A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (17 page)

They both laughed. Ryan stopped suddenly. “Sadly, no can do the marriage thing at the moment. I haven’t asked her you understand, because even if I did, we can’t get married yet.”

“What do you mean? You and Angelique get divorced, you and Marianne get married, make a go of it on the island, like you said you would.” Dermot was surprised.

“Angelique’s managed to get a lawyer to tie me in knots. Not marrying again is one of the
terms and conditions
of the settlement, part of the custody deal.” Ryan looked at his hands.

“What? She can’t do that, that’s inhuman. Ah, she has a screw loose, no-one would expect you to stick to that, it’s nonsense.” Dermot was incensed.

“Well, I hope you’re right, but I need a bloody good lawyer, that’s for sure.” Ryan shrugged.

“Hey, Marianne’s worth all the
terms and conditions
in the world. Ignore them, tear the papers up,” Dermot said.

“It’s complicated. Don’t forget, Angelique’s uncle Franco is my boss. There’s my contract. I’ve agreed to honour that at least.” Ryan pressed a finger and thumb against his eyelids.

“Jeez, what kind of fucking hold do these guys have over you, it’s like the
Mafia
,” Dermot said angrily.

Ryan did not need reminding.

“What would you know about it? A friggin’ traffic cop from County Dublin!”

But Dermot would not let it go.

“What kind of crap are you involved in at all? Contracts, franchises, big money, drug money, it’s all in the mix, it has to be. You know more than you’re letting on.” Dermot poured himself another tot.

“You do talk a load of shite at times, Dermot.” Ryan got up to go below, trying to end the conversation. Dermot followed him.

“Money laundering? Bet you’ve done a bit of that in your time too, eh? How else can the millions needed to make these movies be raised these days – sure, all the banks are bankrupt, only serious criminals have that sort of money, bet I’m right,” Dermot slurred a bit.

Ryan was pouring himself another drink.

“You missed your vocation Dermot. You should have been a friggin’ script writer.” Ryan offered Dermot the bottle.

“And what about Marianne, does she know any of this, has she any clue what she’s getting involved with?”

“Shut your mouth,” Ryan snapped.

“Why shouldn’t I tell her? Before it’s too late, before she makes the biggest mistake of her life?” Dermot sneered.

“You go too far,” Ryan spat at him.

“You’ve always gone too far,” Dermot shot back, moving to stand nose-to-nose with one of his oldest friends. Ryan threw his drink in Dermot’s face. Dermot leapt on him, they wrestled, the deck was wet, they slipped. Ryan tried to push Dermot back, but Dermot grabbed him in a headlock, twisting him round and clamping him to his chest. Ryan kicked out, smashing the chart table as they both fell backwards. There was a loud thwack and a groan. Dermot’s grip loosened. Ryan pushed round, onto his knees. Dermot was flat on his back, eyes closed, a small trickle of blood oozed from the back of his head.

“Jesus, Dermot!” screamed Ryan in panic. Dermot’s eyelids fluttered, then opened.

“Ouch, me head,” he put his hand to his skull, trying to get up.

“Whoa a minute, you fecking eejit, lie still, you knocked yourself out,” Ryan said. Dermot gave Ryan a sideways look.

“Were we fighting?” he asked.

“Ah, not really, just a bit of a skirmish, nothing serious,” Ryan smiled with relief.

“That’s good,” replied Dermot. “I’ve missed our little dust-ups, what’s life without a good mate to have the odd brawl with?” Dermot gave Ryan a wobbly grin.

“Fucking head case,” Ryan said, attempting to haul the big man up.

Marianne watched from a short distance as the men off-loaded the boat. It was early evening, the light not quite disappeared, a pale smudge above the marina wall. The breeze caressed her cheek, a cool kiss. She could taste salt on her lips: sea spray or tears she knew not which.

 Ryan jumped ashore. Monty spotted him first, rushing to greet him, barking in welcome. He bent to ruffle the dog’s fur, looking round for Marianne. She wiped her nose with her hand and stepped out of the shadows into the gangway which led to the boats. He saw immediately something was wrong. He dropped his bag, speeding towards her.

 “What is it? Joey? Bridget, what?” he held her shoulders, she looked up into his eyes, glittering black under the lamp light.

 “It’s Angelique,” she said, placing her hands on his. “It’s bad news Ryan. There’s no other way to say this but she’s dead.”

 He blinked at her, disbelieving.

 “What?”

 “She’s dead Ryan, that’s all I know.”

 Dermot joined them: he too could see something was wrong.

 “Marianne?” he stood next to Ryan, sandy hair awry from a day at sea.

 “How, what happened?” Ryan was saying. Marianne remembered Angelique and Dermot had been close.
How close?
She wondered what to say to him. Ryan said it for her.

“Angelique’s dead.” All colour drained from his face.

 Dermot looked from one to the other. “Jeez, I’m sorry,” he said flatly. “Do you know any details Marianne?”

 Marianne looked at them, eyes wide, “Only that Larry’s been arrested.”

Chapter Eighteen
An Arresting Situation

Ryan was shocked, “
What?”
he gasped, “on what charge?” and releasing Marianne, turned to Dermot. “This is terrible, they can’t arrest Larry. My God they can’t put Larry in a cell, he’ll freak. There’s got to be some awful misunderstanding, it has to be mistake.”

 Dermot nodded grimly. “How did you find out?” he asked Marianne.

 “Lena rang Miss MacReady, Larry gave her the post office number, but she didn’t make much sense, nor did Miss MacReady when she arrived at Weathervane, but I got the gist of it. Miss MacReady said she’d mind Joey so I could come and tell you as soon as you docked.” Marianne looked from one to the other, anger and confusion building behind their eyes, “I didn’t want you to see me straight away in case you thought something awful had happened to Joey after the other night and panicked. All I can gather is she was found in the washroom on the plane. They landed at JFK, the medics went on board but she was already dead. She was taken away, presumably for autopsy and Larry was arrested at the same time.”

 Ryan sucked air through his teeth. “Know anyone in the New York Police Department, Dermot?”

 “Certainly, done a bit of training with their anti-terrorist team, good lads too,” Dermot told him.

 “Can you find out what the hell is going on? Then let me know how I get my buddy out of this mess,” Ryan said.

 “Leave it with me,” Dermot replied. He turned to go, then reached over and shook Ryan’s hand. “Larry will be fine. I’m sorry about Angelique, sorry for...”

 “Hey,” Ryan said flatly, “forget it, never happened.” He clapped Dermot on the back, “Meet us back at the cottage when you have something. I’ll try to speak to Lena in the meantime.”

Marianne was standing with her arms wrapped around herself. Monty was sniffing the mooring posts. Ryan put his arms around her; she looked up at him, narrow eyes, tight mouth. He gave a dry whistle and Monty joined them. The three of them headed back to Weathervane as the night turned totally black behind them.

Dermot shook off his jacket and hung his baseball cap on the hook. He could smell coffee; he would not be waking anyone up anyway.

 “Everyone okay?” he asked as he entered the brightly lit kitchen. Monty gave a yap, he liked Dermot.

 “Kathleen’s reading to Joey upstairs, trying to keep things as normal as possible.” Ryan said, though Dermot could tell things were very wrong indeed. Marianne poured another cup. Dermot drank gratefully.

 “Larry’s being held for questioning, not charged with anything as yet. They’re waiting for the results of the autopsy and have taken statements from everyone on the plane. They’re holding a steward for questioning and two passengers who were in first class, the singer Gloria Grenston and her personal assistant. Seems they were having drinks with Angelique before she went to the bathroom and passed out. That’s as far as I’ve got. You get anywhere?” Dermot asked Ryan.

 “Spoke to Lena, who’s calmed down a little, she had Larry’s lawyer there, I spoke to him too. He thinks this is all pretty routine, but he did say they would try and keep a cap on it from a media point of view. Anything to do with airlines sends the world into a total tailspin of panic, since 9/11 anyway.” Ryan shrugged, “Not much we can do except wait to hear.”

 Marianne went to stand beside him. She rubbed his shoulders.

 “I think you ought to have a bag packed ready to go,” she said.

 “Go where?” Ryan was surprised.

 “New York, of course, when the press get hold of this you’d better be there, dealing with it. Then there’ll be the funeral to arrange...”

 Ryan put his head in his hands.

 A tall, dark figure appeared in the doorway. Startled, they looked up.

 “Bad news, I hear,” Father Gregory said in his brown, velvet voice. “I came as soon as I heard, the poor woman, God rest her soul.” He blessed himself. Dermot followed suit. Marianne stared blankly at the priest. “Such a shock, any idea at all?” he asked.

 Ryan shook his head. “Don’t know yet. Autopsy, though they don’t usually hang about do they, especially as she’s famous?”

 “Was,” Dermot corrected.

 “Oh God,” Marianne’s face crumbled, “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

Ryan took her hands. “Hey, come on now, none of this is your fault, none of it.” He gave her his lopsided smile. “And what were you just saying about packing bags and all? You’re right I need to be there, but not without you.” He looked into her eyes. “We can do this together. Can you bear to come with me?”

“Let’s not talk about this now, let’s see what tomorrow brings.” She offered Father Gregory a coffee, but Dermot had found the decanter.

“I’ll go and check on Joey,” she said, leaving the men to their whiskey and speculations.

Marianne found Miss MacReady and Joey on top of the eiderdown on the spare bed, both fast asleep. She went to wake Miss MacReady but deciding against it moved to cover them up; the postmistress’ mobile phone fell from her fingers; the screen lit up, she had been trying to send a text but Weathervane was notorious for poor reception. Marianne read it.

‘I’ve heard. Don’t worry. We’ll get you out, if I’ve to turn up with a chainsaw and tear down prison bars. Her death nothing to do with you, know that. She’s responsible or someone helped. Can’t blame them, dreadful woman. Try not to worry. They’ll get to the bottom of it. K. PS sorry we argued. X’

 Marianne let the phone fall onto the bed. She was dreading them ‘getting to the bottom of it’, finding out the truth, that it was she who had given Angelique the wherewithal to kill herself, she had encouraged her to do it, she who wanted her dead. Marianne felt the bile rise in her throat, for as much as she loathed herself for what she did, she dreaded what was coming next, because she knew her already fragile world, was about to be torn apart.

Chapter Nineteen
One Of Our Own

The next day in Maguire’s the tension was palpable. Padar was busy behind the bar though distracted, forgetting little details: a slice of lemon here, a mixer there. The television was on, a large, flat slab of colour on the pewter wall, a window on the rest of the planet, a pipeline to the outside world. Padar looked on as the locals gathered in front of it. He wanted to shut it off, but they had come to hear the news.

 Sean Grogan was on his usual stool at the end of the bar. Shay was unenthusiastically practising darts in the corner. Father Gregory drank coffee as he scratched a few words in a notebook, some thoughts for tomorrow’s sermon, a tricky one. He looked up when he heard Sinead’s voice; Phileas was with her, a rare occurrence these days. The priest nodded at the couple, taking their drinks to a table near the TV. Sinead smiled back. Phileas was concentrating on the screen. Father Gregory was relieved to see them together, hoping Sinead’s recent threats in the privacy of the Confessional had dissipated, and they were trying to get their marriage back on track.

 “Turn it up,” said Sean, “here it is.”

 Padar pointed the remote, the theme tune to the national news programme giving way to the anxious face of the anchor man. He rattled off a few headlines and then:

“News of the death of the actress Angelique de Marcos has shattered the island community of Innishmahon. The American actress was returning to the US following a visit there, when she was taken ill on board a flight en route to John F. Kennedy airport. One local farmer told this programme, ‘the islanders had taken the actress to their hearts’.”

The screen cut to a shot of the island: a glorious summer’s day, golden sand, glittering sea, sails on the horizon. They heard a crackly phone line and then an echoey voice.

 
“She was a lovely woman, one of our own. She said herself how much she loved it here, how she wanted to stay. She loved it so much.”

 Padar turned in slow motion to look at Sean, grinning up at the screen; Father Gregory was staring at him too.

 “Jaysus Sean, it’s you,” Padar exclaimed. Those gathered shushed him. The reporter continued.

 “Miss De Marcos’ son and former husband are living on the island at the moment?”

 
“Oh yes, though she was only visiting, she made it very clear she would be back. She
made lots of friends, good friends here.”
The echoey voice continued.

 Dermot had just arrived. Sean gave him a shifty look.

 “There were reports that the actress had not been in the best of health recently, any comment on that?”
the reporter pressed a positively gregarious Sean, over the phone.

 “She looked very well, beautiful looking woman I have to say. No, I don’t think anyone here would have said she was anything but the picture of health,”
he confirmed.

 “
And how will you and the other islanders remember her?”
the reporter asked.

 
“With great fondness, a real star. Sure, we’ll probably put up some kind of memorial, a statue or something, she was a very special lady, we’re all brokenhearted, I don’t think we’ll ever get over it.”

 “Thank you. That was Sean Grogan, a close friend of the actress Angelique de Marcos, whose death was reported in the early hours of this morning.”

The picture of the island cut to a stunning shot of Angelique at a red carpet event.
“Her husband, the Irish actor Ryan O’Gorman was unavailable for comment. Cause of death has not yet been confirmed. We’ll bring you more news as it breaks.”
The presenter looked earnestly into camera and then turned to a guest, waiting patiently to speak about the latest dairy policy.

 “Close friend? How did that come about?” Padar glowered at Sean, as the gathering beneath the screen dispersed.

Sean shrugged. “The reporter must have had my number after the last time they were here, reporting on the storm. They only wanted an unbiased comment from someone who knew her,” Sean said, folding himself over his pint.

 “Who made you the spokesman for the island? Did you even speak to her while she was here?” Dermot asked sharply. Sean did not reply. “Might I suggest that’s the first and last time you speak to the press about this, or anything else for that matter.”

 “Ah, another blow-in giving out orders, telling local people what they should and shouldn’t be doing!” he growled into his pint.

 “I’m serious,” Dermot towered over him. “The last thing we want is a shower of bloody journalists crawling over the island, finding scandal and corruption where there is none and preventing proper work from being done.”

 Father Gregory was at the bar. “Dermot’s right. Sean, if we are going to encounter the media again, we need to present a united front.”

 “We do,” Padar agreed, “We want people to come here to enjoy themselves, not think the place is a mausoleum to a dead actress.”

 “Oh do we?” said Sean. “Well, some of us, who were born and bred here, would prefer it if people didn’t bother coming here at all.” He drained his glass and made to leave.

 “Just don’t speak to the media again,” Dermot warned.

 “Just fuck off,” Sean snapped back. “You might be coxswain of a non-existent lifeboat boyo, but you’re no ‘cock of the walk’ around here.” And with surprising agility Sean jumped from his stool and left.

 The phone behind the bar rang. Padar spoke into it and then called over to Sinead. Phileas scowled up at her as she left to take the call.

 “No problem at all,” she repeated into the receiver. Father Gregory stopped her as she came out from behind the bar.

 “Okay?” he asked.

 “I’m heading over to Weathervane to collect Joey and his things, bring him here to stay with Padar and Bridget for a while. I’m not working at the moment, so I can mind them when Padar’s busy.” She went back to Phileas.

 “Don’t you think you should have cleared that with me?” the priest heard him say.

 “They need a hand, that child has just lost his mother,” Sinead replied.

 “And I seem to be losing my wife,” Phileas hissed back at her.

Marianne had never been to New York or flown first class but Ryan thought it best. Despite their casual attire and dark glasses, people were staring and commenting. Dermot said he would come along as security but Ryan declined the offer.

 “I want our life to be as normal as possible,” he told his friend. “I know that’s a big ask at the moment, but I want to try and go it alone.”

 “Cool,” Dermot shrugged, but he made sure Ryan had details of his detective friend at NYPD and wished them luck. “How long do you think you’ll be gone?” he asked. Ryan pushed his glasses onto his head.

 “The results of the autopsy should be tomorrow, funeral arranged the day after. Angelique was Catholic, so a quiet family burial. Then if she can bear it, I’d like to show Marianne a bit of New York. I don’t want her only memory of one of the most fabulous cities in the world to be a sad one, but neither of us want to leave Joey for very long.”

 Dermot punched him on the shoulder.

“He’ll be fine. I’ll keep an eye on things. Go on, get outta here,” he said in his best
Kojak
accent.

He watched as they passed through the doors to departures. There was a hell of a lot to do in a week; Angelique’s demise had not been helpful at all. He had wanted to develop their
relationship a little more, hoping she would at least hint who her contacts were. He too had been tipped the wink she had absconded from the secure unit at the hospital. The authorities were not coming after her at that point, they were waiting to see what she did next. It could have been a red herring, but Dermot needed to know if she had any information about the drugs shipment, anything that could help him unravel a bit more of the thread.

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.