Carol Clark - Laced

When she parked the car, Bobby didn’t even wake up. She quietly got out, crossed the street, and hurried inside the store. The aroma of fresh baked bread and spices filled the shop, and she was glad she’d made the effort to stop. A man’s voice called out from the back. “I’ll be right with you. Sorry, my wife ran out for a few minutes. She should be returning soon, at least I hope she will.”

“Okay,” Anna said politely, looking around. She took a basket and started filling it with groceries. She reached up to a shelf against the wall and grabbed a box of cookies.

“May I help you?”

“Oh!” Anna squeaked, whirling around and taking in the sight of a ruddy-faced, barrel-chested man with black hair and a mustache. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Are you all right?” he asked, then smiled. “I’m not that scary, am I?”

“No, you’re not. I’m very tired, that’s all. What’s your soup today?”

“Chicken noodle.”

“Could I have a large container please?”

“Sure.” He turned and headed for the kitchen.

Anna finished shopping, walked to the back, and started unloading her groceries from the basket onto the counter.

“I can’t believe my wife isn’t back yet,” the storekeeper said, putting the hot container on the counter and then ringing up the charges.

“I’m sure she’ll show up soon,” Anna said.

“You don’t know my wife,” he grumbled good-naturedly.

Anna paid him in cash and watched as he bagged her items.

“Here you go,” he said, pushing the bag toward her. “Well, what do you know, there’s my wife now-blathering on in the street. I told her she talks too much.”

Anna turned to look. Through the glass window she could see a woman talking animatedly to a young couple. Anna gasped. It was Jack Reilly and his wife, Regan!

“What’s the matter?” the storekeeper asked. “You seem a little jumpy.”

“As I said, I’m tired. It’s been a long day. You know what? I’d love to have another large container of soup. It smells delicious. With this damp weather, I’m sure we’ll be eating it for days. And my husband doesn’t feel well.”

“That’s a shame. But nothing tastes better than a nice bowl of hot chicken soup…” He turned toward the stove, his sentence trailing off.

Anna stood with her back to the window. She was frantic. Jack Reilly probably doesn’t know what we look like, but the last thing I want to do is come face-to-face with him. I just hope Bobby doesn’t wake up. If he does and decides to get out of the car without realizing Jack Reilly’s in the street… I should never have stopped here-never. Nervously, Anna reached in her purse, retrieved a breath mint, and popped it in her mouth. As she bit into it, she could hear the door to the store creaking open. Anna held her breath.

“Let me know what happens, would you, please?” a woman’s voice yelled, obviously talking to someone outside. “And if you need my help at all, please, just give a call… Grand, that would be grand… Brilliant…”

“Here’s your soup. I hope your husband feels better.”

“Thank you.” Anna paid again and slowly put the change in her purse.

The sound of the door closing and a woman calling “I’m back!” was music to Anna’s ears. She turned to catch a glimpse of Jack Reilly and his wife getting into a car and driving off. Flooded with relief, Anna picked up her bag of groceries and headed for the door.

“Get everything you need?” the woman asked her.

“Yes, thank you.” Anna hurried outside and across the small street to the safety of her car. Though thrilled to have made her escape, she would have been very interested in what the woman inside the store was telling her husband. Breda couldn’t get the words out fast enough.

“And, Sam, they think Jane Doe’s real name might be Anna!”

There wasn’t much conversation on the ride back to Margaret’s cottage. The car sputtered along, sounding as if it might give up the ghost at any moment, and Margaret made noises that indicated she was experiencing dental discomfort.

When they finally turned onto Margaret’s property, there was a collective sigh of relief. Brian pulled the car around to the back of the house, where the sight of a little greenhouse out in the field was too much for him to bear. Margaret had informed them that after her husband died she had transformed the greenhouse into a studio where she could paint.

“I threw out all his junk and set up my canvas,” she’d explained. “That was my first mistake.”

Brian parked and turned off the engine.

“Home sweet home,” Margaret muttered. “I can’t wait to take to my bed.”

“Let us help you get inside,” Sheila said, holding Margaret’s painting in her lap. Neither Sheila nor Brian was quite sure how they were going to keep it in their possession.

“I don’t need any help,” Margaret said. She opened the back door of the car and hoisted herself out.

Sheila and Brian looked at each other and followed suit.

“Give me the painting,” Margaret said.

Brian walked around the car and put a comforting hand on Margaret’s shoulder. “Margaret, I’m worried about you. We’ll take care of the painting until we figure out how to properly honor May Reilly. I don’t want you to be alone with the painting if there’s any chance it’ll cause you more bad luck. Are you sure you don’t want us to stay with you? We’re happy to. We can sleep on the couch and then maybe tomorrow we can get an early start and collect the rest of the paintings from your friends.”

Margaret looked at him aghast. “I don’t want you staying in my home. No man has ever slept here except my husband and my son. I’m fine here all alone. I’ve been alone since my husband died. I can take care of myself!” She turned, went into the cottage, and slammed the door.

Sheila and Brian hurried to their car, the painting in Sheila’s hands. They wanted to get out of there before Margaret opened the door and started yelling for her artwork.

Margaret was beside herself. The nerve of him, she thought. In the bathroom, she flicked on the light and checked on her tooth in the tiny mirror above the sink. “Disgraceful,” she muttered. “I hope I don’t die.” Without even bothering to make a cup of tea, she lay down on her lumpy bed, fell asleep, and began to dream of May Reilly.

Out on the road, Sheila and Brian realized they couldn’t carry the twelve-by-fifteen painting into Hennessy Castle. Until this morning that very painting had been hanging on Neil Buckley’s wall. They pulled into a little parking lot near a graveyard and carefully placed it in the trunk of their rental car. Unbeknownst to them, May Reilly’s grave was within spitting distance. A sudden gust of wind blew through the trees, causing them to sway ominously.

“It’s getting chilly,” Sheila said, rubbing her arms.

Back at Hennessy Castle, a female clerk at the front desk greeted them. “Welcome home!”

“Thank you,” Sheila responded.

“We have good news! A small stove was delivered this afternoon, so we’ll be able to serve a limited menu in the dining room tonight! Isn’t that grand?”

“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.