Laced

by Carol Higgins Clark

  “I’ve gotten to know a lot of the people on this list, and if any of them turn out to be international jewel thieves, I’ll eat my hat.”

  “Jane and John Doe are both probably in their forties,” Jack said. “We could start by eliminating anyone on this list who is very young or much older.”

  “Let’s see,” Rory said. “Colleen Adams. You can cross her out. She’s about twenty-five. She had a baby and couldn’t lose the weight, so she joined our race and ran pushing her baby’s pram. It was too funny. That girl is looking good now. She’s down ten kilos since the race.”

  This could take all day, Regan thought.

  “Billy McFadden,” Rory continued. “He’s a young whippersnapper about twenty. At the beginning of the race he slapped his unathletic friend on the arse to get him started, then sprinted out of sight. A real showoff.”

  Regan could tell Jack was trying his best to be patient.

  “If we could just quickly go through the list,” Jack said gently. “The Does are an average-looking couple, probably in their forties. They’re masters of disguise, so we don’t even know what color hair either of them had when they ran the race or what they might have done to change their appearance. They could have paraded around that day as older people for all we know. I see some of the same last names here. Can we check to see if any of these people are married or have the same address?

  Twenty minutes later they had narrowed the list down to five couples whom Rory did not know personally and who had registered the morning of the race. He tapped the keys on his computer. “One of the couples signed up at the very last minute, but their signatures were indecipherable,” he said. “They didn’t give their address.” He looked up. “The race was about to begin, and people were in a hurry to get to the starting line.”

  “That might have been them,” Jack said, obviously disappointed. “They wouldn’t have wanted to give you their names. What can you tell us about the other four couples who signed up at the last minute?”

  Again Rory tapped the keys of his computer. “One couple was staying at the Galway Bay Hotel.”

  “That could have been them,” Regan said quickly. “What are their names?”

  “Sheila and Brian O’Shea.”

  “Sheila and Brian O’Shea?” Jack and Regan said at once.

  Rory looked up. “You know them?”

  “There’s a couple staying up at the Hennessy Castle named Sheila and Brian O’Shea. We met them last night when we had to leave the hotel because of the fire. They said they live in the States and have an Irish memorabilia business. It couldn’t be them,” Regan said.

  “We saw them this morning,” Jack told Rory. “Jane and John Doe had already checked out.” He turned to Regan. “We’ll have to talk to them.”

  “And the other three couples?” Regan asked Rory.

  “None of them gave addresses. But I’ll print out their names for you. Donna and Eamonn Byrne, Josie and Joe Cullen, and Linda and Brad Thompson.”

  “They could have been tourists as well,” Regan said. “At least it gives us something to start with. Who was signing the runners in that day? Maybe we can talk to them and see if they remember anything about these people.”

  “Clara was in charge of that.”

  “Who’s Clara?” Regan asked.

  “The girl at the front desk.”

  Oh, great, Regan thought. I’m sure she’ll be a fountain of information. “We’ll talk to her on the way out,” she said. “And we’re visiting my cousin Gerard Reilly today. He has a radio show here in Galway—”

  “Gerard Reilly!” Rory said. “Of course I’ve met him. He has the late-night radio show. I’ve been trying to get him into the gym for ages, but he’s stubborn. He needs to work out!”

  “Oh,” Regan said, concern in her voice. “I haven’t seen him in several years.”

  “He looks all right,” Rory said quickly, “but he admitted he doesn’t exercise much. Tell him to come and see me.”

  “I will,” Regan promised. “What I was going to suggest is that we go over this list with him.”

  “I’m sorry if I wasn’t helpful enough.”

  “You were!” Regan insisted. “Having this list is terrific.”

  “You’ve been a great help,” Jack acknowledged, handing Rory his card with their cell phone number. “We’ll probably call you again, but if there’s anything you can think of, anything unusual you remember about anyone who was in the race, please let us know. We both can’t thank you enough. You’ve been a great help to us already.”

  As Regan and Jack started to walk out of his office, Regan turned. “Rory, there is one more thing. You don’t by any chance have an extra decal, do you?”

  Rory’s face lit up as he pulled open his desk drawer. “I certainly do!” He handed it over. “Isn’t it just too funny?”

  15

  Margaret and Brian raced over to Sheila who was sprawled on the cold stone floor, her eyes closed. Margaret bent down and pulled one of Sheila’s eyes open. “You’ll be fine, and you know it,” she said with a scowl. “I’ll make you a cup of tea, then I want the two of you out of here. It’ll be bad luck for me if I don’t at least show you a little Irish hospitality.” She hoisted herself to her feet and headed to the kitchen.

  Brian was kneeling next to Sheila, holding her hand. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “You were better in the fifth grade play. We’re going to have to try a different strategy.” He pulled her to her feet.

  “I do feel woozy,” she protested as she stood up and sought to regain her balance.

  “Baby, my stomach’s killing me,” Brian said mournfully, patting his midsection with his large right hand that still sported the ring he had been awarded for playing on a winning college football team.

  “Can’t I ever feel sick without you feeling sick, too?” Sheila asked impatiently as she took in her surroundings. The cottage was fairly dark with old stone walls, simple furnishings, and several horseshoes hanging on the wall. The hearth where the paintings met their demise seemed unusually large. The fire was dying down, having devoured the artwork, and the room felt chilly. A small television set was resting on a table against one wall. It looked exactly like the rural cottage living rooms you see in picture books about Ireland. “I need to sit down,” Sheila said.

  They sat together on the narrow couch. Both of them were trying not to freak out. They had poured all the money Dermot had given them into Sheila’s fledgling Irish memorabilia business. They had a warehouse outside of Phoenix packed full of key chains, trinkets, and china plates bearing every Irish name you could think of. And their hoped-for Saint Patrick’s Day spike in sales had never happened.

  Brian was secretly blaming Sheila. They had put all their money into the business she started.

  Sheila thought that if Brian had been truthful on the night of the fund-raiser and not lied about where they got the painting, they wouldn’t be in this mess.

  A few minutes later, Margaret was back in the room, mumbling to herself as she carried a tray containing a teapot, three cups and saucers, teaspoons, sugar, and milk.

  “You are so kind,” Sheila said feebly. “I was so upset.”

  “You’re upset?” Margaret spat as she poured their tea. “I gave you back your money. What’s the big deal? You don’t have the ghost of May Reilly after you.”

  We’ll have the real-life Dermot Finnegan after us, Brian thought. No ghost could be worse.

  “May Reilly?” Sheila said. “Why is May Reilly mad at you?”

  “It’s my fault her tablecloth was stolen!”

  “What?” Brian asked. “When was it stolen?”

  “Where have you two been? Under a rock? Weren’t you at Hennessy Castle this morning?”

  “We got up and left early. There was a lot of commotion, but we didn’t stop to see what was going on.” Brian paused. “We were so excited about picking up the paintings.”

  “Don’t aggravate me!” Margaret said as she sl
urped her tea. “I’m in charge of keeping that memorabilia room in shipshape. Late yesterday afternoon I noticed that the lock on the door was a little loose. I should have reported it. When they closed up the room last night, they didn’t notice, I guess. Then sometime during the night the tablecloth was stolen. Probably around the same time I dreamt a tooth fell out of my head.”

  “You had a bad dream?” Sheila asked sympathetically.

  “Bad dream? If you dream a tooth falls out of your head, it means you’re about to die—or someone close to you is about to die. When I went to work this morning and realized the tablecloth was stolen, I knew it meant me! May Reilly is going to make sure I die soon.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t do that,” Sheila said.

  “How do you know? She’s mad at me. I modeled the lace design in my paintings after the design on her tablecloth.”

  “You did?”

  “You saw her tablecloth at the castle. Didn’t you notice that the design was exactly the same in the painting I gave you?”

  “No. All we noticed was how beautiful the painting was,” Brian explained. His stomach was really hurting.

  “You didn’t look closely then. I thought you were crazy about that painting! The lace in my paintings has little castles on it, not your usual shamrocks or flowers. That’s what May had on her tablecloth. She created the design especially for Hennessy Castle. My mother told me I should never have taken a job there!”

  “We didn’t notice because there’s so much to love about your work—” Sheila began.

  “The fairies blessed May with talent. I tried to take a little piece of it and call it my own. I shouldn’t have done that. It’s stealing! Maybe not exactly like taking something out of her hands, but I never gave May credit for what she created! And the dead are very possessive of what was theirs,” Margaret said vehemently. “They come back to claim it!”

  Brian swallowed hard. “I wouldn’t say what you did was exactly stealing,” he said as if to convince himself.

  “Yes, it is! It’ll be a cold day in hell before I pick up another paintbrush!”

  “But Margaret,” Sheila said, “the fairies have blessed you with incredible talent. You won that decal contest. You’re an artist. It’s a sin if you don’t put your God-given talents to work.”

  “My husband didn’t think I was any good.”

  “He’s dead now, isn’t he? Sheila asked.

  “Five years next Tuesday.”

  “Then you don’t have to listen to him anymore. And he was wrong. You are a wonderful artist. You should continue painting.”

  Brian had aced Problem Solving 101 in college. What he really wanted to do was strangle this woman. But he didn’t need to have taken that class to know that that wasn’t a solution for this mess. He had to either get Margaret to paint new paintings or find out how many other canvases were hanging on people’s kitchen walls that they could somehow get their hands on. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together earnestly. He remembered that communication was the key to problem solving.

  “A friend of yours just cooked us breakfast,” he said softly to Margaret.

  “Who?” Margaret asked, adding more sugar to her tea.

  “Philomena.”

  “You ate at Philomena’s?”

  “The pharmacist sent us there. Philomena cooked us breakfast, and her grandson interviewed us for a school project.”

  “That kid is a pest.”

  Sheila laughed. “We noticed your painting on the wall, and Philomena just adores it.”

  Brian interrupted, putting his hand on Sheila’s so he wouldn’t seem so rude. “Did you give paintings to other friends?”

  “I gave out eight paintings as presents. I’m sorry to say that every single one of them has May Reilly’s design in it. Everything I painted, I gave away.” She pointed to the charred ruins in the fireplace. “This was the only time I had so much art of mine piled up in my house, and quite frankly I was embarrassed.”

  Pushing back an urge to choke the woman, Brian allowed himself to feel slightly optimistic. If they could just get those paintings, then maybe everything would be okay. Heck, if they got all eight, they’d be able to make a little extra cash on the side. They had to deliver only seven paintings to Dermot.

  “Should you try to get those other paintings back?” he asked, treading lightly. “To stop May’s curse?”

  “I gave them to friends. I’d look like a fool asking for them back now.”

  “But couldn’t those paintings bring bad luck to their owners?” Brian asked with the expression of an altar boy. “You say that the dead are possessive. Maybe we should get them back. For May. Then we’ll figure out something special to do with the paintings that would make May happy. I don’t think she wanted you to destroy your beautiful art. We just want to help you.”

  “Why?” Margaret asked suspiciously.

  “Because you seem so…so…” Brian’s voice broke. “You remind me so much of my aunt Eileen. She was such a talented dancer. My uncle Bernie had two left feet. He didn’t dance, and he never wanted her to dance without him.” Brian started to cry. “It was so tragic. She loved to dance, but after she married him, she never got the chance. What a waste.” Tears rolled down his cheeks.

  I can’t believe this, Sheila thought. I always knew he was a frustrated actor, but I didn’t know how convincing he could be.

  “Sheila,” Brian said, barely able to get the words out, “do you remember Aunt Eileen?” He sobbed again, but this time it sounded like a hiccup.

  “Yes,” Sheila said, lying through her teeth. Brian didn’t have an aunt Eileen. “I was there when she died.” Looking over at Margaret, Sheila continued, “On her deathbed she said, ‘When I see Uncle Bernie up in heaven, I hope he’ll finally have learned to dance.’ I told her that she’ll be dancing with the angels.”

  Margaret’s eyes welled up. “She forgave him then.”

  Brian nodded gravely as he wiped tears from his cheeks with his meaty hand. “She forgave him for all those years where she had to sit on the sidelines at family weddings because he didn’t want her to dance.”

  “I suppose I’ve never forgiven Angus,” Margaret said. “Whenever I tried painting, he told me I should be doing something more useful.”

  “Oh, no,” Brian said.

  “Umm-hmmm.”

  “You’re lucky that now you have this chance to paint,” Sheila said. “Poor Aunt Eileen. By the time Uncle Bernie died, her arthritis was so bad she could barely walk, never mind dance. You’re still healthy.”

  Margaret nodded. “But it doesn’t stop May Reilly from being angry at me.”

  “It could. If we get the paintings with her design back, we’ll figure out how to honor her. I bet she doesn’t want to be forgotten. And now that the tablecloth is gone, she could be. I think we’re all afraid we’ll be forgotten when we die. We shouldn’t let that happen to May,” Sheila said, laying it on thick.

  “I don’t want those paintings back in this house,” Margaret replied sharply.

  “Of course not,” Brian said, anguish in his tone. “We’ll round up all the paintings you gave away, and I promise you it’ll all work out. Now, let’s put together a list of the names and addresses of all those who are lucky enough to be your friend.”

  16

  “I look like a freak!” Bobby squealed, examining with horror his filed-down tooth in the bathroom mirror. “Where are we going to find a dentist around here?”

  “Online—where we find everything,” Anna assured him.

  She went to the computer, looked up dentists in Galway, and printed out a list. One by one she called them, but she wasn’t having much luck.

  “The doctor doesn’t have any free appointments until Friday.”

  “Sorry, she’s booked.”

  “The dentist is on vacation.”

  “Have you seen us before?…No?…We can squeeze you in a week from Wednesday.”

  Finally, working her way from A
to Z, Anna called a Dr. Daniel Sharkey. A woman with a frail voice answered the phone. “Dr. Sharkey’s smile center.”

  “Hello,” Anna said. “I wonder if you could possibly help us—”

  “Hold on a second.”

  Anna could hear a television in the background. She waited.

  “Okay,” the woman said, finally resuming their conversation. “What did you want?”

  “We’re visiting Ireland. My husband was eating blueberry pancakes when…”

  At the other end of the phone, the woman sighed as she listened to Anna’s tale of woe. When Anna was finished, the woman again told her to hold on.

  A jarring thud sounded in Anna’s ear. The woman had obviously dropped the phone. Anna tapped her foot impatiently, hoping she wouldn’t be disconnected. This wasn’t what she was used to. Bobby’s caps had been done in Los Angeles by an expensive cosmetic dentist, Dr. Favorman, who tended to the mouths of numerous celebrities. His office had a private entrance for his famous clients, which Bobby discovered, of course, and took advantage of on every visit. As long as Dr. Favorman was paid the big bucks, he was happy. Thankfully, his patients’ private lives didn’t interest him, and his receptionist was always cheerful and courteous.

  “I’m back,” the voice at the other end of the phone rasped. “You have his X-rays?”

  No, you idiot, Anna wanted to shout. Why would we have his dental records with us in Ireland? But she was polite. “Unfortunately, we don’t.”

  “Pity. Dr. Sharkey’s X-ray machine is on the fritz. Come on in, but be prepared to wait. He has an appointment with a patient that hadn’t been to the dentist in twenty years until last week when he graced us with his presence.” She laughed ruefully. “He’d never flossed in his life. And once you start with gum disease, it can kill you. Travels to your heart.”

  This doesn’t sound promising, Anna thought, but she was desperate. Bobby would be impossible to live with until that fang was covered. “Thank you,” she said. “We should be there within the hour.”

  They dressed in blue jeans and sweaters, grabbed their all-weather coats, which was the optimistic way to describe a raincoat in Ireland, locked up the house, and went out to the car.