Fleeced: A Regan Reilly Mystery

Regan smiled. True most of the time. But being with Jack was a whole lot better than looking forward to it. I’ve had enough of looking forward! she thought. It’s time to live.
Regan opened one of the tabloids, a paper she always enjoyed reading when she was in New York City. The first few pages included the usual stories about conflicts of varying degrees of seriousness taking place in the Big Apple. Crack-downs on motorists who cause gridlock and jaywalkers who dart in and out of the gridlock, a bank robbery in midtown, noise from a construction site that had the neighbors going crazy.
Then Regan turned the page and gasped. In the middle of the page was a picture of her with her mother at last night’s opening cocktail party for the crime convention. A brief writeup described the plans for the four-day affair.
The caption under the picture read: “Mystery writers gather today through Sunday to hear experts in all aspects of crime fighting share their expertise. Bestselling mystery writer Nora Regan Reilly is chairman of the convention. Daughter Regan is no stranger to law enforcement. She is a private investigator who jetted into town from her Los Angeles home to attend the lectures and seminars, and, of course, the festivities.”
Los Angeles home! Regan thought. A one-bedroom apartment. Jetted into town! Coach class on a flight that served ice-cold bagels. Whoever said it’s all an illusion wasn’t kidding. At least the picture was pretty good.
Regan, classified as Black Irish thanks to her dark hair, light skin, and blue eyes, had her arm around her mother who, at five feet three inches tall, was three inches shorter than Regan. They looked like mother and daughter, although Nora was a blonde. Regan had inherited her coloring from her father, whose hair was now a distinguished silver but had been dark in his youth. Luke was six feet five inches, so Regan’s height favored neither parent’s lineage. Since she was an only child, Regan was the sole result of the blending of their genes. Talk about the quintessential crapshoot.
“That coffee smells great.”
Regan turned to see her mother standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a pale pink silk robe wrapped around her slender frame. Her face, devoid of makeup, had a serene beauty. She yawned and reached for a china cup and saucer in the cabinet next to her. There was something about staying in the New York apartment that made Nora always want to use the good dishes. Regan thought it might be the view of the park that did it. When you drank from a china cup early in the morning, you felt as if you could be in a glamorous movie from the forties. Not a plastic cup or beer can in sight.
“Anything interesting in the paper?”
“If you think we’re interesting, then the answer would have to be yes.”
“Huh?” Nora peered over Regan’s shoulder.
Regan pointed to the picture. “Mommy and me.”
Nora laughed. “How sweet,” she said as she squinted and leaned down to examine it. “That’s good publicity for the convention. I want to get down to the Paisley this morning before ten. I’m sure there’ll be late registrants straggling in.”
The Paisley was an old, midsize hotel off of Seventh Avenue in the mid-fifties that had clearly seen better days. But it had a certain musty charm and was the perfect size for the convention. It was big enough to handle all the seminars, but small enough to be cozy. Nora had made a deal with the hotel that included free coffee and as many folding chairs as there were behinds to fill them.
The phone rang. Regan glanced over at the clock on the mantel. “It’s not even eight o’clock yet. I wonder who that could be?”
“I hope it’s not bad news,” Nora said anxiously as she straightened up and reached for the phone on the kitchen wall.
We’re so Irish, Regan thought. What was that line? The Irish have an abiding sense of tragedy that gets us through the good times. Which meant that any phone call before 8:00 A.M. and after 11:00 P.M. could only mean big trouble. It was never even considered that it might be someone who wanted to talk when the rates were cheaper.
Regan watched the expression on her mother’s face. As soon as Nora recognized the caller, she relaxed and smiled.
“Thomas, how are you?”
Thomas who? Regan wondered.
“That’s all right. You’re not disturbing us at all…”
Oh sure, Regan thought. Our hearts only skipped a few dozen beats. And that extra surge of adrenaline when the phone rang gave me a needed boost.
“Yes, Regan is right here. Let me put her on…” Nora handed Regan the phone. “It’s Thomas Pilsner.”
Regan’s eyebrows raised. “Oh,” she muttered with surprise. Thomas, a lovable eccentric, was the latest president of the Settlers’ Club down in Gramercy Park. He and Regan had become fast friends when she attended a Mystery Writers dinner with her mother there last fall.
“Hi, Thomas,” Regan said cheerfully, picturing his baby face and mop of light-brown hair that looked like one big wave. It seemed to Regan that he could step into a snapshot from a hundred years ago and not look out of place.
“Regan! Oh my God, Regan!” Thomas cried hysterically, apparently having kept his real feelings from her mother.
“Thomas, what’s wrong?”
“I’ve barely slept all night. Then I saw your picture in the paper when it was delivered at six o’clock this morning, and I waited as long as I could to call you. Oh God!”
“Thomas, calm down. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Last night two of our elderly members died.”
“I’m sorry,” Regan said, thinking that the Irish intuition about phone calls before 8:00 A.M. had for once proved to be true. She could just hear her grandmother crying triumphantly, “I told you!” “What happened to them?” she asked.
“One of them had a heart attack in front of a bus and the other slipped in the tub last night. But if you ask me, something smells about the whole