Twanged (6 page)

“I feel lonesome inside. I have no one to argue with. I’m not used to you working.”

“With what I make on this we can take a trip to Florida this winter.” He turned back to the fiddle.

“Two trips in one year. You’re the last of the big spenders.” Pearl laughed and got up. She leaned over to give Ernie a kiss on his bald head. Startled, he jerked and knocked the pitcher of lemonade all over the freshly stained wood.

“Pearl!”

“I’m sorry, Ernie. I’ll run and get some paper towels!”

Ernie picked up the damp wood and shook his head. “More delays,” he said to himself. Talking to himself was a habit he’d picked up in childhood, and it had only gotten worse when he started his solitary business of building fiddles. “More delays. I’m going to have to strip and revarnish.” Ah nuts, he thought. I just hope that Chappy Tinka doesn’t show up and start bugging me again. What a pest!

7

W
hen Nora and Luke pulled into the driveway of their Bridgehampton home, they found Louisa and Herbert Washburn sitting on the front steps waiting for them.

Louisa jumped up as if she had just won Lotto. “We made wonderful time getting out here!” she exulted.

Ten minutes later they were accepting cool glasses of Chardonnay from Luke and plopping themselves onto a couch in the rear “living space” that ran the length of Luke and Nora’s airy home. Pine floors, white couches and chairs, a blond wood dining room table off the open kitchen area, and large windows that overlooked an expansive grassy yard complete with a pool and large trees bordering the property—all combined to give a feeling of elegant simplicity.

“I’ve heard of that thumbtack family you know,
hnnnnnn,”
Louisa said. It never took long for a new acquaintance of Louisa’s to realize that many of her statements were punctuated with a nasal exhale and, if someone was close enough, a grab and shake of their elbow. As a result, many a drink had been spilled at cocktail parties.

Louisa turned to Herbert, a nondescript man whose expression was like Switzerland—always neutral. After forty years of marriage he didn’t seem to notice Louisa’s grunts and grabs anymore. A vague look in his watery blue eyes often made people wonder if the lights were on but nobody was home. “Lambie,” she said.

“Yes, dear.” Herbert was thin and mostly bald, a gray band of hair forming a horseshoe from ear to ear. He was a head shorter than Louisa, who was often seen affectionately smoothing out his little wisps on top.

“Years ago. Didn’t we meet Hilda Tinka, this chap Chappy’s mother?” she asked, stricken by a sudden urge to attend to her own hair. Someone had once told her she looked good in an upsweep: then and there it had become her permanent hairdo. Right now she strained to tuck in any stray dyed brown strands that had managed to escape from the bun. Between shampoo days her maintenance consisted of sticking in more and more pins, to the point where she couldn’t make it through an airport X-ray machine without setting off the buzzer. But she was an attractive woman with soft features and warm brown eyes. “Didn’t we?” she continued.
“Hnnnnnn?”

Herbert scrunched up his mouth and blew out. His eyes remained in a fixed stare in the direction of the coffee table. Finally he answered thoughtfully, “Could be.”

“That’s what I thought.
Hnnnn.”
She turned to Luke and Nora. “I’m going to have to research that. I’ve put the information from all my datebooks for the past twenty-five years on my laptop computer. My life is in there. Names, places, parties, numbers.”

“Half the people in it are dead,” Herbert remarked.

“Lambie, not half!” Louisa said, grabbing his bony knee and giving it a good jiggle. “Nora, I’m the Queen of the Internet. It’s where I do all my research. I’ll teach you all about it this week.”

Week, Nora thought. She didn’t dare look at Luke. She had told him they were staying for three days at the most. In reply she managed to croak, “That would be very interesting.”

“Tonight should be interesting,” Louisa pronounced. “I love to get a feel for other people’s homes.”

You don’t say, Nora thought. “Well, you won’t be disappointed in this place,” she said politely. “Not only did Chappy Tinka build himself a castle, but he’s also going to renovate the servants’ quarters and build a small theatre for his personal use.”

Luke sipped his wine. “Like the Mouseketeers.”

Louisa laughed. “Summer stock! How glorious!” she said, gesturing grandly with her free hand. “For my article on the Hamptons I’ll have to include a little section on Chappy Tinka and his wife. Here is someone building a theatre in his own backyard! That’s a long way from the days when people came out here and found nothing but a quiet farming place where people fished for excitement. I’ll write about how the reasons people come out here have changed. Some people like the Hollywood feel out here, others don’t.” She paused slightly, emitting an exceptionally charged
hnnnnn.
“Tonight provides me with a wonderful opportunity to do some background research for my article, doesn’t it, Lambie?”

“Wonderful.”

Luke looked at his watch and turned to Nora. “Honey, it’s four-thirty. I want to unpack the rest of the car and take a quick shower. If we’re going to this party, we should leave here soon. The traffic gets pretty bad at this time of day.”

“Oh, does it ever!” Louisa agreed heartily. “I’ll have to put that in the article, too. ‘From tractors to Mercedes-Benzes’ . . .”

Nora smiled. “Why don’t you two relax while we unload the rest of our things from the car and get ready?”

Louisa smoothed out the folds in her caftan. “Lambie and I will sit here and enjoy this nice view. Oh, I can’t wait to see Regan. She’s such a darling. I’m so sorry she won’t be staying here with us.”

“Duty calls,” Nora said. “I think she’ll have some fun on this job, though.”

“Oh yes! God bless the young people! I’ll certainly want to chat at length with Brigid O’Neill and get a good look at that fiddle I’ve been hearing so much about!”

“She seems like a lovely girl,” Nora said, escaping through the front door and out to where Luke was leaning against the car and massaging his temples.

“Do you think they’d notice if we never went back inside?” he asked.

“She’s always a little wound-up when she first arrives. She’ll calm down. I hope.” Nora leaned against her husband, enjoying the scent of his skin and his clothes, as he put his arms around her. The street was calm and quiet except for an occasional bird wanting to make its presence known with a chirp or a caw.

“Maybe she’ll want to stay at the Chappy Compound to do her research,” Luke said hopefully.

“Regan would kill us.” Nora chuckled. “I just wonder who she’ll latch on to at the party tonight.”

“She’s bound to rile some poor soul.”

Little did he know just how riled.

8

T
his place is something, huh, guys?” Brigid called from her perch at the guest house’s kitchen table as her band members came ambling down the stairs in their bathing suits. Before they could answer, the phone began to ring. “That’s got to be my manager, Roy,” she said as she ran to pick up the cordless phone that was plugged into the wall of the pantry.

After they had settled in, Regan and Brigid and Kit had congregated in the kitchen to catch up with each other.

Chappy and Duke had helped them shlep in their bags. “I hope these quarters will suffice!” Chappy had cried. “I’ve never had any complaints! But if you do, you must speak up and your needs will be attended to!”

After assurances were uttered over and over that indeed this was a most delightful, charming place to stay, with such an incredible view of the water, Chappy had, to the relief of them all, retreated to his castle to prepare for the party.

Upstairs were six bedrooms. Regan’s room faced the road and Kit’s house. Brigid’s room was right across the hall and had a view of the ocean. They were furnished in typical old-beachhouse style: floral wallpaper, wooden dressers circa who knows when, and beds somewhere in between twin-sized and full that very well might have been passed down by Chappy’s pilgrim ancestors. The bedspread were the knotty white kind that Regan never ever saw for sale anywhere but always seemed to come across in people’s vacation homes, particularly if they were near the water.

“What style would you call this decorating?” Regan had asked Kit while surveying her room.

“Early leftovers,” Kit had answered. “Our house is much the same. I must say it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a TV with rabbit ears.”

“That’s what I like about these kind of joints,” Regan had said. “They take you back.”

“To the Dark Ages. I feel as if our place is a set for a fifties television show, and Father Knows Best is going to walk in any minute,” Kit had said while putting Regan’s bag down on the hooked rug and studying the sheer white curtains blowing in the breeze. “I will say this: It’s got that good beachy smell.”

“Early mildew?” Regan had asked.

They were barely seated at the table when the call from Roy came in.

A few minutes later Brigid walked across the room, winding up the conversation. “Keep calling with good news. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Roy.” She clicked off, laid the phone on the table, reached for the soda she had abandoned, and smiled at them benevolently.

Regan smiled back. “Good news?”

Brigid shook her head. “I can’t believe how much has happened since I met you two in Ireland! This whole fiddle business is unbelievable! A couple of guys who started a country music station out here want me on their show on Monday. They’re hosting the music festival.” She put her feet up on the wicker chair next to her and glanced out at the water, as though to assure herself that she was so close to the Atlantic Ocean.

“Can I borrow the fiddle next time I go on a date?” Kit asked.

“Only if I go as your bodyguard,” Regan answered.

“I’ll take a pass.”

Brigid laughed. “It’s great to see you two again.”

“You too, Brigid,” Regan said. “Now that we have a quiet moment, would you mind showing me the letter that Austin spoke about?”

Brigid’s face turned serious. “He’s such a worry-wart. I read it to him on the phone the other night, and he got all nervous and called my mother. I’m glad you’re here, Regan, but I didn’t feel that threatened by it. I know a lot of people in the public eye get nasty letters.”

“I understand,” Regan said. “But after the theft at Malachy’s cottage, we’ve got to be extra cautious. So can I see it?”

Brigid swung her legs down off the chair. “Why not? Time for show-and-tell.”

“By the way,” Regan said as Brigid got up, “where is the fiddle?”

“Under my bed.” She arched one eyebrow. “Where no one would think to look.”

The nice part about being in a private place like this, Regan thought, is not having to worry about leaving the fiddle in a hotel room or lugging it around everywhere.

“As a matter of fact,” Brigid said, “Chappy asked if I would bring the fiddle over tonight and play a little.”

“Do you mind?” Regan asked, knowing that many performers resent being asked to entertain when they’re invited to parties.

“Not at all. I’ll ask the guys if they want to play, too. Let me get the letter.”

A few minutes later she returned, carrying a white envelope in one hand and lugging a heavy plastic bag in the other. She dumped the contents of the sack, which included letters and postcards and little presents that people had left for her at Fan Fair, onto the table.

“Wow,” Kit said, impressed. “Those are all for you?”

Brigid nodded happily. “To think that just last year I was playing to a bunch of empty chairs in the biggest dumps around. I read every one of these letters riding that bus. They are all pretty nice and normal except for this one.” She handed the white envelope to Regan.

Regan took it from her and pulled out the single sheet of plain white paper. The angry black lettering gave her a chill. Someone had clearly attempted to disguise their handwriting. She read it aloud.

DEAR BRIGID,

YOU’VE TAKEN SOMETHING THAT DOESN’T BELONG TO YOU. AND I DON’T WANT TO HEAR YOU SINGING THAT SONG ABOUT JAIL ANYMORE. IF YOU DON’T HEED MY WARNING, I’LL HAVE TO TAKE FURTHER ACTION.

“Nice, huh?” Brigid said.

Regan sighed. “So someone left this last week at Fan Fair?”

Brigid nodded.

“The curse on the fiddle isn’t mentioned, but the writer seems to know about it,” Regan observed.

“What is this about the curse?” Kit asked.

Brigid rolled her eyes. “Oh, it’s the blarney, as we say. The Irish have a history of superstitions.” She explained it all to Kit, concluding with a half-smile. “The fairies like music, you see, and they don’t want to be deprived of it. They never leave Ireland, so apparently the fiddle mustn’t, either. Or else you’ll have an accident or face death.” She managed to laugh. “In my opinion the worst part of that letter is that the person who wrote it doesn’t want to hear me play my hit song!”

Regan folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. “You don’t mind if I hold on to this?” she asked Brigid.

“I don’t want it,” Brigid said.

“A lot of nuts write letters like this,” Regan said. “But most of them are cowards who would be afraid to do anything in person.”

“That’s right,” Brigid replied. “I have friends with albums out who get hate mail. And they’ve been fine.”

“Absolutely,” Regan agreed, the letter in her hand, the theft of one fiddle and the curse on this one weighing heavily on her mind. An accident or face death. Not if I can help it, she thought.

9

H
e drove and drove, heading home, listening to his radio the whole time and thinking of Brigid. He liked to sing along to the music. Whenever the news came on, he switched channels.

So Brigid was in the Hamptons for the Fourth of July. When he was a kid, he liked that holiday. Not anymore. He hadn’t been invited to a picnic in years. And he was scared of firecrackers. Ever since the owner of that chicken coop tried to shoot him, he didn’t like any type of loud noises.