That Crazed Girl

By Bailie Lawson

Despite official accounts confirming his mother's death as an accidental drowning in a public swimming pool, Martin's intuition tells him there's more to the story. Driven by a burning desire to unearth the truth, he sets out to investigate the woman his father had relationships with, both before and possibly after marrying his mother. His search takes him to Ireland, where he hopes to find answers from Gillian.

Along the way, Martin stumbles upon another surprising connection—his mother's suspicions regarding her boss, Henry, and his involvement in unethical practices. As Martin delves deeper into the history of Henry's company, he begins to question whether Henry played a role in his mother's death.

In a bold move to gain insight into Henry's character and potential motives, Martin befriends Henry's daughter. Through this unlikely connection, he uncovers a web of deceit, manipulation, and betrayal that shatters the foundations of his understanding of his mother's life and death.

As Martin searches for the truth, he grapples with personal demons and confronts uncomfortable truths about his family's past. Fueled by a relentless pursuit of justice and closure, he refuses to back down, even in the face of formidable obstacles and dangerous adversaries.

With unwavering determination and courage, Martin pushes forward, driven to uncover the shocking truth about his mother's untimely demise and bring long-overdue justice to those responsible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bailie Lawson
• Release date: Mar 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224709120

Bailie Lawson

Bailie Lawson has always been interested in stories, both listening to them and telling them. She was born and went to school in Ireland and as an adult has lived in New York and the North-Eastern United States. She has worked as a psychotherapist and professor of psychology. She is the author of several novels including Well-Travelled Ancient Ancient Artifacts, Finding Juniper, Fanfare, The Imaginary Husband, Pixie Dust: Enchantment and It’s Consequences, Uncovering Julien's Past, Una's Journey, and Who Is Gigi?

Book preview

1

1997

The blinding rain swooshed against the dashboard. He could barely see the road ahead. A metaphor for his life, Martin thought bitterly.

It was a dirty night. That’s what the man had called it when Martin stopped at the brightly lit pub, a beacon that had appeared suddenly on the side of the dark rainswept road.

It’s a right dirty night, the man at the bar had said. I hope you don’t have far to go.

Martin didn’t say he didn’t know, or he hoped not, both of which would be true. He said, I’m trying to get to Clonaveen, but I might not get there tonight.

Clonaveen? The man scratched his head and thought. He was ruddy faced, his dark hair greying. It’s a small place. There’s nowhere to stay around there. Unless you have someone expecting you?

He didn’t seem nosey, more trying to be helpful. Martin knew the man had heard his accent. Knew he was a stranger.

They’re not expecting me, and I doubt they’d give me a bed for the night. You’re right. I should find a place to stay tonight, Martin said, even though the man had not suggested that at all.

I’d go back five miles or so to Kilbeg. There’s a couple of hotels there. This weather won’t let up tonight. If you’re not expected in Clonaveen, tomorrow is another day.

Martin studied the man to see if he was deliberately quoting Scarlett in Gone with the Wind, but the man gave no sign one way or another.

He said, "I remember seeing the sign for Kilbeg. I think I’ll take your advice.

We don’t get many tourists around here at this time of year, the man said.

I’m not a tourist. I’m here more on business you could say.

The man said nothing.

It’s a beautiful country. I can see that, Martin said, wanting to be polite. It was beautiful, even sunny this morning when I arrived. I wasn’t expecting all this rain.

You can always expect rain here, the man said. It’s a wonder we have any tourists at all. Yanks love us. A lot of them are looking for their roots.

I have some Irish roots myself on my mother’s side, Martin said. I don’t know much about them. One great-grandfather that I know of who emigrated from Galway. That’s all I know.

What part of the States are you from? the man asked.

New York, born and bred, Martin answered. And you? Did you live all your life in these parts?

I did, the man said proudly. I only moved a few miles out the road to build my new house, but I was born not far from Clonaveen. I’m not around there every day, mind you, but I’d be surprised if they had a hotel or even a B&B there. There are more houses being built in that area these days, more strangers moving in. So, I don’t know everyone who lives there the way I used to in the past.

The Hagertys are the people I’m going to visit, Martin said.

Fergus Hagerty? I know him well. The Hagertys have been living in these parts a long time, the man said in surprise.

It’s his wife, Gillian, I’m here to see, Martin explained, not sure why he was telling this stranger, but perhaps hoping to learn something.

The wife is English. A nice woman. Quiet, keeps to herself, the man commented.

Martin had finished his pint. Well, I think I’ll take your advice and find a place to stay for the night in Kilbeg. 

The barman, who had been standing at the other end of the bar, returned instantly. Martin wondered if he had been listening to the conversation. The place was empty except for two lone drinkers at the other end of the bar and a couple huddled at a table in the corner.

He was tired. He had arrived today, but not from New York as the ruddy faced man assumed. Still, it had been a full day and as he drove through the blinding rain searching for the hotel the man in the bar had mentioned, he wondered if he was on a fool’s errand. When he saw the sign for the Continental Hotel, the neon flashing on the otherwise dark stretch of road, he turned into the entrance and thankfully pulled into a parking space.

It was quiet in the lobby. The man at the reception desk looked sleepy. But yes, they had a single room for the night. Martin produced his credit card and filled out a form, wearily realizing he had to go back to the car to get his suitcase.  The receptionist had sprung into alertness and produced a large umbrella. Martin accepted it but declined to allow the young bellhop to accompany him, returning with the suitcase and allowing the boy to take it and carry it to his room.

The restaurant closes in an hour, sir, the boy said. If you want to eat, you might want to go down now. Or I could place your order for you.

Martin didn’t know when he’d last eaten. The pint of Guinness earlier on an empty stomach hadn’t helped much.

I’ll just go down now. Thanks.

He hung up his wet rain jacket on a hook in the bathroom where it dripped onto the tile, grabbed his wallet, and made his way downstairs. He had noticed the entrance to the restaurant earlier. It was just off the lobby.

The woman was beautiful and unexpected, the red highlights in her dark hair glinting in the light from the overhead chandelier.  She smiled, either because he was staring or because they were the only two people in the restaurant.

Another stranded traveler, she said and laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle that he found sensual.

What gave me away? he asked, touching his damp hair, and smiling in return. Is it always this rainy in Ireland?

It’s often rainy, though usually not lashing like this.

He stood uncertainly at a distance, wanting to continue talking to her, wanting to ask her to join him for dinner, but not wanting to be pushy.

You’re welcome to sit here if you’d like some company, she said. She was drinking what looked like tea.

I would like that, he said. He pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down. A waitress appeared immediately with a menu.

I just ordered salmon. I’d recommend it, but you should order it soon as Declan will want to close up the kitchen and be off promptly when his shift is over.

I’ll have the salmon too, he said to the waitress.

Would you like to order a dessert now too? the waitress asked.

Cheesecake. The woman sharing his table had answered for him. We’ll have two cheesecakes.

The waitress left and the woman said, I’m April, and I don’t usually pick up strange men in hotel restaurants, but it’s a strange night and you looked so lost, like a stray puppy.

I’m not sure it’s a compliment, but since it resulted in an invitation to join you, I won’t object, Martin said smiling. And I’m Martin, by the say. Martin Rowntree.

Pleased to meet you, Martin, she said. And what brings you to this desolate part of the West of Ireland on such a miserable dirty night.

A man in a pub called it a dirty night too, Martin said. I never heard that expression before, but it suits the weather.

If you stick around, you’ll hear a lot more colorful expressions, April laughed.

I take it you grew up in this area.

Yes, not far away. I was home on a visit and on my way back to Dublin when this deluge started. I pulled in here when I heard that the road leading to the main Dublin Road is closed. I would have to take a detour on dark, flooded country roads to get on the main road. I decided I might as well stay put here for the night instead of backtracking home to my parents, since they think I’m halfway to Dublin by now. They worry too much.

And what do you do in Dublin?

I’m teaching in a secondary school and studying for my master’s in history. I’m just out of university a year and was glad to get a full-time job. But lately I’m wondering if it’s what I want.

It can be hard to choose, Martin said. I liked history and english but decided to get a degree in business and I’m now an account executive in a large corporation. But I don’t like the job lately. Sometimes wonder if I should have pursued my other interests.

He was surprised to be telling her this. He wasn’t usually so frank, especially with strangers. But there was something about her openness that encouraged it in him.

There’s also the option of making a lot of money fast and becoming independently wealthy so that you can spend the rest of your life doing exactly what you want.

There is that, but it might feel a bit like selling your soul.

Their salmon arrived, with roasted potatoes and asparagus. Martin pronounced it delicious. He was ravenous and they ate silently for a few minutes. He was glad to see April had a healthy appetite. He didn’t like women who picked at their food and claimed to eat little.

When they finished eating and the waitress had locked the restaurant door, a not-so-subtle hint, Martin suggested they continue their conversation in the bar, unless that, too, is closed.

We can check it out, April said.

They sat companionably in the bar and Martin felt more relaxed than he had in years.  The rain pelted the windowpanes and now knowing he didn’t have to go back out, but only had to go upstairs to bed, he could enjoy the sound. But his attention was mostly on April. He was fascinated with her, wanted to sit there, look at her and listen to her for hours.

She seemed content to talk. She was twenty-three and had a younger brother. He told her about his father, his stepmother, his two sets of grandparents who didn’t like each other, and his mother who had died when he was a baby. The conversation became more personal but not immediately. They both mentioned relationships that didn’t work out. Martin mentioned his recent divorce but didn’t dwell on it. The important information shared was that neither of them was in a relationship currently. Eventually, and now slightly tipsy, Martin saw her to her room on the same floor as his and their kiss goodnight stretched itself out and then they were on the other side of the door. He didn’t sleep in his own room that night.

2

He promised to see her in Dublin at the weekend. Until now he’d had no intention of spending time there, but she intrigued him. He wanted to see more of her.  He wrote down her number and departed hurriedly for his own room, shy now in the light of morning.

The rain had stopped, and a hazy sunshine was emerging. He half expected to see a rainbow announcing the end of the deluge. He took a long shower and studied the map he had brought in from the car. It was too early to call on someone, especially someone he didn’t know, someone who might react badly to what he had to say. 

He could try to find someplace to have coffee and linger a bit.  He didn’t want to have breakfast in the hotel – if the restaurant was even open.

April had said she’d leave early. She was scrambling to get ready when he left her, wanting to get on the road. She’d be late getting into work, she said, but it couldn’t be helped, and they’d have to understand.

He was smitten he had to admit. He’d never met anyone like her. It was her warmth, sense of humor, openness. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly about her. Of course, she was beautiful. But it was more than that. He just knew he felt great with her and wanted more.

There was a restaurant in the small town of Kilbeg where he ordered an Irish breakfast. He liked the sausages, the bacon and egg, the brown bread, but left behind on his plate something called black pudding, eyeing it suspiciously.

Finally, it was time to set out for Clonaveen.  He was anxious now that it was time, wondering what she would be like. Would she be at home? She might have a job and have already left for work. Too late, he worried that delaying his visit to a respectful time might mean she had already left for the day.

He wasn’t sure what he expected to happen. Or what he wanted to happen. The truth, of course. He wanted the truth. She had been there when his mother died. There were rumors she had killed her, or even if she hadn’t, that she was indirectly responsible. His grandparents on both sides believed she was a Jezebel. They agreed on that if nothing else. His father refused to talk about her.

When Sybil had accused him of being unable to commit and said it was all because of his unresolved issues relating to his mother, Martin had vehemently denied it. believing she was hurling accusations at him, angry that he wanted to end their marriage. She had started to see a therapist who was filling her head with psychobabble about his relationship with his mother. That is what he believed.

But after Sybil, he had been accused of having trust issues by two women he dated. They both refused to continue seeing him, claiming he was still dealing with issues from his marriage. He didn’t think so, but he let them go without protest.

Recently he had started to see a therapist, someone recommended by a friend from work. It had been two years since he and Sybil had split up. He was drifting, had stopped trying to date, found his job boring. He needed to make major changes but didn’t know where to start.

He laughed in derision when the therapist, Bill, asked about his mother. It reminded him of Sybil’s psychobabble. He accused Bill of sounding like his ex-wife. Bill, of course, wanted to know more. He told Bill and it led to more discussion about Sybil. But they eventually circled back to his feelings about his mother. Bill was clever in that way.

Gradually he became more open to considering the topic that had been taboo for as long as he could remember. The manner of his mother’s death. He realized he had taken his cue from his father and had banished it from his mind. Or had tried. Bill pointed out that his way of handling difficult feelings might have been learned from his father.

Martin had been five when his father remarried. His father had said to him then, you will have a mommy now.  Martin had liked Marjorie and the attention she lavished on him, but soon, when the babies were born, first Bobby, then Megan and Sara, he felt like an outsider.

His mother’s parents liked to remind him that Marjorie wasn’t his mother, only his stepmother. They wanted him to understand they were his grandparents, but not the grandparents of Bobby, Megan, and Sara. He still didn’t know if they said that in a misguided attempt to make him feel special or if it was simply to establish ownership of him.

They wanted to be sure he knew all about his mother. They had photos of her prominently displayed - a young bright-eyed woman, with stiff old-fashioned hair and a bright smile, frozen in time. They described her in glowing terms. She had been a perfect daughter, forever missed. There were no photos of his mother on display in his own home growing up.

When he was a little older, her parents talked about his mother who was taken away from us by that Jezebel. His grandparents never openly accused his father of wrongdoing, but the criticism was implicit in their comments, so that Martin wondered if Ricky had been having an affair with the Jezebel.

He learned a little more from his father’s mother, who said the girl’s name was Gillian and she was English. They had met when Ricky and his friends went on a vacation to Europe. She had followed him to New York a few months later. He was already married to Martin’s mother by then. I suppose she was persistent, and your father was weak, his grandmother had said with a sigh, confirming Martin’s belief that his father had had an affair with the woman in the first months of his marriage. The dates confirmed that his mother would have been pregnant with him then.

It was when Ricky’s parents decided to move to Florida and Martin was helping them clear out their apartment that he found the letters addressed to Ricky Rountree, dated 1969, and signed all my love forever, Gillian.

They were written on thin light paper in a round handwriting in blue ink and still in their envelopes which bore the return address, a London address. The return address also contained Gillian’s last name – Fennessy.  The letters were dated September, October, and November of 1969. They were, of course, addressed to Ricky Rountree, and Martin hesitated before reading them, but only for a minute.

They had been in a carton at the back of the closet in the guest bedroom, which used to be Ricky’s room. The carton also contained old papers written for college courses, old college transcripts, even Ricky’s diploma from when he graduated from high school. It was a carton that Ricky had forgotten to take with him or had not wanted to take.

Of course, Martin read the letters. The girl sounded young and excited. In the earliest one she said she missed him but was looking forward to seeing him in November. In a later letter she thanked him for arranging with Mandy and Pauline to share their apartment and said she had booked her flight to arrive on November 12th.  

Martin knew his parents had been married on November 5th.  Yet Gillian’s letter in late October read like a love letter to a boyfriend. There was no indication she knew about the marriage.

And then there was his own birthday in March. It wasn’t hard to conclude that his mother was already pregnant when Martin’s parents married. But Gillian in her letters showed no awareness of that. No wonder his father didn’t want to talk about Gillian or that time in his life if he had been stringing along two women.

What had happened after Gillian arrived in New York ready to continue the relationship with the boy she had met in Europe? How did it relate to his mother’s death less than a year later?

Martin became obsessed with learning the details.

3

The woman who opened the door was thin, small, with large blue eyes. Those eyes were staring at him in shock, but with recognition. For a moment he was confused. Had they met before? Surely, he would remember.

It was only when she said, Ricky! But it can’t be, that he realized what had happened. People told him he looked very like his father as a young man.

I am Martin, his son. He said it gently. The woman looked fragile, not the flashy Jezebel-like creature described by his grandparents and the old news reports. But it was her. There had been photos. She still had the same longish fair hair. The photos had been black-and-white but had captured the shape of her face, not how slight she was.

She was looking behind him, at the car he had left parked on the road outside the gate of the house.

I am alone, he said. Was she a little disappointed?

Won’t you come in? She stepped aside and he followed her into a living room with a warm fire blazing and armchairs that looked inviting. It was decorated in shades of blue.

Would you like some coffee? she asked. She hadn’t lost her accent which to Martin sounded liked Liverpool, the familiar accent of Lennon and McCartney. He knew she had grown up in Manchester. He’d already been there looking for her. Doubtless the accents were different to practiced ears, but to him they sounded the same.

That would be nice, he said, and sat on one of the blue patterned armchairs. He thought the fabric was called chintz. Now, here, his natural politeness had taken over. The anger and accusations he had been ready to vent seemed churlish in this calm and welcoming space.

She returned with a tray containing two mugs, a milk jug and sugar bowl, scones, and a butter dish.  Her mug contained tea and was half-full. She must have been drinking it when he arrived.

He sipped the coffee which was hot and strong. She was silent, too polite to ask what he was doing here. It was up to him to start.

I should explain showing up at your door like this, he began.

Is your father well? she interrupted, as if it had suddenly occurred to her that he might not be.

Yes. He is healthy, doing well. He doesn’t know I am here. I can’t get him to talk about that time. I mean when my mother died. I need to know.

Oh, I see.

It was as if a cloud had passed over her face. Her lips pressed together firmly, and her entire body tensed, as if she was preparing for attack.

How did you find me? He must have told you something. Enough for you to find me. But how did he know I was in Ireland?  She was thinking out loud, talking to herself.

He didn’t tell me. It was my grandparents. And then the old newspaper articles. I knew from them you had lived in London.

Oh, the newspapers. You wanted to see this dreadful woman for yourself. Or is it possible you think everything they print might not be true? Her tone was bitter but at the end there was a hopeful glance in his direction.

Martin felt uncomfortable now. What was he doing? This had been a mistake, coming here.

You were there when my mother died, weren’t you? I just want to know what happened.

I was there. The newspapers got that part right anyway. But there were police reports. The details are all in those reports. There were other witnesses. It wasn’t just my word.

She didn’t say he could have read those reports, that surely Ricky had access to them. He knew that’s what she was thinking.

I never knew my mother. I was three months old when she died.

I know that. Her expression softened. I wanted you to grow up in a happy family. I sacrificed a lot for that, you know, from the moment I knew of your existence. You changed my life. It wasn’t your fault, of course.

I was an accident. It’s okay. You can tell me. I suspected it for a long time. It won’t hurt my feelings.

I will tell you what I know. I met your father in Europe the summer before you were born. He had already ended his relationship with your mother. We fell in love, spent the summer together. I had been offered a one-year scholarship to study design in New York starting in January. Ricky and I said goodbye in early September, and I planned to arrive in New York in November, where we would continue our relationship.

Her eyes had taken on a faraway look. We were only to be parted for two months. But those two months changed everything. It was only when I arrived in New York that I discovered he had married your mother a week earlier, and they were expecting you. He had written me a letter, but I hadn’t received it before I left London. Long-distance calls were expensive then. We wrote letters instead.

But he really wanted to be with you? Is that what you are saying? He only married my mother because she was pregnant with me. Martin knew there was an edge to his voice, but he couldn’t stop it.

She hesitated, looking into the fire. I don’t know. Well, at the beginning maybe we were still in love. But after he told me he was married we didn’t see each other, not for months. He was dedicated to making his marriage work. He wanted to be a good father. You have to believe that.

Then, in the Spring, he thought we could be friends, have lunch. We both worked in midtown only a few blocks from each other. They were just innocent lunches once a week as friends. The newspapers made more of it after your mother died.

She looked up and her voice was firm. We didn’t have an affair in New York. That’s the truth.

Why were you there when she died?

Gillian hesitated. "I don’t know. I can only surmise that she was suspicious of me and sought me out. She didn’t like Ricky having lunch with me. When she objected, we stopped. Ricky said we