Laced

by Carol Higgins Clark

  “It’s just peachy,” Brian muttered under his breath.

  “Will we be able to get room service?” Sheila asked.

  “Certainly. We’ll be happy to accommodate you.”

  As Sheila and Brian walked through the deserted lounge and down the dimly lit hallway, the castle felt eerily quiet. Gray light filtered through the windows. It seemed as though a pall had fallen over the entire property.

  Inside their room, Brian sat on their bed and put his head in his hands.

  Sheila took a seat at the dressing table facing him. “What are we going to do?” she asked.

  Brian stood, walked over to the desk, and turned on the computer.

  “Talk to me,” Sheila said.

  “I have a plan.”

  Sheila’s eyes brightened. “You do? What is it?”

  “Now I played football in college—”

  Sheila resisted the impulse to roll her eyes. “Yes, I know.”

  “We always had to think about what our opponents might do—how they’d react. Put ourselves in their shoes. Take advantage of their weakness.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Margaret is our opponent.”

  “Right.”

  “She bases her decisions on superstitions and fear.”

  “Right.”

  “Tonight we’re going to scare the wits out of her.”

  “Brian!” Sheila sounded horrified.

  “We have to. But we’ll be nice about it. You’re going to dress as May Reilly and knock on her window when she’s sleeping. You’ll instruct her to get the paintings back from her friends—or else.”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  “No. It’s our only hope. You can’t go into battle without a strategy. Now we just have to get the tools to implement our plan.” He logged onto the computer and tapped in his password.

  Sheila sat there, stunned. “What are the tools?”

  “A wig, a cape—you know, the usual things ghosts are known to wear.”

  “I don’t think there’s a costume shop in the village,” Sheila said sarcastically.

  “I’m sure there isn’t. Let’s just hope there’s one in Galway.” He tapped on the keys of the computer. “Thank God for these search engines.”

  “Brian, did you ever think that we might scare that poor woman to death? It’s possible, you know.”

  “It’s your job to make sure that doesn’t happen. Practice being May Reilly—a firm but benevolent ghost.” He laughed. “Whhoooooahhhhhhhhh.”

  Sheila stood and went into the bathroom, shaking her head.

  Down the road, in the graveyard, another strong gust of wind blew around May Reilly’s tombstone. Leaves fell from the trees and skittered across the ground. A bolt of lightning followed by a crack of thunder pierced the air, and once again it started to pour.

  31

  Clara, sitting at the reception desk of the gym, was bored out of her mind. She had done her nails, read a pile of beauty magazines, and stared out the window. One of the magazine articles gave tips on how to look your best all day at work. After all, so many romances bloomed in the workplace. Not in this workplace, Clara thought. There’s not a prayer Prince Charming will walk through that door.

  Her day had been brightened by the Americans asking her questions about the couple at the Fun Run. Clara and Maebeth had been on and off the phone all afternoon, discussing the man with the weird laugh. It wasn’t unusual. Anytime a thought passed through Clara’s mind that she deemed worthy of a discussion with Maebeth, or vice versa, she picked up the phone. As a result they spoke at least twelve times a day.

  Maebeth worked as a waitress from 6:00 P.M. to midnight, which unfortunately meant there wasn’t much time for chats in the evenings.

  Clara rested her chin on her hand. Was there anything else weird about that couple? she wondered. That laugh was so embarrassing. If my dad laughed like that, I’d die. She was sure that Maebeth would agree. Clara reached for the phone and dialed.

  “What’s new?” Clara asked when Maebeth answered.

  “Nothing. Henh, henh, henh.”

  Clara giggled with abandon. “Wouldn’t you just die if your friends were over your house and your dad started laughing like that?”

  “Totally die.”

  “It would be so exciting if they found those two. Wouldn’t that be the best? We could tell everyone we were part of a criminal investigation. I just wish we knew their names.”

  “I know. All they said was hon…sweetie…hon. I was like, gag me. And remember when she fell? He was laughing and said, ‘Are you okay, hon?’ And she was so mad. She’s like, ‘Yes, sweetie.’ It sounded weird, didn’t it?”

  “I, like, totally forgot about that.”

  “Hon, sweetie, hon, sweetie. Gross.”

  “I wonder if I should call that American guy who was here asking about them.”

  “Why?”

  “To tell them they called each other hon and sweetie all the time.”

  “You think?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ve got to go. My mom’s bellowing to me from downstairs.”

  When Clara hung up the phone, she sat there staring. Why not? she thought. I have nothing better to do. She dug out Jack Reilly’s card from her purse and started to dial.

  32

  On the ride up to Gerard’s house, Jack called Keith and told him to find out everything he could about Anna Hager.

  “She dropped out of sight about eight years ago,” Jack said. “And not long after that, Jane and John Doe fell from the sky.”

  “I will, boss. And I’ve got news for you.” Keith filled Jack in on the post office box in Suffern, New York, where the credit card used at Hennessy Castle was sent, and the jewelry theft at the Nanuet Mall. “It doesn’t sound like their kind of job, but I’m heading up to the Nanuet Mall this afternoon to view the security tapes and talk to the saleswoman who had been showing the couple the necklace.”

  “Find out if he had a strange laugh and if she was sucking on a breath mint,” Jack suggested wryly.

  Keith chuckled. “The head of security told me that the saleswoman is really angry, which is good. Something tells me she’ll have a lot to say.”

  It was a quarter to six when Jack and Regan pulled into Gerard’s neighborhood. They had just parked in front of Gerard’s pleasant-looking house when Jack’s cell phone rang. It was Clara, the receptionist at the Get in Shape gym. Jack listened as she told him about the terms of endearment Jane and John Doe used for each other.

  “Hon and sweetie?” Jack repeated.

  “Yes. I forgot, but my friend Maebeth reminded me.”

  “Thanks, Clara. We believe her name might be Anna. Does that ring a bell with you?”

  “No, but I’ll ask Maebeth if it rings her bell.”

  Jack smiled. “Okay. And thanks again. If you or Maebeth remember anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”

  Jack hung up and put the cell phone in his pocket.

  “Hon and sweetie?” Regan asked as they walked up the path to Gerard’s front door.

  “Our friend Clara says that’s what the couple at the race called each other,” Jack said with a shrug.

  “Occasionally my parents call each other hon and sweetie,” Regan said as she rang Gerard’s doorbell. She smiled. “Maybe they have a secret criminal life. Or maybe Jane and John Doe are just another loving couple.”

  “Maybe Jane and John Doe are just smart enough not to address each other by their real names in public.”

  “Then he should be smart enough to curb his crazy laugh.”

  “You’re right, Regan,” Jack said.

  The door was pulled open. “Welcome!” Gerard cried. “Come in!”

  As Regan stepped into the warmth of Gerard’s living room, she immediately felt a sense of belonging, just as she had when she and Kit visited more than ten years earlier. She remembered the cozy rooms filled with family pictures, including one of Regan and Gerard’s mutual great-gran
dparents on their wedding day. Most of the relatives in the photos were black Irish, like Regan—dark haired, light skinned, with blue eyes. This is my clan, Regan thought. We share bloodlines, and as my mother says, our DNA is covered with shamrocks. That’s why I feel so comfortable here in Gerard’s house.

  Louise, a vivacious, pretty woman with chestnut brown hair and green eyes, stepped out of the kitchen to greet them. “Regan!” she said, extending her arms for a hug. “And Jack! Oh, he’s a handsome one, he is!”

  “Regan, I knew I’d like your family,” Jack joked.

  They sat in the living room, and over a glass of wine Jack and Regan explained what had transpired in Westweg.

  “That’s wonderful!” Gerard said. “You’re on their tail then.”

  “We’ll see,” Jack answered. “Even if the Does have already left Ireland, it gives us something to go on. But Gerard,” he said, “that’s not something I’ll mention on the show tonight. The fact that Jane and John Doe left a note for me at the castle has been made public. They have to know we’re looking for them. I don’t want to scare them off if they’re still in Ireland.”

  “Of course not, Jack! We’ll say as much as you want about the case and nothing more. You can stay on the air as long as you want. I have one other guest tonight who’s a very interesting fellow. As a matter of fact, Regan, your mother called before, and I told her all about him.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “An elderly gentleman named Shane Magillicuddy. He recently discovered original Claddagh rings bearing Richard Joyce’s stamp hidden behind a brick in the basement of his home.”

  Jack and Regan listened with great interest about the history of the rings and the upcoming auction.

  “No one is sure.” Gerard said, “if Joyce designed the original ring himself or if he came across the design in his travels. True romantics believe that he designed the ring when he was enslaved and pining for his sweetheart. The hands of the ring represent friendship, the crown loyalty, and the heart love.”

  “Did you know that more than two hundred Claddagh rings were discovered in the ruins of the World Trade Center?” Regan asked Gerard.

  “I did indeed,” Gerard said sadly. “Bless their souls. I read one story about a fireman who was killed that day. He was wearing a Claddagh ring. Now his son wears it.”

  “I heard that,” Jack said quietly.

  Gerard put down his glass. “Claddagh rings have such a strong meaning for the Irish. They’re passed down from generation to generation. Regan, did you know that our great-grandparents exchanged Claddagh rings at their wedding?”

  “They did?” Regan asked.

  Gerard went over to a bookshelf and reached for the old black-and-white picture of Hugh and Bridget Reilly that was taken on their wedding day. “You can’t tell that the rings they’re wearing are Claddaghs,” Gerard said, “but they are.” He handed the picture to Regan. “People don’t really use the Claddagh rings as wedding bands anymore.”

  Regan and Jack, who were sitting together on the couch, studied the old photograph. Regan smiled. Hugh and Bridget. They were so young, but their expressions were serious. I would love to have known them, she thought. To think that their son, my grandfather Paul, immigrated to America. My life would have been so different if he hadn’t. Actually, Regan corrected herself, if he hadn’t immigrated to America, I would never have been born! Her grandparents had met in New York City. Regan looked up at Gerard and pointed to the picture. “What happened to their rings?” she asked.

  “After they died, their only daughter, Bridget, inherited them. Bridget, as you know, was your grandfather’s sister. Bridget passed them on to her children, Hugh and Bridget, who were here years ago when you visited with your parents, Regan. You probably don’t remember. They’re both around my age. Hugh lives down in Cork, and Bridget is over in England.”

  “I’m getting confused,” Jack said.

  Gerard laughed. “When it comes to following the Reilly clan, that’s easy.”

  “My Reilly relatives live not far from Cork,” Jack said. “I was going to call them and maybe take a ride down there, but I don’t think that’s going to happen on this trip.”

  “And I was hoping to show you the farm in Roscommon where Hugh and Bridget raised our grandfathers, but that will have to wait as well, I’m afraid.”

  Regan stared at the rings her great-grandparents were wearing and then looked up at Gerard. “The auction of the rings should be really interesting. To think that they were made over three hundred years ago…”

  Gerard nodded. “I bet my guest tonight, Mr. Magillicuddy, is going to be surprised at how much they fetch. If he had promoted this auction around the world, Lord knows what response he might have gotten. But as the expression goes, the rings are burning a hole in his pocket. And he hasn’t been feeling well. I think he wanted to have the auction before he got too sick or whatever…. He joked that he read the obituaries first thing every morning to see if his name was there.”

  “The Irish sports pages,” Jack said.

  “Aren’t they, though?” Gerard asked. “When I spoke to Magillicuddy on the phone, he was funny and sounded full of life. I think the discovery of the rings has given him a renewed sense of purpose. He’s spending all his time trying to figure out where he’ll donate the auction proceeds. And, believe me, as we speak every known charity is courting him!”

  “Come along!” Louise called to them from the dining room. “And bring your appetites!”

  The Irish stew was delicious. Regan and Jack were tired, but the hearty meal gave them the boost they needed to keep going. Gerard’s show didn’t start until 10:00 P.M. On the way to the radio station they planned to stop with Gerard and Louise at a pub in town to listen to Irish folk music. Then, after the show, Regan and Jack would drive back to Hennessy Castle.

  “You both must be exhausted,” Louise said as she insisted Regan and Jack stay seated while she cleared the dishes from the table. “I hope you get a good rest tonight. No disturbances such as fire alarms going off at four A.M.!”

  And no ghosts out on the lawn, Regan thought. She looked at Jack, who smiled at her knowingly. He was thinking the same thing.

  33

  Neil Buckley was never so happy to call it a day as when he left Hennessy Castle early Tuesday evening. Things were looking up, with the arrival of a little stove and the impending arrival of the entourage from the United States. But there were only two couples in residence at the castle that night, the Reillys and the O’Sheas.

  The O’Sheas had stayed at Hennessy Castle twice before and seemed like a nice young couple. But why, Neil wondered, did Jack Reilly have to spend his honeymoon under my watch? Just my luck that two criminals who were out to get him followed him to the castle. Maybe it’s the curse of the Reillys. And with May Reilly’s tablecloth missing from the memorabilia room, the story about her ghost haunting the castle would lose some of its intrigue. That tablecloth had been part of Hennessy Castle’s lore. Neil suddenly had the thought that they should have left the memorabilia room as a crime scene, but then dismissed it. A guest might have cut himself on one of the pieces of broken glass.

  Oh, well, with any luck we’ll get the tablecloth back, he thought as he drove toward his home near Galway. And we’ll get lots of good publicity. When he had taken the job as manager of Hennessy Castle several years ago, he was told to shake things up.

  “There are a lot of castles and old stately hotels in Ireland for tourists to choose from,” he was told. “We have to make Hennessy Castle the number one destination!”

  Neil had done his best. Among other things he had worked hard at hiring a top-notch staff, enhanced Hennessy Castle’s Website with testimonials from guests who claimed to have seen May Reilly’s ghost, and even sent thank-you notes, holiday cards, and birthday cards to everyone who had spent the night at the castle. He had done this from the day he started working there. I’ve given it my all, he thought. I couldn’t predict that criminals
would be checking in disguised as old folks.

  When he arrived home, Neil’s wife, Felicity, greeted him at the door and excitedly pointed to the empty spot on the living room wall where Margaret’s painting had hung.

  “Darling,” Felicity said, her eyes dancing, “Margaret is terrified of May Reilly.”

  “So am I,” he responded as he took off his coat. Felicity was a pistol, always had been. It was certainly true that opposites attract, but sometimes he wished she were a little less gregarious. He was quiet and methodical; she was the life of the party. Their marriage had stood the test of time—forty-one years and counting.

  “Can you imagine Margaret thinking that May Reilly is going to haunt her because of the lace in her paintings?” Felicity bubbled, anxious to gossip.

  Neil headed toward the kitchen. “I’ve never met a woman who was as superstitious as Margaret Raftery, except maybe my mother.” He opened the refrigerator and grabbed a beer.

  “Your mother!” Felicity laughed as she went over to the stove, lifted a lid on a big pot, and stirred a mélange of vegetables energetically. “She thought it was bad luck to cut her fingernails on Sunday! And what day of the week did she say was always a bad day for your family?”

  “Tuesday,” Neil said. “Today is Tuesday. She wasn’t wrong about everything you know,” he said defensively.

  “Of course not,” Felicity acquiesced. “It just made life difficult when she thought so many things we did would ‘tempt the fates.’ We couldn’t even admire our beautiful children because she said it would bring bad luck. And she wanted us to keep the kids barefoot—even in winter!—so the fairies wouldn’t kidnap them.”

  Neil rubbed his eyes. “I know.”

  “And remember she didn’t want us to get married on a Saturday? That was supposed to bring bad luck, too. And she wouldn’t come into our first little house until we’d hung a horseshoe face-up over the door. Face-up so the good luck wouldn’t run out. And, of course, she was always throwing salt over her shoulder whenever anyone dropped anything in the kitchen. My floor always looked as if we were preparing for a snowstorm. I could go on and on.”