Carol Clark - Laced

“Yes. And the hairdresser I spoke with said Anna Hager’s mother was living in upstate New York the last he knew. The couple who stole the necklace told the saleswoman they were buying the necklace for her mother. We’re checking out every Hager in upstate New York. If we could just find Anna’s mother and talk to her, it would help immensely. If Anna is a jewel thief, I bet her mother doesn’t know it and will unwittingly supply us with information.”

“That’s great, Keith. We were just on Regan’s cousin’s radio show in Galway. We told people to be on the lookout for a guy with a strange laugh.”

“I’m sure you’ll get a few interesting calls.”

“I hope we get one that does us some good.” Jack hung up, turned to Regan, and repeated the information Keith had given him. “If Anna Hager is Jane Doe…can you imagine? If we could just get another break in the case, it might be enough.”

“I know,” Regan said quietly, thinking how much she wanted Jack to be the one to reel in the Does. She gazed out the window as they drove out of Galway. I hope they’re still here, she thought. My Irish intuition tells me they are.

But where?

Down in the bathroom of the Does’ remote cottage, Bobby was brushing his teeth. Dr. Sharkey’s temporary cap fell out and landed in the sink.

“Anna!” Bobby screamed. “I don’t care what you do! I’m going back to Los Angeles tomorrow!”

Sheila and Brian had been driving north from Galway for nearly an hour. It didn’t seem possible, but the dark, winding road turned lonelier and darker with each passing minute. They were finally nearing Margaret’s cottage.

“Now remember,” Brian said. “You’ve got to scare Margaret and make it very clear that May Reilly won’t be happy unless Margaret takes back those paintings from her friends and, most important, gives them to us.”

“Should I mention our names?” Sheila asked as she pulled on the black wig and tied the white bonnet around her head.

“I wouldn’t be quite that specific. Sound ghostly, but get your message across.”

Brian slowed the car and pulled behind a stretch of overgrown bushes lining the side of the road. He shut off the lights. “This is good. No one can see the car from the road.”

“It’s pitch black,” Sheila exclaimed. “I’m not going to bother with this gooey white makeup.” She opened her lighted compact and applied the dark eyebrow pencil. “How do I look?” she asked.

“Perfectly terrible,” Brian answered. “Now go.”

“What do you mean go? You expect me to walk down to her cottage by myself?”

“It’s not far at all. You’re dressed like a ghost. They’re used to ghosts around here, but if someone sees me wandering around, they’ll call the cops.”

Sheila got out of the car, threw the cape over her shoulders, and hurried off into the night.

A groggy but anxious Margaret was huddled under a blanket in her darkened cottage. Outside, the night was still and quiet. Inside, Margaret had tossed and turned for hours. The afternoon nap she had taken had agitated her with nightmares about May Reilly, but it had rested her enough that she couldn’t fall into a deep sleep when she finally went to bed.

Margaret had dreamt that May Reilly’s ghost had wandered into the greenhouse studio and threw all her paintbrushes on the floor. Waking up in a sweat, Margaret swore to herself that she’d never paint again.

Now Margaret lay awake in the dark. Her mouth was sore. She wondered whether she should take the aspirin she’d left out on her nightstand. Why not? She leaned over, turned on the light, and reached for the two white tablets. Then she thought better of it and turned out the light. I don’t really need medicine, she decided. She hated taking pills of any kind. A minute later she flicked the light back on, popped the aspirin in her mouth, took a gulp of water, turned off the light, and lay back down.

A loud rapping at her window almost sent her through the roof.

“Margarettttttttttt,” a ghostly woman’s voice called from outside.

Margaret clutched her covers, too terrified to answer.

“Margaretttttttt… I…know…you’re…there.”

“What do you want?” Margaret shouted fearfully. “Who…who are you?”

“You…don’t…know? It’s…May.”

“May Reilly?”

“Of…course. May…Reilly.”

“You don’t sound Irish.”

“What? Maybe…it’s…because…I’m…dead!” the voice said angrily but with a more pronounced Irish brogue.

“You sound Irish now!” Margaret cried out. “Are you mad at me about my paintings?”

“No…I…love…your…paintings… But…get them back from your friends…right away.”

“You love my paintings?” Margaret asked, sitting up.

“Yes… I…want the world…to see my lace design on them… Give the paintings to that American couple.”

“Those two? They get on my nerves.”

“Margaretttttttt,” May admonished her, “do…as…I say! You made a deal with them…You must keep it…Not like what the Hennessys did to me.”

“You’re right, May. I’m dreadfully sorry about your tablecloth.”

“The…people…who…stole it…will…have-”

Margaret cowered as May started to bang angrily at the window.

“-very bad luck.”

Margaret jumped out of bed, ran to the window, and yanked the handle of the flimsy shade with such force that it came off the runner and fell to the floor. “May!” Margaret cried as she peered out the window.

But all Margaret could see was the darkness of the night.

Margaret turned and went running toward her front door. She pulled the door open and yelled, “May Reilly! May, where are you?” Not caring that she was barefoot and clad only in her flannel nightie, she ran around the side of the house to her bedroom window where the ghost’s voice had come from. “May?” she called but there was no one there. “May! I wish I could see you!”

Her heart beating fast, Margaret ran back inside the house to the kitchen. Brian O’Shea’s cell phone number was written on a pad next to the phone. She dialed it quickly.

Sitting in his car down the road, Brian answered the phone. “Hello,” he said, making his voice sound sleepy.

“Brian!” Margaret shouted. “Hello, Margaret. Is that tooth keeping you awake?” he asked sympathetically.

“Never mind my tooth! Be here at six in the morning. We’ll pick up the rest of the paintings, and you can have them! I have to get to work after that.”

“Six?” Brian said jovially. “You’re an early bird.”

“So are my friends! Most of them have finished milking the cows by then. On second thought, make it five!”

“We’ll be there, Margaret.” He switched off the phone as a panting Sheila opened the car door and practically fell in. “You’re hired!” Brian exulted as he gave Sheila a congratulatory hug, similar to the ones he had given his teammates on the football field after a good play. “She already called. We’re picking Margaret up at five A.M.”

“That’s good,” Sheila said, trying to catch her breath. “At first she didn’t think I sounded Irish enough.”

Brian laughed heartily. “Whatever you did, it worked.” He turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. He tried it again.

The car was dead.

When Regan and Jack were about to turn into Hennessy Castle, they spotted a couple coming on foot from the other direction.

“Is that Sheila and Brian?” Regan asked, astonishment in her voice.

“I think it is.”

“What are they doing out here now?”

“Who knows?” Jack tooted the horn softly and drove past the hotel entrance toward the O’Sheas. “I’ll see if they want a ride. Hennessy Castle’s driveway is a half-mile long.”