Her death left him at a dead end, his leads run dry. If he did not come up with something soon, he was worried he would be taken off the case. They might send a big shot down from Dublin, someone with a track record who could handle the pressure of working for the other side. That would be a disaster, a black mark on his otherwise unblemished career. He wanted this job to be his swansong, his glorious finale.
As he climbed into the car, Dermot’s phone flashed a text. Stay overnight at Joyce MacReady’s bed and breakfast. Your contact, female, will be there.
Excellent news, he thought, I’m back on track. He dialled the number of the guesthouse. Joyce was so welcoming she sounded like she had been expecting his call. Dermot scratched his head as he bumped the 4x4 onwards, mildly surprised one of the key players co-ordinating the shipment was a woman. What did she look like? Maybe like one of those glamour-girls that starred in the Thomas Bentley films with Ryan. That made him smile. Then he considered Joyce MacReady and wondered if she was as cultured and well-informed as her younger sister, Kathleen. He loved a lively discussion over a glass of port. He had no idea, at this stage, how rewarding that discussion would be, how in fact, it would change his life, forever.
Marianne dressed carefully in a navy suit, tights and chestnut knee high boots. Ryan helped her with the pearls Miss MacReady had thoughtfully placed in her case, texting her they were there. The matching studs with a tiny circle of diamonds, a gift from Ryan, were perfect. She smoothed her hair back and taking her clutch bag and dark glasses, sat patiently in the vestibule of their suite.
She phoned Sinead after breakfast and all was well at home. It crossed Marianne’s mind that Sinead was a godsend, to be up early and at Maguire’s with breakfast done and dusted, two children washed, dressed and ready to head off to the little kindergarten she and Joan Redmond, newly returned to the island with her young family, had recently set up. She wondered fleetingly if Sinead had stayed the night but dismissed the idea. Phileas would never tolerate Sinead being away from her post at the pharmacy for any length of time. She decided not to ask the question as they said goodbye, Sinead wished her well, it was going to be a difficult day.
Ryan appeared in the hallway: white shirt, black suit and tie, hair gleaming. He gave her a sad smile; he looked tired. They had spent most of the night with Larry and Lena. Larry was deeply disturbed by the whole experience. He had been released the previous day, following the verdict of death by misadventure pronounced by the New York City medical examiner’s office.
They had gone straight to Larry’s apartment from the airport. Lena greeted Marianne as if they had always known each other. Marianne liked her immediately; she looked like a female version of Larry - larger, with extravagant bouffant hair, perfect make-up and expensive, too tight, clothes.
“Hey you guys, come on in. Good to see you. My gawd, though who would have believed this? I mean, it’s just awful, I can’t tell you how relieved I am you’re here.
And Larry, I thought he would just die, I mean, well it’s just the pits, what can I say?” Lena led them into Larry’s immaculate drawing room. Elegant cream sofas faced each other, before a virtual flame fireplace. Larry was stretched out on one wearing a velvet eye-mask and an ice pack on his forehead. Despite the central heating he was draped in a satin throw.
“I gave him a sedative, he was distraught, he’s of a nervous disposition as you know, I’ve never seen him so stressed out.” Lena wrung her hands, then checked her manicure, “well, now you’re here I can go to my hotel and prepare for tomorrow. It ain’t gonna be easy.
It’s afterwards though Ryan, after the funeral, we need to meet with Mr Rossini and his lawyers. There’s a lot to discuss. Marianne, I’ve asked Lisa, Ryan’s PA if she’ll accompany you while we’re tied up: shopping, sightseeing, whatever you want to do.”
“Thanks Lena, but maybe another time, Marianne and I will hear what Rossini has to say together,” Ryan told her. Lena shrugged, although their most successful client, Ryan was far too troublesome to be her favourite.
Larry pushed the eye-mask up and shrugging off the throw, jumped up from the sofa. “Ryan, Marianne, thank God you’re here, it’s been hell!” He hugged them both. His face was grey, eyes bloodshot. “I’m so sorry your first visit to my home town is under these circumstances,” Larry said to Marianne.
“Are you okay Larry? It must have been a terrible ordeal. Is that the end of it, are they sure there was no foul play?” Marianne asked.
“D’ya think?” Lena asked, searching in her bag for cigarettes. “I’m not so sure, they might have filed the autopsy, but I don’t believe Rossini is going to leave it there. He’ll call for a private inquest, a full investigation. Don’t let’s forget, Angelique was all the family he had. Sad but true, anyone related to him don’t seem to last no time.”
“But she’s being buried tomorrow,” Ryan said, taking the drink Larry had conjured up from the gleaming bar in the corner of the vast room.
“D’ya think?” Lena said again.
“Oh my,” Larry said, gulping back a large slurp of the drink he had prepared for Marianne. “She’s probably right,” he said to Ryan as the white telephone on the blond sideboard trilled. Larry gripped the handset to his ear.
“Yes, yes, I understand. Yes, we can all make it. It’s rather unusual though, isn’t it?
Not that I know much about these things.” Larry went quiet; he was listening intently to the person on the line. “Very well, we’ll be there.” He replaced the receiver and turned to his three guests.
“Well?” Ryan asked.
“That was Arnie, our lawyer. There’s to be an investigation alright but a rather unconventional one. Rossini wants to see us, before the funeral. He wants every detail of his niece’s last days and if he’s satisfied her death could not have been avoided the funeral will
go ahead. If not, well who knows?”
Ryan squeezed Marianne’s hand. “More drama,” he said.
“Well,” Larry gave a hollow laugh, “he is one of the greatest movie producers in the world, what can you expect?”
“I expect some dignity and decorum. Angelique and I may have been separated, but I’m still her next of kin. The autopsy report has been filed, the funeral has been arranged and everything goes ahead as planned. She should be laid to rest in peace and we should be free to get on with our lives.” Ryan was firm: he was in no mood to be bullied by Rossini.
“He’s right,” Lena said, unexpectedly on Ryan’s side. “Rossini may be family, but he’s only an uncle.”
“A powerful one though,” Larry said, “who could cause trouble.”
“I think it’s Angelique who’s caused all the trouble,” Marianne said quietly.
Lena sighed and then said matter-of-factly, “Let’s look at this rationally. Angelique died on the airplane. She had clearly been indulging in some sort of substance abuse and that’s highly likely what she died of. It’s perfectly acceptable her doting uncle wants to talk to the people she spent her final days with, ahead of her funeral. What’s not acceptable is whatever we tell him sends him into a rage and he demands a further investigation and puts our lives not only on hold but back in a rather unwelcome spotlight. Now ...” they were all seated at this stage, “... has anyone got anything to tell, anything at all? So we’re prepared and can get this over with as painlessly as possible.”
Larry tutted, “Really Lena, you’re so, well, clinical about all this.”
Lena eyeballed her brother, “Need to be. Rossini can be tricky. We have a contract to fulfil, emotion should play no part. We want him to believe his niece had a happy visit in Ireland with her child, ex-husband and his new partner. All was convivial and non- acrimonious. Her dependency on certain substances her problem. I’m guessing he doesn’t know she was far from clean.”
“Christ, don’t tell him that!” Larry shrieked.
“I will if I have to,” Ryan said, steely eyed.
“I’d keep whatever we know to ourselv
es as much as we can,” Larry advised, “We don’t know what Rossini knows. We don’t know if he might be involved in any way, we just don’t know is all I’m saying.”
Lena gave him a look, then went to her bag for another cigarette, “But no-one did anything to help her take her own life, okay?”
Ryan and Larry drained their drinks simultaneously. Marianne sat staring at her glass; she felt dreadful; she could not decide whether it was jet lag, guilt or both.
“I don’t think I can go through tomorrow and not say anything,” she said.
“What?” Lena strode across the room.” What are you talking about Marianne? Come on now, no upsetting the apple cart.”
Ryan leaned forward. “What is it, Marie, what’s wrong?”
“I did it, it’s my fault,” she looked into his eyes, “I gave her the drugs.”
“What?” Ryan’s turn to be horrified.
“In her rooms at Maguire’s. We had words. She was shoving pills down her throat. I tried to stop her and then I lost it, threw all the stuff at her, told her to do it, kill herself and left her to it. She must have kept popping pills, and during the flight the overdose kicked in, she went into a coma and died.” She stifled a sob. “I should have taken everything off her, flushed it down the toilet, but I was so mad with her, I didn’t care if she took them. I wanted her dead, so you see it’s my fault, all my fault really,” she looked up at the three pairs of eyes staring back at her.
It was a dark, rainy morning. The doorman held a large umbrella emblazoned with the logo of the five star hotel in gold as they climbed into the waiting limousine. A couple of cameras flashed in their direction; Marianne was getting used to ignoring them. Ryan put his arm around her as they settled into the back seat.
“You look lovely, perfect,” he said, softly, “and remember, I don’t care about Rossini, Lena, Larry, or all the lawyers in New York put together. Say as much or as little as you want. Tell it like it is. You’ve done nothing wrong. None of us has.”
Marianne squeezed Ryan’s knee. “It just doesn’t feel like that.” Marianne said as she turned to look out at the shiny New York streets, bodies huddled under gleaming umbrellas like a great glossy centipede, as the car slid slowly towards the freeway heading north.
After her outburst the previous evening, Larry took up the story, explaining he arrived as Marianne was leaving. Angelique was in a dreadful state, threatening to take everything and finish it, once and for all. He had talked her round, surreptitiously destroying anything dangerous and leaving her with a couple of diazepam and a flask of vodka to get her through the journey home. Lena and Ryan looked relieved as Larry concluded his summing up. Marianne remained unconvinced; she could not shake the gloomy guilt that enveloped her. The pulse of this most vibrant city seemed to slow, keeping pace with the dull, thud of her heart.
She looked at Ryan staring blankly ahead. Should she reveal what Miss MacReady had told her, about Angelique embezzling the family jewels, that the actress was already in serious trouble when she arrived on the island, or should she let sleeping dogs lie, leave him with one less thing to worry about, let the story die with her. She took his hand in hers.
“Let’s get this over with and go home to where we belong,” Ryan said, resting his head back, pulling his shades down over his eyes.
Franco Rossini was planning a private burial at the lakeside cemetery near his ranch in upstate New York. It was where most of his nearest and dearest were buried. Two elderly Italian cousins he brought over when the vineyard had been sold after his father’s death; his wife’s maiden-aunt who had been his cook and housekeeper; his gardener and friend, Roberto, a variety of dogs, cats and even a couple of horses. Franco was sentimental about the people and creatures he loved, and he was at the ranch so rarely these days it was good to be home, even if it was for a funeral.
The largest and most beautiful memorial in the exquisitely maintained garden was to his wife Sophia, cruelly taken from him just after their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. The pale alabaster angel stood, head bowed over a plain slab of marble bearing an inscription in gold letters, ‘Sofia Magdalene Rossini, moglie amata di Franco. Sono soltanto una metà fino a quando ci incontreremo di nuovo e mi renderai intero.’
He brushed a leaf off the marble and sat down. The spaniel came to join him. Franco loved the way spaniels never noticed the rain; they loved life so much, were so engrossed in just being, the variables of the elements never even registered. He also loved the way they seemed to pick up on every emotion, as the one sitting beside him now turned sorrowful eyes towards his, ears drooped in sympathy. Franco absent-mindedly rubbed the dog’s head.
“It’s a sad day, Sophia. Angelique, our beautiful, lovely wayward girl is no more, gone. Drugs, alcohol, I dunno what, and what does it matter? Nothing’s gonna bring her back, nothing’s gonna change anything. I feel so helpless, like we let her down. We were all she had, she was all we had, and now gone.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. The dog licked his fingers. Franco did not notice.
“Now there’s only the little boy. The only Rossini left on the planet, far away on some godforsaken island somewhere. The only thing we have left.” He sniffed loudly. He was beginning to feel cold; the marble was wet, seeping through his jeans. “I think we need him here, home with us, is what I think. I think we need to bring him up and educate him in the old ways. So he knows he’s a Rossini and what it means. A guy could get lonely on a big ranch and if he came to stay, I would come back here, spend more time. It would be good, good for both of us, all of us. Family’s family Sophia, I need him here with me, you, all of us.” He threw out an arm to encompass the graveyard.
He sat silently for a while and then smiled. He could see her in his mind’s eye, hand on hip, wagging her finger at him. She would be saying, “Are you crazy? You want a young child here, out here in the middle of nowhere, with all these dead people?”
Just like when they were married, he would stand his ground, “You’re wrong Sophia, it’s perfect for him. He needs to grow up knowing who he is.”
But she would come back at him with something like, “You’re a lonely old man is all, harking back to the old days. Those days have gone. Buy him a pony, send money for his education but let him be.”
Franco shook his head to clear the images and rose slowly to his feet. He put his fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss on the marble.
“My Sophia,” he told the spaniel. “So beautiful, so wise ...so bossy.” He started back towards the house. He needed to prepare. It was a sad occasion; nevertheless he was looking forward to some company.
Chapter Twenty
The High Commander
Joyce MacReady was a wonderful hostess, and in common with most of the MacReady’s there was something beguiling about her. Not in the flamboyant way of her younger sister Kathleen, but Joyce had style, shades of nobility, fine pearls, good shoes - the way she always changed for dinner - even if she were dining alone.
There were splashes too of the big house about the place: old silver, paintings, a couple of Chinese rugs. Joyce had staff: Milo an elderly gardener cum handyman and a couple of girls from the nearby village who helped with the bed and breakfast, booked solid every summer.
Legend had it that as a young girl Joyce met a celebrated ballerina returning from the United States to retire. The glamorous dancer and the young countrywoman developed a friendship, and Joyce moved into the ballerina’s fine Georgian farmhouse to become her companion.
Of course there was a rumour it was more than a platonic arrangement, but such things were not spoken of in polite society in the west of Ireland during the nineteen seventies and the two women lived a happy and fulfilled existence. They bred Labradors; Joyce training them to the gun, bartering the puppies in exchange for shooting and hunting excursions for the many guests she and the ballerina entertained, arriving in a constant stream during the season from every continent. It was said, during their heyday, a couple of earls and even t
he odd prince made an appearance at the house.
When the ballerina passed away she left the house, furniture, everything to Joyce. And although a couple of relatives crawled out of the woodwork to dispute the Will, nothing came of it, and Joyce became known as ‘the heiress’, subsidising cash flow by turning the residence into the thriving, first-rate establishment it had become.
Dermot was sitting at the end of a long polished table, his chair towards the fire, watching the peat flames flicking purple and red, reflecting in his glass. Two of the house guests had taken their leave and headed wearily to bed after a punishing day walking. Another guest, an attractive, rather serious looking young woman in a smart suit, remained. She sat beside Joyce at the far end of the table. The women were chatting quietly, their porcelain cups chinking as they drank.
He looked under his eyelids at them: flashes of jewellery at their ears and throats, twinkling in the candlelight. He wanted to speak to the young woman, but did not want to disturb them, thoroughly enjoying this scene of highborn domesticity. A confirmed bachelor, wedded to his career, he had many late and lonely dinners - good food, fine wine and elegant company were a rare treat. He could feel his eyelids drooping, warmed through to his bones, his hand dropped to his lap. He jumped, startling the women.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m nearly asleep, you have me so stuffed with delicious food and drink Joyce.”
Joyce folded her napkin.
“Your bed is turned down and ready, Dermot,” she told him. “I’ll get you a nightcap to take up with you, if you’d like.” Not waiting for an answer she left the table to find something special to serve as her guest’s nightcap. The younger woman stood to leave. Dermot was on his feet.
A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series) Page 18