“I’m sorry if I wasn’t helpful enough.”

“You were!” Regan insisted. “Having this list is terrific.”

“You’ve been a great help,” Jack acknowledged, handing Rory his card with their cell phone number. “We’ll probably call you again, but if there’s anything you can think of, anything unusual you remember about anyone who was in the race, please let us know. We both can’t thank you enough. You’ve been a great help to us already.”

As Regan and Jack started to walk out of his office, Regan turned. “Rory, there is one more thing. You don’t by any chance have an extra decal, do you?”

Rory’s face lit up as he pulled open his desk drawer. “I certainly do!” He handed it over. “Isn’t it just too funny?”

Margaret and Brian raced over to Sheila who was sprawled on the cold stone floor, her eyes closed. Margaret bent down and pulled one of Sheila’s eyes open. “You’ll be fine, and you know it,” she said with a scowl. “I’ll make you a cup of tea, then I want the two of you out of here. It’ll be bad luck for me if I don’t at least show you a little Irish hospitality.” She hoisted herself to her feet and headed to the kitchen.

Brian was kneeling next to Sheila, holding her hand. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “You were better in the fifth grade play. We’re going to have to try a different strategy.” He pulled her to her feet.

“I do feel woozy,” she protested as she stood up and sought to regain her balance.

“Baby, my stomach’s killing me,” Brian said mournfully, patting his midsection with his large right hand that still sported the ring he had been awarded for playing on a winning college football team.

“Can’t I ever feel sick without you feeling sick, too?” Sheila asked impatiently as she took in her surroundings. The cottage was fairly dark with old stone walls, simple furnishings, and several horseshoes hanging on the wall. The hearth where the paintings met their demise seemed unusually large. The fire was dying down, having devoured the artwork, and the room felt chilly. A small television set was resting on a table against one wall. It looked exactly like the rural cottage living rooms you see in picture books about Ireland. “I need to sit down,” Sheila said.

They sat together on the narrow couch. Both of them were trying not to freak out. They had poured all the money Dermot had given them into Sheila’s fledgling Irish memorabilia business. They had a warehouse outside of Phoenix packed full of key chains, trinkets, and china plates bearing every Irish name you could think of. And their hoped-for Saint Patrick’s Day spike in sales had never happened.

Brian was secretly blaming Sheila. They had put all their money into the business she started.

Sheila thought that if Brian had been truthful on the night of the fund-raiser and not lied about where they got the painting, they wouldn’t be in this mess.

A few minutes later, Margaret was back in the room, mumbling to herself as she carried a tray containing a teapot, three cups and saucers, teaspoons, sugar, and milk.

“You are so kind,” Sheila said feebly. “I was so upset.”

“You’re upset?” Margaret spat as she poured their tea. “I gave you back your money. What’s the big deal? You don’t have the ghost of May Reilly after you.”

We’ll have the real-life Dermot Finnegan after us, Brian thought. No ghost could be worse.

“May Reilly?” Sheila said. “Why is May Reilly mad at you?”

“It’s my fault her tablecloth was stolen!”

“What?” Brian asked. “When was it stolen?”

“Where have you two been? Under a rock? Weren’t you at Hennessy Castle this morning?”

“We got up and left early. There was a lot of commotion, but we didn’t stop to see what was going on.” Brian paused. “We were so excited about picking up the paintings.”

“Don’t aggravate me!” Margaret said as she slurped her tea. “I’m in charge of keeping that memorabilia room in shipshape. Late yesterday afternoon I noticed that the lock on the door was a little loose. I should have reported it. When they closed up the room last night, they didn’t notice, I guess. Then sometime during the night the tablecloth was stolen. Probably around the same time I dreamt a tooth fell out of my head.”

“You had a bad dream?” Sheila asked sympathetically.

“Bad dream? If you dream a tooth falls out of your head, it means you’re about to die-or someone close to you is about to die. When I went to work this morning and realized the tablecloth was stolen, I knew it meant me! May Reilly is going to make sure I die soon.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t do that,” Sheila said.

“How do you know? She’s mad at me. I modeled the lace design in my paintings after the design on her tablecloth.”

“You did?”

“You saw her tablecloth at the castle. Didn’t you notice that the design was exactly the same in the painting I gave you?”

“No. All we noticed was how beautiful the painting was,” Brian explained. His stomach was really hurting.

“You didn’t look closely then. I thought you were crazy about that painting! The lace in my paintings has little castles on it, not your usual shamrocks or flowers. That’s what May had on her tablecloth. She created the design especially for Hennessy Castle. My mother told me I should never have taken a job there!”

“We didn’t notice because there’s so much to love about your work-” Sheila began.

“The fairies blessed May with talent. I tried to take a little piece of it and call it my own. I shouldn’t have done that. It’s stealing! Maybe not exactly like taking something out of her hands, but I never gave May credit for what she created! And the dead are very possessive of what was theirs,” Margaret said vehemently. “They come back to claim it!”

Brian swallowed hard. “I wouldn’t say what you did was exactly stealing,” he said as if to convince himself.

“Yes, it is! It’ll be a cold day in hell before I pick up another paintbrush!”

“But Margaret,” Sheila said, “the fairies have blessed you with incredible talent. You won that decal contest. You’re an artist. It’s a sin if you don’t put your God-given talents to work.”

“My husband didn’t think I was any good.”

“He’s dead now, isn’t he? Sheila asked.

“Five years next Tuesday.”

“Then you don’t have to listen to him anymore. And he was wrong. You are a wonderful artist. You should continue painting.”

Brian had aced Problem Solving 101 in college. What he really wanted to do was strangle this woman. But he didn’t need to have taken that class to know that that wasn’t a solution for this mess. He had to either get Margaret to paint new paintings or find out how many other canvases were hanging on people’s kitchen walls that they could somehow get their hands on. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together earnestly. He remembered that communication was the key to problem solving.

“A friend of yours just cooked us breakfast,” he said softly to Margaret.

“Who?” Margaret asked, adding more sugar to her tea.

“Philomena.”

“You ate at Philomena’s?”

“The pharmacist sent us there. Philomena cooked us breakfast, and her grandson interviewed us for a school project.”

“That kid is a pest.”

Sheila laughed. “We noticed your painting on the wall, and Philomena just adores it.”

Brian interrupted, putting his hand on Sheila’s so he wouldn’t seem so rude. “Did you give paintings to other friends?”

“I gave out eight paintings as presents. I’m sorry to say that every single one of them has May Reilly’s design in it. Everything I painted, I gave away.” She pointed to the charred ruins in the fireplace. “This was the only time I had so much art of mine piled up in my house, and quite frankly I was embarrassed.”

Pushing back an urge to choke the woman, Brian allowed himself to feel slightly optimistic. If they could just get those paintings, then maybe everything would be okay. Heck, if they got all eight, they’d be able to make a little extra cash on the side. They had to deliver only seven paintings to Dermot.