“You’re supposed to, but a lot of people decide to run at the last minute and jump in.”
“Thanks again, Liam.”
Neil nodded. “Back to the job, Liam.”
“Yes, sir.” When he opened the door to leave, Conor, the chef, was about to tap on it. Liam walked past him.
“Sorry to bother you,” Conor said, “but I was just on the blower with the supplier from Dublin. They can’t get a new stove to us before the end of the week at the earliest.”
“The end of the week!” Neil cried. “An hour ago they said it wouldn’t be a problem to get one out here by tomorrow!”
“They made a mistake. Turns out the one they had in stock is broken. They don’t have many stoves that size just sitting around.” Conor nodded in the direction of the reception area. “Word is spreading that our menu is going to be quite limited. People are getting upset.”
“Who told the guests?” Neil asked as he jumped out of his chair.
“You know how it is around here…” Conor mumbled as Regan and Jack followed Neil out of his office.
In the lobby, a new bout of hysteria was breaking out. “We’re outta here,” one man cried, full of spit and vinegar. “I came here for the great food. My wife can barely boil water. This was supposed to be a treat. We’ll find a hotel that can at least serve us a meal!”
“We’re leaving, too!” another couple cried. “We’d be better off camping.”
“We’ll do our best,” Neil began. “There’s a pub down the road that serves a lovely shepherd’s pie. We have arranged for our guests to have dinner there tonight, if you like, and hopefully we’ll get a new stove by tomorrow.” But he knew it was no use. Until they had a working kitchen, no one would want to stay at the castle. The guests crowding around the front desk were becoming increasingly mutinous, and it would probably be better if they just packed up and left.
Neil turned to Regan and Jack. “Will you be leaving?”
“No,” Jack said firmly. “We’re going to track down Jane and John Doe, but we’re not going to desert you, Neil. It’s because of me that you’re in this mess.”
“You’re right about that,” Neil said wearily.
Regan was glad that Jack wanted to stay. Besides the hunt for Jane and John Doe, she was determined to find out more about May Reilly—and whoever it was she had seen on the back lawn last night.
9
When Margaret Raftery left Hennessy Castle, she jumped on her bike and pedaled as fast as she could to the graveyard at the edge of the village. She went directly to May Reilly’s tombstone and crossed herself.
“May,” she began, her Irish brogue thick. “I’m so sorry about your tablecloth. So very, very sorry. I heard how hard you worked on it. And you never got paid! I don’t blame you for haunting the castle. You should. It’s only right.” The words were tumbling out of her mouth.
A gusty wind caused Margaret to wrap her dark wool coat tighter around her generous frame. The graveyard was eerily quiet; the tombstones, like the weather, were damp and dark. The ground was covered with slate. The little graveyard had reached maximum capacity over a hundred years ago. No tearful relatives were left on this earth to come and pay their respects. They had all been called home as well, wherever that home turned out to be. Now it was tourists armed with cameras who walked among these tombstones, snapping photos of the age-old grave markers.
There was another graveyard a mile north on the other side of the village; it was where Margaret’s parents were buried.
Margaret had heard endless stories from her mother over the years, stories dating back to May’s time, about the villagers who had spent their lives in this little town called Surry and were laid to rest in the village’s small graveyard. A deeply superstitious woman, Bridie would sit by the fire, knitting yet another scratchy scarf, as she recounted the tales of the local folks again and again.
“The Sullivan boy was a wonderful fellow. You’ve seen his grave, dear. The girl he fell head over heels for was so beautiful. What a love match. But he died from a flu bug he caught on his honeymoon. His mother said that when she heard the wailing of the banshee before his death, she was sure that it was her husband who was about to go. She went crazy with grief. The high-pitched cry of the banshee could drive anyone insane because, after all, they’re only heard when a family member is about to die….
“That one was a fright to work for. They never found his body. They think he was taken away by the fairies who…
“He spent every night in the pub, glued to a stool. His wife was such a pill. I have to say I don’t blame him for never wanting to go home. But when he started gambling, that was the end.”
But Bridie’s favorite topic was the legend of May Reilly. “Now there was a woman. Raised by an uncle who took her in after her parents died. Learned lace making from a nun who’d come from France. And this was years before lace making became so popular. It’s a shame it was so late in life when she finally put her lace-making talent to use. If May Reilly had lived longer, who knows what she could have accomplished. What they did to her…disgraceful! You’ll never find another lace tablecloth like hers. Never! And she’s never going to rest in peace. One way or another, that Hennessy family was responsible for her passing. They worked her to death!”
When Margaret went to work at Hennessy Castle forty years ago, her mother had been wary. Margaret still remembered her mother’s words: “Did you forget that May Reilly was a housekeeper for the Hennessys? Look what happened to her! Be careful, Margaret. There are ill winds blowing around those grounds. There is evil within those walls. The Hennessy family never had any luck after May died. I’m telling you, that place is cursed!”
“But, Mother, it’s a job,” Margaret had argued.
“’Tis. But just know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“May Reilly’s trouble came after she made the Hennessys a tablecloth. They didn’t think she deserved extra money because they were already paying her as their housekeeper.”
Her mother had looked Margaret in the eye and warned, “It may not be today or tomorrow, but something will happen. Mark my words.”
Alone in the graveyard, Margaret cried out, “Mother was right! She was always right! May Reilly, I will do right by you! Do the right thing!” she said, pronouncing it as ting.
Margaret hopped back on her bike and pedaled through the main street of the village to the tiny road that led out of town. In the distance a rolling field of green stretched out as far as the eye could see. Her little cottage was three miles away. Margaret pedaled hard, willing herself to go faster and faster. When she passed her parents’ graveyard, guilt washed over her. Sadly, it wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. She turned her bike around, steered it across the grass to her parents’ grave, and said a quick prayer. She said an even shorter one for her late husband, whose grave was three stones down. Angus hadn’t been the world’s best mate. For thirty-eight years Margaret had cooked and cleaned for him, raised their son who now lived in Dublin, all the while working as a housekeeper at the castle. But Angus kept his feelings inside except when it came to discouraging her about what she loved to do. “It’s as useful as a lighthouse on a bog,” he’d always tell her. Maybe he was right after all!
“I should have left May and the vision of her tablecloth alone,” Margaret said aloud.
She rode bumpily out of the graveyard, doing her best to avoid getting stuck in the mud. I’ve got to get home, she thought frantically. I’ve got to get home and do right by May!
One thought comforted her.
Whoever stole that tablecloth had no idea what they were in for.
10
The madding crowd around the front desk was growing.
“Regan, before we do anything else, let’s see what they’re offering for breakfast,” Jack suggested.
“Sounds good to me.”
They circumvented the disgruntled guests and headed for the dining room. After they were seated, Regan looked up and s
aw Sheila and Brian, the couple they’d met in the middle of the night, appear in the doorway. When they spotted Regan and Jack, they quickly waved, then turned and left the dining room.
“That was odd,” Regan noted.
“They probably went to get their catalogue,” Jack said sardonically. “Let’s eat fast.”
“Jack!” Regan couldn’t help but laugh.
By the time they finished a breakfast of Irish soda bread, fruit, coffee, and juice, Sheila and Brian hadn’t reappeared. The Reillys headed to their room, and Jack immediately called his office.
“I can’t believe it, boss!” Keith said after hearing about the Does. “They struck fast. I should have called you right away, but I didn’t want to wake you. It would have been about five-thirty in the morning.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jack told him. “They were gone by then.” He gave Keith the credit card number and the alias the Does had used at the castle. “You can add that to the list of the aliases they’ve used around the world. Check out the credit card information. Let our contacts know they were in Ireland as of a few hours ago. I hope we can come up with something concrete to help us locate them. The only lead we have is the decal that indicates they spent time in Galway.”
“I’ll get right on it. Hey, don’t let this ruin your honeymoon.”
“I’m with Regan,” Jack said, reaching over and giving her hand a squeeze. “We’ll manage to make the most of it.” After he hung up, he turned to her. “So, Mrs. Reilly. We know they had the decal from the road race in Galway. Any suggestions?”
“Let’s drive down to Galway and take a look around. Gerard will be thrilled if we tell him we’ll be there early. He’s the eyes and ears of Galway. Maybe we can find out more about that race.”
Jack put his hand on Regan’s cheek. “To think we made a pact to put this kind of craziness behind us on our honeymoon.”
Regan smiled. “We were planning to explore Ireland. Now we really get to explore it.”
“As we search for an average-looking middle-aged couple who constantly change their look, use different accents, and steal jewelry whenever they get the chance. Should be fun.”
Regan frowned. “I can’t believe they’ve gotten away with this for so long,” she said. “We came to Ireland to look for our roots, and instead we’re searching for a couple who don’t seem to have any. As they say, a rolling stone gathers no moss.”
“But can they sit still for a while?” Jack asked thoughtfully. “Ireland is becoming more modern all the time, but it’s still a place where you can disappear. In this area it’s as if time stood still. Ireland would be a good place to hide. They may be spending time somewhere around Galway, but how could they have known that we were going to be here?”
They both sat in silence.
Galway, Regan thought. Galway. Slowly a horrible thought entered her consciousness. She blanched and pushed the preposterous idea out of her head.
“Let’s get going,” Jack said. “We’ll enlist that cousin of yours to help us find the Does—before they take off on us again.” He stood and pulled Regan up.
She walked over to the dressing table by the window to pick up her purse. The image of the ghostly figure on the back lawn kept running through her head. She had appeared just around the time the tablecloth was stolen. Regan wanted to talk to the housekeeper about the legend of May Reilly, but that would have to wait. Regan smiled to herself. Catching John and Jane Doe wasn’t about the tablecloth, but she was somehow sure that May Reilly would be happy if they brought it back in one piece.
11
As soon as Sheila and Brian spotted the Reillys in the dining room, they went back to their room, grabbed their coats, and hurried down to the car.
“Let’s get a real Irish breakfast,” Brian said, disgust in his tone.
“Who wants cold cereal anyway?” Sheila said in agreement. “Maybe one of the village pubs will be open.” She pulled down the sun visor, checked her lipstick in the mirror, and fluffed her bangs. “Once we pick up the paintings this afternoon, we’ll be home free. Back to Arizona. Back to our normal life.” She flipped the visor back up.
“Normal life,” Brian grunted.
“Don’t you think it’s normal? We’ve been married three years, and already we have a nice house where it’s warm, I have my memorabilia business going, and you have a good job selling stocks. We’re respected members of the community.”
“We’re not going to be respected if this doesn’t work out,” Brian said. “Getting involved with Dermot was not a good idea. Spending his money on a warehouse full of Irish tchotchkes was not a good idea. Ripping off this artist was not a good idea.”
“We needed the money to get my business off the ground,” Sheila said. “She’ll never know the difference.”
Brian didn’t agree, but he said nothing. They drove into the village in silence and discovered that the two pubs didn’t open until 11:30. There was no sign of life out on the street.
“Someplace must serve breakfast. Let’s ask at the pharmacy,” Sheila suggested.
The bell on the door tinkled as they walked into the tiny, narrow store. A female pharmacist with cropped brown hair, dressed in jeans, a sweater, and a white jacket, greeted them from behind a small counter. “May I help you?” she asked in a no-nonsense manner that reminded Sheila of her pharmacist back home. Do pharmacists think everyone who walks in is a potential drug dealer? Sheila wondered.
“We’re staying at Hennessy Castle, and they had a fire in the kitchen last night—” Sheila began.
“So I heard. What a shame. It could have been a lot worse. Are you feeling anxious? I have an herbal mix you can put in some tea. It’ll have you feeling better in no time.”
Sheila smiled. “Actually, we’re okay with the experience, but right now we’d love to get a nice hot breakfast. Do you know of a place around here where we could go?”
The pharmacist eyed them quickly. “As a matter of fact, I do. Go down to the corner,” she pointed, “and take a left. Four miles down the road there’s a farmhouse where they serve breakfast. It’s very casual.” She wrote down the exact address.
“Thank you so much,” Sheila said, grabbing a bottle of hand lotion from a shelf. “I’ll take this.” She laughed, not exactly sure why she was laughing.
“It’s wonderful, that lotion.” The pharmacist pressed the keys on an ancient cash register. “Makes your skin feel smooth as silk.”
In the car, Brian asked, “Don’t you have enough lotion in the bathroom back at the hotel?”
“Thanks to her we’ll get a hot breakfast this morning,” Sheila said. “Since we weren’t going to buy her herbs, I thought we should at least buy something I’d eventually use.”
Brian shrugged.
After a ten-minute drive down the winding country road, they located the farmhouse. Clucking chickens greeted their car as they pulled into the yard. There wasn’t a human being in sight nor a sign that breakfast was being served, never mind a sign boasting how many million breakfasts they had served. A horse wandered over to the fence nearby and stared at them. The farmhouse looked slightly rundown.
“She said it was casual,” Sheila muttered as they got out of the car and headed to the door. It was opened by a slightly hunched heavyset woman who was wiping her hands on her apron. She was wearing a blue cardigan sweater and a long dark skirt. Her straight gray hair was parted on the side and fell to her shoulders. She crinkled her ice blue eyes. “You’re here for breakfast, are you?”
It wasn’t a question, but Sheila answered in the affirmative.
“Come on in,” she said, turning away.
She doesn’t seem rude, but it’s not exactly service with a smile, Sheila thought as they stepped into the farmhouse kitchen. It was clearly not the kitchen of a bustling restaurant. Framed embroidered proverbs about life and love and friendship covered the walls, along with family photos and religious pictures. The counters were filled with cookie jars, knickknacks, newsp
aper clippings, and what Sheila believed was a toaster hidden under a protective crocheted covering. A wooden hutch was crammed with teacups, saucers, and dishes and plates of various sizes and patterns. A fire was burning in a large stone fireplace at the opposite end of the room. The effect was one of cozy clutter.
“Make yourself at home,” the woman said, pointing to a long wooden table with dozens of names carved into it. A bench flanked the table on either side. “My name is Philomena Gallagher. You like eggs and Irish sausage?”
“Sounds great,” Brian answered quickly, doing his best to sound enthused. He and Sheila exchanged a glance. They were in a complete stranger’s kitchen, and she was about to cook them breakfast. No ancient cash register was in sight. How would anyone know to come here for a meal? It was too weird, even for a small village. They were both tempted to bolt. This woman could pull a gun out of the drawer and shoot us both, Brian thought.
But they were starving. Their appetites were stronger than their fears.
They sat down, and in short order the woman served them fried eggs, tangy Irish sausage, warm scones with homemade jam, and freshly brewed coffee. “God bless you,” she said when she put the food on the table, then walked back to the sink.
They ate in silence. The only sound was the loud ticking of a cuckoo clock in the hallway. Brian winked at Sheila. The food was wonderful and lifted their spirits.
Carrying a cup of tea, the woman walked over to the table and with a loud sigh sat down with them. “You folks touring around?” she asked, smiling for the first time. It was as though she had completed her job—cooking their breakfast—and now that she was done, she could talk. A multitasker she was not.
“Yes,” Sheila answered, patting her lips with a cloth napkin. “This breakfast is wonderful,” she said. “Have you been in the business for long?”
“What business?”
“The restaurant business.”
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