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CHAPTER ONE
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's 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.
***
CHAPTER TWO
***
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-pepper
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 weaIthier,
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 191O 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 thumbtack 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 contused, 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.
"I've never seen a gold digger with a bigger shovel," his mama had said.
But the story had a happy ending. Bettina, just separated from a husband she couldn't
stand talking about, had called Chappy to express her condolences when she'd learned of
Chappy's mother's passing. So what if she'd only heard a couple of years after
Hilda Tinka's demise?
"I've just heard the terrible news," she'd said. "We've lost Mother."
Funny, Chappy had thought at the time. Bettina had never called her anything but
"that old bat" during their marriage. But Chappy had realized that maturity
brought forgiveness and understanding to Bettina. They'd been reunited and in September
would celebrate the one-year anniversary of their second go at marriage. Now they divided
their time between a sprawling Park Avenue apartment and their castle in Southampton.
"She's getting ready for a session with Peace Man in the meditation room. The ladies
have all arrived," Constance said breathlessly.
"Very well," he grunted as he charged down the hallway, past the old family
snapshots of his parents and grandparents in their Sunday best sitting in the sand under
the broiling hot sun. Framed pictures of celebrities in the grips of his and Bettina's
arms also adorned the walls. Most of the celebrities wore the expression of deer staring
into headlights, having been pounced on by Bettina at the moment of recognition.
A blown-up picture of a miniature Chappy smiling out from his baby buggy was Chappy's
favorite.
He kept walking. At the other end of his gargantuan summer home was a turreted room with
floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the Atlantic. Peace Man was Bettina's new
guru, and he liked to lead his chanting sessions in there.
"We are close to the sea and the salty air. We are close to the source of life. Peace
Man likes it in here," he'd said, as usual referring to himself in the third person.
Chappy stood in the hallway and watched as ladies from other expensive houses, who had
been scrounged up by Bettina, sat down in yoga position on the floor and shut their eyes.
Peace Man was busying himself plugging in his lava lamp. Bettina was sitting right up
front, anxious to soak up every scrap of New Age garbage that Peace Man would offer. It
really bugged Chappy to see her so mesmerized by a weird guy with a shaved head who wore a
light green outfit that looked as it it had been issued by the state.
Finally, Peace Man spread out his hands to the assemblage. "My sisters, are you ready
to get in touch with your inner child?"
"Yes, Peace Man," they answered in hushed tones.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, Peace Man."
"Now I want you all to relax. We need to open ourselves up. To be available to what
the universe sends us. To pick up its energy and heal ourselves. To see the light. Have
any of you, my sisters, had a near-death experience?"
"YES! I did, Peace Man!" a platinum-haired twig called out with her eyes still
shut tight.
"Tell Peace Man about it," he said in a soothing tone.
"My husband cut up my American Express card."
Gasps rippled through the room. "That's worse than death," a nasal voice honked
from the corner.
"Sisters, sisters, hush now. Material goods are not what we seek. Spirituality is
something that money can't buy...."
Chappy turned away. "Then what do you do with all that money you collect from
me?" he grumbled to himself.
"Mr. Tinka, oh, Mr. Tinka," Constance called, breathless again, as she came
running toward him, practically skidding in her cowboy boots on the slick mahogany floor.
Chappy liked it when the staff wore western-style clothing.
"What now?" God, what a day, he thought.
"Duke is back. He's looking for you."
"He's back! He didn't call first. Well, where is he? Where? Where? Where?" he
asked, spitting out the words.
Constance gestured dramatically. "I told him to wait in your study and I'd find you.
This house is so big and I feel old today."
Chappy didn't run very often, never really exercised much because he was out of shape and
it was so hard to start, but this occasion deserved a bit of a sprint on his part. He
reached the double doors of his study and frantically pushed them open.
Duke, grinning like the Cheshire cat, sat in the studded leather wingback chair, holding
on to the fiddle case. "I've got it, boss!" he cried, raising it up in the air
as if he had just won Wimbledon.
Fumbling, Chappy closed the doors behind him. "Give me that," he blurted,
grabbing the treasure and laying it out on his antique desk. Carefully he unbuckled it.
"I'll have to replace this cheap case."
He pulled out the fiddle, examined it as Duke sat there smiling, and suddenly screamed,
"I ALWAYS KNEW YOU WERE AN IDIOT! THIS ISN T IT! WHERE ARE MY INITIALS?"
Duke, an aspiring actor himself, who had devoted the last ten of his thirty-five years to
working as Chappy's assistant when he wasn't chasing down a part or memorizing lines from
plays, frowned at the employer he'd actually met in an acting class a decade before.
Chappy had had to secretly sign up for it because his mother was still alive: She
disapproved of Chappy's thespian aspirations almost as much as she disapproved of Bettina.
"What are you talking about? You can always get it monogrammed."
"THE MAGICAL FIDDLE I WANTED HAD MY INITIALS ON IT! THIS ISN'T THE RIGHT FIDDLE!
WHOSE IS IT?" he screamed.
Duke stared blankly, something that he did many times a day. He ran his hands through his
wavy, shoulder-length blond hair and shrugged his broad shoulders. "I don't know,
man. I snuck into Malachy's house, risking my butt, and took the fiddle he was playing
with. I saw him playing it! I stuck it in the case and never looked at it again until
now!"
"Well, this isn't the fiddle I need for Fiddler on the Roof!" Chappy
stomped his foot and sat down.
"Fiddler on the Roof?" Duke repeated. "Did you get a part in
something and not tell me?"
"No! For the Chappy Theatre, stupid. And I also need it for feng shui when the
theatre is built."
"Is that a new play?"
"No! It's the Chinese art of placing special objects around the home so things go
better. Rearranging the furniture and such."
"I get it."
"Well, thank God. Now, you didn't see any other fiddle in his house?"
Duke stared into space and scrunched up his nose, the only indication he ever gave of
being deep in thought. "No, man, he lived in a one-room cottage. Wow, it was small.
Not too much furniture to arrange there. I didn't see any other fiddle. Hmmm," he
uttered. "Hmmmm. Hmmmmm."
"WHAT ARE YOU HMMMMMING ABOUT?"
"I stole a tape recorder he'd been talking into."
Chappy looked at him, appalled by what he had just heard. "Why did you do that?"
"Mine broke before I left. Maybe we should hear what he was talking about." As
he reached into his carry-on bag, Duke said, "It was really weird. I thought the old
dude was just talking to himself when I was watching him from the window. But when I went
inside I saw this . . . " He placed the small machine on the desk.
"HURRY UP!" Chappy yelled.
"Chill, man, chill," Duke urged. He rewound the tape and pressed PLAY.
The two men listened intently as Malachy blathered on about fiddles and storytelling.
Finally they got to the good part.
"HE GAVE IT AWAY!" Chappy moaned as he pounded his desk. "BUT TO
WHOM?"
"Play on, Brigid!" Malachy said.
"Brigid?" Chappy cried. "Ignore the curse? What was he talking about?"
"Listen," Duke said, his ear cocked. The sound of a door opening and the wind
whistling came through the tinny machine. "That's my entrance," he noted
excitedly.
"You are an idiot," Chappy said as he scratched his face. "Brigid. Brigid
was the name of the girl he was playing with at the pub. The bartender said she's about to
become a real star."
Duke sighed. "Lucky duck."
"We've got to find her. Somehow we've got to find her. Maybe you should go back to
Ireland."
"But I'm tired right now," Duke complained. "And I've got a suitcase of
dirty laundry."
"Tomorrow, then." Chappy leaned over his desk and growled at his employee and
fellow thespian. "Don't forget. I'm doing this for Chappy's Theatre by the Sea, and
you know what that means."
"You'll hire no directors who won't cast both of us."
"That's right, you moron. Now go do your wash. Tomorrow you're headed back to
Shamrocksville so we can find Brigid and that cursed fiddle once and for all!"
That night Chappy lay in bed with the big fluffy quilt pulled up around his chin for
comfort, one hand exposed just enough so the ever-present remote control could be aimed at
the big-screen television opposite the king-sized bed. The cavernous boudoir was designed
with every creature comfort as yet thought-up by man. Ocean breezes blew through the large
window, and if nature couldn't be depended on to lower the temperature in the room to a
pleasant sixty-five degrees, an electronic cooler kicked in. The place was built to look
like a castle but behave like the starship Enterprise.
Bettina was in the bathroom, nearly a city block away, engaged in her nightly ritual of
applying creams and potions, anything on the market that laid any claim whatsoever to
staving off the aging process. It was at this time every night that Chappy would lie
there, the remote control in his hand giving him a heady sense of power, and zap from one
station to the next. Most of the images went by in a blur. His limited attention span
presented a particular challenge to broadcasters. If he wasn't enticed within seconds,
like a child with a new toy, the program on the screen was passed over for the next
offering.
Tonight he felt positively peevish. Peevish and restless. "And miles to go before I
sleep," he kept thinking. "And miles to go before I sleep." I won't rest
until I have that flddle, he thought. I know I won't.
Normally he enjoyed the nice feel of his Brooks Brothers pajamas and "one hundred and
ten" percent cotton sheets, as he liked to call them. But all he could think about
was the stick of wood from a dead tree back in Ireland that was enjoying its incarnation
as the Fiddle of the Cliffs. It intrigued him that not only did it bring good luck, but it
also carried some kind of curse. It only made him want it more.
Zap! went the remote control. "Good evening. On werewolf hour we have as our special
guest ---"
Zap! ". . . To find out about your hidden potential, call our operators at 1-800- . .
. "
Zap! ". . . When I found out he liked to wear my nightgowns around the house, I must
admit I got a little worried...."
"How distasteful," Chappy muttered. But it was the next zap that changed
Chappy's life. At least temporarily.
". . . Country Music Cable is here in Nashville, and we're talking to Brigid O'Neill,
who with a heated performance won the fiddling contest at Fan Fair just yesterday. Brigid,
tell us how that feels."
"Oh, it's just the greatest, Vern. My mentor in Ireland gave me his fiddle. He'd won
the all-Ireland fiddling contest over there with it. It's a very old, magical instrument,
and when I got up there at the contest yesterday, I felt like I was being swept away by
its power. Legend has it that this was made from the wood of a special tree...." As
the bubbly redheaded chanteuse held up the fiddle for the camera, Chappy let out an
ungodly moan.
"I'll be right there," Bettina yelled from the bathroom. "Every year this
takes longer and longer."
Chappy sprang from his bed as the initials CT jumped out at him from the fiddle on his
enormous-screen TV. With trembling fingers he quickly pressed the RECORD button on his
ever-ready VCR. "This is it," he mumbled. "This is it!"
"We've heard that this fiddle is supposed to have a curse on it if it leaves
Ireland," the interviewer said to Brigid.
"Well, isn't that the silliest thing, Vern? I just won the Fan Fair fiddling contest
with it. If that's a curse, then I want to be cursed out all the time. . . ."
Vern laughed. "I suppose you're right, Brigid."
When the brief interview, which in his excitement he had barely focused on, was over,
Chappy yanked the tape out of the machine and ran like a man possessed from his room and
into the hotel-sized hallway, nearly bumping into a table that had been moved by the feng
shui expert. In a blur he raced to the wing where Duke was now dead to the world, resting
up in his room for the trip to Ireland he would no longer have to take.
Excerpted from TWANGED © Copyright 1998 by Carol Higgins Clark. Reprinted with permission by Warner Books. All rights reserved.
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