Free Twanged by Carol Higgins Clark Page A

Beach Blanket Bingo.
    They took their glasses and followed Chappy and Brigid into the house, where some of the others were gathered. This kind of bodyguarding—to keep a watch on someone while not making it obvious and at the same time giving them space—wasn’t easy. This was supposed to be a relaxing week for Brigid.
    Luke appeared from around the corner.
    “Hi, Dad. Where’s Mom?”
    “On a tour of the house with Bettina. I’m hungry. I hope they serve dinner soon.”
    Regan nodded her head. “Me too. Louisa is interviewing everyone at this party. Oh, here she comes.”
    “This is the most wonderful party. I’m having such a good time,” Louisa pronounced as she joined them and started crunching on an ice cube. “Hello,” she said to a couple walking by, their glasses empty. “And you are?”
    “Claudia, and this is my boyfriend, Ned,” Claudia replied perkily.
    “How do you know the Tinkas?” Louisa asked gaily.
    “I’m designing the theatre he’s building, and Ned helps me with the placement of objects. He practices feng shui.”
    “Oh yes! I’ve read articles about that. I’m a fact-checker and do research, and I’d love to interview you for this article I’m doing.” She drifted outside with them, in the direction of the bar.
    “Chow time!” Chappy roared as he clenched Brigid’s hand.
    “Yes, yes, grab a plate, everyone, and help yourselves. Brigid, you must sit with me. We have a special table. . .”
    Brigid glanced at Regan, rolled her eyes, and smiled. She’s so good-natured, Regan thought. Chappy is killing her with kindness.
    Regan and Kit and Luke filled their plates with chicken and rice and salad and sat down in the cathedral-ceilinged living room, which could have been rented out for wedding receptions, Regan thought. Round tables for six were set up with white tablecloths, and large faux brightly colored thumbtacks the size of portobello mushrooms acted as centerpieces.
    Within a few minutes Nora arrived with her plate, Herbert resurfaced with a piece of driftwood in tow, and Louisa made her entrance carrying two plates of food. “Lambie, there you are!” she cried.
    As they ate, Louisa filled them in on all the interesting people she had met at the party. “I make it a point to say hello to as many people as possible at every party I attend. And in this case, I think I’ve covered everyone, and we’re just staring dinner. Lambie, is that enough chicken for you?”
    Herbert was busy chewing. He nodded his head.
    Regan looked around and surveyed the rest of the tables. She noticed that Bettina was sitting with Garrett and Peace Man and Duke and Angela. Brigid was at the “media” table with Chappy and the radio station guys and two reporters from the local papers. Everyone at that table looked as if they were trying to be polite, listening as Chappy’s hands flapped about. He’s obviously in the middle of a story, Regan thought.
    As all the guests seemed to be finishing up, Regan excused herself and walked over to Brigid.
    “Sit sit sit, Regan,” Chappy said to her. “Brigid was just telling us about the fiddle . . .”
    Another chair was instantly produced by one of the waiters, and Regan squeezed in next to Chappy.
    “. . . You know my theatre is opening next summer?” he asked Regan.
    “Yes,” she said, noticing that the two reporters who had their pads out and their pens poised had stopped writing when Chappy began to speak.
    “Brigid, are you afraid of the curse on the fiddle?” the elegant seventyish woman who was the society reporter from the Southampton Sun asked in a well-bred voice. She sat ramrod straight and looked to be of the old guard.
    Brigid laughed. “Oh no.”
    “But facing an accident or death is a pretty scary superstition,” the young cub reporter from the Hamptons News said with enthusiasm.
    He looks like he really wants to play that up, Regan thought.
    “It’s the Irish,” Brigid answered, looking to Regan as if she were getting