Now You See Her

NINETEEN


SADIE DOYLE WAS WAITING for her in the inn’s small reception area, hands on her wide hips. “That’ll be an extra fifty euros for your guest,” she announced before Marcy was through the door.

“Is he still here?” Marcy asked hopefully, her eyes running up the stairs toward her room.

Sadie shook her head, the tightly set curls of her gray-flecked, reddish-blond hair barely moving. “Nah. He left hours ago. Got tired of waitin’ around, I guess.”

Marcy tried to mask her disappointment with a smile. What did I expect? she wondered. “Did he leave a message?” she asked hopefully.

Another vigorous shake of Sadie’s head, the motion dislodging the stale scent of too much hair spray. “I’ll just tack that extra charge onto your bill, shall I?”

“Yes.” Marcy walked toward the stairs.

“Where’d you run off to in such a hurry anyway?” Sadie asked, disguising the question she’d obviously been dying to ask as an afterthought. “You find your daughter?”

This time it was Marcy’s turn to shake her head. She proceeded up the stairs in silence, deciding to call Vic as soon as she got to her room. Liam had said he was staying at the posh Hayfield Manor Hotel, which was relatively close by. She’d ring his room, apologize profusely for running out on him again, and tell him about what had happened in Youghal. He’d understand and forgive her without a second’s hesitation. They’d arrange to meet for dinner. He’d stay the night, or maybe this time she’d stay with him, spend the night in the warmth of his arms, surrounded by luxury. And this time she wouldn’t skip out in the wee hours of the morning or abandon him without so much as a word of good-bye. She’d been wrong to treat him in such a cavalier fashion, wrong to exclude him when all he wanted was to help. She’d make it up to him tonight, she was thinking as she strode purposefully down the hall toward her room, key in hand, her hand reaching for the door.

It took several twists of the key until she succeeded in unlocking the door, and then it suddenly swung open, as if pushed. Marcy froze, thinking for an instant that she must have the wrong room. This couldn’t be hers. “Oh, my God,” she gasped, slowly stepping over the threshold, her eyes flying from one corner of the room to the next, trying to absorb what they were seeing. “Oh, my God,” she said again, louder this time. Then, “No. No.”

The room looked as if a terrible storm had swept through it. Everything was in violent disarray. The sheets had been ripped from the bed, the mattress dislodged and left dangling precariously across the bed frame. It had been slashed down its center, and its stuffing sprouted across its surface like weeds. Every drawer in the place had been opened and upended. The closet had been emptied, her clothes ripped from their hangers and left in a crumpled heap on the carpet. Even her toiletries hadn’t been spared, she noted, glancing into the bathroom, the bottles smashed, the tubes emptied, her toothbrush snapped in half. “What the—” Her words froze in her throat as she approached the bed, her shaking hand reaching for a pair of panties whose crotch had been slashed repeatedly with either scissors or a knife. “Oh, God,” she exclaimed in mounting horror, realizing that every item of her clothing had been violated in some way: her underwear, her nightgown, her blouses, her sweaters, her black slacks, even her trench coat. Nothing had escaped mutilation. Everything had been slashed, shredded, gutted. “No!” she shouted at the flowered walls. “No, no, no, no!”

She heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, followed by a shrill scream. Then more footsteps, faster, nimbler than the ones before. A whoosh of air behind her. A sharp intake of breath.

“My God. What have you done?”

Marcy spun around to see both Sadie and Colin Doyle standing in the doorway, their eyes reflecting the horror of what was before them, their faces red with indignation and disgust. “What have I done?” Marcy sputtered. “You think I did this? I just got back, for God’s sake. You saw me walk through the door no more than a minute ago. You think I had time to do this?”

Sadie Doyle said nothing, her face absorbing the damage to the room.

“Would I do this to my own things?” Marcy waved her slashed underwear in Sadie’s face.

Sadie held firm, stubbornly folding her arms across her chest. “You’re responsible nonetheless.”

“I’m responsible? How do you figure that?”

“Looks like your friend didn’t appreciate your runnin’ off the way you did this mornin’,” Sadie said.

Tears filled Marcy’s eyes. “He didn’t do this,” she said, her voice shaking. He couldn’t have, she thought.

“Who then?”

“You tell me.”

“You accusin’ me of somethin’?”

Marcy looked from Sadie to her son.

“You think Colin did this?”

“Who else had access to this room?” Marcy asked.

“Aside from your gentleman friend, you mean? The one you ran out on this mornin’, the one who sat here half the day waitin’ for you to come back, the one who snuck out when he thought no one was lookin’?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talkin’ about the fact your boyfriend was still sittin’ here waitin’ when I came to make up your bed this mornin’, asked if I’d mind him hangin’ around awhile, ’til you got back. I said it was no skin off my nose, but I was gonna have to charge you extra. He said, no problem, he’d take care of it later. Then I saw him sneakin’ out of here about an hour or so later without so much as a fare-thee-well. I guess now we know why.”

“That can’t be,” Marcy muttered impotently. “He would never—”

Sadie scoffed, the harsh sound sweeping through the air like a broom.

“Where do you keep your keys?” Marcy asked suddenly.

“What?”

“The keys to the rooms. You obviously have a master set.…”

“They’re in a safe place.”

“Where? Behind the reception desk?”

The look that passed through Sadie’s eyes told Marcy her guess was correct.

“And you’re not always at that desk, are you, Mrs. Doyle?”

“It’s either me or Colin.”

“But sometimes you’re both busy with other things. It’s possible someone could have come in, taken those keys, and—”

“And what? Decided to ransack your room? Why would anybody want to do that?”

“I don’t know.” Marcy felt her knees grow weak and fought to stay upright. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah? Well, this is what I know. I know my room’s been trashed. That’s what I know. And I know somebody’s got to pay for the damage. Now, I don’t know how well you know that guy who spent the night, but frankly, he looked a little shifty to me. Maybe he was lookin’ for somethin’, maybe he thought you had some money lyin’ around. Any jewelry missin’?”

Marcy looked through her tears toward the empty drawer where she’d put her earrings. “My gold earrings are gone,” she said dully, glancing back at Colin.

“What are you lookin’ at me for? I didn’t take ’em.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just trying to figure out what happened.”

“What happened is that my property got smashed up, and you’re on the hook for the damages,” Sadie Doyle said again.

“Let me get this straight,” Marcy said angrily, her patience exhausted, her head on the verge of exploding. “My room got broken into, my belongings were destroyed, my earrings are missing, it’s your hotel, and yet you expect me to reimburse you? You guys are nuts!” she added for good measure.

“Call the gardai,” Sadie instructed her son.


“WELL, HELLO THERE, Mrs. Taggart,” Christopher Murphy said in greeting, running his hand through the stubble of his short blond hair. He closed the door behind him, walked toward her chair. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

“Do you think we could dispense with the sarcasm?” Marcy asked, concentrating her attention on the messy stack of papers on the garda’s desk. It seemed to have grown substantially since she was there yesterday.

“How’s the eye?”

“Better, thank you.”

“Let’s have a look.” He tilted her chin gently toward his face. “Suppose you tell me what happened this time,” Murphy said as the door opened again and Colleen Donnelly entered the room, immediately followed by John Sweeny and his overhanging gut. Marcy felt her heart quicken at the sight of their neat, dark blue uniforms and immediately brought her eyes to her lap. “Is there a problem, Mrs. Taggart?” Christopher Murphy asked.

“The problem is that I’ve done nothing wrong and yet, here I am.”

“Again,” Murphy added.

“Yes. Again.”

“Would you mind looking at me, Mrs. Taggart?”

Reluctantly, Marcy brought her head up.

“If you’ve done nothing wrong, why do you have such trouble looking me in the eye?”

“I have no trouble looking you in the eye.”

“And yet you’ve been staring at the floor, at my desk, at the wall, at anything but me since I walked in.”

“It’s not you,” Marcy said after a pause. Then, when that clearly didn’t satisfy him, “It’s just that uniforms have always made me a little nervous.” I shouldn’t have told him that, she thought immediately, catching the startled expressions on the faces of all three gardai. “There’s no rational reason for it. I’ve just always been that way. My sister says I’m worse than her poodle,” she added, trying to laugh, to show them she understood just how silly it all was.

“Your sister?” Sweeny asked. “Is she here in Cork?”

“No. She’s in Toronto.”

“Would you like us to call her?” Colleen Donnelly asked.

“Why would I want you to do that?”

“I thought you might appreciate some support.”

“It’s not every tourist who gets hauled into the garda station two days in a row,” Murphy added.

“Believe me, it wasn’t my idea.”

“You’re the victim,” Sweeny said, although his tone said otherwise.

“Yes. That’s right.”

“Tell us what happened, Mrs. Taggart,” Murphy said.

Marcy sighed. From her experience the day before, she knew they weren’t going to let her leave until she provided them with a plausible version of the events. Might as well get this over with, she decided. “I came back to the inn—”

“You’d been out all day?” Murphy said, interrupting.

“Yes.”

“Mind my asking where?”

“I went to Youghal.”

“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.