Authors: Joy Fielding
Marcy shrugged. “Just making small talk. These cookies are the best. Here, you have the last one.”
“No. I really should be getting home.” Shannon pushed back her chair, started to stand up.
“Do you think it’s a good idea to disturb the baby?” Marcy asked quickly.
Shannon acknowledged the sleeping baby in Marcy’s arms with a deep sigh. “You
do
have a way with her.”
“I’m sorry if I ask too many questions,” Marcy apologized. “It just gets a little lonely,” she added for good measure, “traveling by myself.”
“Oh, I know how you feel,” Shannon said, softening immediately and reaching for the other half of her cookie. “When I first moved to Dublin, I was so lonely. I didn’t know anyone.
Even after I came to Cork, it was so hard at first. I had no one to talk to. I can’t tell you how many nights I cried myself to sleep.”
And then you met Audrey, Marcy wanted to say. Instead she said, “And then you got a job with the O’Connors.”
“Yes. And then I met Audrey,” Shannon volunteered on her own.
“And Jax.”
“And Jax,” Shannon agreed. “Not that I get to see them very often. Mrs. O’Connor keeps me pretty busy.”
“I’m sure she does.”
“Don’t get me wrong. She’s a lovely woman. Very fair and generous.”
“I’m sure she is.”
“I hope I haven’t given you the wrong impression.”
“I’m sure you haven’t.”
“I’m very lucky to have this job.” Shannon looked toward the tavern’s front door. “You fancy some more tea?” She waved toward the window.
“Sounds good.” More tea meant more time for questions.
The tavern’s front door opened. Footsteps approached their table.
“Could we have another pot of tea, please?” Shannon asked politely.
Marcy looked up and smiled, expecting to see Liam. Instead she saw Kelly.
“Well, hello, there,” the waitress said, recognizing Marcy immediately. “I see you found Shannon all right.”
The blush instantly drained from Shannon’s face. “What?”
“I’ll be right back with your tea,” Kelly said, spinning around on her heel and returning to the inside of the pub.
Shannon was already half out of her chair, the red in her
cheeks having returned with a vengeance, spreading down her neck and disappearing into the top of her T-shirt. “What did she mean, ‘I see you found Shannon all right?’ Have you been asking about me?”
“No, of course not. She must be confusing me with someone else.”
“And you must be confusing me with an idiot. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Please sit down. I can explain.”
“Asking all these questions about me and my friends! Did Mrs. O’Connor put you up to this?” Shannon demanded, tears filling her eyes.
“What?”
“She sent you, didn’t she? To check up on me. Find out who my friends are, who I see and what I do. You’re going to report back to her all the nasty things I said.…”
“You didn’t say anything—”
“I’ll lose my job.…”
“I have no intention of saying anything to Mrs. O’Connor.”
“What do you want then? Who are you?”
Marcy noted Shannon’s outrage was beginning to attract the attention of some of the other patrons and kept her voice purposefully low, hoping to encourage Shannon to do the same. “My name is Marcy—”
“It’s not Marilyn?” Shannon demanded in outrage, as if lying about her name was the worst of Marcy’s transgressions. “Give me the baby,” she ordered, a note of hysteria creeping into her voice. “Give her to me straightaway.”
A portly, middle-aged man got up from his seat at a nearby table. “Is there a problem here?”
“She won’t give me back my baby.”
As if on cue, Caitlin opened her eyes and started to whimper,
the whimper quickly becoming a cry, the cry metastasizing into a howl.
“Give the girl back her baby, ma’am,” the man instructed, as others on the patio rose from their seats.
“Of course I’ll give her back the baby,” Marcy protested. “I’m not trying to steal her baby, for heaven’s sake.”
Caitlin’s screams filled the air as Shannon lunged toward Marcy and the crowd closed in. A brawl broke out between two would-be Sir Galahads. Punches were thrown. An errant fist connected with Marcy’s cheek.
In the next instant, all was chaos.
D
O YOU WANT TO
tell us what happened?” the police officer was asking.
“I’ve already told you.”
“Tell us again.”
Marcy lowered her head, the left side of her face still throbbing as she stared at the gray concrete floor. Could she really go through the whole sad story again? What more could she say? That it was all a huge mistake? That she was sorry? That they were wasting precious time? That Shannon had undoubtedly contacted Audrey by now, told her that some crazy woman named Marcy had been asking questions about her and was currently being detained at the Garda station along the South Mall? “I wasn’t trying to steal the baby,” she said instead, sure that Devon was packing her bags at this very minute and preparing
to leave the city. She raised her head toward the two men and one woman, all dressed in neat, dark blue uniforms, then turned quickly away. She hated uniforms.
“We know that,” the older of the two men admitted after a pause. His name was Christopher Murphy and he was about forty, with close-cropped blond hair and a wide nose that had been broken at least once and not properly reset, so that it veered sharply to the right. He sat on the edge of the wide oak desk that occupied most of the room and smiled at her indulgently.
His teeth could use a good cleaning
, she heard Peter say.
“You know that?” Marcy repeated.
“The girl, Shannon Farrell, gave us a statement, said she’d just as soon forget the whole incident.”
“Then what am I doing here?” Marcy was already beginning to rise from her chair. “If you’d just give me back my passport …” She nodded toward the stack of papers on his desk. Her passport was lying open on the top.
“Please sit down, Mrs. Taggart.”
Marcy took a cursory glance around the windowless room, surprised by how familiar it seemed. Why was it that wherever you went in the world, police stations always looked the same? Did they all use the same interior decorator? she wondered. Was there a special handbook that prison authorities gave out to potential designers? Not that she’d seen the insides of many police stations, other than in the movies and on TV.
Just one, Marcy thought with a shudder, stifling the memory before it could take root.
Still, she’d expected something more colorful from a country like Ireland, with its deep sense of history and innate flair for melodrama. The old Cork City Gaol she’d visited with her tour group had been suitably majestic, a three-story castle-like building whose cell walls still boasted their original graffiti,
even though its prisoners were now made of wax. In contrast, the new Bridewell Garda Station, on the line of the old city wall on the north channel of the river Lee, was relatively modern in structure and appearance. Unfortunately the station where she was currently being detained was an uninspired combination of the two—ancient without being imposing, modern without being sleek, a muddle of conflicting styles whose end result was no style at all. It was dreary, tired looking, and smelled of body odor and disillusionment.
“I don’t understand. If you already have Shannon’s statement …,” Marcy told the officer, or “garda,” as policemen in Ireland were called. She shifted her gaze toward the female garda standing against the dull green wall. Her name was Colleen Donnelly—lots of Ls, lots of Ns, lots of Es, Marcy had thought when the young woman introduced herself—and she was maybe twenty-five. Surprisingly delicate in appearance, she had pale skin that was liberally sprinkled with freckles and a mouthful of tiny, niblet-like teeth.
Some good veneers would do wonders
, Peter observed from behind Marcy’s eyes.
The remaining garda gave his name as John Sweeny, although Marcy noted that his colleagues always referred to him as Johnny. He was about thirty and of average height and weight, although his gut was surprisingly prominent for someone so young. His ruddy complexion gave weight to otherwise bland features, and his mercifully ordinary teeth drew no unsolicited comments from the dark recesses of Marcy’s brain.
As with almost all law enforcement officers in Ireland, none of them was armed. For one giddy moment, Marcy considered making a run for it.
“We can still charge you with disturbing the peace,” Christopher Murphy told her.
“Disturbing the peace? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“A table was overturned, a teapot was smashed, some dishes were broken.”
“I’m the one with the black eye.”
“A regrettable accident.”
“Exactly.”
“What were you doing with the baby, Mrs. Taggart?” Christopher Murphy asked.
“I’ve already told you.…”
He referred to his notes. “Shannon asked you to hold her.”
“Yes. The baby has colic. For some reason, when I hold her, she stops crying.”
“And how do you know Shannon Farrell?” Colleen Donnelly asked.
“I met her in the park a few days ago. We happened to bump into each other again today on St. Patrick’s Street. She asked me if I’d like to go somewhere for a cup of tea. Like an idiot, I said yes.”
“Like an idiot?” Christopher Murphy repeated.
“In light of what happened, yes.”
“What are you doing in Ireland?” asked John Sweeny.
“What?”
“What brings you to Ireland?” he said again, as if they were just two people having an innocently pleasant conversation.
“How is that relevant?”
“Indulge me.”
“It’s a long story.”
“We have lots of time.”
Marcy sighed her resignation. “I’m here on holiday.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, alone. Is that a crime?” She noted the look that passed between the two men. The look warned her to watch her tone. “Sorry. I just don’t understand the point of these questions.”
“Your husband didn’t come with you?” the older garda asked, more statement than question.
“No.”
“May I ask why?”
“No, you may not.”
Another shared glance.
“We’re getting a divorce,” Marcy finally offered, sensing that this information diminished her even further in their eyes. Now she was not only a troublemaking foreigner, she was pathetic as well, a woman whose wild, unpredictable ways had no doubt cost her the love of a stable orthodontist. She felt the sudden threat of tears and raised her hand to her cheek, as if to ward them off.
“Cheek still sore?” Colleen Donnelly asked. “Would you like more ice?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” It
did
hurt and she
wasn’t
fine, but what the hell. She’d tend to her black eye later. She’d wasted enough time. All she wanted was to get out of there as soon as possible.
“You’re Canadian, I see.”
“Yes.”
“Toronto’s a lovely city.”
“Yes, it is.”
“When are you going back?”
Marcy almost laughed. The Irish were many things, she was discovering, but subtle wasn’t one of them. “I’m booked to go home at the end of next week.” Another shared glance between the two men. “Is that it? Are we finished? Can I go now?”
“Who’s Audrey?” Christopher Murphy asked, as if Marcy hadn’t spoken.
“What?”
“Miss Farrell said you seemed awfully interested in a friend of hers named Audrey.”
Marcy shrugged, lifting her hands into the air and opening her palms toward the recessed ceiling, then bringing them back together in her lap. “Shannon mentioned her. I was just making conversation.”
“She said you asked a lot of questions about Audrey and a young man named Jackson.” Again, he checked his notes. “Jax,” he stated, putting particular emphasis on the X.
“You say that name as if you know him,” Marcy said hopefully, trying to keep her voice as neutral as possible. Hadn’t Shannon told her that Jax had something of a reputation? Was it possible he’d ever gotten into trouble with the law, that these officers were familiar with him?
“Can’t say the name rings any bells,” Christopher Murphy said, answering her silent question. “What about you, Johnny? You know anyone named Jax?”
The younger garda shook his head.
“My cousin just named her baby Jax,” Colleen Donnelly said.
“Like I said,” Marcy told them, “I was just making conversation, trying to be polite.”
Officer Murphy waved his hand in the direction of her bruised face. “This is you trying to be polite?”
“Look. None of this is my fault. I’m the victim here. I was the one who was attacked.”
“And we can press charges, if you’d like.”
“I don’t want to press charges. I told you that. I just want to get out of here.”
“Then tell us what’s really going on, Mrs. Taggart,” Colleen Donnelly said. “Maybe we can help you.”
Marcy looked from one garda’s face to the next, all three of the officers staring back at her with varying degrees of compassion and curiosity. Could they help her? she wondered. Could she trust them with the truth?
“Audrey is my daughter,” she said after a lengthy pause, deciding she had no other choice
but
to trust them.
“Your daughter,” all three repeated, their voices overlapping.
“She disappeared almost two years ago.”
They waited for her to continue. Christopher Murphy raised one thin eyebrow and brought his lips together, as if he were about to whistle.
How much could she tell them? “We thought she was dead—”
“Why would you think that?” John Sweeny interjected.
“Because that’s what she wanted us to think. Because she was confused and depressed.” Marcy answered their next question before they could ask it. She told them about Devon going up to their cottage and the subsequent discovery of her overturned canoe in the middle of the bay. She told them of her marriage’s disintegration and her husband’s desertion. She told them of coming to Ireland and seeing Devon walk by Grogan’s House, of Liam and Kelly identifying her daughter’s picture as the girl they knew as Audrey, and their revelation that Audrey was friendly with a girl named Shannon who worked as a nanny for a wealthy local family.