Twanged (8 page)

R
egan and Kit and Brigid had been sitting for a long time at the table when they realized it was getting late. When Kit went back to her house, and Brigid headed for the shower, Regan put on her bathing suit and took a quick walk around Chappy’s property to check out how secure it was. The compound seemed private enough, but anybody who really wanted to break in wouldn’t have much of a problem, she thought.

Starting to drag a little as she felt the aftereffects of her all-night flight, she took a dip in the ocean, hoping the cool water would give her a jolt. I can’t be out of it for the evening’s festivities, she thought. You never know what might happen.

As the brisk water washed over her, it did the job. Feeling more alive, she hurried back into the guest house, which now had an abandoned feel to it. The late afternoon light gave a peaceful glow to the all-purpose room overlooking the water. It was the time of day when people compared their tan lines.

Everyone must be in their rooms getting ready, Regan thought. She walked over to check out something unusual she had noticed before. The wall had what looked like a door built into it, but it had no handle. That’s so strange, she thought. Does it lead to the basement? She took a quick survey of the rest of the ground floor. There was no other door that would lead to the basement..

She went back outside and bent down at the well of one of the tiny basement windows. She rubbed the dirt off the window with her fist and peered inside. From what she could tell it was your typical gray cinder-block basement. There was nothing in it. The floor was bare. I guess that’s why they don’t need a door, she thought.

Regan shrugged, stood up, and went back in the house. She showered and changed into a short sleeveless black dress and sandals. Thank God for black, she thought. You can wear it anywhere and not have to worry. She fastened the fanny pack that held her .38 pistol around her waist. She’d gotten a permit to travel with her gun to New York. The rayon fanny pack with Velcro snaps with the perfect way to pack a gun without people noticing. If anything, she thought, wearing this thing makes me look like a nerd.

When Regan came out of her room, Brigid was standing in the hallway with Pammy, who was holding a skirt in her hands.

“I’m so sorry I burned your skirt,” Pammy said to her. “That iron is so old.”

“Don’t worry,” Brigid replied. “It was sweet of you to offer to press it for me in the first place. I have another one I’ll throw on.”

“I feel terrible,” Pammy insisted.

“It’s okay. Really,” Brigid said.

A few moments later they all gathered downstairs. Brigid was now ready to party, dressed in a calf-length flowing skirt, white short-sleeved shirt, and vest. With her fiddle case in hand, she looked the part of the funky musician, ready to play. Teddy, Hank, and Kieran were all in their black jeans; the cases with their guitars, mandolin, and banjo lay on the floor by the door. Pammy, clad in a skimpy halter dress, was checking her makeup in a compact mirror, and Kit was knocking at the door. A group of eight people from her house stood out in the driveway waiting.

“They’re anxious to meet you, Brigid,” she said.

Introductions were made and they all ambled over to chez Chappy.

“Welcome! Welcome! Welcome!” he began again, barely letting the group get inside the door as he effusively greeted Brigid. “One hundred thousand and one welcomes.” He chuckled.

“I think he’s determined to say it a hundred thousand and one times,” Regan whispered to Kit.

“Brigid, I hope you don’t mind,” Chappy said. “I invited a few members of the press to meet you. The two young men from the country music station in town are here, and a couple others from the local paper.” In a stage whisper he added, “It’s good publicity for the festival.”

“That’s fine,” Brigid responded, smiling. “My manager already booked me on that radio show.”

“Yes, I know. They’ve been advertising your appearance. And since they’re hosting the festival, I thought I’d invite them! I see you brought that fiddle of yours! How wonderful!”

Between the coverage in the newspaper and on the radio, Regan thought, everyone will know where to find her.

“Hello hello to the rest of you,” he said. “Come in, come in.”

A voice from behind called out to Regan as she was inching her way in the door. “Regan! Oh, Regan!” She turned, and there was Louisa, resplendent in a red-and-white floral caftan, with a matching flower in her hair, jumping out of the car that Luke hadn’t yet brought to a complete stop.

Here we go, Regan thought, answering with a warm “Louisa, how good to see you.”

“Hnnnnnn.
You too,” Louisa responded, racing over and giving Regan a big hug. “This is such fun. Herbert! Come say hello to Regan.”

F
ifteen minutes later, everyone was gathered out on the deck, drinks in hand. Chappy had called everyone together for a toast. Brad Petroni and Chuck Dumbrell, the owners of the radio station, had already made a beeline for Brigid, while Louisa was making her presence and her intention to write an article about the Hamptons known to everyone. Regan, with one eye on Brigid as she leaned against the railing, liked to observe the dynamics of a group as people gathered for a party. She had the fiddle case by her side.

One of the guys from Kit’s summer house, Garrett, had already tried to sell her stocks. One of the girls, Angela, dressed in a tight shirt that showed off her curvaceous figure, was hanging by the bar, flirting with Duke as he made the drinks.

Kit walked over and stood next to her. “Did you get a load of the guy with the shaved head and gray pajamas?”

Regan laughed. “I haven’t met him, but I heard someone say he’s Bettina’s resident guru.”

“Can I have everyone’s attention?” Chappy shouted. “Thank you . . . thank you.”

The crowd quieted, everyone turning to look at Chappy, who had one arm around Brigid, the other around Bettina.

That’s some diamond necklace Bettina is sporting, Regan thought. And that rock on her finger could compete for size with some of the seashells on the beach.

“Welcome to Chappy’s Compound. My wife, Bettina, and I are so honored to have Brigid O’Neill and her band as our guests this week. We’re also honored to have Nora Regan Reilly with us, and her husband, Luke.”

Nora raised her glass and smiled.

“Hnnnn,”
sounded from the crowd.

“We’re very pleased,” Bettina said with a big smile. “Chappy and I are very, very pleased to host you all this evening.”

Sounds like a canned response, Regan thought.

Chappy kissed her on the cheek and continued. “I want to welcome everyone else here tonight. I hope you’ll all get to be friends.” He paused, somewhat soulfully, Regan thought, as speakers always do before they say something they think is meaningful. Chappy did not disappoint. “. . . I have always been interested in music, especially country music, and I could think of no better way to enhance the Melting Pot Festival than to invite Brigid, a daughter of Ireland, to participate.”

He waited as people attempted to applaud while holding their drinks. “As you might know, I am building a theatre right on this property that will be up and operating next summer. I intend to play my part in contributing to the arts in the Hamptons by producing plays that my invited guests will enjoy on summer evenings. But right now I urge you all to enjoy yourselves. Eat, drink, and be merry!”

“Hnnn,”
Louisa grunted approvingly. A few feet from Regan, she turned to Peace Man, who was right next to her.

“I’m Louisa Washburn. I didn’t catch your name,” she said to him.

“Peace Man.”

“Peace to you, too. And your name is?”

“Peace Man. That’s a name.”

“How interesting,” Louisa said, “What is it you do?”

“Peace Man opens the door to inner peace for others.”

“Uh-huh.” Louisa took a quick sip of her tropical drink and patted the flower in her hair. “I’m a fact-checker and I do research,” she said as she started to invade his seventeen inches of personal space. “Facts facts facts. I’m writing an article on the Hamptons, and I would love to interview you.”

Regan watched as Chappy escorted Brigid from group to group. She turned to Kit. “The people from your house seem nice. Although Garrett did ask me about my stock portfolio already.”

“Oh, I know,” Kit said. “I told him that when it comes to my investments, he should save his breath.” They both looked over to the group by the window, where the tall, rangy, brown-haired Gar-rett, dressed in khaki pants, short-sleeved Lacoste shirt, and loafers with no socks, stood holding a vodka and tonic. He was deep in discussion with the guys from the radio station, who, dressed in blue jeans, cowboy boots, and spangly shirts, provided a marked contrast to his appearance.

“Let’s join them,” Regan said.

As they said hello, Louisa came up behind them. “So many good-looking young men at this party! And who are you?” When she found out that Brad and Chuck ran the radio station she was, as usual, ecstatic. “I know that station! No one could ever make a go of it. But I’m sure you will. It’s a tough, tough business. I do research and fact-checking so I know how many radio stations fail—”

“Research?” Chuck interrupted. “Maybe you can do some work for us.”

“I’d love to.” Louisa beamed.

Regan and Kit retreated to the bar, where the amply busted Angela had planted herself. Her streaked blond hair was pulled up on her head, with just enough strands hanging down to look sexy. “Being an actor must be so interesting,” she was saying as she leaned over to talk to Duke. “I was asked to pose nude once, but I thought my grandmother would have a cow.”

Kit whispered into Regan’s ear: “She’s determined to find a husband this summer.”

Duke looked at them. “What’ll you have?”

“White wine,” they both answered.

He seems amiable, Regan thought. Is he serious about acting? she wondered. With his muscular build and blond hair, he looked as if he could go up for a remake of
Beach Blanket Bingo.

They took their glasses and followed Chappy and Brigid into the house, where some of the others were gathered. This kind of bodyguarding—to keep a watch on someone while not making it obvious and at the same time giving them space—wasn’t easy. This was supposed to be a relaxing week for Brigid.

Luke appeared from around the corner.

“Hi, Dad. Where’s Mom?”

“On a tour of the house with Bettina. I’m hungry. I hope they serve dinner soon.”

Regan nodded her head. “Me too. Louisa is interviewing everyone at this party. Oh, here she comes.”

“This is the most wonderful party. I’m having such a good time,” Louisa pronounced as she joined them and started crunching on an ice cube. “Hello,” she said to a couple walking by, their glasses empty. “And you are?”

“Claudia, and this is my boyfriend, Ned,” Claudia replied perkily.

“How do you know the Tinkas?” Louisa asked gaily.

“I’m designing the theatre he’s building, and Ned helps me with the placement of objects. He practices feng shui.”

“Oh yes! I’ve read articles about that. I’m a fact-checker and do research, and I’d love to interview you for this article I’m doing.” She drifted outside with them, in the direction of the bar.

“Chow time!” Chappy roared as he clenched Brigid’s hand.

“Yes, yes, grab a plate, everyone, and help yourselves. Brigid, you must sit with me. We have a special table. . .”

Brigid glanced at Regan, rolled her eyes, and smiled. She’s so good-natured, Regan thought. Chappy is killing her with kindness.

Regan and Kit and Luke filled their plates with chicken and rice and salad and sat down in the cathedral-ceilinged living room, which could have been rented out for wedding receptions, Regan thought. Round tables for six were set up with white tablecloths, and large faux brightly colored thumbtacks the size of portobello mushrooms acted as centerpieces.

Within a few minutes Nora arrived with her plate, Herbert resurfaced with a piece of driftwood in tow, and Louisa made her entrance carrying two plates of food. “Lambie, there you are!” she cried.

As they ate, Louisa filled them in on all the interesting people she had met at the party. “I make it a point to say hello to as many people as possible at every party I attend. And in this case, I think I’ve covered everyone, and we’re just staring dinner. Lambie, is that enough chicken for you?”

Herbert was busy chewing. He nodded his head.

Regan looked around and surveyed the rest of the tables. She noticed that Bettina was sitting with Garrett and Peace Man and Duke and Angela. Brigid was at the “media” table with Chappy and the radio station guys and two reporters from the local papers. Everyone at that table looked as if they were trying to be polite, listening as Chappy’s hands flapped about. He’s obviously in the middle of a story, Regan thought.

As all the guests seemed to be finishing up, Regan excused herself and walked over to Brigid.

“Sit sit sit, Regan,” Chappy said to her. “Brigid was just telling us about the fiddle . . .”

Another chair was instantly produced by one of the waiters, and Regan squeezed in next to Chappy.

“. . . You know my theatre is opening next summer?” he asked Regan.

“Yes,” she said, noticing that the two reporters who had their pads out and their pens poised had stopped writing when Chappy began to speak.

“Brigid, are you afraid of the curse on the fiddle?” the elegant seventyish woman who was the society reporter from the
Southampton Sun
asked in a well-bred voice. She sat ramrod straight and looked to be of the old guard.

Brigid laughed. “Oh no.”

“But facing an accident or death is a pretty scary superstition,” the young cub reporter from the
Hamptons News
said with enthusiasm.

He looks like he really wants to play that up, Regan thought.

“It’s the Irish,” Brigid answered, looking to Regan as if she were getting tired. “We’ve always been a superstitious lot.”

Brad Petroni, ever anxious to plug his radio station, jumped in. “Brigid’s agreed to talk about that with us on our radio show Monday. We’ll be discussing curses and superstitions and the fiddle. Right, Brigid?”