Carol Clark - Laced

“Hellllllo,” Maebeth said playfully, her Irish lilting voice coming through loud and clear. “Here I ammmmm.” She sounded so young and happy.

“Okay, go,” Clara ordered. “Do it.”

“Henh, henh. Henh, henh, henh.”

“That’s perfect!” Clara exulted. “Do a couple more.”

“Henh, henh. Henh, henh, henh.”

The two friends started to guffaw.

“Thanks, Maebeth. I’ll ring you later-”

“Wait a minute,” Regan interrupted. “Since we have Maebeth on the phone, can we ask you a few more questions?”

“Sure,” Clara answered. “Maebeth, some people here need information about the fella with the laugh and his wife.”

“Henh, henh, henh, henh,” Maebeth continued for good measure. “Henh, henh, henh, henh-”

“That’s great, Maebeth,” Regan said. “Can you give us a description of what they looked like?”

“They were wearing caps and big sunglasses and windbreakers. They both had brown hair and looked as old as my parents. You know, in their forties,” Maebeth volunteered. “But unlike my parents you could tell they both worked out a lot. Not an extra kilo on either one of them.”

“Anything unusual about them at all?” Jack asked. “Besides the laugh?” he added.

“Isn’t the laugh enough?” Clara giggled.

Not really, Regan thought. We’re looking for an average middle-aged couple. Male possibly has a distinguishing laugh. We could use more help. “What nationality were they?” Regan asked.

“American,” both girls answered.

Jack gave Clara his card. “Thank you, girls, so much. If you remember anything else about those two, or anything unusual about the race, please let us know.”

“Sure.”

Out in the car, Regan and Jack looked at each other. “What now?” Regan asked. “Go tell jokes to everyone we meet. Stake out comedy clubs?”

Jack rubbed his eyes. “Call your cousin Gerard. If he knows everything going on in Galway, maybe he can help us with these names.”

Twenty minutes later they were walking into Gerard’s office at a small radio station in the center of Galway.

Back at Hennessy Castle, Neil Buckley was doing his best to cope. Most of the guests had checked out, others had called to cancel their upcoming reservations, and there was no new stove in sight.

The garda had come by to investigate the theft and the fire but had already gone on their way. The owners of the hotel were calling demanding answers, of which he had none. Neil’s wife, Felicity, rang him for the third time in two hours.

“Darling, how are you?”

“Since I talked to you last, the press has gotten wind of the note left for Jack Reilly, and it’s all over the news. I’m sure he didn’t want it announced to the world that these thieves are playing hide and seek with him on his honeymoon.”

“I’m afraid I have more bad news.”

“What?”

“Your housekeeper, Margaret, is going bonkers.”

Neil wanted to put his head on his desk. “I know that. You know I know that. But she’s a good housekeeper. Why do you want to discuss it now?”

“She just appeared at the door and asked if I would mind handing over the painting she gave us last year. She was mumbling something about May Reilly and bad luck. She said the design of the lace in the painting is the same as the lace on May’s stolen tablecloth. I hadn’t noticed, quite frankly. Margaret said she had to get the painting back because it would bring us bad luck.”

“Seems as though it already has. What did you do?”

“I gave her the painting, of course. She was acting positively nutty. She said she was going to collect all her paintings.” Felicity paused. “What else was I supposed to do? I hope you don’t mind.”

“Believe me, I don’t. Did she tie the painting to her bike?” Neil asked wearily. “She insists on bicycling in the rain when she has that old rattletrap her husband drove parked behind her cottage. I’ll admit it’s not the greatest, but-”

“Actually, she didn’t have her bike. I ran to the front window and watched her leave. She walked down the street to where her old car was parked, got in the back, and the car drove off.”

“She has a chauffeur now?” Neil asked distractedly.

“It was the oddest thing.”

“You didn’t see who was driving?”

“No. I wish I had. I’m dying to know who it was.”

Neil sighed. “I gave her the day off to go home and calm down. Now she’s being driven around to collect her art. Ah, well, if that’s what she needs to feel better.”

Martin, Neil’s assistant, burst into the office. “Good news, Mr. Buckley!” he blurted.

“Just a moment, love,” Neil said to his wife. “They’re getting a stove for us today?” he asked Martin hopefully.

“No. But the representative of an American businessman, one of those high rollers, just rang us up. His boss read about the auction of the Claddagh rings in Galway this Friday and wants to be there. He is flying over with an entourage. They’d like to book eight of our superior rooms for five nights starting tomorrow.”

“Did you tell them we have no stove?”

“Yes, and he doesn’t care. The best hotels in Galway are already booked, and this fella wants to play golf around here with his pals.”

Relief flooded Neil’s body. “I hope you told him yes.”

A flash of nervousness crossed Martin’s face. “I told him I had to check on availability. Didn’t want him to think it was so easy to get all those rooms at Hennessy Castle on a moment’s notice-stove or no stove.”

“Of course,” Neil said, feeling slightly irritated. “Where is he from?”

“Phoenix. He’s Irish American-Dermot Finnegan-and his rep said he’s very generous to Irish charities. But he also warned me that Mr. Finnegan is very demanding and expects first-rate service.”

“If Mr. Finnegan doesn’t care that we don’t have a working stove, how demanding can he be?” Neil asked rhetorically. “Book the reservation.”

“The rep does want us to guarantee that Mr. Finnegan will be served a hot breakfast in bed every morning. He requires scrambled eggs, bubbly hot oatmeal, freshly baked brown bread-”

“For God’s sake, Martin, get out there and book the reservation before they change their minds!” Neil growled, his face turning red. “I’ll get him his oatmeal if I have to set up a campfire out back and carry the tray on my hands and knees to his room!”

“Yes, sir,” Martin replied, escaping as quickly as possible.

Neil was breathing hard. “Anything else, dear?” he managed to sputter into the phone.

“Darling, take a deep breath.”

“What does it sound like I’m doing?” Neil asked impatiently. “I’m taking so many deep breaths, I might keel over.”

“Don’t keel over. Things are looking up. Forget I ever mentioned the silly painting.”

“I will,” Neil said. “Believe me, I will. As long as Margaret Raftery gets herself back to work tomorrow, be it by bike, chauffeur, or on foot, I don’t care how crazy or superstitious she acts on her time off.”

He wouldn’t always feel that way.

“One down,” Margaret said when she got in the backseat and shut the door. She placed the framed painting on the seat next to her.

“Perfect!” Brian said as he pulled away. “I told you it would be easy. May Reilly is going to be so happy. Who was that anyway?”

“My boss’s wife!”

“Your what?” Brian asked, turning around and nearly losing control of the rusty old rattletrap of a car.

“My boss’s wife. What’s wrong with that?”

“Your boss from Hennessy Castle?” Brian’s voice squeaked.