Laced

by Carol Higgins Clark

  Regan decided she wouldn’t volunteer that she thought she had seen a ghost, maybe even May Reilly. No need for Gerard to question her sanity. At least not yet. She smiled and said lightly, “Well, if May Reilly isn’t one of our relatives, maybe she’s related to Jack.”

  “Can’t I be related to a friendly ghost?”

  “May Reilly is probably very friendly,” Regan insisted. “She should have been paid for that tablecloth, and that’s why she can’t stay away from Hennessy Castle. She’s standing up for her rights.”

  “Money’s not going to do her much good now,” Gerard reflected. “If she’s a friendly ghost, maybe she’s standing up for someone else who’s being shortchanged. Now, let me take a look at that list of names.”

  21

  “We have a new mission, Robert!” Dermot Finnegan exulted to his long-suffering right-hand man. “You know how I love projects, and this is a winner!” They were in Dermot’s palatial bedroom, busy packing Dermot’s bags for the trip to Ireland.

  After talking to Brian, and fueled by his excitement about the paintings, twice-divorced Dermot had gone online to Google everything having to do with nuns and cloistered convents. He was hoping to find the secret location of his mysterious painter. As he petted the beloved Maltese sleeping in his lap, the only creature on earth who gave him unconditional love, a challenge even for a dog, he’d been fascinated to find mention of a group of nuns from Valos who had fled their convent and took refuge inside a Greek monastery. Their knitting business had been thrown for a loop, and they were one million dollars in debt. No further details were given.

  “Ladies, you should take up painting,” he said, chuckling to himself. “It’s much more profitable.” He looked down at his pet. “Isn’t that right, Poochey?”

  Poochey seemed to agree, momentarily lifting his head.

  Narrowing his search to all things Irish, Dermot had come upon the story of the newly authenticated Claddagh rings and the upcoming auction. A lump had formed in his throat. His mother and father had both worn Claddagh rings as wedding bands. Dermot had cherished the rings after his parents died, keeping them in a special box in his safe. But they’d been stolen in a burglary at his house last year. Thousands in cash and priceless silver had also been taken. But the theft of the rings was what had broken his heart.

  He had planned to pass the rings on to his twin grandchildren on their sixteenth birthday. These days they made such productions about sixteenth birthdays, a modern-day development of which Dermot did not entirely approve. When he was their age, he was working two jobs after school. For his birthday his mother made him his favorite chocolate cake—and that meant the world to him. He had decided that if Sean and Sinead had the Claddagh rings on their fingers, they would always serve as a reminder to them of their heritage and how hard their great-grandparents worked to make a better life. He knew the twins would also expect checks, but this gift was at least a stab at keeping his privileged grandchildren’s feet on the ground.

  The burglary had ruined those plans. And the twin’s sixteenth birthday was just a few weeks away.

  Reading about the auction of the original Claddagh rings, Dermot immediately decided he had to have at least two of them. It was meant to be! He couldn’t believe his luck. He would be the proud owner of masterpieces painted by an Irish nun and original Claddagh rings. I’ll be the toast of every Irish gathering from coast to coast, he convinced himself. People will be moved by the story of my journey back to my homeland to obtain the rings for my grandchildren. I’ll be written up in every Irish magazine as a caring, loving family man.

  Not so deep down, Dermot Finnegan was very insecure.

  Dermot had rushed to call Robert, even though it was the middle of the night, and demanded he come back to work.

  “We have a trip to plan!” he had cried.

  A browbeaten Robert hastily made his way back to chez Finnegan, then called several of Dermot’s friends who were used to Dermot’s eccentricities and happy to drop everything for a free trip to Ireland. He then started contacting hotels in Galway. The best places were booked. Dermot knew that Sheila and Brian O’Shea were staying at Hennessy Castle.

  “Call Hennessy Castle!” Dermot had instructed.

  “Didn’t you tell me they just had a fire?” Robert asked.

  “Just call them!”

  Robert did as he was told.

  At 10:00 P.M. the whole group would gather at a private airport outside Phoenix, golf clubs in tow, where they would board Dermot’s plane and be off to the west of Ireland.

  “Shouldn’t I let the O’Sheas know that we’re coming?” Robert asked.

  “Yes, yes. Right away. Tell them not to leave Ireland with those paintings! I want to see my canvases when I walk through the door of Hennessy Castle. And, Robert, don’t forget to bring your camera!”

  22

  Sheila and Brian were miserable as they waited in the chilly car for Margaret Raftery to reappear. There was no radio, and the heat barely worked. One painting was on the backseat. Six more, and they would be home free.

  It seemed like a long way off.

  Because it was.

  “We can always figure out a way to repay the money,” Sheila suggested, breaking the silence. “We can sell the house, and we could always borrow—”

  Brain hit the steering wheel with his palm. “Dermot won’t want the money. We never should have told him that the paintings were ready and we were on our way to pick them up.”

  “But Margaret told us they were ready when we spoke to her on the phone, and they were. Who could imagine that she would toss them in her fireplace like a lunatic? If I run into whoever stole that tablecloth, I’ll strangle them, I swear I will! If it weren’t for them, we’d be on our way to the airport with the paintings this very minute.”

  Brian winced. “Why would anyone steal a tablecloth?”

  “It’s beautiful, and it was made by a ghost. Adds to the intrigue.”

  “There’s got to be more to it.” Sighing heavily, Brian said, “I shouldn’t have told Dermot a nun did the paintings. There’s no way to explain ourselves out of this mess. Everyone’s going to know we lied.”

  The cell phone rang. It was Robert.

  “Robert, how are you?” Brian asked, trying to sound cheerful. “It’s pretty early in the morning out in Phoenix, isn’t it?…What?…You’re coming to Hennessy Castle tomorrow? For five days? You’re kidding!…Why?…Claddagh rings, huh…. My cousin has one of those…. The paintings?…Yeah, Sister has a touch of the flu, but she’s putting the finishing touches on them as we speak…. I know…. I know how Dermot can be…. We’ll see you tomorrow. Looking forward to it.” He hung up.

  For a moment he couldn’t speak.

  Neither could Sheila. What she had just heard sent her into a panic. Her heart was pounding, and she thought she might really faint this time.

  “Dermot will be here by late tomorrow afternoon,” Brian finally managed to say. “He’s coming to Hennessy Castle. He wants to see the paintings as soon as he arrives.”

  “But…but even if we have all the paintings to give him, how can we keep it a secret from Margaret and the manager of Hennessy Castle? You know what a big mouth Dermot is. We told Margaret we’d figure a way to honor May Reilly with the paintings. What are we going to do?”

  “First, we have to get the paintings, and then we can figure it out.”

  “Any bright ideas?”

  Brian didn’t answer. He looked in the rearview mirror and spotted Margaret hurrying toward the car. She was wiping her face with a handkerchief. “Here she comes now. With no masterpiece under her arm.”

  Margaret pulled open the door and plopped herself on the backseat. “Whew! I’m knackered, I am.”

  “What happened?” Brian asked.

  “Rory was so glad to meet me. What a nice fella. So caring. He insisted I get on the treadmill for twenty minutes to get my heart rate up, then he had me go a round with the weight machines.”

/>   “He what?” Sheila asked.

  “Rory told me that if I wanted to get my painting back, I had to start working out. I told him I get plenty of exercise cleaning Hennessy Castle and riding my bike, but he said I needed to do something called strength training—weights and all.”

  “Well, you have obviously started working out,” Brian observed. “So where’s the painting?”

  “Hanging on the wall of his office. It looks grand. Rory has my decal up there, too. Made me feel good. He said that if I came down to the gym five more times, he’d give me back the painting. By then I might be hooked on exercising. I think I already am. Whew!” She laughed. “Whew!”

  “I don’t think this car will make it down here five more times!” Brian croaked.

  “I’ll take the bus. I warned Rory about the bad luck that painting might bring him, but he said my health was more important. And I need to get out more. My son told me I should make new friends. It gets so lonesome up there in the cottage all by myself.” She fanned herself with her hand. “I’m sweating.” She reached into her pocket, but it was empty. “I just had my handkerchief. I must have dropped it. Let me have a look outside.” She tried to open the back door, but it wouldn’t budge. With a sense of renewed vigor, she flung her body against it. The door flew open and she fell out, facedown, onto the street.

  And started to scream.

  “Oh my God!” Sheila cried. She and Brian both hopped out of the car and helped a hysterical Margaret to her feet. Blood was trickling from her nose and mouth.

  “I told you I had a dream last night that my tooth fell out!” she said, gasping for breath. Gravel and dirt were stuck to her face. Blood stained her hands. “I think one of my teeth was knocked loose!” She reached up and touched her front tooth. A large piece of it broke off in her hand. “Oh, no!” she screeched. “I’m going to die! I’m going to die!”

  “No, you’re not going to die!” Sheila insisted as she hurriedly pulled tissues out of her purse. “Give me your tooth, and I’ll wrap it up. Hold the rest of the tissues against your gum. We’ll get you to a dentist.”

  “She might not need a dentist—” Brian started to say, but Sheila gave him a withering look.

  “I’ll get in the backseat with Margaret,” Sheila told him firmly, putting her arm around the portly, sobbing woman. “Come on, Margaret, let’s get in the car. You’ll be fine.”

  “I’m…all…bloody!” Margaret protested as she started to ease into the backseat.

  Brian glanced over, saw the painting that was just inches from the injured Margaret, and, like a shot, raced around to the other side of the car. He pulled open the other back door and rescued Margaret’s artwork before it became flecked with blood.

  “So…much…bad…luck!” Margaret cried through the wadded tissue in her mouth. “I’m going…to die.”

  “No, you’re not!” Sheila said. “Do you have a dentist?”

  Margaret shook her head. “He…passed away…a couple…years ago.”

  “There must be someone around here we can go to. Maybe Rory knows of someone. If we call the gym, do you think you’ll be able to talk to him?” Sheila asked urgently.

  “I…guess…so.”

  Sheila dialed the number for the gym and asked for Rory. She then handed the phone to Margaret, whose eyes were bulging out of her head. Margaret pulled the bloody tissue out of her mouth. Her breathing was uneven. “Coach…do you…know of…a dentist around here…I could…see right away?”

  “Now?” Rory asked. “What happened? When you left here a couple of minutes ago, you were in good shape.”

  “I fell…in the street. I’m with some friends. They’ll take me to a dentist, but we don’t…know any…around here.”

  “Oh, Margaret, what a bugger! I’m so sorry,” Rory said. “I do know a wonderful fella who will fix you up right away. He and his mother just started coming to the gym. His name is Dr. Daniel Sharkey, and his office is a few blocks away. I’ll call ahead and tell them you’re on your way.”

  23

  “The Fun Run was a good idea,” Gerard said as he took the piece of paper from Jack and read the three couples’ names. “We have so many events for the hard-core runners in this town, it makes sense to finally have a race that isn’t competitive.”

  Regan smiled. “I think Rory’s made it his life’s mission to get everyone he meets on the road to exercising.”

  “He has his work cut out for him then, doesn’t he?” Gerard asked with amusement. “I have to give him credit. He’s very sincere, and I know how hard he worked getting this race launched. He talked about the Fun Run nonstop for months, all over town, practically shaming people into signing up. Louise and I would have been there, but we were on holiday in Dublin that weekend.” Gerard paused, held up the list, and read the names to himself, silently moving his lips.

  “They’re the only people registered for the race Rory couldn’t identify,” Jack said. “Except for the one couple who signed up at the last minute and illegibly scribbled their names.”

  Maybe they’re authors, Regan thought with slight amusement, thinking of a couple of her mother’s writer friends whose signatures were nothing more than a squiggle. If it weren’t for their name splashed across the cover of their books, you’d never guess in a million years what the signature inside stood for.

  “Hmmm,” Gerard murmured, squinting at the list. “Eamonn and Donna Byrne, Joe and Josie Cullen, Brad and Linda Thompson. None of these people are familiar to me, either, but we’ll do some checking. One of the young interns here at the radio station covered the race. He goes to the university and works with us part-time.” Gerard pressed a button on his phone. “Would you ask Michael to come to my office?”

  “Right away,” a young female voice responded.

  Regan leaned forward in her chair. “It just seems that if Jane and John Doe had the decal from the race on one of their bags, they must have been in the race. The decals weren’t for sale, and Rory says they barely had enough to give to everyone who ran the race.”

  “And even though they’re thieves, the decal is hardly something they would have bothered stealing,” Jack added.

  “I bet they didn’t even realize the decal was on their bag when they checked into Hennessy Castle,” Regan said. “If they go to all that trouble to disguise themselves, they certainly wouldn’t want to have anything on their property that would in any way identify them.”

  “It’s the little details that often trip up criminals, isn’t it?” Gerard asked. “After all their grand planning.”

  “You’re right,” Regan answered.

  There was a tapping on Gerard’s open door. Regan and Jack turned around. A young kid who looked all of nineteen was standing in the doorway. He had curly sandy hair, a quick smile, and a certain eagerness. “Hello,” he said. “Gerard, you wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, Michael.” Gerard introduced Regan and Jack.

  Michael’s eyes lit up. “I’ve heard so much about you,” he said to Jack. “You, too, Regan.”

  Jack looked at him quizzically. “You have?”

  “Indeed. On Gerard’s show last week he was talking on and on about you coming to Ireland for your honeymoon and your job in New York and the crimes you both have solved. Your jobs sound so interesting!”

  I’m not crazy, Regan thought. I got one of those feelings this morning that my grandmother always talked about. Gerard is the reason that Jane and John Doe knew we’d be here.

  “Keeps us busy,” Jack answered, maintaining his composure. It was one of the many reasons Regan loved him. Jack always remained unflappable when he had every right to lose it—like not wanting his honeymoon plans broadcast over the airwaves of Galway.

  “Hennessy Castle sounded like a great spot to relax,” Michael continued. “Who’d have guessed that thieves would follow you there?”

  And that’s how they knew exactly where we’d be staying, Regan realized. Gerard wasn’t kidding when he said the Irish like to
exchange information. The problem is that Gerard does it sitting in front of a microphone. She looked over at him. He didn’t even flinch. As a matter of fact, he was smiling.

  “Yes, yes,” Gerard said. “I got such a response from listeners who heard me talking about your job, Jack. They really—” He paused and looked at the less-than-thrilled expressions on Regan’s and Jack’s faces. “Ohhhh, goodness, you said you didn’t know how the Does knew you were here. You don’t think they heard about your plans on my show, do you?” he asked, concern on his face but a touch of excitement in his voice.

  Yes, Regan thought. I do.

  “Sometimes when I’m here late at night, I feel as if I’m talking to the wall. That’s why it’s always good to have a guest. People call in, but some nights I think everyone in Galway must be asleep. It’s nice to know people are out there listening, but to think your criminals could have tuned in to my show? My word!”

  Jack shrugged. “Who knows, Gerard? They could have learned about our plans from a lot of sources, I suppose. But it seems odd that they would go to all the trouble of coming to Ireland to embarrass me when the only thing they made off with was May Reilly’s tablecloth.”

  “Don’t let May Reilly hear you say that,” Gerard joked. He adjusted his glasses. “I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. My show is like a late-night chat. I talk about all sorts of things. People call in expressing their opinions, asking questions…As a matter of fact—”

  I can’t take it, Regan thought.

  “—I’d been talking about my niece’s upcoming wedding. Then I happened to mention that you two were coming over, etcetera, etcetera.”

  Those darned etceteras, Regan thought. They’ll get you every time.

  “A woman called in and said she hoped you’d be staying in one of the fine hotels in Galway. I told her you were planning to stay at Hennessy Castle. I guess I shouldn’t have been so specific.”