Laced

“And, Sam, they think Jane Doe’s real name might be A

30

There wasn’t much conversation on the ride back to Margaret’s cottage. The car sputtered along, sounding as if it might give up the ghost at any moment, and Margaret made noises that indicated she was experiencing dental discomfort.

When they finally turned onto Margaret’s property, there was a collective sigh of relief. Brian pulled the car around to the back of the house, where the sight of a little greenhouse out in the field was too much for him to bear. Margaret had informed them that after her husband died she had transformed the greenhouse into a studio where she could paint.

“I threw out all his junk and set up my canvas,” she’d explained. “That was my first mistake.”

Brian parked and turned off the engine.

“Home sweet home,” Margaret muttered. “I can’t wait to take to my bed.”

“Let us help you get inside,” Sheila said, holding Margaret’s painting in her lap. Neither Sheila nor Brian was quite sure how they were going to keep it in their possession.

“I don’t need any help,” Margaret said. She opened the back door of the car and hoisted herself out.

Sheila and Brian looked at each other and followed suit.

“Give me the painting,” Margaret said.

Brian walked around the car and put a comforting hand on Margaret’s shoulder. “Margaret, I’m worried about you. We’ll take care of the painting until we figure out how to properly honor May Reilly. I don’t want you to be alone with the painting if there’s any chance it’ll cause you more bad luck. Are you sure you don’t want us to stay with you? We’re happy to. We can sleep on the couch and then maybe tomorrow we can get an early start and collect the rest of the paintings from your friends.”

Margaret looked at him aghast. “I don’t want you staying in my home. No man has ever slept here except my husband and my son. I’m fine here all alone. I’ve been alone since my husband died. I can take care of myself!” She turned, went into the cottage, and slammed the door.

Sheila and Brian hurried to their car, the painting in Sheila’s hands. They wanted to get out of there before Margaret opened the door and started yelling for her artwork.

Margaret was beside herself. The nerve of him, she thought. In the bathroom, she flicked on the light and checked on her tooth in the tiny mirror above the sink. “Disgraceful,” she muttered. “I hope I don’t die.” Without even bothering to make a cup of tea, she lay down on her lumpy bed, fell asleep, and began to dream of May Reilly.

Out on the road, Sheila and Brian realized they couldn’t carry the twelve-by-fifteen painting into He

“It’s getting chilly,” Sheila said, rubbing her arms.

Back at He

“Thank you,” Sheila responded.

“We have good news! A small stove was delivered this afternoon, so we’ll be able to serve a limited menu in the dining room tonight! Isn’t that grand?”

“It’s just peachy,” Brian muttered under his breath.

“Will we be able to get room service?” Sheila asked.

“Certainly. We’ll be happy to accommodate you.”

As Sheila and Brian walked through the deserted lounge and down the dimly lit hallway, the castle felt eerily quiet. Gray light filtered through the windows. It seemed as though a pall had fallen over the entire property.

Inside their room, Brian sat on their bed and put his head in his hands.

Sheila took a seat at the dressing table facing him. “What are we going to do?” she asked.

Brian stood, walked over to the desk, and turned on the computer.

“Talk to me,” Sheila said.

“I have a plan.”

Sheila’s eyes brightened. “You do? What is it?”

“Now I played football in college-”

Sheila resisted the impulse to roll her eyes. “Yes, I know.”

“We always had to think about what our opponents might do-how they’d react. Put ourselves in their shoes. Take advantage of their weakness.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Margaret is our opponent.”

“Right.”

“She bases her decisions on superstitions and fear.”

“Right.”

“Tonight we’re going to scare the wits out of her.”

“Brian!” Sheila sounded horrified.

“We have to. But we’ll be nice about it. You’re going to dress as May Reilly and knock on her window when she’s sleeping. You’ll instruct her to get the paintings back from her friends-or else.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“No. It’s our only hope. You can’t go into battle without a strategy. Now we just have to get the tools to implement our plan.” He logged onto the computer and tapped in his password.

Sheila sat there, stu

“A wig, a cape-you know, the usual things ghosts are known to wear.”

“I don’t think there’s a costume shop in the village,” Sheila said sarcastically.

“I’m sure there isn’t. Let’s just hope there’s one in Galway.” He tapped on the keys of the computer. “Thank God for these search engines.”

“Brian, did you ever think that we might scare that poor woman to death? It’s possible, you know.”

“It’s your job to make sure that doesn’t happen. Practice being May Reilly-a firm but benevolent ghost.” He laughed. “Whhoooooahhhhhhhhh.”

Sheila stood and went into the bathroom, shaking her head.

Down the road, in the graveyard, another strong gust of wind blew around May Reilly’s tombstone. Leaves fell from the trees and skittered across the ground. A bolt of lightning followed by a crack of thunder pierced the air, and once again it started to pour.

31

Clara, sitting at the reception desk of the gym, was bored out of her mind. She had done her nails, read a pile of beauty magazines, and stared out the window. One of the magazine articles gave tips on how to look your best all day at work. After all, so many romances bloomed in the workplace. Not in this workplace, Clara thought. There’s not a prayer Prince Charming will walk through that door.

Her day had been brightened by the Americans asking her questions about the couple at the Fun Run. Clara and Maebeth had been on and off the phone all afternoon, discussing the man with the weird laugh. It wasn’t unusual. Anytime a thought passed through Clara’s mind that she deemed worthy of a discussion with Maebeth, or vice versa, she picked up the phone. As a result they spoke at least twelve times a day.

Maebeth worked as a waitress from 6:00 P.M. to midnight, which unfortunately meant there wasn’t much time for chats in the evenings.

Clara rested her chin on her hand. Was there anything else weird about that couple? she wondered. That laugh was so embarrassing. If my dad laughed like that, I’d die. She was sure that Maebeth would agree. Clara reached for the phone and dialed.

“What’s new?” Clara asked when Maebeth answered.

“Nothing. Henh, henh, henh.”

Clara giggled with abandon. “Wouldn’t you just die if your friends were over your house and your dad started laughing like that?”

“Totally die.”

“It would be so exciting if they found those two. Wouldn’t that be the best? We could tell everyone we were part of a criminal investigation. I just wish we knew their names.”

“I know. All they said was hon…sweetie…hon. I was like, gag me. And remember when she fell? He was laughing and said, ‘Are you okay, hon?’ And she was so mad. She’s like, ‘Yes, sweetie.’ It sounded weird, didn’t it?”

“I, like, totally forgot about that.”