Twanged (25 page)

50

N
ow I can’t decide which is worse,
THE RAIN OR THE SUN!
Either way our guests are always around. Sitting in the house or plopped on the beach right outside. And we can’t risk going in the house when they’re so close by!” Chappy griped.

Duke nodded. “I wish I’d thought of Country Tunes as the answer. I never win anything.”

“Oh, shut up! Those initials don’t stand for Country Tunes. They stand for Chappy Tinka!”

As usual they were sitting in Chappy’s study. Duke had gone on a special trip this morning to buy Dunkin’ Donuts without being asked. He thought Chappy needed the lift. Together they had listened to Brigid on the radio.

“Maybe they’ll go out tonight,” Duke said.

“Well, we still haven’t figured out who was in there the other night when we thought they were all out,” Chappy growled. “I still wake up with the sweats about that one.”

“Hmmm,” Duke said. “I haven’t had any problem sleeping.”

“You never do! To be quite frank, sometimes that worries me.”

Duke shrugged.

“Bettina woke me up last night, said I was talking in my sleep. She’s concerned about me and wants to spend more time together. ‘After Friday!’ I wanted to say, but I could hardly do that.”

Duke tried to look understanding.

“Now she’s insisting on going to the concert together. She wants to ride over in her car because she’d be embarrassed to be seen in mine with the big dent in it.
UGGHHHH.”

“So what does that do to our plans?”

“I will still ask Brigid to come over here and play one last time in the house. We’ll walk her to the car. . . . I’m sure that thumbtack Regan will be attached to her side, so it will be my job to distract them and get them in the car. You’ll put the fiddle in the trunk, where the other fiddle will be waiting. You have to quickly open the case and make the switch, then put the good fiddle in the golf bag. . . . Are you listening?”

Duke blinked. “Yes.”

“Did you prepare the golf bag so the fiddle will fit inside it?”

“I cut out the separators. The fiddle will slide right in.”

“Hallelujah! Now what are you supposed to say when you take the golf bag out of the trunk?”

“Oh, I forgot to remove these,” Duke said, sounding as if he was auditioning.

“Work on your delivery,” Chappy ordered. “I’ll take the bag from you and insist on carrying it inside while you drive them off to the concert. I’ll drive over later with Bettina.”

“What if they don’t want to put the fiddle in the trunk?”

“The trick is to not give them a choice. Get it out of Brigid’s hands and put it in the trunk before she has a chance to say no. Can you handle that?”

“Of course, I’m an actor.”

“Me, too, you know,” Chappy said indignantly.

“You’ve never been in a play.”

“You call those plays you were in?” Chappy screeched. “Those ramshackle productions I sat through! I should have gotten a rabies shot before I went into that last rodent-infested basement.”

“It was performance art.”

“Oh, shut up!” Chappy picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. “Getting back to the fiddle, we don’t want to have to resort to that plan of action. I’d rather get my hands on the magic fiddle
today.
Keep an eye out for what they’re doing over there.” He pointed in the direction of the pool and the guest house.

“Yes, sir!”

“I have to find Bettina. I promised I’d go for a swim with her this morning. She’s probably off reading the business section of the paper again. Checking out the stock prices.” Chappy shook his head. “She really surprises me sometimes. And this time around she seems to be so much more loving and affectionate.”

“Probably because your mother’s not here to bug her all the time,” Duke replied.

“Don’t talk about Mother like that!” Chappy snapped.

“But
you
do.”

“It’s different when I say it. She could be difficult at times, but she’s now resting in peace, and let’s leave it at that.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Chappy stood up and wordlessly walked out the door. Under his breath he mumbled, “Country Tunes. How ridiculous.”

51

T
he day passed quickly. Everyone took advantage of the much-welcomed good weather and spent most of their time on the beach.

The other members of Kit’s house had started arriving in the morning, ready to celebrate the long Fourth of July weekend. They came out on the sand and pretty soon several blankets were spread in the same area.

“This is heaven,” Brigid said.

They went into the water, chilly thanks to the rain and the relatively early point in the season, but the waves were big enough to keep everyone bouncing around and warmed up.

When Brigid and Kit and Regan came out of the water and headed to the blankets, Regan told Brigid that she’d go pick up the fiddle from her parents’ house.

Brigid lowered her sunglasses. “I hate to make you get in the car again. . . .”

“That’s okay. I’d rather get it now. Tomorrow will be hectic, and I know you want to practice. But I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“Regan,” Brigid said, motioning to the group around her, “I’ll be fine.”

“I promise I won’t leave her side,” Kit said in an uncharacteristically serious tone. “My keys are under the seat.”

“Thanks, Kit,” Regan replied. Kit’s reassurance made her feel better. She had to get the fiddle and knew Brigid didn’t want to be dragged along. Not on her last day of vacation.

Regan ran up to the guest house, quickly changed, and on her way out walked around to look once again in the basement windows. She leaned down and pushed her face against the dirty glass. Yup, she thought. It looks like a basement.

She hurried to Kit’s car and drove over to her parents’. It felt so good that the sun was out again.

At the house she found the foursome out by the pool.

Louisa was sunning herself. “I decided to enjoy the sunshine, since Lambie and I will be leaving on Saturday. How we hate to go!”

I’ll bet, Regan thought.

“Brigid sounded good on the radio this morning,” Luke said. “How is she doing?”

“Her reviews have put her in great spirits. She’s excited to start the tour.”

“Did you show her the pictures, Regan?” Louisa asked.

Regan squinted. “Not yet. To tell you the truth, I don’t think she’d love seeing Pammy in the middle of a band photo that’s going out over the Internet.”

“Oh my,” Louisa said. “And I bet Pammy wouldn’t like to see some of the letters that fans have posted on the Internet. So many of them asked why Brigid and Kieran aren’t together. I quote, ‘When you sing together, it looks like you’re really a couple.’”

“No kidding?” Regan asked.

“No kidding.”

“I’ve really got to get back now. Mom, could you get that famous cursed fiddle out for me?”

“Of course, dear.”

Regan and Nora went inside. In her room Nora unlocked the safe and handed her daughter the object of so much speculation. “It’s been some week.”

“I know,” Regan said. “Thankfully, it’s almost over. By the way, I’ve decided to stay through next week with you.”

“Wonderful.”

When Regan pulled back into the Chappy Compound, Duke was coming out of Kit’s house. Angela was standing at the screen door. Regan waved to them and parked Kit’s car.

“Regan,” he said as he walked over,
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare
under his arm. He pulled a letter out of his pocket. “Someone left this letter in the mailbox for Brigid. Would you mind giving it to her?”

“Not at all.” Regan took it and looked at the writing on the envelope. Oh God, she thought. It was the same big black angry lettering. There was no address on it. No return address on it either. Just Brigid’s name.

Duke started to walk off.

“Duke?” Regan called.

He turned and looked at her. “Yo,” he answered.

“When did you find this letter?”

“This afternoon when I went out to get the rest of the mail.”

“Was anyone else around?”

“I didn’t see anybody. Why?”

“Just curious,” Regan said. She didn’t need to tell him her concerns. When he walked off again, she ripped the envelope open. She read it quickly and gasped. Except for the last sentence, it had exactly the same sentiments as the message in the letter left in Nashville.

DEAR BRIGID,

YOU’VE TAKEN SOMETHING THAT DOESN’T BELONG TO YOU. I DON’T WANT TO HEAR YOU SINGING THAT SONG ABOUT JAIL ANYMORE. YOU’VE BEEN WARNED, WHAT IS IT GOING TO TAKE TO MAKE YOU FINALLY LISTEN?

No. Regan decided. I don’t think I’ll pass this on to Brigid. After the concert I’ll turn the doll, the smashed cassette, and the letter over to the police. There’s nothing they can do about them now, and I don’t want to upset Brigid. When she’s left the Hamptons, I’ll call her manager and have a long talk about measures they should take to ensure Brigid’s security in the future.

The thought made Regan shiver.

T
hey’re having a
BARBECUE!”
Chappy cried. “Doesn’t any one of them ever plan to spend a dime on a restaurant in this town? Won’t they ever go out?”

Duke shook his head back and forth. “They’re going to set up a grill on the beach.”

“Were you invited?” Chappy asked suspiciously.

“Yes. So were you and Bettina.”

“My nerves can’t take it.”

T
hat night, Angela sat in the sand, holding a script. “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?” she asked Duke as she bit into a hamburger.

W
ell, this is it, Brigid,” Regan said as they talked in the hallway before calling it a night. “Tomorrow is the big day.”

“And what a day it will be,” Brigid answered cheerily. “It’s going to be so exciting.”

“No doubt,” Regan agreed.

H
e lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He’d had the country music radio station on, and they’d done nothing but talk about Brigid and play the song. He was about to go crazy.

He ‘d made his plans. He couldn ‘t bring Brigid back here right away. He’d packed the car with his camping equipment. He’d take her to the woods, like he’d planned to do in Branson, and she would fall in love with him.

Then he could bring her back here and they‘d live together happily ever after.

All night he stared at the ceiling.

52

FRIDAY, JULY 4

O
n Friday, the Fourth of July, there was a sense of excitement and anticipation in the air. It felt like the day of a prom or graduation or wedding.

The morning dawned brilliantly, and as the sun ascended into the sky, it shone down with a vengeance on the field at Welth College, doing its best to continue desquishing it.

Arnold Baker was a happy man. Casually dressed, he was outside his office, checking the progress of workers as they set up the stage on the field. Thanks to the rain, the grass looked greener and more lush than ever.

Tonight this field will be filled with music lovers having a good time, he thought. The day was saved. He looked up at the sky, smiled, and uttered three words: “Thank you, God.”

O
ver at the Compound, the day was just beginning in the guest house.

When Regan came down to the kitchen at nine o’-clock, Teddy and Hank were walking in the door with bags of bagels and the newspapers. Brigid was at the table by herself.

“Hey, Brigid,” Hank said. “Your face was staring out at me from this paper this morning, so I thought I’d better buy it.”

Brigid laughed heartily. “Throw it over.”

Regan leaned over Brigid’s shoulder to get a glance at the
Southampton Sun.
A publicity photo of a smiling Brigid looked back at them.

“Great shot, Brigid,” Regan said.

“Thanks.”

“What does that say?” Regan asked and began to read aloud. “ ‘Country music singer Brigid O’Neill will be appearing at the Melting Pot Music Festival on Friday, the Fourth of July. As with most country music singers, her songs will be about love and heartbreak, but Brigid herself has yet to find the man of her dreams. However, with her looks, talent, and charm, it shouldn’t be long before she steals someone’s heart and is singing from her own experience of being in love. . .’”

Brigid looked up at Regan and rolled her eyes. “How embarrassing.”

The phone rang. Teddy and Hank were both in the kitchen getting out the cream cheese and jelly and butter. Hank walked into the pantry and grabbed the phone. “Hello . . . yeah. Hey, Roy! . . . What? . . . Oh, that’s great! . . . Here’s Brigid.” He walked over and handed the cordless to Brigid. “You’re booked on Imus’s radio program next Tuesday morning, and that night we’ll be playing on Conan O’Brien’s show.”

That ought to sell a few albums, Regan thought. Millions of people listen to “Imus in the Morning.” If he likes an album, he’ll play it on the air and talk about it. Regan knew that he particularly liked country music. And Conan O’Brien’s late-night television talk show was known for being a great jumping-off point for young new bands.

“Yes!” Brigid said, giving Hank the thumbs-up as she grabbed the phone and started walking around. “Roy, that’s great news!” she exulted.

Regan whispered to Hank, “Does that interfere with your tour?”

“No, they scheduled the shows for when we’d be swinging back past New York anyway.”

Kieran came into the room and sat down at the table. “What’s going on?” he asked.

As Hank told him, he caught sight of Brigid’s picture. He pulled the paper over to him and began to read the article. Regan thought his expression looked troubled. Before he could finish the article, Pammy came bounding down the stairs and into the room with Kieran’s rubber ball in her hand.

“What’s all the excitement?” she asked. “I heard Hank and Brigid and . . .” She looked at Kieran, whose nose was buried in the newspaper. “Kieran, what are you reading that’s so important?” She leaned over his shoulder.