the slanted ceiling, he untangled his feet and pulled himself up.

  Chappy and Duke silently raced across the den floor. Through the open windows the waves could be heard breaking on the beach. Seagulls screeched overhead, oblivious to the intruders in the house below them.

  They reached the staircase. Chappy almost let out a nervous giggle. Like a couple of cats, they crept up the stairs one by one, a big grin on Chappy’s face.

  They were almost at the top when they heard the creak of a door opening down the hall.

  Adrenaline pumped through Chappy’s body. He froze in place, terrified. Could it be the wind? he thought desperately.

  Duke was hanging behind him, inches away.

  Chappy waited.

  Within seconds the door shut. Chappy started to feel relieved. It must be the wind! But then he heard the terrifying sound of a throat being cleared and footsteps in the hallway!

  Chappy’s body felt various biological urges. Valiantly he fought back the bile in his throat, turned around, and pushed at Duke’s bulk. A tiny cry escaped from his lips. Sounding like a sick mouse, he squeaked, “Move!”

  In record time they were back in the basement, running through the tunnel, pausing only a split second to tenderly place the fiddle on a chair in the men’s lounge. They didn’t stop again until they were in the sanctuary of Chappy’s study, the bookshelf safely in place.

  Panting, Chappy yanked his clipboard out of his desk drawer. “WHO WAS THAT?” he demanded of Duke. “I THOUGHT YOU SAID EVERYBODY WAS OUT!”

  Duke, red-face and sweating, collapsed into his chair. “I don’t know, man. I swear, I saw them all leave.”

  Chappy put his head down on his desk and moaned. “I WANT MY FIDDLE!”

  What was that? He stopped in place, ready to run back into the closet. He waited a few moments. Finally he relaxed. It must be nothing, he thought.

  I’d better get out of here.

  But first. . .

  He opened the bedroom door that he was sure was Brigid’s.

  Oh! It had to be! A guitar was propped up in
the corner. He went over to the dresser, where a picture of Brigid and a blond-haired woman with their arms around each other smiled out at him. I want to put my arms around you, Brigid, he thought.

  He looked at her creams and comb and brush and perfume. He even sprayed a little of it on himself. On the bed was a little teddy bear. He grabbed it and sat down in the rocking chair by the window. Squeezing the teddy bear as hard as he could, he rocked for a few minutes and looked out at the water.

  I love you, Brigid.

  He wanted to lie on her bed, but he was afraid. I won’t want to leave.

  He put the teddy bear back .

  I’ll be back, he thought.

  He went out into the hallway and found the bathroom.

  After he used the facilities, he hurried down the steps, out the door, and raced along the beach, away from the Compound.

  Time for a western omelette, he thought hungrily.

  40

  So how many does this house sleep?” Regan asked as Kit carried a steaming plate of pasta to the table.

  “Eight upstairs,” Kit said. “That’s how many of us are scheduled each weekend. Down here we have the den, which closes off. There’s a couch in there that’s a Bernadette Castro special, so we can pull it out if we have extra bodies.”

  Garrett came in and sat across the table from Regan. His hair was gelled back and he smelled of cologne. With practiced affectation, he reached around and deposited his cellular phone on the sideboard. “I love staying in the den. It’s so quiet and private,” he said as he pulled his napkin off the table and positioned it on his lap. “Smells good.”

  “Expecting a phone call?” Regan asked.

  “My office,” he harrumphed. “The markets overseas are open now. . . .”

  “Do we have everything?” Angela asked from the doorway, with wineglass in hand and the weary look of a chief cook who has tried to coordinate the presentation of all the food at the same time and is frankly sick of the effort.

  “Angela, this looks great,” Brigid said. “Sit down.”

  “Marinara sauce is my specialty,” Angela replied with a smile, slightly placated. She had on a short skirt and a tank top that was stretched to its limit. Her blond hair was once again pulled up, and her tan looked as if it had deepened in the last couple of days.