Twanged
Authors: Carol Higgins Clark
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are usedfictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons,living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 1998 by Carol Higgins Clark
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. CopyrightAct of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Grand Central Publishing
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First eBook Edition: April 2008
ISBN: 978-0-446-53718-6
Contents
PRAISE FOR
CAROL HIGGINS CLARK
AND HER NEW REGAN REILLY MYSTERY
TWANGED
“A lighthearted, entertaining novel.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A breezy cozy, full of crazy characters . . . A pleasant and charming outing.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“Hilarious . . . The characters are delightfully nutty . . . An utterly happy and charming book.”
—Jerusalem Post
“A dizzy and curious blend of Irish lore, the Gatsbyesque Long Island moneyed, and the country music scene . . . Avid mystery fans in search of something new will enjoy taking TWANGED to the beach with them.”
—West Coast Review of Books
“Clark writes with a breezy style that will quickly refresh readers.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A zany cast of characters . . . a fun read, filled with frivolity and humor, due to the refreshing and breezy style of the author.”
—Southbridge Evening News (MA)
“Clark writes with skill and humor.”
—Miami Herald
“Carol Higgins Clark tell sa fast-paced, suspenseful story, with never a dull moment and a refreshing sense of humor.”
—Mostly Murder
“Clark writes great dialogue for her idiosyncratic but lovable characters.”
—San Antonio Express-News
B
OOKS BY
C
AROL
H
IGGINS
C
LARK
Decked
Snagged
Iced
Twanged
Fleeced
Jinxed
Popped
Burned
Hitched
Laced
Deck the Halls
(with Mary Higgins Clark)
He Sees You When You’re Sleeping
(with Mary Higgins Clark)
The Christmas Thief
(with Mary Higgins Clark)
Santa Cruise
(with Mary Higgins Clark)
For Maureen Egen and Larry Kirshbaum,
my good friends.
And Regan Reilly’s too!
With love and thanks.
“Music oft have such a charm
To make bad good, and good provoke to harm.”
William Shakespeare,
Measure for Measure
SATURDAY, JUNE 21
BALLYFORD, IRELAND
T
he thick sweet scent of turf burning in the chimney of Malachy Sheerin’s one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old stone cottage, set back from the road yet not too far from the rugged coastline of the West of Ireland, always made him feel at peace. He lived in a little town called Ballyford, just south of the Ring of Kerry. It was practically the westernmost point in all of Europe.
Outside, the weather was deliciously foul. Even though the calendar said June, the cold rain and lashing wind made the inside feel that much cozier. It was the kind of night when a cup of hot tea or a slug of whiskey never tasted better.
Malachy’s one and only door didn’t quite meet the jamb. It probably never had. As a consequence the gusty wind whistled shrilly through it and under it, creating its own night music and causing the door to shudder and shake.
Malachy didn’t seem to notice. He was well into one of his lengthy oral discourses, expounding into his tape recorder. “. . . You can see why they used to call the fiddle the ‘dance of the devil’ or the ‘devil’s box.’ It associated with dancing and drinking. Actually, I see it as one of the first great stress relievers. It helped people let loose after a hard day’s work on the land.” He lit his pipe again. This was what he loved: sitting in his favorite chair by the fire, inhaling the pungent aroma he cherished, and hearing himself talk.
Old Grizzly, he took to calling himself. His weathered appearance made him look as though he’d done a lot of hard living in the midst of frequent inclement weather. At seventy-four years of age his face was deeply lined, his shaggy hair was gray with dark streaks running through it, and a protruding belly hung over his favorite turquoise belt buckle.
“Music is people’s release around here, even more than the rest of Ireland. Always has been. Out in the middle of nowhere like this, there’s nothing more brilliant than gathering in the evening in a neighbor’s parlor and telling tall tales around the fire. Nothing too small to hang your hat on, God knows. Anything at all that comes to mind is ripe for discussion. Talk of weather, ghosts. Old Granny McBride could talk the hind legs off a donkey with her stories of fairies and leprechauns. But then”— Malachy paused as if to savor the memory—“when the time was right, I’d bring out my magic fiddle and start to play. That moment was always grand. Before you knew it, toes were tapping, arms were raised, and the cares of the day were forgotten as even the most timid got out of their chairs and started to move to the music. Six days ago I bequeathed you the legendary fiddle, my pet, so now it’s your turn to let the magic come alive and play on! Play on, Brigid! Ignore what they’re saying about its curse. It’s a bunch of blarney.” He paused. “Now, this fiddle here . . .”
Malachy Sheerin, the former all-Ireland fiddle champion and notorious traveling storyteller, laid his pipe on the hearth next to his whiskey. After taking a hearty swig he leaned over to pick up the fiddle that was propped against the side of the chair, but the effort was great. With his arthritic fingers he grasped the bow and the fiddle and rested them in his lap.
“I’ll just close my eyes for a minute,” he said. A moment later he was asleep.
The tape recorder next to him whirred on.
Within seconds the door opened and the drenched stranger who had been observing him from the window quickly made his move. He stealthily extricated the fiddle and the bow from Malachy’s lap and placed them in the case he had noticed in the corner of the room. His eyes brightened when he saw the tape recorder. Hurriedly he took off his raincoat, grabbed the little machine, and wrapped the coat around his stash for further protection from the elements.
He didn’t notice the receipt that fell out of his pocket. It fluttered onto the floor, landing between the heap of Malachy’s old newspapers and the fireplace.
Malachy was now snoring gently, but the increasing momentum of the snores made the stranger nervous. One good snort and Malachy would wake himself up. The intruder stole a final glance around the room, grabbed the whiskey bottle for a quick gulp, and slipped out the shaky door to his waiting car. He wanted to make as quick an escape as possible on the dangerous and winding coastal roads. Roads that hugged magnificent cliffs and overlooked the angry roaring waves of the Atlantic Ocean, the same body of water that lapped at shores nearly three thousand miles away on the South Fork of Long Island, on the famous beaches known simply as the Hamptons.
SUNDAY, JUNE 22
SOUTHAMPTON, NEW YORK
C
happy Tinka frowned at the sun from a cushioned lounge chair perched next to his swimming pool with the big black musical note he’d had painted on the bottom to show everyone his interest in the arts. His gams felt sweaty, particularly behind his pudgy knees. He had drowsed for several minutes hugging his legs to him, and now droplets of perspiration were forming miniature puddles on the cushion. The straw hat with the logo for the Melting Pot Music Festival was starting to itch around his ears, and strands of his salt-and-pep-per hair poked out from under the brim. The Sunday papers were in disarray around him, and whenever a breeze blew up from the beach they would begin to flap, threatening to scatter hither and yon. In general a great sense of irritability was settling into every fiber of his privileged being.
He sipped his now watery iced tea and reflected on the fact that he hadn’t heard a thing all day regarding the bloody fiddle he wanted so badly. A fiddle he needed so desperately! A fiddle that belonged on the grounds of the Tinka homestead, which, after Mother died, he had dubbed Chappy’s Compound, future home of Chappy’s Theatre by the Sea—if they could ever get started with the construction!
Chappy fished the lemon out of his glass and sucked on it. His face puckered, although to the untrained eye there was no discernible difference in his countenance. It seemed to be a family trait. Most of his ancestors, though generally a friendly lot, looked as if they were born not with a silver spoon in their mouths but a slice of lemon. Premature frown lines appeared on the visages of many a Tinka, and numerous winces were captured on old black-and-white photos that were hung in the hallway.
As his tongue ran around the lemon, one thought ran around Chappy’s head. That idiot Duke had better get the fiddle for him!
To think that he, Chaplain Wickham Tinka, had been in Ireland just last Sunday morning with his wife, Bettina, and they’d stumbled across that stupid pub in Ballyford on the last day of touring the castles in the West. The pub had been a mess: cigarette butts, dirty dishes, and a tired bartender who’d opened the door and waved them into a room smelling of stale beer. “Big celebration last night,” he’d said. “It was grand. Just got here to start the cleanup.”
