"You...How...Where did you learn to do that?" did you learn to do that?"

"The senior center."

My voice was at a pitch that could shatter gla.s.s. "That's what they're teaching in senior aerobics these days?"

"I told you, dear. The step aerobics cla.s.s filled up, so I had to settle for my second choice. Tae Kwon Do."

KABOOM!.

I screamed as the door to the hall flew back on its hinges and Michael Malooley stormed into the room wielding a really big gun. "Don't anyone move!" he hollered, crouching into a defensive stance and two-handing his gun.

s.h.i.t. I forgot about him. "Behind you!" I yelled, pointing toward the hall.

He spun out of his crouch and leveled his gun at the door. I charged at him from behind, clutching George's leg like a caveman's club, and took aim at the back of his head. CLUNK! He wavered stupidly for a moment before he fell forward, crashing facedown on the carpet with a resounding THUMP!

Groans from Ashley. Writhing. Whining. Pathetic mewling sounds as she regained consciousness. Tilly stood over her with her walking stick poised to thwack her if she made a wrong move.

"I knew the two of you were in this together!" I called across the room at Ashley. "So who exactly is Michael Malooley? One of your relatives?"

Ashley rolled painfully onto her side to face me. "He's a bus driver."

"Sure he is."

I heard the ambulance squeal into the parking lot, engine roaring, siren screeching. I hunkered down beside Michael, removed his wallet from his back pocket, and flipped it open.

"Who does his driver's license say he is, dear?" Nana asked as she hovered anxiously over George.

"His driver's license identifies him as Michael Malooley. But he has another ID here that says--" I paused. "It says he's Detective Michael Malooley. Pea.r.s.e Street Garda Station. Dublin. And it gives his badge number. Oh, look! Here's the badge. It was hiding."

I looked at the badge. I looked at Michael. I felt a familiar sinking feeling in my stomach. "Oops."

Chapter 15.

"Dr. Mortimer, please dial four-one-six. Dr. Mortimer, four-one-six."

It was after midnight, and I sat with my legs dangling over the side of a gurney in the emergency room of the local hospital. Michael Malooley occupied a chair in the cubicle with me, pressing an ice pack to the back of his skull.

"I'm really sorry about your head," I apologized for the tenth time.

He shrugged. "A minor concussion. If it wasn't for the throbbing and the lump, I'd hardly be knowing anything was wrong." He gave me a wink. "I got off luckier than yer Swiss friend."

They'd whisked Etienne off to another part of the emergency room when we'd arrived, and despite my inquiries in the intervening two hours, I'd received no updates on his condition. It was driving me crazy. I rocked forward on the gurney, angling a look through the slit in the curtain that surrounded the cubicle. "They'll let me know how he is soon, won't they? I asked them to let me know."

"They'll be letting you know. I'll see to it."

Ashley had complained of head and stomach pains back at the castle, so the paramedics had called a second ambulance to Ballybantry to transport her to another hospital. George had regained consciousness and decided he was okay, so he stayed behind with Nana and Tilly, but the crew decided I needed to be transported with Etienne because I had the worst case of hives they'd ever seen and needed immediate medical attention.

So here I sat, dressed in a hospital gown that fit like a tent, looking like a tribal chief who was plastered from head to toe with ceremonial war paint--known to the rest of the world as calamine lotion. I was an utter mess, but thanks to a dose of antihistamines, at least the itching had stopped. "What's going to happen to Ashley?' I asked Michael.

"She'll be arrested, along with the people who helped run the operation. The desk clerk. The relatives in the construction company. Her cousin in the village police force who kept covering up for them. It was a clever plan they had. I'm suspecting they all expected to get rich when Ashley's family bought the castle back. These days, you can be renting a castle out for parties and catered affairs and asking fifty thousand dollars for a weekend. And there's those who can afford it, most particularly yer pop stars and Hollywood elite. That's a lot of money to come into a wee village in Ireland. It wouldn't take many of those weekends to turn ordinary laborers into the monied cla.s.s. I fancy they were looking at it as their due for the wrong that was dealt them four hundred years ago."

"How did you get involved?"

"Too many deaths in a single place over a period of two years. A flag went up in Dublin. They decided to send me in undercover because the local authorities were being uncooperative. I'll be glad to be getting back to my day job, though, and leaving the d.a.m.n bus behind. If the department wanted someone who could handle a bus, they should have been hiring an Italian."

"We're traveling to Italy next month," I said half-heartedly.

"You'll enjoy it. Italy is beautiful."

"Have you been there?"

"I've not visited it myself, but that's what people tell me."

I nodded. That was about right. I narrowed an eye at Michael as pieces of the puzzle kept sliding into place. "Did you find any evidence in the dungeon last night?"

"Jars of blood. Prosthetic feet attached to broom handles. A chart listing what family member was scheduled to work what night. Men's trousers. A ladies' bathrobe. A pair of really big fuzzy pink slippers. Video screens for the surveillance cameras. An incredible sound system. CDs labeled 'Ghost Howls' and 'Crying.' Microphones. Speakers."

"Surveillance cameras?"

"We haven't started looking yet, but we suspect they were hidden in every room."

"They were spying on the guests?"

"Best to know what's happening in a bedroom before you barge in through the closet to steal someone's possessions or rearrange the furniture." He furrowed his brow at me. "And how would you be knowing I was in the dungeon last night? I made sure no one saw me. I had a peek at the map Ashley left on the bus in her tour bag yesterday, so I entered through a concealed door."

"I saw the footprints you left outside the chamber door."

He slapped his knee. "No escaping that. The floor was about flooded because of the moat. The water from the outside keeps seeping into the dungeon. I'm surprised no one's been electrocuted yet." He gave me a curious look. "But how would you be knowing the footprints were mine?"

"I don't mean to be rude, but I could tell by the smell."

He laughed aloud. "French cologne. A birthday gift to me from my mother-in-law. The worst-smelling concoction in creation, but it kept people at bay so I could be doing my work. Well, it kept most people at bay. You were something of a problem."

I forced a smile. "Do you think you'll be able to prove murder?"

"I'm thinking we'll be able to prove intent. When you target old people who are suffering from hypertension and heart disease and try to scare them to death, that's the same as pointing a gun in their face and pulling the trigger."

"Do you think the maid and custodian were frightened to death?"

"I do. I believe the maid suffered a fatal heart attack when she saw the b.l.o.o.d.y footprints, and I believe the custodian heard the false wall in the closet sliding open, went to investigate, and died right there as a result of whatever he saw. Whoever opened the secret panel left him where he fell and waited for some unfortunate guest to find him. Namely, yer grandmother."

"So there's no web-footed ghost of Ballybantry Castle? No wandering spirits? No blond-haired apparition roaming the halls and testing the door of every bedroom in search of her dead lover? The legend is just that? A legend?"

"There's no ghost, Miss Andrew. There never was. This is Ireland. Irishmen have fertile imaginations and they love spinning a good ghost story, whether it be true or not. It seems to help the tourism industry. That, along with the sale of Belleek, Waterford, Aran sweaters, linen, tweed scarves, Jameson whisk--"

"Oh, my G.o.d! Scarves! Bernice is in jail in Letterkenny because she paid for a scarf with the wrong kind of money. I'm supposed to bail her out. Oh, my G.o.d. This could get me fired." I hopped off the gurney and gave the cubicle a frantic visual search. "Do you see my clothes?"

The outside curtain parted. A short-haired, middle-aged woman dressed in white pants and a matching lab coat poked her head inside. "Miss Andrew? Dr. Clery has received permission from Inspector Miceli to speak to you, so he'll stop by in a few minutes to brief you about the Inspector's condition."

"Is he going to be all right?" I asked breathlessly.

The nurse smiled with indulgence. "The doctor will give you all the details. Mr. Miceli's room is around the corner and down the hall to the left. You'll be able to see him after you talk to the doctor." And then she left, leaving me frozen on the spot, unsure how I could bail out Bernice and see Etienne at the same time.

"I think I'm feeling well enough to ring up the authorities in Letterkenny and convince them to let yer friend out of jail," Michael said. "You run along and check on yer boyfriend."

"But I'm supposed to wait for the doctor first."

"I don't recall hearing anyone say to wait for the doctor. Did you?"

I flashed him a grateful smile and squeezed his hand. "Thank you." I braced a hand behind my back to hold my gown together, looked both ways outside the cubicle, then turned back to Michael, remembering something. "What did Ira Kuppelman hand you this morning before we left for the Giant's Causeway?"

He crooked his mouth to the side and fished a folded sheet of white paper out of his breast pocket. Snapping it open, he held it up for my perusal. "Propaganda. What I have to do to adopt a macrobiotic lifestyle and why it's the right lifestyle for me. I suspect he gets kickbacks for any new members he signs up to join the Inst.i.tute. Do you know they eat seaweed? b.u.g.g.e.r me."

I scurried around the corner and dashed down the hall, peeking in all the rooms on the left until I found Etienne. Eh! Eh! He was lying in a bed, hooked up to a bunch of high-tech machines with mysterious readouts. An IV drip was plugged into his hand, an oxygen tube was attached to his nose, and a really substantial bandage was wrapped around his head. He looked so helpless that I felt my eyes well with tears at the sight of him. He was lying in a bed, hooked up to a bunch of high-tech machines with mysterious readouts. An IV drip was plugged into his hand, an oxygen tube was attached to his nose, and a really substantial bandage was wrapped around his head. He looked so helpless that I felt my eyes well with tears at the sight of him.

"Hi," I whispered, entwining my fingers with his.

His eyelids fluttered open. He peered up at me, let out a startled gasp when he focused on my face, then blinked rapidly as if trying to clear his vision.

Oh, my G.o.d. What was wrong with him? I touched my hand to my face and suddenly realized what was wrong. "It's Emily," I soothed. "You can't tell it's me because of all the calamine lotion. I probably look like a ghost. They rubbed it all over me."

That calmed him down. He stopped blinking. "Emily?" he rasped.

"I'm here, sweetheart, and you're going to be fine."

He moistened his lips with his tongue. "I don't...feel so fine. What happened?"

"A painting fell on your head."

He paused thoughtfully, then tried to smile. "That's right. I remember. It was...crooked."

"You're too fastidious."

"Can't help it. I'm Swiss."

"Maybe you can lighten up a little after we're--" I bit off the end of my sentence. Etienne searched my face with his beautiful blue eyes.

"After we're what?"

I didn't want to come right out and say it. I mean, he he was the one who said he had the all-important question to ask. But nearly losing him had crystallized my thoughts and firmed my resolve. I was through dithering. I wanted to be here for him while he recovered. I wanted to nurture him, and love him, and grow old with him. I didn't care where we ended up living or if I ever ate another Blimpie's grilled chicken sandwich. Those things were unimportant. I loved Etienne Miceli and I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. I wanted our engagement to be official. was the one who said he had the all-important question to ask. But nearly losing him had crystallized my thoughts and firmed my resolve. I was through dithering. I wanted to be here for him while he recovered. I wanted to nurture him, and love him, and grow old with him. I didn't care where we ended up living or if I ever ate another Blimpie's grilled chicken sandwich. Those things were unimportant. I loved Etienne Miceli and I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. I wanted our engagement to be official.

I smoothed my fingers over his hand. "This might not be the most romantic setting in the world, but...is there something you wanted to ask me?"

"About what?"

A p.r.i.c.kle of alarm shot through me. "Earlier this evening, before the picture fell on your head, you said there was something you wanted to ask me."

He stared at me blankly for a time before I saw awareness creep slowly into his eyes. "You're right. I was going to ask you--" He broke into a sudden smile. "It was something about--" The smile wavered, dimmed, then faded. "Funny. I can't seem to recall what it was about."

"Miss Andrew?" a man called from the doorway. He was dressed in blue surgeon's scrubs and looked fairly official. "I'm Dr. Clery. May I speak to you in private, please?"

I joined him in the hall, casting a look back at Etienne. "He's going to be all right, isn't he?"

"We'll be keeping him for a day or two for observation, but I expect he'll recover fully. Any signs of memory loss should be only temporary."

"Oh, thank G.o.d." Relief flooded through me. I waited a beat. "Memory loss?"

"The kind of head trauma that the inspector suffered can sometimes produce lapses in short-term memory. A patient can often remember his mother's maiden name, but he can't recall more recent details, like what he ate for lunch, or what he was planning to do tomorrow. Of course, we've no reason to believe this will be the case with Inspector Miceli. We've grilled him on his day's activities, and he seems to be remembering everything quite brilliantly, so it seems you have nothing to worry about."

I took a taxi back to the castle in the wee hours of the morning, all the while trying to convince myself that things weren't as black as they seemed. So what if Etienne couldn't remember he'd been about to ask for my hand in marriage? He was alive, with excellent prospects of recovery, and if the memory loss was supposed to be only temporary, he'd remember to pop the question eventually.

Eventually. I supposed that could be anywhere from a week to a year. I could give him a month, but anything longer than that and I'd have to forget about the K of C Hall for the reception. Next on the list would be the banquet room at Perkins. I supposed that could be anywhere from a week to a year. I could give him a month, but anything longer than that and I'd have to forget about the K of C Hall for the reception. Next on the list would be the banquet room at Perkins. Unh. Unh.

We pulled into the parking lot, I paid the cabbie, and then I walked through the front door of the castle with the weight of the world on my shoulders. Unwilling to give in to a full-blown depression, however, which would be very bad for my waistline, I told myself that things would look better after I got a few hours' sleep. And I did have a few things to be happy about. The hospital had given me a free sample bottle of calamine lotion, so I didn't have to go out looking for one. My itching had stopped completely. Michael had sprung Bernice out of jail. And I had several more days to enjoy the sights of Ireland. Blarney Castle. The Ring of Kerry. The Cliffs of Moher. The rocky Burren in County Clare. I'd heard that the Burren, with its vast limestone plateaus, was even more spectacular than the more touristy spots of Ireland. Etienne would probably be able to rejoin us by then. He'd need lots of attention, and I was anxious to give it to him. The Burren could prove to be a very romantic spot in which to pop the question. Okay. This was better. Things were definitely looking up.

As I approached my room, I noticed a woman at the far end of the corridor with her hand on the doork.n.o.b of Etienne's room. She was a small woman, with blond hair that draped over her shoulders and fell to the small of her back. She was dressed in a flowing white gown that looked almost effervescent, and if she was part of the tour, I didn't recall having seen her before. Had some new guests checked in to the hotel?

"Can I help you?" I called down the corridor. "If you're looking for the man who's staying in that room, he's not there."

The woman angled around toward me, her face sad, her eyes huge and soulful. She regarded me for a heartbeat, then turned her back on me and fluttered away as if on winged feet--to the end of the corridor and straight through the wall, disappearing before my eyes.

Uff da. I was stressed. I was tired. I didn't see that. I was stressed. I was tired. I didn't see that.

Did I?

POCKET BOOKS.

PROUDLY PRESENTS.

PASTA IMPERFECT.

Maddy Hunter Coming Summer 2004 from Pocket Books Turn the page for a preview of Pasta Imperfect....

The main altar of St. Peter's Basilica in Rome is an oblong of white marble that sits beneath a soaring bronze canopy. Four black-and-gold corkscrew pillars the size of giant sequoias support the structure. I snapped several pictures of the sculptures atop the canopy, then, as I framed my next shot, heard a click, click, click, click click, click, click, click of stiletto heels on marble. "Hold up, Emily," a voice echoed out in a throaty whisper. of stiletto heels on marble. "Hold up, Emily," a voice echoed out in a throaty whisper.

I glanced over my shoulder to find a tall, glossy-haired brunette hustling toward me. She had the face of a madonna, the body of a supermodel, and a sa.s.sy style that turned the heads of most men. Her legs were long and tan, and she wore a s.e.xy white mini-dress that fit like a coat of spray paint. She was all sleek angles, graceful curves, and exact proportions, except for her feet, which were big as snowshoes. Her name was Jackie Thum. Before she'd had s.e.x rea.s.signment surgery to become a woman, she'd been a guy named Jack Potter, and I'd been married to him.

"I'm so glad you told us about the dress code here," she said, straightening the flutter sleeves that fell from her shoulders. "If you hadn't, I actually might have worn something totally inappropriate today."