Twanged by Carol Higgins Clark Page B

theatre, I just know it.”
    He laid it back in the case and had just slid it under the bed when through the open window in the hall they heard the sound of tires crunching up the drive.
    A horrified noise emanated from Chappy’s being. “Move!” he yelled to an equally horrified Duke, who was standing there frozen. “Move!”
    Together they raced down the steps, the pictures in Duke’s hand. They could hear the doors of the red station wagon Chappy had lent the band closing and the guys ribbing each other about golf balls that had ended up in the woods and ponds.
    “Hurry!” Chappy whispered to Duke as they raced across the den. A gust of wind blew up and the door to the basement started to shut. Duke dove and caught it just in time.
    Outside Kieran could be heard saying, “Teddy, when your ball hit the tree . . .” Then he stopped to demonstrate the swing, as the others laughed.
    “Yeah, well,” Teddy replied, “at least I didn’t kill any fish with my shots.”
    Pammy could be heard giggling. “I was surprised to see you guys call it quits after nine holes.”
    Chappy raced through the basement door and down the steps. He turned to look up. “Shut the door!” he growled as Duke grabbed the handle, closed it behind him, and took the staircase in two leaps.
    Upstairs, Kieran unlocked the back door to the guest house, and Pammy and the golfers stepped into what seemed like a perfectly undisturbed room. Chappy made a beeline for the entrance to the tunnel.
    “Don’t you want to stay and eavesdrop?” Duke whispered.
    “NO! There’s plenty of time for that later. We’ve got to get these pictures over to the fiddle-maker right now! LET’S MOVE!”

15
    BALLYFORD, IRELAND
    M alachy loved late summer afternoons. He loved the gentle light of the sun and the peaceful warm feeling in the air. Sundays were the quietest. He loved to sit outside his cottage and look out on the rolling hills.
    But on this Sunday he was sitting out there feeling a little unsettled. It had been over a week since someone had come in and taken Brigid’s fiddle right off his lap. Now all this talk about the curse and how the fiddle shouldn’t have left Ireland. He was worried about Brigid.
    She had called him so excited when she won the fiddling contest. Now she was out there in the Hamptons to play in a festival and then was going on tour. Everything should be all right, he told himself.
    He walked into his cottage and looked around.
    “A bit untidy,” he said aloud. “I should really clean up.” He started to straighten the piles of papers, then suddenly felt the need for human companionship. He didn’t even have a fiddle around to cheer him up. I’ve got to get a new one, he thought.
    I’ll go into town for a bite and a pint, he decided.
    He wheeled his bicycle out the door and rode on into town, passing numerous sheep and cows along the way. They all looked bored but strangely contented. Malachy loved to pedal and ride. The wind in his face and the feeling of the summer evening made him feel alive.
    Parking outside the one and only pub, he went inside, thinking about Brigid’s birthday party. Was that really only a few weeks ago?
    The bar was humming. A television in the corner was tuned in to a sporting event.
    “Malachy, what can I get for you?” Eamonn the bartender asked. “The usual?”
    “The usual,” Malachy affirmed.
    “You’re looking a little blue, my man,” Eamonn said as he put the Guinness in front of him.
    Malachy shrugged. “I guess I’m a little let-down after the excitement of the party and all.” He sipped the frothy liquid. “Having Brigid’s fiddle stolen didn’t help, either.”
    The bar door swung open, and in walked Finbar, the journalist who had started the stink about Malachy giving away the fiddle in the first place.
    Malachy looked at Eamonn. “More to add to my troubles.”
    Finbar sat at the end of the bar, three stools down from Malachy. He was a wiry, intense little man with flat