Carol Clark - Laced

“My husband didn’t think I was any good.”

“He’s dead now, isn’t he? Sheila asked.

“Five years next Tuesday.”

“Then you don’t have to listen to him anymore. And he was wrong. You are a wonderful artist. You should continue painting.”

Brian had aced Problem Solving 101 in college. What he really wanted to do was strangle this woman. But he didn’t need to have taken that class to know that that wasn’t a solution for this mess. He had to either get Margaret to paint new paintings or find out how many other canvases were hanging on people’s kitchen walls that they could somehow get their hands on. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together earnestly. He remembered that communication was the key to problem solving.

“A friend of yours just cooked us breakfast,” he said softly to Margaret.

“Who?” Margaret asked, adding more sugar to her tea.

“Philomena.”

“You ate at Philomena’s?”

“The pharmacist sent us there. Philomena cooked us breakfast, and her grandson interviewed us for a school project.”

“That kid is a pest.”

Sheila laughed. “We noticed your painting on the wall, and Philomena just adores it.”

Brian interrupted, putting his hand on Sheila’s so he wouldn’t seem so rude. “Did you give paintings to other friends?”

“I gave out eight paintings as presents. I’m sorry to say that every single one of them has May Reilly’s design in it. Everything I painted, I gave away.” She pointed to the charred ruins in the fireplace. “This was the only time I had so much art of mine piled up in my house, and quite frankly I was embarrassed.”

Pushing back an urge to choke the woman, Brian allowed himself to feel slightly optimistic. If they could just get those paintings, then maybe everything would be okay. Heck, if they got all eight, they’d be able to make a little extra cash on the side. They had to deliver only seven paintings to Dermot.

“Should you try to get those other paintings back?” he asked, treading lightly. “To stop May’s curse?”

“I gave them to friends. I’d look like a fool asking for them back now.”

“But couldn’t those paintings bring bad luck to their owners?” Brian asked with the expression of an altar boy. “You say that the dead are possessive. Maybe we should get them back. For May. Then we’ll figure out something special to do with the paintings that would make May happy. I don’t think she wanted you to destroy your beautiful art. We just want to help you.”

“Why?” Margaret asked suspiciously.

“Because you seem so…so…” Brian’s voice broke. “You remind me so much of my aunt Eileen. She was such a talented dancer. My uncle Bernie had two left feet. He didn’t dance, and he never wanted her to dance without him.” Brian started to cry. “It was so tragic. She loved to dance, but after she married him, she never got the chance. What a waste.” Tears rolled down his cheeks.

I can’t believe this, Sheila thought. I always knew he was a frustrated actor, but I didn’t know how convincing he could be.

“Sheila,” Brian said, barely able to get the words out, “do you remember Aunt Eileen?” He sobbed again, but this time it sounded like a hiccup.

“Yes,” Sheila said, lying through her teeth. Brian didn’t have an aunt Eileen. “I was there when she died.” Looking over at Margaret, Sheila continued, “On her deathbed she said, ‘When I see Uncle Bernie up in heaven, I hope he’ll finally have learned to dance.’ I told her that she’ll be dancing with the angels.”

Margaret’s eyes welled up. “She forgave him then.”

Brian nodded gravely as he wiped tears from his cheeks with his meaty hand. “She forgave him for all those years where she had to sit on the sidelines at family weddings because he didn’t want her to dance.”

“I suppose I’ve never forgiven Angus,” Margaret said. “Whenever I tried painting, he told me I should be doing something more useful.”

“Oh, no,” Brian said.

“Umm-hmmm.”

“You’re lucky that now you have this chance to paint,” Sheila said. “Poor Aunt Eileen. By the time Uncle Bernie died, her arthritis was so bad she could barely walk, never mind dance. You’re still healthy.”

Margaret nodded. “But it doesn’t stop May Reilly from being angry at me.”

“It could. If we get the paintings with her design back, we’ll figure out how to honor her. I bet she doesn’t want to be forgotten. And now that the tablecloth is gone, she could be. I think we’re all afraid we’ll be forgotten when we die. We shouldn’t let that happen to May,” Sheila said, laying it on thick.

“I don’t want those paintings back in this house,” Margaret replied sharply.

“Of course not,” Brian said, anguish in his tone. “We’ll round up all the paintings you gave away, and I promise you it’ll all work out. Now, let’s put together a list of the names and addresses of all those who are lucky enough to be your friend.”

“I look like a freak!” Bobby squealed, examining with horror his filed-down tooth in the bathroom mirror. “Where are we going to find a dentist around here?”

“Online-where we find everything,” Anna assured him.

She went to the computer, looked up dentists in Galway, and printed out a list. One by one she called them, but she wasn’t having much luck.

“The doctor doesn’t have any free appointments until Friday.”

“Sorry, she’s booked.”

“The dentist is on vacation.”

“Have you seen us before?…No?…We can squeeze you in a week from Wednesday.”

Finally, working her way from A to Z, Anna called a Dr. Daniel Sharkey. A woman with a frail voice answered the phone. “Dr. Sharkey’s smile center.”

“Hello,” Anna said. “I wonder if you could possibly help us-”

“Hold on a second.”

Anna could hear a television in the background. She waited.

“Okay,” the woman said, finally resuming their conversation. “What did you want?”

“We’re visiting Ireland. My husband was eating blueberry pancakes when…”

At the other end of the phone, the woman sighed as she listened to Anna’s tale of woe. When Anna was finished, the woman again told her to hold on.

A jarring thud sounded in Anna’s ear. The woman had obviously dropped the phone. Anna tapped her foot impatiently, hoping she wouldn’t be disconnected. This wasn’t what she was used to. Bobby’s caps had been done in Los Angeles by an expensive cosmetic dentist, Dr. Favorman, who tended to the mouths of numerous celebrities. His office had a private entrance for his famous clients, which Bobby discovered, of course, and took advantage of on every visit. As long as Dr. Favorman was paid the big bucks, he was happy. Thankfully, his patients’ private lives didn’t interest him, and his receptionist was always cheerful and courteous.

“I’m back,” the voice at the other end of the phone rasped. “You have his X-rays?”

No, you idiot, Anna wanted to shout. Why would we have his dental records with us in Ireland? But she was polite. “Unfortunately, we don’t.”

“Pity. Dr. Sharkey’s X-ray machine is on the fritz. Come on in, but be prepared to wait. He has an appointment with a patient that hadn’t been to the dentist in twenty years until last week when he graced us with his presence.” She laughed ruefully. “He’d never flossed in his life. And once you start with gum disease, it can kill you. Travels to your heart.”

This doesn’t sound promising, Anna thought, but she was desperate. Bobby would be impossible to live with until that fang was covered. “Thank you,” she said. “We should be there within the hour.”