Twanged

by Carol Higgins Clark

  The sight of the CT right there in front of him was almost too much to bear.

  “Chappy Tinka!” he cried. “Chappy Tinka.” His eyes grew moist as he lovingly lifted the fiddle and cradled it in his arms. The bow was in the case. “Too bad we can’t take it now! Should I play, Duke? Should I play it?”

  Duke shifted from one foot to the other. “I think we’d better just take the pictures. They might get back soon.”

  “You’re right. Oh God, you’re right.” Chappy laid the fiddle on the white bedspread, and Duke started snapping away. They turned it over and snapped. They held it sideways and snapped. After Duke used up the whole package of film, Chappy lifted it again as if it were a newborn babe. “Mine, all mine,” he said. “This will bring luck to our theatre, I just know it.”

  He laid it back in the case and had just slid it under the bed when through the open window in the hall they heard the sound of tires crunching up the drive.

  A horrified noise emanated from Chappy’s being. “Move!” he yelled to an equally horrified Duke, who was standing there frozen. “Move!”

  Together they raced down the steps, the pictures in Duke’s hand. They could hear the doors of the red station wagon Chappy had lent the band closing and the guys ribbing each other about golf balls that had ended up in the woods and ponds.

  “Hurry!” Chappy whispered to Duke as they raced across the den. A gust of wind blew up and the door to the basement started to shut. Duke dove and caught it just in time.

  Outside Kieran could be heard saying, “Teddy, when your ball hit the tree . . .” Then he stopped to demonstrate the swing, as the others laughed.

  “Yeah, well,” Teddy replied, “at least I didn’t kill any fish with my shots.”

  Pammy could be heard giggling. “I was surprised to see you guys call it quits after nine holes.”

  Chappy raced through the basement door and down the steps. He turned to look up. “Shut the door!” he growled as Duke grabbed the handle, closed it behind him, and took the staircase in two leaps.

  Upstairs, Kieran unlocked the back door to the guest house, and Pammy and the golfers stepped into what seemed like a perfectly undisturbed room. Chappy made a beeline for the entrance to the tunnel.

  “Don’t you want to stay and eavesdrop?” Duke whispered.

  “NO! There’s plenty of time for that later. We’ve got to get these pictures over to the fiddle-maker right now! LET’S MOVE!”

  15

  BALLYFORD, IRELAND

  Malachy loved late summer afternoons. He loved the gentle light of the sun and the peaceful warm feeling in the air. Sundays were the quietest. He loved to sit outside his cottage and look out on the rolling hills.

  But on this Sunday he was sitting out there feeling a little unsettled. It had been over a week since someone had come in and taken Brigid’s fiddle right off his lap. Now all this talk about the curse and how the fiddle shouldn’t have left Ireland. He was worried about Brigid.

  She had called him so excited when she won the fiddling contest. Now she was out there in the Hamptons to play in a festival and then was going on tour. Everything should be all right, he told himself.

  He walked into his cottage and looked around.

  “A bit untidy,” he said aloud. “I should really clean up.” He started to straighten the piles of papers, then suddenly felt the need for human companionship. He didn’t even have a fiddle around to cheer him up. I’ve got to get a new one, he thought.

  I’ll go into town for a bite and a pint, he decided.

  He wheeled his bicycle out the door and rode on into town, passing numerous sheep and cows along the way. They all looked bored but strangely contented. Malachy loved to pedal and ride. The wind in his face and the feeling of the summer evening made him feel alive.

  Parking outside the one and only pub, he went inside, thinking about Brigid’s birthday party. Was that really only a few weeks ago?

  The bar was humming. A television in the corner was tuned in to a sporting event.

  “Malachy, what can I get for you?” Eamonn the bartender asked. “The usual?”

  “The usual,” Malachy affirmed.

  “You’re looking a little blue, my man,” Eamonn said as he put the Guinness in front of him.

  Malachy shrugged. “I guess I’m a little let-down after the excitement of the party and all.” He sipped the frothy liquid. “Having Brigid’s fiddle stolen didn’t help, either.”

  The bar door swung open, and in walked Finbar, the journalist who had started the stink about Malachy giving away the fiddle in the first place.

  Malachy looked at Eamonn. “More to add to my troubles.”

  Finbar sat at the end of the bar, three stools down from Malachy. He was a wiry, intense little man with flat brown hair plastered to his head. His plain face was ruddy. He was in his forties, and life had not provided too many thrills for him as yet. To many he seemed intent on getting back at people for injustices heaped on him as a child. Whatever the case, when he came a-calling, people looked the other way.

  “Hey, Sheerin,” he said loudly. “Are you going to get your fiddle back from Brigid O’Neill, now that the other one’s been stolen?”

  “None of your damn business,” Malachy said.

  “Well, you should. That fiddle belongs in Ireland. It belongs to all-Ireland fiddle champions. It belongs to the people in this country.”

  “Since when are you the self-appointed chairman of the preservation committee?” Malachy asked gruffly.

  “Hey, bartender, I’d like a drink,” Finbar announced. He pointed to Malachy’s beer. “The same.”

  Eamonn nodded and filled a glass.

  “It doesn’t matter what I say,” Finbar continued. “You should have remembered that that fiddle had a curse on it if it left Ireland. Do you want it on your conscience if Brigid O’Neill has an accident or faces death?”

  Disgusted, Malachy stood up and paid for his drink. “Thank you, Eamonn. I think I’ll be leaving now.” He walked past Finbar without glancing in his direction, out the door, and hopped onto his bicycle.

  The sweet summer evening no longer held any magic for him.

  All he could do was worry about Brigid.

  16

  Things were hopping at the All Day All Night Diner in Southampton. It was Sunday noontime and the usual line ran out the door. Inside it was raucous, with music playing, plates clattering, the air-conditioning humming, and waitresses calling out orders to the cooks. Every few seconds plates were flung on the counter, piled high with an assortment of breakfast specials.

  “I’ll have some French toast, with sausage and coffee.” Chuck snapped the menu shut and handed it with a smile to the waitress.

  “And me,” Brad added, “I’ll take your western omelette with French fries, coffee, and a great big glass of apple juice.”

  “Coming up,” said Lotty, a big fan of their country music station. She always greeted them with a “Howdy, fellas.”

  “Well, I guess we should be eating hero sandwiches, shouldn’t we, partner?” Chuck said when Lotty walked off.

  “You bet,” replied Brad with a big smile. “Last night I went home and slept like a baby. Have your boots dried out yet?”

  “No, sir. They’re in sorry shape. But it was for a good cause.”

  A lone man slipped into a seat at the table next to them.

  “A good cause it was. I wasn’t even thinking of my boots when I jumped into that pool,” Brad said proudly. “When Brigid O’Neill comes on our show tomorrow, we’ll really have lots to talk about.”

  “We sure will, partner. We sure will.”

  Lotty came around and poured coffee in their cups. She handed a menu to the single diner, and when he nodded his assent, she poured him coffee, too. “Be right back to take your order,” she said.

  Brad and Chuck ate their meals in a hurry. They wanted to get over to the radio station and prepare for their big day on Monday. After they left, Lotty came out with the
man’s scrambled eggs.

  “Here you go,” she pronounced brightly.

  “Miz,” he said as he eyed his eggs, “I couldn’t help overhearing those two talk.” He pointed at the empty table. “They have some radio station or something?”

  “It’s new in town,” Lotty responded as she gathered up their dirty dishes. “Country 113. They’re really getting rolling. Tomorrow they’re going to have that new singer Brigid O’Neill on the show. She’s getting real hot.” With that comment, Lotty disappeared around the corner and through the swinging door to the kitchen.

  I know, he thought angrily. It bothered him to hear people talking about Brigid O ‘Neill. She was his, not theirs.

  Those two cowboys were at the party last night, he thought. They were talking like they owned her. Somebody at that party was planning to hurt Brigid, I just know it. I have to get to her and show her that I’m the only one who can take care of her.

  Whatever it takes, I’ve got to do it, he thought as his gaze returned to his meal and he dug in.

  17

  Bettina wiped the sweat from her brow with the white towel that hung around her neck.

  “I’m pleased with your work today,” her trainer, a thirtyish tanned hunk, said to her. “Your abs, quads, and glutes were really responding.”

  “I felt that, too,” Bettina replied, patting her stomach. “This is the area where I need the most work, I think.”

  He nodded solemnly. “I used to have a gut, too.”

  Bettina blinked and looked down at her stomach. “Do you think I have a gut?” she asked with a nervous laugh.

  Looking like a statue in tights, the trainer sighed. In a tone a reporter might use to announce the death of a world leader, he said, “Let’s just say your fat percentage in that area is over the limit of acceptability.”

  Bettina took the news with the grace she had learned to call upon in charm school. Nonetheless the remark made her feel crabby. The endorphins that had been jumping around her body since the workout stopped dead in their tracks. “Okay. See you tomorrow,” she said, closing the door behind him.

  Scowling, she wandered into the kitchen, looking for someone to take it out on. The only thing that greeted her was the sight of an empty bag of Dunkin’ Donuts. Oh yeah, Constance has off today, she thought. Not that it bothered her. Bettina never liked to have much staff around unless they were there to tend to her body, like her trainer or masseuse or hairdresser, or to take care of her soul, like Peace Man. A cleaning crew came in twice a week to dust and vacuum and mop the house. The minute their van pulled up, Bettina would take off to shop.

  Where the hell was Chappy? she wondered.

  “CHAAAAAAAPPPPPPPY,” she called out.

  Silence.

  “CHHAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPY,” she shouted

  again.

  Toenails clicked on the wooden floor down the hall, becoming louder and louder as Tootsie scurried into the room, a little ball of white fur jumping around in circles and wagging her tail. She looked very happy, as if experiencing her own endorphin rush from a workout session for canines.

  Bettina leaned over to pick up her baby. She rubbed her neck. “I said Chappy, not Tootsie, baby. You’re my Tootsie, Tootsie Tootsie Tootsie.” She buried her face in Tootsie’s neck. “Does Tootsie think Mama has a gut?” Bettina asked.

  Tootsie licked her face. “YIP. YIP. YIP YIP YIP,” the little dog answered.

  Bettina bent down and dropped her back on the

  floor. “ CHAAAAAPPPPYYY.”

  She went down the long hall to his study. The double doors were closed. She knocked sharply. When there was no answer, she turned the knob and walked in.

  A tray with coffee cups and donuts was abandoned on his desk.

  Bettina charged over to the bookcase and rapped on it. It swerved open. The helmets on the little shelf behind it were gone.

  “The men’s lounge,” she said under her breath. He must be down with Duke in that dusty old speakeasy, she thought. That place made her itch. Well, at least I don’t have to sit here with his mother and grandmother like I used to in the old days when the three Tinka men would head down there. His grandmother did nothing but yak about the picnic club she’d formed in 1910 and all the fun they’d had. Talk about being bored out of your skull.

  Bettina shrugged. She closed the bookcase, exited the room that her husband sat in to think up ways to waste their money, and bounded up the stairs to her second-floor room. Tootsie joyfully bounced after her. That lady who had nearly drowned was coming over for Peace Man’s session this afternoon, Bettina thought. She wanted to interview her and Chappy sometime this week. Show what a lovely couple they were and all the culture they’d add to Southampton.

  Wouldn’t it make Chappy’s mother spin in her grave? Bettina thought. Me and Chappy written up as the perfect Southampton couple! Bettina laughed out loud as she relished the thought. In her bathroom she turned on the shower that had nozzles firing water from six different directions.

  I’ll show you, Mother Tinka, she thought happily.

  18

  Claudia and Ned were lying side by side in the hammock behind their house in Southampton. The hammock wasn’t facing in the direction Ned thought best for prosperity, but if it were the sun would have been in their eyes.

  They were cuddled up, companionably reading the Sunday papers.

  Clad in an old pair of swimming trunks, Ned was staring at a picture of a movie star’s tastefully furnished living room. It was featured in the magazine section.

  “He’ll never be happy in that house,” Ned grumbled. “How could he? Look at where he put that couch!”

  Claudia, dressed in a pink bathing suit with green buttons, and a matching pink-and-green headband, glanced over. “Put him on the list to send a copy of your book to when it comes out.”

  “He’ll have so much bad luck in that house, he’ll have moved by then.” Disgusted, Ned turned the page. “Until people around here understand how important feng shui is, I’ll never be able to make a decent living at it.”

  Claudia took off her sunglasses and looked into her lover’s eyes. “The movement is growing,” she said. “It takes time.”

  “I guess, pumpkin,” he replied as he took her hand. “It’s just that the woman who fell in the pool tried to make me feel silly about feng shui.”

  “How so?” Claudia asked gently. She knew Ned’s ego was very fragile. He hated being dependent on her to get him jobs. His last specialty had been the fine art of plant watering, and it just hadn’t worked out.

  “She said that sometimes there’s only one good place to put a chair or a couch or a bed. And if that’s the case, is the person doomed to a life of unhappiness?” Ned’s eyes teared up. “I had to tell her yes. What did she do? She laughed.”

  Claudia rubbed his arm. “It takes courage to be a pioneer, honey. Are you sure she laughed at you?”

  “It was a funny noise she made—sounded like a donkey. Like a hnnnn.”

  The phone in their kitchen rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Claudia said. “I should have brought out the cellular phone.”

  Ned held on for balance as Claudia got out of the hammock. He watched as she disappeared into the house. Feeling miserable, he closed his eyes. Vaguely, he could hear her talking.

  “Yes!” she finally yelled in a manner most unlike Claudia. She came running out the screen door. It shut with a bang. “It’s always darkest before the dawn!” she cried.

  “What do you mean?” Ned asked, his interest mildly stirred.

  “That was one of the guys from the country radio station on the phone. They’re having Brigid O’Neill on tomorrow, and they’re going to be talking about superstitions and curses and New Age kind of stuff. They want you to come on and talk about feng shui!” With that pronouncement she jumped on top of him.

  “Baby!” Ned yelled as he stretched his arms heavenward and then encircled them around Claudia’s waist. When she raised her head to kiss him, he
asked anxiously, “Do you know how good their ratings are?”

  19

  Tootling along in the dented Rolls-Royce, Chappy and Duke enjoyed the warm sunshine of a Hamptons afternoon as they cruised over to the home of the unsuspecting Ernie Enders.

  They crossed busy Route 27 and took the back roads to Sag Harbor, about a twenty-minute drive away. As usual the traffic was considerable, but Chappy enjoyed being seen in his Rolls, even if it was only by the person in the car next to him caught in the same traffic jam.

  They passed antique stores, restaurants, and an open field where a tractor was dragging a wag-onload of watermelons. An old graveyard, a garden center, and little brick houses with flower boxes and hedges all contributed to the picturesque countryside.

  They passed joggers and bicyclists out for a little exercise and fresh clear air.

  And of course they passed multimillion-dollar estates.

  “Ah yes,” Chappy reminisced, the memory of holding the fiddle in his arms mingling with pleasant images from his early years. “Southampton is where I belong. Truly. I’ve been spending my summers here since I was a child. . . those days spent playing on the beach with my pail and shovel at the Tinka homestead. Mama and Papa and Grandma and Grandpa. Grandpa wearing his ever-present straw hat and monocle. It was glorious. That’s why when Mother finally died a few years back, I had to knock down the house and build the castle. The memories in the house were too painful and I was all alone.”

  “I thought you said the house was too small.”

  “Well, that too,” Chappy admitted irritably. “And I was anxious to try something different. I still don’t know why the townspeople made such a fuss over the castle.”

  “Because it’s so big,” Duke commented as he turned his head to watch a water-skier skim across the surface of an inlet. “And the other house had been built by a famous architect. You even said it was the only house in the neighborhood that survived the hurricane of 1938.”