Carol Clark - Laced

“Good. I’ll see you at the auction, Gerard?”

“Absolutely.” Gerard hung up and immediately dialed Regan and Jack. A jewel thief is a jewel thief, he thought. I’m sure they’ll be interested in hearing this.

Regan and Jack were enjoying a room service breakfast. They were shocked when they phoned downstairs to ask for coffee and were told that the chef at Hennessy Castle had one small stove to work with but would be happy to whip them up whatever they liked. A cart with eggs, bacon, juice, coffee, and bread was delivered to them in about twelve minutes.

“I love room service breakfast,” Regan said as she took a bite of scrambled eggs. She and Jack were still in their robes, deciding the course of action they should take that day.

“I love room service with you.”

Regan smiled. “The chef must be really bored. At the moment we’re the only ones around to cook for.” She lowered her voice. “What do you suppose Sheila and Brian are up to? There’s something odd going on with them.”

Jack was amused as he said, “Regan, you don’t have to whisper. They’re not going to hear you.”

Regan laughed. “That’s what my mother does even when she’s talking about someone who’s three thousand miles away. So answer my question. What do you think our neighbors Sheila and Brian are up to?”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t know. But I wish they were our jewel thieves. It would make life easier.”

“It sure would,” Regan said, then frowned. “They were nice when we met them in the middle of the night outside, but then yesterday they bolted from the dining room when they saw us. They were walking around on a dark country road at one in the morning, and then they left again at five A.M. And she never dropped off the catalogue for her memorabilia business that she wanted us to have so we could order Reilly key chains. They’ve been avoiding us ever since we told them we work in law enforcement-”

The ring of Jack’s cell phone interrupted her. He and Regan looked at each other hopefully. Jack picked it up.

“Hello.”

“Jack, it’s Gerard.” He sounded hurried.

“Hi, Gerard. I’ll put you on speakerphone.” Jack pressed the button.

“Hello, Gerard,” Regan said.

“Hello to you both. Listen to this: I just got a call from Shane Magillicuddy. Someone broke into his house last night but was scared off by his watchdog.”

“Is Shane all right?” Regan asked.

“He’s fine. He didn’t realize someone had been there until this morning when he saw that the lock on his door had been picked.”

“I’ll bet the would-be burglars were after the Claddagh rings,” Jack said.

“That’s what I think,” Gerard answered. “Even though it doesn’t sound like the work of the Does, I thought you’d be interested.”

“Of course we are,” Jack said, running his hand through his hair. “Do the garda have any leads?”

Gerard harrumphed. “You’re not going to believe this one.”

“What?”

“An ugly cap from someone’s tooth was found on the kitchen floor.”

Regan and Jack looked at each other in amazement.

“Gerard, my assistant in New York found out that the man we think is John Doe had a loose cap just yesterday!”

“Oh, Lord,” Gerard said. “Well, it’s supposed to look dreadful. Ugly as can be. It even has a red smiley face on the inside.”

“John Doe has the money to go to a decent dentist,” Regan said, “and it’s never been reported that he has terrible dental work. We’ll talk to the bellman here and see if he remembers anything distinctive about the guy’s smile. But how many jewel thieves out there had loose caps yesterday?”

“Hopefully only one,” Jack answered. “Gerard we’ll come down to Galway. I’d like to go to Shane Magillicuddy’s house and take a look around. I suppose the garda have the cap.”

“They do. Call me when you’re on your way, and I’ll give you the directions to Shane’s. I’ll give him a shout and tell him to expect us.”

“Thanks, Gerard.”

Jack hung up. “Regan, can we be out of here in fifteen minutes?”

“Of course we can.”

They showered, dressed, and were heading downstairs as Dermot Finnegan and his cohorts arrived in grand style at Hennessy Castle.

“Back to the grind,” Margaret said as she turned down the driveway of Hennessy Castle.

“It’s been so special spending time with you,” Brian said. “And, believe me, your paintings are going to be so appreciated by our friends in America. Who knows? I bet we’ll have people asking us for your number so they can get you to paint something just for them.”

“Don’t call us, we’ll call you,” Margaret retorted.

“Margaret, you kill me,” Brian said with affection as Margaret parked her car in the employee lot. “If you don’t mind giving us your keys, we’ll come back out and get the paintings in a little while.

“Why don’t you carry them in with you now? Just make sure Mr. Buckley doesn’t see you with his painting.”

“What if it started to rain?” Brian asked reasonably. “Thunderstorms around here come and go so quickly. We want to get a protective box so that not a single raindrop falls on any of your paintings.”

“Whatever,” Margaret answered. They got out of the car, and Margaret handed him the keys. “When you’re finished, leave the keys under the front seat. It’d be better if Mr. Buckley doesn’t know I had any business dealings with you. He might not like it.”

Now she tells me, Brian thought. “I understand,” he said sincerely. “It’ll be our little secret.”

“You two walk in ahead of me. Run along,” Margaret instructed. “But don’t forget to leave my keys.”

Sheila and Brian held hands as they jauntily traversed the little bridge spanning the stream in front of Hennessy Castle. At the hotel’s entrance, eight golf bags were leaning against the wall. Brian’s stomach fell six feet. He held open the door of the castle for Sheila. “After you.”

What transpired next felt to Brian as if it were happening in slow motion.

Dermot Finnegan and his entourage, all clad in blue blazers and khaki pants, were checking in at the reception desk. Sheila and Brian knew most of them. Regan and Jack Reilly were across the room, talking to Neil Buckley and a bellman.

“It’s the O’Sheas,” one of Dermot’s group cried out. “Good to see you!”

Dermot turned around, his face filled with excitement. “Brian O’Shea, you are the devil! I can’t wait to see the seven paintings I ordered! You’re not going to believe it, but I figured out who the nun is that painted them!”

Margaret’s voice cried out from behind the O’Sheas: “I’m not a nun!”

Everyone in the reception area stopped talking and stared.

Sheila and Brian were frozen in place.

“You painted the picture with the lace tablecloth?” Dermot asked Margaret, who walked toward him.

“I did indeed.”

“And you’re not Sister Mary Rose from the cloistered convent in Galway?”

“Since when does a nun wear a housekeeper’s uniform? I’m not Sister Mary Rose, I am Margaret Raftery!” she said proudly.

“And Brian hired you to do the seven paintings?”

“He and his wife paid me one hundred euros for each painting.”

Dermot’s mouth dropped. “One hundred euros? I paid him half a million dollars to commission those paintings! He told me that most of the money was going to the convent.”

“I can explain,” Brian began.

“No, you can’t!” Margaret cried. “You two are shameful! What you put me through. Thanks to running all over creation with you yesterday, gathering up my paintings, I broke my tooth and ended up with-” she reached into her pocket-“this dreadful cap! I’ve never seen anything like it! It’s hideous! And you were cheating me out of so much money. Why you’d steal the sugar out of my tea!”