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her hands on a microphone. She’d warbled at firemen’s picnics, in people’s garages, in bowling alleys, and in what seemed like every little pizza-and-beer joint within one hundred miles of civilization.
    And now people were lining up to buy tickets to her show!
    She patted the case on the seat next to her. The case that held the fiddle, the case that she kept close by at all times. I’ve got to keep my eye on this, she thought. It’s not everyone who gets her mitts on a legendary fiddle that helps her win contests. And after the theft at Malachy’s cottage, it’s obvious at least one person is out to get it. Brigid’s body shivered ever so slightly.
    Thank you, my man Malachy, she thought. Ever since she’d gone on the air with the fiddle after the contest at Fan Fair, things were popping. Ticket sales for the tour had picked up, radio stations were playing her hit single more frequently, and she’d been invited to the Melting Pot Music Festival. Publicity was begetting publicity. It was the kind of boost every entertainer dreams about!
    But deep down inside she had a little bundle of nerves that jumped around when she thought too much about having in her possession a piece of wood that attracted so much attention. Then there was that Irish journalist who was creating such a stink about the curse and how it shouldn’t have left Ireland. Unfortunately Brigid was Irish enough that she couldn’t dismiss the curse completely.
    It’s okay, she thought as she strummed on her guitar. I’ve got Regan Reilly coming along to keep an eye on things this week.
    F arther east on the same highway, Regan Reilly woke up in the backseat of her parents’ car. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “I guess I was really out,” she said.
    Nora Reilly, a petite blonde, turned around from the front seat. “Welcome to East Coast time, darling.”
    Silver-haired, six-foot-five Luke, his eyes on the road as he drove, smiled. “I got home from the parlor, you woke up from your nap, got in the back of the car, and fell asleep again. So, how have you been?”
    Regan laughed. “Fine, Dad.”
    Luke grabbed the newspaper on the seat next to him and handed it back to Regan.
    “What’s this?” she asked.
    “I was just showing your mother. We get the Irish Tablet at work because we advertise in it.”
    “I thought you only advertised in the church bulletin. Isn’t the Tablet printed in New York?”
    “Death is everywhere,” Luke declared. “This newspaper has a big readership among the Irish community in the entire New York area. I picked it up this morning and look what I found on the front page.”
    Regan quickly read the article that named Brigid O’Neill as being the recipient of a treasured, mythical fiddle that should do nothing but help her burgeoning musical career. However, it also hinted at potential trouble ahead for Brigid:
Legend has it that it was made in the last century from the wood of an enchanted tree that was especially dear to the fairies and was cut down by mistake. The fairies were angry but were placated when the wood from the tree was used to make this fiddle and they could enjoy its music. They said they’d place a curse on anyone who took it away from their Emerald Isle, thereby depriving them of its music. Any such person would have an accident or face death.
But whatever the legend, Miss O’Neill now has many people who are angry at her. There’s a call for her to honor her Irish heritage and pass it on to a musician in Ireland. Needless to say, she should guard that fiddle with her life. There are more than a few people who would like to get their hands on it.
    Regan looked up. “You’d think she had run off with the Blarney Stone.”
    Nora frowned. “An accident or face death? Maybe she should give it back.”
    “Mom, it’s a superstition. As Brigid said to me on the phone, Malachy called her and wants her to keep it. He said that it was his to give, and she’s about as Irish as you can get,