Twanged Read online

  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

  Hachette Book Group USA

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com

  Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group USA, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: April 2008

  ISBN: 978-0-446-53718-6

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  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

  BOOKS BY CAROL HIGGINS CLARK

  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

  1

  SATURDAY, JUNE 21

  BALLYFORD, IRELAND

  The 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.

  2

  SUNDAY, JUNE 22

  SOUTHAMPTON, NEW YORK

  Chappy 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.”

  Chappy had been disgusted enough to want to leave immediately, but Bettina had complained that her blood sugar was very low and insisted they stay and have something quick.

  The bartender had started to yak with Chappy when Bettina went to the ladies’ room. He droned on about the birthday party they’d had the night before for a young American girl named Brigid who was on her way to becoming a country music star. Her mother’s family lived in town and they had all been in attendance. Brigid had performed several duets with the famous all-Ireland fiddle champion Malachy Sheerin; he, of course, had played his legendary Fiddle of the Cliffs.

  “Why legendary?” Chappy asked.

  The bartender’s eyes widened. “Why, lad, it was fashioned from the wood of a fairy tree. There’s a blessing on it. Whoever owns it will always have good luck and get his heart’s desire.”

  Chappy’s ears perked up. He believed in good-luck charms. Maybe if he owned the fiddle, he could be a musical-comedy star after all.

  “How can I make arrangements to buy it?” he asked.

  The bartender looked at him as though he were nuts. “That’s a laugh. Out of the question. It’s an Irish fiddle that will stay with the Irish.”

  When Bettina returned, he served them some dreadful leftovers. Then when Chappy handed over his credit card while Bettina headed out to the car, the bartender’s eyes widened again.

  “Chappy Tinka,” he said with gusto. “CT. Those are the initials carved into the fiddle. Theories abound, but no one knows what they stand for.”

  Chappy Tinka, they stand for, you moron! Chappy wanted to cry out. Now he knew he had to have it! It was meant to be! Somehow or other he had to get it.

  Slapping the bill in front of Chappy, the bartender continued, “Malachy Sheerin has had that fiddle for over sixty years now. It was given to him when he was a lad. He’s carried it all over the countryside with him, going around playing and telling his stories. More Irishmen have heard that fiddle . . .”

  Chappy could barely listen. For him to hear someone tell him there was something he couldn’t have was very provoking. Throughout his fifty-four years of life, what Chappy wanted, Chappy got. Usually, anyway. The Tinka name was recognized everywhere. His grandfather had made a fortune in the thumbtack business, and Tinka Tacks was about as respected a company as you could get. Unfortunately for Chappy, people on the A-list for parties in the Hamptons didn’t get too excited about thumbtacks. But Bettina was working tirelessly to get them on that list.

  So was Chappy, actually. In the fall he’d finally be building a little theatre in the compound, a theatre where he could produce plays and maybe even star in a few himself. Who cares if he had, just last year, been encouraged to drop the improvisational acting class he had signed up for with such enthusiasm? Who needs it anyway? he’d decided. Some of the best actors in the world had never taken a lesson. The teacher was just envious of him, he was sure of it. To say that his range seemed to be limited due to his upbringing! What nerve!

  Chappy had come away from that class with one bit of unintentional advice from the teacher, which he planned to heed.

  If you want to work as an actor, you’d better build your own theatre.

  Amen, Chappy thought. So be it.

  And to have the magical fiddle! He would eventually mount a production of Fiddler on the Roof and cast himself in the lead. He’d keep the fiddle under the stage for good luck when he wasn’t playing his heart out. The feng shui specialist brought in by the architect of the theatre to rearrange furniture so their life would be more harmonious also believed in the power of special objects. “Put a crystal in the wealth-and-power corner of the room, which is the far left,” he’d said. “You’ll be wealthier, happier, and more famous.” Chappy had thought he was full of bull, but when he’d found out about the fiddle, he couldn’t help imagining what the legendary fiddle would do for him if it were placed stage left in Chappy’s Theatre by the Sea. Chappy nearly trembled at the thought. His plays would win awards and he would show off to all the Hamptons swells what an artistic and talented man he was.

  Why, the 1910 picture of Grandma and Grandpa Tinka’s wedding party hanging in the hallway had three or four fiddlers flanking the happy couple! Clearly it was time to bring fiddling back to the Tinka homestead.

  So in that little pub in Ireland, Chappy had decided that no matter what, that fiddle would be his. Who cared if it was supposed to stay with the Irish? Chappy wasn’t Irish at all. The thum
btack clan dated far back in this country, but not as far back as they would have liked. The Mayflower had been pulling out of the dock in Plymouth, England, when Chappy’s forefathers had arrived late, screaming for its return. Too late. They had literally missed the boat and been forced to wait for the next pilgrimage. Ever since that day, the Tinka descendants had been neurotic about punctuality.

  Chappy couldn’t steal it himself, of course. There was no time and he couldn’t let Bettina in on his plans. But when he got home he’d dispatched his idiot employee, Duke, to go to Ireland and bring it back. And for days now Chappy had had no choice but to wait and worry.

  Of course he’d gotten phone calls from Duke, with nothing but the usual bumbling excuses. “I went to the wrong cottage.” “He had guests who stayed late and I had jet lag, so I went back to my hotel.” “He got drunk at a party and stayed over at his friend’s house in the village.” You’d think he was asking him to unload a Brinks truck! How hard could it be to steal a fiddle from a cottage in rural Ireland? There probably wasn’t even a lock on the door.

  Chucking the lemon into the pool, Chappy got up and went into the house, entering through the sliding glass door with the trumpet-shaped handle. A few notes of “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In” played every time the door opened.

  Constance, the beady-eyed fortyish housekeeper who always looked confused, came running. She was wearing a denim skirt, and a bottle of window cleaner was fastened to a holster around her scrawny hips. She had just finished spraying a glass display case of harmonicas that Chappy had installed about the same time he’d had the musical note painted at the bottom of the pool. “Mr. Tinka,” she asked breathlessly, “is there something else I can get for you?”

  “No. Nothing!” he shouted. “Nothing. Where is my number one sweetheart?” he asked, referring, of course, to his wife, Bettina. In actuality, she was sweetheart numbers one and two. They’d married each other twenty-five years ago, after Bettina had graduated with honors from charm school at age twenty-one. But since the course of true love was never rock-free, and charm school training only goes so far, and Chappy’s mother, who had never approved of the match, had done her best to break them up, they’d divorced.