“We think Jane and John Doe are athletic. Maybe we should stake it out,” Jack said half-jokingly.

“I’d be happy to help you in any way I can,” Gerard volunteered. “If you like, you can be guests on my show later tonight, and we’ll talk about the case. We’ll put out an appeal for people to be on the lookout for the two scoundrels. Jack and Regan, you’re experienced investigators. Tell my listeners what they can do to help, and I’m sure they will. People in Ireland are known for their exchange of information, shall we say.”

“What do you think, Jack?” Regan asked. “Ireland’s version of America’s Most Wanted”?

Jack smiled. “The Does might have left the country by now, but it can’t hurt, I suppose. The problem is that we don’t have much of a physical description to go on.”

“No stone unturned,” Regan said. “I think we should try. Gerard, did you know that the stolen tablecloth was made by a woman named May Reilly two hundred years ago? And she reputedly haunts Hennessy Castle?”

“I did, Regan,” Gerard answered. “I’ve been up to Hennessy Castle for several functions over the years. The tablecloth was exquisite, let me tell you. I did a little digging to see if May Reilly is one of our relations, but, alas, she isn’t. The people at the castle say she does make her presence known there from time to time. Who knows? Whether you believe in ghosts or not, we all like a good ghost story, don’t we?”

“I can tell you that one of the Hennessy Castle housekeepers definitely believes in ghosts. She was the one who discovered that the tablecloth was gone, and she was very upset. The hotel manager had to send her home, she was so distraught. She was sure that May Reilly would be furious and come back to haunt the castle with a vengeance.”

Gerard nodded. “We have a lot of lovely myths and legends in Irish lore and quite a few superstitions. Regan, our great-grandmother would never thread a needle on Sunday because she believed it was bad luck. Can you imagine?”

Regan decided she wouldn’t volunteer that she thought she had seen a ghost, maybe even May Reilly. No need for Gerard to question her sanity. At least not yet. She smiled and said lightly, “Well, if May Reilly isn’t one of our relatives, maybe she’s related to Jack.”

“Can’t I be related to a friendly ghost?”

“May Reilly is probably very friendly,” Regan insisted. “She should have been paid for that tablecloth, and that’s why she can’t stay away from Hennessy Castle. She’s standing up for her rights.”

“Money’s not going to do her much good now,” Gerard reflected. “If she’s a friendly ghost, maybe she’s standing up for someone else who’s being shortchanged. Now, let me take a look at that list of names.”

“We have a new mission, Robert!” Dermot Finnegan exulted to his long-suffering right-hand man. “You know how I love projects, and this is a winner!” They were in Dermot’s palatial bedroom, busy packing Dermot’s bags for the trip to Ireland.

After talking to Brian, and fueled by his excitement about the paintings, twice-divorced Dermot had gone online to Google everything having to do with nuns and cloistered convents. He was hoping to find the secret location of his mysterious painter. As he petted the beloved Maltese sleeping in his lap, the only creature on earth who gave him unconditional love, a challenge even for a dog, he’d been fascinated to find mention of a group of nuns from Valos who had fled their convent and took refuge inside a Greek monastery. Their knitting business had been thrown for a loop, and they were one million dollars in debt. No further details were given.

“Ladies, you should take up painting,” he said, chuckling to himself. “It’s much more profitable.” He looked down at his pet. “Isn’t that right, Poochey?”

Poochey seemed to agree, momentarily lifting his head.

Narrowing his search to all things Irish, Dermot had come upon the story of the newly authenticated Claddagh rings and the upcoming auction. A lump had formed in his throat. His mother and father had both worn Claddagh rings as wedding bands. Dermot had cherished the rings after his parents died, keeping them in a special box in his safe. But they’d been stolen in a burglary at his house last year. Thousands in cash and priceless silver had also been taken. But the theft of the rings was what had broken his heart.

He had planned to pass the rings on to his twin grandchildren on their sixteenth birthday. These days they made such productions about sixteenth birthdays, a modern-day development of which Dermot did not entirely approve. When he was their age, he was working two jobs after school. For his birthday his mother made him his favorite chocolate cake-and that meant the world to him. He had decided that if Sean and Sinead had the Claddagh rings on their fingers, they would always serve as a reminder to them of their heritage and how hard their great-grandparents worked to make a better life. He knew the twins would also expect checks, but this gift was at least a stab at keeping his privileged grandchildren’s feet on the ground.

The burglary had ruined those plans. And the twin’s sixteenth birthday was just a few weeks away.

Reading about the auction of the original Claddagh rings, Dermot immediately decided he had to have at least two of them. It was meant to be! He couldn’t believe his luck. He would be the proud owner of masterpieces painted by an Irish nun and original Claddagh rings. I’ll be the toast of every Irish gathering from coast to coast, he convinced himself. People will be moved by the story of my journey back to my homeland to obtain the rings for my grandchildren. I’ll be written up in every Irish magazine as a caring, loving family man.

Not so deep down, Dermot Finnegan was very insecure.

Dermot had rushed to call Robert, even though it was the middle of the night, and demanded he come back to work.

“We have a trip to plan!” he had cried.

A browbeaten Robert hastily made his way back to chez Finnegan, then called several of Dermot’s friends who were used to Dermot’s eccentricities and happy to drop everything for a free trip to Ireland. He then started contacting hotels in Galway. The best places were booked. Dermot knew that Sheila and Brian O’Shea were staying at Hennessy Castle.

“Call Hennessy Castle!” Dermot had instructed.

“Didn’t you tell me they just had a fire?” Robert asked.

“Just call them!”

Robert did as he was told.

At 10:00 P.M. the whole group would gather at a private airport outside Phoenix, golf clubs in tow, where they would board Dermot’s plane and be off to the west of Ireland.

“Shouldn’t I let the O’Sheas know that we’re coming?” Robert asked.

“Yes, yes. Right away. Tell them not to leave Ireland with those paintings! I want to see my canvases when I walk through the door of Hennessy Castle. And, Robert, don’t forget to bring your camera!”