Carol Clark - Laced

“Yes. I gave them this painting for Christmas.”

Sheila looked out the window. She was biting her nail down to the quick.

“Did she ask you many questions about why you wanted the painting back?”

“Not too many. I feel a wee bit insulted she didn’t put up more of a fuss about giving it back. I gave it to her with this lovely frame that I specially picked out. It was on sale.”

“You didn’t say anything about us, did you?

“No. Why would I? You told me not to.”

“That’s right. Now, is there anyone else who works at Hennessy Castle on the list? Because if there is, I’d like to know.”

Margaret shook her head. “I just gave one painting to the boss. Figure I’d butter him up. The rest of us just have a little Christmas grab bag at the employee party. We buy cheap little presents for it. Next year I should put in a coupon for one of your mugs.”

“Our mugs are high quality,” Sheila hissed.

“Whatever,” Margaret said, trying to get comfortable in the old car. The backseat was crooked, and a draft was coming through a hole at her feet. “I wanted to go to the Buckleys’ house first because I knew Mr. Buckley wouldn’t be home yet. I don’t need to run into him on my time off. Don’t you want to even look at the painting? This one’s a beauty if I do say so myself.”

Sheila turned around and admired the painting of an old farmhouse with a lace wreath on the door. “It’s gorgeous.” She turned back to face front.

“I can’t wait to examine the painting,” Brian said, dripping with sincerity. “But right now it’s important I keep my eyes on the road. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure what we can do with these paintings that would somehow honor May Reilly.”

“I need a cup of tea,” Margaret announced.

“Now?” Brian asked.

“Now. We’ve been in the car forty-five minutes, and I’m down a quart.” She chuckled. “That’s what my mother used to say when she didn’t have a cup of tea at her side.”

They were near Galway.

“We’ll stop and get you tea,” Brian promised. “But first, are you sure that there’s no one else living down this way who has one of your paintings?”

Margaret frowned. “I don’t know people in these parts.” She then snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute! I almost forgot. I gave one to the owner of the gym who judged the contest.”

“What contest?”

“The decal contest for the road race you two ran in. Remember when I saw the decal on your dresser, and I told you I designed it? That’s what got us started with this mess.”

“You gave him one of your paintings?” Brian asked in disbelief.

“Yes. He said he really liked it.”

“Where is his gym?”

“Somewhere around Galway. I think it’s called Get in Shape.”

Sheila pulled out the cell phone, called information, and wrote down the address. “Should we call first?”

“No,” Brian said. “Absolutely not.”

“This is going to be strange,” Margaret said. “I’ve never been inside a gym in my life.”

“Think of May Reilly,” Brian urged. “Now what’s the address?”

“Wait a minute,” Sheila said. “What if this guy has the painting hanging in his house? He probably doesn’t have it at the gym.”

“He told me he has it hanging proudly in his office,” Margaret said. “He noticed the use of lace in my work-not like you two.”

They drove to the Get in Shape gym and were about to pull into the parking lot when Brian spotted Regan and Jack Reilly coming out the door. “Good God,” he muttered as he stepped on the gas.

Judging by the look on Sheila’s face, she had seen them, too. Luckily, Margaret hadn’t.

“What’s the matter?” Margaret sputtered. “That was the place we were looking for.”

“We didn’t get you your tea yet.”

“I want to get this over with-”

“I insist you have your tea first,” Brian said. “I absolutely insist.”

They found a little deli. Brian ran in and came out with teas for all three of them.

“It’s pretty good for city tea,” Margaret allowed as she downed the large container in two gulps. “Let’s go. If we don’t get the painting now, I’m afraid I’ll lose the wee bit of nerve I have. Setting foot in a gym for the first time at my age has got to be bad luck.”

Brian briefly considered suggesting they not bother with the painting at the gym. It might be too risky. What if the Reillys come back? And if he and Sheila ended up with every painting on the list, they’d have one to spare. But then he realized he wouldn’t be able to explain this change of plan to Margaret. In her world, everything was about bad luck or curses.

They drove back to the gym and dropped Margaret off at the entrance to the parking lot. “We’ll wait for you down the block by the deli,” Brian told her.

“Why can’t you just wait for me out front?”

Brian’s eyes welled up with tears. “I told you-you remind me of my aunt Eileen. The time I’m sacrificing helping you…well, I’m offering it up for her soul. Aunt Eileen believed in doing good and not looking for the glory. Whenever she donated money, she did it anonymously. She’d be so proud of me… If anyone finds out what I’m doing, then I might not help her get out of purgatory. I think she’s already made it to heaven, but just in case…”

“I understand,” Margaret said solemnly. “Have you heard a ringing in your ears?”

“What?” Brian asked, perplexed.

“A ringing in your ears means a friend in purgatory is asking for your prayers. I would think you would know that!” She pushed open the stubborn back door. “I’ll meet you down the block in a few minutes.”

After Margaret got out of the car, Sheila stared at Brian. “As Sister Leo used to tell us, God is going to punish you.”

“All I know is that if we don’t deliver those paintings, we’ll definitely be punished by Dermot Finnegan. And that, my dear Sheila, would be hell on earth.”

They drove down the block and waited.

Jack couldn’t believe how much he instantly liked Gerard Reilly. For some reason, after the phone call early this morning, he was sure that spending time with Gerard would be well spent but leaning more toward family obligation than pleasure. But the moment Gerard came out of his office to greet the newlyweds, his charismatic air and big commanding presence made Jack feel a camaraderie he shared with many of his law enforcement colleagues back home.

Dressed in a blue jacket and open-collared shirt, Gerard had a casual yet professional appearance. He was a broad, good-looking man in his early fifties, with salt and pepper hair, dark eyes, and black-framed glasses. “Regan,” he said, enveloping her in a hug. “How’s my little cousin keepin’ herself?”

Regan smiled broadly and kissed him on the cheek. “Your little cousin is now a happily married woman.”

Gerard extended his hand. “Jack, it’s good to finally meet you. Come into my office. I’m so sorry we couldn’t make it to the wedding. My wife’s niece was getting married the very same day, you know, and we’d already committed ourselves. It was grand, but we would have loved to be at yours.”

“We realized it would have been tough for you to fly over for just a weekend anyway,” Regan assured him. “But we wanted you to know you were invited.”

“Ah, Regan,” Gerard said, “we’d have been there in a heartbeat if not for the other nuptials. Believe me. I might not have seen you many times over the years, but I remember when you were born. I remember when your parents brought you over when you were a little girl, and I remember when you came to visit with that lovely friend of yours… What was her name?”