Twanged

by Carol Higgins Clark

  Regan and Kit had just gotten back from vacationing in Ireland a few weeks earlier. And here I am leaving again, Regan thought. But she and Kit always planned an adventure together every year, and this time it had been Ireland in June. Now that her parents had the house in Bridgehampton, the week of the Fourth of July seemed to be a good time to take her other vacation of the summer.

  Regan sipped her coffee and stared at the framed prints depicting the coats of arms of both the Regan and Reilly families, which had recently been added to her eclectic collection of wall hangings. Regan had bought them on the bus tour she and Kit had taken of the Ring of Kerry, a tour that made frequent stops at the souvenir shops that had sprung up around just about every bend of what was otherwise a most rural Irish route. The prints were hung next to the window; Regan felt it an appropriate spot, since the Regan family motto was “The hills forever,” and under the Reilly crest, black lettering urged “With fortitude and prudence.”

  The phone next to her began to ring, jarring her back into the present. Quickly she grabbed it.

  “Regan Reilly,” she practically chirped, leaning back slightly in her orthopedically correct chair, a chair that tilted and swayed and was guaranteed to maneuver in almost any direction as it conformed to her body. Regan thought that, considering what she’d paid for it, it should also take her to lunch.

  “Ah, Regan, it’s Austin. How’re ye keepin’?”

  Regan smiled. It was her young Irish neighbor. He’d moved into her apartment complex six months before, coming to Los Angeles from Ireland to pursue a career in comedy. When he found out that Regan was going to vacation in Ireland, he’d insisted she visit the West and attend the birthday party his family was having for his American cousin “Brigid the singer” at the local pub in their little village. “I’m still adjusting to being back from Ireland, Austin. Your family was so great. They sure know how to throw a party. Thanks again.”

  “Ah, they enjoyed having you there, Regan. That’s actually why I’m calling.”

  “Really?”

  Austin cleared his throat. “You haven’t heard anything about what’s been going on with Brigid this week?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Regan said quickly, picturing the beautiful green-eyed, redheaded dynamo whose singing and fiddle-playing at her party got everyone dancing, including some on the bar. Regan knew that after her birthday bash Brigid had been going directly back to Nashville to get ready for the tour to launch her debut album. Austin had said her record company was pulling out the stops; after her hit single, they were expecting the album to take off.

  But Austin’s tone sounded worried.

  “Well, first of all, she was at Fan Fair last week.”

  “What’s Fan Fair?” Regan asked.

  “An annual five-day celebration in Nashville. Country music singers meet their fans,” he explained hurriedly. “Mobs of people there. There are concerts and parties. The stars sign autographs for hours. On the last day they have a big fiddling contest.” Austin paused, then announced with pride, “Brigid won.”

  “That’s fantastic,” Regan said. “I’m not surprised. When she and Malachy played together at her party, it was incredible.”

  “Well, she won the contest with Malachy’s famous fiddle,” Austin informed her.

  “Malachy’s fiddle?”

  “He decided to give it to her for her twenty-fifth birthday. The day after the party.”

  “Wow,” Regan said slowly, thinking of all the talk at the party about the celebrated fiddle. “He gave it to her for keeps?”

  “Yes. He said he was getting old and she should have it now.”

  “So Brigid won with it. Talk about the lucky fiddle!”

  “Well,” Austin elaborated, “lucky and unlucky. A few things have happened since.”

  “What?”

  “A journalist in Ireland looking for a story is making a big stink, saying the fiddle should have never left the country. He’s blowing it up to being a national treasure. He unearthed this whole story about there being a curse on it if it leaves Ireland. But get this, Regan. Someone walked right into Malachy’s home last Saturday night when he was sleeping. They stole a fiddle off his very lap, probably thinking it was the famous one. Actually, it was Brigid’s. She insisted on swapping when Malachy gave his to her.”

  “Talk about a thief with bad timing.”

  “Indeed. Now everyone back at home is arguing about the fiddle and the curse, and she’s starting to get incredible publicity here in the States about the whole business.”

  “Well, her album is coming out. That can only help the sales,” Regan said practically.

  “True. Now the latest is she’s been invited with her band to play at the Melting Pot Music Festival on July Fourth in Southampton. Have you heard of it?”

  “Of course!” Regan replied. “It’s a benefit they’ve had for the last couple of years at a college in the Hamptons. It’s quite a scene.”

  “Well, it just came up. Some guy in the Hamptons saw her on TV. He’s involved with the festival and he’s loaded. He got in touch with Brigid and invited her and the band to come up for the week, all expenses paid, to stay at his guest house and perform at the festival.”

  “That’s a great festival for a new band. It gets a lot of hype,” Regan said.

  “That’s what Brigid figured. The guys in the band agreed to it and are bringing their golf clubs. It’ll be a nice little break before they start their tour, which will be fairly grueling.”

  “Brigid must be pretty happy,” Regan responded.

  “Indeed. But there is a problem. That fiddle is getting so much attention, it’s like she’s traveling with the crown jewels.”

  “And fame always attracts weirdos.”

  “Exactly. She called me the other night and read me a threatening letter that had been left for her at Fan Fair, which shook me up quite a bit. I told her, between that and someone stealing the fiddle from Malachy, things were getting a little scary.”

  “Is Brigid upset by it?” Regan asked.

  “Yes, but not as much as we are. She’s too excited about going on tour to give it much thought.” He paused. “We were wondering, would you have any interest in taking on the job of being her bodyguard out there for the week? She liked you, and I know you’re headed there anyway. My family is a bit concerned and would like to have the peace of mind that someone was looking after her. Brigid didn’t want to ask you herself. She feels a bit silly about the whole thing and knows that you’re going out there to be on vacation. . . .”

  Regan hesitated, then thought of how much fun Brigid had been the night of her party. This would certainly be an adventure. “I’ve always wanted to be a groupie, Austin. Maybe this is my chance.”

  Austin laughed. “Thanks, Regan. This will make us feel so much better.”

  “I’m glad,” Regan said, remembering Brigid’s mother, the fiftyish blonde glowing with pride when Brigid had sung at the party. “Should I call Brigid, then?”

  “I’d like you to speak to her manager, Roy, to make the financial arrangements. Let me give you Brigid’s number so you can give her a call, too. She’s on the tour bus on the way to New York from Branson, Missouri.”

  “What was she doing in Branson?”

  “Her band did a couple nights of shows there, replacing someone who had to cancel concerts. They figured they might as well take the job, since they were traveling anyway. Brigid’s pretty ambitious. She’s willing to work as hard as she needs to in order to make this album fly.”

  “Good for her. By the way, where is this guy’s house we’ll be staying at?”

  “Oh, yes. Let’s see. I wrote it down right here. Chappy’s Compound in Southampton.”

  “Chappy’s Compound!” Regan exclaimed. “That’s where Kit’s house is. Apparently there are old servants’ quarters he’s renting out to her group. I’d be spending time there anyway!”

  Austin laughed. “Perfect, then! I guess it’s Mr. Chappy who inv
ited them. He sounds like a good fellow . . . so generous . . . very different from the usual sort you find about.”

  “Right,” Regan answered. But somewhere in the back of her mind she recalled Kit saying something about the whole setup being a little bit strange. “Mr. Chappy certainly sounds unusual,” she said with conviction.

  5

  SATURDAY, JUNE 28

  As the tour bus rumbled onto the Long Island Expressway, Brigid O’Neill looked out the window and smiled. It was great to be back in her home state, near where she’d grown up. And she was headed for the ocean, where she had spent many a summer day in her childhood.

  Raised in Brooklyn, Brigid and her parents used to go to Rockaway Beach in the summertime. They’d loved to ride the rough waves onto the shore, feeling the salt water washing over their bodies and pulling them in. Then they’d laugh over the unbelievable loads of sand that somehow found its way into every inch of their bathing suits. At night they’d go to Playland and ride the roller coaster and the bumper cars and eat cotton candy. Her father had usually ended up carrying a sleepy, sunburned Brigid back to the car. On these and other family trips Brigid and her father used to sing together. They’d make up crazy songs as they drove along.

  They were Brigid’s happiest memories.

  Sometimes it didn’t seem like that long ago, and other times it felt like another lifetime.

  Her father had died when she was thirteen. Her mother had decided that the best thing for them would be to go to Ireland for the summer and spend it with her family. They’d ended up going there every summer, leaving as soon as Brigid got out of school and her mother finished teaching the third grade. It was when and why Brigid had gotten to know Malachy so well.

  Brigid sighed. Daddy, I wish you were here to see me sing, she thought wistfully. On a big stage with an audience—not in the car! Smiling, she picked up the guitar next to her and started strumming. He had such a sense of humor, she was sure he’d have gotten a kick out of the lyrics to “If I’da Known You Were in Jail.” Or the song she’d written about one of her old boyfriends: “I miss you, baby,” she began to sing. “I miss the burned toast you served me in the morning. I miss the cheap wine you poured me at night. You had a way of blocking my vision so I couldn’t tell left from right. Oh yeah, baby . . .”

  Jeez, Brigid thought as she plucked on her guitar. In the seven years she’d been in this music business, she’d run into all kinds of nuts. She’d had to put up with so many sleazes, schemers, and con artists, when all she wanted to do was sing and play!

  Fueled by a desire to make music that was practically a life force for her, she had sung wherever she could get her hands on a microphone. She’d warbled at firemen’s picnics, in people’s garages, in bowling alleys, and in what seemed like every little pizza-and-beer joint within one hundred miles of civilization.

  And now people were lining up to buy tickets to her show!

  She patted the case on the seat next to her. The case that held the fiddle, the case that she kept close by at all times. I’ve got to keep my eye on this, she thought. It’s not everyone who gets her mitts on a legendary fiddle that helps her win contests. And after the theft at Malachy’s cottage, it’s obvious at least one person is out to get it. Brigid’s body shivered ever so slightly.

  Thank you, my man Malachy, she thought. Ever since she’d gone on the air with the fiddle after the contest at Fan Fair, things were popping. Ticket sales for the tour had picked up, radio stations were playing her hit single more frequently, and she’d been invited to the Melting Pot Music Festival. Publicity was begetting publicity. It was the kind of boost every entertainer dreams about!

  But deep down inside she had a little bundle of nerves that jumped around when she thought too much about having in her possession a piece of wood that attracted so much attention. Then there was that Irish journalist who was creating such a stink about the curse and how it shouldn’t have left Ireland. Unfortunately Brigid was Irish enough that she couldn’t dismiss the curse completely.

  It’s okay, she thought as she strummed on her guitar. I’ve got Regan Reilly coming along to keep an eye on things this week.

  Farther east on the same highway, Regan Reilly woke up in the backseat of her parents’ car. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “I guess I was really out,” she said.

  Nora Reilly, a petite blonde, turned around from the front seat. “Welcome to East Coast time, darling.”

  Silver-haired, six-foot-five Luke, his eyes on the road as he drove, smiled. “I got home from the parlor, you woke up from your nap, got in the back of the car, and fell asleep again. So, how have you been?”

  Regan laughed. “Fine, Dad.”

  Luke grabbed the newspaper on the seat next to him and handed it back to Regan.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “I was just showing your mother. We get the Irish Tablet at work because we advertise in it.”

  “I thought you only advertised in the church bulletin. Isn’t the Tablet printed in New York?”

  “Death is everywhere,” Luke declared. “This newspaper has a big readership among the Irish community in the entire New York area. I picked it up this morning and look what I found on the front page.”

  Regan quickly read the article that named Brigid O’Neill as being the recipient of a treasured, mythical fiddle that should do nothing but help her burgeoning musical career. However, it also hinted at potential trouble ahead for Brigid:

  Legend has it that it was made in the last century from the wood of an enchanted tree that was especially dear to the fairies and was cut down by mistake. The fairies were angry but were placated when the wood from the tree was used to make this fiddle and they could enjoy its music. They said they’d place a curse on anyone who took it away from their Emerald Isle, thereby depriving them of its music. Any such person would have an accident or face death.

  But whatever the legend, Miss O’Neill now has many people who are angry at her. There’s a call for her to honor her Irish heritage and pass it on to a musician in Ireland. Needless to say, she should guard that fiddle with her life. There are more than a few people who would like to get their hands on it.

  Regan looked up. “You’d think she had run off with the Blarney Stone.”

  Nora frowned. “An accident or face death? Maybe she should give it back.”

  “Mom, it’s a superstition. As Brigid said to me on the phone, Malachy called her and wants her to keep it. He said that it was his to give, and she’s about as Irish as you can get, even if she wasn’t born there. He just wants her to be careful.”

  Nora sighed. “That’s where you come in.”

  Regan nodded. “That’s why she wants me around with her this week. Between the fiddle and the letter, it’s better if there’s someone looking after her. Besides, we’ll have fun.”

  “I suppose,” Nora said hesitantly. “You know, Regan, it actually works out that you’re not staying with us this week.”

  “What do you mean?” Regan asked as she folded the newspaper.

  “Now maybe you can stay next week instead. When you’re finished your job.”

  “Mom, why does it work out that I’m not staying with you this week?”

  “Well, you’ll never guess who’s coming out for a few days.”

  “Cousin Lou?”

  “No.”

  “Cousin Pete and the munchkins?”

  “No.”

  “Louisa Washburn and her boring husband, Herbert?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “MOM! They’re America’s houseguests.”

  “But they’re both so bright,” Nora said earnestly.

  “That’s your adjective for everyone who’s boring.”

  “She called the other night to set up a dinner date and mentioned they were staying in the City over the holiday week. They’re looking forward to seeing you, Regan. Louisa’s decided to write an article about the Hamptons. She’s done so much fact-checking for magazines over
the years, she decided to try a little writing herself.”

  “I like them,” Regan said. “But not for days on end. Once they arrive, they do tend to stay. And stay and stay and stay.”

  Luke looked in the rearview mirror and winked at his daughter.

  An hour later they exited the Long Island Expressway, took Route III to Route 27, and eventually found themselves driving through Main Street in Southampton. They kept going and finally located the Chappy Compound, whose backdrop was the sparkling waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

  Luke pulled between the opening in the hedges and through the gates where a sign greeted them:

  WELCOME TO CHAPPY’S COMPOUND GROUNDBREAKING WAS BEFORE YOU WERE BORN

  “Good to know,” Regan commented after reading the sign aloud.

  Luke drove slowly as the three of them looked leftward and took in the sight of the mammoth mansion perched in a spot overlooking the sea at the end of the long driveway. It was obviously built to resemble a castle, but it looked like the kind you’d see in an amusement park.

  “My God, how . . . vulgar,” Nora whispered, letting out her breath.

  “Not exactly a shanty in old shanty town,” Luke observed.

  “Or a little cottage by the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea,” Regan offered.

  “I like the idea of a castle, but this one looks so new and fake,” Nora said.

  “It takes a few hundred years for castles to develop the lived-in look,” Regan noted. “Kit told me that Chappy built the castle a couple of years ago on the foundation of his mother’s old house, which he tore down after she died. He then renamed the place Chappy’s Compound.”

  “His poor mother,” Nora said.

  Regan looked around at the grounds, which included a circular drive in front of the castle, an expansive, probably sodded front lawn all set up for a game of croquet, and, along the sweeping right side of the property, an attractive rambling cottage that was more traditional—a weathered, shingled number that looked as though it would have made a sea captain happy. Farther out by the water was what looked to be a guest house.