Regan frowned. “I can’t believe they’ve gotten away with this for so long,” she said. “We came to Ireland to look for our roots, and instead we’re searching for a couple who don’t seem to have any. As they say, a rolling stone gathers no moss.”

“But can they sit still for a while?” Jack asked thoughtfully. “Ireland is becoming more modern all the time, but it’s still a place where you can disappear. In this area it’s as if time stood still. Ireland would be a good place to hide. They may be spending time somewhere around Galway, but how could they have known that we were going to be here?”

They both sat in silence.

Galway, Regan thought. Galway. Slowly a horrible thought entered her consciousness. She blanched and pushed the preposterous idea out of her head.

“Let’s get going,” Jack said. “We’ll enlist that cousin of yours to help us find the Does-before they take off on us again.” He stood and pulled Regan up.

She walked over to the dressing table by the window to pick up her purse. The image of the ghostly figure on the back lawn kept running through her head. She had appeared just around the time the tablecloth was stolen. Regan wanted to talk to the housekeeper about the legend of May Reilly, but that would have to wait. Regan smiled to herself. Catching John and Jane Doe wasn’t about the tablecloth, but she was somehow sure that May Reilly would be happy if they brought it back in one piece.

As soon as Sheila and Brian spotted the Reillys in the dining room, they went back to their room, grabbed their coats, and hurried down to the car.

“Let’s get a real Irish breakfast,” Brian said, disgust in his tone.

“Who wants cold cereal anyway?” Sheila said in agreement. “Maybe one of the village pubs will be open.” She pulled down the sun visor, checked her lipstick in the mirror, and fluffed her bangs. “Once we pick up the paintings this afternoon, we’ll be home free. Back to Arizona. Back to our normal life.” She flipped the visor back up.

“Normal life,” Brian grunted.

“Don’t you think it’s normal? We’ve been married three years, and already we have a nice house where it’s warm, I have my memorabilia business going, and you have a good job selling stocks. We’re respected members of the community.”

“We’re not going to be respected if this doesn’t work out,” Brian said. “Getting involved with Dermot was not a good idea. Spending his money on a warehouse full of Irish tchotchkes was not a good idea. Ripping off this artist was not a good idea.”

“We needed the money to get my business off the ground,” Sheila said. “She’ll never know the difference.”

Brian didn’t agree, but he said nothing. They drove into the village in silence and discovered that the two pubs didn’t open until 11:30. There was no sign of life out on the street.

“Someplace must serve breakfast. Let’s ask at the pharmacy,” Sheila suggested.

The bell on the door tinkled as they walked into the tiny, narrow store. A female pharmacist with cropped brown hair, dressed in jeans, a sweater, and a white jacket, greeted them from behind a small counter. “May I help you?” she asked in a no-nonsense manner that reminded Sheila of her pharmacist back home. Do pharmacists think everyone who walks in is a potential drug dealer? Sheila wondered.

“We’re staying at Hennessy Castle, and they had a fire in the kitchen last night-” Sheila began.

“So I heard. What a shame. It could have been a lot worse. Are you feeling anxious? I have an herbal mix you can put in some tea. It’ll have you feeling better in no time.”

Sheila smiled. “Actually, we’re okay with the experience, but right now we’d love to get a nice hot breakfast. Do you know of a place around here where we could go?”

The pharmacist eyed them quickly. “As a matter of fact, I do. Go down to the corner,” she pointed, “and take a left. Four miles down the road there’s a farmhouse where they serve breakfast. It’s very casual.” She wrote down the exact address.

“Thank you so much,” Sheila said, grabbing a bottle of hand lotion from a shelf. “I’ll take this.” She laughed, not exactly sure why she was laughing.

“It’s wonderful, that lotion.” The pharmacist pressed the keys on an ancient cash register. “Makes your skin feel smooth as silk.”

In the car, Brian asked, “Don’t you have enough lotion in the bathroom back at the hotel?”

“Thanks to her we’ll get a hot breakfast this morning,” Sheila said. “Since we weren’t going to buy her herbs, I thought we should at least buy something I’d eventually use.”

Brian shrugged.

After a ten-minute drive down the winding country road, they located the farmhouse. Clucking chickens greeted their car as they pulled into the yard. There wasn’t a human being in sight nor a sign that breakfast was being served, never mind a sign boasting how many million breakfasts they had served. A horse wandered over to the fence nearby and stared at them. The farmhouse looked slightly rundown.

“She said it was casual,” Sheila muttered as they got out of the car and headed to the door. It was opened by a slightly hunched heavyset woman who was wiping her hands on her apron. She was wearing a blue cardigan sweater and a long dark skirt. Her straight gray hair was parted on the side and fell to her shoulders. She crinkled her ice blue eyes. “You’re here for breakfast, are you?”

It wasn’t a question, but Sheila answered in the affirmative.

“Come on in,” she said, turning away.

She doesn’t seem rude, but it’s not exactly service with a smile, Sheila thought as they stepped into the farmhouse kitchen. It was clearly not the kitchen of a bustling restaurant. Framed embroidered proverbs about life and love and friendship covered the walls, along with family photos and religious pictures. The counters were filled with cookie jars, knickknacks, newspaper clippings, and what Sheila believed was a toaster hidden under a protective crocheted covering. A wooden hutch was crammed with teacups, saucers, and dishes and plates of various sizes and patterns. A fire was burning in a large stone fireplace at the opposite end of the room. The effect was one of cozy clutter.

“Make yourself at home,” the woman said, pointing to a long wooden table with dozens of names carved into it. A bench flanked the table on either side. “My name is Philomena Gallagher. You like eggs and Irish sausage?”

“Sounds great,” Brian answered quickly, doing his best to sound enthused. He and Sheila exchanged a glance. They were in a complete stranger’s kitchen, and she was about to cook them breakfast. No ancient cash register was in sight. How would anyone know to come here for a meal? It was too weird, even for a small village. They were both tempted to bolt. This woman could pull a gun out of the drawer and shoot us both, Brian thought.

But they were starving. Their appetites were stronger than their fears.

They sat down, and in short order the woman served them fried eggs, tangy Irish sausage, warm scones with homemade jam, and freshly brewed coffee. “God bless you,” she said when she put the food on the table, then walked back to the sink.

They ate in silence. The only sound was the loud ticking of a cuckoo clock in the hallway. Brian winked at Sheila. The food was wonderful and lifted their spirits.

Carrying a cup of tea, the woman walked over to the table and with a loud sigh sat down with them. “You folks touring around?” she asked, smiling for the first time. It was as though she had completed her job-cooking their breakfast-and now that she was done, she could talk. A multitasker she was not.

“Yes,” Sheila answered, patting her lips with a cloth napkin. “This breakfast is wonderful,” she said. “Have you been in the business for long?”

“What business?”

“The restaurant business.”

The woman shook her head. “I’m not in the restaurant business.”