“We read about it in Hello! magazine.” Caro seemed unaware of the censure in her voice as she answered for her sisters, but Frankie heard it.
“Yes,” she paused. “Sorry about that. I meant to call and tell you all but, well, it was rather complicated and the press found out much quicker than I expected. Stupid of me, I know. And then everything else happened so fast.
“You’ve probably all seen the garish photos of the incident in the papers. God knows it was splashed about enough. So I’ll just put the story straight. Stephen, my boyfriend, had collected me from the theatre and we were on the way to the car.” Frankie stopped and let out a deep breath she didn’t realise she was holding.
“Your fiancé you mean, surely?” Caro liked to get all her facts straight.
“Yes. Yes. Sorry, that’s what I meant. Stephen, my fiancé.” Jesus! A wave of pain with an unhealthy dose of guilt flooded her heart. She glanced at the three riveted faces in front of her and saw only concern. Her hand absently rubbed against the knot forming in her belly. “Alice, honey, could you get me a glass of water?”
Alice leapt up and hurried off to find a waiter.
Caro reached over and held Frankie’s hand. “Sweetie, you don’t have to do this, you know.”
“I do, I really do. You see, this is pretty much the first time I’ve actually talked about it to someone other than the police and in a way, the press, but they just got a prepared statement released by my agent.”
Alice returned with a tray. “Here’s your water, but I got us all something a bit stronger as well, just in case.” She handed around three glasses of Jameson Irish whiskey and sat back down with her own.
With a grateful smile, Frankie gulped down some water and then took a long sip of the neat whiskey. “Whoa! I’d forgotten how strong this stuff is. Phew!” Nursing her drink, she struggled to continue. “Let me backtrack a bit. First of all, I really appreciated the flowers and cards you all sent, but I just couldn’t face actually talking to any of you at the time. I hope you understand?” The other women nodded, so she continued. “Stephen and I had known each other for just over a year. He is . . .” she hesitated, closing her eyes briefly, “he was in finance and very successful in Wall Street. He was handsome, with soft brown eyes and brown hair. He was great company and I loved him.”
Frankie stopped, took another swig of whiskey. No, she thought, I won’t go there, not yet. Not ready. “Anyway, we’d just left the theatre after opening night of this new play I was in and Stephen was walking beside me towards where my driver was waiting. We were talking and I was tugging on my earring, which then fell to the ground. As I bent to retrieve it, there was a really loud bang and Stephen gripped his chest and fell to the ground. He died. Right there. In front of me. He’d been shot straight through the heart.”
She paused, glanced at the rapt, concerned faces in front of her and knew she just had to keep going. “Somebody called an ambulance and as luck would have it, there was a doctor in the crowd that had gathered, so at least I know the immediate help he had was the best. There was a huge group, because people had been waiting for autographs and photos from all the actors in the play and everyone was milling around.” Her face pale and drawn now, Frankie focused on the girls and continued quietly. “It sounds so cold, talking about it now. But it was horrible, just horrible. I’ll never forget all the blood and his eyes, open with a kind of puzzled look in them.
“His body was taken to the hospital and I went with him in the ambulance. Pointless, really, him going to the hospital, I mean, but it was a necessary formality and I was to be treated for shock. I really don’t remember much after that. The next few days I was on automatic pilot and I was on call with the police all the time.” She paused again.
“Did Stephen have any family?” Molly blinked back tears.
“Yes. His parents were heartbroken and he had two sisters – both devastated, of course. His family had been so nice to me and were delighted that we were engaged. The funeral was a nightmare. Everyone was kind and sympathetic, but it was particularly dreadful for the Caldwells, Stephen’s family and relatives. I’d only known him the year but they’d had him for thirty-two and their loss was so much greater. The waiting was awful as well, as Stephen’s body was held while forensics did all their examinations and bullet searches.”
Frankie leaned her head back against the cushions and sighed deeply. She really was drained. Too early to say if talking about it was helping or not.
“That’s it, really. My agent got me out of the play and I packed up and came here as soon as possible. I’m not sure what happens next, career-wise, but I’m so lucky not to have to worry financially.”
“Do you think it was wise giving up the play? I mean, would it not have been better to keep on working, to take your mind off things?” Caro asked.
“My agent was afraid I wouldn’t give my best and I had to agree with him.”
“Bullshit!”
“Alice!” Caro swung towards her younger sister.
“What? I just mean there’s more to this than Frankie’s telling us. Isn’t there, Frankie?”
Frankie gulped down some more whiskey. “No. No, leave it, Ali.”
“I won’t leave it.” Alice glared at the others. “Are you both thick or what? Are you not curious? For instance, who shot Stephen and, more importantly, why? Has anyone been arrested?”
“No. No, not as yet. No.” Frankie placed her tumbler on the tray and began to gather her bags.
“No way, Francesca Mary Jones! Sit down and tell us what the real problem here is. Start with who shot him and go on to why.” Alice folded her arms, looking mutinous.
“I told you, we don’t know that yet.”
“And I repeat, bullshit!”
Caro and Molly both rounded on their middle sister, horrified at her treatment of Frankie, who was feeling shaken.
“Ali, shut up! Can’t you see this isn’t easy for Frankie?” Caro snapped.
“It’ll be a damn sight more difficult if she doesn’t get it all off her chest! Frankie,” she turned to her almost-sister and held out her hands, “please, trust us with whatever it is you’re leaving out. Please.” She smiled, her blue eyes steady, direct, and Frankie saw only love and concern, caring and understanding.
Frankie squeezed Alice’s hands in her own, released them and turned to the others. “Your smart alec sister is right, as usual.” She ignored the snort from that quarter. “There is more, but I just didn’t want to worry you.”
“I knew it!”
“Don’t gloat!” Molly admonished Ali and signalled the waiter for refills.
Caro’s bag beeped and as she scrambled to find it, Frankie took the time to calm herself and figure out just how much she should tell. Some was just too painful to think about but the rest . . . well, maybe they should know some of it, anyway.
Caro texted in a flurry and promptly switched off her phone. “Well, go on, then, we’re listening,” she urged.
“About eighteen months ago, maybe a little more, I began to receive some pretty potent fan mail. That’s not surprising in itself – some of my fans can get pretty intense when they write letters – but this one, while there was nothing I could put my finger on initially, gave me the creeps. Another letter followed every week for about six months. Nothing specific at first, but gradually the tone changed.
“The letters became progressively more personal but in an unpleasant way. Truthfully, a lot of the information in the letters could have been gleaned from the National Enquirer, but it was put together to read like sleaze.” Frankie focused on the three intent women sitting with her. “Do you know the Enquirer?”
“Well, it sure isn’t PC to admit to reading it, but we’ve all seen copies at the newsagents. And I have to say any time your ugly mug is on the cover I do scan it for updates.” Molly grimaced as she spoke. “Don’t worry,” she added, “we believe nothing it says!”
Caro interrupted. “When Stephen was killed the head
lines were pretty nasty, Frankie. Stuff like ‘Actress Lover Slain in Jealous Rage!’ and ‘Actress in Murder Investigation’, to name the more restrained. Were you really questioned by police as part of the investigation?”
“Yes and no. I mean, they asked me tons of questions but fortunately made it clear that I wasn’t considered a suspect – but of course the media played that card for weeks.”
“Bastards, every one!” Alice slammed her glass on the table in disgust. “So, go on. What happened with the letters?”
“Well, I eventually showed them to my agent, who wasn’t too worried at first. However, once I began dating Stephen, the letters intensified in frequency and content. My agent finally suggested a private detective. Going to the police at that stage wasn’t really an option as the publicity would have been unbearable.
“The private detective was pretty useless, really, or else the letter writer or stalker, as the police now call him, is too clever. Very little was traceable. The paper and ink bought from chain stores. The postmarks vary – from all over the United States and some hand-delivered to my dressing room at the theatre or movie set, wherever I was working.” Frankie glanced up from her glass, which she’d been staring at intently while speaking, and smiled at her audience. “Take those concerned looks off your faces! I’m fine.
“In fact, since Stephen was killed, the letters and emails have stopped and the police have confiscated them all from the detective agency. They’re working on tracking him down using the computer links or IP addresses or something. They believe Stephen was shot because the stalker was jealous and wanted me to remain free for him.” She sighed deeply. “Truthfully, I just don’t know. If this was all happening to someone else, I’d probably buy into that angle, but I guess I’m not convinced.”
“Do you think it was just a random shooting? One of those unhappy coincidences?” Caro asked.
“There are lots of theories out there. They even took into evidence all the footage the crowd had taken on their phones – in case the guy was watching. How creepy is that?” She shuddered. “Stephen was involved in a really big financial merger right when it happened and there are those who say the mob was connected to the firm he was buying.
“Maybe it was actually totally unconnected to me. I just don’t know.” She changed her position on the chair, tucking her legs underneath her. “Do you know what makes me crazy? I hate feeling that this awful thing could be my fault. Isn’t that really selfish? I just don’t want to be responsible for his death! I almost wish there was a mob connection and I’d be off the hook.” Frankie dropped her head into her hands with a groan. “Jesus, I’m such a selfish bitch! Can you hear me? I just want everything to be okay so I can get on with my life. When did I get to be so bloody self-absorbed?”
Molly sat up straight, shoving her long, curly auburn hair back from her face, and stuck her hands crossly on her curvy hips.
“What do you mean when did you become self-absorbed? Excuse me? Hello? Correct me if I’m not mistaken, but nobody forced you to become a fantastic actress who happens to be bleeding gorgeous and on the front page of every magazine! Nobody, if you’ll pardon the macabre pun, held a gun to your head and made you win all those stupid awards. And another thing, you were demanding to be centre stage in our house since the day you first walked through the doors at the age of ten! Become self-absorbed? Jesus, woman, you were born that way!”
Stunned, Frankie stared at Molly with stricken eyes. Molly seemed to be in some kind of pain judging by the grimace on her face. She swung her gaze to Caro and Alice. Similar expressions appeared on their faces.
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I must be just . . .” She stopped suddenly as the three could hold it in no longer and burst into helpless laughter.
Frankie just stared at them. Realising she was being teased unmercifully, she allowed a small smile to curve her lips and before long she, too, was caught up in the chuckles around her.
When Molly had wiped the laughter tears from her eyes, she got up and gave Frankie a big hug.
“You fecking eejit! Whatever else you are, self-absorbed is not now, nor ever has been, a description that could be applied to you. Oh! you should have seen your face.”
Getting a fresh burst of the giggles, Molly was off again and she looked so funny doubled over that all three of the others joined in.
When some semblance of order was restored and yet another pot of tea ordered, the four women continued to discuss at length the ins and outs of Frankie’s situation. Other than Stephen’s death, one thing that was bothering Frankie was the media’s connection of her to the murder.
It implied, among other awful things, that she’d hired a hit man to kill her fiancé because she had a secret lover and that Stephen wouldn’t let her break it off. That he was a control freak and used to beat her and murder was her only escape. That Stephen had a secret lover himself, male or female, depending on which rag newspaper was read, and the lover had killed Stephen because if he or she couldn’t have him, no one could. All these dreadful lies and innuendos were in the public domain and, indeed, most had been seen or read by the members of the Fitzgerald family. Frankie was distressed to imagine Jo or Patrick reading them and even if they weren’t believed, surely some doubt would be there?
“Well, let me put your mind to rest, Frankie,” Caro told her as they finally gathered their bags and belongings and Frankie handed a wad of cash to the waiter along with a very generous tip. “The only comment Mum or Dad ever made was, and I quote … well, loosely, anyway, from Da, ‘If that fiancé of hers was beating her up I wouldn’t have hired a hit man – I’d have shot the bastard myself!’”
“Goodness, that’s a visual I really don’t want to encourage!” Frankie said with a laugh, leading the other three out of the door of the hotel and snatching a taxi. “Yes, I know it’s extravagant, but I’m not battling public transport with this lot.” She indicated the numerous bags. “Anyone need a ride?”
Since they were all heading in different directions they declined, and after hugs and promises to keep in touch via mobile and texts, Frankie headed to Dalkey in her taxi, exhausted, emotionally drained but with comfort in the knowledge that another hurdle had been, if not flattened, then at least broached.
Chapter 3
Clifden was bustling with early season tourists. The trendy new coffee shops and cool boutiques somehow managed not to detract from the local charm of this quaint market town nestled in the heart of Connemara, County Galway. Maybe because Clifden had always attracted visitors and it was nothing new to hear half a dozen different languages being spoken, and that’s not counting the native tongue.
Although the mid-June sunshine was struggling to be felt, most of the colour visible on the street was from brightly hued rainwear. This part of the country was notorious for the swiftly changing weather and everyone realised, usually sooner rather than later, that good wet gear was an essential, unless you wanted to spend goodly amounts of your holiday indoors missing the scenery.
Mind you, indoors in the pub, next to an open turf fire, a pint of Guinness in your hand, the sound of local chatter and music as your backdrop, was also a pretty good place to pass the time, as many visitors and locals would agree. Frankie edged her car into a tight parking spot on the square and heaved a sigh of relief. Her shoulders were aching and her eyes felt strained.
“Bloody Irish roads haunting me again!” she muttered as she got out, locked up and headed across the road to Guy’s Bar for some sustenance.
The drive had taken four and a half hours, which seemed ridiculous unless you took into account the twenty-minute hold-up outside Athlone owing to “road improvements” and the dreadful gridlock at the roundabouts coming into Galway. At least one could bypass that city now, which although extremely well worth a look, could be savage for parking at any time of day. A day trip to some of the great shops and boutiques there was definitely on the cards over the next few weeks, and Frankie knew of several great book and music stor
es she intended to hunt down and explore.
If only she could gather the courage to go sightseeing alone, if she managed to function normally without checking out every stranger who stared at her. There was no entourage of Fitzgeralds here to assuage her fears and help her through her panicky breathing moments. So, definitely a trip to Galway, she promised herself. Then, of course, being stuck behind a tractor for about ten miles on the Oughterard Road did nothing to improve Frankie’s frame of mind, but she knew that once she got to the lodge her mood would undergo a magical transformation.
It always did.
There’s no scientific explanation for what happens to people when they visit the west of Ireland. There are no studies to show what happens to the heart, mind and soul of the individual when a few days of westerly air invades the body. When the mountains, bogs, sea and hills assault the senses and you find that walking the beach on an incredibly blustery day, with rain on the wind and the smell of seaweed on your nostrils, can only make you grin in pure delight. When a hike up a mountain covered with gorse, rock and patches of heather can restore your tired bones instead of making you weary. And when a drive out on the bog road from Clifden can literally take your breath away as the sight of the Twelve Bens rising from the sea, in splendid purples, blues and greys, comes into view. No, there are no reasons why these things happen, but Frankie knew from personal experience that they do.
This was the main reason for her self-enforced sojourn to the lodge. She knew that time spent here was as good a place to begin the healing process as any expensive leather couch in Manhattan’s finest doctor’s office.
Sustained by a glass of the “black” and a seriously delicious toasted sandwich, Frankie, in dark glasses and her hair tied back, wandered the town for an hour before finally perusing the aisles of the supermarket. It was fairly well stocked and the other gourmet items she needed were found in the fancy deli two doors down. The boot well packed with provisions, she turned the car towards the coast road and shortly thereafter manoeuvred slowly down the narrow lane about a mile and a half from the town.
Family Affairs Page 3