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.