The passengers, all of whom had enjoyed an unforgettable trip, joined in song.
“We’ll drink a cup of kindness now. . . .”
The voyage of the Santa Cruise had come to an end—and a new year was about to begin.
Simon and Schuster
proudly presents
I HEARD THAT SONG BEFORE
By Mary Higgins Clark
Scribner
proudly presents
LACED
By Carol Higgins Clark
I Heard
That Song
Before
by
MARY HIGGINS CLARK
Prologue
My father was the landscaper for the Carrington estate. With fifty acres, it was one of the last remaining private properties of that size in Englewood, New Jersey, an upscale town three miles west of Manhattan via the George Washington Bridge.
One Saturday afternoon in August twenty-two years ago, when I was six years old, my father decided, even though it was his day off, that he had to go there to check on the newly installed outside lighting. The Carringtons were having a formal dinner party that evening for two hundred people. Already in trouble with his employers because of his drinking problem, Daddy knew that if the lights placed throughout the formal gardens did not function properly, it might mean the end of his job.
Because we lived alone, he had no choice except to take me with him. He settled me on a bench in the garden nearest the terrace with strict instructions to stay right there until he came back. Then he added, “I may be a little while, so if you have to use the bathroom, go through the screen door around the corner. You’ll see the staff powder room just inside it.”
That sort of permission was exactly what I needed. I had heard my father describe the inside of the great stone mansion to my grandmother, and my imagination had gone wild visualizing it. It had been built in Wales in the seventeenth century and even had a hidden chapel where a priest could both live and celebrate Mass in secrecy during the era of Oliver Cromwell’s bloody attempt to erase all traces of Catholicism from England. In 1848 the first Peter Carrington had the mansion taken down and reassembled stone by stone in Englewood.
I knew from my father’s description that the chapel had a heavy wooden door and was located at the very end of the second floor.
I had to see it.
I waited five minutes after he disappeared into the gardens and then raced through the door he had pointed out. The back staircase was to my immediate right, and I silently made my way upstairs. If I did encounter anyone, I planned to say that I was looking for a bathroom, which I persuaded myself was partially true.
On the second floor, with rising anxiety I tiptoed down one carpeted hallway after another as I encountered a maze of unexpected turns. But then I saw it: the heavy wooden door my father had described, so out of place in the rest of the thoroughly modernized house.
Emboldened by my luck in having encountered no one in my adventure, I ran the last few steps and rushed to open the door. It squeaked as I tugged at it, but it opened just enough for me to squeeze through.
Being in the chapel was like going back in time. It was much smaller than I’d expected. I had pictured it as similar to the Lady Chapel in St. Patrick’s Cathedral, where my grandmother always stopped to light a candle for my mother, on the rare occasions when we shopped in New York. She never failed to tell me how beautiful my mother had looked the day she and my father were married there.
The walls and floor of this chapel were built of stone, and the air I was breathing felt damp and cold.
A nicked and peeling statue of the Virgin Mary was the room’s only religious artifact, and a battery-lit votive candle in front of it provided the only dim and shadowy lighting. Two rows of wooden pews faced the small wooden table that must have served as an altar.
As I was taking it all in, I heard the door begin to squeak and I knew someone was pushing it open. I did the only thing I could do—I ran between the pews and dropped to the ground, then ostrichlike buried my face in my hands.
From the voices I could tell that a man and a woman had entered the chapel. Their whispers, harsh and angry, echoed against the stone. They were arguing about money, a subject I knew well. My grandmother was always sniping at my father, telling him that if he kept up the drinking there wouldn’t be a roof over his head or mine.
The woman was demanding money, and the man was saying that he already had paid her enough. Then she said, “This will be the last time, I swear,” and he said, “I heard that song before.”
I know my memory of that moment is accurate. From the time I could understand that, unlike my friends in kindergarten, I did not have a mother, I had begged my grandmother to tell me about her, every single thing she could remember. Among the memories my grandmother shared with me was one of my mother starring in the high school play and singing a song called “I Heard That Song Before.” “Oh, Kathryn, she sang it so beautifully. She had a lovely voice. Everyone clapped so long and shouted, ‘encore, encore.’ She had to sing it again.” Then my grandmother would hum it for me.
Following the man’s remark, I could not hear the rest of what was said except for her whispered, “Don’t forget,” as she left the chapel. The man had stayed; I could hear his agitated breathing. Then, very softly, he began to whistle the tune of the song my mother sang in the school play. Looking back, I think he may have been trying to calm himself. After a few bars, he broke off and left the chapel.
I waited for what seemed forever, then I left, too. I hurried down the stairs and back outside, and, of course, never told my father that I’d been in the house or what I had heard in the chapel. But the memory never faded, and I am sure of what I heard.
Who those people were, I don’t know. Now, twenty-two years later, it is important to find out. The only thing that I have learned for certain, from all of the accounts of that evening, is that there were a number of overnight guests staying in the mansion, as well as five in household help, and the local caterer and his crew. But that knowledge may not be enough to save my husband’s life, if indeed it deserves to be saved.
LACED
by
CAROL HIGGINS CLARK
Monday, April 11th
1
In a remote village in the west of Ireland, a light mist rose from the lake behind Hennessy Castle. The afternoon was becoming increasingly gray and brooding as clouds gathered and the skies turned threatening. Inside the castle the fireplaces were lit, providing a cheery warmth for the guests who were already anticipating a wonderful evening meal in the elegant eighteenth-century dining room.
The massive front doors of the castle opened slowly, and newlyweds Regan and Jack Reilly stepped out onto the driveway in their jogging clothes. They’d arrived on an overnight flight from New York, slept for several hours, and decided a quick jog might help alleviate the inevitable jet lag.
Jack looked at his thirty-one-year-old bride, touched her hair, and smiled. “We’re in our native land, Mrs. Reilly. Our Irish roots lie before us.”
Anyone who saw the handsome couple wouldn’t have questioned those roots. Jack was six foot two, with sandy hair, hazel eyes, a firm jaw, and a winning smile. Regan had blue eyes, fair skin, and dark hair—she was one of the black Irish.
“Well, it certainly is green around here,” Regan observed as she glanced around at the lush gardens, wooded trails, and rolling lawn. “Everything is so still and quiet.”
“After last week, still and quiet sounds good to me,” Jack said. “Let’s go.”
Together they broke into a jog and crossed a pedestrian bridge that traversed a stream in front of the castle. They turned left and headed down an isolated country road that the concierge told them led right into the village. The only sound was their sneakers hitting the pavement. At a curve in the road they passed an old stone church that looked deserted.
Regan pointed toward the steepled building. “I’d love to take a look in there tomorrow.”
Jack nodded. “We will.” He glanced up at the sky. “I think that rain is coming in faster than we expected. This jog is going to be quick.”
But when the road ended at the tiny village, a graveyard with darkened gravestones proved irresistible to Regan. A set of stone steps to their left led up to a courtyard where a broken stone wall surrounded the cemetery. “Jack, let’s take a quick look.”
“The funeral director’s daughter,” Jack said affectionately. “You never met a graveyard you didn’t like.”
Regan smiled. “Those tombstones must be centuries old.”
They hurried up the steps, turned right, and stopped in their tracks. The first tombstone they spotted said REILLY.
“This is a good omen,” Jack muttered.
Regan leaned forward. “May Reilly. Born in 1760 and died in 1822. There don’t seem to be any other Reillys here with her.”
“Just as long as there aren’t any named Regan or Jack.”
Regan was deep in thought. “You know that joke my father always tells? The one about how an Irishman proposes?”
“You want to be buried with my mother?”
“That’s the one. It looks like poor May didn’t have anyone, not even a mother-in-law.”
“Some people would consider that a good thing.” Jack grabbed Regan’s hand as large drops of rain started to come down. “Tomorrow we’ll spend as much time as you want here figuring out what went wrong in these people’s lives. Come on.”
Regan smiled. “I can’t help it. I’m an investigator.”
“So am I.”
They didn’t encounter a single soul as they ran through the tiny village, which consisted of a pharmacy, two pubs, a souvenir shop, and a butcher. They wound around and jogged back to the castle where they showered and changed.
At 7:30 they went down to dinner and were seated at a table by a large window overlooking the garden. The rain had stopped, and the night was peaceful. Their waiter greeted them warmly.
“Welcome to Hennessy Castle. I trust you’re enjoying yourselves so far.”
“We certainly are,” Regan answered. “But we stopped by the graveyard in town, and the first tombstone we saw had our name on it.”
“Reilly?”
“Yes.”
The waiter whistled softly. “You were looking at old May Reilly’s grave. She was a talented lacemaker who supposedly haunts the castle, but we haven’t heard from her for a while.”
“She haunts this place?” Regan asked.
“Apparently May was always complaining that she wasn’t appreciated. One of her lace tablecloths is in a display case upstairs in the memorabilia room. She made it for a special banquet of dignitaries who were visiting the Hennessy family, but May got sick and died before they paid her. Legend is that she keeps coming back for her money.”
“Sounds like one of my cousins,” Jack said.
“I don’t blame her,” Regan protested. “She should have been paid.”
* * *
At 4:00 A.M. Regan woke with a start. Jack was sleeping peacefully beside her. The rain had started up again and sounded as if it was coming down harder than before. Regan slipped out of bed and crossed the spacious room to close the window. As she pulled back the curtain, a flash of lightning streaked across the sky. Regan looked down and in the distance saw the figure of a woman dressed in a long black coat, standing on the back lawn in front of the lake. She was staring up at Regan and shaking her fists. One hand was clenching a piece of white material. Could that be lace? Regan wondered.
“Regan, are you all right?” Jack asked.
Regan quickly turned her head away from the window, then just as quickly turned it back. Another bolt of lightning lit up the sky.
The woman was gone.
Jack flicked on the light. “Regan, you look as if you just spotted a ghost.”
Before she could answer, the smell of smoke filled their nostrils. A moment later the fire alarm went off.
“So much for peace and quiet,” Jack said quickly. “Let’s throw on some clothes and get out of here!”
Bernard Vidal
Glenn Jussen
MARY HIGGINS CLARK is the author of thirty-five worldwide bestsellers. She lives with her husband, John Conheeney, in Saddle River, New Jersey.
CAROL HIGGINS CLARK is the author of ten bestselling Regan Reilly mysteries. She lives in New York City. Visit her website at www.carolhigginsclark.com.
Mary Higgins Clark and Carol Higgins Clark are co-authors of three previous bestselling holiday suspense novels: The Christmas Thief, Deck the Halls, and He Sees You When You’re Sleeping.
BOOKS BY MARY HIGGINS CLARK AND CAROL
HIGGINS CLARK
The Christmas Thief
He Sees You When You’re Sleeping
Deck the Halls
BOOKS BY MARY HIGGINS CLARK
I Heard That Song Before
Two Little Girls in Blue
No Place Like Home
Nighttime Is My Time
The Second Time Around
Kitchen Privileges
Mount Vernon Love Story
Silent Night/All Through the Night
Daddy’s Little Girl
On the Street Where You Live
Before I Say Good-bye
We’ll Meet Again
You Belong to Me
Pretend You Don’t See Her
My Gal Sunday
Moonlight Becomes You
Silent Night
Let Me Call You Sweetheart
The Lottery Winner
Remember Me
I’ll Be Seeing You
All Around the Town
Loves Music, Loves to Dance
The Anastasia Syndrome and Other Stories
While My Pretty One Sleeps
Weep No More, My Lady
Stillwatch
A Cry in the Night
The Cradle Will Fall
A Stranger Is Watching
Where Are the Children?
BOOKS BY CAROL HIGGINS CLARK
Laced
Hitched
Burned
Popped
Jinxed
Fleeced
Twanged
Iced
Snagged
Decked
We hope you enjoyed reading this Scribner eBook.
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Scribner
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2006 by Mary Higgins Clark and Carol Higgins Clark
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Scribner Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
Cover image by Debra Lill
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-3802-8
ISBN-10: 1-4165-3802-X
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-4724-2 (eBook)
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