9

When Margaret Raftery left Hennessy Castle, she jumped on her bike and pedaled as fast as she could to the graveyard at the edge of the village. She went directly to May Reilly’s tombstone and crossed herself.

“May,” she began, her Irish brogue thick. “I’m so sorry about your tablecloth. So very, very sorry. I heard how hard you worked on it. And you never got paid! I don’t blame you for haunting the castle. You should. It’s only right.” The words were tumbling out of her mouth.

A gusty wind caused Margaret to wrap her dark wool coat tighter around her generous frame. The graveyard was eerily quiet; the tombstones, like the weather, were damp and dark. The ground was covered with slate. The little graveyard had reached maximum capacity over a hundred years ago. No tearful relatives were left on this earth to come and pay their respects. They had all been called home as well, wherever that home turned out to be. Now it was tourists armed with cameras who walked among these tombstones, snapping photos of the age-old grave markers.

There was another graveyard a mile north on the other side of the village; it was where Margaret’s parents were buried.

Margaret had heard endless stories from her mother over the years, stories dating back to May’s time, about the villagers who had spent their lives in this little town called Surry and were laid to rest in the village’s small graveyard. A deeply superstitious woman, Bridie would sit by the fire, knitting yet another scratchy scarf, as she recounted the tales of the local folks again and again.

“The Sullivan boy was a wonderful fellow. You’ve seen his grave, dear. The girl he fell head over heels for was so beautiful. What a love match. But he died from a flu bug he caught on his honeymoon. His mother said that when she heard the wailing of the banshee before his death, she was sure that it was her husband who was about to go. She went crazy with grief. The high-pitched cry of the banshee could drive anyone insane because, after all, they’re only heard when a family member is about to die…

“That one was a fright to work for. They never found his body. They think he was taken away by the fairies who…

“He spent every night in the pub, glued to a stool. His wife was such a pill. I have to say I don’t blame him for never wanting to go home. But when he started gambling, that was the end.”

But Bridie’s favorite topic was the legend of May Reilly. “Now there was a woman. Raised by an uncle who took her in after her parents died. Learned lace making from a nun who’d come from France. And this was years before lace making became so popular. It’s a shame it was so late in life when she finally put her lace-making talent to use. If May Reilly had lived longer, who knows what she could have accomplished. What they did to her…disgraceful! You’ll never find another lace tablecloth like hers. Never! And she’s never going to rest in peace. One way or another, that Hennessy family was responsible for her passing. They worked her to death!”

When Margaret went to work at Hennessy Castle forty years ago, her mother had been wary. Margaret still remembered her mother’s words: “Did you forget that May Reilly was a housekeeper for the Hennessys? Look what happened to her! Be careful, Margaret. There are ill winds blowing around those grounds. There is evil within those walls. The Hennessy family never had any luck after May died. I’m telling you, that place is cursed!”

“But, Mother, it’s a job,” Margaret had argued.

“’Tis. But just know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“May Reilly’s trouble came after she made the Hennessys a tablecloth. They didn’t think she deserved extra money because they were already paying her as their housekeeper.”

Her mother had looked Margaret in the eye and warned, “It may not be today or tomorrow, but something will happen. Mark my words.”

Alone in the graveyard, Margaret cried out, “Mother was right! She was always right! May Reilly, I will do right by you! Do the right thing!” she said, pronouncing it as ting.

Margaret hopped back on her bike and pedaled through the main street of the village to the tiny road that led out of town. In the distance a rolling field of green stretched out as far as the eye could see. Her little cottage was three miles away. Margaret pedaled hard, willing herself to go faster and faster. When she passed her parents’ graveyard, guilt washed over her. Sadly, it wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. She turned her bike around, steered it across the grass to her parents’ grave, and said a quick prayer. She said an even shorter one for her late husband, whose grave was three stones down. Angus hadn’t been the world’s best mate. For thirty-eight years Margaret had cooked and cleaned for him, raised their son who now lived in Dublin, all the while working as a housekeeper at the castle. But Angus kept his feelings inside except when it came to discouraging her about what she loved to do. “It’s as useful as a lighthouse on a bog,” he’d always tell her. Maybe he was right after all!

“I should have left May and the vision of her tablecloth alone,” Margaret said aloud.

She rode bumpily out of the graveyard, doing her best to avoid getting stuck in the mud. I’ve got to get home, she thought frantically. I’ve got to get home and do right by May!

One thought comforted her.

Whoever stole that tablecloth had no idea what they were in for.

10

The madding crowd around the front desk was growing.

“Regan, before we do anything else, let’s see what they’re offering for breakfast,” Jack suggested.

“Sounds good to me.”

They circumvented the disgruntled guests and headed for the dining room. After they were seated, Regan looked up and saw Sheila and Brian, the couple they’d met in the middle of the night, appear in the doorway. When they spotted Regan and Jack, they quickly waved, then turned and left the dining room.

“That was odd,” Regan noted.

“They probably went to get their catalogue,” Jack said sardonically. “Let’s eat fast.”

“Jack!” Regan couldn’t help but laugh.

By the time they finished a breakfast of Irish soda bread, fruit, coffee, and juice, Sheila and Brian hadn’t reappeared. The Reillys headed to their room, and Jack immediately called his office.

“I can’t believe it, boss!” Keith said after hearing about the Does. “They struck fast. I should have called you right away, but I didn’t want to wake you. It would have been about five-thirty in the morning.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jack told him. “They were gone by then.” He gave Keith the credit card number and the alias the Does had used at the castle. “You can add that to the list of the aliases they’ve used around the world. Check out the credit card information. Let our contacts know they were in Ireland as of a few hours ago. I hope we can come up with something concrete to help us locate them. The only lead we have is the decal that indicates they spent time in Galway.”

“I’ll get right on it. Hey, don’t let this ruin your honeymoon.”

“I’m with Regan,” Jack said, reaching over and giving her hand a squeeze. “We’ll manage to make the most of it.” After he hung up, he turned to her. “So, Mrs. Reilly. We know they had the decal from the road race in Galway. Any suggestions?”

“Let’s drive down to Galway and take a look around. Gerard will be thrilled if we tell him we’ll be there early. He’s the eyes and ears of Galway. Maybe we can find out more about that race.”

Jack put his hand on Regan’s cheek. “To think we made a pact to put this kind of craziness behind us on our honeymoon.”

Regan smiled. “We were planning to explore Ireland. Now we really get to explore it.”

“As we search for an average-looking middle-aged couple who constantly change their look, use different accents, and steal jewelry whenever they get the chance. Should be fun.”