Twanged

by Carol Higgins Clark

  Regan thought she looked like the Coppertone kid all grown up. The one who years ago had stared out from billboards, involuntarily mooning the country thanks to her frisky dog, who delighted in tugging on the back of her bathing suit.

  Angela sank into the seat at the head of the table. “Kit helped some,” she allowed.

  “Kit loves to cook.” Regan chuckled as she bit into a forkful of the green salad.

  “Reilly the gourmet,” Kit said sardonically. “What’s your specialty? Washed chicken?”

  “With a pat of butter and salt and pepper on each and every piece,” Regan replied.

  For a few moments, no one talked; they all ate hungrily. The pasta was delicious, the bread hot and garlicky, and the Chianti smooth. The candles on the table flickered, their soft light reflecting off the walls that boasted more old-fashioned wallpaper.

  Regan was glad to see Brigid looking so relaxed. It had been quite a day for her.

  As they were finishing, Brigid wiped her mouth with her napkin. “So, tell me how these group houses work,” she said. “How do you find each other?”

  Angela rolled her eyes. “It can be a big headache, believe me. I’ve been in charge for a while but Garrett took over this year. He worked it all out with Bettina. We’ve had pretty much the same group for three or four years now. Of course Kit is new.”

  “How did you get involved?” Brigid asked Kit, who was sitting back in her chair now.

  Kit toyed with her wineglass. “A friend of mine from New York City was in the house. She had already paid for her share for this summer. But on her birthday in May her boyfriend popped the question. . . .”

  Angela groaned and put her hand to her forehead. “They’d met only six weeks before. Can you believe it? That never happens to me.”

  Regan winked at Kit. How many times do you want to get engaged, Angela? she thought.

  “So,” Kit continued, “this friend, Sue, and her fiancé, Bruce, were making different plans for the summer. She asked if I’d like to buy her share. Because I live in Hartford, it’s a bit of a schlepp, but I thought I’d give it a try. I met everyone when Angela had a party in her apartment before Memorial Day weekend.”

  Garrett cleared his throat. “You see, Brigid, everyone wants to get out of the City in the summer. Groups of friends get together to rent houses out here for the season. Around February you have to start coming out and looking at houses and see which ones will even rent to groups. Once you find a place, you divide it up into shares. Some people want to come every weekend, so they buy full shares. Others every other weekend, so they buy half shares, et cetera.” He gestured with his hands. “On weekends like the Fourth of July, everyone wants to be here, so we’re usually bursting at the seams. Like this weekend—it’s not only the Fourth of July but everyone wants to come to your concert.”

  Brigid grinned. “Well, how did you find this house?” she asked.

  “Ah!” Garrett pointed his finger. “Bettina found us because we’re all country music fans.”

  Brigid’s smile widened. “Glad to hear it.”

  “This past winter we got together at a country music bar in New York to listen to a couple of new singers. Chappy and Bettina were at the next table. Bettina started talking to us—how did we know each other and so forth. She ended up suggesting that we rent her servants’ quarters for the summer.”

  So that’s how it happened, Regan thought.

  “I hate the whole process of looking for a house. I drove out with Bettina the very next day to look at it.”

  Regan remembered what Ned had said: Chappy hadn’t known until after the fact that she was renting it out. She cleared her throat. “Chappy didn’t ride out with you to show it off himself?” she asked.

  “No,” Garrett said. “Apparently he was taking a workshop on how to audition for soap operas.” He shrugged. “When I saw it, I thought it was a great deal. Right by the water . . .”

  “The house could stand a few modern appliances,” Angela commented.

  “Well, the price was right. So I took it on the spot.”

  “Oh, I like it,” Angela said, grunting. “But next year—that is, if I haven’t gotten married by then— we’re going to have to go looking again because they’re tearing this place down to build a theatre.”

  “So next year at this very moment, someone might be in this exact spot emoting,” Kit said.

  “Yeah,” Angela said as she picked at a crumb of bread on her plate. “Duke is memorizing his lines for Romeo and Juliet. He wants Chappy to put that on next year and let him play Romeo. I’m going to hear his lines for him.”

  That I’d pay anything to see, Regan thought.

  Someone rapped at the screen door. Angela looked in that direction. “Who could that be?” She got up and adjusted the straps of her top, smoothed her hair, and walked to the door. She flicked on the porch light.

  “Duke!” she cried. “I thought you had to work!”

  It’s Romeo, Regan thought. Wherefore art thou been?

  Duke stepped in, dressed neatly in a pair of jeans and a black Lacoste shirt. “Chappy and Bettina went to a dinner party. I thought I might stop by and say hello.”

  “Come on in, Duke,” Kit called. “You’re just in time for dessert.”

  Over Kit’s strawberry shortcake, which consisted of store-bought individual shortcake patties generously laden with whipped cream from a can and sliced strawberries, they talked about Brigid’s upcoming concert and tour.

  Duke scarfed down the contents of his plate. “So where are the others tonight?” he asked Brigid.

  “They’re all out,” she said. “Didn’t you drive Hank and Teddy into town?”

  “Yeah, I did.” Duke put down his fork. “So Pammy and Kieran went out, too, huh?” he continued.

  “Yes,” Brigid answered.

  “Do you have anybody else coming to visit this week?” he asked awkwardly.

  Brigid frowned, puzzled by the question. “No. Do you, Regan?” she inquired.

  “Not me,” Regan answered. “We’re Chappy’s guests, so I wasn’t going to go inviting more people.” Why is he so interested? she wondered.

  “Duke, would you like some more dessert?” Angela asked. Her whole demeanor had changed with Duke in the room. There was a lot of lifting up of her arms to play with her hair—and, not so coincidentally, to show off her assets. But at the moment her Romeo doesn’t seem to notice, Regan thought. Why is he here?

  “No thanks,” he said.

  A few minutes later they cleared the plates and took their glasses outside to sit on the porch. The night air was cool and the crickets were chirping.

  Angela seated herself in the glider next to Duke. By now she was smiling and giggling and refilling everyone’s glass.

  Nothing like getting a boost from the presence of someone you’ve got the hots for, Regan thought. But Duke seems so distracted. Oh well, maybe that’s the way he always is.

  By the time they finished the wine and Brigid and Regan got up to leave, it was nearly eleven o’clock. Much to Angela’s disappointment, Duke insisted on walking them over to the guest house.

  “You can’t be too careful,” he said.

  “Well, let me know when you want me to hear your lines,” Angela called as they stepped off the porch.

  “Okay, Angela,” he said. “Maybe sometime in the next couple of days.”

  Regan and Brigid and Duke wandered over to the guest house. It was completely dark.

  “I guess no one is back yet,” Duke said.

  “Guess not,” Regan answered.

  Regan and Brigid said their good nights to him and, agreeing they were both tired from the long day, went directly upstairs, turning on lights along the way.

  Brigid went into her room and collapsed on her bed. “Oh!” she called out to Regan. “I’m glad we don’t have to get up so early tomorrow morning.”

  “Me too,” Regan said as her fingers fumbled to turn on the bathroom light. She shut the doo
r and stopped dead in her tracks.

  The toilet seat was up.

  The guys left before us, she thought nervously. And I was the last one to use the bathroom before we walked out the door to go to dinner. What’s going on?

  Duke had been asking all those questions about who was home tonight. Had he slipped in here? But why?

  A sense of dread swept through Regan. Don’t jump to any conclusions, she told herself. Maybe one of the guys stopped back at the house for some reason.

  But why would they use this bathroom?

  Regan leaned against the pedestal sink and slapped the seat down into a female-ready position. It landed with a bang.

  After Chappy builds the theatre, he can turn the guest quarters into a haunted house, she thought. Complete with a handle-free door downstairs.

  Regan stared at the commode. There might be a good explanation for this, she thought. But what can I do? I can’t go asking the guys tomorrow if they left the toilet seat up. I won’t sound like an investigator, I’ll come off like a nag.

  And if the only lead I have to go on is a guy who leaves the toilet seat up, most of the male population would end up on the list of suspects.

  She sighed. I’d better go downstairs and make double-sure the doors are locked. She knew the others had keys.

  Regan hurried down the steps and checked the back door that faced the beach. She and Brigid had come in this way, and, as she had expected, it was securely locked. She went around the ground floor making sure that all the windows were closed and locked as well. She pulled on the front door, which no one really used, to open it. She wanted to slam it shut and make sure the lock was in place. The door was the kind that stuck. It required a couple of pulls for Regan to get it open. When she did, the sight of a smashed cassette propped up against the screen door made her gasp. She leaned down to pick it up.

  A cassette of Brigid’s hit single, all crushed and bent, looking as if someone had pounded it with a hammer. Someone in a rage, Regan thought. She shut the door, locked it, and hurried upstairs with the cassette. Brigid is not going to see this, she thought. I’m not going to let whoever is doing this ruin everything for Brigid.

  She sat on her bed and stared at the cassette. A smiling Brigid staring out through the crushed, fragmented plastic holder. It eerily reminded Regan of the nearly beheaded doll.

  Oh, Brigid, she thought, who wants to hurt you?

  41

  TUESDAY, JULY 1

  Regan slept fitfully. All night she kept awakening, staring at the clock, thinking about everything that had happened. Finally, before dawn, she fell into a deep sleep.

  When her eyes started to flutter, she looked at the clock for what felt like the twentieth time since she’d gone to bed. It was 8:37 A.M.

  The room feels too dark for 8:37, Regan thought. Even with a shade. And it’s chilly. She threw back the covers and hoisted her body out of bed. Walking over to the window, she yanked on the shade. Obediently it flew all the way up to the roller, disappearing out of sight except for its cord, which slapped the ceiling several times before calming down.

  Outside the day was gray and overcast. It was still dry but it didn’t look as though it intended to remain that way for long. The smell of rain was in the air.

  Oh great, Regan thought. There’s nothing like a rainy day at the beach to drive everyone bonkers.

  Yawning, she threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and went out into the hallway. Brigid’s door was closed.

  Regan hurried into the bathroom. The tile floor felt cold and damp against her bare feet. Rainy days at the beach, she mused as she applied toothpaste, to her curved toothbrush, whose makers promised it removed more plaque than you could ever imagine in your wildest dreams. Rainy days can seem endless, making you feel like a kid again, all cooped up and restless. Severe cabin fever can set in before the ground is completely wet.

  Regan turned on the tap and ran water over her brush. You don’t have your bills with you to pay, you don’t have your closets to clean out, you don’t have your laundry to do. You just don’t have your stuff around to keep you busy, she thought.

  Regan stared in the mirror and began to brush.

  You have too much time to think and worry.

  Down in the kitchen she found Brigid and Pammy sitting at the table drinking coffee. Brigid was in her robe but Pammy was dressed. Bagels and donuts were set out on plates and several newspapers were stacked up on the table.

  “Good morning,” Regan said.

  Brigid smiled. “ ‘Morning, Regan.”

  “Regan, I made a pot of coffee,” Pammy announced cheerfully. She gestured to the table. “And there are donuts and bagels here. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks,” Regan said. She reached for a mug and poured herself a cup. “Did you go to the store already?”

  “Yes. I was up early. The guys aren’t going golfing until this afternoon, so I thought I’d pick up some breakfast and the newspapers.”

  Little Suzy Homemaker, Regan thought. There’s always one in every crowd. She sat down at the table. I shouldn’t be like that, she thought. Especially because those donuts do look good. She chose a glazed one and took a bite.

  Pammy put down her cup and hesitated. She crinkled up her little nose and pushed back her long, golden brown hair.

  “Brigid had a rough night,” Pammy finally said.

  So did I, Regan thought. She turned to Brigid. “What happened?”

  Brigid looked up from the newspaper and waved her hand as if to dismiss the whole issue. “I had a few bad dreams. No big deal.”

  “About what happened yesterday?”

  “Yes,” Brigid replied. “Someone was chasing me with a gun.”

  Pammy got up from her chair and walked behind Brigid. She put her arms on Brigid’s shoulders and began to massage them. “Ever since his accident, Kieran sometimes gets a stiff neck. He loves it when I do this to him.” She started working her way up Brigid’s neck to her scalp. “How does it feel, Brigid?”

  “Good,” Brigid said quickly.

  Regan thought she seemed uncomfortable but was too polite to say anything.

  “You’re very tense,” Pammy declared. “But it’s a natural reaction,” she said with an air of authority. “Post-traumatic stress syndrome can manifest itself in many ways. I’ve seen it with patients.” She paused. “I’ve seen it with myself.”

  Regan looked at her. “You have? What happened?”

  Pammy’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “When I was a kid my cousin drowned. Right in front of me. She was my best friend.”

  “Pammy, I’m so sorry,” Brigid replied.

  “It’s okay,” Pammy said. “After that, I learned CPR. I said if that ever happens again and I can get to whoever is in trouble, I want to know what I’m doing. That’s why I jumped in the pool so fast the other night to help Louisa. I couldn’t help my cousin, so I feel as if I’m making it up to her by helping other people. I guess it’s one of the reasons I became a nurse. I like to help people. Nothing gave me greater satisfaction than nursing Kieran back to health . . .”

  I’ll bet, Regan thought.

  “. . . and encouraging him to play again.”

  “I’m so sorry about your cousin,” Brigid murmured.

  Pammy nodded. “I took it real hard. I kept dreaming about her calling out to me. That was over ten years ago and I still dream about it sometimes.”

  They all remained silent for a moment.

  What a revelation, Regan thought. Especially at this hour of the morning.

  “. . . So I know how upsetting it can be to have those kinds of dreams,” Pammy continued. “When I came down this morning, Regan, I could tell Brigid was a little out of sorts.”

  “Well, thank God it turned out all right for me yesterday. Thanks to Regan. Hey, I’ll write a song about it. In the meantime . . .” Brigid sat up straight as Pammy stopped the massage and sat down at the table. “Thanks, Pammy,” Brigid said, handing Regan a couple of the newsp
apers. “Everyone can read all about the cause of my nightmares.”

  Regan looked at the snippet in USA Today. It talked about Brigid O’Neill and her cursed fiddle, which a couple of teenagers had tried to steal only to be thwarted by the quick action of her bodyguard. The Hamptons News had a bigger piece that asked again if the fiddle was really cursed.

  “I’m surprised the reporters didn’t call about this yesterday,” Regan said.

  Brigid slathered a hunk of cream cheese on a sesame bagel. “They might have tried. We were out at the beach, and then I was on the phone with my mother and Roy yesterday afternoon. There’s no call-waiting here, so they would have gotten a busy signal. Last night everyone was out. Like I said yesterday, it was a good idea to call my mother to let her know what happened.”

  With that pronouncement, the phone rang.

  Brigid started to get up.

  “You want me to get it?” Regan asked.

  “Nah,” Brigid responded. “I may as well bite the bullet.” She started to laugh. “Bad pun, I guess.”

  Out in the pantry she picked up the cordless.

  Regan looked out at the ocean. Whitecaps were doing their dance on the churning surf as the waves angrily thrashed the shoreline. “I don’t know whether the guys will be doing any golfing this afternoon,” she said to Pammy.

  “Oh, I know,” Pammy answered as she turned to look out at the water, “they’ll be disappointed.”

  “Do you golf, too?”

  Pammy laughed and rolled her eyes. “Not at all.”

  “You don’t?” Regan continued. “What do you do? Ride along with them in a cart?”

  “Sometimes,” Pammy admitted. “Or sometimes I’ll sit in the clubhouse and read.”

  Talk about keeping a watchful eye, Regan thought. “Are you going on the tour with them?” she asked.

  Pammy’s expression became dejected. “I can’t. I have to get back to work. When we leave here Friday night, they’ll drop me at a hotel near Kennedy Airport and I’ll fly home in the morning.”