Regan flipped the phone closed. “Tune in tomorrow,” she muttered.

“Your mother sound all right?” Jack asked.

“I’m sure she’s not thrilled with what I just told her, but she’s used to these calls by now.”

Jack smiled. “She doesn’t worry as much as she once did now that you’re with me.”

It was no secret how much Nora loved Jack. “She’s created a monster,” Regan said with mock frustration.

Regan and Jack were in a small rental car, heading to Galway. Before leaving the castle they had spoken to Liam again to find out more information about the road race.

“There are loads of runners and several races every year in Galway,” Liam had said. “This one was a little different. It was more of what you would call a fun run. Not so serious. The guy who started it, Rory Donovan, owns a little gym called Get in Shape. His goal in life is to get people off their behinds. In Galway he’s known as the Coach. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind talking to you.”

Regan had immediately called the gym and left a message for Rory. She was assured by the girl who answered that he’d call back as soon as he finished a workout “with some old fella.”

The phone was still in Regan’s hand when it rang again. “What did we do before these were invented?” she asked as she opened the cell again and answered.

“Rory Donovan here, returning your call.”

“Thanks for calling back.” Regan explained the situation to him.

“So you think a couple of thieves ran in my race, do you?” Rory asked. His tone was friendly and inquisitive. “At least they’re into fitness. It’s very important.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Regan replied, “but we prefer that they get their exercise in a prison yard.”

Rory laughed. “I’m sure you do. Some prisoners really get into shape when they’re in jail. They have the time, and exercise relieves their stress. My goal is to make people in the outside world get in shape. I show them how, but they have to make the time!”

“You’re right,” Regan agreed, not quite believing that she was discussing the exercise habits of prisoners. “Mr. Donovan, if you don’t mind-”

“Rory. I’m not fancy. I’m not stuffy. I’m just Rory.”

“Okay, Rory. My husband and I want to look into the possibility that the couple we are looking for did in fact participate in that race. They might even be in Galway as we speak. We were wondering if we could meet with you for a few minutes and ask you some questions about the race.”

“Certainly. That race is my pride and joy! Last year was the first Fun Run we had. Made a few mistakes, but we’ll correct them this year. We didn’t have enough tea and sandwiches at the finish line.”

Regan felt herself nodding. “Uh-huh. So when would be a good time for us to meet with you?”

“Can you be here in about an hour?”

“Perfect,” Regan said quickly. “Thanks so much. What’s the address?” She grabbed a small notebook from her purse and wrote down the directions. “We’ll see you soon.” She hung up. “The Coach is really into fitness.”

Jack steered the car around a bend and quickly came to a stop. A farmer wearing knee-high rubber boots was herding several cows across the narrow road. His weathered face was a testimony to his years of working outdoors. He gave a slight wave but obviously didn’t feel the need to encourage his plodding bovines to pick up the pace.

“Don’t worry about it, pal,” Jack muttered under his breath as he waved back. “We’re in no hurry.”

“The cow crossing is the country’s version of a red light,” Regan noted with a grin.

“A long red light,” Jack said as one cow after another moseyed across the road.

Regan glanced over at a small cottage. The front door was just feet from the side of the road. Lace curtains framed the front window. Lace is so beautiful, Regan thought. It has certainly never gone out of style in Ireland. What was it about the pretty and delicate fabric that made it so timeless? she wondered. And how ironic that lacemaking became popular in Ireland as a way for women to make money during the blight of the potato famine. May Reilly made the Hennessy Castle tablecloth more than twenty years before that.

If only we had taken a minute yesterday to go up and look at May Reilly’s handiwork.

The final cow in the procession waddled in front of their car.

“Hallelujah,” Jack declared as he stepped on the gas.

It wasn’t raining, but the skies were gray and the cloud cover was low. They drove past endless fields of green. Stone cottages and farmhouses dotted the landscape. In the blink of an eye they passed through a tiny village where there were three people out on the street. A minute later they were once again in the middle of green fields.

Finally the road signs indicated that they were getting close to Galway, a medieval town that had recently undergone an unprecedented revival. Galway was now Ireland’s cultural capital. Students from the university added to the growing population, along with the young professionals who were attracted by the Irish theater, music, dance, sporting events, and wealth of pubs. Both laidback and bustling, it was said that when walking down the cobblestone streets of Galway, the noise one heard was a combination of talk and music.

Rory had told Regan that the gym was several blocks outside the center of Galway. Just after one o’clock, Regan and Jack spotted a small, nondescript gray building standing alone with a sign above the front door that read GET IN SHAPE. They pulled into the gravel parking lot.

“Let’s find out what Coach Rory has to tell us,” Jack said as he got out of the car.

A glass door opened onto a small reception area that could best be described as minimalist. A young girl with spiked pink hair, heavy black eyeliner, and numerous bracelets on each wrist greeted them from behind a desk. “Are you interested in a membership?” she asked, a nail file poised in her hand.

“No,” Jack answered. “We have an appointment with Rory Donovan.”

The receptionist didn’t seem the least bit disappointed that they weren’t potential members. “Go through the door there,” she pointed with her file. “He’s in the gym somewhere.”

“Thank you.”

The gym was small and earthy. It reminded Regan of those grungy gyms in boxing movies. According to Hollywood, you couldn’t train to be a champ in a well-lit, pastel-colored, carpeted health club. The gray walls and old wooden floor made Regan think of the gym in her elementary school. The equipment was basic; cardio machines lined one end of the room, and weight machines were located at the other. A full-length mirror covered one wall. There were a dozen people working out, none of them hard-bodied or attired in flashy workout clothes.

Regan liked it. Something about the place felt real. And the room had an energizing smell.

A tall man in shorts and a T-shirt was adjusting the weight on a machine for a guy who looked clueless. “Do a set of eight, rest, and then do it again,” he advised.

“Thanks, Coach.”

“That’s our guy,” Jack said to Regan in a low voice.

Spotting Regan and Jack, he hurried over and extended his hand. He was in his mid-forties and had shoulder-length wavy brown hair and intense green eyes. He was wiry, but the muscles in his arms and legs were highly developed like Popeye’s. “I’m Rory Donovan. We can talk in my office.”

Regan and Jack followed him through a door into a tiny windowless room with a metal desk. Papers were strewn everywhere, as were framed pictures of runners competing in what was obviously the Fun Run. A large framed cartoon of exhausted runners piling on top of one another at the finish line of a race hung behind the desk. A zaftig red-headed old lady in the crowd of spectators was leaning over, daintily dabbing one of their foreheads with her lace handkerchief.