Now You See Her (24 page)

“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.

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?”

The little girl said nothing, her lower lip quivering.

“What is it? Don’t you like the new dress we bought you?”

“That’s just it. The dress is perfect,” the child said, gazing imploringly at her mother.

“I don’t understand,” the woman responded.

“Where will we ever find a pair of shoes to match it?” the young girl wailed.

Her mother laughed. She was still laughing as the elevator doors opened onto the second floor.

Had Marcy ever felt the freedom to laugh at her daughter in such a casual way? Or had she interpreted Devon’s every frown as a potential harbinger of impending doom, an intimation of coming disaster? And had she unconsciously transferred those fears onto Devon, creating doubt and turmoil where none had previously existed? Had she read too much into things … or not enough? “Excuse me.” Marcy wiggled her way around the still-spinning boy, touching the top of his blond head as she made her exit.

“Mummy,” she heard the boy exclaim as the elevator doors shut behind her, “she touched me.”

Mommy!
she heard Devon cry, her voice cutting through the past like a hook to grab at Marcy’s heart. She spun around, already knowing there was no one there.

Her room was only steps from the elevator. Marcy opened the door to find a wall of leaded windows overlooking a private garden, and a beautiful marble bathroom with a large tub and separate shower stall. The bed was king size, the sheets crisp and white, the walls a pale apricot. A fluffy white bathrobe hung in the closet. “I think I’ll stay here forever,” she said, lying down on top of the bedspread and gazing up at a portrait of two young women that hung over her head. She closed her eyes, picturing Vic lying beside her, imagining his arms tight around her. Seconds later, she was asleep.

She dreamed she was in the shoe department of a large store, her feet bare, piles of discarded shoes spread out on the floor around her. “I need something to match my dress,” she told the hapless salesclerk, pulling on the sides of the emerald-green apron covering her blue, flower-print dress.

“There’s nothing here,” the clerk told her. “You should go home.”

“I’m not leaving. Not until I find my shoes.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” the clerk told her in John Sweeny’s voice.

A man came running toward her, holding out a pair of black stilettos, their leather scratched, their heels broken. “How about these?”

It was Vic Sorvino.

“Vic!” Marcy exclaimed, her arms reaching for him.

“Don’t touch him,” Liam cautioned, appearing out of nowhere to snatch the shoes from Vic’s hands. “I don’t trust him.” Liam tossed the shoes to the floor. They ricocheted off the wood and bounced toward the wall.

Marcy woke up with a start, the sound of shoes hitting the floor continuing to reverberate in the distance.

“Housekeeping,” she heard someone say from outside the door to her room, accompanied by a gentle knocking. Not shoes, she realized, sitting up in bed and glancing at the clock. It was after five. She’d been asleep the better part of two hours.

The door opened and a uniformed maid entered the room. Both women gasped. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” the maid said, backing toward the door. “I didn’t realize anyone was here. I knocked and knocked. I’ll come back later.”

“No, that’s all right.” Marcy jumped off the bed, crossing toward the large windows. “I must have fallen asleep. Please, go ahead. Do … whatever.”

“I’ll just be a minute.”

Marcy watched the young woman, whose long dark hair was twisted into a braid at the back of her head, turn down the bed and fold up its ochre-colored bedspread, then lay it across
the top shelf in the closet. If the maid was surprised not to see any clothes on the hangers, she didn’t let on.

“Will there be anythin’ else I can do for you?” she asked.

Marcy shook her head. Then, “Wait!” She reached for her purse, quickly extricating the envelope containing her daughter’s pictures and holding out the most recent one. “Do you recognize this girl, by any chance?”

The maid took the photograph from Marcy’s trembling fingers, bringing it so close to her face that she was almost touching it with her short, upturned nose. “No, can’t say that I do,” she said.

Marcy pressed. “Are you sure? You don’t sound sure.”

“It’s just that I can’t see so good without my glasses.”