Carol Clark: Laced

Neil sat behind his desk and gestured for Regan and Jack to sit in the two chairs in front of him. He started tapping on the keys of his computer.

“They checked in at three o’clock yesterday and used the names Betty and Earl Norton. They gave their address as London.”

“When did they make the reservation?” Jack asked.

“Last Friday. To stay for four nights.”

“They paid with a credit card?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see what my office can find out with the credit card information,” Jack said. “And you don’t have any information about the kind of car they were driving?”

“No, we don’t require it. But I can assure you that we will in the future.”

Great, Regan thought.

“I have to say I was surprised at the way the two of them were able to carry their own suitcases when they checked out. They insisted they didn’t need any help. Things were so hectic around here that I didn’t worry about it too much.”

“They can take care of themselves,” Jack said wryly.

“Did they speak with English accents?” Regan asked Neil.

“Yes. They seemed like a proper English couple.”

Five minutes later a nervous Conor Devlin came into the office. He had taken off his white apron and chef’s hat.

“Conor, sit down,” Neil said, pointing to the only remaining chair in the room. “We just want to talk to you for a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you tell these folks exactly what happened this morning when you came to work? I know you’ve told me, but they’re trying to help us out.”

Conor sat and folded his hands. “I came in a little before four, like I always do to get things organized for breakfast. When I approached the kitchen, I smelled smoke. I opened the door, flipped on the light, and was shocked. Smoke was everywhere. I ran out and pulled the fire alarm, grabbed a fire extinguisher, and then ran back in. I could see the flames shooting up from the stove. I ran over, and luckily I was able to put it out.” He shook his head. “Someone had poured grease into three different pans and then turned on the jets full blast.”

“What do you think would have happened if you hadn’t walked in there when you did?” Jack asked.

“Lord knows,” Conor said. “The damage would have been much worse, I suppose.”

“I wonder if whoever did this could have known that you come in at four every day.”

“I don’t have any idea,” Conor answered. “Seems strange, doesn’t it?” he asked, not expecting an answer.

Jack turned to Neil. “Is the kitchen locked at night?”

“’Tis. But someone had fiddled with the lock.”

Jack sighed. “I’d like to talk to any of your staff who had contact with the Nortons. Someone must have brought them to their room. Someone must have delivered room service. We’ve got to find out if there is anything anyone remembers about them that might help. If they were willing to set a fire that could have easily gotten out of control, I can only imagine what else they might have planned.”

Sheila and Brian were also roused from their sleep by the ringing of a telephone, Brian’s international cell phone. But their call wasn’t from a friendly cousin or coworker. It was from someone they had made a business deal with, a deal that was already making them queasy.

Dermot Finnegan was on the line from Phoenix, Arizona. A sixty-five-year-old multimillionaire, Finnegan was a formidable character known for his charm as well as his temper. He’d emigrated from Ireland with his parents when he was twelve. Scrappy and tenacious, he had worked hard to earn money for his family from the day he set foot on American soil. And he had never stopped. Retirement held no interest for him. From his thirty-room mansion on a golf course, he was still wheeling and dealing, occasionally heading out for a round of golf, which he almost always won.

He could be a bit of a tyrant when things didn’t go his way.

“Brian,” Dermot yelled into the phone. “It sounds like you’re still asleep! By my calculation it’s past nine o’clock there. What are you still doing in bed?”

Brian sat up. “There was a fire in the hotel in the middle of the night.”

“A fire?”

“Yes. A grease fire in the kitchen.”

“You’re not going to let a little fire stop you from completing your mission, are you?”

“Of course not,” Brian answered, rolling his eyes. Dermot was also known for talking to his employees about their “mission,” whether it was cleaning his house or carrying out his deals. Brian could just picture Dermot with a cigar hanging out of his mouth, his piercing blue eyes wide open, his face flushed. Dermot had a full head of dyed brown hair and a body that would benefit from walking around the golf course once in a while instead of always being chauffeured in a cart with a Rolls-Royce grill and heavily padded seats.

“When are you picking up the paintings?”

“This afternoon,” Brian told him for the hundredth time.

“And you’re flying back immediately?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure you can’t get the artist to come with you?”

“I told you she’s a nun who lives in a convent that is practically cloistered.”

“Practically cloistered-you’re either cloistered or you’re not,” Dermot growled.

“Listen, she doesn’t want her identity to be revealed. It’s a miracle we got her to paint these seven paintings as it is.”

“I don’t know why. Look at the Book of Kells, those beautiful illuminated manuscripts on display for everyone to see at Trinity College in Dublin. It’s no secret that was done by monks. What’s this nun’s problem?”

“She made us promise.”

“Promises are made to be broken. We’ll work on that later. This is just phase one of our project. I’m telling you, she paints like an angel. It was very generous of you to donate her painting for the auction at my Irish Eyes fund-raiser.” He laughed. “I bet you didn’t know what valuable art you had.”

He was right, but Brian wouldn’t admit it. “You know Sheila and I like to support Irish causes. We paid a lot of money for that painting,” he lied.

“You should be generous to the Irish, making money off all that junk you have the nerve to call Irish memorabilia.”

“Listen, Dermot, I promise to call you as soon as we have the paintings. Okay?”

“All right. Now talk to that nun. See if she’ll give at least one interview. And tell her I’ll build her a convent here in Phoenix where she can paint all day. The weather’s much better here than it is in Ireland.”

“She’s not interested.”

“I can’t understand it! There’s a lot of money to be made off her talent, as you know. I noticed you wasted no time in cashing the check I gave you when I ordered the paintings.”

“Did you expect me to put the money in a drawer?”

“Of course not. But it was a broad leap of faith on my part to write you that check. A half million dollars is a lot of money. I want those paintings in my house here in sunny Arizona as soon as possible. It’s not often that an exciting new talent is discovered. I should take over Sotheby’s.” He hung up.

Brian closed the cell phone, dropped it next to him on the bed, and rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t know getting involved with Dermot would be such a headache.”

“I only wish I’d taken an art appreciation course along the way,” Sheila said wistfully. “If we had known how valuable that painting was, we never would have given it away, and we could have exploited ‘Sister’ on our own.” She laughed. “I can’t believe you told him the artist is a nun.”

“What else was I going to say? If Dermot met the real artist, the mystique would be gone.”