A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (19 page)

Chapter Twenty One
Nothing To Forgive

Before making Innishmahon her home, Marianne had been an award-winning, investigative journalist. In her former life she mixed with politicians, entertainers and aristocracy; she had seen the homes, yachts and trappings of the wealthy and powerful. Franco Rossini’s home in wealthy upstate New York was not going to intimidate her. So she was surprised when the limousine slipped through a large, plain gateway, rolled along a well-maintained but unremarkable drive to the entrance of a smart yet unostentatious ranch-style house.

 As the chauffeur opened the door to guide her out, a sprightly gentleman with gunmetal-grey hair and moustache rushed to greet them. Marianne recognised him immediately. He too wore navy. A beautifully cut Italian suit, white shirt, plain navy tie; he had a fresh camellia in his button hole. He pulled a tight smile at Ryan, clamping him in his arms, kissing him on both cheeks.

 “My boy, what a time eh?” he said. He turned warm, brown eyes on Marianne. His face softened. “And this is Marianne,” he said her name with a flourish. “My dear child, I am so sorry your visit here is for such a sad occasion. Thank you for coming.”

 “Mr Rossini,” she went to shake his hand. He kissed her on both cheeks too. “I’m pleased to meet you, I’m sorry under such circumstances.”

 He nodded solemnly, “Call me Franco, please.”  Marianne looked into his face. His welcome was genuine, despite his sadness. The car bearing the siblings, Larry and Lena Leeson with Arnie Cohen, their lawyer drew up behind them.

 “Come,” Franco opened his arms, guiding his guests into the house. A woman stood at the door. She wore the uniform of hired help, there was no-one else there. Marianne was suddenly sorry for this wealthy, successful elderly gentleman. He had nobody. He was alone.

 They gathered in the library off the main hall. The walls were lined with books and paintings of faraway vineyards, cypress trees and sweeping mountain ranges, a fire crackled in the grate. It was the home of a gentleman farmer, a man of the country, with no indication of the glitzy industry that had made Rossini his millions. Seats were arranged before a large desk, coffee served. Another man and woman arrived. Ryan recognised Albert Emmanuel and his wife Nina, old friends of the Rossini’s; Albert was also Franco’s lawyer. Albert checked his watch.

 “Shall we begin Franco?” he asked.

 The older man nodded.

 “This isn’t an inquiry,” Albert said, after formal introductions, “rather, Franco’s wish to understand the last few days of Angelique’s life. They had become estranged and although he was informed of her whereabouts and tried to maintain contact, it was difficult.”

 Ryan nodded, watching Franco intently.

 “So if everyone is in agreement, Mr Rossini would like a few questions answered, just for his own peace of mind and if all is satisfactory we can proceed with the funeral.”

 The room fell silent. They could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the hall.

 “Shall we start with you, Ryan? The last time Mr Rossini saw his niece, she told him she was going to Ireland, she was hoping for a reconciliation, she said she was sure you and Joey would be coming home to the US very soon.”

 “What?” Ryan was on his feet. “She said what?” Larry stood too.

 Mr Rossini raised his hands. “He’s only saying what she told me the last time we spoke on the phone, that’s all.”

 “But it’s not true Franco. That was never going to happen. It was over. We have new partners, I have a new life,” he looked at Marianne, she smiled back at him. Mr Rossini motioned Ryan to sit down.

 “Let’s just look at the facts Ryan. We’ll tell it our way, then you tell it your way. It’s hard not to get emotional, it’s an emotional time, but easy, take it easy,” Mr Rossini said in a soothing voice. “Albert, you got the report from the hospital there?”

 “Angelique’s latest medical report indicated that her treatment was successful and her condition greatly improved - she was no longer substance dependent. She had been clean for six months, including alcohol,” Albert was reading from a file now.

 Ryan shook his head. “I’m sorry, Franco,” he said, “none of this is true.”

 Arnie coughed. A little man with a shiny bald head, he wore glasses with bottle-end lenses and carried an air of anguished intensity. He opened his briefcase and took out a large wodge of paperwork.

 “Mr Rossini, I have all of Miss de Marcos’ latest medical reports here but if, as Mr O’Gorman says, these are unsubstantiated, more interestingly I have further, more recent witness statements from hotel staff, airline representatives who all confirm that Miss de Marcos was not clean, shall I go on?”

 Franco turned to Albert. “What’s all this? Did you know any of this?” he demanded.

Marianne was watching them carefully.

 “Has he always had her under surveillance?” she whispered to Ryan.

 He shrugged. “Didn’t think it was anything as thorough as this.”

Arnie’s file looked impressive:
what else had he uncovered?
Marianne looked across at Larry.
Surely he was the one who told Miss MacReady that Angelique was embezzling, about the insurance company wanting to question her and her absconding from the secure unit. Would any of this be revealed now?
But Larry looked relatively calm, like he pretty much had things under control.

 Albert put his hand over Mr Rossini’s clenched fist on the desk.

 “Angelique had powerful friends, unscrupulous people, you know that. I have suspected for some time that much of the information, particularly the health reports we receive, is falsified. People paid to say what we wanted to hear, paid to deliver a version of Angelique’s life that was not entirely accurate.”

 “That’s putting it mildly,” Lena said sharply. They all turned to look at her, “If you want the truth, Mr Rossini I think you should have it. Marianne, will you tell Mr Rossini what you told us last night, then Larry can fill in the gaps right up to where he was arrested and nearly had a nervous breakdown over Angelique and her condition.” She waved a hand at Arnie, “We’ve paid a fortune and spent frantic days pulling this evidence together and I’m sorry, Mr Rossini, but it’s time to stop pulling punches, then maybe we can lay that poor girl to rest, and get on with our lives. There, it had to be said.”

 Everyone in the room blinked at her. Mr Rossini reached across the desk and closed the lawyer’s file.

 “Very well,” he said, taking in the whole room with his glance, “let’s hear the truth, it will be quite a refreshing experience for me, I get given so much crap these days.” And he shot Albert a look.

Two hours later, Marianne and Ryan were in the limousine, heading south towards New York City. Franco listened intently to their accounts of Angelique’s final days. Arnie even showed a video of Sean Grogan’s bizarre interview to those gathered. Rossini sat quietly throughout, staring out of the window at a most remarkable view; rows and rows of thriving vines, standing like soldiers across the hillside, sweeping down to Canandaigua, a sprawling, dark lake; Rossini’s
little Italy
in upstate New York.

 “That bit was true, wasn’t it? She was a beautiful woman, and the people did take her to their hearts.” His eyes were filled with tears. They mumbled agreement before he called an end to the proceedings and led the way to the little chapel at the entrance of the private graveyard. A young priest gave a short service before the burial. Marianne watched as the ivory coffin, borne aloft by Ryan, Rossini, Albert and Larry, was taken to the plot beside Sophia’s angel and lowered slowly into the ground. She stayed a little way back, as Franco gave each of the guests a lily to toss into the grave - a final goodbye. The others were chatting. She was reading Sophia’s inscription when Rossini appeared beside her beneath a cypress tree.

“What does it mean?” she asked him.

“Sophia Magdalene Rossini, beloved wife of Franco. I am only half until we meet again and you make me whole,” he gave her a sad smile. “I think you know what that feels like.” He offered her a lily. “Will you go and make peace with Angelique, tell her you forgive her, give her space to forgive you,” he said, looking into her eyes.

 “There’s nothing to forgive,” she said.

 “Well, that’s a good place to start,” he replied. Marianne took the lily and went with him to the grave, to say a final goodbye to her lover’s wife.

 The most haunting aspect of the whole event for Marianne was Mr Rossini - he and his solitary spaniel. She watched them out of the rear window as they drove away; a lonely old man and his dog, standing in the rain. She turned back and looked at Ryan, white-faced, fists clenched in his lap. It had been a tough day.

 “Let’s just go home, Ryan,” she said quietly, ‘let’s get home as soon as we can.”

 He squeezed her hand, too drained to speak.

Dermot was disappointed to find Erin had left before breakfast. He looked down into the drive to find only a pile of leaves where her neat little car had been. Joyce was outside in wellingtons and a wax jacket, sweeping the porch. She talked long into the night,  reminiscing about her time in Donegal, when she realised she had a ‘calling’ to support the campaign for the reunification of Ireland, heavily influenced by her mother and the enigmatic men who used to visit their cottage on the island, using it as a halfway house during the volatile nineteen seventies. She and Kathleen were only teenagers at the time. Dermot knew of their mother, the charismatic Bridie MacReady, a ‘dyed in the wool’ revolutionary, but he had no idea how important Joyce was until last night. Now he knew this neat, little countrywoman was highly respected and as active as ever. Would he mention her in his report?  He was not sure, the authorities already knew about her, how else would he have been given the connection? But Joyce had never been arrested, questioned even, she must have friends in very high places, he mused as he shaved.

 He flicked on the TV. The breakfast news flashed up a report of the small private funeral of the actress Angelique de Marcos in upstate New York. Ryan and Marianne were getting into a black limousine. Larry held an umbrella, shiny with rain, over them. They all wore the same, strained expression. He watched, razor poised, as a reporter pushed a microphone at Ryan.

 “
What will happen to the franchise now, Mr O’Gorman? Will Mr Rossini continue to make the movies?”

 
“This has been a very sad and difficult time for us, the whole family, but I’m sure, once we’ve had time to grieve and reflect, it’ll be business as usual. Angelique was devoted to her uncle and a huge fan of his work. It’s what she would have wanted,” Ryan said, matter-of-factly.

 Dermot shrugged at the screen, wondering vaguely if Marianne had any idea the type of business certain members of
her
family were involved in. Any clue of what was part of her, until recently, unknown heritage. He remembered Joyce proudly showing him photos of her mother with members of the organisation, a couple of American supporters and a still good-looking crooner from the nineteen fifties. He had been struck by how like Marianne, Bridie MacReady was, sparkling eyes, determined chin, chestnut curls tumbling past her shoulders. And how the men acquiesced towards her, flanking her protectively, leaning in, trying to gain her attention. She was a looker alright. In one photograph, at a grand event, she wore a fabulous purple dress; it showed off her figure perfectly, her bronze, bare shoulders gleamed. It was nineteen seventy-six, the year of the heat wave, everyone was tanned and happy.

 “A well-known photographer took that picture of mother. All the magazines ran it. She was quite a celebrity,” Joyce had told him, proudly.

It could have been Marianne; Dermot was stunned by the likeness.

 “What happened to your mother, Joyce?” he asked, as they made to leave the fireside.

 “She died,” Joyce said sharply, gathering up the pictures sprawled across the table. “Sleep well,” she called from the stairs, shutting off the lights, leaving him in the darkness with his thoughts.

A loud gong brought Dermot back to the present - breakfast. He shaved speedily and headed downstairs. He had a busy day ahead and needed to get back to the island. Now he knew how and where the arms were coming in, he had to make arrangements. With the guns and explosives just a ruse, a decoy for the biggest shipment of pure cocaine Europe had ever seen, it was going to be doubly dangerous, live ammunition could be unpredictable at the best of times. He loved working undercover. Sitting at the breakfast table alone, he popped the memory stick into his laptop.

Poor Joyce, he thought, living in the past, she genuinely thought she was helping old-style freedom fighters, she had no idea what was really going on, but she had provided him with vital information. He hoped when the whole thing blew wide open, the authorities would go easy on her. Women like Joyce built empires, fed armies and ruled the waves, she was a true queen in her own way, republican or not.

 Dermot felt a frisson of excitement as he tucked into his full Irish breakfast but he knew, in his heart of hearts, he could not pull off something as big as this easily. These were ruthless people; it was going to be a tough job.

He was paying the bill when a screech of tyres signalled Pat MacReady’s arrival at the front of the house. He heard raised voices. Joyce and another woman, the dark velvety tones he recognised from last night. He pushed open the large Georgian door. Erin Brennan was standing beside Pat’s taxi. She looked completely different, faded jeans, turquoise sailing jacket, hair flying in the wind.