Laced

by Carol Higgins Clark

  The woman shook her head. “I’m not in the restaurant business.”

  Brian and Sheila both looked perplexed.

  “But why—” Brian began.

  The woman waved her weathered hand at them. “It’s my pleasure to feed you. My grandson is staying with me for the week. He’s doing a project for school, a study of people who come to visit Ireland, but we don’t run into that many out on the farm here.”

  I’ll say, Brian thought.

  “My friend at the pharmacy just loves Kieran. He helps her out sometimes at the store. So she sends people my way. She knows I’m a good cook.” Philomena laughed. “But yesterday I served afternoon tea to a couple who’d gone horseback riding and then into the pharmacy for Ben-Gay. They didn’t think these benches were so comfortable. Too bad about them. They didn’t like answering questions, either. Now you two wouldn’t mind if my grandson took your picture and asked a few questions, would you?” She didn’t wait for an answer but got up and moved slowly toward the hallway. “Kieran!” she called, disappearing down the hall. “Kie-rannnnnnnn.”

  Sheila and Brian looked at each other with alarm. “Don’t give too much information,” Brian said, his tone grim. “It’s just not a good idea when we’re—”

  A skinny red-haired kid who looked about ten came barreling into the kitchen with his video camera. “Hey, hey, hey, hey, Hollywood,” he cried as he started taping them. He reminded Sheila of the bratty next-door neighbor she had known growing up outside Boston, who’d thankfully moved away before they were teenagers. Twenty years later she married him.

  ‘Kieran, calm down now,” his grandmother ordered as she came back into the kitchen. “Can I get you more coffee?” she asked her visitors.

  “No, we’re fine,” Sheila said.

  “Get started with your questions, Kieran. They’ll want to be on their way soon.”

  “Okay, Granny.” He sat on the bench directly across from Brian and Sheila, and turned his camera on them.

  This is what reality TV has done to the world, Brian thought. You’re not safe from cameras anywhere.

  “What are your names?” Kieran asked, sounding like a police interrogator.

  This kid is a nudge, Sheila thought, but she answered politely: “We’re Sheila and Brian.”

  “Last names?”

  “Funny you should ask. Both of us actually have an Irish background in common, and that’s why we love to visit Ireland.”

  The kid didn’t blink. He obviously had his set of questions and didn’t listen to the answers. He wasn’t unlike most adults. “What do you plan to take advantage of when you’re here?”

  A local artist, Brian thought as he cleared his throat and started to answer. “What everyone does…the beautiful scenery, the wonderful people, shopping for Waterford crystal, hiking, the Aran Islands, and of course Dublin. Your grandmother’s cooking was the biggest treat so far.”

  “My granny is a better cook than my mom,” he said.

  Philomena Gallagher smiled.

  His mother must be her daughter-in-law, Sheila thought. “Where do you live, Kieran?” she asked, anxious to turn the conversation to his life.

  “In a village down by Cork,” he answered. “Where do you live?”

  “In the summertime we like to go to Cape Cod.”

  “I didn’t ask you that.”

  “Kieran, don’t be rude.”

  “I’m not, Granny. My teacher said to find out where people come from. She didn’t answer the question!”

  “We grew up near Boston,” Sheila answered. “It snows a lot there. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it does. I met Brian when we were about your age.” Sheila laughed. “He used to pelt me with snowballs on the way home from school.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Kieran!”

  “Sorry, Granny.”

  “We’ve been married only a few years. I’m sure we’ll have a baby before too much longer. Kieran is such a nice name,” Sheila said sweetly. “If we have a boy, maybe we’ll name him Kieran.”

  Kieran, like most ten-year-old boys in a similar situation, couldn’t have cared less. “You had relatives in Ireland who moved to America?”

  “Yes. A long time ago. One of my great-grandfathers sailed to New York in 1884.” She turned to Brian. “Didn’t one of your great-grandfathers leave Ireland around the same time?”

  “I don’t know,” Brian answered testily.

  Sheila made a face at him and then said to Kieran, “We’re both very proud of our Irish backgrounds. Now we only have time for a few more questions.” God, she thought, I sound like I’m holding a press conference.

  “Let me think of some good ones,” Kieran said.

  Philomena jumped at the chance to speak. You’d never have known it was the same woman who had said hardly two words when they walked in. “I have a son who moved to America,” she said proudly. “He’s doing so well, he is. He lives in New York and just loves it. I miss him, but he comes home a couple of times a year.” She pointed to a picture on the wall of a young man with a woman and two small children. “He has a big job. Thankfully, it’s not like the olden days when the young folks left for America. Families often never saw them again. They used to hold what were called ‘American wakes’ for them before they left Ireland. Did you know that?”

  “How sad,” Sheila said. “That is really sad. We moved out to Phoenix, and I miss seeing my mother more often.”

  Brian kicked her under the table.

  “Stop the lights!” Kieran exclaimed, seizing on the information. “So you live in Phoenix!”

  This kid is a regular Columbo, Brian thought.

  “Kieran,” his grandmother said, “now what are your final questions?”

  “Are you rich?”

  “Kieran, that’s enough!”

  “Okay. Sorry.”

  Brian stood. “I hate to cut this short, but we have an appointment to join a tour group to Galway and we’re going to be late. I don’t want to miss a minute of it.”

  Sheila stood as well. “This was so much fun. What do we owe you for breakfast? It was delicious.”

  “Nothing. It was our pleasure,” Philomena insisted. “Fiona down at the pharmacy told me you’re staying at Hennessy Castle. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” Sheila gulped.

  ‘It’s grand, isn’t it?’

  “Yes.” Sheila turned toward the door and stopped dead in her tracks. A small painting that must have been painted by their artist was hanging on the wall. She hadn’t noticed it on the way in, and it was to her back as she ate. Philomena’s painting was similar to the one they had put up for auction—a lush Irish landscape with a table set for dinner out in a field. The table was covered with an intricate lace tablecloth. The artist’s initials were in the corner—their artist’s initials.

  The woman noticed Sheila’s gaze. “Lovely, isn’t it? A friend of mine gave it to me. She incorporates lace in all her paintings. Some of them are really quirky and fun. She just gives them away to her friends. I tease her that she could be the next Grandma Moses, but she’s too shy..”

  Sheila nodded. “It’s beautiful. We’ve really got to be on our way.” She reached out her hand. “Mrs. Gallagher, I can’t tell you how much we appreciate the wonderful breakfast. Your Irish hospitality is to be admired. I hope someday we can return the favor.”

  “Maybe you can. If Kieran has any more questions for you, he can ring you up at the castle. I know he’d love to go by there and have a look.”

  “I’ve never been inside,” Kieran cried. “I want to see the ghost!”

  “That’s enough,” his grandmother said sternly.

  “I do. I want to interview the ghost!”

  “Just give us a call,” Sheila replied quickly as she and Brian hurried out the door and raced to their car. She dropped into the passenger seat and tried to
catch her breath. “I can’t believe one of those valuable paintings is just squashed into the corner like that. It’s practically hidden between the refrigerator and the door. And that kid!”

  Brian threw the car into reverse and backed down the long driveway, dirt flying in all directions. “I always told you there’s no such thing as a free lunch—in this case, breakfast. At least the kid didn’t get our last name. We have to get those paintings and get out of here fast. Dermot’s not the only one who realizes the artist’s potential. I wonder who else has her paintings hanging on their walls around here.” He tore down the road. “Let’s drive by our girl’s house right now, just to make sure we know where it is. She won’t be home until four, but I’m getting anxious. You have the directions, right?”

  Sheila dug them out of her purse.

  Ten minutes later they found the cottage, which stood alone off the winding country road. A cluster of trees surrounded it. “There’s smoke coming out of the chimney,” Sheila said. “I thought that—”

  “Let’s ring the bell and see if she came home early,” Brian interrupted. A minute later they were knocking at the door.

  A wild-eyed Margaret Raftery answered, huffing and puffing. She still had on the gray dress and white apron that was her uniform at Hennessy Castle.

  “Hello, Margaret. We saw the smoke in the chimney and thought you might be home,” Sheila explained. “We’re here to pick up our paintings.”

  “Forget your paintings! I just finished ripping them to pieces! They’re burning in my fireplace at this very moment!”

  “What?” Brian thundered. “We paid you!”

  “You can have your seven hundred euros back. I have it all here for you!” She turned and ran from the door.

  They quickly followed Margaret inside her tiny cottage. Brian raced over to the fireplace where giant flames were hungrily licking the shredded paintings. Before his eyes the canvases curled up and turned to ash. “Why did you do this?” he cried. “Why?”

  “I don’t want to be cursed by May Reilly. I should never have copied her special lace pattern in my paintings! It was wrong, I tell ya. It was wrong! And to take money for the paintings was a sin! You should never have asked me to.” She pulled crumpled bills out of a piggy bank and threw them in the air. “Get out of here!” Margaret spotted the mug with the Raftery crest that Sheila and Brian had recently sent her. She ran over, grabbed the mug from the shelf, and flung it into the fire like a woman possessed.

  “I resent that!” Sheila said. “We gave that to you out of the kindness of our hearts.”

  “Hmph,” Margaret protested. “When I met you last November at Hennessy Castle, I thought you were such a lovely couple. I told you I’d designed the decal for the Fun Run that you had on your dresser. You made me feel so good when you said you loved it. So I gave you one of my paintings. Now you’ve ruined my life.”

  Brian’s face was turning beet red. Sheila was afraid he might have a heart attack.

  “We want your paintings,” he said to Margaret, his voice shaking. “We don’t want our money back. We made a deal with you. A deal’s a deal.”

  “I don’t care about your deal!”

  The sight of her fast-talking young American stockbroker husband from Arizona trying to discuss deals with a superstitious older woman from rural Ireland was making Sheila light-headed. This was a nightmare. They’d never be able to pay back Dermot anytime soon, and he’d find out they had lied to him. He would definitely ruin their lives. She did the only thing she could think of to get this woman’s sympathy.

  She fell to the floor in a faint.

  12

  Down in their cottage by the sea, Hon and Sweetie both took long hot showers, washing their hair that had been matted down by the wigs and getting rid of all the traces of their old-age makeup. Wrapped in white terry cloth robes, they lay down on their four-poster bed, exhausted. Neither one of them had slept all night, and now, as the high of pulling off another job was starting to wear off, they were both ready to crash.

  “Even though these jobs are fun, they’re stressful,” Bobby said quietly. “I’d love it if we could go to a health club this afternoon and work out, but it’s not a good idea to be seen too much in public places.”

  Anna shrugged. “Yeah. But it’s nice that at least we can run on the beach and along the cliffs, and enjoy the Irish seaside while we’re here. Think of all those great health clubs at the hotels we’ve stayed in all over the world. We’ll be working out at another one of those clubs soon.”

  “We have to figure out where to go next,” Bobby said as they both drifted off. When they woke a few hours later, they were still tired but knew they wouldn’t be able to sleep again until the evening. They were in that half-awake, half-asleep zone that makes people miserable.

  “You want me to make blueberry pancakes?” Anna asked groggily.

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t get too enthused,” she said.

  “I’d be delighted to have your delicious blueberry pancakes. The thought of them makes my mouth water.”

  “That’s better.”

  The cottage was small but charming, having been refurbished before they bought it. The kitchen, dining area, and lounge were all part of the main room, with a large hearth fireplace at one end. Bobby turned on the television while Anna went to the kitchen. She put on the kettle, poured pancake mix into a bowl, and was reaching in the refrigerator for the milk and eggs when Bobby called out to her.

  “Come here!”

  Anna hurried over. A picture of Hennessy Castle was on the screen. The anchor was reporting on the theft of the valuable historic tablecloth and the fire that had been deliberately set. “We’ll continue to follow the story,” the anchor assured the audience. He turned to his coanchor. “Hopefully those thieves will be caught and—”

  Bobby pressed the mute button.

  “Where’s the suitcase with the tablecloth?” Anna asked, her hand on her hip.

  “It’s still in the car.”

  “We should bring it inside.”

  Bobby grimaced. He was stretched out on the couch. He knew she meant that he should be the one to get it. “I’ll go outside later. Who’s going to steal a suitcase from our car? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Somebody like us,” Anna said. “We’re willing to steal anytime, anywhere.”

  Grunting, Bobby got up from the couch. He opened the front door and went out to the car in his bare feet. He rushed back in a moment later. “It’s gone!”

  “What?” Anna cried.

  “Just kidding.” He turned and went back outside.

  “You’re such a riot,” Anna muttered, her heart beating fast. She and Bobby had recently watched one of those shows about life in a woman’s prison. It wasn’t a pretty picture. Sleeping on a bunk bed? Wearing an orange jumpsuit? What was really sobering was that one woman was in for eight months for stealing $15,000 worth of jewelry. With all the jewelry she and Bobby had stolen, they’d be locked up for a hundred lifetimes. If anyone connected them to the theft of the Hennessy Castle tablecloth, the jig would be up.

  Maybe trying to embarrass Jack Reilly wasn’t such a great idea after all. They certainly didn’t get any valuable jewelry out of it.

  Bobby came back in, unzipped the suitcase, and removed the tablecloth. “This is a beauty,” he said, starting to unfold it. He whistled. “It would make a great Mother’s Day present. It’s way too big for Mom’s dinette table, but she’d figure something out.” He laughed. “She can bring it to the bingo hall. The table there could handle this baby. B-12,” he called out. “O-75…”

  “She’s not going to get the tablecloth,” Anna snapped. “We’re not removing it from here ever.”

  Bobby looked up at her. “What’s with you? You said before that we should sell it. I’m just kidding about my mother. We haven’t even seen her in more than a year.” He laughed his annoying laugh. “I think she secretly suspects we work for the CIA.”

&nb
sp; Anna stirred the pancake mix. “What else is she going to think with our lifestyle? My mother thinks I married an international consultant. I retired from doing makeup to travel the world with my man.”

  “You did.” Bobby gently placed the tablecloth on the couch. “It’s hard to believe this is nearly two hundred years old. You don’t want to try to sell it?”

  “We should just burn it in the fireplace,” Anna said. “Get rid of the evidence.”

  “I knew we should have turned off that prison show,” Bobby said flippantly.

  Anna opened the refrigerator again, pulled out a bowl of blueberries, and dumped them in the pancake batter. Then she greased the frying pan.

  Two minutes later they were sitting down to steaming plates of pancakes and freshly brewed cups of tea. They had become avid tea drinkers since they bought the cottage.

  “These look like the best pancakes you’ve ever made,” Bobby teased, trying to lighten the atmosphere, as he smothered them with butter and syrup. Like an actor in a commercial he broke off a piece of pancake with his fork, placed it in his mouth, and with an exaggerated expression of delight, bit down hard.

  “Owwww!” he cried.

  “What?” Anna yelled.

  Bobby reached into his mouth and pulled out a small pebble. His mouth agape, a cap on one of his front teeth fell out and landed on his plate, making a slight tinkling sound before it slid into the syrup. Now he really started screaming. “Owwww! He picked up the cap. “It’s cracked! And the air is hitting my tooth. It’s so sensitive!”

  “Oh my God!” Anna cried, leaning in toward him. “That’s not a tooth anymore. It looks like a fang! They shaved it down to a stub! We’ve got to get you to a dentist!”

  “Where did that pebble come from?” Bobby screamed, holding his finger to his mouth.

  “I don’t know. It might have been mixed in with the blueberries.”

  May Reilly’s tablecloth was across the room. And somewhere out there May Reilly was smiling.

  13

  Regan’s parents, Nora—a best-selling suspense novelist—and Luke—owner of three funeral homes in New Jersey—were finishing up a late lunch at Neary’s, an Irish pub on East Fifty-seventh Street in New York City, owned by their dear friend Jimmy Neary. Jimmy was the consummate host to everyone who walked through the door. He had emigrated from Ireland more than fifty years ago and eventually opened his restaurant, a place that became known for its convivial atmosphere and delicious comfort food.