Twanged (21 page)

Chappy picked up the Montblanc pen with his name engraved on it. On a sheet of paper before him he had a list of the names of everyone staying in the guest house.

“Brigid and the snoop Regan.”

“Check,” Duke said. “They’ve exited the premises.”

“Kieran and his gal pal, Pammy.”

“Check. They drove off in the station wagon to watch the sunset and then were heading out to dinner.”

“Hank and Teddy.”

“Check. I gave them a lift into town. They were meeting friends for a night of partying. They invited me to join them, but I said no.”

Chappy looked up. “Well, bully for you.”

“I also got invited to Angela’s dinner party, but I told her I couldn’t make it because I had to work.”

“Well, aren’t you the social butterfly?” Chappy asked with a little bit of envy. He put down his pen, first admiring the sight of his name in gold lettering, then dropped the clipboard into his desk drawer. “Our guests are all accounted for, and Bettina is upstairs with her masseuse.” He checked his watch and then looked at Duke. “Are you ready to go into battle?”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Chappy spun around and rapped the bookshelf. Within minutes they were downstairs, passing through Grandpa’s speakeasy with nary a glance, just long enough for Duke to pick up the fiddle that was hot off Ernie’s workbench.

Like two industrious miners, they traveled through the underground tunnel.

“It really gets damp down here,” Duke commented.

“Shut up.”

When they stepped into the basement of the guest house, Chappy nervously ran his fingers through his hair. “Not too much longer,” he muttered.

“Not too much longer till we get the fiddle that will bring us good luck,” Duke agreed, starting to get excited. “Maybe I’ll finally be able to get an agent.” His voice resounded in the empty chilly basement. “Maybe I won’t have to wait until next summer to get a part in a play.”

“SSSSSHHHHHHH!”
Chappy held a finger up to his lips. “We have to be careful.”

With painstaking care, they opened the door at the top of the steps. As they expected, the coast was clear.

U
pstairs in the closet, he was starting to feel restless. He had waited long enough. He was sure they were gone.

It had been so good to hear Brigid moving around, to hear her voice when she talked to that pain-in-the-neck friend of hers. Brigid sounded so nice. He could even smell the perfume that she sprayed on herself. It smelled so good.

I can’t stay here. I’m hungry and I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll have to try and see her another time, when she is alone.

Taking care to avoid bumping his head on the slanted ceiling, he untangled his feet and pulled himself up.

C
happy and Duke silently raced across the den floor. Through the open windows the waves could be heard breaking on the beach. Seagulls screeched overhead, oblivious to the intruders in the house below them.

They reached the staircase. Chappy almost let out a nervous giggle. Like a couple of cats, they crept up the stairs one by one, a big grin on Chappy’s face.

They were almost at the top when they heard the creak of a door opening down the hall.

Adrenaline pumped through Chappy’s body. He froze in place, terrified. Could it be the wind? he thought desperately.

Duke was hanging behind him, inches away.

Chappy waited.

Within seconds the door shut. Chappy started to feel relieved. It must be the wind! But then he heard the terrifying sound of a throat being cleared and footsteps in the hallway!

Chappy’s body felt various biological urges. Valiantly he fought back the bile in his throat, turned around, and pushed at Duke’s bulk. A tiny cry escaped from his lips. Sounding like a sick mouse, he squeaked, “Move!”

In record time they were back in the basement, running through the tunnel, pausing only a split second to tenderly place the fiddle on a chair in the men’s lounge. They didn’t stop again until they were in the sanctuary of Chappy’s study, the bookshelf safely in place.

Panting, Chappy yanked his clipboard out of his desk drawer.
“WHO WAS THAT?”
he demanded of Duke. “I THOUGHT YOU SAID EVERYBODY WAS OUT!”

Duke, red-face and sweating, collapsed into his chair. “I don’t know, man. I swear, I saw them all leave.”

Chappy put his head down on his desk and moaned. “I
WANT MY FIDDLE!”

W
hat was that? He stopped in place, ready to run back into the closet. He waited a few moments. Finally he relaxed. It must be nothing, he thought.

I’d better get out of here.

But first. . .

He opened the bedroom door that he was sure was Brigid’s.

Oh! It had to be! A guitar was propped up in the corner. He went over to the dresser, where a picture of Brigid and a blond-haired woman with their arms around each other smiled out at him. I want to put my arms around you, Brigid, he thought.

He looked at her creams and comb and brush and perfume. He even sprayed a little of it on himself. On the bed was a little teddy bear. He grabbed it and sat down in the rocking chair by the window. Squeezing the teddy bear as hard as he could, he rocked for a few minutes and looked out at the water.

I love you, Brigid.

He wanted to lie on her bed, but he was afraid. I won’t want to leave.

He put the teddy bear back .

I’ll
be back, he thought.

He went out into the hallway and found the bathroom.

After he used the facilities, he hurried down the steps, out the door, and raced along the beach, away from the Compound.

Time for a western omelette, he thought hungrily.

40

S
o how many does this house sleep?” Regan asked as Kit carried a steaming plate of pasta to the table.

“Eight upstairs,” Kit said. “That’s how many of us are scheduled each weekend. Down here we have the den, which closes off. There’s a couch in there that’s a Bernadette Castro special, so we can pull it out if we have extra bodies.”

Garrett came in and sat across the table from Regan. His hair was gelled back and he smelled of cologne. With practiced affectation, he reached around and deposited his cellular phone on the sideboard. “I love staying in the den. It’s so quiet and private,” he said as he pulled his napkin off the table and positioned it on his lap. “Smells good.”

“Expecting a phone call?” Regan asked.

“My office,” he harrumphed. “The markets overseas are open now. . . .”

“Do we have everything?” Angela asked from the doorway, with wineglass in hand and the weary look of a chief cook who has tried to coordinate the presentation of all the food at the same time and is frankly sick of the effort.

“Angela, this looks great,” Brigid said. “Sit down.”

“Marinara sauce is my specialty,” Angela replied with a smile, slightly placated. She had on a short skirt and a tank top that was stretched to its limit. Her blond hair was once again pulled up, and her tan looked as if it had deepened in the last couple of days.

Regan thought she looked like the Coppertone kid all grown up. The one who years ago had stared out from billboards, involuntarily mooning the country thanks to her frisky dog, who delighted in tugging on the back of her bathing suit.

Angela sank into the seat at the head of the table. “Kit helped some,” she allowed.

“Kit loves to cook.” Regan chuckled as she bit into a forkful of the green salad.

“Reilly the gourmet,” Kit said sardonically. “What’s your specialty? Washed chicken?”

“With a pat of butter and salt and pepper on each and every piece,” Regan replied.

For a few moments, no one talked; they all ate hungrily. The pasta was delicious, the bread hot and garlicky, and the Chianti smooth. The candles on the table flickered, their soft light reflecting off the walls that boasted more old-fashioned wallpaper.

Regan was glad to see Brigid looking so relaxed. It had been quite a day for her.

As they were finishing, Brigid wiped her mouth with her napkin. “So, tell me how these group houses work,” she said. “How do you find each other?”

Angela rolled her eyes. “It can be a big headache, believe me. I’ve been in charge for a while but Garrett took over this year. He worked it all out with Bettina. We’ve had pretty much the same group for three or four years now. Of course Kit is new.”

“How did you get involved?” Brigid asked Kit, who was sitting back in her chair now.

Kit toyed with her wineglass. “A friend of mine from New York City was in the house. She had already paid for her share for this summer. But on her birthday in May her boyfriend popped the question. . . .”

Angela groaned and put her hand to her forehead. “They’d met only six weeks before. Can you believe it? That never happens to me.”

Regan winked at Kit. How many times do you want to get engaged, Angela? she thought.

“So,” Kit continued, “this friend, Sue, and her fiancé, Bruce, were making different plans for the summer. She asked if I’d like to buy her share. Because I live in Hartford, it’s a bit of a schlepp, but I thought I’d give it a try. I met everyone when Angela had a party in her apartment before Memorial Day weekend.”

Garrett cleared his throat. “You see, Brigid, everyone wants to get out of the City in the summer. Groups of friends get together to rent houses out here for the season. Around February you have to start coming out and looking at houses and see which ones will even rent to groups. Once you find a place, you divide it up into shares. Some people want to come every weekend, so they buy full shares. Others every other weekend, so they buy half shares, et cetera.” He gestured with his hands. “On weekends like the Fourth of July, everyone wants to be here, so we’re usually bursting at the seams. Like this weekend—it’s not only the Fourth of July but everyone wants to come to your concert.”

Brigid grinned. “Well, how did you find this house?” she asked.

“Ah!” Garrett pointed his finger. “Bettina found
us
because we’re all country music fans.”

Brigid’s smile widened. “Glad to hear it.”

“This past winter we got together at a country music bar in New York to listen to a couple of new singers. Chappy and Bettina were at the next table. Bettina started talking to us—how did we know each other and so forth. She ended up suggesting that we rent her servants’ quarters for the summer.”

So that’s how it happened, Regan thought.

“I hate the whole process of looking for a house. I drove out with Bettina the very next day to look at it.”

Regan remembered what Ned had said: Chappy hadn’t known until after the fact that she was renting it out. She cleared her throat. “Chappy didn’t ride out with you to show it off himself?” she asked.

“No,” Garrett said. “Apparently he was taking a workshop on how to audition for soap operas.” He shrugged. “When I saw it, I thought it was a great deal. Right by the water . . .”

“The house could stand a few modern appliances,” Angela commented.

“Well, the price was right. So I took it on the spot.”

“Oh, I like it,” Angela said, grunting. “But next year—that is, if I haven’t gotten married by then— we’re going to have to go looking again because they’re tearing this place down to build a theatre.”

“So next year at this very moment, someone might be in this exact spot emoting,” Kit said.

“Yeah,” Angela said as she picked at a crumb of bread on her plate. “Duke is memorizing his lines for
Romeo and Juliet.
He wants Chappy to put that on next year and let him play Romeo. I’m going to hear his lines for him.”

That I’d pay anything to see, Regan thought.

Someone rapped at the screen door. Angela looked in that direction. “Who could that be?” She got up and adjusted the straps of her top, smoothed her hair, and walked to the door. She flicked on the porch light.

“Duke!” she cried. “I thought you had to work!”

It’s Romeo, Regan thought. Wherefore art thou been?

Duke stepped in, dressed neatly in a pair of jeans and a black Lacoste shirt. “Chappy and Bettina went to a dinner party. I thought I might stop by and say hello.”

“Come on in, Duke,” Kit called. “You’re just in time for dessert.”

O
ver Kit’s strawberry shortcake, which consisted of store-bought individual shortcake patties generously laden with whipped cream from a can and sliced strawberries, they talked about Brigid’s upcoming concert and tour.

Duke scarfed down the contents of his plate. “So where are the others tonight?” he asked Brigid.

“They’re all out,” she said. “Didn’t you drive Hank and Teddy into town?”

“Yeah, I did.” Duke put down his fork. “So Pammy and Kieran went out, too, huh?” he continued.

“Yes,” Brigid answered.

“Do you have anybody else coming to visit this week?” he asked awkwardly.

Brigid frowned, puzzled by the question. “No. Do you, Regan?” she inquired.

“Not me,” Regan answered. “We’re Chappy’s guests, so I wasn’t going to go inviting more people.” Why is he so interested? she wondered.

“Duke, would you like some more dessert?” Angela asked. Her whole demeanor had changed with Duke in the room. There was a lot of lifting up of her arms to play with her hair—and, not so coincidentally, to show off her assets. But at the moment her Romeo doesn’t seem to notice, Regan thought.
Why is he here?

“No thanks,” he said.

A few minutes later they cleared the plates and took their glasses outside to sit on the porch. The night air was cool and the crickets were chirping.

Angela seated herself in the glider next to Duke. By now she was smiling and giggling and refilling everyone’s glass.

Nothing like getting a boost from the presence of someone you’ve got the hots for, Regan thought. But Duke seems so distracted. Oh well, maybe that’s the way he always is.

By the time they finished the wine and Brigid and Regan got up to leave, it was nearly eleven o’clock. Much to Angela’s disappointment, Duke insisted on walking them over to the guest house.