A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (18 page)

“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 ourselves 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 the 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.

“I’m sorry we didn’t have more conversation,” he said to her with a grin. The other guests had insisted on regaling the whole table with every detail of their walk. They had travelled from the Netherlands, so the undulating Irish landscape had them totally bewitched.

“Me too,” she smiled back, the smile totally transformed her face, making her pretty, with twinkly eyes. “But I’m afraid my bed is calling, goodnight to you.” She turned as Joyce reappeared bearing a large tray of bottles.

“Were you to meet anyone here?” Dermot tried: he was sure she was his contact.

“No, just a stop-off, on my way in the morning,” she was curt.

“A nice drop of malt, Dermot?” Joyce cut in, laying the tray carefully on the sideboard. “This one from Tyrconnell is lovely, light as a feather and rich at the same time.” She went through the bottles. “Erin, will you join us? Just the one? Go over to the fire, take that easy chair there, sure we didn’t get a chance to even talk to the poor man, that nice couple from Holland were so full of their day out.”

The woman hesitated. Dermot wanted her to stay, he liked the look of her.

“Thanks Joyce but I won’t stay, if you don’t mind. I’ve had a long journey and I’ve further to go tomorrow,” she said in a warm husky voice, difficult to place the accent: a mixture of Dublin and English.

“Of course,” Joyce gave her cheek a little kiss, “goodnight dear.”

“Goodnight Erin,” Dermot said disappointed, she could have been his contact, she did look like she could be a in a
Thomas Bentley
film. She did not reply, just slipped quietly away, leaving a faint scent of jasmine behind her.

Joyce handed Dermot a squat glass of solid crystal. The amber liquid glowed gold in the firelight. She held it up like a jewel, examining each facet.

“The best time of day, sláinte” she said, taking a sip. “Well young man, I’m guessing you’re here to receive your orders?”

Dermot blinked at his hostess.

“Well, aren’t you?” she said.

Dermot smiled to himself. Of course, Joyce was his contact. She knew why he was there, she was well ahead of the game. He loved working with professionals, even if they were on the other side.

“High Commander,” he nodded a salute before he sipped his drink. She waved a hand, dismissing his elevation of her rank. “There’s a big shipment on its way, I just need to know when and where to do my bit,” he said hoping he did not sound too vague.

Joyce looked at him shrewdly.

“I’m only a messenger Dermot, a go-between, I don’t get involved in anything risky, I’m not a criminal, just a supporter. I’m intrigued though, what is it?” she asked.

Dermot decided to share what he knew; a sprat to catch a mackerel.

“We’ve hived off some standard-issue guns and ammunition from the British Army, on its way to Afghanistan I believe.” Dermot said.

“Poor bastards, I wouldn’t send a snake out there,” Joyce said grimly. “How’s it coming in?”

“How much do you need to know ma’am?” Dermot asked, hedging his bets.

Joyce laughed, “Just tell me it’s not Pat using that ridiculous section cut out of the chassis of the taxi. Good heavens above, thinks he’s
James Bond
completely if he brings a bit of contraband to and from the island in that. He also thinks the local Garda haven’t a clue what he’s up to, the eejit.”

“You mean those two uniforms are clean?” Dermot was surprised.

“Not at all, but they’d never get involved with Pat. He’s no discretion at all, though he’s a great decoy, if you ever needed one,” she said.

“Interesting,” Dermot said. “Have you heard if anything else is coming in with the shipment?”

Joyce raised her eyebrows. “Do you mean drugs?”

Dermot nodded.

“No!” She banged her glass down on the table. “No, no, no. I won’t have anything to do with drugs. I don’t care certain elements of the organisation use them to fund other things, but it’s not right. It sullies the campaign, makes it less honourable. I’m a great believer in the old ways,” she said.

“I’m sorry?” Dermot asked.

“Donations, that’s my department, I try and keep up the pressure on New York. I have good contacts there, still our biggest ally in my opinion.” She went silent, staring into the fire.

Dermot used the silence to think things through. So Joyce had no inkling the arms shipment was being used as a decoy for the cocaine. In fact if she did it sounded like she would go and sink the whole lot herself. Dermot was pleased he had played his cards close to his chest.

“What’s the plan then?” Dermot asked, bringing her back to the present.

“Well, my niece Marianne has bought the big house on the island. She’s going to turn it into a children’s home, or something,” Joyce said.

Dermot nodded, he knew this.

“It’s been empty a long time and we’ve used it in the past as a safe house, a stock hold. There’s good landing for a small, study boat. It can get a bit rough thereabouts, the bay sits in a deep dip, and nothing can be seen from the village or even out to sea - a smugglers’ paradise,” she told him.

“Maybe in the past but everything’s so much more high-tech now, we probably don’t need an old smugglers’ hideaway.” Dermot did not like the idea of any part of the operation being near anything to do with children, Marianne, or civilisation for that matter.

“That’s up to you, just giving you a bit of local knowledge” Joyce said, “But you’ll need to stash it somewhere until the dust settles, although I doubt the disappearance of a cache on its way to Afghanistan will go public. Even if the press did find out it would be quashed. Very bad PR to admit a consignment of expensive guns and explosives has disappeared off the face of the earth, too embarrassing.”

“Which is why this should all be relatively easy,” Dermot assured her, and himself. “Now I just need to know what my job is?” Dermot said. This was going well, very well indeed.

Joyce went to the bureau, and retrieved a large, black document wallet from a drawer. She expertly spun the combination lock and handed Dermot a USB stick, a slim, silver case no bigger than a cigarette lighter - a tiny memory stick.

“Everything’s on that: files, customs and excise notations, shipping documents, the lot. The goods will land on the coast, south of Westport, in about six weeks’ time. It will be aboard a fishing trawler coming from Plymouth. You’re to load it straight onto your vessel and get it back to Innishmahon ASAP. The plan is to off-load it and hold it there until we get instructions that
C-Division is on its way to collect. The last stage of your involvement is to ensure it’s loaded onto their boat and is safely away heading north.”

“Seems simple enough,” Dermot said, flipping the memory stick in his fingers.

“Not quite. There could be more trouble than just the obvious.” Joyce was watching him carefully.

“What do you mean?” Dermot asked.

 “There are already rumours an undercover operation is in place. It’s highly likely someone is going to try to intervene at some stage, nab the shipment and return it to its rightful owner or, depending on how bribable they are, sell it onto the highest bidder.  There’s quite a market for what’s been acquired out there.” Joyce gave the dying fire a gentle poke, the last of the peat glowed.

 “Tricky,” Dermot scratched his head. Joyce was as sharp as a knife, he had indulged a little too readily in her generous hospitality; he had to be careful not to let anything slip.

 “Ah sure, nothing to a man of your calibre, Dermot,” Joyce went to refill their glasses. “I’m surprised I never came across you before. Were you active in the organisation while you were in the Gardaí, or is this part of your retirement plan?” she gave a little laugh.

 Dermot smiled, “Despite what the newspapers would have you believe, Dublin is
not
the centre of the criminal universe, I’ve done my stint serving the community, so jumped at the chance of the lifeboat captaincy on Innishmahon, but it’s a love job. When the opportunity came along to give the cause I hand, sure I decided to give it a go.”

 Joyce returned to her chair, handing Dermot his glass.

 “I had no warning you were coming but I guessed they’d send someone soon enough. Sure that’s often the way, you just have to go with the flow,” Joyce told him. “And the movement, how did you get involved with that? Have you always believed the whole of Ireland should belong to the Irish? Or did something happen on your road to Damascus?”

 Dermot had never given it much thought; he frowned briefly. “Oh, I see what you mean. I imagine my beliefs are very similar to your own Joyce,” he smiled at her warmly.

 “Really?” Joyce was intrigued.

 “In fact, I was hoping you’d tell me all about it. Your role in the whole thing, vital cog in the wheel, a genuine freedom fighter. I believe you’re considered quite the heroine in high places.”

 Joyce beamed at him and settled into the wing chair to regale this handsome young man with tales of daring do. What a treat. Dermot sipped his drink; he was in for a long night. As Joyce began, he thought he heard a footstep on the stair. He glanced across the room, a brief shadow, silence. He sat back struggling to keep his eyes open.