Twanged

by Carol Higgins Clark

  “Elaine’s. It’s been around for years on the Upper East Side. It’s very hot. It started out as a hangout for writers, but now she gets a lot of different celebrities in there.” Regan laughed again. “Now that you’re a celebrity, it’s high time you showed your face.”

  It was Brigid’s turn to chuckle. “I don’t feel any different. But I don’t want anything to burst this bubble.”

  Regan looked at Brigid’s face. She was so young and hopeful and excited, but Regan also could see a vulnerability under thesurface. “Nothing will, ”Regan said firmly. She only wished she could be so sure.

  Together they walked out, shut the door, and ambled over to Chappy’s house. Chappy, Bettina, and Duke were there to greet them.

  “We feel so privileged,” Chappy cried, “that you are giving us this private recital before you go onstage!”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Brigid said as she pulled the original CT fiddle out of the case. “It’ll get me warmed up.”

  Chappy had led them into the drawing room. Brigid stood in the same spot where she had played last Saturday night. It seemed like ages ago, Regan thought. And in the middle of it, I found Louisa in the pool. Regan inhaled sharply and leaned on the arm of her chair.

  “Before I start,” Brigid commented, holding the fiddle in her arms, “I want to thank you for having us here this week.”

  “We loved it,” Bettina declared.

  “It’s a memory we’ll always cherish,” Chappy insisted.

  Brigid smiled, placed the fiddle against her shoulder, paused for a moment, and then hit it with the bow. The fiddle jumped to life. Joyous, stimulating music filled the room.

  Chappy looked around, smiling, tapping his foot on the floor. Bettina, clad in black stretch pants, a white oversized T-shirt, and low sandals, her arms folded in her lap, seemed to be enjoying it as well. Duke was keeping time by rapping his thighs with his cupped palms.

  When Brigid finished the second song, she took a quick bow.

  Chappy stood up. “Bravo!” he cried. “Bravo.”

  Bettina, Duke, and Regan joined in the applause. Finally Regan stood. “Brigid, we’d better get going. Duke, you’re driving us over there, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said as he got to his feet.

  Brigid leaned down, placed her fabled fiddle back in its case, and snapped it shut.

  Chappy hurried over to her and grabbed both of her hands, shaking them with enthusiasm as she started to straighten up.

  “Marvelous. That was just marvelous.”

  Duke picked up the fiddle and started to walk. “I’ll carry this.”

  “Will we be seeing you at the concert?” Brigid asked.

  “Of course. Of course,” Chappy said. “They have a special place for us to sit. Bettina and I will be driving over a little later, in time for the show!”

  “I’d better start to get ready,” Bettina said. “See you later.” She turned and headed upstairs.

  The others walked out to Chappy’s Rolls. Duke hurried around to the back and quickly opened the trunk. With a flourish Chappy opened the front and back doors of the car for Regan and Brigid. “I’m going to miss you two. This place won’t be the same. I just know I’m going to wake up tomorrow morning and feel as sad as can be.”

  Brigid laughed. “I guess that means you’ll have to invite us back.”

  “Anytime! Please come anytime!”

  “Hey, boss,” Duke called as he shut the trunk, “here’s your golf bag. I forgot to take it out of here.”

  Regan turned to see Duke holding a green-and-white golf bag very high in the air. That’s pretty cheap-looking for someone like Chappy to be toting around the golf courses in the Hamptons, Regan thought. It also didn’t seem to have any golf clubs bobbing around in it.

  “Oh, that!” Chappy cried. “I’ll take it inside. Good-bye, ladies.” His hands fluttering, he ushered them into the car, shut the doors, and walked around to the back, where Duke handed him the golf bag.

  Brigid turned around from the front seat. “Here we go, Regan.”

  “That’s right.”

  Duke jumped in and they sped out of the Compound.

  Louisa, all dressed and ready to go to the concert, was sitting with her laptop, waiting for the others. A pile of pages from Brigid’s Web site was on the couch next to her. She was just about to turn off her computer when she decided to read a couple more letters. May as well keep going until the others are ready, she thought. She pulled up another fan letter on the screen and began to read it.

  “Oh my God,” Louisa murmured. Quickly she pressed the PRINT button on her machine. I’ll have to show this to Regan as soon as we get to the concert.

  Chappy was delirious. He stepped back from the car and waved as it pulled out of the driveway. He turned around and headed into the house, quickly shutting the door behind him.

  Bettina’s upstairs, he thought. She said she wanted to take a Jacuzzi and be ready to leave in an hour. I told her I wanted to have a quick swim. That’s good. I have at least forty whole minutes before I’ll have to run down and get wet, then come back and get changed. Holding the golf bag with both hands, he ran to his study, closed the door, and within seconds had changed into his yellow-and-black bathing suit and disappeared behind the bookshelf. Awkwardly, he scurried down the steps with the golf bag, ran across the basement floor, and opened the door to the men’s lounge. Once inside, he shut it and stood there panting.

  “Thank you, Grandpa, for building this private room!” he blurted.

  He pulled on the string of the lightbulb, and with tender loving care he lifted the fiddle and bow out of the bag. His whole body quivered with delight. We did it! he thought. We did it! Tears filled his eyes. I can’t believe that I’m holding in my arms the legendary fiddle that will bring me good luck. The fiddle that moments ago had filled his house with such beautiful music!

  Chappy looked up impatiently at the lightbulb. It’s so dingy in here; I want to get a good look at this and play for a few moments in the light of day.

  Aha! he thought, almost jumping up in delight. The guest house is free! Everyone is gone! I can go there and play to my heart’s content. Or at least until it’s time to go to the concert.

  He hurried through the tunnel, cradling the fiddle in his arms. “If I were a rich man, diedle diedle . . .” he sang. “I’ll be playing that part with this fiddle, I just know it,” he said, his voice echoing in the tunnel as he scampered through, his feet moving as fast as possible, trying to keep up with the commands from his brain.

  He opened the door to the guest house basement and silently gave thanks that he didn’t have to tiptoe around anymore. He ran across the floor, humming, and up the steps he went. He turned the door handle and pushed. It wouldn’t budge. What? he thought. What’s going on? He pushed again, and the door opened a crack. Huh? Is that the back of the couch? Good God. Who told them they could move the couch? Was there another feng shui specialist in their midst? He threw his weight as hard as he could against the door, but the couch only moved another inch or two.

  “PLEASE!” he groaned. Sighing, he decided to give up. There’s no use throwing out my back. I have the magic fiddle, and that’s all that counts. I’ll have plenty of time to play it later in the light of the guest house. For now I’ll do it in the men’s lounge. He turned around and ran back down the steps, across the floor, and through the door to the tunnel. He resumed his singing as he ran toward Grandpa’s speakeasy.

  Back in the lounge where he had spent many a happy moment, Chappy sat down in his favorite chair, lovingly inspected the initials CT on the fiddle, drew it close to him, and began to play.

  He had no idea that two people were on the other side of the door listening.

  Darla was in her assigned classroom, preparing for her big moment. Each performer had been given a “dressing room” equipped with a couple of comfortable chairs and refreshments. Darla’s husband wasn’t there yet. He’d be coming over soon.

 
; There was a knock at the door. She opened it to find Ned, the feng shui master, with a blond-haired woman next to him. He was holding a large bouquet of flowers.

  “We wanted to wish you the best of luck!” he cried, peering into the classroom. “Would you like me to rearrange those chairs they set up for you?”

  As Duke pulled into the winding road at Welth College, which had been closed off except for special vehicles, a broad smile came across Brigid’s face. The lawn was crowded with concertgoers who were busy with their picnics and socializing.

  “Where do you want me to let you off?” Duke asked.

  “Up on the left near the radio station booth,” Regan said. “Brigid’s supposed to meet whoever won the contest. What are you going to do, Duke?”

  “I thought I’d go have a beer and then come back when it’s time for the concert.”

  He let them off at the top of the hill, near the stage and in front of the administration buildings, where the Country 113 booth was set up. Brad and Chuck were there, clad in their C&W regalia. People were wandering around all over, and music was playing over the sound system.

  A birdlike woman who must have been in her eighties stopped them, putting surprisingly firm hands on both their arms.

  “Well, this is my lucky day—to come face-to-face with country music’s current star. I always wanted to be a singer and you’re just wonderful.”

  “Thank you.” Brigid smiled.

  “And aren’t you Regan Reilly, whose mother writes those books?”

  “Yes,” Regan said.

  “Could I get autographs? My grandson collects autographs.” She fished in her bag for blank three-by-five-inch cards, presenting the first one to Brigid.

  Quickly Brigid signed it.

  “And Miss Regan, would you ask your mother to please—oh dear!” She dropped her pocketbook. Glass cases, a wallet, loose change, handkerchiefs, cough drops, family snapshots, medicine vials, more three-by-five-inch cards, key rings, and a compact were among the many items to scatter on the ground.

  As Regan and Brigid bent to assist with the picking up, Brad from the radio station tapped Brigid’s arm and pulled her back a few feet. “Brigid,” he said. “The contest winner is here, but he’s all upset. He won’t tell us why. We’ve got to calm him down enough to accept the award on the air. We made such a big deal out of it, we’ll look like dopes if we can’t get him to take it. He said he might just go home.”

  “The poor guy,” Brigid said. “Why is he upset?”

  Brad shrugged. “Oh God, look. There he goes.” He pointed to the administration building. A man with a blue baseball cap was coming out and heading for the parking lot. “I’ll go get him.”

  Brigid put a restraining hand on his arm. “Let me try.”

  Look, the lens came out of my reading glasses!” the old lady cried. Her voice was trembling. “Regan, don’t let anyone step on it.”

  Regan could hear Brad and Brigid talking as she felt in the grass for the lens. “We’ll find it,” she said hurriedly. “It can’t be far.”

  I feel like such a baby, he thought as he came out of the building where he’d gone to the bathroom. He wiped his nose and sniffled. There are too many people here. He headed to his car. I’ll put in Brigid’s cassette and blast it. How did I ever imagine I’d be able to get her away from here, too?

  Just then he heard her voice. He turned his head. She was running toward him! Oh my God! She wants me!

  “Hello,” Brigid said breathlessly as she approached him. She was holding a fiddle case. “I hear you’re our contest winner.”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “Will you come with me and accept the award?” Brigid asked.

  I want you to come with me, he thought.

  “Yes, but could I take a picture of you first? My mother won’t believe that I really met you if I don’t get a picture with my camera.”

  “Sure,” Brigid agreed. “Where’s your camera?”

  “In my car. Right here.” He walked the ten feet over to the special space that had been reserved for him, opened the passenger door, and reached in for his camera. He picked it up and turned to Brigid. “Would you mind sitting right in the passenger seat here? Everybody will laugh, thinking that I got Brigid O’Neill to ride in my old car.”

  “Okay,” Brigid answered. She sat down in the car, keeping her feet on the ground and the door open. “Cheese,” she joked.

  “I need a close-up,” he said, leaning toward her. With all his strength, he pushed her back. She dropped the fiddle case as her head smacked against the steering wheel. He forced her feet inside, slammed the door, and ran around to the other side.

  I’m finally taking her away with me, he thought.

  Regan’s hand closed over the eyeglass lens. She handed it to the old lady and looked around. Brigid was gone!

  “Brad, where’s Brigid?” she yelled.

  He turned to her and pointed. “She’s with the guy who won the contest.”

  Regan squinted and saw Brigid getting in the car of a man who had a camera in his hands. As he shut the door and started hurrying around the car, Regan took off like a thunderbolt, sprinting across the lawn.

  “Stop him!” she screamed.

  He was turning on the ignition when Regan reached the car. She yanked open the door and grabbed the keys as people came running.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” she said breathlessly.

  “Go away! I want to be alone with Brigid!” he started to cry.

  It was the guy from the diner! The one who liked eggs. I guess my theory about the eggshells was correct, Regan thought.

  Brigid sat up in the car, rubbing the side of her head.

  “Are you okay, Brigid?” Regan asked.

  “I think so,” Brigid said as she turned and opened her door.

  Ned, Claudia, and Darla had come running out of their classroom when they heard Regan screaming. “He had a special parking space that would have enabled a quick getaway,” Ned declared. “The car was positioned perfectly, facing the exit.”

  “Are you all right?” Darla asked Brigid tentatively.

  “Yes,” Brigid said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I suppose you’re the one who wrote Brigid those letters and bought her that lovely doll,” Regan hissed at the would-be kidnapper.

  “No, I didn’t,” he sobbed.

  “Sure, and you didn’t try to kidnap her either, you creep. Get out of the car.”

  When he got out, Regan spotted Brigid’s cassette on the front seat of the car.

  “I see you like cassettes. You also like to leave mangled cassettes lying around for people to find?”

  “NO!” he cried. “I just want to be with Brigid!” His whole body convulsed with sobs as two security officers handcuffed him and led him away. “I love you, Brigid,” he called out to her. “I heard your song when I was in jail. You were singing it to me, weren’t you? I would never hurt you!”

  A crowd had gathered. Regan took a look at Brigid’s head. “That guy gave you a good wallop. You’ve got a little bump there, just like Louisa had.” I can’t wait to find out if he has an alibi for the night Louisa was pushed, Regan thought. Pushing seems to be his MO. “Let’s get you inside.” She picked up the fiddle case from the floor of the car and put her arm around Brigid for support. They walked the short distance to the steps of the building.

  A distressed Arnold Baker came out the door. “I’ll show you to my office upstairs. There’s a couch in there where Brigid can lie down.”

  A familiar voice called from behind them: “Brigid!”

  Regan and Brigid turned to see Malachy standing there with Pammy.

  “Malachy,” Brigid cried as he reached out and hugged her. “What are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t miss your first big concert. Not for the world. Are you getting yourself into more trouble?”

  “Word travels fast. I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “He was looking for you backstag
e. I told him you were probably in your dressing room and I’d bring him over,” Pammy said cheerfully.

  “Why don’t we walk Brigid inside?” Regan suggested, explaining what had just happened.

  In Arnold Baker’s office, they helped Brigid onto the couch. Pammy put a pillow behind her head. “She needs rest,” she said firmly.

  Regan put the fiddle case down on the floor next to the couch.

  “Hey, Malachy,” Brigid joked. “Maybe that fiddle you gave me really is cursed.”

  “Oh, love!” he replied. “Bite your tongue!”

  Arnold Baker stood there awkwardly. “I’ll leave you here in some peace and quiet. I’ll be out by the stage if I can be of any help. . . .”

  After he departed, Malachy knelt on the floor next to Brigid. He opened the fiddle case and pulled out the instrument. “Let me get a look at my old friend here,” he said. When he picked it up, he looked distressed. He ran his fingers over it. He squinted and held it closer. “This isn’t our fiddle,” he finally pronounced.

  Brigid’s half-closed eyes opened. “Oh, Malachy, don’t even joke like that.”

  “I’m not joking, pet. This is a spitting image, but before I gave mine to you, I carved BON in the tiniest of lettering on the side. You’d barely see it if you didn’t know it was there.”

  “Malachy, I just played it forty-five minutes ago,” Brigid protested.

  “And I played it for more than forty-five years. This feels a little different. If it had your initials on it as well as CT, I might not have noticed. But where are those initials? Could someone have stolen the magic fiddle the way they stole the other fiddle from my house?”

  Regan’s mind was replaying the events from the time Brigid played at the house up to this moment.

  “I believe that whoever tried to steal the fiddle from Ireland was from the Hamptons.” Malachy pulled out his wallet. “Look at what I found in my house. I think it was dropped when the fiddle was stolen.” He handed Regan the slip of paper.

  A green coupon for the Hamptons car wash. The same type of coupon that Chappy collected. The same kind of coupon that Duke and he’d lost a couple of weeks ago. A couple of weeks ago was when Malachy’s fiddle was stolen.