Now You See Her

by Joy Fielding

  She heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, followed by a shrill scream. Then more footsteps, faster, nimbler than the ones before. A whoosh of air behind her. A sharp intake of breath.

  “My God. What have you done?”

  Marcy spun around to see both Sadie and Colin Doyle standing in the doorway, their eyes reflecting the horror of what was before them, their faces red with indignation and disgust. “What have I done?” Marcy sputtered. “You think I did this? I just got back, for God’s sake. You saw me walk through the door no more than a minute ago. You think I had time to do this?”

  Sadie Doyle said nothing, her face absorbing the damage to the room.

  “Would I do this to my own things?” Marcy waved her slashed underwear in Sadie’s face.

  Sadie held firm, stubbornly folding her arms across her chest. “You’re responsible nonetheless.”

  “I’m responsible? How do you figure that?”

  “Looks like your friend didn’t appreciate your runnin’ off the way you did this mornin’,” Sadie said.

  Tears filled Marcy’s eyes. “He didn’t do this,” she said, her voice shaking. He couldn’t have, she thought.

  “Who then?”

  “You tell me.”

  “You accusin’ me of somethin’?”

  Marcy looked from Sadie to her son.

  “You think Colin did this?”

  “Who else had access to this room?” Marcy asked.

  “Aside from your gentleman friend, you mean? The one you ran out on this mornin’, the one who sat here half the day waitin’ for you to come back, the one who snuck out when he thought no one was lookin’?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talkin’ about the fact your boyfriend was still sittin’ here waitin’ when I came to make up your bed this mornin’, asked if I’d mind him hangin’ around awhile, ’til you got back. I said it was no skin off my nose, but I was gonna have to charge you extra. He said, no problem, he’d take care of it later. Then I saw him sneakin’ out of here about an hour or so later without so much as a fare-thee-well. I guess now we know why.”

  “That can’t be,” Marcy muttered impotently. “He would never—”

  Sadie scoffed, the harsh sound sweeping through the air like a broom.

  “Where do you keep your keys?” Marcy asked suddenly.

  “What?”

  “The keys to the rooms. You obviously have a master set.…”

  “They’re in a safe place.”

  “Where? Behind the reception desk?”

  The look that passed through Sadie’s eyes told Marcy her guess was correct.

  “And you’re not always at that desk, are you, Mrs. Doyle?”

  “It’s either me or Colin.”

  “But sometimes you’re both busy with other things. It’s possible someone could have come in, taken those keys, and—”

  “And what? Decided to ransack your room? Why would anybody want to do that?”

  “I don’t know.” Marcy felt her knees grow weak and fought to stay upright. “I don’t know.”

  “Yeah? Well, this is what I know. I know my room’s been trashed. That’s what I know. And I know somebody’s got to pay for the damage. Now, I don’t know how well you know that guy who spent the night, but frankly, he looked a little shifty to me. Maybe he was lookin’ for somethin’, maybe he thought you had some money lyin’ around. Any jewelry missin’?”

  Marcy looked through her tears toward the empty drawer where she’d put her earrings. “My gold earrings are gone,” she said dully, glancing back at Colin.

  “What are you lookin’ at me for? I didn’t take ’em.”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just trying to figure out what happened.”

  “What happened is that my property got smashed up, and you’re on the hook for the damages,” Sadie Doyle said again.

  “Let me get this straight,” Marcy said angrily, her patience exhausted, her head on the verge of exploding. “My room got broken into, my belongings were destroyed, my earrings are missing, it’s your hotel, and yet you expect me to reimburse you? You guys are nuts!” she added for good measure.

  “Call the gardai,” Sadie instructed her son.

  “WELL, HELLO THERE, Mrs. Taggart,” Christopher Murphy said in greeting, running his hand through the stubble of his short blond hair. He closed the door behind him, walked toward her chair. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

  “Do you think we could dispense with the sarcasm?” Marcy asked, concentrating her attention on the messy stack of papers on the garda’s desk. It seemed to have grown substantially since she was there yesterday.

  “How’s the eye?”

  “Better, thank you.”

  “Let’s have a look.” He tilted her chin gently toward his face. “Suppose you tell me what happened this time,” Murphy said as the door opened again and Colleen Donnelly entered the room, immediately followed by John Sweeny and his overhanging gut. Marcy felt her heart quicken at the sight of their neat, dark blue uniforms and immediately brought her eyes to her lap. “Is there a problem, Mrs. Taggart?” Christopher Murphy asked.

  “The problem is that I’ve done nothing wrong and yet, here I am.”

  “Again,” Murphy added.

  “Yes. Again.”

  “Would you mind looking at me, Mrs. Taggart?”

  Reluctantly, Marcy brought her head up.

  “If you’ve done nothing wrong, why do you have such trouble looking me in the eye?”

  “I have no trouble looking you in the eye.”

  “And yet you’ve been staring at the floor, at my desk, at the wall, at anything but me since I walked in.”

  “It’s not you,” Marcy said after a pause. Then, when that clearly didn’t satisfy him, “It’s just that uniforms have always made me a little nervous.” I shouldn’t have told him that, she thought immediately, catching the startled expressions on the faces of all three gardai. “There’s no rational reason for it. I’ve just always been that way. My sister says I’m worse than her poodle,” she added, trying to laugh, to show them she understood just how silly it all was.

  “Your sister?” Sweeny asked. “Is she here in Cork?”

  “No. She’s in Toronto.”

  “Would you like us to call her?” Colleen Donnelly asked.

  “Why would I want you to do that?”

  “I thought you might appreciate some support.”

  “It’s not every tourist who gets hauled into the garda station two days in a row,” Murphy added.

  “Believe me, it wasn’t my idea.”

  “You’re the victim,” Sweeny said, although his tone said otherwise.

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “Tell us what happened, Mrs. Taggart,” Murphy said.

  Marcy sighed. From her experience the day before, she knew they weren’t going to let her leave until she provided them with a plausible version of the events. Might as well get this over with, she decided. “I came back to the inn—”

  “You’d been out all day?” Murphy said, interrupting.

  “Yes.”

  “Mind my asking where?”

  “I went to Youghal.”

  “Youghal? Sightseeing, were you?”

  “I was looking for my daughter.”

  The three officers exchanged glances. “Did you find her?” Sweeny asked.

  “No.”

  “What made you think she’d be in Youghal?”

  “What difference does it make?” Marcy asked testily. “I thought you wanted to know about what happened when I got back.”

  “You ever think they might be connected?”

  “What?” Was it possible? Marcy thought. “What do you mean?”

  “Go on then,” Murphy said without answering her question. “You returned to the inn.…”

  “I went up to my room and discovered that someone had torn it apart. Everything I owned had been slashed or destroyed.”

  “
Sounds like the work of a scorned lover,” Sweeny stated.

  “Mrs. Doyle said you had company last night,” Murphy added.

  “Was it the man who was here yesterday?” Colleen Donnelly asked.

  “He never would have done something like this,” Marcy insisted.

  “Know him well, do you?”

  “Well enough to know he didn’t do this.” Did she? Marcy wondered. The truth was she barely knew Vic Sorvino at all.

  “Mrs. Doyle said you ran out early this morning like a bat out of hell.”

  “I’d hardly describe it as a bat out of hell.”

  “But you were in a hurry.”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “Meeting someone, were you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mind telling us who that was, Mrs. Taggart?”

  “Yes, I do mind.”

  “Mrs. Taggart,” Murphy said imploringly.

  “His name is Liam. I … I don’t know his last name,” she admitted, her face flushing with embarrassment. At the very least, she should have asked Liam his last name, she thought. “He works at Grogan’s House.” Out of the corner of her eye, Marcy saw Colleen Donnelly scribble down this latest piece of information.

  “The scene of yesterday’s altercation,” Sweeny remarked, barely suppressing a smirk.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, so you ran out on one man to go meet another,” Murphy said, summing it up.

  “It’s not the way you’re making it sound.”

  “Sounds like a motive to me,” Sweeny said. “What’s this other guy’s name? The one who spent the night,” he added unnecessarily.

  This is ridiculous, Marcy thought. There was no way Vic had had anything to do with the trashing of her room. She might not know him well, but surely she was a good enough judge of character to know that. She thought suddenly of Peter, his carefully constructed smile beaming at her through the reflection in the glass covering a framed diploma on the far wall. She’d had no inkling of his affair with Sarah, never would have suspected he was capable of betraying her in such a cavalier fashion. So much for her ability to judge character. “His name is Vic Sorvino,” she said. “He’s staying at the Hayfield Manor Hotel.”

  Christopher Murphy nodded toward Colleen Donnelly, who nodded back almost imperceptibly before leaving the room. “Did Vic Sorvino know you were meeting Liam?”

  “No.”

  “Did he know of your plans to visit Youghal?”

  “No.”

  “I understand that after you ran out on him, he pursued you into the hall.”

  “Yes.”

  “Almost naked, from what I understand.”

  “That’s a slight exaggeration.”

  “And then he followed you onto the street.”

  “He was fully dressed at that point.”

  “And he returned to your room again after you left.”

  “According to Mrs. Doyle.”

  “Who claims he was in your room waiting for you when she went in to make up the bed,” Murphy stated.

  “Yes, that’s what she says.”

  “You don’t believe her?”

  “I don’t know what to believe. For all I know, it could have been Mrs. Doyle who trashed my things.”

  “And destroyed her own property? Why would she do that?”

  “You’d have to ask her.”

  “We already have. Frankly, it seems highly unlikely.”

  “What about her son?”

  “It appears Colin was out for most of the morning.”

  “Which left the front desk largely unattended,” Marcy said, pouncing. “Which means anybody could have wandered in off the street and taken the master key and gone up to my room.…”

  “But why, Mrs. Taggart?” Murphy asked logically. “Why would someone do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That would mean someone had been watching the inn and seen you go out, waited until Mr. Sorvino exited the premises hours later, and noted the reception desk had been left unattended, none of which makes any sense unless …”

  “Unless?” Marcy hung on the word as if she were suspended from a clothesline.

  “Unless it has something to do with your daughter,” Murphy said.

  Marcy tried to digest what he was saying. “You think there’s a connection between my search for Devon and someone breaking into my room and trashing my things?” Marcy asked.

  “You said yesterday there’d been issues with your daughter,” Murphy explained, “that there were problems between the two of you, that perhaps she might not want to be found.…”

  “You think it was Devon who did this?”

  “I’m simply suggesting it’s a possibility.”

  “But why?”

  “Perhaps she was looking for something.”

  Marcy hugged her purse close to her chest. Was it possible?

  “Or maybe that was her way of telling you to go home, to leave her alone.”

  “Or maybe it was someone else,” Marcy said. “Someone who doesn’t want me to find her.”

  Murphy shrugged as Colleen Donnelly reentered the room. “We’ve just checked with Hayfield Manor. Apparently Mr. Sorvino checked out at noon.”

  Disappointment stabbed at Marcy’s chest. “Can I go now?” she asked.

  “Where exactly is it you plan to go, Mrs. Taggart?” Murphy asked.

  He was right, Marcy realized. She couldn’t very well go back to the Doyle Cork Inn. She smiled. “It looks as if Hayfield Manor has an unexpected vacancy,” she said.

  TWENTY

  I’M SORRY. HOW MUCH did you say?” Marcy asked the bright-eyed, dark-haired receptionist, who didn’t look a day over twelve.

  “Six hundred and fifty euros,” the girl repeated with a smile that exposed her entire upper gum.

  I could do something about that, Peter said from the dark recesses of Marcy’s brain.

  Six hundred and fifty euros translated into around a thousand dollars, Marcy calculated silently, thinking that Peter would have a fit when he saw this month’s credit card bills, whose charges he’d agreed to cover for two years—“within reason,” he’d stressed—when she’d agreed not to contest their divorce. Silly man, she thought now. Had he really expected a crazy woman to act reasonably?

  “Is that all right?” the receptionist asked, small clouds of worry disturbing the sky blue of her eyes. “It’s a deluxe room. I’m afraid there’s nothing else available at the moment.”

  “It’s fine.” Marcy pushed her credit card across the black-and-gold-flecked marble counter. She could use a little deluxe treatment about now, she was thinking, wondering if the room she was getting was the same one Vic had abandoned earlier.

  “Do you need help with your luggage?”

  “Don’t have any.” Marcy surveyed the soft peach-and-gold-colored foyer with its marble columns and magnificent mahogany staircase. The hotel resembled an elegant, if large, manor home of the type that was common at the turn of the century, but the truth was that it had been built in 1996 and expanded to its current eighty-eight rooms in 1999. Nothing is what it seems, Marcy thought, returning her credit card to her wallet. “Is there somewhere I can buy a toothbrush and toothpaste?”

  “Housekeeping can provide you with that, and we have a wonderful spa that sells all sorts of beauty and hair products,” the receptionist told her without further prompting.

  Marcy’s hand went immediately to her hair, tucking it behind her ears and feeling it instantly bounce back to its former position as the receptionist handed her the key card to her room. “You’re in room 212. The elevator is straight ahead. Or you can take the stairs.” She pointed with her chin toward the elegant staircase.

  Two small children suddenly came crashing against Marcy’s legs, a sweet-faced girl of about eight, followed by her more rambunctious, towheaded younger brother, triggering memories of Devon and Darren when they were little. The girl apologized immediately and profusely, her big eyes shooting
toward the front door, her little face growing tense as she waited for her mother, who was struggling with a bunch of shopping bags, to catch up. Her brother, oblivious to everything but his own fevered imagination, continued running in increasingly ragged circles around them.

  She’s so serious, Marcy thought, aching to reach out and stroke the young girl’s cheek, to reassure her that everything would be all right. Except how could she offer such assurances when she was sure of no such thing? Hadn’t she offered the same empty promises to Devon?

  Marcy moved slowly toward the elevator. It had been an exhausting, frustrating day, full of surprises—first the trip to Youghal and the meeting with Claire and Audrey, followed by the drive back to Cork, the kiss in the car, the discovery of the ransacking of her room, and the indignity of her repeat visit to the garda station. The last eight hours had been a veritable roller-coaster ride of anticipation, disappointment, accusations, and despair. Was this how Devon had felt most of the time? Marcy wondered, feeling utterly drained both physically and emotionally. It required all her strength to push one foot in front of the other.

  “Hold the lift,” a voice called out in crisp British tones. Seconds later, the woman with the shopping bags ushered her two children into the elevator, inadvertently forcing Marcy against the back wall of the tiny space. “Sorry,” the woman said. “Simon, settle down,” she instructed her son, who was still spinning around in circles like a top. “Jillian, what’s wrong, pumpkin?”