Twanged

by Carol Higgins Clark

  Not that Chappy wasn’t generous, Arnold thought as he sat down at the antique desk in his office and looked out at the rolling hills of the lush green campus of Welth College. Tinka had made donations to the college even though he was not an alumnus, and he was one of the big sponsors of the Melting Pot Festival. It was just that ever since he had called and insisted that Brigid O’Neill participate in the festival, there’d been problems.

  Brigid O’Neill was a fine singer and a great addition to the schedule, but Arnold had had to do some maneuvering of the lineup for the evening’s entertainment and it had caused trouble.

  Darla Wells was not happy. In fact, Arnold thought sadly, she was freaked out, as his students like to say. Last week when Brigid O’Neill had agreed to come to the festival, it had been Arnold’s unhappy task to inform Darla that the younger, hotter Brigid would be participating in the festival, and Darla would have to cut out a couple of her songs to make time for her. The other three bands, all male and known nationally, had agreed to the changes.

  Darla was a different story. Talented though she may be, at age thirty-five she was still waiting for her big break in the music business. Up till now she’d been plucking her guitar at little out-of-the-way places in the Hamptons, hoping to be discovered. All to no avail. So her husband had cooked up the great idea to make a huge donation to Welth College—but only if Darla got to perform at the festival. Darla figured there’d be plenty of talent scouts in the audience and maybe she’d finally be discovered.

  Well, Arnold thought, she certainly seems to possess the killer instinct you need to make it in the music business. It was definitely on display when I broke the sad news to her.

  Darla knew that at the Melting Pot Music Festival the spotlight would inevitably shine, even when it literally wasn’t on her, on the beautiful, charismatic Brigid O’Neill.

  Darla would be the only local act at the festival, a festival that had started out small a couple of years ago and now was celebrated grandly, even receiving national coverage. Arnold had always secretly congratulated himself on that. It had been his idea to throw a fund-raising concert on the lawn of the college during the summer, when it seemed that the world was out in the Hamptons. Find a cause that the Hollywood types like to get into, like the wetlands or whatever, and make it a recipient of the evening’s profits. Throw in a little publicity, stir, and what do you get?

  One of the most exciting events of the summer.

  Given the generosity of Darla’s husband, why did he risk her wrath? Because Chappy Tinka donated more money to the college than did Mr. Wells.

  Arnold Baker had to do some serious juggling. Trying to keep both families happy was an impossible task.

  Now Brigid O’Neill was all over the paper and the radio. He’d caught part of her interview on the car radio this morning.

  His secretary buzzed him.

  “Yes, Dot,” he said.

  “I have a package here for Brigid O’Neill.”

  “Bring it in.”

  The gleaming wood door opened and Dot sauntered it. She’d been with Arnold since Day One at the college, and a more loyal secretary you couldn’t find. Fifty years old, with a rounded girth and a practical air, the adjective that came to mind about her was sensible. Students waiting outside President Baker’s office to speak with him were always comforted by her motherly presence; she’d raised four children of her own. Her husband was an electrician, and the two of them had known each other since her family had moved to Sag Harbor when she was in the sixth grade.

  She was holding a small box wrapped in brown paper. Black lettering spelled out Brigid O’Neill’s name and WEALTH COLLEGE.

  Dot put it down on her boss’s desk. The package sounded as if it had kernels of corn rattling around inside. “Whoever sent it can’t spell, but they’re not too far off the mark, are they?”

  Arnold raised an eyebrow and looked up at her. “There’s no address on this.”

  “It didn’t come through the mail. Apparently it was left outside the door over the weekend. One of the security guys just brought it to me. He thinks it probably was left by that same crazy gardener who came to last year’s concert. He left boxes of vegetable seeds for all the singers.”

  “Okay,” Arnold said. “I think I’ll take a ride over to Tinka’s at lunchtime. I’d like to welcome Brigid O’Neill to town, seeing as I wasn’t on the guest list for the other night.”

  “Did you get a look at the paper?” Dot asked as she pushed back her glasses on her nose.

  Arnold nodded.

  “I hope the festival is as exciting as Mr. Tinka’s party,” Dot deadpanned.

  I don’t, Arnold thought. I really don’t.

  24

  Bettina sat on a lounge chair on the deck off the master bedroom, staring out at the ocean. Tootsie was cuddled up to her surgically enhanced right breast, busy licking her mama’s neck and right ear. It was tough on Tootsie; she could never seem to get to the other ear. A cellular phone was always in the way.

  The Hamptons News was on Bettina’s lap.

  Chappy had brought her a copy and then run back out into town to do God knows what. He was acting so neurotic lately. Even more than usual. Ever since we got back from Ireland, she thought.

  Bettina scratched her leg and gave Tootsie a little kiss. As her eyes skimmed her toes, she made a mental note to summon the pedicurist. She then looked down at the picture of Louisa Washburn spitting up water and smiled. Hilda Tinka must be rolling in her grave, she thought.

  She’s got a lot to roll in her grave about these days, Bettina mused happily. Hilda had always thought of herself as so Gatsbyesque. When she wasn’t playing canasta or going to a polo match, she’d been there to bug Chappy. And Bettina, for as long as Bettina had lasted during her first marriage to Chappy. Which hadn’t been long. This time I’m staying till the fat lady sings, Bettina thought wickedly. She laughed aloud as she stared at the picture.

  A picture like this taken at Hilda Tinka’s estate just wouldn’t do! Hilda had orchestrated so carefully all those prim-and-proper family pictures taken of everyone in their Sunday finest. She’d even once asked Bettina to step out of a shot.

  “Mother, I’m married now!” Chappy had cried.

  But Hilda had prevailed and gotten the picture of Chappy alone with his parents and grandparents.

  Bettina sat there and wiggled her feet. She wished that Peace Man was giving sessions this week. It always relaxed her.

  Why was Chappy acting so neurotic lately?

  He couldn’t possibly be unhappy with her. She’d been on her best behavior for nearly a year now.

  I’ll just have to keep closer tabs on him, she decided.

  25

  Everyone thinks you can have everything when you’re rich, Darla Wells fumed. And it’s just not true!

  The brown-haired, doe-eyed singer with the cute little body was sitting in the primo chair of her hair colorist at his exclusive salon, Wendell’s, in East Hampton, reading the Hamptons News. Actually she was staring at the picture of her arch enemy, Brigid O’Neill. The one who made it necessary for Darla to cut down the number of songs she would sing at the concert.

  Wendell appeared from the back storeroom where countless bottles of dye and solutions and peroxide and conditioners were all lined up, just waiting to do their magic on the heads of anyone willing to pay through the nose.

  Dressed in black pants and a black collarless shirt, his ever-mournful expression set firmly in place, Wendell solemnly approached the chair and planted his hands on the crown of Darla’s head.

  “What do we want to do today, darling?” he asked.

  Darla looked at the reflection of his heavy-lidded, jowly, tanned face, surrounded by a cap of dark wavy hair. He was somewhere in his fifties, and everyone in town agreed that a more natural-looking dye job was hard to find on a man of that age.

  “Highlights,” Darla answered shortly. “The usual.”

  Wendell nodded ever so slightly, then
looked down at the paper on Darla’s lap.

  “Ohhhhh. Brigid O’Neill is marrrvelous,” he said. “She’s got such a faaaaabulous head of hair. What I wouldn’t give to get her in this chair.” With that pronouncement he disappeared into the back room.

  Inside her about-to-be-highlighted head, Darla seethed. I hate her, she thought. I just hate her.

  Two hours later Darla exited the salon. She yanked open the door of her Mercedes-Benz sports car, reached in, and grabbed Brigid’s CD off the passenger seat. Flinging it on the ground, she crushed it with her spiked heels.

  “That’s what I think of your singing,” she muttered under her breath.

  26

  After breakfast, Regan and Brigid stopped in the village of Southampton to run a couple of errands. They got back to the Chappy Compound at Eleven-thirty.

  A battered gray sedan was waiting on the street outside Chappy’s Castle and pulled into the driveway behind them.

  When Regan and Brigid got out of their car, two boys who looked to be about seventeen or eighteen jumped out of the jalopy. Clad in sunglasses, baseball caps, college T-shirts, and baggy shorts, they smiled and waved.

  “Brigid O’Neill,” one of them called amiably as he hurried toward the women. He was tall and bony, and wore braces on his teeth. A tape recorder and a notebook were in his arms. A small backpack was flung over his shoulder. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

  The driver, stocky and tanned, shut his door and stood there shyly.

  “Hello,” Brigid said, smiling.

  “Can I help you?” Regan asked immediately.

  “I hope so,” the tall one replied. “My name is Phil, and this is my buddy Nick. We’re in high school out here and I work on the school paper. We heard Brigid on the radio this morning and thought we’d take a chance at coming over and seeing if you’d give us a quick interview.” He grinned at them, his braces sparkling in the sun, his nose shiny. “It won’t take long, I promise. It’ll be awesome to have an interview with Brigid O’Neill all ready for the paper when school starts. All of my friends are coming to your concert.”

  Regan glanced over at Brigid.

  “I don’t mind,” Brigid said.

  Regan looked back at Phil. He seemed so young and eager. “Do you have an ID?” she asked.

  “Huh?” he answered, looking embarrassed. “I don’t have my license yet.”

  Brigid touched Regan’s arm. “It’s okay,” she said. “It’ll be fast.” She motioned them to follow her. “Let’s go inside.”

  The guest house felt cool, and there was a note on the table that said the others had gone golfing.

  “We can do the interview right here,” Brigid said. She sat on the couch, the fiddle case next to her.

  Phil settled himself close to Brigid. Nick took a seat in a chair nearby.

  “Regan,” Brigid asked, “that bacon made me so thirsty. Would you mind getting me a glass of water?”

  “Not at all.” Regan turned her back and walked over to the refrigerator. I hope they make this fast, she thought as she reached in to pull out the bottle of ice water. Little did she know how fast they intended to make it.

  “What are you doing with that rope?” Brigid asked suddenly. The fear in her voice was unmistakable.

  “We have to tie you both up,” Phil said quickly. “We’re not going to hurt you. We just want the fiddle.”

  Oh God, Regan thought. She’d had a weird feeling about these two, an instinct she should have followed. Time to stop these boys. She reached down, pulled her pistol out of the sack tied at her waist, and spun around. While Phil was starting to tie up Brigid, Nick was heading toward Regan. “Hold it right there,” she said.

  The expression on Nick’s face was priceless. “This was his idea!” he cried, pointing to Phil. “He thought we could look up the lady who called the radio station wanting to buy the fiddle. Or else we could find somebody else who would want it.”

  “Shut up, Nick,” Phil squealed as he dropped the rope in his hands.

  “I should have known something was up when you didn’t take off your sunglasses when you came in here. Did you really think you could get away with this?” Regan asked.

  “We weren’t going to hurt you,” Phil protested.

  “Just tie us up,” Regan said sarcastically. “And hopefully not give us rope burn. Brigid, why don’t you get up and make room so these two buddies can sit together on the couch until the police arrive?” She gestured with her gun to the couch. “Nick, have a seat.”

  He almost tripped over his feet in his urgency to obey her.

  “I’ll call 911,” Brigid said in a greatly relieved tone. She stood up. “You boys are off on the wrong track in life.”

  “We really like your music, Brigid,” Phil said in what sounded like an effort to make amends.

  “Then you shouldn’t have tried to steal my fiddle. I like to make music with my fiddle.”

  Regan shook his head. “Boys, I suppose you’re not on the school newspaper here in the Hamptons, are you?”

  They both mumbled a negative response.

  “Something tells me you don’t even live out here at all. Who’d be stupid enough to try a stunt like this and live nearby? But I did notice that your car had New York plates.”

  “It’s a Rent-a-Heap,” Nick moaned. “We’re here on vacation from Nebraska.

  27

  The wail of sirens pierced the ocean air as two police cars sped into the Chappy Compound for the second time in less than forty-eight hours.

  Chappy and Duke were returning from a trip to Saks, where there’d been a sale on men’s bathing suits. Since Chappy liked to take a two-minute dip in the ocean every morning and afternoon, his one concession to exercise, he collected bathing suits like Peace Man collected crystals.

  Chappy also had begrudgingly agreed to go to the car wash with Duke.

  “Oh all right,” he’d said. “As long as we’re out. But I don’t know what I’m paying you for!”

  Now, as they rounded the bend and caught sight of the commotion, Chappy screamed, “What’s going on?”

  Duke shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “Well, step on it.”

  Duke pressed down on the gas pedal and the Rolls-Royce sailed into the Compound. Duke kept going past the police cars parked at odd angles by the guest house—lights flashing, doors open, radios squawking—and drove around the circle in front of the castle. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Chappy screeched.

  “After the car got dented, you told me to always pull it all the way around and out of the way.”

  “AGH! STOP!”

  Duke slammed on the brakes, and the car lurched to a stop. Chappy unbuckled his seat belt just as Duke started to back up.

  “STOP!” Chappy screamed as he was thrown forward, “LET ME OUT!”

  Duke stepped on the brakes again.

  Chappy fumbled with the door, jumped out, and went running to the guest house as Bettina, carrying Tootsie in her arms, scurried across the pool area in the same direction.

  “I’m here!” he cried. “I’m here.”

  “Oh, Chappy,” Bettina said breathlessly, grabbing his hand as they covered the rest of the ground to the door of the guest house together.

  Inside two police officers were handcuffing the intruders. Another was questioning Regan and Brigid.

  “What happened? What happened?” Chappy demanded. “Is everyone all right?”

  Brigid answered. “We had a little excitement. It seems these two”—she pointed to the baby-faced criminals who were now being led out to the patrol car—”wanted to play cops and robbers with my fiddle.”

  Chappy’s eyes almost popped out of his head. “What?”

  “We feel terrible,” Bettina declared, her hand still holding Chappy’s with a firm grip.

  Tootsie barked her agreement.

  “I’m so lucky I had Regan here,” Brigid said.

  Regan shrugged. “I’m just glad everything’s okay. I shouldn’t have
trusted those two. It’s just that I’ve been around my mother so much when school kids want to interview her at book signings. We never think a thing of it. They usually act sweet and shy. Like those two.”

  “Who are they?” Chappy asked urgently.

  The young sandy-haired patrolman signed. “A couple of kids who aren’t too bright. They heard someone offering big money for the fiddle on the radio this morning. They thought if they could get their hands on it, they’d be able to turn it over and make a quick buck. Miss O’Neill and her fiddle have been in the news a lot lately. Unfortunately the perceived value of that fiddle is all too inviting to the lowlifes of this world.”

  Chappy tsk-tsked and clucked his agreement. “How disgusting.”

  “Terrible,” Bettina reiterated. “Terrible.”

  “Hey, what’s going on?”

  Regan turned. Kieran was standing in the doorway, his expression troubled as he looked straight at Brigid. Regan could see Hank and Teddy and Pammy following him.

  The police officer quickly explained to him what had happened. “Crazy kids,” he concluded.

  Kieran hurried over to Brigid and put his arms around her. “When I saw the police cars I got so afraid. Are you okay?”

  Brigid nodded and smiled and leaned her head against his chest. Regan could see a chemistry between them that she hadn’t noticed before.

  Kieran reached over and grabbed Regan’s hand. “Thank you, Regan,” he said simply.

  “Hey, that’s why I’m here.”

  “What’s going on?” Pammy asked as she stepped into the room. Her expression was less than thrilled.

  Kieran dropped his arms and turned to her. “It’s okay now. The trouble is over.”

  No, it’s not, Regan thought. It looks like it’s just beginning.

  Brigid quickly explained to Pammy what had happened.

  “Well well,” Chappy said. “Look who else is here.”

  Arnold Baker, the immaculately attired president of Welth College, appeared in the doorway. He was holding the small brown package addressed to Brigid O’Neill.