Carol Clark: Laced

The cap of her front tooth was gone.

Brian tried not to stare at the gaping hole in her mouth.

“You two look as if you modeled for my Fun Run decal, but you don’t look like you’re having much fun.” Margaret started to cackle. “Get in the car before I take off without you again.”

Brian and Sheila were not only amazed by the missing cap, which obviously didn’t bother her, but by this new Margaret. Her lighthearted banter made Brian nervous. Better the devil you know, he thought. “Would you like me to drive?”

“No. You don’t look as if you’re in any shape to operate a vehicle at the moment. Now shake a leg! Punctuality obviously isn’t your strong suit.”

“We didn’t get much sleep last night-” Brian started to explain as he hurried around the car and into the front seat. Sheila climbed in the back.

“You sounded dead to the world when I called you,” Margaret retorted. “How much sleep do you need?”

“Oh, I was in a stupor,” Brian insisted, realizing his gaffe. He wanted Margaret to think that he and Sheila were both unconscious while she was having a ghostly visit from May Reilly. “After your call I was just so worried that we wouldn’t wake up in time.”

“And you didn’t,” Margaret sniped as they tooled down the road. “Wait a minute-where’s your car?”

“It broke down,” Brian said sadly.

“When?”

“Last night in the very early evening.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that on the phone? I could have picked you up near Hennessy Castle.”

“We figured that we’d take a nice early morning walk to your place. Exercise is so good for you,” Brian said and then laughed. “We never knew we’d be getting such a workout, though. We had to run all the way over.”

Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive, Sheila thought as she rubbed her eyes and wiped the sweat from her forehead. She leaned forward. “Margaret, is there anywhere we could stop and get a bottle of water? I think I’m going to pass out.”

Margaret turned her attention from the road briefly and glanced at Sheila. “What is that black smudge around your eyebrows?” she asked. “It’s all over your forehead, too.”

Sheila’s heart almost stopped. “I don’t know,” she answered, thinking it was a good thing Margaret hadn’t laid eyes on her last night in her ghost-of-May-Reilly getup.

Brian laughed, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and lovingly started to wipe his bride’s forehead. “I know what that is. It’s just a little black ink from our portable printer. Last night before we went to bed, Sheila changed the cartridge. That memorabilia business keeps us so busy! The ink must have gotten on her fingers, and then this morning we were in such a rush-”

“No matter how much of a rush you’re in, you should always take the time to wash your hands,” Margaret admonished. “Otherwise you spread your germs to other people.”

Thanks, Brian, Sheila thought. Now Margaret thinks my personal hygiene habits are seriously lacking. “I did wash my hands this morning,” Sheila insisted, “but once you get this ink on your hands, it is so hard to get off.”

“I suppose,” Margaret agreed. “It’s like my paints. This morning I had to use turpentine to clean my hands.”

“You were painting this morning?” Brian asked. “How wonderful. I’m so proud of you.”

“Why should you be proud of me?” Margaret asked as she turned down a road that led to a lone farmhouse in the distance. “You don’t even know me.”

“I feel as if I know you,” Brian said solicitously. “Like my aunt Eileen always used to say-”

“Sheila,” Margaret interrupted, “don’t you get sick of hearing about his aunt Eileen?”

“Margaret, you have no idea.”

They all shared a laugh over the fictitious Aunt Eileen.

Margaret stopped and turned off the car in front of the quiet farmhouse. “I’m sure this will be quick,” she said. “Farmer Fitzpatrick isn’t the gabby sort when there’s work to be done.”

“I’m the same way,” Brian said earnestly, “especially when I’m doing volunteer work. I get such satisfaction out of-”

“Brian,” Sheila said, “enough!”

“You’re right, honey. I should let Margaret get her work done. Farmer Fitzpatrick is a friend of yours?”

“Not really, but I try to be nice to him. His wife worked as a housekeeper at Hennessy Castle years ago. She was arrested for stealing cash from one of the guest rooms. They kept it quiet, but she hasn’t left her house since. She’s gone a little batty from the shame she feels. One unforgettable act of greed ruined her life.”

Sheila and Brian mumbled their regrets.

Margaret started to get out of the car and then stopped. She pointed to a hose resting on the soggy ground near the side of the barn. “Help yourself to the water over there.”

Shortly after the Does arrived home from their disastrous attempt to steal the Claddagh rings, Anna sat down at the computer and started searching for flights to Los Angeles. Bobby was furious. He insisted it was all her fault that now he didn’t even have Dr. Sharkey’s atrocious cap to cover his itty-bitty fang.

“I look like I belong in a Dracula movie!” he complained. “We should never have tried to break into Magillicuddy’s house. I should never have let you talk me into it. It’s not what we do! And because we wanted to ruin Jack Reilly’s honeymoon, we stayed in Ireland instead of going to the charity event in Glasgow-after all the trouble we went to perfecting our Scottish accents! So what happens? Instead of scoring valuable jewelry, we end up with a tablecloth and a dental disaster. And I almost got killed by an attack dog!”

“But we did ruin Jack Reilly’s honeymoon,” Anna insisted. “He’s running around Ireland looking for us instead of relaxing with his bride. Ten to one he won’t berate us on the national news ever again.”

“I don’t care what he says, he’d better not find us,” Bobby spat, grabbing May Reilly’s tablecloth and tossing it across the room.

“He won’t find us. He won’t,” Anna said as she continued tapping the keys of the computer. “Oh, good!” she finally cried. “Bobby, there are seats available on a flight tonight.”

“Nothing earlier? I want to leave now. I want to get on a plane, close my eyes, and wake up in Los Angeles.”

“All the daytime flights are full. I put us on a waiting list.”

“I wish we could fly first class!” Bobby whined. But they had decided when they embarked on their life of crime that the less attention they received from flight attendants, the better. So they always sat in coach, usually in front of a kid who continually kicked their seats. “I’ll go in and start packing,” he said in a martyred tone.

Anna watched him disappear into the bedroom and then looked over at May Reilly’s tablecloth that was in a heap on the floor. I should get rid of it, she told herself. If anyone came into the cottage while we’re gone, it would be damning evidence against us. But then again, it could bring us so much money in the underground market. I’ll figure it out later.

She turned back to her computer, booked their flight, and logged onto the Sweetsville blog to see if there was a posting from her mother. Usually after her mother was scrappy with her, as she was last night, she posted a message before going to bed.

Anna stared at the screen.

This time she hadn’t.

Shrugging, Anna tried to shake off the uneasy feeling that came over her. I’ll call Mom when we get to Los Angeles, she decided. If I call her now, Bobby will think I’m wasting time when I should be packing and closing up the house.